I followed the drive past two plastic garbage cans outside what was probably a utility door, and into the carport. A wrought-iron gate divided the carport from a swimming pool surrounded by concrete decks, and a covered outdoor entertainment area built around an outdoor kitchen and bar. The gate wasn’t locked.
It was a nice backyard. A sixty-inch outdoor flat screen hung behind the bar, sort of like a tiki design gone wild. Glass sliders on the back of the house allowed an open view of the interior. I was hoping to find Krista and Jack making out, or Jack’s mother baking an apple pie, but no one was in the pool or inside the house. The good news was there were no bodies, and no signs of violence.
Nita Morales had left a note under the front mat, but a second note was stuck at eye level to the living room slider. It was stuck to the glass with a piece of chewing gum. Handwritten in black ink on the back of an ampm cash receipt: Dude! You go without me??? Whas up? D.T. The receipt was for twenty dollars of gasoline. Nita had probably not left the second note.
In detective circles, this was known as a clue.
The interior was strangely austere, as if someone had begun furnishing the house, then stopped, and left the rooms mostly empty. A black leather couch, two red chairs, and another flat screen TV furnished the living room, but the rugs and tables had been forgotten. Other than light switches and an alarm panel by the front door, nothing hung on the walls, giving the place an unfinished look. I studied the alarm panel, and was pretty sure I made out a tiny green light. A red light would mean the alarm was armed. A green meant it wasn’t.
I returned to the utility door, bumped the deadbolt, and let myself in. A computer-generated voice spoke from the alarm pad at the front entry, announcing that the south side door was open. I listened for movement, but heard nothing. No living person was home.
“Hello? I think your bell is broken.”
When no one answered, I stepped inside, pulled the door, and quickly searched the house. Two of the three bedrooms were empty, so my search was minimal.
The master bedroom clearly belonged to a single male, but a bright blue overnight bag sat on the end of the bed. The bag contained three panties, two sheer bras, two light knit tops, pink shorts, a pair of running shoes, a two-piece swimsuit, and a black hoodie-about as much as a woman would pack for a relaxed weekend with a friend in the desert. A pale gray toiletries bag contained makeup, a toothbrush, and a pink plastic box of birth control pills. The pharmacy label showed the script was filled for Krista Morales. If Krista ran off to Vegas with Berman, she had left her toiletries and birth control pills behind, which young women tend not to do.
I photographed Krista’s things in place as I found them, then returned to the kitchen. A Panasonic cordless phone sat on the kitchen counter beside a blinking message machine. The message machine showed three calls. I hit the Play button, and listened.
“Dude! Don’t leave me hangin’! Where are you, bro?”
The first message ended, and the same male voice left a second message.
“Hey, Berman, you turn off your cell? What’s up with that? Did you guys go back to the city or what? I took the day off, bro.”
“You guys” was a good sign. It implied the caller knew both Berman and Krista Morales, and had seen them together.
The third message had been left by the same voice on the following day.
“Crap, man, I hope we’re cool. Your cell’s giving me some shit about you not accepting calls or messages. I don’t even know if you’re gettin’ my texts. I rolled by your house. Check in, okay?”
I picked up the cordless, and checked the incoming call list. The most recent three calls were all from the same number showing a Palm Springs area code. I dialed. Four rings later, the same voice answered, but in a hushed tone.
“Dude! What, did you drop off the fuckin’ earth? Where you been?”
His Caller ID had recognized Jack Berman’s number.
“This isn’t Jack. I’m a friend of Krista’s mother.”
The caller’s name was Daniel Trehorn. The D.T. who left the note.
I identified myself, explained that Krista’s mother was worried, and asked when he had last seen them, together or apart.
He answered in the same hushed tone.
“That was last Friday night. It’s been almost a week.”
It had been six days. One day after Krista Morales left her apartment to meet Jack Berman. Two days before Nita Morales received the first ransom demand.
“Where did you last see them?”
He mumbled something to someone in the background, then returned to me.
“In the desert. Listen, can we talk in twenty minutes? I’m working. I’m a caddie at Sunblaze. You know where we are?”
“I’ll find it.”
“On Dinah Shore, east of Gene Autry. We’re on the ninth of nine. I’ll meet you outside the clubhouse.”
“See you in twenty.”
“We had plans the next day. We were gonna hang out. Are they okay?”
“I’ll see you in twenty.”
Daniel Trehorn sounded worried. I sounded worried, too.
8
Daniel Trehorn was a skinny guy in gray shorts, a maroon Sunblaze Golf Resort polo, and pristine white sneakers. A shotgun spray of zits speckled his cheeks, and mirrored orange sunglasses wrapped his eyes as he scanned the desert ahead. We were in his big Silverado pickup, all tricked out with big tires, big shocks, and big lights for life in the desert. Trehorn was driving.
“We were going to Vegas. Krista’s never been to Vegas. Blast up Saturday morning, back Sunday afternoon. Kris hadda be back at school Monday. I went by to pick’m up, that was at noon, but they weren’t home. I called. Nothing. I texted. Nothing. I’m thinking, what the fuck? We don’t roll this way.”
“You and Jack tight?”
“He’s my boy. We go back.”
“You know Krista, too?”
“Sure. They’ve been hooked up for a long time.”
Trehorn was taking me twenty-three-point-two miles south of Palm Springs to the site of an old airplane crash where he had left them that Friday night, six days ago. On that Friday, Trehorn, Jack, Krista, and another couple named Chuck Lautner and Deli Blake had built a fire, drank beer, and listened to music.
I said, “Why did they stay when the rest of you left?”
“Why do people ever want to be alone under the stars? What do you think?”
“I think no one has seen or heard from them since you drove away.”
The twenty-three-mile drive south was mostly on pretty good paved roads, but the last seven miles were ranch and county roads bedded with gravel or cut through sand and rocks. Twenty miles of empty desert is a long way. I wondered if their car broke down, or they had an accident, and if we would find their car overturned on the side of the road.
“You guys came out here at night?”
“Sundown, but it was almost midnight when we went back. I’ve been coming out here since junior high with my brother. It’s no big deal when you know the way.”
I looked around at the long expanse of brush and rubble. You look up “middle of nowhere,” this is the definition.
“Did Jack know the way?”
“He’s been out a few times. It’s pretty simple when you know it.”
Ten minutes later, we bounced to a stop in a cloud of yellow dust, and Trehorn pointed.
“There you go.”
