Linda’s parking place was still stacked with a collection of stuff-items both loose and in boxes-that she had intended to take to Goodwill right up until she ran out of time. Other than that sad stack of discards, however, the garage was discouragingly neat-exhibiting the kind of cleanliness born of omission rather than effort, disuse rather than use.
As Gil opened the top drawer to retrieve his Phillips screwdriver, he had a sudden realization. Unlike Richard Lowensdale’s house, the victim’s garage had been clean-absolutely clean, utterly clean, with no trash on the floor and nothing out of place. For someone as messy as Richard, that could only mean that other than parking his car there, he never used it.
There had been no tools lying loose on his workbench, as in none at all-not a single one. Yes, there had been the smell of oil, but it was old oil, ancient oil. Still, Gil remembered clearly that there had been what appeared to be a whole case of motor oil-yellow plastic bottles of motor oil-on a shelf over that workbench. Why?
It seemed inconceivable that someone who left trash lying three inches deep on his living room floor and who dumped garbage down the stairs into his basement rather than hauling it out to the street would turn out to be a shade tree mechanic who did his own periodic automotive maintenance on the side. If Richard Lowensdale couldn’t be bothered with scrubbing out his filthy toilet, he sure as hell wasn’t going to change his own oil.
With his heart beating hard in his chest, Gil left the Phillips screwdriver untouched in the drawer. On the surface this seemed like only the vaguest of hunches. It was hardly likely that Richard Lowensdale would have left anything of real value hiding in plain sight in his unlocked garage, but maybe he had. Gil was certain that the killer had searched for something all over the house without ever once venturing into that garage.
Chief Jackman’s dressing down still echoed in Gil’s consciousness. There was no way he was going to call in one of the uniformed officers to go check out his lead. If he was wrong and it came to nothing, then no one would be the wiser. If that happened, Gil would come straight home and finish assembling his dresser.
If he was right, though, and if there was something to be found in Richard Lowensdale’s garage, Gil would see where that clue led him.
On the clock or off it, Detective Gilbert Morris was going back to work.
41
Salton City, California
On Sunday Mina sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, thinking about her life and listening to Mark’s booze-fueled snores, which echoed from the bedroom and filled the whole cabin. She had no idea what time he had come home. She had awakened only when he finally came into the bedroom and crawled into bed beside her. That’s when she had gotten up, gone outside, lit the fire in his precious barbecue grill, and burned up everything she had brought home from Grass Valley-the surgical booties, the blood-spattered clothing, and the Time Capsule. It was gone. By now the ashes should be almost cool enough to dump them out and bury in the beach’s fine loose sand.
She sat at the remains of their once-grand dining room table. In the past the table had graced the immense dining room in their home in La Jolla. Polished to a high gloss and with all its leaves extended, the table with its inlaid mother-of-pearl trim had easily accommodated a dozen guests under a magnificent chandelier. Now, without the leaves, it was hardly larger than a card table. It sat in this grim excuse for a kitchen with its once-fine finish marred by scars left behind by the occasional cup of hot coffee or even a cigarette burn or two.
Mina had always hated the cabin. When she and Mark had lived in La Jolla, she’d never wanted to join him on his monthly outings to this desolate place. It was too rustic, too remote, too much like the childhood home she remembered from long ago. She had always been happy to let Mark go off on his weekends of “roughing it,” because Mina knew too much about real roughing it. She didn’t need to pretend. Besides, between having some time alone in the luxury of her water-view La Jolla home or making do in the gritty rusticity of the Salton City cabin, there had been no contest, not for her now and certainly not back then when there had been a choice in the matter.
At the moment, however, the choice part had been removed from the equation. In the face of forced bankruptcy, the cabin was all they had left-at least on paper, at least as far as Mark knew, as far as their creditors knew. The bank had taken the house back and most of the furnishings had been sold on consignment. They had been allowed to bring along a few pieces of decent furniture to replace the cabin’s oddball collection of outdoor plastic.
Along with the humbled and shrunken table, they had brought with them a brown leather couch and matching easy chair that hadn’t seemed all that large in their old living room but now seemed huge and occupied far too much of their diminished floor space. There was room enough for only two side tables, one at one end of the couch and one next to the chair. That one held Mina’s precious laptop. The other served as Mark’s drinks table as well as the spot for his collection of remote controls. He had installed a flat-screen TV on the living room wall. They had planned on keeping their king-sized bed, but it wouldn’t fit inside the cabin’s tiny bedroom. They’d had to settle for a queen-sized bed from one of their old guest rooms.
Mark was stuck in the past, grieving for everything they had lost. Mina was moving forward.
His snoring stopped abruptly, and she heard him stumble out of bed. Soon he appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, with his hair standing on end and his clothing rumpled. He had come to bed without bothering to undress.
He went over to the fridge, pulled out a beer, and opened it, spraying foam on the wall and floor, which he didn’t feel obliged to clean up.
“Hair of the dog,” he said unnecessarily.
“Where were you?” she asked.
“Busy,” he said with a shrug. “You know how it is. Reprogramming the UAVs took longer than I expected.”
“Right,” she said. “I’ll just bet it did.”
Mark was hopeless when it came to lying. As he hurried over to the couch and reached for the television remote, Mina saw the deep flush that spread up his neck. She knew that she had nailed him, but she left him alone long enough for him to go surfing through the channels until he happened upon a golf tournament.
“Does that mean the UAVs are all reprogrammed?” she asked.
“Yes. All of them.”
She was gratified that Mark didn’t bother trying to explain what he’d been doing since then. Mina was convinced she already knew. He had been screwing his brains out with some bimbo or another. Besides, she had already seen the packaged UAVs with her own eyes, even though she’d had to move them herself. She hadn’t dared leave them in the cage with Brenda there as well. Mina didn’t believe Brenda would manage to get loose and damage them, but she didn’t want to run the risk either.
“Good,” she said. “About the UAVs, I mean. I figured you would have called me if there was a problem. And I already talked to Enrique. I told him we’d have them ready for pickup on Tuesday evening.”
Mark nodded. “Good,” he said. “It’ll be good to finally have them out of our hair.” Then, in a limp effort to keep Mina from questioning his absence, he tried changing the subject. “How did it go with Richard?” he asked.
Mina shrugged. “It could have gone better,” she said.
“Why?” Mark asked, sounding worried. “What happened?”
“Richard Lowensdale is dead.”
Mark sucked in his breath. “Dead? How can that be? Who killed him?”
“Who do you think killed him,” Mina replied, “the Tooth Fairy? I asked him to give back the money we’d paid him. I asked him very nicely, but he wouldn’t do it, so I killed him. I put a bag over his head, taped it shut, and waited until he stopped breathing.”
Mina knew better than to tell Mark about the kitchen shears and the fingers. She hadn’t a doubt in the world that hearing those ugly details would make the man puke.
As it was, Mark looked as though he was ready to cry. “Why did you do that? Are you crazy?”
“Hardly,” Mina said. “You said yourself that you were worried we couldn’t trust him, and I decided you were
