An Equal Opportunity Death (13 page)

“But that must just be in the summer.”

“You’d think. In the summer it’s party time, people strewing paper plates and beer cans, lighting fires. In the winter, who knows? Anything could be going on there. If I were a spy, it would be the number-one spot to pass my messages.”

“Or to deal drugs?”

He laughed. “That goes without saying. I’m just pleased when it’s something that doesn’t have to be lit.” He slammed to a stop at the Henderson traffic light. Whatever awkwardness he might have in positioning his right arm, he made up for with his left. He held the steering wheel rock steady.

It was dark, and, of course, pouring, as he pulled into my driveway. Goodbyes, I decided, were to be made in the truck. As I turned to him to say my thanks, he tightened his grip and drew me forward. His kiss was surprisingly soft, unexpectedly pleasant.

It wasn’t until I got out that I noticed the axe in the back of the truck.

It was perfectly reasonable for Ned Jacobs to have an axe in his truck. It would have been unthinkable for a ranger not to. Had he been the one who smashed my truck engine, he would surely have thought to put his axe out of sight. I told myself all that as I climbed up the stairs, ran the bath water, and turned it off to let it drain out instead. I told myself that I suspected everyone, that I saw killers surrounding me, harrassment from the sheriff, and menace from my friends. Again I wished that I had my pickup, that I could breeze down to Frank’s Place, turn that PG&E key I still had in my pocket, flick on my reliable PG&E flashlight, and find a handful of telltale marijuana leaves.

Now, not only did I not have transportation to get there, but Ned and Madge (and therefore Rosa and everyone she had talked to) knew that I had no way to leave the house. Whoever attacked my truck certainly knew.

I stood shivering over the draining tub. Then I pulled my down vest out of the closet, retrieved my PG&E rain gear from the hook by the door, took out the route keys and my own keys, and piled them all on the chair near the door. Perhaps everyone’s knowing I couldn’t make it over to Frank’s Place tonight would work to my advantage.

I
T WAS 10:15, STILL
too early to leave the house without being seen. But there was one other thing I needed to do before I left.

I dialed the Fortimiglio number. Chris answered.

“Hi, Chris, this is Vejay Haskell.”

“Hi, Vejay.”

“How’re things at your house?”

“Okay. Dad’s at my sister Frannie’s in Guerneville helping her get ready for the flood. Her husband works nights now.”

“Isn’t he fishing with you?”

“No. He used to. But there aren’t enough fish to support us all. So Ralph got this job in Santa Rosa. If the fishing gets better he’ll come back.”

“Maybe for salmon season,” I said.

“Maybe. But the salmon hasn’t been doing well either. There’s getting to be too much pollution in the river. Too many businesses and people pouring stuff in.”

“Well, maybe when the sewer is finished, it’ll be better.”

“I doubt it,” he said. “Mom’s here. Do you want to talk to her? She’s making pasta and bottling sauce so we won’t starve if the power goes out.”

“You’ll be better prepared than I am.”

“We’ve been through floods before, and there’s always room for one more here, Vejay.”

“Thanks. Listen, it’s you I called to talk to. I have to ask you a rather peculiar question.”

“Uh-huh?”

“If you wanted to bring say fifty pounds of bulky stuff off a ship and up the river, how would you do it?”

Chris laughed.

It was not the response I expected.

“Chris?”

“Well, Vejay, you wouldn’t. You couldn’t bring anything upriver. They have to dredge the outlet every year so the salmon can get through. So if you’re planning on moving something bigger than a salmon, you’d better get a truck.”

“No way at all?”

“None that I know. Surely you’ve been to Jenner and seen the beach.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I was there tonight. I guess I just wasn’t thinking.”

“What are you bringing in? Are you considering smuggling?” He laughed again.

“Nothing so exciting. A friend offered me a couple of heavy blankets and some nice quilts and two bean bag chairs, if I could get them from his boat when he comes down the coast. But now I think it would be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Does your friend fish around here?” Chris, in Fortimiglio fashion, longed for every detail.

I felt bad about lying to him, and worse about the prospect of this story getting out of hand. “No, Chris. He has a pleasure craft. He’s from Oregon,” I added for good measure.

“Oh.”

“Well, thanks Chris,” I said quickly. “Say hello to your parents for me.”

“Sure thing.”

“Bye.”

I hung up the phone. It was still too early to go to Frank’s. The walk would take an hour, maybe more. Once I got over the bridge onto South Bank Road, I would be safe. It was while going through town and crossing the bridge that I might be spotted. I had to wait until the roads were empty.

I pictured the walk along the three blocks into town, through this end of town, past Thompson’s, across the bridge, then right on South Bank Road, along the mushy side of the road, past closed-up motels, cabins, and two restaurants that opened only for the summer trade. I’d pass along a ridge that led down to the beach, past Paul and Patsy’s canoe rental, past more houses, more motels. It would be a long, wet walk. No one would suspect me of going there on foot because no sane person would try it.

The more I thought about it, the colder, wetter, and longer the trip seemed. Did I really need to know what was at Frank’s Place? Couldn’t I leave the investigation to the sheriff?

But the sheriff was investigating
me.
Someone was threatening me. And I was suspicious of every one of my friends. If I didn’t find evidence to show the sheriff, nothing would change—at least not for the better.

I had to go. But there was another way of getting there, although it meant waiting until later. Lacking a preferable plan for the next hour and a half, I reran the water in the tub. This time I climbed in.

It was after midnight when I left the house. Outside it was totally dark—no streetlights, headlights, or taillights—and the rain clouds blocked the slightest suggestion of a moon. The rain splattered loudly against my slicker; it blocked out the sounds of the night. As I carefully stepped down the stairs I heard nothing but the noise of my own feet and the rain.

The street was empty. Still, I wished my slicker were brown or navy instead of bright yellow.

I cut north the block before town, skirting the shops. There was no one in sight here either. No streetlights. Even the interior lights of the houses were off. Half-running, I covered the two blocks to the substation.

I glanced behind me, and ahead, and behind me again. Nothing moved. I hesitated. I was still safe. I could go home to bed and still be a law-abiding citizen. I still had a choice.

I looked around again, but no one came to save me.

Taking a breath, I pulled out my employee key, opened the gate, and walked through—a burglar. Silently I pushed the gate shut, listened, and, hearing nothing, ran across the lot to the office.

The back door light shone bright even in the rain. It made it possible for any passing car to see my outline. I looked behind, but nothing was visible. Fumbling, I found the door key on my ring, got it in the lock on the second try, and opened the door.

No alarm sounded. Beside the door was the peg-board with the truck keys. I grabbed the ring for number twelve, the newest and most reliable truck, and caught myself before reaching for the sign-out sheet to initial out the truck as I did each working day.

Pulling the door shut behind me, I stepped out of the light and checked the street. Still no sign of movement. I ran across the lot to the trucks, squatting behind each one to read its number until I came to twelve. I stuck the key in the lock. I could still turn back. I still hadn’t done much. I could return the key and go home and no one would know. I could …

I climbed into the truck, listened again for the sound of a car. I wished I knew how often the sheriff patrolled the area.

Hearing nothing, I backed the truck into the center of the lot, pulled up to the gate, got out and opened it, drove the truck through, and then walked back to lock it. Only then did I turn on the headlights.

I headed left toward the ocean, staying on the back street till I got through town, then cut down to North Bank Road. I’d go by the long route and cross the west bridge, avoiding the town altogether. It was the route I’d taken back from Frank’s the day he’d been killed.

The road was empty. The rain fell heavily but did not blur the windshield. Once or twice I passed a house with a lamp on, but mostly the road was dark. It wasn’t until I turned onto the bridge that I saw headlights in the other lane. I pressed hard on the gas pedal, then reminded myself to force myself to ease off, to drive at a normal speed and not draw attention to myself. I passed the car and caught the image of an older sedan—definitely not a patrol car—in my peripheral vision. Still, my stomach was jumping.

I turned left on South Bank Road, back toward Frank’s. Here, somehow it seemed less deserted. Even though they were closed, boarded, and sandbagged, motels and cabins stood along the road. There could be people lurking behind them. But surely, no one, not even the horniest teenager, would be parked beside a low-lying motel right before the flood.

I slowed as I passed Frank’s. Would the sheriff have a guard there? I hadn’t considered that. There was no patrol car in the parking area, no one visible standing outside the door. I couldn’t see into the lot behind the building. It might hold twenty sheriffs, but there was no way to check. I drove on.

Two hundred yards past Frank’s, I pulled the truck into an alley across the street and parked behind a deserted motel. I wished there was a utility pole there, something to give the truck the suggestion of legitimacy. But then even that would not be really safe. I was driving a meter reader’s pickup, not a repair truck.

I climbed down, locked the door, and made my way back to the street. Through the rain I could hear the strong waters of the river rushing along thirty yards ahead. I ran across South Bank Road, past the house on the river side and into its back yard. It, I hoped, was one of the unoccupied ones. I’d been past here a hundred times, and I couldn’t recall whether it was vacant or not.

I hurried across the yard, behind the motel next door, on the mushy grass ridge that dropped fifteen feet down to the river in the summer. Now the river lapped at its edge. River spray hit my raincoat. Something heavy in the water smashed against the bank. I froze, waited, looked around, then moved forward.

On the far side of the motel was Frank’s parking lot. It looked empty. I stepped out from the shelter of the motel. Headlights turned into the lot. I stared, then forced myself to move back against the motel wall.

The lights moved forward, then stopped. I held my breath, waiting for the driver to get out. The car didn’t move. I stood stone still. And then the lights pulled back. It was probably just turning around. I couldn’t make out the type of the car, or if it bore an insignia. But surely a sheriff would check me out if he’d seen me.

But a civilian wouldn’t. He’d go home and call the sheriff. Had he seen me? Had I gotten back against the building in time? There was no way to know. And now, the thought of going back to the truck, driving it to the substation, and going home, seemed worse than running across the lot to Frank’s Place.

I pulled out my keys and squinted to find Frank’s. Taking a breath, I ran at full speed across the lot to the back door, thrust the key in the lock, and pushed the door open.

The door led into an alcove next to the bar. I’d been in here before, of course, to read the meter. Usually there were several coats and assorted rain gear hanging from hooks, and miscellaneous cans stacked against the wall. I shone the flashlight on the meter. It was as I’d seen it a few days ago. The rain gear was gone, but cans of juice—grape, apricot, and pineapple—blocked the bottom two feet of the wall. Otherwise, the tiny room was empty.

I stepped into the bar itself. My eyes grew accustomed to the dark. I could make out the bar, the stools, and beyond the tables and chairs to the front windows. In its emptiness, the room seemed much smaller than it had when it was filled with people eating and drinking, with Rosa rushing through carrying another bottle of spaghetti sauce, with Frank laughing at the bar. I shook off the uneasy feeling. No time for nostalgia. No sense in bothering with the tables. Nothing would be hidden out there.

I stopped behind the bar and flashed the light under it, at open shelves of glasses. An icemaker, unplugged now, held water. On the wall behind the bar were the bottles; the ones on top were open, the others waited in readiness, but there were no cupboards, no containers that did not open. Everything here was what it seemed to be.

The bathroom was at the other side of a small hallway. It reminded me of a camping facility—tiny, dank, with a toilet, a sink, and peeling paint.

Crammed in at the end of the hallway, between the bathroom and bar, was a two-foot high metal cabinet. The sliding door was locked, but I had seen Frank take its key off a hook from around the corner in the bar. I had seen him and I suspected many other customers had, so it was unlikely that anything Frank wanted to keep hidden would be in this cabinet.

I unlocked it and slid the door to one side, shining the light on the upper shelf. Papers lay on it haphazardly—orders for liquor, for mixers, payment receipts for laundry. There must have been thirty various sheets. I gathered them into a pile and dropped them in a plastic bag in my pocket. In the corner was a ledger checkbook. Deciding it was too risky to take that, I noted the balance—$2694.75—and left it in the cabinet.

The bottom shelf was empty. I relocked the cabinet and returned the key to its hook in the bar.

I hadn’t really expected to find anything in the bar, the bathroom, the cabinet, or anywhere else inside. In its entirety, Frank’s Place consisted of the bar and the small restaurant beyond. To the left of the bar was the alcove that led to both the customers’ door and the back door I’d come in tonight. To the right was the hall and the bathroom. The trap door had to be in the hall. And it was through the trap door that I
did
expect to find the evidence of Frank’s involvement in drug dealing.