'Sergeant?' 'Consultant.'
That puzzled him, but he smiled through it. I looked over at Milo.
'He should be off in a moment.'
He glanced at the cafe's open door.
'I'm going to go see how Asa's doing. Come on in when you're ready.'
He removed his hat and entered Sal's.
Several minutes later we joined him at the counter. Inside were more third-rate landscapes, more time warp ambience: a shelfful of Depression glass; a tool and die company calendar dating from 1967, a wall menu listing steak and eggs for $1.59 and nickel coffee. Cobwebs tapestried every corner. The place smelled stale and musty, like the mausoleum it was.
'Hello, gents,' croaked the old man. He was moving a lot without accomplishing much - darting, pacing, scrubbing nonexistent stains, patting, wiping. His face had a caved-in look, the legacy of several years of toothlessness; his hyperactivity seemed theatrical, a charade designed to coat the place with the veneer of vitality.
Sarna stood. He and Milo introduced themselves.
'Like to offer you fellows coffee or something,' said the old man, 'but I been a little lax about provisions.'
'That's okay, Asa,' said the ranger. 'Next time.'
'You betcha. Chicken-fried steak and buttermilk biscuits with snap beans and chicory coffee. Maybe next time?'
'Sure.' Sarna smiled. 'Looking forward to it.' He put a hand on Skagg's shoulder, told him to take care of himself, and led us out of the cafe.
'How's his mind?' asked Milo.
'Good enough for eighty-three.'
'What about as a witness?'
The ranger put on his hat and adjusted it.
'Sometimes he gets a little lost in wishful thinking.'
'Terrific. Has he been suicidal before?'
Sarna looked surprised.
'Before?'
As Milo told him about the hose around the exhaust pipe, his face grew grim. The moustacheless beard made him look like an Amish elder.
'That's news to me. I've always thought of him as a solid old guy with too many memories. As far as being a quality witness, I couldn't say.'
'He have any family?'
'Not that I know of.'
'Who can I talk to about looking in on him?'
'There's a senior citizens' group at the Baptist church, but as far as I know, Asa's a nonbeliever. If you want, I can ask around.'
'I'd appreciate that, Bill.'
Up the road the technicians had started to pack up.
'My captain said it was a nasty one,' said Sarna, watching. 'Biker cutting?'
Milo nodded.
'We get a few of those each year, mostly in Angeles Crest. Which club was involved?'
'We don't know. Skaggs couldn't identify any colours.'
'What about the victim?'
'The victim wasn't a biker.'
'Hmm. That's worrisome. Most of our calls are the result of those turkeys getting blasted on booze and crank and tearing away at each other. But for the most part, they've stayed away from the straights. Hope this isn't the start of something. Do you need help with your search?'
'No, thanks. The search is over. We sent guys out in all directions hours ago, but they didn't find a thing. Later the techs told us that the tyre tracks pointed back to the highway.'
'That means they could have headed into one of the northern canyons or back into the city. When did it happen?'
'About eight this morning.'
'Then it's too late to do anything about it. Asa give you any physical description?'
'One was fat; the other was skinny. Which clubs ride around here?'
'The major ones - Angels, Mongols, Satan's Disciples -as well as a bunch of smaller packs that come and go. They tend to headquarter in Foothill Division - Tujunga, Sunland - and use parkland for partying.'
'Is this parkland?'
'No. Originally it was owned by the army. Then it was transferred to private ownership. But once in a while we patrol here anyway. The surrounding canyons have been earmarked for recreational development, and unless you've got a map, the boundaries are tricky. If you're asking whether this is a hub of biker activity, it isn't.'
'What kind of criminal stuff goes on here?'
'In Bitter Canyon specifically? Not much. Once in a great while we come across a body that was killed elsewhere and dumped. Then there's the usual petty stuff- teenagers drinking, poachers bagging tortoises. Nothing heavy.'
'What I'm getting at is this,' said Milo. 'Our victim may have been engaged in a blackmail scheme. The homicide could have resulted from a payoff gone bad. Can you think of any reason someone would come all the way out here to transact business?'
Sarna removed his glasses and grew contemplative.
'Just that it'd be far from prying eyes. It's a darned quiet place, Milo. No tourism to speak of, because it's not as pretty as some of the other spots. The lake's impressive, but it's inaccessible for fishing or water sports. Lately there's been a little more traffic because of the power plant - surveyors, architects, construction people - but even they're few and far between.'
'What kind of power plant?' I asked.
'Hydroelectric.'
'From a lake?'
Milo looked at me curiously, but he didn't cut me off.
'It's more than the lake,' said Sarna. 'Bitter Canyon's not really a canyon at all. It's a water-filled volcanic crater surrounded by sloping mountain walls and fed by underground streams. It's the streams that make the difference, because you get constant replenishment. The estimates run into the billions of gallons. Untapped.' He'd segued into a
lecture and was enjoying it. 'There's a ten-year plan with two long-range goals: to harness the water for enough energy to meet the needs of the northern Valley and to establish an emergency drought control reservoir that interfaces with the aqueduct.'
'Sounds like the quiet days will be over.'
'Once the construction gets going. It's a huge undertaking - forty-five million dollars for the plant alone and another twenty-five million for the town that's supposed to grow around it. They've been talking about it for years. It got a kick in the pants a few years back when we had that drought and all the fancy restaurants stopped serving water with dinner. Then the rains finally came, and things quieted down. They revived it about two years ago, but it took quite a bit of backroom politics to push through a bond issue to finance it.'
'Environmentalists?' I asked.
'No. Like I said, except for the lake itself, which few people ever see, it's not particularly pretty around here, and the locals are more interested in jobs than preserving creosote. But there was a conflict-of-interest matter that took a while to resolve; the company that owned the land was the prime bidder to build the plant.'
'Cadmus Construction?'
'That's right,' he said, surprised. Then he looked at us with sudden insight. 'Homicide cops from West L.A. That case, huh?'
'Bill,' said Milo, leaning forward conspiratorially, 'we don't know yet. And we'd appreciate it if this
