WERNON YOUNG REALTY WAS a successful operation, housed in its own stone-and-glass building in an upscale neighborhood near Mission Bay. Eight desks arranged behind a gated counter laden with brochures, flyers, and business cards. Five of the desks were staffed when Fallon walked in, the sales reps, three men and two women, all busy on phones and computers. None of the men was the lean, handsome type in Casey’s photo collection.
Fallon said to the receptionist, a young woman with red hair, blue eyes, and a white smile, “I’d like to see Vernon Young.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Young is out of the office today.”
“Hasn’t been in all week, has he?”
“No, he hasn’t. He’s away on a personal matter.”
“Where can I reach him? It’s important.”
“I’m afraid you can’t. He’s not available.”
“Not even by phone?”
“Not at all. If it has to do with a property, perhaps one of our agents can-”
“I need to speak to Mr. Young personally. I left a message for him yesterday, but he didn’t get back to me. Has he called in for his messages?”
“No. No, he hasn’t. I’m sure he’ll be in touch soon, Mr.-?”
“Jablonsky. When do you expect him back in the office?”
“I really don’t know. Perhaps tomorrow or Friday. Would you care to leave another message?”
“No. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Casey Dunbar, either?”
“Why, no. Ms. Dunbar has been on vacation the past week.”
Vacation. Sure.
Like the one he’d been on since last Friday.
The woman who answered the phone at the Young home sounded middle-aged, tired, and not overly bright. “Mr. Young’s not here. Neither is the missus, but she’ll be back pretty soon.”
“Who am I talking to?”
“Mrs. Reilly. I’m the cleaning woman.”
“Does Mrs. Young know where her husband can be reached, Mrs. Reilly? It’s important that I talk to him. I stopped by his office, but they said they don’t know where he is.”
“I’m sure I don’t know either. You’ll have to ask the missus.”
“How soon will she be back?”
“She said around three. She’s at the hairdresser’s.”
Three o’clock. Close on two-thirty now. Another thirty or forty minutes of downtime.
He said, “I’ll come by around three, then. What’s the address there?”
“The address?”
“I’ve only been to the house once, two years ago, and I don’t remember the street or number.”
“Well…”
“It’s best if I see Mrs. Young in person. It could mean a big sale for her husband’s company.”
“It could?” the woman said, but not as if she cared. “Well, I guess it’s okay then. One two five five nine Wildwood, San Pasqual Valley. You know, where they had them bad fires last year.”
Fallon remembered “them bad fires.” They’d been all over the media a year ago this month. Four of them in San Diego County, the two worst in Poway south of Escondido and San Pasqual Valley in the northeast corner of the city. Over 400,000 acres burned, more than a thousand homes destroyed, hundreds of thousands of people evacuated into Qualcomm Stadium and other shelters. The scars were visible in the hills and canyons above the valley, irregular blackened swaths and patches where houses had once stood. New construction flourished in the area; he saw more than a dozen sites on his way up winding Wildwood Road.
He’d never quite understood the willingness of people to rebuild in the same area where a natural disaster had struck. Maybe they thought it couldn’t happen again. But this was wildfire country. The homes and the vegetation would grow thick again, the canyons would clog with dry brush, and all it would take to set it off again was another bolt of lightning or incident of human carelessness. One more reason why he preferred the desert. It had its natural dangers, sure, but if you knew what you were doing, you had some control over the risks they presented. In the remote, expensive firetraps in locations like this, you had little or none.
The Youngs had been lucky: the section of Wildwood Road where they lived had escaped devastation. No scars, no new construction visible in the immediate area. The homes and outbuildings all stood on large parcels, built onto the hillsides and atop canyon walls, with stilt-supported decks overlooking the agricultural preserve spread across the valley floor below. Million-dollar properties, minimum. Vernon Young had done all right for himself in the real- estate business.
Fallon’s timing couldn’t have been better. His watch showed a few minutes past three when the Jeep’s GPS guided him to a stop in front of 12559 Wildwood-a redwood-and-glass structure that was all juts and odd angles, as if the architect who’d designed it had been drunk or stoned. The car that had been following him for the last mile or so, a silver-gray BMW, rolled past and turned into the Youngs’ driveway. He moved fast enough to intercept the woman who emerged before she could cover the distance between her car and the front door.
“Mrs. Young?”
She stopped and turned, shading her eyes against the lowering sun. “Lucia Tibbets. Yes?”
“You are Vernon Young’s wife?”
“I prefer to use my maiden name. What is it you want?”
“Your husband. I’m trying to locate him.”
“Yes?”
“Regarding a valuable property in Escondido. The people at his office said he hasn’t been in all week.”
“And they sent you here?”
“No. My idea. I thought you’d know where I can reach him.”
“Well, you were wrong. I haven’t seen or talked to my husband since Sunday night.”
She started toward the house. Again Fallon moved quickly to block her way. Her body stiffened; irritation showed in eyes that were a peculiar pale gray, almost white in the sun. He took her to be in her late forties, with dyed chocolate-brown hair and the too-smooth features of women who have been repeatedly nipped and tucked and Botoxed. There was a brittleness about her, a brittleness in her voice, that gave him the feeling she kept herself tightly wrapped.
“I really do need to talk to Mr. Young right away,” he said. “It could mean a substantial commission-”
“I have nothing to do with my husband’s business dealings.” Her tone said the choice was his, not hers.
“If you could just give me some idea of where he might be…”
One shoulder lifted in a faint shrug. “He comes and goes when and where he pleases. As do I.”
So it was that kind of marriage. Fallon wondered if she knew Young had a mistress. Probably. Knew it and didn’t care much, if at all, just so long as he paid the bills.
“Please, Mrs. Tibbets. There must be-”
“Ms. I don’t like the word missus.”
“There must be some place he goes when he wants to get away by himself.”
“My husband doesn’t go anywhere by himself.”
“For privacy, then. Do you have a second home?”
“Oh yes, we have a second home,” she said, and the words came out sounding bitter. “That ranch of his.”
“Ranch?”
“He bought it fifteen years ago.” Over her objection, her tone implied. Sore subject with her. She was the type who’d prefer a beach cottage or mountain hideaway to a ranch. “He worked on one when he was a boy, as if that’s sufficient reason for buying one. At least it pays for itself. He had the good sense to lease the date groves.”
“You said… date groves?”
“That’s right. Dates. The nasty sweet fruit.”
“Where is this ranch?”
