by R. J. Noonan
“Do I have to tell you? Don’t I have some rights?”
“Of course you do,” I said.
“Just wanted to make sure, ’cause you’re getting a little pushy.”
I shrugged. “That’s my job. A young woman died in that crash, and I’m here to find out why. So. Last night?”
“I was at my girlfriend’s house, okay?”
“And Heather will testify that you were with her?”
“Well, sure, but . . .” He let out a breath as he shifted from foot to foot. “Do you have to ask her? It’s just gonna get her upset.”
“Why would she be upset about clearing your name?” I asked.
“She just would, okay? Nobody wants to talk to the police.”
I didn’t agree. Plenty of people were happy to be interviewed. But then, most people hadn’t faced criminal prosecution for some bad choices they’d made as a teenager.
I would contact this Heather, but also I would keep looking elsewhere for A.
“I gotta get back to work, so we need to be done here.”
“Okay. Thanks for your time.”
“Like I had a choice,” he muttered, moving toward the barn. The alpaca trotted off behind him. This time I noticed that the groomer, Blane, was watching from the open barn doorway.
“I’m just going to have a look around,” I called after Andy. Despite the contention between us, there was no reason not to be polite. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Of course he minded, but he knew better than to stop me. I ventured inside the barn and blinked as the acrid smell hit my palate. Straw and hay and an earthy mixture of leather and dung. I wondered if that smell ever went away. Tall stacks of hay drew my eye up to the loft, which seemed to be used for storage. I wondered if the alpacas and horses were kept together or if they used the stalls. In one open area, Blane was picking junk from a horse’s hoof with a metal hook. It looked painful, but the horse didn’t seem to mind.
I introduced myself, but Blane barely gave me a glance. “Do the Jamesons ride often?” I asked.
“Nah. Lucy, sometimes. I never saw him and her out this way.”
“So how many alpacas do you have out here?”
“Dozen or so. And three horses.”
I asked if he liked his job, if the alpacas ever tried to bite, if the work was hard. His one-word answers allowed no entry to conversation. Although I moseyed around trying to look for something out of place, I had no idea what the ordinary smell and mess of a stable should look like.
A scraping noise came from one of the stalls, where a woman in a beanie, rubber boots, a down vest, and a leather apron shoveled out manure, hay clods, and dirt. With chapped lips and no hair visible, she looked worn down but not unhealthy. I said hello; she barely nodded.
This was not a welcoming crew.
I spent a few more minutes there, trying to strike up a conversation with the workers in the barn. They gave short answers and kept to their tasks. My mother would have hired these two worker bees as kitchen help in a heartbeat. In our family restaurant, hard work was not only expected but revered.
By the time I left the barn, I wasn’t quite sure what to think about Andy. I didn’t want to believe that such a handsome, affable guy would stoop to sexual abuse and murder. Was he the full-fledged boyfriend, the older lover described in Lucy’s diary? Someone who had turned her on then turned on her, disabling her car and killing her? It seemed unlikely after his adamant responses to my questioning. Or perhaps he was guilty of one crime but not the other. I needed to speak with the girlfriend, Heather Erickson, as well as the parole officer.
The forest closed in around me as I headed back to the main buildings, and the outside world seemed far, far away. Everywhere I looked, there was lush vegetation. Douglas firs, red cedars, sequoia, and pine trees towered overhead, many of their fat trunks lined in furry moss. Bushes and ferns were so dense on the ground that the path was a dark, chilly tunnel beneath the trees. A rustling sound put my nerves on alert. I stopped, turned, and stared, searching for the source of the sound. A squirrel? A burrowing mole? Thousands of creatures coexisted under the canopy of trees. Was it an animal I was hearing? The throng of life behind my back seemed to be a large creature moving with premeditation and caution. A human.
The thump of my pulse throbbed in my ears as I listened to the distinct rustle of leaves behind me.
Not a critter. Squirrels and deer had never given me that sharp sense of awareness, the sensation that I was being watched.
I turned sharply toward the sound, and it stopped. “Who’s there?” I called, giving the watcher a chance to reveal himself. “Andy?” Was it him? I doubted that he could have followed me in a parallel path through the woods, but I figured it might flush him out if I called his name.
There was no answer. My eyes combed the dense brush. Grasses and bushes combined to form a natural screen for the person lingering back there. “I know you’re there. I see you.”
My bluff produced a rustling sound and then silence again.
Creepy.
My heartbeat began to race and my palms grew moist. The pulse in my dry throat warned me of the panic rising from within.
Deep breaths, in and out. I could calm myself. I could work through this, just as I was going to walk right out of this forest.
“A girl who suffers from panic attacks cannot be a police officer,” my mother had told me repeatedly. “Maybe if you were stronger or one of the calm ones. But law enforcement, it’s not for a delicate flower like you.”
She was wrong about that. I was going to prove her wrong.
A deep breath, a cautious look. That scalding sensation that someone was watching me.
“The problem with a panic attack is that it’s all in your head,” my mother used to say.
Maybe. Or maybe not.
A wise man once said that fear is a gift, an ancient reminder to flee.
Fear had the power to save our lives.
I started running.
* * *
Like a naïve tourist, the female cop walked along the path, gawking here and there and peering ahead through the clearing. Too many questions, this pretty Japanese girl. She was crossing the line, asking to be punished. And, oh, he would enjoy punishing her, over and over again. Her innocence was an irresistible aphrodisiac, titillating, seductive.
He shook his head, as if to expel the ridiculous notion. A tumble with her would mean trouble. She was pretty poison.
For now, impulses had to be kept in check, in pocket, zipped shut.
Best to keep a safe distance between himself and the girl cop. If she pushed too hard, then he would push back. He would enjoy pushing her buttons, prodding her body along to a rhapsody of pleasure. Then she would follow the others down the long, dark hole. Falling through the looking glass.
9
My clamoring heart slowed as the peaked roof of the riding arena came into view. The safety of civilization. Seeing that the path behind me was empty, I slowed to a brisk walk as my cell phone buzzed.
The caller ID showed “Parole and Probation Dept.” My heart was still pounding as I took the call.
Chris Brewer, Andy Greenleaf’s probation officer, turned out to have traces of a stutter in his voice. “What can I . . . What can I do for you?”
I explained that I was investigating a possible homicide at the Jameson ranch. “As you know, Andy is a resident there.”
“That’s right. For quite a few years now. What’s the deal? You got probable cause?”
“Still in the early stages of investigating, but I was hoping you could give me some background info on Greenleaf.” Walking in an easy stride now, I shifted my cellphone to the other ear. “I just met with him, and he seems like a nice guy.”
“Most of them are charmers, but that doesn’t mean they won’t act out. Our rate of recidivism for child molesters is not good. Not good. You can’t trust these guys.”
I asked him about the circumstances of Greenleaf’s conviction. �
��Is it true that the girl was his girlfriend? I mean, it seems unfair to split up a couple who’ve been together for two years just because he turned twenty-one.”
“That’s the law, and don’t believe everything he tells you. The parents seem to think Greenleaf had her brainwashed. She was afraid to leave him.”
Of course there were multiple perspectives in every story.
“Andrew has followed the rules for me,” Chris went on. “He’s checked in once a year and kept his address up to date. But I can’t say he’s become a saint. For every two perps who clean up their act, I have one that falls back to old habits. If I were you, I wouldn’t trust anything he says. With these guys, looks are deceiving.”
I knew that the parole officer was right; many child molesters were not the creepy guy that people found revolting. They were physicians and teachers, bankers and cops. Attractive, charming people had a far better chance to win over a young person’s trust.
Could I imagine Andy Greenleaf going after Lucy, a young woman he’d known since she was a girl? It was well within the realm of possibility, and he’d commented on her attractiveness. I thanked Brewer and called Omak.
“Mori. What do you have for me?”
“I’ve interviewed the housekeeper, Martha’s personal assistant, and the ranch manager. So far, Andy Greenleaf is a bit suspicious, though Kent Jameson has demonstrated a propensity for violence.” I told him about Greenleaf’s denials, his charm, his claim that he was with Heather Erickson last night. “I need to check with the girlfriend, but I’m not finished interviewing everyone here.”
“Stay at the ranch. I’ll send someone to track her down,” he said. “I’ve got to get upstairs to the press conference. Keep me posted.”
“Will do.” I ended the call as I passed the arena and turned left onto the paving stone path. I planned to take a quick look around the compound and then try to gracefully extract some information about Lucy from the Jamesons. After that, I would track down Carlos Flores, the caretaker.
The clubhouse door was locked. Inside, I saw that chairs had been stacked on the handful of tables, looking sad and neglected. But the garage next door revealed a sign of life. Two of the roll-up doors over the bays were open in the larger building. Someone was here—that was a relief. I stepped inside to the smell of new rubber tires and motor oil.
With four sleek cars shining like grinning hyenas, the place reminded me of the luxury car dealer on State Street. The five garage doors opened into one large room similar to an airplane hangar. The storage drawers against one wall were modern, as were the lighting and the shiny, speckled epoxy floor.
“Hello?”
Only stillness and four cars gaping at me. One had a fat pinstripe down the center like a birthday present. Another had tailfins that resembled a rocket ship. I recognized the grill of an elegant Jaguar and the Lambo, a sleek, predatory hunter with a wide nose and crystalline headlights to track down its prey. From the way the cars were displayed, parked in scattered diagonals, I couldn’t tell where the Karmann Ghia used to be parked. There was no gaping space with a telltale puddle of brake fluid.
I wove through the cars, impressed by the tidiness of the place. Like a museum. This was nothing like Randy’s garage, with oil stains and wrenches, rags, tools, and cans of mystery sprays and fluids. Did they use the other garage for the dirty work?
On the wall by one pristine workbench was a key box—a glass-enclosed chest with labeled keys. The clear door swung open smoothly—easy access. Anyone walking through here could fire up the Lambo or the Jag.
The second garage was shaped differently. It had two stories, but it was smaller, with only two bays. There were windows upstairs, but they were covered with blinds. No one answered when I knocked, and the door was locked.
As I tried to peer in a window at the edge of the blinds, I heard a whining sound, like a lamb bleating repeatedly. I paused, scanning the panorama for motion. On the other side of the trees, a short, thick man pushed a squealing cart down the path. No, not a cart, but a wheelbarrow, actually. I didn’t think he saw me, and he was tuned into earbuds. He rounded some new-growth trees and went off the path. The wheelbarrow bounded over the dirt toward the back of the two-story garage. I followed him around the side of the building to a cemented area bordered by small, trimmed shrubs.
A parking pad, discreetly positioned out of sight. The perfect place for a car that was leaking . . . something. A slick stain, about two or three feet wide, darkened the concrete. The man parked the wheelbarrow beside it and started to sprinkle some sort of sand onto the stain.
“Hey, there!” I stepped in. “Can you hold on a second?” I had my cell phone out, swiping toward the camera function.
“Ah!” He shook his head, grasping his chest with one hand. “Officer, you popped out of nowhere.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, but I wanted to stop you before you got too far.” I introduced myself and learned that he was Carlos, the Jamesons’ caretaker. His beard was well trimmed, his hair flecked with gray. A belly curved over his belt, but he seemed hardy and strong. “I know this may seem weird, but I’m looking for the spot where the Karmann Ghia was parked yesterday. Is this it?” I snapped photos as I spoke.
He looked down at the stain as if it were an embarrassment. “Sí. Yes. The car was here, in this spot.” The Hispanic man seemed to have trouble looking me in the eye.
“It was parked here yesterday,” I said, thinking of our timeline. “How late in the day did you see it?”
“I check over all the cars before I leave. It’s the last thing I do before I sign out at Mrs. Martha’s office at six.”
“I take it you heard about the crash?”
Still nodding, no eye contact.
“The Jamesons mentioned how much they rely on you,” I said. “That you do such a good job running this place.”
That brought his gaze up slightly. “I do my best, but it’s a big ranch.”
“They’re very pleased with your work.” I nodded at the puddle. “So the Ghia was leaking.”
“Yes, yes. The car was going to the mechanic soon to find out the problem. This is why we parked it outside the garage.”
As I circled the puddle, I noticed rings from previous stains. “That’s a lot of oil to drain from a car,” I said. “We’ve all been down a quart from time to time, but nothing like that. It’s amazing that the car even ran. How long was it leaking?”
“This I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Cars, I don’t know, but the Karmann Ghia, always leaking something. We can’t have that in the garage. Mr. Kent, he don’t care so much, but Mrs.?” He rolled his eyes. “She can’t have all the mess. She’s very clean, you know. She likes order.”
“So she had you keep the car out here?”
“She wants it out of the garage.” He shrugged. “It’s because she don’t like the mess. But now, so sad. So much sorrow. The car, even a messy car, it’s nothing compared to losing a child.”
“That’s true. Do you know if the car had a gas leak, too?” That might explain the spare container of gasoline in the trunk.
“Gas. Oil. It was always leaking something.” He shrugged. “Mrs. Martha called that car a hunk of junk, but Mr. Kent and Lucy, they liked it.”
He had a way of dancing around the question, a trait I was well familiar with from my Japanese family. Instead of saying no or disagreeing, there’s an artful dodge, a way to veer away from the confrontation and agree on something that was never asked. So if I ask my mother if she likes strawberry, instead of saying no, she would respond that “raspberry is a very good flavor.”
“So what’s that in the wheelbarrow?”
“This? This is for the cat home. You know. Cat litter. But today, I put it on the stain. I leave it overnight.”
I asked him to wait with the kitty litter. “Don’t touch anything for two minutes.” He seemed confused but agreed, and I sprinted to the police car to find an evidence kit. How important was the dark li
quid on the cement? Would the lab be able to match it to the brake fluid in the Karmann Ghia? It was worth a try. The brake lines had been cut; the car crash was more than an unfortunate accident. I wanted to determine whether brake fluid had begun leaking here at the ranch.
My pulse was thumping fast when I returned to find Carlos watchful and concerned. “This is for the investigation,” I explained. “Something was wrong with the car.”
“Yes. It was always leaking,” he repeated.
Was he playing dumb or simply not mechanically inclined? “Did you ever work on the car?” I asked as I leaned down to roll a white swab through the stain.
“Never. Mr. Kent has Mr. Hal come by. Sometimes the cars go off to the shop. Supreme Auto.” He swept a hand toward the horizon. “This ranch, it keeps me busy enough.”
“I bet it does.” It never hurts to help people feel good about themselves. “There’s a lot of property up here. I’ve been looking around, trying to orient myself, but so far I’ve only covered the stables.” I finished bagging the evidence. “All done.”
“Can I put this down now?” He indicated the kitty litter.
“Sure. So that’s what you use to blot out stains?”
“It works every time.”
“Good to know. So anyway, I saw the classic car collection. Sweet,” I said, echoing Randy’s lingo. “But the second garage was locked. Do you have a key? My boss says that I should leave no stone unturned. You know how that is.”
“We can’t go in there.” He dispersed generous shovelfuls of sandy product over the stain. “It’s only for the mechanic when he comes, and Mr. Kent.”
“So that’s where the repairs are done?”
“Some. Mrs. Martha wants it locked up. She don’t like the mess.”
It seemed that Martha Jameson suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder.
“And I got enough to take care of without cleaning up after those mechanics.” There was a hint of a smile on his lips.
“Do they keep gasoline in the messy garage?”
“Gasoline? No. Mr. Hal takes the cars to the service station.”