Burn Out (7 page)

“Amy’s out of town and we haven’t been able to reach her. Basically, all we want to know is if the policy exists and what its terms are.”

“Hayley should have had the policy in her possession. She picked it up”—he flipped backward through his desk calendar—“on September twenty-sixth.”

So she’d been in town for quite a while. Why, as the clerk at the Food Mart had said, hadn’t she “shown her face”?

I said, “Perhaps she put it in a safe place. The trailer where she was staying wasn’t very secure.”

“Apparently not, since she was murdered there.” Smith hesitated, running his hand over his clean-shaven chin. “I’m not sure I should be discussing the policy with you. Are you a relative?”

“A good friend. Ramon Perez is manager at my husband’s and my ranch.”

“Oh, you’re Hy Ripinsky’s new wife. I heard he got married again. Forgive me. I’ll be glad to tell you anything you need to know.”

I love to ask questions in small towns where I’m an insider. Hate it when I’m an outsider and they raise the bar against me.

Bud Smith went to a file cabinet and came back to his desk with a slim manila folder. “She came in on September seventh. Said her mother was unreliable—which is true—and that her other siblings, except for Amy, were either dead or in prison. She wanted to provide for Amy should something happen to her. We agreed on a fifty-thousand-dollar whole-life policy, which would accumulate a cash value that could be withdrawn at any time if Hayley, as owner of the policy, needed money.”

“Why fifty thousand?”

“The premiums were affordable, and Hayley felt it was enough to give Amy a new start in life.”

“She explain what she meant by that?”

“No. And I didn’t ask. I don’t pry into my clients’ personal affairs.”

“Did Hayley have to undergo a medical exam to get the coverage?”

“Not at twenty-five. She filled out the usual health disclosure form; that was enough.”

“And what address did she give you?”

He consulted the file. “Her mother’s, but she asked the policy not be sent there, which is why she picked it up.”

“This type of policy—is there a double indemnity clause, in case of accidental death or murder?”

The right corner of Smith’s mouth twitched. “Yes. Of course. Unless she was killed by the beneficiary . . . Not that Amy would’ve done such a thing. The girl’s a little wayward, but not bad.”

“How d’you know?”

“My avocation is volunteering as a life-skills coach. Helping kids who are at risk. My friend Dana Ivins, who runs the organization, had several sessions with her. She—Dana—thought Amy had great potential.”

“This organization is called . . . ?”

“Friends Helping Friends. The name is designed to let troubled teens know we coaches don’t consider ourselves superior, but just people who’ve undergone and overcome the same obstacles they’re facing.”

“Sounds like a good program.”

Bud Smith’s smile was a shade melancholy. “We try. That’s all we can do—try.”

Friends Helping Friends operated out of a dilapidated cottage on an unpaved side street at the west end of town, across the highway from the point where Zelda’s was situated. A sign on the door said
COME RIGHT IN
, so I did. A short hallway opened in front of me. To my left was a parlor full of shabby but comfortable-looking furnishings; in the room to my right, a thin woman with short gray hair and round glasses that gave her face an owlish look sat at a desk. She saw me and smiled.

“What can I do for you?”

I introduced myself. “I’m interested in speaking with one of your coaches, Dana Ivins.”

“You are in luck.” She got up and extended her hand across the desk to me. “I’m Dana.”

“Bud Smith told me you’ve been working with a girl named Amy Perez.”

She frowned. “Sit down, please. I’m afraid Bud shouldn’t have revealed that. Part of our success is that we keep our clients’ names confidential.”

“Would you explain to me how the organization works?”

“Well, the name describes it. We pair young people who are at risk with coaches who have had similar problems earlier in life. They can meet here in our parlor if the clients’ homes aren’t a supportive environment—which in most cases they’re not—or if they aren’t comfortable being seen with their coaches in public. Or they can pick another meeting place—so long as it isn’t the coach’s home; that’s inviting trouble from parents who resent our intrusion. We listen to the clients’ stories and tell them ours and what we’ve learned from them. It’s strictly a volunteer program with very little overhead, and what there is is funded by donations from local businesses. This is my house, so we don’t have to pay for offices.”

“Are you licensed therapists?”

“No, just amateurs who’ve learned from our past mistakes.”

So they couldn’t legally claim therapist-client confidentiality.

“Ms. McCone,” Dana Ivins said, “what is your interest in Amy Perez?”

I told her the same story I’d told Bud Smith, explaining my relationship to the Perez family.

“I see.” She pushed away from her desk and swiveled slightly to her left, toward the front window that overlooked the street. “Are you sure Amy is missing?”

I wasn’t. Right at this moment she could be with Ramon and Sara, but some instinct made me doubt that. I’d formed a tentative connection with the young woman the first time I looked into her eyes in the Food Mart parking lot, and it had been strengthened by the fear and defiance I saw in them after Boz Sheppard threw her out of his truck.

I said, “She didn’t contact her family about Hayley or go to work today.” Then I described my encounter with Amy alongside the highway.

Dana Ivins took off her glasses and chewed thoughtfully on one earpiece, still looking toward the window. “I knew your husband’s first wife. Julie was a wonderful person; in spite of her health problems, she did a lot for the community. After she died, I was sure Hy was done for—the environmental protesting with a nasty edge, being thrown into one jail after another. Then, because of another special woman, he settled down. That, apparently, was you.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m inclined to trust you. And I will tell you about Amy Perez.”

Amy, Dana Ivins said, was highly intelligent but struggled with low self-esteem. “Her home life is chaotic—it’s not easy being the daughter of the town slut. I know, because that’s what my own mother was. Amy’s response was the same as mine: she dropped out of school and set about creating the kind of life she thought she deserved, which included alcohol, drugs, and bad choices when it came to boyfriends. She was arrested once for underage drinking and put in an alcohol education program, which did no good whatsoever. There was another arrest for possession of marijuana, but the charges were dismissed because the quantity was so small and Amy claimed it must have been her mother’s.”

“Great family dynamics working there.”

“I’m inclined to think she was telling the truth: the jacket she was wearing belonged to Miri. Anyway, the home situation became intolerable. Amy stopped living there, began moving from one boyfriend’s place to another’s. She had two abortions in as many years. The boyfriends invariably abused her and then threw her out. When she came to us, she was squatting in one of the cabins at Willow Grove Lodge.”

“And how did she come to you?”

Dana Ivins smiled. “Very directly, if unintentionally. I went to my car one morning and found her passed out in the backseat. If there was ever a candidate for Friends Helping Friends, Amy was the prototype. I woke her and took her into the house. Got her cleaned up—she’d thrown up on herself—and loaned her a pair of my sweats. We talked.”

“And then . . . ?”

“I found her a place to stay with a friend who rents out rooms. Talked the manager of Food Mart into taking her on part time as a shelf stocker. And she began to work on getting her GED. She stayed clean and sober and didn’t see any of her old boyfriends. But then she started to backslide.”

“When?”

“It’s difficult to pinpoint, because it was subtle at first. A month ago? Maybe even six weeks. At first she’d miss scheduled appointments, but she always had a good excuse. Then she slacked off on her work for the GED. She kept working at Food Mart, but the manager told me her attitude wasn’t good. And finally she moved out of her room at my friend’s house without giving any notice.”

“To go where?”

Ivins shook her head. “My friend didn’t know. When I asked Amy, she said she’d moved home because her mother needed her. But she never would have done that; she hates Miri.”

“People like Miri are good at emotional blackmail. Maybe—”

“No. Amy had come too far for that. I know; I’ve been there. Besides, I could tell she was lying. When she lies she gives it away by letting her eyes slide away from yours so they’re looking at your left earlobe.”

Everybody, except for the most accomplished sociopath, has some mannerism that gives him or her away in a lie. Not every lie, but if the stress level is high enough, it’ll manifest itself. I’ve seen it thousands of times: eye movement, facial tics, changes in vocal pitch, tapping fingers, crossing and recrossing of legs—you name it. Once you pinpoint it, you have a better tool than a lie detector.

“When was the last time you saw Amy?” I asked.

“At least a week ago.”

“And how did she seem?”

“I didn’t really speak with her. She was stocking the bins in the produce area at Food Mart, and I was in the checkout line.”

“This was someone you’d been counseling and had cause to be concerned about, and you—”

“One of the philosophies of our organization is that the clients must be motivated to come to
us
; otherwise the process doesn’t work.”

I wasn’t so sure that was such a good approach, but then, I had no real background in their brand of therapy. Look at how miserably my own recent attempt had failed. “Okay, the time before that . . . ?”

“Weeks before. Amy came here, and we talked in the parlor. She was having trouble with one of her GED courses—algebra—and it was frustrating her. I’m no whiz at math myself, so I advised her to reread the materials and go slowly. I told her if she was still having trouble, I’d locate someone who could tutor her.”

“And did you?”

“Yes. I referred her to Bud Smith. Anyone who can figure out insurance-rate tables should be able to explain algebra.”

But Smith hadn’t mentioned that to me when he spoke of Amy.

“Did she contact him?”

“I don’t know. I never heard from her again.”

Bud Smith’s office was closed. A sign on the inside of the door said he wouldn’t return till two. I considered my options, then headed for Zelda’s for a burger and a beer, where the owner, Bob Zelda, and I caught up on our personal current events. Afterward I went back to Smith’s office. The sign still said back at two, but he wasn’t there.

The provisions I’d bought for the Perezes’ casserole had been sitting in the Land Rover too long; I drove back to the ranch and cooked. The process of grating cheese, slicing ham and mushrooms, and blending a sauce soothed me. I put the casserole in the oven along with a smaller one for my own dinner, set the timer, and went to the living room to read. After a few pages I dozed off in the comfy oversized chair. It was almost time for the casserole to come out when the phone woke me.

Sara. “Sharon, how are you?”

“Doing splendidly, thanks to you. How’s Miri?”

“Going through the d.t.’s. The seventy-two-hour hold is still on; they want to evaluate her and recommend treatment.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s happened before, and nothing’s worked.” She paused. “Ramon wants to talk to you.”

Ramon sounded weary. “You’re all right?”

“Yes. Did you talk with the sheriff’s deputy about Hayley while you were up there?”

“Yeah. There’s somebody new in charge of the case—Kristen Lark.”

“So she’s still with the department. How come I didn’t see her at the scene the other night?”

“You know her?”

“From a long time ago.”

“Well, she was on vacation. Got handed the case this morning.”

“If you like, I can contact her and try to find out more about the investigation.”

“Sharon, you’re up here for a vacation—”

“It’s no problem. I just fell asleep reading. I think I’m getting bored.”

“Well, then . . .”

“Ramon, have you heard from Amy?”

“Uh-uh. Don’t know where she’s gone off to and, frankly, I’m worried. Her sister’s murder has been all over the news; she should’ve called us by now.”

“Did Lark ask you about her?”

“No. Why?”

“She probably will.” I explained about the life-insurance policy.

Ramon groaned. “Little Amy. She couldn’t’ve—”

“No, I don’t think so. But I’m worried about her, too.” To change the subject, I told him about the casserole I’d made and said I’d bring it over.

“Sharon, thank you. Sara’s in the kitchen trying to defrost some chicken in the microwave, but it’s not going so good. But don’t bother to bring the casserole over; I’ll come get it when I feed Lear Jet.”

“No, let me feed him and then bring the food over.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them.

“You sure you want to?”

I couldn’t back down now. “Yes.”

“Okay. But take him a couple of pieces of carrot if you have any. Treats are the best way to make friends with a horse.”

The horse was in his stall, looking dejected. I approached cautiously, and he whickered. When I offered the first piece of carrot, he looked at it for a moment, then reached forward and gently took it from my fingers. I waited, then offered one more. Again he was gentle.

“I’ll feed you in a minute,” I told him. “I suppose I should clean your stall, but I’d better leave that to Ramon. Tell the truth, I’m afraid of you.”

The horse regarded me solemnly.

“Who spooked you?”

Lear shifted his feet, thrust his head forward. And then he nuzzled my hand. After a moment’s hesitation, I stroked his nose. He nuzzled some more. Probably hungry, I thought.

I fed him and left to deliver the casserole to Ramon and Sara.