"Presumption Of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Shaughnessy Perri)

2

“W UH?” PAUL SAID. HE REMOVED HIS arm from where it had come to rest on her chest.

Outside the sliding doors to the deck, ghostly fog, lit palely by a young sun somewhere above. On Nina’s right, Paul lay on his back and went back to snoring. On her left, on a bedside table just big enough for a lamp, a pair of glasses, water, and a book, the phone continued to ring. She reached for it. It fell to the floor.

Paul put a pillow over his head while Nina leaned as far down as she could without falling out of the bed, collected the mouthpiece, and flicked on the lamp.

A muffled growl came from the right, and through the phone, a familiar voice. “It’s me.”

“Sandy?” She knew the voice, but in her new surroundings it jarred.

“Forget me already?”

“Of course not.” Sandy Whitefeather had been Nina’s secretary in her law office at South Lake Tahoe, but this summer was doing some kind of work with the federal government at the Bureau of Indian Affairs, something to do with the rights of the Washoe tribe, her people.

At the moment, decaffeinated, Nina couldn’t recall details. “Where are you?”

“D.C.”

“It’s dawn here.”

“Not too early for the police to call.”

Groggy, squinting at her watch, Nina said, “You’ve joined the police?”

“Right, I’m the new attorney general. Wake up, we have to talk. The police called me.”

“From South Lake Tahoe?” She pulled herself up and propped her back against the headboard. “What do they want?”

“Not Tahoe. Monterey County Sheriff.”

“Oh.” What in the world? “Why would the sheriff’s office call you?”

“You won’t believe this,” Sandy said, then stopped.

“Won’t believe… what?”

“Heard about some local fires?”

They had been in the paper all week, the devastating early fires of California. Spring this year had brought drought and with it, fire. Thousands of acres of scourge, hundreds of millions in damage. Last night, right before falling asleep, they had listened to an analysis on NPR. “Yeah.”

“Some near you? In Carmel Valley?”

“Now you mention it, yes. Three arson fires in the last month, right? What is it, Sandy?”

“Tuesday night was the third one. Easy to tell it was arson, they found evidence of kerosene. There was a victim this time.”

Nina thought about the dead man in her dream. All the fright of the night flowed back. It’s going to be someone I know, she thought to herself, and she gritted her teeth and said, “Go on.”

“They say,” Sandy said. She paused. “They say the body might be Willis.”

“Wish? No!” Her lungs expelled their breath, and she held a fist to her heart. “No!”

Sandy’s son was spending the summer in the area working at Paul’s investigative firm. He lived with roommates in a house Nina owned in Pacific Grove.

“Well, is he there?” Sandy asked. Her usually deadpan voice held something new and vulnerable and huge and overwhelming in it. Motherhood.

“No,” she told Sandy. “What-”

“Did you see him last night?”

“No.”

“Huh. Joseph thought maybe you had him there.” Joseph was Wish’s father, probably holding down the fort at the ranch in Markleeville during Sandy’s travels. They had animals there, and, besides, after a long journey that had lasted for years, Joseph seldom left their ranch now.

“Let me think,” Nina said rapidly. “Wait. He asked to take the rest of the week off from the office. Paul mentioned it. Why do”-in spite of her dry mouth, Nina swallowed-“the police think it’s Wish?”

“He went up the Robles Ridge above Carmel Valley Village Tuesday night with another boy. Fire burned fifteen acres on the ridge. His roommates say he didn’t come home that night or last night either. The arson team found a body. That’s why.”

Oh, no, no, no. Paul stirred. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“No fear,” Sandy continued. “It isn’t him.”

Funny how that phrase, no fear, the logo on a baseball cap, a phrase Nina so connected to her own son, struck down all her defenses. “What do you mean?”

“It isn’t him.”

“Did they ask you to come here and identify him?”

“Oh, I’m coming, but I know what I know.”

As if Sandy could see her across the three thousand miles, Nina nodded. Then she said painfully, “How do you know?”

Silence ate at the line. Sandy finally said, “I’m his mother. I know. I would feel it if he was gone. No noise strikes the house. I can say his name. Some other things that you’re not going to understand. Anyway. I want you to find him.”

“We will.”

“Is Paul there?”

Nina handed the phone to Paul. “It’s bad,” she whispered. “That fire in Carmel Valley we heard about in the news last night? They found a body and… they think it’s Wish.”

Paul took the phone from her. The sheet fell off his naked body, but he didn’t notice. “What’s going on?” he asked. And then, uh huh, uh huhs followed many times before he hung up. He jumped from the bed, strode over to the sliding doors, and opened them. Damp air flowed in. He breathed deeply.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

“He was supposed to be at Tahoe with his father. Sounds like he never made it.”

“I said good-bye to him at the office on Tuesday night. Paul… if he’s dead?”

“We deal with what we have right now. Sandy believes he’s alive.”

“She’s three thousand miles away,” Nina said.

“We’re here. Let’s get going.”

After dressing and a quick bite, they drove to the sheriff’s office in Salinas. Along the road farmworkers were picking late strawberries. The Salinas Valley was one of the richest agricultural areas in the world, lying between the southern coast ranges and the Pacific. Farmers raised lettuce, artichokes, grapes, and thirty other crops in the fields along the river. They were in the land of the California missions, and not too long ago the workers bending over the rows of plants would have been mission Indians, not Latinos.

The fields ended abruptly and town began. In an old art deco building courtesy of WPA workers in the 1930s, the main offices for the enormous County of Monterey had just opened for business. The deputy on duty sent them along to check with the county arson investigator for details about the fire. “Coroner’s not done with the body yet. You can’t see it.”

The summer’s usual cool ocean breezes hadn’t made it this far inland yet, leaving a hot sun in charge this early Thursday morning. The heat made Nina sweat, so she peeled off her sweater before going inside the nearby building that housed the fire investigator’s office.

A young girl at a desk in the entryway had just told them they were out of luck, when in blew David Crockett, a perspiring, huffing man in his late thirties with curly black thinning hair, wearing running shoes and sweats. He gave them a piercing look and took Paul’s ID.

“Right. I remember you from Monterey Police, Paul. You broke open that warehouse-fraud case in Seaside.” He shook his hand. “You’re on your own now, I hear.”

“Have been for years. Good to see you again, too, Davy. Thought you were headed to Sacramento.”

“I’ve been up there for the past two years. Been assigned down here only a few days.”

Paul looked at him. “Excellent job on that triple homicide in Roseville last year. I’d like to talk some more about that case sometime. The evidence trail your people established was outstanding. Got him what he deserved. Death row’s too kind for bastards like him.”

“Thanks.” Crockett sat them down to wait in an undecorated wood-paneled office. “Give me five seconds,” he said, and left. They heard the sound of water running somewhere outside.

“What do you think of him?” Nina asked.

“He’s dogged. Resourceful. He stays calm.”

“High praise. Did you two get along?”

“I was working my way out of the police force by then and not in the best of moods. So let’s put it this way, I hope I have since earned his respect.”

“Well, any relationship you have, exploit it, okay?”

“Do what I can,” said Paul.

Crockett came back, cheeks freshly scrubbed, decked out in creased navy slacks, a dress shirt, and tie.

“Jane, bring us some coffee,” he said to the young woman at the desk in front.

“Okay.” Judging by the downturn in her red lips, she did not relish this part of her job.

“Three sugars,” he commanded.

A few moments later Jane entered with a water-spattered tray containing a stained thermos, three cups, a bowl gunked with blobs of dried sugar, and a spoon that she picked up and dried with the tail of her blouse before returning to the tray.

“Now, that’s service, Janie,” Crockett said heartily. When she had closed the door, he said, “She’s a trainee. Some kind of chip on her shoulder. We shall see. Yes, we shall see.” He tapped his pen on the desk, and his eyes seemed to bore through the door Janie had gone through.

“How’d you end up here?” Paul asked. The small talk was making Nina impatient, but the men needed to establish common grounds and attitudes.

Crockett poured himself a cup and swallowed it. “After I left Monterey, I worked for the sheriff’s department in Salinas, then went on to Sacramento. I’m with a special arson-investigation unit here in Monterey County. I like it. Good people here.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“How about you? How do you like being out on your own?”

“It’s a lonely old world, working alone, but there are compensations.”

“I see that there are,” Crockett said, inclining his head toward Nina, who was scratching her ankle. “This your secretary?”

“My name is Nina Reilly. I’m an attorney,” Nina said. “Excuse me for interrupting, but we don’t have time to chat. As you know, Mr. van Wagoner is an investigator. We understand you have a victim in the Tuesday fire and a tentative ID on a young man named Willis Whitefeather. We’re friends, we’re worried, and we’d like to see the victim.”

Crockett had turned his whole body toward her in the chair. “I see. You’re an attorney, are you?”

“Mr. Whitefeather’s mother is out of state and can’t get here today. She asked us to come in and talk with you. Apparently she was told… a victim of the Tuesday-night Robles Ridge fire might be her son.”

Crockett studied her some more, then rustled around on his desk for some papers. “Yes. I talked with Mrs. Whitefeather last night. She’s still planning to fly in?”

“Yes, but maybe we can clear things up immediately if we see the victim, although I understand that isn’t possible at the moment?” Nina said.

Crockett nodded. “Seeing the body may not clear things up. It was badly burned.”

“What’s the basis of the ID?”

“Simple logic. He’s been missing since Tuesday night, and the last people to see him, his roommates, called in yesterday to report him missing. They heard the news reports and got alarmed because the last time they saw him was Tuesday night, and he was on his way with a friend into the hills above Carmel Valley Village. They read about the fire and decided to report it. The body was found by the sheriff’s posse, a mounted patrol out of the Salinas station on Wednesday about noon. They do rescues up there in the backwoods, get into places cars won’t go. Some of the area was still too hot to search as of yesterday.”

“You went up there too?”

“Yes,” he said. “And I’ll be going back up this afternoon.”

“What about the friend who went up there with Wish? Why aren’t you assuming it’s him?” Nina said. Paul put his hand on her arm, lightly, but she knew what he meant. He was warning her not to be so intense. Crockett had seen Paul’s movement. His eyes missed nothing.

Just as lightly, just as definitely, Nina shrugged off Paul’s hand.

“Could be him,” Crockett said. “But we don’t have a missing-persons report on him. That’s the difference. The friend’s name is Daniel Cervantes. Mrs. Whitefeather gave us the name after she heard the roommates said it was a young man named Danny. We’re still trying to get a local address on him. Ring any bells? Danny Cervantes?”

Nina and Paul shook their heads.

“Childhood friends, Mrs. Whitefeather said. Guess they’re both Native Americans from the Tahoe area.”

“Wish is a member of the Washoe tribe. He was raised near Lake Tahoe.”

“He’s, what, twenty-one?”

“Yes,” Nina said.

“Going to college up there, I understand. And working for you this summer, Paul, am I right?”

“Right.”

“Was he working on a case on Tuesday night? Anything to do with the fires?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’m sure. What are you getting at, Davy?”

Crockett shifted again in his black chair, which looked like a standard-issue back-torture instrument. “Because the roommates told me he took a backpack, camera, water, that sort of thing. Just wondering if you might know why he would go up the mountain there, since you worked with him.”

“I don’t know,” Paul said. Nina was getting nervous.

She said, giving Paul a warning look, “We understand this fire might have been set, that there have been a couple of suspicious fires in that area.”

“That’s right. Clear arsons. Kerosene all over the place. The local officials decided they needed someone to coordinate all the information coming in. I’m the liaison. I work with the agencies that are involved, and that can be a lot of bureaucracies, the police, the fire department, the sheriff’s department, the state, the park service, the FBI… you familiar with the crime of arson?”

“We’d like to hear whatever you can tell us,” Paul said.

“I can tell you generally that one of the first things we look for is motive.”

Crockett stood up and pointed to a huge aerial photograph of Monterey County on the wall beside his desk.

“Here, here, and here,” he said thoughtfully, pointing with his pencil to three spots on the map about fifteen miles inland from Carmel. “Those are the sites. You familiar with Carmel Valley Village?”

“I grew up here on the coast,” Nina said. “When I think of the Village, I think of flies buzzing, yellow grass, open spaces. Old cottages along the river.”

“Those old cottages are going fast, replaced by million-dollar mansions. Carmel Valley’s a hot real-estate market these days. Really hot. So we have to consider what the fires are aimed at, as I said. The first one took out a model home and some construction equipment on a subdivision site near the Carmel River. Twelve homes and a big condo unit were planned for that one.”

“I think I read about that project,” Nina said. “Didn’t they evict some handicapped people from the site?”

“Evict, that’s not really the word. There’s an old converted motel at the top of the site called Robles Vista. Used now as a state handicapped facility. Has to be torn down anyway, the place is falling apart. The occupants have been offered alternate housing. Most of them haven’t moved yet.

“The second fire occurred at the new café right in the Village. It almost got away from the firefighters, and the elementary school next door would have gone up fast. A local character, a woman named Ruthie, was sleeping in the lot outside in her car about three A.M. and smelled it. She may have seen the arsonists. Two people in a car. Dangerous fire, could have burned down half the Village. The shop was gutted.

“The third fire, on Tuesday night, burned fifteen acres above the Village on Robles Ridge, all woods, and came within a hair of several brand-new homes up there. Big homes, spectacular views of the Valley.”

“So you think the motive had to do with stopping new development in the Village?”

Crockett shrugged. “It’s an obvious starting point. It could still be something else, revenge, insurance, punk kids playing nasty games. But the targets look like new homes and businesses.”

“Wish wouldn’t be involved in anything like that,” Nina said.

“Did you know Mr. Whitefeather was antidevelopment?”

“What? You are way off base. He’s not involved. He’s not a local. He’s not an ecoterrorist. He wants to be a cop!”

“How well did you know him, Ms. Reilly?”

“I know him extremely well, Mr. Crockett.” The friendly conversation between Paul and Davy had moved into Mr. Crockett and Ms. Reilly.

“Then you know he participated in the protest last weekend against development interests in the Valley with some local Native Americans?”

Nina remembered Wish leaving Paul’s office a few days earlier. “I gotta go early, Paul,” he had said. “I promised to drive. People are depending on me.”

“There were hundreds of people at that rally,” she said, “plus free food.”

Crockett shrugged.

“So he was out there exercising his constitutional rights,” Nina went on. “It’s a big leap from a rally to three rural arson fires in a place he’s visiting, where he has no vested interest. What did the police do at that rally, film it and run people’s IDs? I thought that went out with the Cold War.”

“Well, there’s his arrest at age thirteen for arson, that makes us sit up straight. The charges were dropped and the whole thing was put down to a prank. Still, that’s not something we can overlook.”

“But how would you know that? Records on juvenile offenders are sealed in California,” Nina said, trying to hide her dismay at hearing this information.

“I know a few people,” Crockett said, looking first at Paul, then staring at the map on the wall. “We don’t miss much.”

“But that’s illegal,” Nina said, leaning forward.

She felt like getting into it with Crockett. But before she could, he said casually, “And as I said, he told his roommates he was going up Robles Ridge. That conversation took place about three hours before the first 911 call about the fire. He and the other young man headed up there. Two people, like the witness saw before. Happens sometimes that during the course of a felony one of the perpetrators gets hurt. Makes even a lawyer think, doesn’t it?”

“I just hate to see you wasting time and taxpayer money, Mr. Crockett.” But she was shaken.

“You have a card to give me, Ms. Reilly? Where’s your office?”

While Nina was trying to figure out how to respond to this, Crockett’s phone buzzed, and Crockett raised a hand and picked it up. Hanging up, he told them, “The autopsy should be completed by three this afternoon. I told the coroner’s office you could go in and attempt an ID. If you promise me you’ll call me right after and let me know how it went.”

“You got it,” Paul said. They got up to leave.

“You do have a card?” Crockett said, standing up with them, his impassive face looking down at Nina.

She gave him the poker face right back. “Not on me,” she said. “Call Mr. van Wagoner if you need to get in touch with me.”

“Good to see you again, Paul,” Crockett said, and the two men shook hands. “I’ll be waiting to hear.”

She had been rendered invisible. She slunk into the passenger seat of Paul’s Mustang and they cruised out of the parking lot. She was thinking, when an attorney has no office and no card, no staff and no clients, maybe she’d better not announce that she’s an attorney.

But then, what was she?

“What’s the sound of a lawyer falling in the forest?” she asked Paul. “If there’s no one there to hear it?”

Paul neatly turned north onto the on-ramp to Highway 1.

“It sounds like a long argument slowly dying out,” he said.

Nina laughed.

“So where’s your aunt Helen’s place?”

“Not far. Over the hill, just past the Pebble Beach turnoff.”

“Maybe he’ll be there,” Paul said, as if to himself. Cypresses and pines pressed against the highway. They turned onto 68 and wound through the views of golf courses and ocean, the fog bank ragged off the distant horizon, like cotton batting leaking from the edge of a faded blue quilt.