“You’re a detective. Give me a theory,” I said.
He looked up at another flock of geese as he tried to focus his mind. “Everybody’s lying,” he said, finally.
“How come?”
“Because everybody always lies. I go out on a case, I know that mostly what I’m going to hear is a bunch of lies. Even from people who don’t need to lie, who’ve got nothing to gain by it. It’s like a reflex. Low-life crud or corporate big shot, it’s no different. People aren’t wired to tell the truth.”
“That’s a cheery thought.”
“You know that. What am I telling you for?”
He was right. I knew that. Deception was natural human behavior. Deception and self-deception. Mostly just little omissions or mini fact spins. People were compelled to distort the reality delivered by their senses through the selfish lens of the mind.
“But there’s deception, and then there’s deception. With a capital D.”
“I hear you. With this you got a capital D. This is just what I’m thinking.”
“I got to find that girl.”
“You do.”
“If you could hold on to Marve’s gun while I figure out what to do with him, I’d appreciate it.”
Sullivan shook his head.
“I can’t do that again. Holding these guns proves I’m aware of the commission of crimes that I failed to report. Not good. Ross would have my ass. Especially with you involved.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll figure something out.”
“Don’t throw it in the bay.”
“I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
Still armed and dangerous, I left Sullivan and headed back up toward North Sea. A mottled grey cloud cover had set in, cooling both the air and my mood. Quixotic pursuits always felt a little more rational under sunny skies.
Vedders Pond was buried deep in North Sea scrub oak, not far from the coastline. I was often surprised by the number of neighborhoods you could cram into a relatively small area and still feel like you were more or less in the country. Even with all the rapacious development, there were occasional stretches of winding North Sea roads bordered only by scraggly local flora and “no trespassing” signs.
Though I once ran these coastal trails, it took me a while to find my way by car. Despite the gloom of the day, the homes lining the little pond looked sharp and freshly landscaped. A big improvement on the past, at least aesthetically.
I was sorry I’d left Eddie at home. He would have enjoyed snarfling around the reedy bogs and shallow creeks that fed the pond, rousting amphibians and complacent water fowl.
Robert Dobson’s rental was across the water, so I slowed to get a good look at that side of the house. It was a nominal contemporary with lots of glass filling in the gable ends. There was a large raised deck that sat above the pond. Underneath was a collection of kayaks, canoes and windsurfing gear. Also a tiny unattended Bobcat backhoe in mid-engagement with a stone retaining wall.
When I got to the other side I saw a Nissan Pathfinder and a rusty dirt bike in the driveway. Real estate agents would describe the front yard as a natural garden, which meant a bunch of weeds and rocks with a scattering of figurines. A brilliantly painted Madonna, nestled inside a half shell, watched over the territory with a cool beneficence.
I walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Twice. Nothing.
I walked around to a side door next to the garage on the basement level. I knocked, but no answer. From there I went up a staircase to the rear deck and peered through the sliding glass doors. I saw a large, unkempt living room open to a kitchen and dining area farther inside the house. There was a huge white brick fireplace that was likely useful in the cold months when all the heat would rise into the cathedral ceiling. Overlooking the living room was a balcony with an open loft, and two doors probably leading to enclosed bedrooms.
I knocked on the glass doors. No movement or sounds coming from inside.
I circumnavigated the house looking for other entrances. Along the way, just out of curiosity, I tried a few windows. All locked. I looked around the neighborhood for busy-bodies. Nothing obvious, but I was within view of at least two other houses. I stopped checking windows.
I went back to the side door next to the garage and casually examined the lock. I knew the brand, inside and out. I knew how to jimmy it without a lot of effort.
The logistics solved, I took a moment to ponder the legalities.
Illegalities, to be technical.
While pondering I went back to the Grand Prix and dug around the trunk for the necessary tools. Sometimes it’s easier to focus on specific tasks than general implications.
I found what I needed in my tool kit—a thin, flat piece of steel with a notch cut out of the side. I’d shaped it myself when I was a teenager handling beer procurement for my friend Billy Weeds, whose job was to steal cars in which to drink the beer. It was a symbiotic relationship.
I pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and worked the lock. Then I thought about the gun in my pocket: B&E, bad. Armed B&E, fatal.
“Aw, shit.”
I went back to the car and pondered some more. If I got caught in the house, they’d surely search the car.
I looked around the property and saw the obvious way out. In a few seconds I’d secured the gun and was back at the door, giving my skeleton key that last gentle twist. Click.
Inside was a foyer with a staircase that led to the first floor. I took the staircase up to a living room with a big wall of windows. I stepped as quietly as I could, listening for signs of life. Evidence of group living was everywhere: the smell of cooking, dust and lousy hygiene. Dirty dishes on the coffee tables, full ashtrays. Fresh newspapers. A houseful of young slobs. Never my way. Even when living on the brink of annihilation I kept my place reasonably shipshape. My mother’s doing.
I searched the kitchen cabinets and counters for paper evidence. I saw a stack of mail. I wrote down the names Robert Dobson, Elaine Brooks, Sybil Shandy and Zelda Fitzgerald. The last on a mailing label stuck to a
No Iku Kinjo.
There were two bedrooms upstairs and a pull-out couch in the loft space. One bedroom betrayed the presence of male and female. As did the common bathroom. The other was empty, but there was a pile of sheets and towels on the floor and some miscellaneous pieces of clothing strewn about. Men’s and women’s. After browsing through the dresser drawers and closets and looking under the beds, I left. I wasn’t about to search beyond that.
I went back downstairs to the basement level and tried the door inside the little foyer. It was locked, but so flimsily it didn’t deserve the honor of the skeleton key. I used the key that unlocked my roof rack.
I walked into another common area, like a small lounge you’d see in a suite of dorm rooms, with a sliding glass door that took you under the deck and out to the pond. It was a lot cleaner and better organized than upstairs. The neatniks’ refuge. A galley kitchen was at the far end of the room next to a bathroom with a big walk-in shower. There were two other doors, both closed.
The first was the kind of room I fantasized my daughter would like, though I knew how terribly misinformed that fantasy was. The bedspread was drum tight over the single bed, every furniture surface brightly polished and uncluttered. The closet door was open. Inside, a row of skirts, shirts and summer dresses marched left to right in close formation. Pumps, flats, sandals and Nikes were stuffed in a pocketed contraption hung over the back of the door.
I hated to disturb the folded clothes in the dresser, but I’d come this far. I found nothing that identified the renter, and no evidence of a roommate, male or female.
One room left.
The room was also fresh and orderly, almost indistinguishable from the one next door except for the dead girl lying on the single bed clutching the handle of a large carving knife with two hands, the blade buried to the hilt, having passed upward behind her chin through her palate and into her brain.
