Rage (15 page)

“ ‘I’m
a good person,’ ” he said.

“I
can see that coming out wrong.”

He
bolted up, tried to pace the tiny office, took a single, attenuated step,
reached my chair, and sat back down. I was an obstruction. My thoughts drifted
to New York on a crisp, snowy day. Gallivanting.

I
said, “If Malley came armed, on the other hand, there might’ve been
premeditation.”

“He
was meeting up with his daughter’s murderer. Like you said, he’d have good
reason to be careful.”

“A
good lawyer could make a pretty good case for self-defense.”

He
tossed the cigar onto the desk. “Listen to this, we’re psychoanalyzing the poor
bastard and neither of us has ever met him. For all we know, he’s a pacifist
Zen Buddhist vegan transcendental meditator living out in the woods in the name
of serenity.”

“With
thirteen guns.”

“There
is that minor sticking point,” he said. “Man, I’d love to have the techies go
over that black truck of his. Love to have
grounds
for it— Alex, how
about we scotch lunch. For some reason my appetite’s waning.”

I
said, “Sure.”

He
turned away and I left.

When
I was ten feet up the hall I heard him call out, “Eventually, we’ll do the
tandoori bit. I’ll have my people call your people.”

* * *

He
phoned that evening at seven-forty.

I
said, “What happened to your people?”

“On
strike. Did more background on Malley. “Eight years ago he ran his own
pool-cleaning service, then it stopped a year later.”

“After
Lara shot herself. Maybe he dropped out.”

“Whatever
the reason, given no workplace, I figure to set out at ten tomorrow morning.
The grinning fool who reads the weather on TV says warm air’s coming in from
Hawaii. Closest I’m gonna get to a tropical vacation. Sound good?”

“Want
me to pick you up at home?”

“No,
you’re doing the psychology bit but I’m the wheelman,” he said. “It’s time to
be somewhat official.”

* * *

He
arrived at ten-fifteen looking as official as he was ever going to be: baggy
brown suit, white shirt, putty-colored tie. The desert boots. I had on my
courtroom outfit: blue pin-striped three-button, blue shirt, yellow tie.
Whether Barnett Malley was a vengeance-sworn gun freak or a quietly grieving
victim, wardrobe wasn’t going to make a difference.

Milo
grabbed a stale bagel from my kitchen and chewed at it as he drove down to
Sunset then turned right, toward the 405 North. This time, he slowed and
pointed out the spot where Rand Duchay’s body had been found. Shrubby patch on
the east side of the rise that paralleled the on-ramp. No tall trees, just ice
plant and juniper and weeds. No serious intent to conceal.

The
route from the dump spot to Soledad Canyon would take you right past here.

Milo
spoke the obvious: “Do your thing, dump him, go home.”

* * *

The
trip was fifty-eight minutes of easy driving under blue skies. The weatherman
had been righteous: eighty degrees, no smog, the air blessed by one of those
faintly fruity tropical breezes that blows in all too rarely.

We
passed through the northern edge of Bel Air, lush, green hills studded with
optimistically perched houses. Then, the stunningly white cubes that make up
the Getty Museum. It’s an architectural masterpiece funded by a venal
billionaire’s trust, housing third-rate art. Pure L.A.: might makes right and
packaging is all.

Traffic
stayed light all the way through the Valley. The freeway fringe shifted to the
massive Sunkist packaging plant, smaller factories, big-box stores, auto
dealerships. Not far east was the Daney house where Rand had slept for three
nights of alleged freedom. By the time we transitioned to the 5 it was mostly
us and eighteen-wheelers who had veered off onto the truck route. Three minutes
later we were on Cal 14, speeding northeast toward Antelope Valley. The mountains
got majestic, lush green giving way to wrinkled brown felt. The scenery off the
highway was scrap yards, gravel pits, the occasional “De-Luxe Town-Home” tract
and little else. Wise people say expansion to the northeast is the future of
L.A. And some day the notion of open space will be shattered. Meanwhile, the
hawks and ravens do their thing overhead and the earth lies flat and still.

Fifteen
degrees cooler. We closed the windows and wind whistled through the seal.

Ten
miles later, Milo exited at Soledad Canyon and hooked a left away from the
boomtown development of Santa Clarita and toward peace and quiet. The road
climbed and curved and curled and hooked. Isolated stands of spruce and the
occasional windbreak eucalyptus hugged the west side of the highway, but the
big players were California oaks glorying in their dry-earth beds, gray-green
crowns shimmering in the wind. Copses of the majestic trees ran clear to the
next ridge of mountain. They’re tough, ancient creatures that delight in
self-denial; when you spoil them with too much water they die.

As
the foliage thinned, the road demanded more respect, hairpin curves wrapping
around acute edges of sere mountains, spillover from rock slides pasting Milo’s
eyes to the road. The wind’s whistle grew to an insistent howl. The big birds
swooped lower, flew more assertively. Nothing to hamper them but the occasional
power pole.

No
sign of any other cars for miles, then a woman chattering happily on a cell
phone came barreling around a blind curve in a minivan and nearly sideswiped
us.

“Brilliant,”
said Milo. When his breathing had settled: “Soledad. Means loneliness, right?
You’d have to like your alone time to move out here.”

A
thousand feet higher a few ranches appeared, small, scrubby, desultory plots
set into gullies notched off the highway and bounded by metal flex fencing. A
cow, here, a horse, there. A weathered sign to nowhere advertised weekend pony
rides. No stock to back it up.

“Read
me the address, Alex.”

I
did. He said, “We’re getting close.”

Ten
miles later we came upon several private “picnic grounds” set off the west side
of Soledad Canyon Road.

Cozy
Bye. Smith’s Oasis Stop. Lulu’s Welcome Ranch.

The
numbers that matched Barnett Malley’s address were burned into a blue roadside
sign that announced
Mountain View Sojourn: Recreation and Picknicks.

I
said, “Maybe he’s not that antisocial, after all.”

Milo
pulled off onto the hardpack driveway. We bumped along an oak-lined dirt path
until we came to a shaky wooden bridge that crossed a narrow arroyo. The blue
Welcome!
sign on the other side was bottomed by a whitewashed plank that listed a
magna carta of regulations:
No smoking, no drinking, no motorcycles, no
off-road vehicles, no loud music. Pets by individual approval only, children
must be supervised, the pool is for use of registered guests
only . . .

Milo
said, “Take that, Thoreau,” and kept driving.

* * *

The
entry drive ended a hundred yards later at an open paved square. To the left
were more oaks— an old, thick grove— and directly in front of us were three
small, white-frame buildings. To the right sat another paved area, larger and
sectioned by white lines. Half a dozen trout-decaled Winnebagos were hooked up
to utility lines. The backdrop was sheer golden mountainside.

We
parked and got out. A shed-sized generator behind the RV lot hummed and
snicked. “Recreation and picnicking” seemed to mean a place to park, access to
a bank of chemical toilets, and a few redwood tables. An in-ground pool,
drained for the winter, was a giant, white, gunite bowl. Behind the swimming
area, a pipe-fenced horse corral was empty and sun-bleached.

A few
people, none below sixty, sat in folding chairs near their trailers, reading,
knitting, eating.

“Must
be a stopover,” I said.

“To
where?” said Milo.

I had
no answer for that and we continued walking toward the white-frame buildings.
Prewar bungalows; all three were roofed with green tar paper and had stout
casement windows and tiny front porches. The largest structure was set well
back from the campgrounds. A thirty-year-old Dodge Charger, red, with chrome
wheels, occupied the adjoining gravel driveway.

Staked
signs shaped like pointing hands identified the other two buildings as
Office
and
Refreshments.
The sunlight made it hard to discern any internal
illumination. We tried the office first.

Locked
door, curtains across the windows. No response to Milo’s knock.

As we
headed over to
Refreshments,
its door creaked open and a tall, thin
woman in a brown print dress stepped out onto the porch and positioned her
hands on her hips.

“Can
I help you?”

Milo
put on his welcome smile as we approached her. It didn’t change the wary
expression on her face. Neither did his badge and his business card.

“L.A.
police.” She had a smoker’s voice, sinewy, freckled arms, a scored, sun-cured
face that might’ve been beautiful a few decades ago.

Wide-set,
pink-lashed amber eyes examined both of us. Her nose was strong and straight,
her lips chapped but suggestive of once-upon-a-time fullness. Permed auburn
hair framed her in a way that concealed some of the wattle in her neck. White
frizz near her hairline said she was due for a touch-up. Clean jawline for a
woman of her age— sixty-five minimum was my guess. Katharine Hepburn’s country
cousin.

She
tried to return Milo’s card.

He
said, “It’s yours to keep, ma’am,” and she folded it small enough to conceal in
her hand. The brown dress was a floral jersey and it caught on the sharp bones
of her shoulders and pelvis. The upper edge of her sun-spotted sternum was
visible in the V-neckline. Her chest was flat.

“I
used to live in L.A.,” she said. “Back when I didn’t know any better. Same
question, Lieutenant Sturgis. What can I do for you?”

“Does
Barnett Malley live here?”

The
amber eyes blinked. “He okay?”

“Far
as I know, ma’am. Same question.”

“Barnett
works here and I give him a place to stay.”

“Works
as . . .”

“My
helper. Doing what needs to be done.”

“Handyman?”
said Milo.

The
woman frowned as if he’d never get it. “He fixes things, but it’s more than
that. Sometimes I feel like driving into Santa Clarita and seeing a movie,
though God knows why, they’re all awful. Barnett looks after the place for me
and he does an excellent job. Why’re you asking about him?”

“He
live on the premises?”

“Right
there.” She pointed to the oak grove.

“In
the trees?” said Milo. “We talking Tarzan?”

She
conceded a half-smile. “No, he’s got a cabin. You can’t see it from here.”

“But
he’s not there, now.”

“Who
said?”

“You
asked if he was okay— ”

“I
meant was he okay cop-wise, not was he okay because he was somewhere out there.”
She glanced toward the highway. Her eyes said leaving the homestead was highly
overrated.

“Has
Barnett ever been in cop trouble, Mrs. . . .”

“Bunny,”
she said. “Bunny MacIntyre. The answer is no.”

Milo
said, “So you used to live in L.A.”

“We’re
making small talk, now? Yeah, I lived in Hollywood. Had an apartment on
Cahuenga ’cause I needed to be close to the Burbank studios.” She flipped her
hair. “Used to do stunts for the movies. Did a couple body doubles for Miss
Kate Hepburn. She was way older than me but she had a great body so they could
use me.”

“Ms.
MacIntyre— ”

“Back
to business, ay? Barnett’s never been in
any
kind of trouble, but when
L.A. cops drive all the way here and ask questions it’s not because they want a
nice cold drink from my Coke machine. Which, incidentally, is working just
fine. I’ve got nachos and chips and some imported bison jerky.” She eyed Milo’s
waistline. “Bison’s good for you, has the saturated fat of skinless chicken.”

He
said, “Where’s it imported from?”

“Montana.”
She turned and walked back inside. We followed her into a single, dim room with
wide plank floors and a hoop rug and the head of a large, stuffed buck mounted
on the rear wall. The animal’s antlers were asymmetrical, a gray tongue tip
poked from a corner of its mouth, and one glass eye was missing.

“That’s
Bullwinkle,” said Bunny MacIntyre. “Idiot used to sneak in and eat my garden. I
used to sell fresh produce to the tourists. Now all people want is junk food. I
never shot him because he was stupid— you had to take pity. One day he just
dropped dead of old age on top of my Swiss chard, so I took him to a
taxidermist over in Palmdale.”

She
walked over to an old, red Coca-Cola machine flanked by revolving racks of
fried stuff in plastic bags. A cash register squatted on an old oak table.
Beside it was the jerky— rough-cut, nearly black, stacked in plastic canisters
on the counter.