He tried so hard to take care of them, always making plans that came to nothing, through no fault of his own. He didn’t have the magic touch with money, which was too bad, but he was a good man. She knew he was hurting, with this awful development going up across the way and his job always at risk.
He was a person who needed to exercise power, and he had few enough opportunities. All the railing and noise he made about Green River, going to meetings, trying to get the neighbors up in arms, and he was like a parking ticket in a shredder. They shredded him and barely knew they had done it. No wonder he got so wild now and then… he had to prove to himself he was a man. She never doubted it, and she was sorry he did, that was for sure.
She would ask him again tomorrow if they could adopt a child from China. He didn’t like babies so much, so maybe a little one a couple of years old. House-trained, he would call it.
Now that the kids were grown the house was so empty. The dogs-they were just dogs, they weren’t like a human child who learns to talk to you and laughs and learns to be like you and who you can do something for…
The house was so quiet she would have enjoyed hearing mice in the walls. Debbie unloaded the dishwasher, then got her fuzzy old robe on, and flipped on the TV to see if Letterman had a funny monologue going, or something. The digital display told her it was past midnight.
When the ads came on, Debbie started worrying the way she did. This time she was worrying about the disabled people about to be evicted at Robles Vista. She could almost hear the noise of the bulldozer engines idling behind the trees, ready to tear up the ground and ruin their lives. We’re at war, she thought, but she couldn’t quite figure out who the enemy was. She only knew what everybody knew-that the fires in the Village were battles in the war.
At least she could bring those people in their wheelchairs some human comfort. She would buy doughnuts in the morning. She’d give a sackful to the cook at Robles Vista so that people could have them for brunch in the common room there.
Finally hearing Sam’s key in the door, she felt greatly relieved. Fires and Ruthie and Danny… all so sad… and frightening… so hard to understand. I love him, she thought with gratitude, getting up, and he loves me. We are so lucky and blessed…
21
“I WAS CONCERNED THAT THERE MIGHT be some danger leaving the tent unattended,” Paul said. Crockett had told him to meet him at the D.A.’s office at the Salinas courthouse this morning. Apparently his office was a movable feast. He hadn’t been available the morning before and Paul had spent the day looking into other matters.
“Explosives, guns, something kids might find. I wasn’t sure Coyote would come back, once Child Welfare and the D.A. got together and went after him. The remote location, his use of a rifle-these were factors in my decision.”
Crockett’s metal desk shook. About six feet from them, electricians were installing a ceiling fan in the hot office. The phone on the desk rang but Crockett didn’t answer.
He had a honker like a ship’s prow that you only noticed when he turned his head, thin lips, and a brow ridge that hung like a balcony over the etched face. The brown eyes never wavered. The bony casing of his head must house a lively brain.
Ticklish situation, Paul thought again. Crockett needed enough information to get an immediate search warrant, information Paul could provide. But Paul had made an unauthorized entry into the tent. Some unsympathetic joker might call it a burglary. For that reason, they had already discussed what he would say on the tape.
“So you went in. To secure the tent until the police could arrive,” Crockett said for the benefit of the tape. He continued to treat Paul with the wary respect of a former ally, but Paul still had to be careful. Deputy D.A.s, defense lawyers, and at least one judge might decide to review the record of this interrogation.
“Correct.” The recorder clicked, reminding Paul to stay succinct. He had already decided not to mention scraping something off Coyote’s van on an earlier visit. It had turned out to be nothing but mud, anyway.
“And what did you observe?”
“Two rooms. The outer room contained a cot with bedding and a camp-stove setup. Kitchen gear on a folding table. I observed a.22 rifle and a large buck knife in a leather sheath on the table.”
“Did you pick up the rifle?”
“I checked it, yes. Held it with my shirtsleeve. It contained three shells. I ejected them and put them in a baggie and put them in my pocket.”
“You carry baggies?”
“They make good pooper-scoopers.”
“Out in the woods you need that?”
“My friend, Ms. Reilly-it’s her dog. She’s one of those Sierra Club types. Find half-digested blueberries from a bear sitting in a pile on the road and she might even be moved to take a photo of it. Her own dog who never ate anything but dry kibble does it in the road, it’s gotta be picked up.”
“Sierra Club,” Crockett said, shaking his head. “So. This baggie. What condition was it in?”
“Unused,” Paul said. “I might add that the baggie has not been out of my possession since that time, nor have I touched the shells since that time.”
“And you’ve just handed over the three shells.” The baggie with the shells sat on the desk next to Crockett’s coffee cup.
“Yes.”
“What else did you see in that first room?”
“Three gallon cans of kerosene lined up against the far wall. I lifted each of them, again using my shirtsleeve. They were almost empty.”
“Any uses for kerosene you could see there?”
“He did have kerosene lamps, but three gallons constituted overkill for that purpose, in my opinion.”
“Okay. What else?”
“I pushed aside a blanket that separated the two rooms. Looked like the kid lived in front, usually, and Coyote-Robert Johnson-had the back room. Bigger cot, tools and hats and clothes lying around, big trunk at the foot of it.”
“And you felt a compelling need to check the trunk. For explosives or whatever.”
“I felt there was a definite possibility I might find more weapons or hazardous materials.”
“And that was your sole reason in opening the trunk?”
“Yes. I found a suede leather jacket on top. Underneath that I found a brown paper bag containing a quart bottle of whiskey and another smaller paper bag, which I opened. It contained conchos.”
“Conchos?”
“Small silver medallions used in Southwestern jewelry, especially attached to leather belts.”
“Describe them.”
“Tarnished silver, two of them, holes in the center for attaching them to something, chased with fancy filigree designs, about an inch and a half across, round but with an indented pattern around the outside edge.”
“You saw these conchos before?”
“Yes. I recalled that the body found after the most recent arson fire in Carmel Valley wore a belt decorated with conchos. I decided to report this to you as soon as possible as I felt there might be a relationship.”
“Like what? Like he took them off the body?”
“You tell me.”
“What did you do then?”
“I left the tent. There were reinforced holes on the main door flap and holes on the side. A bicycle cable looped through the flap holes and a combination lock was lying on the floor just inside the tent. I attached the cable and lock and pushed the lock shut and spun the dial. I tested the flap. It seemed reasonably secure and there were no openings where a human could get in without cutting through the lock or the tent.”
“And then what did you do?”
“We brought Nate to the sheriff’s field office in Carmel Valley. I took Nina home. Our dog needed veterinary attention. I drove back out to the animal hospital in the Valley.”
Crockett’s eyes closed and a small silence settled around the men. Having said what he needed to say, Paul waited.
“You left those conchos in the tent? You took nothing from the tent but the rifle shells?”
“Correct.”
Crockett repeated the date and time of the interview and turned off the tape. “You are one lucky son of a gun. Because if those conchos match the burned conchos on the belt of the victim, the Cervantes kid-”
Paul smiled.
“If you’d messed with that evidence-”
“Never touched ’em. Used the baggies.”
“They’re gonna match,” Crockett said. “So it was Cervantes and this Coyote fella, this Robert Johnson.”
“I’m with you on the Coyote part,” Paul agreed.
“Come on. Who else is this loner Coyote gonna know on that short street? What’s the name of it?” He shuffled through the reports in front of him. “Siesta Court? We know he was close to Danny Cervantes. We know Cervantes went up the mountain that night with Willis Whitefeather.”
“Yeah, I don’t quite understand the sequence, but I told you before and I’m telling you again, Whitefeather was an innocent bystander.”
Crockett said, “I already told you I’m not gonna talk about those charges with the D.A.’s office. Have your girlfriend talk to Jaime Sandoval about it. I can’t support letting Whitefeather out at all, where we are now.”
“I understand. So go through the tent yourself, pick up Coyote, and see what he says.”
“Come back in a couple of hours after we have your statement typed up. You sure you told me everything the kid brother told you? About kids getting taken?”
“Yes. But don’t forget the other thing,” Paul said, “the other thing that really surprised me, during this phone call that Nate overheard. Coyote was talking to somebody about getting paid for this hit. Now. He couldn’t have been talking to Danny Cervantes, because Danny Cervantes is dead. He couldn’t have been talking to Wish Whitefeather, because I know and you know you monitor those jail calls, and so does Wish. So what that says to me is, there’s another party paying for the party.”
Crockett got up and offered Paul his hand. “Who the hell knows?” he said. “It’s the ramblings of a sick kid, maybe, about something that has nothing to do with the arson fires. Maybe the conchos don’t match.”
