sun along and as noon approached, the asphalt simmered and a scorch, like that of an iron left too long on wool, melded with the horse odors.
Del Rios’s residence was redwood-sided, shingle-roofed, fronted by a marine-buzz lawn. An old wagon wheel was propped to the left of the door. A white Suburban with utility tires was parked at the onset of the driveway, inches behind a horse trailer. No paddock in view but a corral fashioned from metal piping housed a beautiful black mare with a white diamond on her chest. She watched us approach, gave two short blinks, flicked her tail.
I took the time to get a closer look. She cocked her head flirtatiously.
Glossy coat, soft eyes. Years ago, I’d take breaks from the cancer wards and ride up at Sunset Ranch, near the Hollywood sign. I loved horses. It had been too long.
I smiled at the mare. She winked.
Milo said, “C’mon, Hopalong, time to meet John Wayne.”
The man who answered the door was more Gregory Peck than Duke: six five, and patrician, with a shelf of deeply cleft chin, a well-aligned arrogantly tilted nose, and thick hair as snowy as well-beaten egg whites. His eyes were clear blue, his skin clear bronze veneered by a fine mesh of wrinkles, his build still athletically proportioned save for some hunching of the shoulders and widening of the hips. Nearing ninety, John J. Del Rio looked fifteen years younger.
He wore a blue-and-white mini-check long-sleeved shirt, navy slacks, black calfskin loafers. The blue-faced steel Rolex on his left wrist was chunky and authoritative. Rimless, hexagonal eyeglasses gave him the look of a popular professor. Emeritus for years, but invited back to campus often.
Or one of those actors hired by health insurance companies to play Elderly-but-Fit on their scam commercials.
He proffered a hand larger than Milo’s. “Lieutenant? J. J. Del Rios, good to meet you. And this is …”
“Dr. Alex Delaware, our consulting psychologist.”
“I was a psychology major, myself, at Stanford.” To me: “Studied with Professor Ernest Hilgard, I assume you’ve heard of him.”
I said, “Of course.”
He turned back to Milo. “I read about your ‘occurrence’ this morning. Least I’m assuming that’s the case you’re working. Is it?”
Milo said, “Yes, sir.”
“Box of baby bones. Sad. The article said they were probably old, I figure you’re here to pinpoint a likely offender using property tax rolls. Am I right?”
Milo smiled.
John J. Del Rios said, “Can’t fault you for that approach, makes sense. But if it’s an old 187, why the psych angle?”
Milo said, “Cases that are out of the ordinary, we find the input helpful.”
“Psychological autopsy?”
“Basically. Could we come in, sir?”
“Oh, sure,” said Del Rios. “No sense keeping you in the heat.”
He waved us into a lime-green, beam-ceilinged front room cooled by a grumbling window A.C. Burnt-orange carpeting was synthetic, spotless, firm as hardwood. Blocky oak furniture from the seventies, the kind purchased as a suite, was placed predictably. Horse prints clipped from magazines were the concession to art. The only sign of modernity was a wall-mounted flat-screen, hung carefully so no wires showed. A pass-through counter led to a kitchen devoid of counter equipment. The house was clean and orderly, but ripe with the stale-sweat/burnt- coffee/Old Spice tang of longtime bachelorhood.
J. J. Del Rios headed for an avocado-colored fridge. “Something to drink? I’m having a shot of grape juice. Virgin Cabernet, if you will.” He gave a bark-like chuckle. “Too early for my one-a-day booze infusion but the antioxidants in grape skin are good for you, you don’t even need the alcohol.” He brandished a bottle half full with magenta liquid. “Good stuff, no added sugar.”
“Water’ll be fine, sir.”
“ ‘Sir.’ Been a while since I heard that from someone who meant it.” Another low, clipped laugh. “Don’t miss the job but there was a nice order to it, everyone knowing their place.”
“You ran the jail division.”
“Big fun,” said Del Rios. “Keeping lowlifes locked up, making sure they knew they weren’t living at the Hilton.”
“How long did you do it?” said Milo.
Del Rios returned with two waters in one huge hand, juice in the other. We all sat.
“What’s this, small talk to gain rapport? If you know I ran it, you know for how long.”
Milo said, “Didn’t dig that deep, sir.”
Del Rios snorted that off. “Tell me about your bones.”
“Infant,” said Milo. “Half a year old, give or take.”
“That was in the paper.”
“That’s what we know so far.”
“You’ve narrowed down the time frame to when my family owned the place?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How?”
“Afraid I can’t get into that, sir.”
Del Rios smiled. “Now I’m not liking the ‘sir’ so much.”
Milo smiled back.
The warmth generated by the exchange might’ve heated a baby gnat.
Del Rios said, “No sense drawing this out. My family had nothing to do with it but I can’t tell you none of the tenants did. Nor can I give you a name, I have no idea who rented the place, stayed completely out of it.”
“Out of real estate?”
“Out of anything that got in the way of having fun.” Del Rios drank grape juice. Smacked his lips, dabbed them with a linen handkerchief. The resulting magenta stain seemed to fascinate him.
Milo said, “We’ve narrowed the time frame to the period your mother lived in the house.”
“And what period might that be?”
“Nineteen fifty to ’52.”
“Well,” said Del Rios, “I’m sure you think you’re clever. Problem is you’re wrong. After Dad died in ’47, Mom did live there by herself, but only until she was diagnosed with both heart disease and cancer.” The seams across Del Rios’s brow deepened. “She was a devout woman, talk about a one-two punch from a benevolent God. It happened winter of ’49, right after the two-year anniversary of Dad’s death. She hung on for four years, the last two were a horror show, the only question was which disease would get her first. We tried having her stay in the house with a nurse but that got to be too much and by the spring of 1950 she was living with my brother Frankie, his real name was Ferdinand, but he hated it so he had us call him Frank. He and his wife lived in Palo Alto, he was in medical residency back then, orthopedics. That lasted until the beginning of ’52, when Mom had to be put in a home near Stanford. During her last year, she was basically vegetative, by ’54 she was gone. Before she moved up north with Frankie and Bertie, she put the house in trust for the four of us. But none of us wanted to live there, it reminded us of dead parents. Frankie was living in Palo Alto, my sister Mary Alice was studying medicine in Chicago, and I, the rotten kid, the dropout, was in the marines and couldn’t care less. So Eddie-the oldest one, he was a priest-hired a management company and we rented it out for years. Like I said, I can’t tell you who any of the tenants were. And everyone else is dead, so you’re out of luck, son.”
“Do you remember the name of the management company?”
“Can’t remember something I never knew in the first place,” said Del Rios. “I’m trying to tell you: I had no interest in anything but fun. To me the damn house was a source of moolah. Each month I’d get a check from Eddie for my share of the rent and promptly blow it. Then Eddie died in a bus accident and the three of us got rid of the place, can’t even tell you who bought it, but obviously you know.”
He finished his grape juice. “That’s the full story, my friend. Don’t imagine it makes you happy but I can’t change that.”
