Camouflage (Nameless Detective Mysteries) (20 page)

Six-beat. Then, “Okay.”

“You know Francine is dead?”

“Yes. I know.”

“The police arrested your mom because they thought she killed Francine—”

“No! She didn’t, it wasn’t Mom.”

“Who was it? Do you know?”

“Mom wasn’t there; she came after.”

“After Francine was killed?”

“Yes.”

“How long afterward?”

“I don’t know … a few minutes.”

“Who was in the kitchen with Francine, Bobby?”

Headshake.

With the basement door still open, snapping, thrumming sounds from the cranked-up furnace were audible below. Reliable and efficient, that furnace, only a few years old; Bryn had told him that. Warm air pumping up through the heat registers had already begun to take the edge off the house’s chill. Runyon moved to his left, then forward a little; Bobby responded as he’d intended, coming out of the doorway and sideways in the other direction, nearer the heat register.

“Somebody else was with Francine before your mom came, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“No.”

“Man or woman?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see.”

“Couldn’t hear them talking?”

“Just Francine. She … started yelling loud and weird.…”

“How do you mean, weird?”

“Stuff about cows.”

“Cows?”

“That’s what it sounded like. She said the
f
word, too.”

“How long was it after she hit you before the other person got there?”

Headshake.

“Bobby, we all know Francine was hurting you. Your mom said she hit you in the face, cut your cheek, and made your nose bleed. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“… Yes.”

“Why did she do it?”

“I wanted a snack, that’s all. But she was taking a tray out of the oven and I got in her way and she burned herself.” Bobby’s face scrunched up at the memory; he pawed at it angrily, as if trying to rearrange it—as if trying to stop himself from crying.

“What did she say after she hit you?”

“Go wash the blood off, change my shirt. And tell my dad I fell down or she’d hurt me real bad. I hated her!”

“Enough to hurt her back?”

“I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

“Okay. So then you went to the bathroom—”

“No. Just to my room.”

“Didn’t wash off the blood or change your shirt?”

“I didn’t feel good, I wanted to lie down.”

“How long were you in your room before the other person came?”

“Not long. Couple of minutes, I guess.”

“And you were still lying down when Francine started talking loud about cows and using the
f
word?”

“Yes.”

“Can you remember anything else she said?”

“No. Just yelling and then a crash and … hitting sounds. Then she screamed, real loud and short.”

Hitting sounds—Francine and her killer struggling, fighting. The scream from her as she was attacked with the knife, cut off short when the blade went into her chest.

Runyon asked, “What made the crash you heard?”

“Something breaking.”

“In the kitchen?”

“I guess so.”

“Do you know what it was?”

“No.”

Something breaking in the kitchen, just as the struggle started. But there hadn’t been any sign of breakage when Runyon had gone in there. His focus had been on the dead woman, but he’d never yet walked into a crime scene without his trained eye registering anything out of place, everything large enough to see. If there’d been glass or other shards on the floor, the countertops, in the sink, he’d have noticed. Yet Bobby had no reason to lie about hearing a crash.…

Runyon asked, “Did you stay in your room after you heard Francine scream?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Until the door slammed. The front door.”

“Did you go into the kitchen then?”

Nod. “Francine … she was lying there with blood all over.…” This time the memory made Bobby shudder. “I was
glad
she was dead. But it made me sick, too, and scared.”

“Like you were having a bad dream.”

“Yeah. I didn’t know what to do.”

“And that’s when your mom came.”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell her you were glad Francine was dead?”

“… I don’t remember.”

“But you told her everything you just told me—about the other person who was there.”

Nod. “She made me change my clothes and lie down again with a wet towel on my nose. After that … I don’t know, she acted funny. She kept saying don’t tell Dad or anybody else what happened, don’t say anything, she’d make everything all right.”

Easy enough now to piece the rest of it together. Bryn may or may not have believed Bobby’s story at first, but with no evidence that anyone else had been in the flat to support it and her son’s face and clothing still bloody, she’d mistakenly assumed the worst: Bobby hated Francine enough to want her dead; he’d retaliated for the blow in the face by stabbing her; some of the blood on his clothes was hers; he’d made up the story about another visitor out of guilt and fear. That was when Bryn decided to take the blame and try to keep the boy hushed up.

“Jake?”

“Yes, son?”

“Can I stay here until Mom comes home?”

Before he answered, Runyon went over to close the basement door. “I wish you could, but I think you know it’s not possible.”

“Why not? You don’t have to tell my dad you found me.”

“Yes, I do. The police, too—he’s already told them you ran away.”

“You said I could trust you. You said you’re my friend.”

“You can and I am. I only want what’s best for you and your mom.”

“Then let me stay here. Please.” The boy’s hands were tightly fisted now; his gaze skittered around the kitchen as if he were looking for a path of escape. “I don’t want to go back to my dad’s. I don’t want to live there anymore; I want to live here with Mom.”

“Maybe we can work that out. I’ll talk to your mom’s lawyer about it.”

“Honest?”

“Yes. Promise. But you can’t stay here now, not yet.”

“Why can’t I?”

“You can’t keep on hiding, Bobby. Your dad’s worried about you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do. You know he’s hurting—you don’t want to cause him any more pain, do you?”

“… No.”

“And you don’t want me to get in trouble, right? Remember, I’m a detective. That means I have an obligation to obey the law, and the law says I have to take you back to your dad and notify the police that you’re safe. If I don’t, then I’ll get in trouble and I won’t be able to help bring your mom home. You understand?”

The boy’s hands slowly unclenched; his gaze steadied again. And after a few seconds he murmured, “Yes.”

“Okay. Tell you what. You must be hungry and so am I. Sit down and I’ll fix us a couple of sandwiches before we leave.”

No response. But when Runyon opened the fridge, Bobby moved over to sit at the dinette table and watch with moist, solemn eyes while he made the sandwiches.

23

Alex Chavez and I left the city in my car shortly past eight Saturday morning. He’d been more than agreeable to coming with me and had offered to do the driving, but it was my case and my decision to make this scouting expedition. I would’ve liked to bring Jake Runyon along, too, just in case, but he was so jammed up with the Bryn Darby matter I wouldn’t have felt right pulling him away from it.

Traffic was light once we got across the Golden Gate Bridge; the thirty-mile ride to Novato in northern Marin, where we turned off, took not much more than half an hour. The sun was out for the first time in more than a week, with just a few streaky clouds and a light breeze. Nice day for a drive under different circumstances. Chavez is that rarity, a genuinely happy man, but he didn’t have much to say today; he was still upset at himself for losing the McManus tail yesterday. I didn’t feel much like conversation, either. We’d done all the talking necessary when I phoned him the night before to set this up.

One of my recent birthday presents from Kerry was a GPS unit—part of her ongoing and none-too-subtle efforts to drag me deeper into the techno age. I hadn’t used the GPS much—I can’t get used to the idea of a disembodied voice telling me to turn left, turn right, go straight for
x
number of miles as if I were a dunce who couldn’t figure out the simple basics of getting from point A to point B. But I had to admit that the thing came in handy once you were off the beaten track and hunting a rural address in unfamiliar territory.

The Chileno Valley was several miles west and north of Novato, long and narrow and running through both Marin and Sonoma counties. Undeveloped countryside, of the sort that surprises visitors from other parts of the country who think California is all sprawling cities and suburbs, congested freeways, surfing beaches, wineries and vineyards, and tall mountains. A vast percentage of the state is still open space: desert, forests, farmland, pastureland, rolling hills and valleys that extend for miles. This valley was hemmed in by rounded winter green hills, some bare sided, others coated with live oaks and madrone. Long stands of eucalyptus bordered sections of the winding two-lane road that ran through it. Dairy cattle and occasional horses grazed in meadows and hollows. Farms and small ranches dotted the area, but they were few and generally far between.

The GPS gadget took us to the general vicinity of the number we were looking for, 8790, but neither Chavez nor I spotted it on the first pass. I had to turn around at the next address to the north, drive back at a reduced speed. No wonder we’d missed it: rusted tubular metal gate closed across a barely discernible dirt track, the number hand-painted on a drunken-leaning square of wood wired to the gate and so faded you couldn’t read it clearly from more than a few feet away. The track snaked around a small tangled copse of oak, madrone, and pepper trees and disappeared through a declivity where a pair of hillsides folded down close together. According to the property records Tamara had checked, there were three buildings on Rose O’Day’s thirty acres, but none of them was visible from anywhere on Chileno Valley Road.

Chavez said, “What now?”

“We’ll have to go in, at least far enough to get a look at the place.”

“On foot?”

“On foot.”

“Okay with me.” He flashed one of his infectious grins. “Be the first time I’ve trespassed on private property since I left the Imperial sheriff’s department.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

I pulled ahead a hundred yards or so, to where the road curved to the left and there was a wide spot next to a small creek. Safe enough place to leave the car; there was little traffic on the road this morning and nobody passing by was likely to wonder why it was parked there.

Before we got out I reached into the backseat for the pair of Zeiss field glasses I’d moved in from the trunk earlier. Then I unclipped the emergency .38 Colt Bodyguard I keep under the dash, flipped the gate open to check the loads, put a cartridge under the hammer, and slid the piece into my jacket pocket. Chavez was armed as well; I’d asked him to bring his weapon. Technically we had no right to take handguns onto private property, but there was no way either of us was going into unfamiliar territory on business like this without protection. McManus and Carson were reason enough, if they were here and if we were right about them, but it was that yellow-eyed Rottweiler that worried me the most.

We walked back along the road to the gate. The morning was cold, windless, but there were breaks in the cloud cover that indicated a partial clearing later on. It was as if we had this part of the valley to ourselves—quiet except for birdsong, no cars passing, not even a cow in sight. A rusted chain and padlock held the gate fastened to a stanchion. I lifted the lock to peer at the key slot on its bottom.

“Scratches,” I said. “Fairly fresh.”

“So they’re here.”

“Or been and gone. We’ll take it slow and careful.”

A sagging barbed-wire fence stretched away on both sides of the gate, so we had to climb over. Chavez is short and stocky and looks plodding, but he moves with a smooth muscular agility when he needs to; he went up on one of the rails and over and down all in one motion. It took a little more effort for me to get up astride the top bar, but I scrambled down quick when I heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. We ducked in among the spicy-scented pepper trees before it came into sight. Pickup towing a horse trailer. The driver didn’t even glance in our direction as he clattered by.

I led the way along the track, around the section of trees and underbrush to where we could see ahead to where it staggered in between the two hill folds. Still no buildings in sight. As much of the terrain as was visible beyond the declivity was open meadowland, the only ground cover at a distance. The track appeared to veer off to the right behind the bigger of the two hillsides; that must be where the buildings were.

Chavez figured it the same way. He said, “No telling how close the buildings are behind that hill. Want to risk staying on the road?”

“Not if we can help it. It’s pretty open up there; I don’t like the idea of walking in blind.”

He gestured at the hillside on our left. “Might be able to get a view of the layout from up there.”

I gave the hill a quick scan. It rose in a series of wrinkled creases to a height of a couple of hundred feet. Scrub oak and live oak and mossy juts of rock spotted it, a few of the lower trees little more than gray skeletons—victims of Sudden Oak Death. The ascent looked to be gradual; it ought to be easy enough to climb if we were careful and didn’t rush it.

“Might as well give it a shot.”

We backtracked a short ways until we found a place to start the climb. I let Chavez take the lead; he had twenty years on me, was in better condition, and had more stamina. Better trailblazing instincts, too, as it turned out. He picked the shortest and safest, if not always the most direct, route around the outcroppings and through the trees. And set a steady, not-too-rapid pace so that I didn’t have much trouble keeping up.

At first chunks of Chileno Valley Road were visible behind and below us; only one car passed while we were moving and we ducked behind one of the oaks. The grassy turf was still slick with morning dew that made the footing uncertain in the steeper places; twice I had to drop to all fours and scurry sideways like a crab onto more solid ground. The oaks grew in a thick, packed belt for the last third of the climb. We zigzagged through and around them, and as we neared the top I had glimpses of the terrain below and to the north. Then they thinned out into an open area along the crown.