Burn Out (19 page)
He heard me approach and turned, eyes reflecting the fire from the late afternoon light off the lake.
“What do
you
want?” he demanded.
“I saw Cammie—”
“Fuck Cammie!”
“What went wrong, Rich? You were camping in Toiyabe—”
“Who said we were in Toiyabe?”
“The clerk at Petals.”
“Verna? Stupid bitch doesn’t know one camping place from another. We were over in Yosemite.”
But the clerk had been sure that they’d gone to the national forest.
“Whatever,” I said. “Something went wrong, though.”
“Damn right it did!” He turned away, resumed his chopping.
“You want to talk about it?”
No answer, just the ringing of the axe.
“Rich?”
“No, I
don’t
want to talk about it.”
“But she’s moving back to the Bay Area. It must’ve been serious.”
He pivoted, the axe held high, the sunlight making its metal blade shine as fiery as his eyes. “What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?”
I began moving away, watching him carefully. “I understand you’re hurting. You know where you can find me if you need a friend.”
It was nearing dusk and Petals was closed. I walked two doors down to Hobo’s and asked the friendly bartender with whom I’d spoken nearly two weeks earlier if he knew where Verna lived.
“This got to do with Miri?” he asked.
“In a way. I want to buy some flowers.”
“Poor Miri. But I don’t think there’ll be a service. Just cremation and her ashes scattered on the lake.”
“These are for Sara and Ramon—to try to cheer them up.”
“Nice idea. Verna’s out at that trailer park where Miri’s daughter got herself killed.”
“You know which space?”
“Just look for the Airstream with all the rosebushes outside.”
The rosebushes were blooming. I could see their huge blossoms even in the dim light. Verna must be some gardener, I thought. Rosebushes could be coaxed to bloom year-round at California’s lower levels, but I’d never seen them this late in the fall at such a high altitude. The trailer was one of those streamlined silver ones. Light glowed behind its closed blinds, and music filtered out—something soothing and classical that I didn’t recognize. Maybe Verna’s choice of music was what made the roses grow so well. More likely it was her green thumb: some people just have the knack. For others, like me, the thumb is black.
She answered my knock after a few moments, wearing a Japanese-style robe, her hair wrapped in a terry cloth turban. I gave her my card, said I had a few questions about Cammie Charles’ and Rich Three Wings’ camping trip.
“Why?” she asked.
“I spoke with Cammie about an hour ago. She’s moving back to the Bay Area.”
“I know. She called and asked me to cover for her at the shop tomorrow.”
“What happened?”
Verna didn’t answer the question, but she let me inside. She turned off the music, motioned me to be seated in one of a pair of armchairs facing a small TV.
“I’m worried about Cammie.” She reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table between us. “You mind?” she asked.
“No,” I lied. “Were she and Rich camping in Yosemite or Toiyabe?”
She flicked a lighter, inhaled deeply, and blew out a plume of smoke. “Toiyabe. I told you that before.”
“You did, and that’s what puzzles me. Rich claims they were in Yosemite.”
“No way. Cammie’s still an urbanite—deathly scared of ‘something bad happening’—as if it wasn’t more likely to happen in the Bay Area than here.” She paused, probably reflecting back on the events of the past weeks. “Well, it
used
to be more likely. Anyway, we were good friends, so she always let me know where they’d be going and when they’d be back. Usually she’d call to tell me they’d gotten there okay.”
“Did she call this time?”
“Yeah. They were at a combination gas station and convenience store off of 395.”
“Was Rich with her when she made the call?”
“I don’t know— No, wait. She said he’d forgotten to bring beer and was inside picking up a couple of six-packs.”
“You know where they went in Toiyabe?” From what I remembered of my only visit to the forest, there were a number of places where you could enter: some led to secondary roads, others only to trailheads.
“Devil’s Gate, a few miles before Fales Hot Springs. There’s no overnight parking or camping there, so they’d pull the car off into the trees and hike in to some favorite place of theirs.” She stubbed out her cigarette, which was only halfway smoked. “Trying to quit. Figure if I only smoke part . . . But that’s bull and I know it.”
“Did Cammie explain what went wrong on the trip?”
“Not really. She said something they saw up there and Rich’s reaction to it that told her he wasn’t the man she thought he was.”
“Something they saw?”
“That was all she said.” Verna shrugged. “If you ask me, Cammie’s trying to throw a scare into Rich.”
“Why?”
“Because he won’t marry her. She gave me a phone number where I could reach her in the Bay Area. Probably she thinks I’ll pass it on to him and he’ll come after her.”
“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
Thomas Guide
from the Rover. While I waited for my food, I sipped and studied them both.
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.
Well, great. That helps a lot.
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.
People who don’t really care about anybody but themselves, and will do anything to avoid responsibility.
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.
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?”
Nothing, you asshole.
“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,
really
know.”
“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
aren’t
any guarantees. I don’t know if I can help you. But what I can do if you don’t cooperate is go out there”—I motioned at the door through which I’d entered—“and tell the deputies that you’re bluffing. And then I can go back to Mono and tell the authorities there that in my opinion you’re guilty of both Hayley’s and Amy’s murders. There’s also your trespassing on my ranch Halloween night, spooking my horse, and then knocking me unconscious. To say nothing of your second visit to Willow Grove the next night.”
What I’d said left him speechless, but not for long. “I didn’t kill nobody. Amy was alive and kicking last time I saw her. Hayley, too. And I haven’t been on your goddamn ranch since I did a fencing job there a while back. Thursday night I was down here getting busted.”
“Well, Hayley’s dead, and Amy hasn’t surfaced since I saw you throw her out of your truck. I’m the one who can put both deaths solidly on you.”
“Amy ain’t dead. She’s probably out whoring around someplace.”
“You ever heard of a no body conviction? I can provide enough evidence against you for one on Amy. Hayley, that’s probably open and shut. The jury wouldn’t be out an hour.”
“Shit, you wouldn’t—”
“Try me.” I folded my hands on the table and waited.
It took seven seconds—something of a record in my experience.
“Okay,” Sheppard said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, even though no one was listening. “I don’t know about Amy. But I told Hayley I had business down here and was gonna leave the morning of the thirty-first, Halloween. She asked me to go on the thirtieth. Said she had an important meeting with somebody and it was better if I wasn’t around.”
“And?”
“I drove down early. Next thing I hear, she’s dead.”
“Any idea who this person was?”
“No, but I think it involved money. She said the meeting could change her life if it worked out, and if it didn’t she’d go to the media and get famous.”
“Was the person male or female?”
“Male, I think. She said ‘he’ once.”
“Where was she meeting him?”
“Well, at the trailer, where else? That’s why she wanted me away. That’s where she was killed.”
I remembered the dress Hayley had been wearing: black silk, expensive-looking. What else? Ridiculously spiked red sling-back heels. Garish red costume jewelry that was supposed to simulate rubies. The shoes and the jewelry were junk, probably what she’d worn for her johns in Vegas. But that dress was stylish—possibly a leftover from her time with Jack Buckle in Oregon. And there’d been a shaker half full of martinis and two glasses on the breakfast bar. One of the glasses had been broken.