while the snow drifted against the windows in the living room.
'Who?' Susan said.
'A young Hispanic woman,' Caroline said. 'Miss Olmo.'
'How often did you see her?'
'Once a week for about three months.'
'And you told her about Bailey?'
'Not at first,' Caroline said. 'But Miss Olmo said if she was going to help me she had to have my trust.'
'Of course,' Susan said.
'So I told her everything.'
Susan nodded again. 'Did you tell anyone else about Bailey?'
'Oh, my God, no,' Caroline said. 'No one.' I glanced at Hawk, leaning on the doorjamb with the shotgun. He was glancing at me. 'The thing is,' Caroline said, 'even after I told her, it didn't help. Now it's too late.'
'It's not too late,' Susan said. 'And it will take longer than three months.'
'Until what?' Caroline said.
'Until you look forward to morning,' Susan said.
Caroline shook her head.
'Yes,' Susan said. 'I'll help you. He'll help you. You don't believe it now, but it will get better.'
Caroline said nothing. She simply sat and stared out the front window at the snow sifting lightly down through the darkness outside her house.
Chapter 32
Hawk drove and I sat beside him with the shotgun. The snow was still gentle and there were pauses in its fall as if it were deciding whether to be a blizzard.
'I come out here to whack a couple of dope pushers and I end up in encounter therapy,' Hawk said. 'Like hanging out with Dr. Ruth.'
'You'll get your turn,' I said.
' 'Spect I will,' Hawk said.
Juanita Olmo's house was a ten-minute drive through the casual snowfall. We saw nothing but one town truck sanding the plowed road, and a young man and woman pulling a child on a sled. The child was so bundled up that its gender was a mystery and in fact its species was only a logical guess.
We pulled up in front of an old frame duplex in the valley behind the mills along the Wheaton River. The siding was red asphalt shingle. There were three cars dusted with snow parked in the unshoveled driveway.
One of them was Juanita's Escort. She answered the door in jeans and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. She looked at me and then at Hawk. Hawk was carrying the shotgun. She looked quickly back at me.
'Ptarmigan,' I said. 'My friend is a ptarmigan hunter.'
'What do you want,' Juanita said.
'We want to come in and talk,' I said.
'And if I say no?'
'We come in anyway,' I said.
'And if I call the police?'
'We won't let you,' I said.
Juanita's face got a little red and her eyes seemed larger.
'Really?' she said.
I stepped into her living room, Hawk followed me and closed the door.
'There are people next door,' she said.
'Yikes,' Hawk said.
Juanita kept glancing at Hawk and glancing away. The flush on her face remained. 'Shall we sit?' I said.
Juanita stared at me. 'Yes,' she said. 'Of course. We can sit.'
I sat on a tweed chair with wooden arms that rocked on springs against a solid wooden base. It was ugly but it was uncomfortable.
Juanita stood in the archway that led to the dining room. Hawk leaned against the door; the shotgun in his right hand hanging down against his leg, pointing at the floor.
'What kind of gun is that?' Juanita said.
'Smith and Wesson,' Hawk said. 'Shotgun. Pump operated, twelve-gauge. Loaded with number four shot.'
'One of the things I could never figure out,' I said to Juanita, 'is if you were so fond of Felipe Esteva, why you
