She stopped. Paced some more. Said something I couldn’t hear.
“What’s that?”
Another inaudible whisper.
I walked over to her. “Where, Valerie?”
“Underneath.”
“Underneath the house?”
Silence.
“Is there really an underneath, Valerie?”
“Here!” Running to her own bed and slapping the covers. Slapping them. Pounding them. “I cleaned real good but she sneaked in!
I returned her to Judy Weisvogel’s custody. Milo gave me a set of gloves and the two of us moved the bed away from the corner. The cement floor bordering the garage’s northern wall had been patched years ago, some sort of grayish sealant slopped generously over cracks and crumbles. Grease spots shining through the white evoked the room’s original function. In the corner, the sealant stain was scored by four straightedge cuts. Shaped roughly like a square. Two foot square, scoring the floor.
Flush with the floor, no handle or protrusions, no way you’d notice if you weren’t looking.
Cherish Daney had noticed. There were all kinds of ways to houseclean.
Milo got down and stared at the seams. “Pry marks.”
He worked the crowbar into the spot. The slab pulled away easily. Underneath was a dark space, three or so feet deep.
“Empty,” said Milo. “No, I take that back…”
He got down on the ground, stuck his arm in, brought out a dusty wooden case.
His gloved finger prodded the foam. “Wonder who got lucky first.”
We left the property, now cordoned by tape. Judy Weisvogel stood by the side of the cube talking softly to Valerie. The girl twirled her hair and rocked from foot to foot. Weisvogel took a tissue and dabbed Valerie’s eyes. As I passed, Valerie’s eyes met mine and narrowed with contempt. She flipped me off. Judy Weisvogel frowned and drew her away.
What would Allison think about my technique?
What did I think?
I drove away, staying focused on a plastic baby bracelet.
Milo said, “Looks like you made a fan, back there.”
“She’s resentful Cherish entered the room. Furious at me for prying the information out of her. Another violation of her turf.”
“Turf. Like a little wife. Sick.”
“It’s going to take a long time for her to realize what he did to her.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Your job’s tougher than mine.”
I got on the freeway and pushed the Seville hard. “I think you’re clear on the search. Cherish definitely wanted someone to find the souvenirs. She left the box out for Wascomb, hoping he’d open it. Knew that even if he didn’t pry, he’d eventually call the authorities and the truth would come out.”
“Don’t think the truth means that much to her, Alex. She abandons those kids and splits with all her clothes. Maybe with the money and the gun, too, unless Drew got there first. Which, upon reflection, he probably did. Bad guy like that, his nose for trouble would be good. For all we know, he’s already partying at Caesar’s Palace, has himself a new identity.”
“Valerie said he was called away to moonlight. At a church. You could try to find out all the places he worked, see if his whereabouts can be traced. If the call was righteous.”
“If?” he said.
“There’s the other possibility,” I said. “Cherish got the money and the gun. And Cherish has a boyfriend.”
The drive to Soledad Canyon took forty minutes. I parked a ways up the road and we walked toward the campground. Milo unsnapped his gun but kept it holstered.
No ravens, no hawks, no sign of any life in a grimy gray sky flat as flannel. Despite my heavy foot, the drive had been tedious, marked by heavy stretches of silence, the gravel pits, scrap yards, and cookie-cutter houses set into dusty tracts that seemed more depressing today. Developers would chew up the desert for as long as they were allowed. Families would move in and have babies who’d grow into adolescents. Bored teens would chafe at the heat and the quiet and days that ran into each other like a tape loop. Too much of nothing would breed trouble. People like Milo would never be out of business.
Neither would people like me.
As we neared the entrance to Mountain View Sojourn, Milo stopped, got on the phone, checked to see if the BOLO had snared Drew Daney’s Jeep.
“Nothing.” He seemed almost comforted by failure.
Business was slow at the campsite. Two RVs in the lot, the generator silent. That and a fresh coating of dust and the apathetic sky gave the place a desolate feel.
No sign of Bunny MacIntyre. We headed straight through the trees.
Barnett Malley’s black truck was parked exactly where it had been, in front of the cedar cabin.
Windows rolled up.
Milo ’s gun was out. He motioned me to stay back, proceeded slowly. Looked into the truck from all sides. Continued toward the cabin’s front door.
Knock knock.
No “Who’s there?”
The welcome mat was in place, covered by dry leaves and bird crap. Milo disappeared behind the south side of the cabin, same as he’d done the first time. Returned and tried the front door. It swung open. He went in. Called out, “C’mon.”
Rustic, wood-paneled space, rubbed clean and smelling of Lysol. As vacant as Drew Daney’s hiding hole.
Except for the piano. Chipped, brown Gulbransen upright, sheet music held in place on the rack with a clothespin.
Floyd Cramer’s “Last Date” on top. Beneath that:
Empty gun rack on the wall. Through the disinfectant came the smell of male sweat and old clothes and machine oil.
A voice behind us said, “What the
