by Stalker
“Not while I was there,” Cindy said. “I think I would have heard two thousand tons of steel colliding with solid bedrock.”
Decker said, “After you lost sight of the vehicle, it probably hooked a turn somewhere and ditched you in the process.”
“I looked for turnoffs from the main road. I really, really looked. I couldn’t find one.”
“The forest is dense,” Marge said. “He could have taken the car off-road for a tiny bit and hidden in the brush, waiting until you came back down.”
“I would have noticed a smoking car—”
“It was smoking?” Decker asked.
She sighed. “Maybe not. I guess I said that because my car was smoking. All I know is when I came back down, I didn’t see any turnoff. I certainly didn’t see or hear any crash.” She shook her head, glad that the car was dark so they couldn’t see her embarrassment. “I should have called it in as soon as I suspected something. Maybe if I had, someone with more experience would have stopped the Camry before it took a five-hundred-foot nosedive. I feel indirectly responsible for the death of the driver.”
“Who says the driver’s dead?” Decker said. “You told me you didn’t hear a crash. Maybe the car was pushed off the ledge after you left the scene.”
Cindy sat up. “You think so?”
“Did the investigators mention a body?” Decker asked Marge.
“I didn’t talk to anyone on-site,” Marge said. “The deputy I spoke to said they were in the process of sorting through the wreckage.”
Marge rolled the windows partway down. A musty fragrance wafted through the car—thick and moist. The rumble of the engine was artificial and pronounced when contrasted with the sounds of nature’s nighttime. Shifting into low gear, she started crawling up the hill. Her headlights, even with the brights on, did little to illuminate the utter blackness. She turned on an interior car light and handed Decker a sheaf of paper. “Can you read me the directions?”
“Against the law to drive with interior lights.” Cindy quoted the penal code number. “I should have gone to law school.”
Decker turned around and tried out a sympathetic smile. “As your father, I’d like you to forget about what happened and move on. But as a cop, I’d tell you to think about what went wrong. God knows that self-examination interferes with personal happiness. And God knows, above all, I want you to be happy. But what I want isn’t as important as what you want. You want to be a good cop. That sometimes means being upset with yourself.”
Well, she had the upset part down pat. “Thanks for being straight with me.”
“Thanks for taking it so well.” Decker unfolded the directions and read out loud. “Go up for exactly four tenths of a mile. You’ll have to slow down and look around very carefully. In between two sycamores, there is a rut in the ground. That’s the turnoff…” He turned around and looked at Cindy. “There’s your missing turnoff.”
“Yep.” She was trying to take it with a professional attitude. But in reality she felt doubly stupid. She had blown the tail and missed the turnoff.
“Go on the rutted lane for another mile,” Decker continued. “You’ll have to go very, very slow because the lane is very narrow, and there are steep drops—”
“How steep?” Marge broke in.
“It doesn’t say,” Decker muttered. “I should have stayed home. We can barely see in the dark, let alone learn much.”
“I told you I would have handled it alone.”
“No one should be driving this alone.”
“I would have paged Scott. He wasn’t talking like he had a hot date. I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded subbing so you could have your Sabbath in peace.”
He wasn’t talking like he had a hot date. Cindy contained a smile, then chastised herself. Why are you dwelling on him? And of course she knew why. Thinking about Scott was preferable to feeling inept.
Marge had slowed the Volvo. “I’m four-tenths—”
“There are the sycamores,” Decker pointed out.
“There’s a road between those two mothers?” Marge brought the car to a baby crawl and inched the wheel to the left. “If you say so.”
“Are you going to scratch up the car?” Decker asked.
“It’s a possibility.”
“Be careful—”
“Would you like to drive?”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Cindy interrupted.
“What doesn’t?” Decker asked.
“How could a speeding car negotiate such a sharp, unmarked turn?”
“Obviously he knew the area better than you did,” Decker said.
“Even so, Daddy, he was racing and this is nearly a ninety-degree turn. In my humble and often wrong opinion, if the car had attempted the turn going that fast, it would have slammed into the trees.”
“Possibly,” Decker said.
Conceding her a point. Hallelujah!
The car was bouncing wildly as they coursed the pockmarked passageway. With the car’s brights on, the pie-wedge ray illuminated thick foliage and lines and shadows.
“It’s Jurassic up here,” Cindy remarked. “Who reported the accident? Trapper John?”
“Maybe it was noticed by a traffic helicopter,” Decker remarked.
“Yeah, after all, this is a main artery of commuter traffic. I bet the area’s chock-full of sig-alerts.”
“Cindy, you’ve got a sharp wit. But right now it isn’t doing you any good.”
“That doesn’t negate my point. Who reported this?”
Abruptly, the car vaulted upward, causing Decker to hit his head on the ceiling. In deference to the holy day, he swore silently.
“Are you all right?” Cindy asked.
Decker rubbed his head. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Your head took a real knocking,” Cindy said. “I heard that.”
“God is punishing me for violating Shabbat.”
Marge chuckled. “If life were only that simple.”
Decker asked Marge, “Do you know who reported the crash?”
“No, I don’t, although it had to be someone with eagle eyesight. I can’t see a goddamn thing. I’m getting spooked, like any second I’m going over the cliff—”
“I’ll drive if you want,” Cindy offered. “I’ve got excellent eyesight.”
“No, I’ll manage.” Marge’s nostrils suddenly flared. “I just got a sharp whiff of gasoline.”
“Ditto,” Decker replied.
“Acrid,” Cindy said.
An appropriate adjective, Decker thought. That sickening smell of petroleum burning everything and everyone in its line of fire. He’d lived with it daily during his tour in Nam.
Marge squinted. “I see light ahead.” The car bounded into the air and landed with a thud on its tires. “Ho boy. I hope Rina has plenty of padding on her butt because she ain’t gonna have any shocks left.”
The faint wattage of illumination was rapidly growing in width and intensity. The stench of seared foliage and petrol soaked through the air. Cindy put her palm over her nose. Within moments, she saw the outlines of parked vehicles up ahead.
“Man, it stinks,” Decker commented. “We can park anywhere you’d like.”
Cindy chuckled, but it lacked levity.
“What is it?” Decker asked.
“Just the situation. We’re heading toward the light like moths to a flame. Sure hope the heat doesn’t fry us to death.”
Marge made a face and chided her. “You’re too young to be that jaded and cynical.”
“Chronological age is irrelevant,” Cindy retorted. “It’s time on the street. I’m only twenty-five, but in cop years I’m ready for Social Security.”
They parked at the top of the ledge, behind a tow truck. There were sheriff’s cars, there were highway patrol cars, there was an ambulance, and there were several red county fire department standard utility vehicles used when the area was inaccessible to the traditional oversized fire trucks. Single-file, the three of them slowly
sidled down the mountain, using a six-inch-wide dirt pathway that had been recently cleared, and a series of temporary handrails that had been set up by the firemen—the Sherpas of the expedition, Cindy joked. But even with the handrails, the descent was steep and difficult, with torn root clumps undermining Cindy’s footing. To make matters worse, she couldn’t go at her own pace. She was sandwiched between her father, who took the lead, and Marge, who kept sliding forward while she groused about the slippery soles of her shoes. It took them time to make it down without a calamity.
Standing at the edge of the ravaged ravine, Cindy wiped sweat from her brow as hot white lights spilled out from several spots, illuminating a blackened pit of foliage and a charred car frame. Bits and pieces of strewn metal could be seen, winking in the beams as far as two hundred feet away from the crash site. The main area was roped off with yellow tape. Inside the restricted circle stood a couple dozen men from the various agencies including four firemen wearing jackets emblazoned with arson on the back. There were also a couple of green-scrubbed medicos from the county coroner’s office. The sight made Cindy’s stomach tank. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, she had to cope with the fetid stench of gasoline. Normally, her father carried face masks. But because they had gone out in Rina’s car, they were all out of luck.
A man in sheriff’s khakis came out of the inner circle to greet them. Decker stepped forward and held out his badge. “Detective Lieutenant Peter Decker. This is Detective Dunn, and Officer Decker. We’re from LAPD.”
“Detective Deputy Bryant Bowler.”
The man’s forehead was raining dirty droplets of sweat, drawing streaks over his brow. His entire body—clothes, hands, and face—was blanketed with soot. Even when he took off his face mask, his physical characteristics were hard to make out because of the ash. He seemed somewhere between twenty-five and forty with blue eyes. Judging by a glint of orange peeking through ember-coated tresses, the hair was probably flaming red when washed.
Bowler said, “You’re far from your stomping ground. What brings LAPD here?”
“Actually, that’s my doing,” Cindy said. “I was here earlier in the evening.”
Bowler jerked his head back. “You were here? In this area?”
“Well, not in this exact spot, but yes, in the area,” Cindy explained. “I was in pursuit of the Camry—”
“What? Which Camry? You mean the vehicle we’re working on?”
Decker said, “Perhaps if Officer Decker explained the entire incident, things would become clearer.”
Giving her the opening to tell her tale, because by this time, it was a tale. She decided to be spare with the details because she didn’t remember exactly what she had told her father. She spoke slowly, deciding that her words sounded consistent enough to her ears. Wrapping it up, she mentally prepared herself for the onslaught of questions. “As we were ascending the hill, the Camry continued to travel at dangerously high speeds. So I made a conscious decision to slow down even if it meant discontinuing the pursuit and losing the visual contact of the vehicle.”
“Is that what happened?” Bowler asked.
“Pardon?” Cindy asked.
“Did you lose visual contact?”
“Yes. Still, I kept going until the road dead-ended.”
“At Prenner’s Park.”
“I didn’t catch the name of the grounds. It’s a picnic area.”
Bowler nodded. “That’s Prenner’s Park.”
Cindy said, “The Camry must have used this road to escape. I failed to notice this turnoff both going up and coming down.”
“That would make sense,” Bowler said. “Even in daylight, it’s nearly impossible to find this road. You just gotta know it’s there.”
“I stayed at the site for another ten minutes to check things. I’ll tell you one thing, Deputy. I never heard any crash.”
“What time was this?”
“Around five.”
Decker said, “When she called in the plates, she found out that the Camry’s license plate was pulled from one of our carjacked vehicles.”
“So that’s where you all fit in,” Bowler said.
Marge nodded.
“The Camry was a stolen vehicle,” Bowler said.
“The plates on the Camry were stolen from a vehicle that was carjacked six months ago,” Decker answered. “I don’t know about the Camry itself. I haven’t called up my Dees from GTA. At this point, our priorities are the jackings rather than auto theft. That’s why we’re curious about the identity of the driver.”
“No driver so far,” Bowler said. “We think the car was pushed.”
Cindy felt a rush of enormous relief. “So there’s no body?”
“We’re still looking, but we won’t be surprised if we don’t find nothing.”
Decker said, “Who determined that the vehicle was pushed?”
“Mutual consensus,” Bowler said. “Because of the tire tracks.”
“No skid marks?”
“Nope.”
Decker knew that tire tracks laid down differently at different speeds. A speeding car will kick up lots of dirt and have short, squashed impressions. Also, there will usually be skid marks from the driver frantically trying to stop the car. A vehicle that has been manually pushed will kick up far less splatter and have longer, clearer tread impressions. No skid marks, either.
Bowler said, “We were lucky. The ground condition was a good amigo—just moist enough to get some good impressions and firm enough to hold them tight.”
“What about footprints?”
“They’re a little harder to find. We do have some smudges. Might be partials.”
Marge said, “Place stinks of gasoline. Was an accelerant used to help the exploding gas tank along?”
Bowler said, “Arson’s here. You want to talk to them?”
“Eventually,” Decker said. “How did the pusher or pushers leave the crash site?”
“Well, see, we’re working on that. It’s hard to tell if there was more than one vehicle because, unfortunately, there’s been lots of in and out confounding traffic. So even if there were other car impressions, they could be obliterated by now. We can’t see them in the dark, either. Could be they drove the Camry up here, pushed it over, then left on a bike or motorbike or even on foot. It isn’t a hard walk down the mountain, especially in daylight. We haven’t checked all the impressions yet and won’t do so until morning.” He craned his neck and looked upward. “You got any theories that can help, we’re all ears.”
“Who reported the burning vehicle?” Cindy wanted to know.
“Local traffic helicopter saw some distant plumes of smoke. The pilot went in and pinpointed the crash site for us. Weather was kind also. No wind, not particularly dry, and very clear. And it rained a couple nights ago, so we had some ground saturation. We got the fire equipment in before the flames had a chance to skyrocket. Even with that you can see the damage.” Bowler heard his name being called. “’Scuse me.”
After he left, Cindy said, “Mea culpa, Father. I scoffed at your suggestion that the crash was spotted by a traffic helicopter. Although technically he didn’t spot the crash, he spotted the fire.”
“I still win points,” Decker said.
“That you do,” Cindy admitted. “Well, what now?”
“They’re going to want you to make a statement,” Decker said. “Then I suggest we go home. For starters, I’m out of my jurisdiction. And they’ve got plenty of techs here. Besides, I can’t really work the way I want, being as it’s the Sabbath.”
“What kind of statement?” Cindy asked.
“Just tell them what you told us.”
“I’ll have to sign it?” she said.
“Of course.” Decker stared at her. “Why? Do you have a problem with that?”
“No,” she responded quickly. “I just want to make sure that I don’t make some kind of costly mistake by not remembering something correctly.”
“Just take your time.” Dec
ker’s expression was intense and penetrating. “There’s no hurry. We’ll all wait until you’re done.”
Cindy nodded, feeling sick but hiding it. She was going to have to fudge, saying that she was following the car instead of the other way around. Playing loose with the facts: She hoped it wouldn’t come back to haunt her. Dad’s eyes were still boring into hers. She averted her glance and said, “I wonder who originally owned the Camry?”
Marge said, “Hard to get that information without the correct license plates, but not impossible. If the crash investigators determine the year of the car’s make, we could work backward. Find out how many red Camrys were sold in California in that year.”
“Like a zillion,” Cindy said.
“A little less than that,” Marge said.
Cindy said, “If someone felt the car had to be destroyed, why do it this way? Why not just…hide it somewhere? Or chop it up and sell it for parts?”
Decker said, “My thoughts exactly. Maybe the car was involved in some other crime and the owner wanted it massacred beyond recognition. Could be there was crime evidence in it.”
“Like what?” Cindy asked. “Like blood? Oooo, this is getting Gothic.”
Decker regarded his daughter. “Are you sure you’ve leveled with me?”
“Yes,” Cindy said. “Why do you keep asking?”
“Protection works two ways,” Decker said. “I want to protect you. But I think sometimes that you want to protect me.”
“I’ve leveled with you, Dad. Can we put it to rest?”
Decker slowly nodded his head. “Okay. I won’t ask again.”
Cindy blew out air. “What kind of crime evidence?”
“Just like you said, Officer Decker. Blood, hair, fibers, body parts—”
“Now you’re getting gross.”
Decker smiled. “Something definitive that might point to a specific crime. Something where the owner would feel there was no choice but to trash the car.”
“Crashing and burning a car attracts a lot more attention than chopping it for parts,” Marge said.
“I agree,” Cindy said. “And if you want to destroy evidence, why leave on the stolen license plates?”