Hold of the Bone (32 page)

“I didn't say we change it, it's just that it's different when we're not here, more destructive. In 1872, when John's grandfather turned us off the land, he was struck in the course of three months by an outbreak of brucellosis, drought, and a wildfire that came over the mountain and burned down his barn but didn't touch the neighbors on either side. The rains came a week after he hired Mateo Saladino back, and that spring the Mazettis had a record number of calves that survived and made it to market. In 1914 Mateo's son Paul was working the ranch. When he got drafted, there was another drought, worse than the one in '72.”

She tips her head back toward the mountains. “Springs that had held water even in the driest years went bone dry. There wasn't enough grass to get the cattle to market, and ninety percent of the herd died of starvation or were slaughtered and left for the vultures. In August, a month after Paul came home, the rains started. The next year, the Mazettis shipped out seventeen hundred head of cattle. He made more money than anyone in the valley that year. And next year and the next. The only other time there wasn't a Saladino on the ranch was after I married Mike.”

“And what calamity happened then?”

“We had a windstorm that spring that toppled a perfectly healthy oak tree into the ranch house. Pete and Linda were out branding, so they didn't get hurt, but their twin boys were killed. A month later, an outbreak of swamp fever wiped out every horse on the ranch.”

“No drought?”

“Not that year, but the winter was drier than usual. They had to sell the cattle early, and all summer they were plagued by lightning
fires. I'd sit in our living-room window in town and watch the storms come in. The clouds were like wild, black animals licking the mountains with tongues of lightning, starting fires everywhere they touched. It was terrifying, watching the lightning strike and not being there to do anything about it.”

“What would you have done if you were here?”

“I don't know if it would have happened if I'd stayed.”

“If you're such a storm master, why'd you let us get soaked the first time I came here?”

“Why not? The land was thirsty. I'm glad the rain came.”

Sal flicks the head off her cigarette and crumbles the rest over the water.

Copying her, Frank asks, “Are there trout in there?”

“Um-hum.”

“Do you catch them?”

“Sometimes. But not from here. Pete keeps a pond stocked behind the ranch.”

“Speaking of which, I better get going.”

As they walk, Sal asks if Frank can stay longer next time. “I have to show you one more thing. It's the last.”

“You have to?”

“Yes,” Sal answers soberly. “Can you?”

“Thing is,” Frank says to the mountains, “this is probably my last trip for a while. My boss is getting tired of covering for me.”

“I see.” Sal's eyes pierce Frank and she gets the feeling Sal sees more than she lets on. “Well, whenever the next time is, make it a couple days.”

“What is it you have to show me?”

“You'll see. But it takes time to get there.”

“On horseback?”

Sal nods.

“My ass is already starting to hurt.”

And already Frank is pondering how to break her promise to Pintar.

Chapter 33

Leaving Soledad, driving south on the 101, Frank refuses to look at the mountains. She senses the Lucias' long, doleful stare but will not meet it. It's best to forget the watchful range, to pretend she was never held in its arms.

In Gonzalez she stops at a liquor store. The smell of stale booze and spilt beer is reassuring. She buys Buglers and a bag of Drum. In the car, she rolls a clumsy cigarette. She smokes without glancing west. Back on the highway, she returns Caroline's call. The conversation is stilted and disengaged. Claiming fatigue, Frank wriggles from their tentative date.

At home, after miles of pressing Sal and Bone and Buttons from her mind, she lights a fire in the barbecue and chars a steak. Slicing bloody chunks right off the grill, she eats without benefit of plate or napkin. A muddled dusk settles over the city. She rolls a smoke and watches the night's benign arrival. When the sky is as dark as it's going to get, she drags her mattress into the yard and lies under the few stars bold enough to compete with the city lights.

She wakes cold and shivering. Instead of crawling into bed, she retrieves more blankets and falls deeply into dreams of high mountains and black pines. Traffic wakes her before the alarm. She lies a minute, pretending the susurrus is wind in sycamores. The spell is broken by a horn blast.

In the morning meeting she is vague about the weekend, explaining once again that she has come back with more questions than answers. As the meeting breaks up, she motions Lewis into her office. Frank hasn't typed up her notes yet, giving Lewis the opportunity to crack, “Fred Flintstone's more plugged in than you are.”

“Got a prettier wife, too,” she says, shuffling through papers. “Got nothing on Roderick Dusi. Sal seemed surprised when I mentioned he was down here. Said she forgot he worked with her old man. The uncle only hired him when he was desperate. Didn't tell me shit about him. But we know he was there. We know he fought with Saladino. Know the uncles,” she quotes the air, “wanted to kill him. Had a history of mental illness. I want you to dig deeper on him. Everything you can find.”

Lewis is nodding, writing, not waiting for her boss's notes.

“Gets better. John Mazetti—the guy who owned the ranch? Saladino's boss? He was having an affair with Saladino's wife.”

Lewis whistles. “Saladino know?”

“Don't think so. Bad as his temper was when he was drinking, I think Mazetti'd have been a dead man if Saladino knew. He was already jealous of Mazetti—”

“How you know?”

“Sal—the daughter—she said he used to accuse his wife of wishing she'd married Mazetti instead. They had a history. All grew up together—”

“Damn. S'like
Bonanza
meets
Melrose Place
.”

“Mazetti knew where Saladino would be. Big, strong guy. Angry. Motivated after his lover was beat. Again. Saladino wouldn't have defended himself if Mazetti caught him unaware or came on him all friendly-like. Have you accounted for him yet after Mary Saladino died?”

Lewis wags her head. “None of the auction places in Merced keep records that far back, and if he didn't buy anything they wouldn't a had a record of him being there anyway.”

Frank lifts a finger for each point. “Opportunity. Motive. Means.” She stops to scratch a note to herself. “I should've thought to see if I could find who handles the Mazettis' books. Might be something going back that far, about his trip that week. Okay. Here's another thing's been rolling around in my head. His daughter Cass, Sal's sister.

“Cass is drunker than Stingy Jack when she dies, but she's a good driver and can handle her liquor. She's been on that road her whole
life. She'd have known the turn was coming, even blind drunk she'd have known to slow for it. The old cop on the scene, the sister, neither remembers skid marks in the road. There's no obvious cause of accident other than a postmortem .16 Blood Alcohol Content. Which could have been exaggerated postmortem results, and if it wasn't, if that really was her BAC while she was alive, that would have been nothing for her. By all accounts, she could drink anyone under the table.”

Frank tosses her pad on the desk and kicks back with her feet on it. “I'm not buying it was an accident. I think she killed herself.”

“How come?”

“That's the question. What makes a pretty, talented, popular young woman drive herself through the windshield? I'm betting something drastic, like maybe you killed your father, or you know who did, like maybe your uncle, but you can't say. That'd be hard to live with, wouldn't it?”

“Yeah, but you ain't got nothing to back that.”

“Don't I? People don't just wake up one morning and decide to kill themselves. Things happen that lead to the decision, that build up to it.” Frank counts on her fingers again. “Her mother's dead. She did nothing to stop the beatings. She's furious with her father. Blames him. Supposedly can't find him. I think that's bullshit. If you're that angry, that's incentive enough to live, to find the bastard and hunt him down. They don't do that. The girls give up right away. Why? 'Cause they know where he is. No sense in looking. One of them killed him. Maybe Cass. She's the wild one, the reckless one with the temper. They find him that night, they argue, things get outta hand, Cass grabs a two-by-four and connects in a rage. She doesn't mean to, but now what are they gonna do? They've got a dead body on their hands. Bury him quick. Right there. The girls are smart enough to know they gotta be pouring a foundation soon. Dig him down. Hurry home. Pretend nothing ever happened.”

Lewis looks skeptical. “Possible,” she admits. “But what about the boyfriends? See, this is the way I'm feeling it. They go down there. The uncle tells them where the girls are. They get there, and one of 'em takes on the old man. Get into a fight.”

“No defensive wounds.”

Lewis waves. “An argument. It escalates. One of the boys pop him. They all four bury Saladino. They all in on it. That's why Cass kill herself. Can't handle the pressure. 'Specially girl drink like she do? She know she gonna spill it, get someone she love in trouble. Don't make sense, the girls popping they old man. ‘At's something a boy up in his blood about a girl would do.”

Nodding, Frank says, “Maybe Pete. He's a shystie bastard. Real possessive of Sal. Might be Thompson, but I'm not feelin' him. Sal says he's an awful liar. Or—” Frank drops her feet onto the floor and turns back to the paperwork on her desk “—could be we're both fulla shit and some long-dead wino popped Saladino for pocket change.”

“Maybe so,” Lewis agrees, standing to go. “Maybe so.”

“Close the door, please.”

She does and Frank stares at her phone. She owes Caroline a call and a date. She wonders what Sal is doing, how cool the morning is, and what the creek will look like when all the leaves have fallen. She wishes she'd thought to take pictures. Going online, she scrolls through images of the Santa Lucias. None look right. They don't fill the craving in her heart.

The retirement papers catch her eye. She pulls them out and calls Caroline. “Hey,” she tells her voicemail. “It's me. Nothing on the agenda tonight. Holler if you'd like to do something.”

But right after lunch the squad catches a drive-by. Tatum is next on the rotation and Frank rolls with him. The victim is an eight-year-old girl riding her bicycle home from school. The bullets sprayed into a quiet Dalton Street home were meant for her older brother. The bicycle has pink tassels on the handlebars. They match the girl's anklets and the barrettes in her hair.

Pintar arrives on scene to deal with the media. It's a small crowd, as even pretty eight-year-olds don't rate much South-Central airtime. Frank goes inside the house, where the mother and father and younger brother huddle on the sofa. The son who was the intended target has fled. She steps carefully around shattered glass in the front room, listening as Tatum asks for a photograph of the boy.

“He didn't do anything. Why do you want him? Why you don't go find the punks that did this to my baby girl?”

Tatum starts to explain that their son can lead them to the shooter, but Frank interrupts. “Whoever did this to your daughter is going to know your son's coming for them and they'll be waiting for him. We want to get to your son before they do.”

The mother nods and goes into another room. She comes out with three freshly printed pictures of her son, his arms around his mother and sister, all grinning for the camera.

Tatum puts out an APB while Frank takes the brother aside.

“What's his street name?”

“I dunno.”

“Yeah, you do. It'll help me find him faster, and maybe keep him alive. Who's he claim?”

“I dunno.”

Frank sighs. “Do you love your sister?”

He nods.

“Your mom and dad?”

He nods again.

“Do you have any idea how hard this is gonna be for them, how much it's gonna hurt that they've lost their baby girl?”

The boy tears up and tries to choke them down.

“Can you think how it'll be if they lose their baby girl
and
their oldest boy? I don't want whoever did this to your sister to kill him, too. You know they're gonna be lookin' for him. If I can find him first, I have a chance to protect him. If I don't, your parents are gonna lose two of their babies. You want that, to be the only one they got left?”

He shakes his head at the floor. Frank squats next to him and leans in. “Who's he claim?”

The boy is staunch in his brother's defense.

“Nobody's gonna know you told me, and the longer you hold out, the more time you give for the guys who shot your sister to find your brother. Trust me, little man, you don't want that on your head. Who's he claim?”