Tory said, “At least we narrowed it down.”
“Did we?” said Jolene. “It’s like an octopus, I swear, all wavy tentacles getting into everything.”
Nina and Paul shot through the fog wall at Mid-Valley, where the organic stand sold expensive flowers and tomatoes to the tourists. Golden sun, benevolent, fertile land, bumpy road snaking through the narrow valley along the Carmel River. At Carmel Valley Village Nina got a good look down Esquiline Road toward Siesta Court, past the old buildings at Robles Vista and past the ashy land and black seared trees of the fire.
She was thinking about Coyote’s right to remain silent under the Fifth Amendment, which stood in Wish’s way right now. All the amendment said was that a person couldn’t be compelled to bear witness against himself.
The reasoning of the Founding Fathers went something like this-confessions become “confessions,” which become coerced confessions, a euphemistic phrase for confessions obtained by torture. So they decided to make it official-a defendant can’t be made to testify against himself.
Defense lawyers ran all the way for a touchdown with that one. Not only did the defendant have the right not to be tortured into a confession, court decisions gradually extended that right to a right to say nothing at all, to refuse any questioning. And this refusal to speak, even to save a victim’s life, could not be held against the accused in or out of court.
In her work as a criminal-defense attorney, Nina almost never let her clients take the stand or make any statement to the police. She used this powerful impediment to conviction whenever it would benefit her client. So it was ironic that she and Paul should be driving out to a hole in the woods, intent on catching Coyote before he could exercise the same right she exploited to the fullest extent in her work. Wish might sit in jail for months, or be convicted, because no one could make Coyote say anything, if he exercised that right. All anyone would know was that Danny was in on it.
And if Danny was in on it, and Wish was at the fire with him… what jury would believe that Wish wasn’t in on it too?
Her only chance was to find Coyote first, and make him tell his story.
They rode on for an hour along the olive-green ridges with their open views, through the heat, until the road flattened and rolled into the peaceful, sun-baked village of Cachagua. Nina jumped out and slammed the door, kicking up dust as she walked over to the screen door that led into the dark, air-conditioned cool of Alma’s. Paul followed.
Nobody at the bar this time, just the lady bartender behind the counter, her eyes watchful, her cough straight out of a Marlboro carton.
“Two Dos Equis,” Paul said, sliding onto the stool beside Nina. The beers appeared within seconds. “Four dollars,” the woman said.
“Excuse me,” Nina said. She put the cash on the counter. She looked, really looked, at the woman, trying to figure out how to approach her.
She was careworn, but chubby rather than haggard, her face soft, her eyes not stupid but not expecting trouble, her hair freshly styled and her jeans new. Nina liked her in the way that she liked the other mothers at Bob’s school, and she said, “We need to find someone pretty fast. He hangs out here a lot.”
“Oh, yeah? Who?”
“Coyote, Robert Johnson.”
“Sorry. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”
“Then his friend. A guy with paint all over his clothes and a gray beard.”
“Donnelly’s not Coyote’s friend. Who are you?”
“Good guys,” Paul said. “We’re the good guys.”
She smiled. “Glad to hear it. And now, who are you? Because if you want information, you have to give it.”
“We could ask someone else.”
“In this neighborhood, we watch out for each other. Nobody’s going to talk to you unless you explain your business.” Nina waited for Paul to make something up, as they had when they talked to the cowboys, but Paul had sized this lady up as too smart to bullshit.
He explained their business. He passed over his P.I. license. She examined it. Then she said, “He may not welcome you. Donnelly’s got some IRS problems.”
“Oh?”
“He’s famous. He’s a famous sculptor. He’d rather be a painter and that’s all he’s doing this year. Anyhoo, he needs privacy, but I’m afraid it gets out of hand.”
“Pit bulls?” Nina asked.
“No. Walls. The biggest walls and gate in the valley. But I could call him.”
“You have his number?”
“I’m his sister. My name’s Prem.”
“Ah. Hi, Prem.”
“Because from what you just told me, I don’t want Coyote to be there. If I didn’t have to mind the bar I’d go out with you. Yes, I’ll call him.” She picked up the phone and punched in some numbers, which Nina tried unsuccessfully to catch. Holding the receiver to her ear, she grimaced and shook her head.
“He’s gone,” she said.
“I hope that’s it,” Paul said.
“Listen, I’m coming with you. I know the code and I know him. Mr. van Wagoner?”
“Yeah?”
“You better be scaring me for nothing.” She took a handwritten sign that said BACK SOON, taped it to the door, and waited for them to follow her dusty Explorer out of the parking lot.
They drove off the main road onto a gravel road that became narrower and narrower, until they came to a metal electric gate ten feet high, with spikes at the top. The adobe wall on both sides displayed the same wicked-looking metal spikes. Oak branches inside had been carefully trimmed back.
At the entry stood a call box. Prem punched a button and leaned her head out the window, ready to shout into the box, but the box stayed mute. She punched in a number sequence next, and the gates creaked heavily open.
Inside, the forest continued, thick branches of olive-leafed oaks, and on the ground, in clumps along the drive, twining along the stumps and trunks, the glistening poison oak. Here and there Nina glimpsed strange bronze figures, much too tall and skinny to be human, performing private rites, leaning over, fallen, jumping, sitting on a branch. One of these sculptures peeked out from behind a tree near the car. The body was elongated and bronze, but the head was the bleached skull of some horned animal, teeth intact. It wore a porkpie hat.
Nina thought, not for the first time, what has modern art come to?
The artist’s home consisted of a series of adobe cubes piled haphazardly alongside each other, anchored by tall double Indonesian doors painted in garish gold leaf, reds, yellows, and greens. Brown shutters on all the windows, closed. Satellite dish, chimneys, tiled roof. Primitive stencils on the wall here and there. A million-dollar home, so altered that it would perhaps be unsellable.
“The garage door’s open,” Prem said. “The Jeep’s gone. Shit!”
She ran to the door and fumbled a key out of her bag, though Nina called “Wait!” She pushed open the door and disappeared inside.
“You ready?” Paul said to Nina, taking her hand. “You could stay outside.” She could see it in his face, the anxiety, the grim anticipation.
“I’m with you.” So they went in together.
Polished echoing floors, an almost-empty foyer. A sideboard, all the drawers pulled out. Place mats and tablecloths lying on the floor where they had been tossed.
From somewhere to the right they heard a full-throated, anguished shriek. Nina’s eyes met Paul’s. He shook his head slightly. He held his gun in his right hand. Nina fell behind as they moved right, into a painting studio.
Canvases propped against the wall. A long scarred Gothic table down the center, covered with a tarp and tubes of oil paint, brushes, bottles, plates, cups, animal skulls, mirrors, dead flowers. And what were those vines in the watery glasses? Nina shrank back.
She looked at the pictures. He was painting poison oak, skulls, dead things, hyperrealistically. While her eyes raked the otherwise-empty room, a vision came to her of the interior of his mind, and she shrank from this too.
And yet. And yet, the brilliant light filtered through the shutters to stripe the concrete floor; the dead things lay passively, giving up their essence, at ease at last; the painting technique, so old- fashioned, brushless, jewel-colored, was so accomplished that the overall feeling she experienced was a sense of quiet and formality, the sense that only great painting can give. She thought of Hieronymus Bosch, Henri Rousseau, Vermeer.
No sound anywhere, now. Paul’s hand around hers tightened and he pulled her toward an arched doorway. Nina felt no fear, because of Paul, but also because in this world of deathly harmony she already knew what they would see and she already knew it would be quiet, unmoving. The jittery energy of danger had left.
Prem knelt in the kitchen, behind a prosaic butcher-block kitchen island, copper pots reflecting the shining stripes of light, knelt over a large bloodied creature on the floor. Nina saw hanks of hair, a pool of blood of the most saturated, purest red, with its tributary stream meandering down a slight declivity in the floor. A face covered in this scarlet paint, arms and legs akimbo; he must have been beaten to death. Paul stretched out an arm and stopped her.
“No farther,” he ordered. Then he moved gingerly in toward Prem, sobbing next to that bleeding head, and gently lifted her up and brought her back to Nina. Nina put her left arm around her and, with her right hand on the cell phone, punched 911.
27
T HE NIGHT BEFORE IN CACHAGUA HAD gone on too long. The police needed statements. Paul, evasive but tired, wasn’t his usual suave self and practically got himself arrested. She had played the tight-ass attorney to get him out of trouble. What they learned at the scene was that the artist was wealthy, had many fans, many detractors, and many possible killers.
She started off Tuesday morning sitting in her visitor’s chair in Paul’s office, laptop on her knees, listing the things she felt might be important to remember in her preparations for Wish’s preliminary hearing. On the wall she had pasted her hand-drawn map of Carmel Valley Village, showing the location of the fires and Siesta Court. Faint laughter filtered up from the Hog’s Breath.
Sandy, at Wish’s old desk, was reading the Monterey newspaper out loud, in between working on court papers they needed to file.
“Donnelly really was famous.”
“He’ll be more famous now,” Nina said shortly.
“The motive seems to be robbery. His sister said he often kept cash in the house. He was a lumpy-mattress type. Plus Coyote stole his Jeep. You’d think the highway patrol could pick out every Jeep in five hundred miles with helicopters.”
“I agree, fleeing in a Jeep is as desperate as dodging a taxi by running into a bus.”
“Says here, he was a bit of a recluse. Kinda like Stephen King. People knocking at his door toting bombs, wanting money.”
