five bucks each
think about it
take or leaf
take
send cash dude no paypal yet
I asked for an address. He was ready with a P.O.B.
Ah, enterprising youth.
where are you alex geographic i mean
l.a.
cool manson nightstalker original and ramirez skid row slasher maybe even zodiac went down there not just san francsco
yeah hows minnesota
sucks send cash if you want fedex give me a number
snail mails ok
if you don mine slime trail gotta go
Milo phoned at seven p.m.
“Lots of tips?” I said.
“Think Noah looking out the window of the ark. One anonymous caller claims Tony Mancusi is ‘kinky.’ The rest is psychics and psychotics. I’m halfway through the pile and Gordon Beverly drops by. Nice man, he tried the friends himself, no luck. You do any better with Good?”
I described my meeting with Andrea and Indy.
He said, “Gets rattled and nearly strangles the dog. Interesting.”
“I thought so.”
“So now we have to look at respectable Mr. Good more closely.” He laughed. “You’d think people would get smart. Open the door, smile, lie pleasantly, we all move on.”
“Criminals think that way,” I said. “Average folk can get spooked.”
“Average folk with something to hide. Okay, I’ll pursue Mr. Good once I make some headway on Mancusi.”
“Want me to go back to Good’s house tonight?”
“No, big game coming up, guy’s not going anywhere. Let him simmer for a while. Even if I wanted to bug him, my night’s spoken for. One of my rookies was pulled off surveillance, I’ll be the one eyeballing Tony Mancusi in an hour.”
“Time for strong coffee.”
“Strong and bitter. Like
“One more thing.”
“Is this gonna make me smile or cringe?”
“Could go either way.” I told him about the Ojo Negro murders and the DarkVisions Web site.
He said, “Fourteen-year-old gore freak. And a child shall lead.”
“Maybe this child led us to something serious. Stolen black luxury wheels lifted from a rental lot, a suspect in cowboy gear. Which is all anyone noticed about him. Dusting your hair with white powder, wearing a garish plaid cap, and shuffling would accomplish the same thing. So would driving a flashy car, for that matter.”
“Costumes,” he said. “Art of the misdirect. Ojo Negro, huh? Never heard of the place. Nine years ago… talk about your extended run, you know what I’m thinking.”
“If it’s connected, there could be more in between. No other black-car murders came up but Ella’s not logged in, so the Web’s far from perfect.”
“True. I’m not sure what this does for my mood… okay, first things first, gotta pack my mule, get over to 7- Eleven, stock up on grub and caffeine. You up for some bucolic travel? With time and mileage reimbursed, as granted by The Supreme Being?”
“God wants to pay me?”
“The chief,” he said. “Same difference.”
“How’d your meeting go?”
“Steely eyes, firm grip, he pumped me for progress, pretended not to be pissed when I told him there was none. But that Irish face of his gets all rosy around the edges. Then, out of the blue, he asks me if you’re consulting to any of it. I say all of it, when you’ve got time. He says what does that mean. I say given what the department pays, you’ve got other fish to fry. He goes
“Gee,” I said. “Better soak my head in ice before it swells out of control.”
“For that, all you need is to see the salary scale he proposed. Thirty percent additional allowance for gas and mileage but the hourly’s still penury. I’m supposed to set up a billing account, you’re supposed to keep meticulous records. Neither of which will be done because we’ve got real work. But can you see clear to hit the road anyway?”
“Hmm,” I said.
“Thanks. And don’t forget to eat. Thirty percent more gets you to 1965 prices.”
“Twinkies and Flavo-straws it is.”
“There you go,” he said. “Brain food.”
CHAPTER 13
The Santa Ynez Valley lolls between two mountain ranges, soaking up sun and grace. Blessed with shirtsleeve temperatures and vine-coated slopes, the region’s been mistaken for Eden. Where grapes don’t grow, apples flourish. Hills are soft-focus and gentle and so is the ocean breeze that tempers the morning. Tourists flock to the valley for wine, food, antiques, horses, and fantasies of what could be if only.
Most of the towns that dot the region – Solvang, Buellton, Ballard, Los Olivos – flourish under the attention.
Then there’s Ojo Negro, named after a ragged-edged black eye of abandoned lime quarry.
Set on an inhospitable triangle of aquifer-neglected dirt just south of where the 101 aims for Los Alamos, Ojo Negro once served as a highway rest stop. Prosperity had its drawbacks: pedestrians pulverized by semis, the kind of mischief inspired by transience. But people made a living. When the highway was rerouted a few miles north, Ojo Negro died.
So had Wendell Salmey, the sheriff who’d investigated the Bright-Tranh murders nine years ago. Milo had found out by checking a law enforcement database. He’d also set up an eleven a.m. appointment for me with George Cardenas, the new sheriff.
