The Murder Book (16 page)

“Mrs. Schwinn?” said Milo, reaching for the badge.

Before he got it out of his pocket, the woman said, “I’m Marge, and I know who you are, Detective. I got your messages.” No apology for not returning the calls. Once the smile faded, not much in the way of any emotion, and I wondered if that contributed to even-tempered horses.

“I know the cop look,” she explained.

“What look is that, ma’am?”

“Fear mixed with anger. Always expecting the worst. Sometimes, Pierce and I would be riding, and there’d be a sound, a scurrying in the brush, and he’d get the look. So… you were his last partner. He talked about you.” She glanced at me. The past tense hung heavy.

She bit her lip. “Pierce is dead. Died last year.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. I miss him terribly.”

“When did—”

“He fell off a horse seven months ago. One of my tamest, Akhbar. Pierce was no cowboy, he never rode until he met me. That’s why I gave him Akhbar as a regular mount, and they bonded. But something must’ve spooked Akhbar. I found him down near Lake Casitas, on his side, with two broken legs. Pierce was a few yards away, head split on a rock, no pulse. Akhbar had to be put down.”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am.”

“Yeah. I’m dealing with it okay. It’s the gone-ness that hits you. One day someone’s here and then…” Marge Schwinn snapped her fingers, looked Milo up and down. “Basically, you’re what I expected, given the passage of time. You’re not here to tell me something bad about Pierce, are you?”

“No, ma’am, why would I—”

“Call me Marge. Pierce loved being a detective, but he had bitter feelings about the department. Said they’d been out to get him for years because he was an individualist. I’ve got his pension coming in, don’t want funny business, don’t want to have to hire a lawyer. That’s why I didn’t call you back. I wasn’t sure what you were up to.”

Her expression said she still wondered.

Milo said, “It’s absolutely nothing about Pierce’s pension, and I’m not here as a representative of the department. Just working a case.”

“A case you worked with Pierce?”

“A case I was supposed to work with Pierce, till he retired.”

“Retired,” said Marge. “That’s one way to put it… well, that’s nice. Pierce would’ve liked that, you seeking his opinion after all these years. He said you were smart. Come in, coffee’s still warm. Tell me about your days with Pierce. Tell me good things.”

The house was spare and low-ceilinged, walls alternating between rough pine paneling and sand-colored grass cloth, a series of tight, dim rooms furnished with well-worn, severe, tweedy fifties furniture for which some twenty-year-old starlet would gladly overpay at the latest La Brea junktique.

The living room opened to a rear kitchen, and we sat down opposite a blond, kidney-shaped coffee table as Marge Schwinn filled mugs with chicory-scented coffee. Western prints hung on the grass cloth, along with equestrian portraits. A corner trophy hutch was full of gold and silk. In the opposite corner was an old Magnavox console TV with Bakelite dials and a bulging, greenish screen. Atop the set was a single framed photo — a man and a woman, too far away to make out the details. The kitchen window framed a panoramic mountain view but the rest of the place was oriented toward the corral. The horses hadn’t moved much.

Marge finished pouring and sat in a straight-backed chair that conformed to her perfect posture. Young body, old face. The tops of her hands were a giant freckle interrupted by spots of unblemished dermis, callused, wormed with veins.

“Pierce thought a lot of you,” she told Milo.

Milo got rid of the surprised look almost immediately, but she saw it and smiled.

“Yes, I know. He told me he gave you all sorts of grief. His last years on the force were a rough time in Pierce’s life, Detective Sturgis.” She lowered her eyes for a moment. No more smile. “Did you know that when you rode with Pierce he was a drug addict?”

Milo blinked. Crossed his legs. “I remember that he used to take cold remedies — decongestants.”

“That’s right,” said Marge. “But not for his sinuses, for the high. The decongestants were what he did openly. On the sly, he was fooling around with amphetamines — speed. He started doing it to stay awake on the job, to be able to get back home to Simi Valley without falling asleep at the wheel. That’s where he lived with his first wife. He got hooked bad. Did you know Dorothy?”

Milo shook his head.

“Nice woman, according to Pierce. She’s dead, too. Heart attack soon after Pierce retired. She was a chain smoker and very overweight. That’s how Pierce first got his hands on speed — Dorothy had lots of prescriptions for diet pills, and he started borrowing. It got the better of him, the way it always does. He told me he’d turned really nasty, suspicious, had mood swings, couldn’t sleep. Said he took it out on his partners, especially you. He felt bad about that, said you were a smart kid. He figured you’d go far…”

She trailed off.

Milo tugged at the zipper of his windbreaker. “Did Pierce talk much about his work, ma’am?”

“He didn’t talk about specific cases, if that’s what you mean. Just how rotten the department was.
I
think his work poisoned him as much as the speed. When I met him, he’d touched bottom. It was right after Dorothy’s death, and Pierce had stopped paying rent on the Simi house — they never bought, just rented. He was living in a filthy motel in Oxnard and earning minimum wage sweeping the floors at Randall’s Western Wear. That’s where I first saw him. I was doing a show in Ventura, came in to Randall’s to look at boots, collided with Pierce when he took out the trash. He knocked me on my rear, we both ended up laughing about it. I liked his laugh. And he made me curious. Someone that age, doing that job. Usually it’s young Mexicans. Next time I came in, we talked some more. There was something about him — strong, no wasted words. I’m a gabby type, as you can see. Comes from living alone most of my life, talking to the horses. Talking to myself so as not to go nuts. This land was my grandfather’s. I inherited it from my parents. I was the youngest, stayed home to take care of Mom and Dad, never strayed very far. The horses pretend they’re listening to me. That’s what I liked about Pierce, he was a good listener. Soon, I was making up reasons to drive down to Oxnard.” She smiled. “Bought a lot of boots and jeans. And he never knocked me down again.”

She reached for her coffee. “We knew each other a full year before we finally agreed to get married. We did it because we’re old-fashioned, no way would either of us live together without paper. But most of what we had was friendship. He was my best friend.”

Milo nodded. “When did Pierce get off speed?”

“He was already getting off when I met him. That’s why he moved into that fleabag. Punishing himself. He had some savings and his pension, but was living like he was a broke bum. Because that’s how he thought of himself. By the time we started going out, he was off dope completely. But he was sure it did damage to him. ‘Swiss-cheese brain,’ he used to call it. Said if they ever x-rayed his head, they’d find holes big enough to stick a finger through. Mostly, it was his balance and his memory — he had to write things down or they were gone. I told him that was just age, but he wasn’t convinced. When he told me he wanted to learn how to ride, I worried. Here he was, not a young man, no experience, not the best balance. But Pierce managed to stay in the saddle until… The horses loved him, he had a calming influence on them. Maybe because of all he’d been through, getting himself clean. Maybe he ended up at a higher level than if he hadn’t suffered. You’ll probably find this hard to believe, Detective Sturgis, but during his time with me, Pierce was a blessedly serene man.”

She got up, retrieved the picture atop the TV, held it out to us. Snapshot of Schwinn and her, leaning against the posts of the corral out front. I had only Milo’s rawbone Oakie description to fuel my expectation of the former detective and had expected a grizzled old cop. The
look
. The man in the photo had long, white hair that snaked past his shoulders and a snowy beard that reached nearly to his navel. He wore a peanut-butter-colored buckskin jacket, denim shirt, blue jeans, a turquoise bracelet, one turquoise earring.

Old-time trapper or geriatric hippie, hand in hand with a sun-punished woman who barely reached his shoulder. I saw Milo’s eyes widen.

“He was my Flower Power Grandpa,” said Marge. “Different from when you knew him, huh?”

“A bit,” said Milo.

She placed the picture in her lap. “So what kind of advice did you hope to get from him on this case of yours?”

“I was just wondering if Pierce had any general recollections.”

“Something that old and now you’re working it again? Who got killed?”

“A girl named Janie Ingalls. Pierce ever mention that name?”

“No,” she said. “Like I said, he didn’t talk about his work.”

“Did Pierce leave any papers behind?”

“What kind of papers?”

“Anything to do with his work — newspaper clippings, photos, police mementos?”

“No,” she said. “When he moved out of his Simi house, he got rid of everything. Didn’t even own a car. When we went out, I had to pick
him
up.”

“Back when I knew him,” said Milo, “he was a photography buff. He ever get back into that?”

“Yes, he did, as a matter of fact. He enjoyed taking walks in the hills and capturing nature, bought himself a cheap little camera. When I saw how much he liked it, I bought him a Nikon for his sixty-eighth birthday. His pictures were pretty. Want to see them?”

She took us to the house’s single bedroom, a tidy, pine-paneled space filled by a queen bed covered with a batik spread and flanked by two mismatched nightstands. Framed photos blanketed the walls. Hills, valleys, trees, arroyos dry and flowing, sunrises, sunsets, the kiss of winter snow. Crisp colors, good composition. But nothing higher than vegetable on the evolutionary scale, not even a bird in the sky.

“Nice,” said Milo. “Did Pierce have his own darkroom?”

“We converted a half bath. Wasn’t he talented?”

“He was, ma’am. When I knew Pierce, he liked to read about science.”

“Did he? Well, I never saw that. Mostly he’d turned meditative. Could just sit in the living room and stare out at the view for hours. Except for the times when he got the cop look or had those dreams, he was at peace. Ninety-nine percent of the time he was at peace.”

“During the one percent,” I said, “did he ever say what was bothering him?”

“No, sir.”

“During the last month or so before his accident, how was his mood?”

“Fine,” she said. Her face clouded. “Oh no, don’t go thinking
that
. It was an accident. Pierce wasn’t a strong rider, and he was sixty-eight years old. I shouldn’t have let him ride that long by himself, even on Akhbar.”

“That long?” said Milo.

“He was gone half a day. Usually, he only rode for an hour or so. He had his Nikon with him, said he wanted to catch some afternoon sun.”

“Taking pictures.”

“He never got to. The roll inside his camera was blank. He must’ve fallen right at the beginning and lain there for a while. I should’ve gone looking sooner. The doctor assured me that kind of head wound would have taken him right away. At least he didn’t suffer.”

“Hit his head on a rock,” said Milo.

She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” Milo stepped closer to the photos on the wall. “These really
are
good, ma’am. Did Pierce keep any albums of his slides or proofs?”

Marge stepped around the bed to the left-hand nightstand. Atop the table were a woman’s watch and an empty glass. Sliding open a drawer, she removed two albums and placed them on the bed.

A pair of blue leather books. Fine morocco, a size and style I recognized.

No labeling. Marge opened one, began turning pages. Photographs encased in stiff plastic jackets, held in place by black, adhesive corner pockets.

Green grass, gray rock, brown dirt, blue sky. Pages of Pierce Schwinn’s fantasy of an inanimate world.

Milo and I made admiring noises. The second book held more of the same. He ran a finger down its spine. “Nice leather.”

“I bought them for him.”

“Where?” said Milo. “Love to have one for myself.”

“O’Neill & Chapin, right down the road — over by the Celestial Café. They cater to artists, carry quality things. These are originally from England, but they’re discontinued. I bought the last three.”

“Where’s the third?”

“Pierce never got to it — you know, why don’t I give it to you? I have no need for it and just thinking about Pierce’s unfinished business makes me want to cry. And Pierce would’ve liked that — your having it. He thought a lot of you.”

“Really, ma’am—”

“No, I insist,” said Marge. Crossing the room and stepping into a walk-in closet, she emerged a moment later, empty-handed. “I could swear I saw it up here, but that was a while back. Maybe it’s somewhere else… maybe Pierce took it over to the darkroom, let’s check.”

The converted bathroom was at the end of the hall, five-by-five, windowless, acrid with chemicals, a narrow, wooden file cabinet next to the sink. Marge slid open drawers, revealed boxes of photographic paper, assorted bottles, but no blue leather album. No slides or proofs, either.

I said, “Looks like Pierce mounted everything he had.”

“I guess,” she said. “But that third book — so expensive, it’s a shame to let it go to waste… it’s got to be here, somewhere. Tell you what, if it shows up, I’ll send it to you. What’s your address?”

Milo handed her a card.

“Homicide,” she said. “That word just jumps out at you. I never thought much about Pierce’s life before me. Didn’t want to picture him spending so much time with the dead — no offense.”

“It’s not a job for everyone, ma’am.”

“Pierce — he was outwardly strong, but inside, he was sensitive. Had a need for beauty.”

“Looks like he found it,” said Milo. “Looks like he found real happiness.”