“May I have it?”
She read it to me from a scratch pad on the table. Area code 510-East Bay, a lot of territory.
“I’m worried about her,” Verna said again. “I know for a fact she’s broke-probably doesn’t have ten bucks on her.”
“Well, she gave you that phone number. It must belong to a friend, somebody who’ll help her.”
“Hope so.”
“If she gets in touch, will you let me know? You can call me on my cell.”
She looked at my card, nodded again. “Cammie’s a nice woman. She deserves better than Rich Three Wings.”
“Why d’you say that?”
“Well, he cheated on her and now he doesn’t want to get married. In my book, that makes him pond scum.”
I drove directly to Tufa Tower, where I fetched the San Francisco aviation sectional that covered this area from the plane. Then I went to Zelda’s, took a table in the bar area, and ordered a burger and a beer. I’d also brought with me the
The guide showed me where the Devil’s Gate entrance to the Toiyabe National Forest was. A short way inside, the road stopped in the middle of nowhere. Well, that didn’t tell me anything. Next I studied the sectional. It showed that the area where the couple had camped was about three miles from the trailhead, southeast of Mount Patterson, altitude 8,500 feet. There were some buildings nearby-probably maintenance sheds or other rudimentary facilities.
My food came. I ate, contemplating the situation. They’d gone up toward Mount Patterson and stumbled across something. Rich had reacted in a way that told Cammie he wasn’t the man she thought he was.
What had Rich Three Wings done to avoid responsibility?
After I left the restaurant I called the number in the Bay Area that Verna had given me. A machine told me I’d reached the Clarks. I decided not to leave a message; Cammie couldn’t possibly be there yet and wouldn’t return my call anyway.
On the new machine at home I found-among others-a message from Kristen Lark: “I’ve arranged for you to see Boz Sheppard down in Inyo at one o’clock tomorrow.”
I returned the call, got her machine, and left my own message about my day’s activities. Then I curled up in the old, saggy, spindle-posted double bed and pulled up to my ears the quilts that Hy’s mother had made for it. In minutes, I was asleep.
No more dreams about pits for me. Other grotesque and disturbing things might haunt my mind in sleep-and probably always would-but somehow I’d climbed my way into the sunlight like a clever spider should.
Tuesday
Inyo County is one of the largest in California: ten thousand acres that encompass Mount Whitney, the highest point in the U.S. outside Alaska; Owens Valley, the deepest on the American continents; and one of the most beautiful, forbidding, and awe-inspiring places in the world, Death Valley.
Inyo’s size makes it a difficult county for its sheriff’s department to patrol: a person on the run can easily hide out there; the remains of victims of violence are frequently not found, if at all, until they’re reduced to bone fragments; residents of small, hostile enclaves are clannish, impervious to the law, and outright dangerous. An extreme example is the Manson family, who conducted their murderous forays from an isolated ranch east of Death Valley.
In the interest of saving time, I opted to fly Two-Seven-Tango to the county seat of Independence, then call a taxi to take me to the jail at the opposite end of town. I’d driven through there on the highway before, but always in a hurry to reach another destination; now, as the cab took me along the main street, I noted motels and small businesses, false-fronted buildings, side streets on which modest homes were tucked. Independence reminded me of Bridgeport: an old-fashioned courthouse, definite Western feel, and at its limits the empty, sage-covered desert stretching toward distant purplish hills. Today was clear but cold; snow dusted faraway peaks, and few people moved along the sidewalks; those who did hunched inside their heavy outerwear for warmth.
The driver dropped me at the starkly functional-looking jail and said he’d probably be there when I came out. “Nothing much happening today. You’re my first fare. If I’m not here, call and ask for Troy.” He gave me his card.
Lark had paved the way for me and, after the usual security checks, I was ushered into the visitors’ room; shortly afterward a guard brought in Boz Sheppard.
Now that I had a close-up look at him, I decided Sheppard looked as if he were descended from rodents-white lab rats, perhaps. His nose came to a sharp point; his teeth were long and yellowed; he sported a scraggly mustache and an even more scraggly beard; his greasy brown hair was drawn back into a ponytail. Under the orange jail jumpsuit there would be tattoos-usually are on men like him.
He smiled at me, showing more of those teeth than I’d’ve liked to see, and said, “So Mono’s sent in reinforcements, huh?”
I studied him until his smile faded and he shifted in his chair.
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘reinforcements,’” I said, “but if it’s any comfort to you, I don’t think you killed Hayley Perez.”
He cocked one eyebrow-interested.
“I do think you know more than you’ve told the deputies. You’re interested in cutting a deal on the drug charges, so you’re holding something back.”
He shrugged.
“Okay, listen to this, Boz: I don’t give a rat’s ass about the drug charges. And I’m not a cop. I’m not even acting in my capacity as a private investigator. I’m here as a friend of the Perez family, Ramon and Sara. They’ve had a lot of grief lately and I want to give them some closure.”
“How?”
“By finding out what happened to Amy and who killed Hayley.”
He considered, tapping his fingers on the table. “What’s in it for me?”
“If you cooperate with me, I could work on your case, find you a way out of here.” Silver-tongued devil McCone.
“Yeah?” More interested. “You’re from some big agency in San Francisco, right?”
“I’m the owner of the big agency.”
“Huh.” More finger-tapping. “It’s not like I know anything. I mean,
“But you suppose something.”
“More like it.”
“And that is…?”
He shook his head. “I gotta have guarantees, man. I can’t do any more hard time-”
“Well, there
What I’d said left him speechless, but not for long. “I didn’t kill nobody. Amy was alive and kicking last time I
