My instincts prodded me on.
And then I smelled it-faint, but unmistakable. The odor of death.
I moved quickly along the hall to a closed door. Pushed it open and swept the room beyond with my flash. A bare mattress lay on the floor; on it was what looked like a pile of rags.
I crossed the room, shined my light down onto a round face that bore a strong resemblance to both Hayley and Amy Perez. The woman was covered in ratty and torn blankets. She lay on her back, long gray-streaked hair fanned out around her shoulders. Death had removed the evidence of a hard and unhappy life from her features; she looked like a child, deep in peaceful sleep.
I knelt and felt for a pulse that no longer beat. Her skin was as cold as the air around her. I suspected rigor had come and gone.
A shabby purse, an empty liter of a cheap brand of vodka, and an empty vial of pills lay on the floor beside the mattress. I pulled a pair of disposable plastic gloves from my bag, put them on, and checked the purse: driver’s license in the name of Miriam Perez, a rumpled card listing Ramon as next of kin, and three dollars. I examined the pill bottle without touching it: a strong tranquilizer prescribed three weeks ago by a doctor in Bridgeport. How many had been left when she mixed them with the vodka I couldn’t guess.
So what to do about this? Legally, I should report Miri’s death to the Sacramento PD and wait here at the scene. Except I was on the scene illegally. Thus putting my license in jeopardy once again.
But I couldn’t just abandon Miri to the ravages of rats, or to be discovered by young people who used the place as a party house. For Ramon and Sara’s sake, she needed to be identified and laid to rest. Even though Ramon had said he’d washed his hands of her, he hadn’t really meant it. And Sara still cared for her.
Advances had been made in tracing calls to cellular units, so I didn’t want to use mine. Where could I find a pay phone?
There was one at a gas station near my freeway on-ramp. I called 911 and made my voice sound young, male, and frightened. Told the dispatcher that I’d found a dead lady at the Twenty-fifth Street address. Second floor, last room on the right. When they asked for my name, I hung up.
It was a clear, starlit night. No wind, easy flying weather. By eleven I’d be back at my motel in Carson City. And as early as possible tomorrow I’d be at the ranch, to help Ramon and Sara through this latest tragedy in the lives of their family.
The flight back to Carson City had somewhat eased my depression about Miri’s sad end. There’s nothing like breaking free of the earth to mitigate its claims on you. But once I got back to my motel, the gloomy mood descended again and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, so I checked out and began driving along the mostly deserted highway.
I thought about Miri. Understandable why she’d had a meltdown upon finding out Hayley had been murdered. Understandable, too, why she’d fled the rehab facility: the prospect of sobriety can be damn scary to a drunk or an addict; I knew all too well because of my brother Joey. But why had she bolted from Elizabeth Long’s office? Because Long had offered her only more of the same, a shelter that provided psychiatric care. She’d then gotten a ride-or rides-to Sacramento and returned to the one place she’d been happy, only to find it in ruins.
Accident or suicide? She’d brought along enough vodka and pills to concoct a lethal cocktail. Before I’d left I’d searched for a note and found none, yet many people who commit suicide don’t feel it necessary to document their reasons. Miri’s reasons were written in the lines on her face, in the history her family and friends could recall.
Vernon was dark and still when I rolled through town at around eleven-thirty, the surrounding countryside even more so. I didn’t turn in at our ranch house, but continued to the driveway that led to Ramon and Sara’s cabin; it was ablaze with light. I pulled the Land Rover up to the shed that housed Ramon’s truck, got out, and noticed an unfamiliar SUV. When I knocked on the door and Sara let me in, I came face-to-face with Kristen Lark.
The Sacramento PD was prompt in having the local authorities notify the relatives of people who had died in their jurisdiction.
“What’re you doing here, McCone?” Lark asked.
“I saw the lights and was worried that Ramon or Sara might be sick.”
“I see.”
“What’re
“Informing these good people that they’ve lost yet another family member.”
I feigned shock. “Amy?”
Lark shook her head. “Amy’s mother, Miri, was found dead in a deserted building in Sacramento this evening. SPD asked that we notify the Perezes in person.”
“What happened to Miri?”
“Apparent suicide.”
I looked past her, saw Sara had left the room and Ramon wasn’t in sight. “How did she do it?”
“Booze and prescription drug overdose. Somebody found her and put in an anonymous call-dispatcher thought it was a kid who had been looking forward to an evening of partying and ended up with a corpse on his hands instead.”
“That’s a shame. Any idea why Miri was in Sacramento?”
“Ramon thinks she used to live there.”
“Thinks?”
“He really doesn’t know much about Miri’s past. His brother Jimmy showed up here one day with a new wife and her four-year-old baby. Miri didn’t want to talk about her previous life or the baby’s father.”
“That baby would have been Hayley.”
“Right.”
Lark regarded me with narrowed eyes. “Hayley’s murdered, her sister disappears, and their mother commits suicide. And there’s this other problem of a dead man in the lava fields. Plus you and I are supposed to be working together, but all I get here at the ranch is a machine that makes screaming noises at me, and your cell’s always turned off.”
“The answering machine has died and I haven’t replaced it yet. I’ve been flying a lot; you can’t have the cell on-FAA rules.”
“I left messages on your voice mail.”
“The mailbox malfunctions a lot.”
Again that slitty-eyed look. “Okay for now, McCone. I’ll leave, and you go comfort your friends. But I want to meet with you in the morning.”
“Where and when?” I asked, hoping she didn’t want me to drive to Bridgeport.
“I’ll come to your place, around ten-thirty.”
“That’s good.”
I prefer confronting potential adversaries on my own turf.
Friday
The phone rang as I stepped out of the shower at around eight-thirty. By the time I got to it, the machine had started: Hy was right-it sounded like an enraged chicken. I picked up, but the squawking went on. Moments later my cell rang.
“McCone, you going to have time to replace that damned machine today?”
“I hope so.”
“Good. Try the hardware store. Spare no expense.”
“Where are you?”
“Still in Tokyo.”
“What time is it there?”
“After midnight, your tomorrow. I’m flying back in the morning.”
