“A wood fire.”
“So now we have conchos torn off from Mr. Cervantes’s belt, with Mr. Johnson’s prints on them, which have been in or near a fire. That’s what we have, am I right?”
Salas was tapping his lip again, interested at last.
“That’s what we appear to have,” Crockett answered.
“What inference do you, based on your experience and training, draw from these facts, Detective?”
“You might infer that he got these conchos during or after the fire.”
“Come on, Detective, how could he have gotten them after the fire? The belt was in police custody, wasn’t it?”
Crockett gave in. “Could have gotten them during a fire.”
“Could have torn them off Mr. Cervantes’s belt during a struggle during a fire?”
“Objection, calls for speculation.” Jaime had finally woken up.
“Overruled.”
“That would be consistent with the report from our evidence tech.”
Nina paused. Paul was nodding, Salas was tapping, Jaime was scratching his head. She felt focused and in control.
She moved closer to Crockett and said, “That links Mr. Johnson to the time and place of the third fire, doesn’t it?”
“It’s interesting. It’s very interesting. It could.”
“Now, let’s back up to our previous discussion, about ego trips in arsonists. Detective Crockett, in your experience, do murderers ever take souvenirs from their victims?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think Mr. Johnson might tear off a couple of conchos from Mr. Cervantes’s belt during the fire?”
“During a struggle. Or trying to save him, maybe. Or-”
“Or for a souvenir?”
“Maybe.”
“But he was there?”
“I can’t say for sure.”
“You can’t say for sure? Did you find any evidence of kerosene when you searched Mr. Johnson’s place?”
“Yes. Three empty gallon cans with kerosene residue.”
“You’re a well-experienced arson investigator, Mr. Crockett. Please give us the benefit of your expertise. What if anything would you conclude from the facts we’ve just gone through, that Mr. Johnson was in possession of several empty kerosene cans, that kerosene was used in the Robles Ridge fire, that Mr. Johnson was an associate of a victim of that fire, that Mr. Johnson had in his possession items matching those worn by the victim, with his fingerprints on them, and
“Objection,” Jaime said. “Not a proper hypothetical. Lack of foundation. Misstates the facts set forth in the testimony.”
Nina argued, “He’s an expert, and I have a right to ask for his opinion.”
“I’ll draw the appropriate conclusions of fact and law in this proceeding,” Salas said. “The facts are as stated. It is my function to interpret them.”
“Detective Crockett is here to assist you in that regard, Your Honor,” Nina insisted. She didn’t want to, but she would have to get in Salas’s face.
“Overruled.”
“I ask that the court reconsider in light of the established body of law on the subject of expert testimony-I ask that the ruling on the objection at least be deferred and I be allowed to brief this point.”
“Overruled.”
“I’ll file a writ.”
“To one of my Superior Court colleagues. Good luck.”
“I’ll object to use of one of your colleagues too,” Nina said. “I’ll take it right out of this county to a real appellate court.”
“I don’t like your attitude, Counsel. I think you disrespect this Court.” Salas was blinking hard, angry and trying not to show it.
“For the record, I do not disrespect the Court,” Nina said. She left it to Salas to decide if she disrespected him.
Night fell upon the central coast. Debbie had made a lasagna and put out some red wine, thinking they could have a little talk about some big things on her mind.
But about ten, after their TV shows were over, just when she turned off the TV and said “Sam, I need to talk to you,” he got a phone call. He might have been expecting it, because he jumped for the phone.
“Yeah?” he said. Debbie didn’t go into the kitchen. She sat right on the couch and listened.
“Yeah. Okay. On my way.” He hung up and looked at her. What’s he feeling, she thought, and then, it’s regret, that’s what it is. He’s sorry about something.
“What’s to talk about? Are the kids okay?” he asked her.
“They’re fine. Jenny called today from L.A. and she had just talked to Jared. He’s fine too. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“It’ll have to wait.” He went into the bedroom and came out with his shoes on. “George is up at Kasey’s and not feeling too good. He doesn’t want to alarm Jolene so I’m going to go up there.”
“We should call an ambulance.”
“He says it’s not that bad. He’s resting out front. I’ll just run up and check on him.”
You do that, Debbie thought. She heard the car start up.
In the bedroom, she pulled out the bedstand drawer and she’d known it somehow, but it was still a shock-the Smith & Wesson he kept there was gone. So he had to bring his gun to help poor old George, that clinched it.
“Jolene?”
“Hi.” Jolene was washing dishes, judging by the noises on the phone.
“Where’s George?”
“He had to go out and get something.”
“What?”
“Whadda you mean, what? Razor blades or something.”
“He make any calls first?”
“A couple. From the bedroom. I couldn’t hear. What’s up?”
“I’m calling Tory, then I’ll call you back.” She dialed the Eubankses’ number.
“Where’s Darryl?”
“He’s taking David over to Mid-Valley to get some cough syrup. Poor David has the flu, I guess, and he’s such a mess he asked Darryl to drive.”
“How long ago did they leave?”
“Why, I can see the car pulling out of David’s driveway right now.”
“Stay by the phone.”
Debbie grabbed her purse and ran out to the pickup. The men drove by as she shut the door and pulled herself down in the seat. Then she revved ’er up and headed up Esquiline, their taillights faint in front of her.
With so little traffic, it was easy. She was kicking herself for not bringing Jolene along, but there hadn’t even been time to think, and Jolene had the little girls. Darryl and David pulled into the Kasey’s parking lot and she saw her pistol-packin’ husband had beat them to it, and there was George’s old sedan too.
She was very upset. She was mad, mad at everything, mad at being patronized and blown off and kept in the dark by Sam. But she drove right on by like they did in the cop shows, then parked over by the travel agency. She sneaked back over to the convenience store. They were leaning against the wall away from the road and the streetlight: George, Darryl, David, Ted, and her Sam.
She didn’t round the corner. She heard them talking and she rested behind a flower bush not fifteen feet from them, trying not to breathe. She pushed her hair back behind her ears and cupped a hand behind the left one and listened harder than she had ever listened to anything in her life.
Finally, after about ten minutes, they broke up. Debbie heard cars start up and leave the lot.
She was alone, sitting in the flower bed hugging her knees like a little girl. She let out a moan that could be heard from here to San Francisco.
33
E ARLY THE NEXT MORNING, DAVID SAT close to Britta’s head in the hospital room, his head in his hands.
The flowers people had brought the week before drooped in their cheap vases. The neighbors came, and the women Britta worked with at the travel agency. That was it. Britta had no friends in the Valley. The people had come out of duty and the flowers were duty flowers.
He had taken her away from her whole life in New York, the flying, the laughter, all the things she needed, and made her a prisoner of the luxury he offered.
She had retaliated. He had known they couldn’t go on living in the Valley, that he had made a mistake.
He had married her quickly and taken her to a place where he would be comfortable. As time went on, she never flagged, but her brashness turned to recklessness and her gaiety took on a bitter edge. It happened gradually and he tried not to notice. He was enjoying wallowing in his depression, feeling sorry for himself, the way he had gotten what he wanted since childhood.
But now, in this sterile room with its wilted flowers, he had to notice that hardly anyone cared besides him that she was hurt. It made the fact that he had set in motion the attack on her all the more dreadful.
She hardly seemed to breathe. Her head was wrapped in bandages and under those bandages was the frightful wound that had been inflicted on her. Probably a baseball bat, the doctor said. Her pretty face was drawn and white.
He hadn’t called her parents in Reykjavik. He would, soon. He just couldn’t stand to talk to them, the guilt in him was so sharp and acrid.
“… David…”
Was he dreaming?
