and weeds, with a border of dried-out sunflowers. Finally a garage, large enough to hold at least three cars. There was a window in the rear, blocked by what looked to be cardboard.
The dead sunflower border of the garden provided shelter. I went to the garage window.
Cardboard, yes. A flattened carton with the words WOLF SUB-ZERO REFRIGERATOR printed on it. A box the appliance had been delivered in, not yet discarded. It didn’t quite fit the window; I peered through the crack to its side.
A wall of shelving. A gray SUV; I couldn’t make out what kind.
Chances were Hanover had a security system on the house. What would be the responding agency? The sheriff’s department? Not likely; they were too shorthanded to provide emergency services every time the system malfunctioned and set off the alarm, as sensitive ones are inclined to do. And none of the big outfits like ADT operated in this area; I knew because Hy and I had considered security for the ranch, then dismissed the idea. The ranch buildings hadn’t been subject to a break-in in all the time Hy had owned the property. If Hanover had any kind of security, it would probably be a loud alarm to repel intruders. Or a private patrol that came by once or twice a day.
Still, I hesitated, thinking of the damage I could do myself and the legal case against him if I was caught.
I felt around the window frame. Flimsy aluminum. Billionaires will spend a fortune on the most ridiculous things, such as toilets that wash and dry your butt, but when it comes to the basics, like a garage window…
I tugged at the frame. And the window slid open.
No clanging alarm. Nothing but silence.
I pushed the cardboard aside, peered into the garage.
Door leading into the house. The SUV I’d partially seen earlier-a Saab. Gardening supplies and tools. Hot-water heater and furnace.
And an empty boat trailer.
First piece of evidence.
I pushed the window open wider and climbed-wincing at the pain in my chest-into the garage.
First I looked around to see if there were any junction boxes to indicate I was wrong about a silent alarm. None, and the circuit breakers were all on and clearly labeled. I turned my attention to the trailer. The dusty license plate secured to it was Smith’s, all right.
Next I checked out the Saab. It too was dusty but nearly new, its interior clean and smelling of good leather. In the glove box I found a registration card in the name of Trevor Hanover. There was a trailer hitch, also nearly new, but with scratches that showed it had been used to tow something.
Gingerly I got down on my hands and knees and examined the tires. Well-defined tread. I ducked to look at the undercarriage. Pine needles caught there, similar to those in the grove where I’d found Smith’s Forester.
That was hard evidence.
It’s a little-known fact that, like humans, trees possess distinctive DNA. I’d once been involved in a murder case in the White Mountains, where a cone from one of the ancient pines that grow there was the star witness that ultimately convicted the killer.
Now for the house.
I tried the knob on the door leading to the interior. It turned smoothly and silently. Beyond was a large laundry room, with tile counters and top-of-the-line appliances. Through a connecting door I stepped into a kitchen that would have been the envy of any celebrity chef.
Another pain in my chest. I braced myself against a counter till it subsided. Even though the house’s interior was cool, I was sweating profusely. For a moment I felt disoriented, my sight blurring.
I’d covered a lot of terrain in bad shape. I was dehydrated and could have internal injuries.
There was a wall phone; I should pick up the receiver and call-
A sound came from somewhere deep in the house.
I shook my head, thinking I’d imagined it. The sound came again. I drew the gun, haltingly crossed the kitchen to a swinging door, and pushed it open. Beyond was a huge formal dining room. I stood in the doorway, steadying myself and listening.
The sound continued, a kind of faraway drone. And now I could identify it: someone talking-in spite of the deserted appearance of the house. Hanover? He could have flown in again, stashed the plane in the hangar.
I waited till my equilibrium returned. Then, gripping Hy’s.45, I went through the gloomy dining room full of heavy, antique furnishings that might have come from one of the state’s original land-grant haciendas, and paused at an archway on the far side. The voice had stopped.
Several seconds of silence. Then I heard a thump and a cry of frustration. It sounded as if it had come from the other side of the hallway I was facing.
I checked out the room opposite: a formal parlor, full of the usual uncomfortable furnishings and a grand piano. Empty.
The hallway was long and tiled, running from a large foyer by the front door, with many arches opening to either side; at its end, a wide staircase swept up to the second story.
I moved along the tiles, back against the wall, both hands steadying the weapon.
First archway: a den. Real he-man’s room, with stuffed animal heads, a TV that took up a whole wall, and a pool table. No one there.
Second archway: kids’ room. Toys, games, another big TV, jukebox-contemporary replica of those from the fifties-and comfortable furnishings.
Third archway: crafts room. Sewing machine, easel, paints. Canvases stacked against the wall. Supplies arranged in plastic storage boxes on shelving. The topmost painting was a good, though bleak, portrait of the surrounding high desert. It was signed “B. Hanover.” Betsy, the soon-to-be ex-wife.
I heard the voice again-subdued, more a mumbling now. Coming from behind the wide staircase. I glanced briefly into the rooms beyond the other archways as I moved ahead.
At first I saw nothing but the high backs of a leather couch and chairs and a wall whose French doors were covered with blinds; probably they were the ones I’d seen overlooking the pool area.
The mumbling continued. I moved into the room, slipped along the wall to the right. The furnishings were arranged in a U, with a handsome distressed wood coffee table in the center. Magazines were fanned out on it, next to a cordless phone unit whose handset was nowhere in sight. Beneath the table was a white, intricately woven area rug.
And on the other side of the coffee table, a man was down on all fours.
A bucket lay on its side next to him; water pooled on the hardwood floor between the rug and the French doors. The man was rubbing at a rust-colored stain on the rug. Back and forth, back and forth, pressing hard. Like a male version of Lady Macbeth.
“Buddy, Buddy, Buddy…”
I brought the gun up but didn’t speak.
“Why’d you say no to me, Buddy?”
He kept rubbing.
“Why, Buddy?”
I thought he sensed my presence then, because he looked up. But it was just reflex. The handsome face I’d seen in his publicity photos was crumpled and his mouth worked spasmodically. His eyes were dark, bottomless pits. I’d seen that look on people in shock, but never so extreme as this.
This was a man whose interior had been totally shattered.
Slowly I relaxed, lowering the gun. Neither Trevor Hanover nor Davey Smith was a danger to me or anyone else. Wherever this man had gone, he wasn’t coming back.
His mouth worked some more, and then he lowered his head and continued scrubbing.
“Buddy, Buddy, Buddy…”
Thursday
