Burn Out (22 page)
After I left T.C. I called the number in the 510 area code that Cammie Charles had left with her friend Verna. On the third ring, a familiar voice picked up.
“Cammie? Sharon McCone, the private investigator—”
“I know who you are. Who gave you this number?”
I ignored the question. “I found Bud Smith’s SUV in Toiyabe yesterday. And today the sheriff’s department found his body.”
“Oh, God. When we saw the Subaru I recognized it. I told Rich we should report it.”
“And he didn’t want to get involved.”
“No. Rich, there was some problem between him and Bud. He said it looked like Bud had been killed and he didn’t want anything to do with the cops. I told him we couldn’t just walk away from this . . . thing. But we did.”
“Why didn’t
you
report it?”
Silence.
“Because Rich said not to?”
“. . . Yeah. I didn’t want him to get in trouble.”
“But you left him.”
“I thought if I did, he’d shape up, take responsibility for his life, and then we’d get back together.”
Verna had been right about Cammie’s motives. “So what was this problem between Rich and Bud?”
“I don’t know. You’d better ask Rich.”
“I’ll do that. Any message you want me to pass along?”
“. . . No. Well, yes. Just tell him I love him.”
I drove to Elk Lake, but Rich Three Wings wasn’t there. Finally I caught up with him at Hobo’s around eight o’clock that evening. He was sitting at the bar, the two stools to either side of him vacant, as if the other patrons feared the aura of gloom he exuded might be contagious. I sat down to his right.
“Rich, I spoke with Cammie tonight.”
He started, his eyes jerking toward me. “Jesus! You scared me.”
“Sorry. As I said—”
“You talked to Cammie. Where is she?”
“Some friends’ house in the East Bay.”
“That would be Kendall and Dan Clark. They visited up here a couple of times. How’d you get their number?”
“Verna, from the flower shop.”
“Is Cammie okay?”
“Yes. She asked me to tell you she loves you. I think she’s waiting for you to call and make nice.”
“Yeah, that’s her style. She knows I’ve got the phone number.”
“Are you going to?”
He considered, turning his glass between his hands. The bartender looked questioningly at me, but I shook my head.
“I don’t think so,” Rich finally said. “Cammie’s better off without me. I’m an asshole.”
“Because of what happened in Toiyabe?”
Silence.
“She told me about it.”
“Then you know why she’s better off. Bud Smith was probably out there struggling to survive, and I didn’t want to get involved. What kind of a shit does that make me?”
“It makes you human. And you couldn’t’ve done anything for Bud; he was long dead by then. The sheriff’s search party found his body today; he’d been shot in the back, probably somewhere else.”
“Jesus, all this killing.” He shook his head. “Why would somebody shoot Bud?”
“Well, there was trouble between the two of you. What was that about?”
“. . . We got into an argument in here a few years ago. One of those pushing and shoving things. Nothing unusual, but people in this town have long memories.”
“What was the argument about?”
“Miri wrote a letter to Hayley and asked Bud to hold it for her, in case she ever came home. Bud said he hadn’t read it, was keeping it in his office safe. But I could tell he was lying.”
“How did you know about the letter?”
“Miri got drunk in here a lot. When she drank, she couldn’t hold her tongue; she talked about the letter, but she never would say what was in it. About that she wouldn’t say a word.”
“And why would she entrust something that important to Bud?”
“Miri had a small insurance policy with him. When it was going to lapse because she couldn’t make the payments, Bud took them over. He was nice to her in other ways. She said he never judged her.”
Well, that fit with what I knew about Miri’s rape and Bud covering for his brother. Guilt, plain and simple. “So you asked Bud about the letter and that led to this pushing and shoving.”
“Yeah. Another example of what an asshole I am. I mean, Hayley wasn’t any of my business any more. We were divorced. I’d made a new life for myself. But I couldn’t let it rest.”
“As far as you know, when Hayley came back to town, did Bud give her Miri’s letter?”
“I didn’t even know Hayley was here till she was killed.”
“She took out an insurance policy with Amy as beneficiary. Do you think Bud would’ve passed on the letter then?”
“Probably. He knew Hayley would never go see her mother. She hated her. Once told me she wished she’d die.”
After eleven. I pushed Tom Mathers’ log book aside and rubbed my eyes. I’d come back and answered my business messages, then called Ma, and finally Hy, who was in Chicago “cleaning house.” Which meant that, as part of his reorganization plan, he was firing and hiring personnel for RI’s most inept and corrupt branch office. He was tired, frustrated, and disappointed that he couldn’t get back for the weekend. I told him no worries, my case was coming to a conclusion, and I’d probably be in San Francisco when he arrived next week.
I sounded more confident than I felt.
I microwaved myself some mac and cheese, and then, feeling guilty about my recent poor eating habits, made a small salad. Ate while watching an old episode of
All in the Family
on TV. The show held up, even in this tumultuous first decade of the twenty-first century. Come to think of it, not much had really changed since the nineteen-seventies; technological advances, yes, but not matters of the human conscience and heart.
The rest of the evening I devoted to Mathers’ log. T.C. was right: there were no notations to indicate trouble on any of the trips. I jotted down names and addresses of the clients for searches to make after I got back from Inyo County tomorrow.
Now, even as tired as I was, I got some carrots from the fridge and took them out to King Lear. The horse whickered when he heard my footsteps, nuzzled my hand as he took his treats. I stood petting him for a while, then said, “You know what? We’ve got to get you a companion. Being an only horse is not a good thing.”
There was frost everywhere when I looked out the kitchen window in the morning. Frost so heavy it mimicked the snowcapped peaks of the mountains. I was glad Lark and I weren’t due at the Inyo County jail till two, when the day would have warmed some; cold-weather flying is something I prefer to leave to Hy.
I called the agency. Ted told me he’d taken matters into his own hands and was researching copy machines. He was fed up with calling the repairman for our present one, and had been lobbying for a replacement for months.
“I’m getting to know the repair guy so well, I feel like I should invite him to Thanksgiving dinner,” he added. “Speaking of which, are you and Hy gonna make it this year?”
Ted’s annual Thanksgiving party. God, I’d forgotten all about it! I glanced at the calendar on the wall by the fridge; I hadn’t changed it from October.
“Uh, when is Thanksgiving?”
Ted let out a despairing sigh. “Next week. What planet are you living on?”
“A very strange one. Count us in.” Even if I had to fly back for just the one day.
“Good. Is it okay to go ahead with the new copier?”
“Yes. But don’t finalize the sale till you okay the price with me. And now let me talk to Patrick, please.”
Patrick sounded tense. “Six new clients yesterday, Shar. All corporate. Derek and Thelia and I have split them up among us, but there’re other cases that’re backlogged. What with Mick in rehab . . .”
“Thelia needs an assistant.”
“I know.”
“Find her one.”
“Me?”
“You. First, call around to the agencies we cooperate with and ask if they have any recommendations. If not, run an ad. You know what kind of person we’re looking for. Then interview the most promising ones.”
“But I just can’t go ahead and hire—”
“By the time you complete the interviews, I’ll be back to make the final decision and negotiate salary and benefits.”
“Okay,” he said, “I can do this.”
“Of course you can. If you get really swamped with new cases, call on Rae. She delivered her latest book to her publisher last month.”
We discussed a few other matters, and by the time we ended the conversation, Patrick seemed more confident and in control than ever.
Way to delegate, McCone.
Next call: Mick. I hadn’t heard from him about his deep backgrounding on Trevor Hanover since Wednesday. There was no answer at his extension at the rehab center. Probably in therapy, I thought. But it wasn’t like him not to keep me posted, so I called Rae.
“Oh, God, I should’ve let you know!” she said. “Yesterday afternoon he had an episode of internal bleeding and they had to transfer him to UC Med Center to perform more surgery.”
“Is he okay?”
“He will be. I’ll tell you, this experience has taught him a lot. Us, too. We should’ve kept in closer touch after his breakup with Charlotte, given him the support he needed.”
“I should’ve, too. I was so mired down in my own situation I didn’t realize how bad off he was. When’s he going back to the rehab center?”
“This afternoon.” She paused. “Oh, I just remembered—before he went into surgery he told Ricky that there was some information on his laptop that ought to be forwarded to you. But Ricky forgot, and he had to go to LA this morning. He only called a while ago to tell me about it. Do you want me to go over to the rehab center and try to access it?”
“No, don’t bother. I assume when Mick’s back there he’ll send it along. Give him my love when you see him.”
“Frankly, I’d rather give him a good slap upside the head. God, I’m glad I never had children!”
“Yeah—and instead you became stepmother to six of them.”
“Independence traffic, Two-Seven-Tango, turning for final.”
“Two-Seven-Tango, Three-Eight-Niner. I’m still behind you. That’s a damn pretty plane you’ve got.”
“Thank you, Three-Eight-Niner.”
I glanced over at Lark. She had her eyes closed. She’d closed them when we’d taken off from Tufa Tower, then kept them rigidly focused on the instrument panel during most of the trip. She was capable of speech, however, and we’d discussed the scenario for our interrogation of Boz Sheppard.
Lark had spoken with her superiors and the DA in Mono County, and then the sheriff and DA in Inyo. Together they’d worked out a plan that would ensure Sheppard’s cooperation without either jurisdiction giving up very much. While we were aware that Sheppard—like any criminal or, for that matter, anyone who watched crime shows on TV—knew the good-cop bad-cop routine, very few of them failed to be rattled by it.
“Are we there yet?” Lark asked.
I leveled off, then set the plane down on the runway without so much as a bump.
“Are we—?”
“We’re there.”
“What?” She opened her eyes and looked around as I braked and turned off toward the tie-downs. “When did—?”
“That was one of my better landings. And since you had your eyes closed, you couldn’t tell where we were at.”
“No way! I could feel every motion—”
“I’ll demonstrate on the way back.”
“The hell you will!”
An Inyo County Sheriff’s Department car took us to the jail, and a guard led us to an interrogation room that was much smaller than the visiting area where I’d earlier spoken with Sheppard.
Lark pulled out a chair from the metal table and looked around. “The ambience is perfect. Very claustrophobic.”
“And scenic.” I nodded at an ugly water stain on the ceiling. “Where do you want me?”
“Stand over there by that big crack in the wall. Fold your arms and look relaxed.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Seconds later Sheppard was brought in. He looked pretty bad—drug withdrawal, I supposed. His face was pale and pinched, more like a lab rat’s than ever.
“Hello, Boz,” Lark said. “You remember me? And Ms. McCone?”
Sheppard grunted and sat down across from her.
“I’m going to be taping this session,” she said, activating the recorder on the table. “I’ve been talking with the authorities and DA’s offices down here and up in Mono. I can offer you a deal, depending on the information you’re willing to give up.”
Flicker of interest in his eyes. “Yeah? What kind of deal?”
Lark began ticking off the items on her fingers. “No charges in the Hayley Perez murder. No charges in the attack on Amy Perez—”
“Amy? She didn’t know I was the one—”
Snared. Snared and stupid. But Mono wasn’t giving up anything, because they had no evidence Boz had killed Hayley, and Amy really couldn’t identify him as the perp.
“Yes, she knows,” Lark lied. “And she’s willing to testify to that effect. On the other hand, McCone is willing to forgive you on the trespass on her ranch and assault charges. You tell us what you were looking for in Amy’s cabin, it all goes away.”
“. . . A letter from Miri Perez. Something Bud Smith gave Hayley. What this meeting the night she was killed was all about—the one she was gonna profit from. I tore the trailer apart, but it wasn’t there. So I figured she’d given it to Amy.”
“You have to beat up and cut Amy to search for it?” I asked.
Sheppard started. He’d forgotten I was there. “I didn’t know the little skank was in the cabin. She woke up and tried to hit me with a lamp. Real fighter, that one.”
“Don’t browbeat the man, McCone,” Lark said, glaring at me. She turned back to Sheppard. “Tell us about your history with Hayley.”
“What about the rest of my deal?”
“This information is to cement the deal with Mono.”
“Okay, okay. I met Hayley in Vegas. She was hooking.”
“And you were . . . ?”
“Working in a casino.”
“Which one?”
“Same one she was.”
“The name?”
“I forget.”
I said, “He was probably dealing—but not cards. Or pimping. Were you her pimp, Sheppard?”
“Leave him be, McCone,” Lark said.
“He wasn’t doing anything legitimate in Vegas, that’s for sure.”