Rage (16 page)

“Ready
for that Diet Coke?” she asked Milo.

“Sure.”

“What
about you, quiet guy?”

“The
same,” I said.

“How
much buffalo jerky? It’s a buck a stick.”

“Maybe
later, ma’am.”

“You
notice what it’s like out there? Damn oil painting, those deadbeats park all
day and eat their own junk. Darn portable freezers. I could use the business.”

“I’ll
take a stick,” said Milo.

“Three
sticks minimum,” said Bunny MacIntyre. “Three for three bucks and with the Diet
Cokes that’ll be six and a half.”

Without
waiting for an answer, she pressed buttons on the machine and released two
cans, wrapped the jerky in paper towels that she bound with rubber bands, and
slipped it into a plastic bag. “There’s no grease to speak of.”

Milo
paid her. “How long has Barnett worked for you?”

“Four
years.”

“Where’d
he work before that?”

“Gilbert
Grass’s ranch— used to be up a ways, on 7200 Soledad. Gilbert had a stroke and
retired his animals. Barnett’s a good boy, I can’t see what business you’d have
with him. And I don’t pay attention to his comings and goings.”

“How
do we get to his cabin?”

“Walk
back behind my house— the one with no sign— and you’ll see the cut in the
trees. I built the cabin so I’d have some privacy. It was supposed to be my
painting studio but I never got around to painting. I used it for storage.
Until Barnett fixed it up nice for himself.”

T
he path through the trees was a six-foot-wide swath
overhung by branches. The black Ford pickup was parked in front of the cabin.

The
tiny building was raw cedar with a plank door. One square window in front. As
simple as a child’s drawing of a house. Propane gas tanks stood to the left,
along with a clothesline and a smaller generator.

The
truck’s windows were rolled up and Milo got close and peered through the glass.
“He keeps it neat.”

He
used a corner of his jacket and tried the handle. “Locked. You wouldn’t think
he’d be worried about theft, out here.”

We walked
up to the cabin. Green oilskin drapes blocked the window. A square of concrete
served as a front patio. A hemp mat said
Welcome.

Milo
knocked. The plank was solid and barely sounded. But within seconds, the door
opened.

Barnett
Malley looked out at us. He was taller than he’d appeared on TV— an inch above
Milo’s six-three. Still lean and rawboned, he wore his yellow-gray hair long
and loose. Fuzzy muttonchops trailed below his jaw before right-angling toward
a lipless mouth. Sun exposure had coarsened and splotched his complexion. He
wore a gray work shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Thick wrists, veined
forearms, yellowed nails clipped straight. Dusty jeans, buckskin cowboy boots.
A silver-and-turquoise necklace ringed the spot just below a prominent Adam’s
apple.

A
peace symbol dangled from the central turquoise. More aging hippie than
militiaman.

His
eyes were silver blue and still.

Milo
showed him I.D. Malley barely glanced at it.

“Mr.
Malley, I don’t mean to intrude, but there are some questions I’d like to ask
you.”

Malley
didn’t answer.

“Sir?”

Silence.

Milo
said, “Are you aware that Rand Duchay was murdered Saturday night?”

Malley
clicked his teeth together. Backed into his cabin. Closed the door.

Milo
knocked. Called Malley’s name.

No response.

We
walked to the south side of the house. No windows. At the rear a single
horizontal pane was set high into the northern wall. Milo stretched upward and
rapped the glass.

Bird
calls, forest rustles. Then: music.

Honky-tonk
piano. A tune I’d always liked— Floyd Cramer’s “Last Date.” Solo piano, a
recording I’d never heard.

Momentary
hesitation, then the tune repeated. A flubbed note followed by fluidity.

Not a
recording. Live.

Malley
played the song through, then began again, improvising a basic but decently
phrased solo.

The
rendition repeated. Ended. Milo took advantage of the silence and knocked on
Malley’s window again.

Malley
resumed playing. Same tune. Different improv.

Milo
turned on his heel, lips moving. I couldn’t make out what he said and knew
better than to ask.

On
our way out of the campgrounds, we spotted Bunny MacIntyre over by the RVs,
talking to one of the elderly couples. Her hand went out and some bills were
passed. She saw us, turned away.

“Charming
rural folk,” said Milo, as we got back in the unmarked. “Is that the theme from
Deliverance
I hear wafting through the piney woods?”

“Should’ve
brought my guitar.”

“A
duet with Barnett the Pianner Man? Was that the reaction of an innocent guy,
Alex? I was hoping I could eliminate him, but just the opposite.”

“Wonder
why he keeps that welcome mat in front,” I said.

“Maybe
some people are welcome.” He turned the ignition key, let the car idle. “The
bloodhound part of me is itching to sniff, but the self-styled protector of
victims thinks it’s gonna be a shame if Malley turns out to be a murderer.
Guy’s life was blown to bits. I don’t read the Bible, but on some level, I get
the whole eye-for-an-eye thing.”

“I
get it, too,” I said. “Even though eye for an eye was never meant to be taken literally.”

“Sez
who?”

“If
you read the original biblical text, the context is pretty clear. It’s tort
law— monetary compensation for damages.”

“Did
you come up with that on your own?”

“A
rabbi told me.”

“Guess
he’d know.” He drove out of the campgrounds, turned onto the highway, switched
on the police band. Crime was down but the dispatcher’s recitation of felonies
was constant.

“The
possibilities,” he said, “are dismal.”

* * *

Thursday
morning, he called at eleven-fifteen. “Time for tandoori.”

I’d
just gotten off the phone with Allison. We’d managed to sneak in some personal
talk before her grandmother’s call for tea and comfort drew her away. The plan
was for her to return in two or three days. Depending.

I
said, “What’s up?”

“Let’s
talk about it over food,” he said. “It’ll be a test of your appetite.”

* * *

Café
Moghul is on Santa Monica Boulevard, a couple of blocks west of Butler, walking
distance from the station. The storefront ambience is dressed up by carved,
off-white moldings and arches designed to mimic ivory, polychrome tapestry
murals of Indian country scenes, posters of Bollywood movies. The soundtrack
alternates sitar drones with ultra-high soprano renditions of Punjab pop.

The
woman who runs the place welcomed me with her usual smile. We always greet each
other like old friends; I’ve never learned her name. Today’s sari was peacock
blue silk embroidered with gold swirls. Her eyeglasses were off. She had huge,
chocolate eyes that I’d never noticed before.

“Contacts,”
she said. “I’m trying something new.”

“Good
for you.”

“So
far, so good— he’s over there.” Pointing to a rear table, as if I needed
directions. The layout was four tables on each side divided by a center aisle.
A group of twenty-somethings was gathered around two tables pushed together,
dipping nan bread into bowls of chutney and chili paste and toasting some sort
of success with Lal Toofan beer.

Other
than them, just Milo. He was hunched over a gigantic salad bowl, sifting
through lettuce and retrieving chunks of what looked to be fish. A cut-glass
pitcher of iced clove tea sat at his elbow. When he saw me, he filled a glass
and pushed it toward me.

“The
special,” he said, plinking the rim of the salad bowl with his fork. “Salmon
and paneer and these little dry rice noodles over green stuff with lemon-oil
dressing. Pretty healthy, huh?”

“I’m
getting worried about you.”

“Get
real worried,” he said. “This is wild Pacific salmon. The intrepid types that
leap upstream when they’re horny. Apparently, farmed fish are bland, lazy wimps
and they’re also full of toxic crap.”

“The
politicians of the fish world,” I said.

He
speared a piece of fish. “I ordered you the same.”

I
drank tea. “What’s going to test my digestive juices?”

“Lara
Malley’s suicide. Got hold of the final report from Van Nuys. Turns out the D’s
who worked it were the same ones who busted Turner and Rand.”

“Sue
Kramer and a male partner,” I said. “Something with an ‘R.’ ”

“Fernie
Reyes. I’m impressed.”

“I
read their report on Kristal more times than I wanted to.”

“Fernie
moved to Scottsdale, does security for a hotel chain. Sue retired and joined a
P.I. agency over in San Bernardino. I’ve got a call in to her— here comes your
grub.”

The
blue-saried woman set a bowl down gently and swished off. My salad was half the
size of Milo’s, which was still more than ample.

“Good,
huh?” he said.

I
hadn’t lifted my fork. He watched until I did, studied me as I ate.

“Delicious,”
I said. Technically true, but tension had blocked the circuit from my taste
buds to my brain and I might’ve been chewing a napkin. “What’s off about the
suicide?”

“Cause
of death was a single gunshot to the left temple, a thirty-eight. She was
left-handed, so the coroner felt that supported a self-inflicted wound.”

“Through-and-through
wound?”

“Yup,
the bullet lodged in the passenger door. The gun was a Smith and Wesson
Double-Action Perfected revolver registered to Barnett. He kept it loaded in
his nightstand. His story was Lara musta taken it when he was at work, drove to
a quiet spot in the Sepulveda recreational area and boom.”

“Did
she leave a note?”

“If
she did, it’s not in the coroner’s summary.”

“Was
the gun returned to Malley?”

“No
reason it wouldn’t be,” he said. “He was the legal owner and no foul play was
indicated.”

He
began shoveling fish and cubes of paneer cheese into his mouth. “Maybe my
ambivalence about Malley was misguided. His life went to hell, but looks like
he coped by getting rid of everyone he blamed for Kristal’s death. Starting
with Lara, because she hadn’t kept her eye on the kid. Then the C.Y.A. system
took care of Turner. That left Rand as the last messy detail.

“Why
would he wait a full year after Kristal’s death to kill Lara?” I said.

“I
was being imprecise. She died seven years and seven months ago. Just one month
after Troy and Rand got sent away. What’s the obvious assumption?”

“Maternal
grief.”

“Exactly.
Great cover.” He pushed food around his plate. “Malley’s a weird one, Alex. The
way he started pounding on that piano. I mean the smart thing to do, the cops
come calling, is fake being cooperative. He does that, maybe I drop it.”

Unlikely,
I thought. “ ‘Last Date’.”

“What?”

“The
song he played.”

“You’re
saying he was being symbolic? Rand had a last date with life?”

I
shrugged.

He
said, “Guy keeps his truck locked even though he lives out in the boonies and
the damn thing’s sitting right in front of his cabin. Because he knows it’s
hard to get rid of every speck of forensic evidence. Maybe he’s an
old-fashioned eye-for-an-eye guy, doesn’t give a shit about original biblical
context.”

“Other
than the similarity to Rand, was there anything iffy about Lara’s suicide?”

“Nothing
in Sue’s report.”