The path through the trees was a six-foot-wide swath overhung by branches. The black Ford pickup was parked in front of the cabin.
The tiny building was raw cedar with a plank door. One square window in front. As simple as a child’s drawing of a house. Propane gas tanks stood to the left, along with a clothesline and a smaller generator.
The truck’s windows were rolled up and Milo got close and peered through the glass. “He keeps it neat.”
He used a corner of his jacket and tried the handle. “Locked. You wouldn’t think he’d be worried about theft, out here.”
We walked up to the cabin. Green oilskin drapes blocked the window. A square of concrete served as a front patio. A hemp mat said
Milo knocked. The plank was solid and barely sounded. But within seconds, the door opened.
Barnett Malley looked out at us. He was taller than he’d appeared on TV- an inch above Milo’s six-three. Still lean and rawboned, he wore his yellow-gray hair long and loose. Fuzzy muttonchops trailed below his jaw before right-angling toward a lipless mouth. Sun exposure had coarsened and splotched his complexion. He wore a gray work shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Thick wrists, veined forearms, yellowed nails clipped straight. Dusty jeans, buckskin cowboy boots. A silver-and-turquoise necklace ringed the spot just below a prominent Adam’s apple.
A peace symbol dangled from the central turquoise. More aging hippie than militiaman.
His eyes were silver blue and still.
Milo showed him I.D. Malley barely glanced at it.
“Mr. Malley, I don’t mean to intrude, but there are some questions I’d like to ask you.”
Malley didn’t answer.
“Sir?”
Silence.
Milo said, “Are you aware that Rand Duchay was murdered Saturday night?”
Malley clicked his teeth together. Backed into his cabin. Closed the door.
Milo knocked. Called Malley’s name.
No response.
We walked to the south side of the house. No windows. At the rear a single horizontal pane was set high into the northern wall. Milo stretched upward and rapped the glass.
Bird calls, forest rustles. Then: music.
Honky-tonk piano. A tune I’d always liked- Floyd Cramer’s “Last Date.” Solo piano, a recording I’d never heard.
Momentary hesitation, then the tune repeated. A flubbed note followed by fluidity.
Not a recording. Live.
Malley played the song through, then began again, improvising a basic but decently phrased solo.
The rendition repeated. Ended. Milo took advantage of the silence and knocked on Malley’s window again.
Malley resumed playing. Same tune. Different improv.
Milo turned on his heel, lips moving. I couldn’t make out what he said and knew better than to ask.
On our way out of the campgrounds, we spotted Bunny MacIntyre over by the RVs, talking to one of the elderly couples. Her hand went out and some bills were passed. She saw us, turned away.
“Charming rural folk,” said Milo, as we got back in the unmarked. “Is that the theme from
“Should’ve brought my guitar.”
“A duet with Barnett the Pianner Man? Was that the reaction of an innocent guy, Alex? I was hoping I could eliminate him, but just the opposite.”
“Wonder why he keeps that welcome mat in front,” I said.
“Maybe some people are welcome.” He turned the ignition key, let the car idle. “The bloodhound part of me is itching to sniff, but the self-styled protector of victims thinks it’s gonna be a shame if Malley turns out to be a murderer. Guy’s life was blown to bits. I don’t read the Bible, but on some level, I get the whole eye-for-an-eye thing.”
“I get it, too,” I said. “Even though eye for an eye was never meant to be taken literally.”
“Sez who?”
“If you read the original biblical text, the context is pretty clear. It’s tort law- monetary compensation for damages.”
“Did you come up with that on your own?”
“A rabbi told me.”
“Guess he’d know.” He drove out of the campgrounds, turned onto the highway, switched on the police band. Crime was down but the dispatcher’s recitation of felonies was constant.
“The possibilities,” he said, “are dismal.”
Thursday morning, he called at eleven-fifteen. “Time for tandoori.”
I’d just gotten off the phone with Allison. We’d managed to sneak in some personal talk before her grandmother’s call for tea and comfort drew her away. The plan was for her to return in two or three days. Depending.
I said, “What’s up?”
“Let’s talk about it over food,” he said. “It’ll be a test of your appetite.”
Cafe Moghul is on Santa Monica Boulevard, a couple of blocks west of Butler, walking distance from the station. The storefront ambience is dressed up by carved, off-white moldings and arches designed to mimic ivory, polychrome tapestry murals of Indian country scenes, posters of Bollywood movies. The soundtrack alternates sitar drones with ultra-high soprano renditions of Punjab pop.
The woman who runs the place welcomed me with her usual smile. We always greet each other like old friends; I’ve never learned her name. Today’s sari was peacock blue silk embroidered with gold swirls. Her eyeglasses were off. She had huge, chocolate eyes that I’d never noticed before.
“Contacts,” she said. “I’m trying something new.”
“Good for you.”
“So far, so good- he’s over there.” Pointing to a rear table, as if I needed directions. The layout was four tables on each side divided by a center aisle. A group of twenty-somethings was gathered around two tables pushed together, dipping nan bread into bowls of chutney and chili paste and toasting some sort of success with Lal Toofan beer.
Other than them, just Milo. He was hunched over a gigantic salad bowl, sifting through lettuce and retrieving chunks of what looked to be fish. A cut-glass pitcher of iced clove tea sat at his elbow. When he saw me, he filled a glass and pushed it toward me.
“The special,” he said, plinking the rim of the salad bowl with his fork. “Salmon and paneer and these little dry rice noodles over green stuff with lemon-oil dressing. Pretty healthy, huh?”
“I’m getting worried about you.”
“Get real worried,” he said. “This is wild Pacific salmon. The intrepid types that leap upstream when they’re horny. Apparently, farmed fish are bland, lazy wimps and they’re also full of toxic crap.”
“The politicians of the fish world,” I said.
He speared a piece of fish. “I ordered you the same.”
I drank tea. “What’s going to test my digestive juices?”
“Lara Malley’s suicide. Got hold of the final report from Van Nuys. Turns out the D’s who worked it were the same ones who busted Turner and Rand.”
