“Wheat farm. Big difference. No blood and guts there unless you fall in front of a combine.”
“Why philosophy?” I asked at one time during the evening. “I’d expect a cop to get a degree in criminal justice or torture techniques or something.”
“Aaron—Chief Davidson—talked me into it. We were partners when I was going for my bachelor’s. I talked so much about this philosophy class I was taking, he said I’d be stupid not to keep studying something that excited me so much.”
A flicker of some emotion crossed his face and I wondered just how sick his friend was. “He was right,” he said. “Being a cop is tough. There’s only so much crap you can see without it affecting how you view life. Those classes saved my life. Now, tell me about you. Why do you call your grandmother Dove?”
“Well, the family story goes that my dad didn’t talk until he was almost three years old and when he did, the first word he said was ‘Dove’ because that was what my grandfather always called her. Since Daddy is the oldest of six kids, it just set a precedent. No one’s ever called her anything else.”
By the time he stood up to leave at ten o‘clock, I was almost sorry to see him go. But my mind was already on my trip to Salinas.
“This is my unlisted number.” He jotted it down on the back of a business card as I walked him to the door. “Call me if you need me.”
I turned the card over and read it. “Aaron Davidson—Chief of Police.”
“They plan on him coming back,” he said lightly. “Why don’t you come by the station tomorrow and we’ll have lunch?”
I continued staring at the card, afraid to look up, afraid he’d somehow read in my face what my plans were for tomorrow. But if I said no, he’d be suspicious. He might even have me followed.
“Sure,” I said, feeling sad and angry at the same time. It was much easier being deceitful to someone you didn’t like. “How about one o‘clock?”
“That’s fine.”
After he left, I leaned against the front door, scratching my cheek with the edge of his business card. Any semblance of friendship started tonight would be over when I didn’t show up for lunch tomorrow. A part of me felt regretful, but not enough to cancel my plans.
The tule fog was heavy when I left the next morning at five o‘clock with a small overnight bag holding a change of clothes. At the last minute, I stuck Jack’s pistol in my purse. The road to Salinas was desolate in spots, and after the incident with the pickup truck, I felt better about having it with me. I’d left a message with Constance’s housekeeper that I was going to Santa Barbara to check on a couple of used pottery wheels and a kiln that a community college was selling. If nothing else, I was getting adept at lying. A useful skill if I ever wanted to sell used cars or vacation time-shares, two distinct career probabilities if Constance actually noticed how much work I’d been missing lately.
I stopped for gas in the town of Gonzales and ate at the first open cafe. A hand-printed sign peeking out from behind pink gingham curtains promised the best huevos rancheros in town. From the number of people, mostly Spanish, crowded in the small dining room, it must have been the truth. I sat down at the gray Formica counter and spun the aluminum creamer as I waited for my order. The buzz of mixed English-Spanish conversations reminded me of weekends at Elvia’s house when I was a girl. A Spanish-music station played a song I remember Elvia’s mother singing. The Aragon brothers, children of rock-and-roll, made fun of the Spanish folk music Sẽnora Aragon loved, though one of them, Rafael, did his master’s thesis on it, and in the process, began to listen to it on the sly. Whether you want it or not, your upbringing can sneak up on you when you’re not looking.
The spicy, meaty smell of the eggs and salsa was more appealing when they weren’t actually sitting in front of me. The closer Salinas loomed, the more my stomach churned worrying about what I would find out from Suzanne Hart. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was delving into this deeper than I should. Was knowledge always better than ignorance? That was a philosophical question that probably had no answer, or maybe too many. I thought about Ortiz. It was probably just the kind of question he’d love to debate or, more likely, lecture on.
“No like?” my chubby, coronet-braided waitress asked as she refilled my coffee cup.
“Si,” I said, and smiled apologetically. “Not hungry. No hambre.” I patted my stomach and tried to remember the Spanish word for sick.
“Ah.” She rubbed her own stomach and I noticed for the first time she wasn’t chubby, she was pregnant. Her face held a question.
“No.” I shook my head and sighed. “Corazón.” I lay my hand across the front of my flannel shirt, over my heart.
She touched a small brown hand to her smooth cheek. “Men,” she said, nodding her head in sympathy.
“Yeah,” I agreed, thinking about Jack and Wade, and with some reluctance, Ortiz. “Men.”
I stopped at a Unocal gas station just outside of Salinas to check the phone book. I looked under “Hart” and found four listings. None of them knew a Suzanne. That left the bars. There were no listings under “Bar” and an unbelievable number under “Restaurants.” I tried “Nightclubs” and found a list that seemed manageable and probable. She might have gotten a job doing something else, but it seemed unlikely. The money made by cocktail waitressing was good, and people usually stayed with what they knew. For two tens and an extra five, the young gas station attendant sold me his last two rolls of quarters. I checked my watch—eleven-thirty—most of the bars
