“She was a runaway-a jilted bride from a good San Francisco family who had turned to prostitution as an alternative to going back home. Her upbringing in the States was such that no one in England ever knew about her real background, except for my grandmother, who still has the letters the two of them wrote back and forth.
“I just found out about all this a few weeks ago when I went home because my grandmother was so sick. She had me take the letters out of her strongbox and let me read them. I’m sure she thought she was dying and if she didn’t tell me then, she wouldn’t have another chance.”
Angie was listening, trying to make sense of the words while Dennis Hacker hurried on. “The letters probably ought to be in a museum somewhere, but I have them with me. I want to show them to you. Can I come see you tonight? After you get off work?”
“I don’t know,” Angie said dubiously. “Really, I…”
“Listen, Angie. What I’m trying to tell you is that if a working girl from Nome was the apple of my great- granddad’s eye, then you’re good enough for me. Much too good, most likely. End of story.”
Blushing furiously, Angie looked up and down the bar. Everyone in the room was staring at her. The place was deathly quiet as all the weekday morning regulars waited to see what would happen.
“You don’t mean that,” Angie objected. “You barely know me.”
“Just try me,” Dennis Hacker returned. “I think you’ll be surprised.”
“I’ve got to hang up now,” Angie said.
“Can I see you tonight? We’ll have dinner together. We can talk.”
“I don’t think so,” Angie said.
“Can I call you, then, after the meeting? I don’t know what time I’ll get away from there, but maybe you’ll change your mind by then and agree to see me.”
“I’ll be working,” she objected. “It’ll probably be busy.”
“I won’t take long,” Dennis pleaded. “I promise. Now tell me what time you get off so I don’t miss you.”
Taking a deep breath, Angie relented. “Six,” she said.
“Good. I’ll be sure to call before then.”
Angie put down the phone. At the far end of the bar, Archie
McBride and Willy Haskins exchanged knowing smirks. Archie McBride shook his grizzled head and raised his nearly empty glass. “Damn those Boy Scouts anyway!” he said.
Mrs. Vorevkin led Ernie and Joanna through the house and showed them into a darkened study. David O’Brien was seated at a desk with only a single small reading lamp lighting the curtain-shrouded room.
“Why are you bringing them in here?” he demanded irritably of his housekeeper. “I thought I told you all inquiries were lo he directed to Katherine.”
“Mrs. O’Brien isn’t here right now,” Olga said. “She had to go uptown to the mortuary, remember?”
“Oh, all right,” O’Brien responded. “Come on in, then. What is it you want?”
Maybe it was only a trick of the dimmed lights, but the man hunched behind the desk seemed far less formidable than the arrogant swimmer Joanna had met on Saturday. Events in the two intervening days had taken their toll. By late Monday morning, all of David O’Brien’s seventy-odd years showed in the sun-etched lines of his craggy face. Even his peevish verbal response to Mrs. Vorevkin lacked some of his previous stridency.
“We asked to speak directly with you,” Joanna put in.
“I suppose it’s just as well you’re here.” O’Brien sighed. “I uniderstand there have been deputies out front by the gate most of the morning, Sheriff Brady. What’s going on? Brianna’s been dead for days. Isn’t it a little late for you to come prowling around now?”
“We’re investigating another case,” Joanna said. “An assault. In fact, we’re actually looking for Alf Hastings. We’d like to him some questions about the incident.”
“What incident is that?” O’Brien asked. “And what do you wont with Alf?”
“Has Mr. Hastings told you anything about what happened outside the entrance to your ranch on Saturday night?”
As they spoke, David O’Brien began sounding more and more like his old self-condescension, arrogance, and all. “You mean the one with the wetback he found sneaking around outside the gate? Fending off interlopers who are trying to gain access to my property is Alf’s job. Of course he told me about it. He gave me a full report.”
“Did he tell you this alleged wetback’s name?”
“His name?”
“Ignacio Ybarra.”
At once the fight went back out of David O’Brien. “Him?” he asked hoarsely. “Brianna’s boyfriend?”
Joanna nodded.
“What was he doing here?”
“He claims he was looking for your daughter,” Joanna said, “She wasn’t where he expected to find her. He was worried about her.”
“And I suppose you believe that?” David O’Brien asked.
“Until we hear Mr. Hastings’s version of what went on, I don’t know what to believe,” Joanna told him.
“In any case, you won’t be able to talk to Alf today. He’s out of town. Today’s his day off. He asked for tomorrow off as well. He said he had some pressing business out of town. He left the ranch early this morning. I don’t expect him back before tomorrow night.”
“You don’t know where he was going?”
O’Brien shook his head. “I have no idea. What my employees do on their own time is none of my business.”
“Would his wife know?”
“Maggie? Maybe.”
“Where would we find her?” Joanna asked.
“If she’s home, she’s most likely down in the workers’ compound. First trailer on the right-hand side of the road.”
“We’ll go see her, then,” Joanna said.
“Suit yourself,” O’Brien said with a wave of his hand. Dismissed, Ernie turned and left the room while Joanna hovered in the doorway. Thinking both his visitors had left the room, David O’Brien hunched back over his desk and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders heaved. A strangled sob escaped his lips. Joanna didn’t like the man, but she couldn’t help being moved by such abject despair.
“Mr. ()’Brien?”
Al the sound of Joanna’s voice, he started but didn’t lower him hands or look in her direction. “What?”
“Please accept my condolences about your daughter. I know how much it must hurt…”
“‘Thank you,” he mumbled almost inaudibly.
Warned by some guiding instinct, Joanna glided away from the door and moved back into the room. She didn’t stop until she was standing directly in front of the desk. In a pool of golden lamplight she saw a single piece of paper-and a pen, a Mount Blanc fountain pen. Years of working over the counter In the Davis Insurance Agency had made Joanna Brady adept at reading words that were written upside-down. What she saw scrawled across the top of the single piece of paper chilled her. “To whom it may concern.”
“I thought you told me the other day that O’Briens aren’t quitters,” she said quietly.
O’Brien dropped. his hands and glared up at her, his vivid Glue eyes probing hers. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that suicide isn’t the answer. It never is.”
Hurriedly, David O’Brien covered the revealing paper with his hands. “What would you know about it?” he asked.
“When my husband died, I felt the same way. As though I couldn’t possibly go on.”
“No, you didn’t, Sheriff Brady,” David O’Brien interrupted. “You couldn’t have felt exactly the same way. You lost a husband. That’s different from losing a child, I’ve done that before. Twice. I’ve had three children, and I’ve outlived all three.”
“There must be a reason.”
