A Killing in the Valley (11 page)

Watson nodded. “A lot of coincidences. But let’s get real. We don’t have anything substantial enough to hold him on. His stonewalling is annoying, but it isn’t criminal.” He picked at a cuticle. “We’re going to have to cut them loose. If this was some lame off the street I’d hang onto him for another day, sweat him a little, because there certainly are holes in his story. But the grandson of Juanita McCoy? Not in this man’s lifetime. Unless the order comes down from above.”

Marlon Perdue, the forensic investigator who worked with the coroner, pulled up to a stop in front of the old ranch house. Keith Morton was already there, waiting for him. Perdue got out of his car and stretched his legs. It was a good forty-five-minute drive out here from his office in Santa Barbara, and his back had been acting up. He needed to see a chiropractor, and start working out on a regular basis. If he could ever make the time.

“Hello again,” he called out in greeting. Morton had been here when they had taken the body away. They hadn’t spoken again until yesterday, when Perdue called and asked that he be allowed to look inside the house.

“Thanks for doing this,” he said to Morton.

The foreman nodded curtly.

Perdue grabbed his equipment case from the backseat of the car. It was hot out here, at least fifteen or twenty degrees warmer than in town, where the ocean breeze served as a natural coolant. He took off his sports coat, folded it neatly, and laid it across the driver’s seat. He had stashed his automatic in the trunk of the car before coming out; if he didn’t need to show his weapon, he preferred not to. “Is the door open?” he asked.

“I unlocked it after you called,” Keith confirmed. He leaned against his pickup. “What are you looking for in there?”

“Evidence.”

Morton frowned. “I thought the girl was killed somewhere else. That’s what the news reported the sheriff said.”

“She wasn’t killed where you
found
her,” Perdue replied, correcting him. “We don’t know where she was killed.” He looked around. “Has anyone been inside this place since the body was discovered?”

Morton shook his head. “I’ve been keeping an eye out since the body was found. If someone has been here since then, I’d know it.”

That was helpful. If there was any evidence in the house, the chances it hadn’t been contaminated would be better. He walked across the gravel to the front door. “Do you want me to come in with you?” Morton called after him.

“No. The fewer people inside, the better. I’ll call you if I need you.”

“I’ll be here,” Morton said laconically. He leaned back against his truck and pulled his hat over his eyes.

Perdue took a set of sterile latex gloves from his briefcase, snapped them over his hands, and turned the front doorknob. With a faint groan of hinges, the heavy door creaked open.

The house was cool and dark. Carefully walking across the room, Perdue pulled back the heavy curtains. Shafts of sunlight filtered in through the high, dirty windows. What a fascinating old place, he thought, as he looked around. This is living history, better than a museum. He would love to come back on a non-official basis, when he could browse the library, look at the paintings with unhurried appreciation, and enjoy the essence of the place.

The living room was still. Dust mites hovered in the somnolent air. Talk to me, Perdue said to himself. Do you have a tale to tell?

On the far wall next to the walk-in fireplace he noticed the gun cases. He walked over and casually tried one of the handles.

The door swung open. Surprised that it wasn’t locked, he looked inside at the rows of rifles, shotguns, and handguns. These are ancient, he thought, going back as far as the Civil War, from the looks of some of the rifles. Beautiful pieces, as pretty as sculpture.

He bent over to get a closer look. Then he straightened up, walked to the front door, and flung it open. “Could you come in here a minute?” he called out to Morton.

Keith pushed off from the side of his truck, where he’d been half-dozing. As he reached the front door, Perdue tore open another package of sterile gloves. “Put these on, please,” he said, as he handed them to Keith.

Keith pulled the gloves over his large, knotted hands. He followed Perdue inside. Perdue led him to the gun cabinet.

“Do you normally keep this locked?” Perdue asked.

“Of course,” Keith answered. He was clearly upset. “That collection’s worth a fortune. It’s insured for over a million dollars.”

“When was the last time it was unlocked, to your knowledge?”

Keith shook his head. “I have no idea.” He thought for a moment. “There was a charity benefit out here six months ago, for the rodeo association. Mrs. McCoy might have shown some of the pieces to them. There’s some major gun collectors in that bunch. You’d have to ask her.”

Perdue squatted down on his haunches. “That revolver,” he said, pointing. “It looks out of place.”

“You’re right,” Keith agreed. “It should be here.” He pointed to another row in the cabinet, where several period handguns were laid out symmetrically. There was an empty space where one was conspicuously missing.

Perdue took out a tissue and lifted the revolver from the cabinet. Carefully, he laid it down and took his evidence notebook out of his briefcase. Thumbing through the pages, he scanned the section detailing the bullet that had been removed from the victim’s body. “What caliber would you say this shoots?” he asked Keith.

Keith looked closely at the revolver. “It’s a 1913 Colt six-shot, so I’d say a .38 WCF.”

Perdue had an encyclopedic knowledge of guns and ammunition—it was an essential part of his job. A .38 WCF (Winchester Centerfire) cartridge, which was no longer commonly used, had a different bullet-weight than a regular .38; to an expert, it was an easy bullet to identify. The bullet Dr. Atchison had extracted from the victim’s heart had been a .38 WCF.

He reached into his briefcase again and took out an evidence bag. “I’m taking this with me,” he told Keith. “I’ll give you a receipt.”

Keith stared at the old revolver, his face registering shock. “You think this could be what killed her? Christ, I don’t think any of these have been fired for years. I didn’t know any of them were even loaded.”

Gingerly, Perdue picked the gun up, put it in the bag, and placed it in his briefcase. “Maybe it wasn’t. But we’re sure as hell going to find out.”

A
LEX GORDON, A LEGITIMATE
four-handicap, laced a long draw down the left side of the fairway on the par-five sixth hole at La Cumbre Country Club. If you hit a long-enough drive you could cut the corner. The ball would run down thirty yards to the bottom of the hill, leaving a long iron or fairway wood to the green—a good chance for a birdie.

Alex birdied number six every three or four rounds. It was one of his money holes. His normal Saturday afternoon group made every kind of bet under the sun. Nassaus, automatic presses, sand saves, low number of putts, holing out from off the green. Whatever they could think of. The stakes were low—nobody won or lost more than fifty dollars a round—but it made the game more fun, gave it an extra edge.

It was a great day for golf. Warm but not too hot, dry, hardly any wind. After the rest of his foursome teed off (he had the honors, he’d birdied five, a short par three) he walked to his ball, which had settled nicely in the left-center of the fairway. Unlike most of the men he played with, Alex didn’t ride a cart. He believed walking was more legitimate, more like the game was meant to be played, the way Hogan and Bobby Jones had played it. He was thirty-eight years old, and fit—he worked out five days a week. When he was sixty-five or seventy, after they’d put him out to pasture, maybe he’d start riding.

His Titleist Pro V-l had found a perfect landing: a flat lie and a clear shot to the green, two hundred and fifteen yards away. A hard three-iron or easy five-wood. As usual, his was the longest drive by a good thirty yards—he was the only one with a legitimate shot to get home in two. He was already licking his chops.

His cell phone rang.

“Oh, man, would you give us a break?” Chip Simmons cried out. “Turn that piece of shit off. It’s Saturday, for Christ’s sakes.”

Bringing your cell phone to the course was bad form; Alex knew that. He didn’t like keeping his on, but be had to. Being a D.A. was like being a doctor; you were always on call.

“Sorry,” he apologized. He walked away from the others, so he wouldn’t disturb them. He looked at the display, then stabbed the
On
button. “This is Alex,” he announced, keeping his voice low.

He listened for a moment, then whistled low through his teeth. “Has the kid been read his rights yet?” After a few more seconds: “Damn straight, John. Have them do it right away, I don’t want this bollixed up on a Miranda violation before we’re even out of the gate, in case this actually turns out to have legs. I’ll be at your shop as soon as I can.”

He hung up and walked back to his ball. “Everybody else hit?” he asked.

The others nodded. “You’re up,” Chip told him.

Alex reached into his bag and pulled out his five-wood. Standing over his ball, he looked toward the green. He set his feet, waggled a couple of times, and let fly.

The ball arced high into the air, a sweet floating fade. It hit front-center of the green and rolled to within ten feet of the pin. He had a bona fide chance at eagle.

He put the head cover back on his club and slid the club into his bag. “Putt out for me,” he told Chip. “I have to go to the office.”

Steven and Tyler were waiting in the sheriff’s conference room. Someone had brought in sandwiches and Cokes for lunch. A television set was on, tuned to a college football game.

Rebeck came in and closed the door behind her. The boys stirred themselves. “What’s going on?” Steven asked her.

“It won’t be much longer,” she told them, dancing around the question. She opened the door. “Would you mind waiting outside with my partner?” she said to Tyler. “I need to talk to your friend. Alone.”

The boys exchanged looks—
what’s this all about?
Tyler shrugged. He hoisted himself to his feet.

“See you in a minute,” he told Steven.

Steven slouched into the cushions. He was getting antsy, but also, although he didn’t want to show it to these cops, he was getting angry. He and Tyler had flown out here on their own time, told the cops everything they knew, which basically was nothing, and now they were being diddled around. “What do you want now?” he asked Rebeck.

Rebeck took a laminated card out of her badge case. “You have the right to remain silent,” she recited in a flat monotone. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present at any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.”

Luke Garrison, in a pair of grass-stained shorts and a baggy T-shirt he’d been wearing while spreading compost over his wife’s flower garden, barged into the lobby of the sheriff’s compound. John Griffin and Alex Gordon, who was still in his golf shirt and slacks, were waiting for him.

“Where is he?” Luke demanded harshly.

“In my conference room,” Griffin answered.

Luke turned to Alex. “What’s going on, Alex? These boys come out here of their own free will to do you a favor, and now you’re holding them? What’s this about?”

Alex put up a placating hand. “Calm down, Luke.”

Luke brushed aside the conciliatory gesture. “Don’t jerk me around, Alex, you read them their Miranda rights. These kids must be scared out of their gourds. What are you doing?” he demanded again.

“The detectives read
McCoy
his rights,” Griffin said, correcting Luke’s assumption. He paused. “It wasn’t necessary for Woodruff. He’ll be on a plane back to Arizona within the hour.”

“And Steven?”

“We’re holding him.” Before Luke could start protesting again, Alex added, “We read him his rights to protect him, Luke. We
want
his lawyer in on this.”

“In on what?” Luke railed. What rabbit hole were they going down? “Is Steven McCoy being accused of something? What kind of idiocy is going on here?”

“We think we’ve found the gun that killed the girl,” Alex told him, looking over at Griffin, who nodded solemnly.

That was a staggering piece of information. As a former prosecutor, Luke knew how important a piece of evidence that would be. “Where?” he asked. “But anyway, what does that have to do with Steven McCoy?”

“Inside that old house, where they camped out.”

The picture was coming clear now—alarmingly so. “That doesn’t mean Steven had anything to do with the killing.” Luke caught himself up. “What do you mean,
think
? Have you found it or haven’t you? Don’t play games with me, Alex. I was the guy who recruited you fresh out of law school, remember?”

Alex regarded Luke calmly, but inside, he was churning. Luke had been his first boss, when he was the county D.A. Their relationship had changed considerably over the years, but there was still a strong emotional undercurrent. Luke was the alpha dog, and always would be.

“Yes, Luke, I certainly do,” he answered. “And I’ll always be thankful to you for doing it.” He took a fortifying breath. “Which is why we’re handling this so carefully. We aren’t certain if the gun that was found on the premises is the murder weapon. We’re testing it now. But there’s a good chance it is, given the caliber of the bullet and some other technical stuff.” He paused. “But if it is, we have to look at McCoy as a suspect. He had access to that property, which almost no one else does. The only other people that we know of are the foreman, who has a clear alibi for the time frame when the abduction and murder took place, and Mrs. McCoy. You think Juanita McCoy did it?” he asked bitingly.

“Don’t be an asshole, Alex,” Luke said testily. This was no joke now.

“My point exactly,” Alex retorted.

“This is utter bullshit,” Luke protested. “Steven McCoy had nothing to do with that murder. For God’s sakes, man, I know you want a suspect, but you’re really grasping here, and it could bite you in the ass, big-time.”