Point Deception

by Marcia Muller

  The radio nudged her consciousness with her car number, and she keyed the mike.

  “What’s your location?” the dispatcher asked.

  “North of Deer Harbor, passing Mulzini Acre.”

  “Proceed to the Lindsay house and see the man about a ten-six-five.”

  Missing person. “Ten-four.”

  Interesting. The Lindsays were second-home people. Alan was a powerful sports attorney in San Francisco, and his wife, Samantha, had a successful jewelry-designing firm. The local grapevine said that Samantha made frequent trips to the oceanfront estate without her husband, during which she picked up men at bars from Calvert’s Landing to Westhaven, and apparently she wasn’t above such behavior when Alan was in residence. Will Scurlock, who was designing an elaborate system of decking on the Lindsay property, had told Rho that things seemed a bit strained there recently. And she herself had seen Samantha leaving the hotel bar last night with a guitarist and singer who had a long-running gig at Tai Haruru. If Samantha was missing, Rho would have to exercise extreme tact in interviewing her husband.

  The gates to the estate appeared on the left: large and ostentatious, set into a high stone wall. Rho turned in, spoke into the intercom; a man’s voice answered and after she identified herself, the gates swung open. She drove across a flat, unlandscaped bluff toward a sprawling cedar-shingled house where lights shone in every window. All that space for two people who didn’t even live there full-time.

  The front door opened as she parked, and a man came out, shielding his eyes against the headlights’ glare. Rho recognized Alan Lindsay’s wavy dark brown hair and cleft chin. He wore jeans and an Irish-knit sweater; his body was in as fit a condition as most of the athletes he represented. As she walked toward him she saw that his chiseled features were warped by anxiety.

  “Thank you for getting here so quickly,” he said. Without giving her the chance to reply, he ushered her into a foyer that was more expensively furnished than her own living room. “This way,” he added, moving along a hall. It ended in a great room that was larger than her entire house, with a massive stone fireplace and a wall of glass facing the sea. At Lindsay’s urging she took a white leather chair, perching on its edge.

  Before she could speak, Lindsay said, “My wife, Samantha, is missing. She’s been gone since around four this afternoon.”

  Rho noted the time: nine forty.

  Lindsay added, “I know it doesn’t seem long enough to be concerned, but given this rape-and-murder—”

  “You’re right to be concerned. Your wife left here at four?”

  “Yes. She was going to the organic market in Westhaven. I called there and one of the checkers confirmed she’d been in and done her shopping.”

  “Perhaps she had other errands? Or ran into a friend? Stopped for a drink?”

  Something flickered in Lindsay’s eyes, vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Samantha told me she was coming straight home. She doesn’t have any friends up here, and I’ve already called… her usual haunts. No one’s seen her.”

  “These usual haunts—what are they?”

  Lindsay had been pacing in front of the glass wall. Now he glanced at his reflected image, looked away as if he didn’t like what he saw, and sat down on the sofa. “Restaurants, shops—you know.”

  “Can you provide me a list of where you called?”

  “Try the phone book,” he snapped. Then he blinked, hearing what he’d said. “Ah, hell. What’s the use? I’m sure you know about Samantha, Deputy Swift. The entire Soledad Coast knows about her. She’s beautiful, rich, talented, and a mistress of indiscretion.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Do I need to spell it out for you? The usual haunts I called were bars and the homes of men she’s slept with—those I know about, that is.”

  Rho looked away from his pained face and studied the notebook she had balanced on her knee. “I understand, but I’ll still need that list. Tell me: When the two of you are staying here together, does she customarily go off by herself?”

  “Not frequently, but she’s been known to.”

  “Yet you’ve never reported her missing before?”

  “No.”

  When Rho looked up at Lindsay he’d composed himself. In fact, his face was masklike. She asked, “Is there something different about tonight—besides the murder—that leads you to believe your wife might be in danger?”

  “Yes.” He licked dry lips, hesitated. “God, I hate going into private things like this.”

  “If at all possible, we’ll keep what you say confidential. And remember, anything you tell me may help us locate Mrs. Lindsay.”

  He sighed, big shoulders rising and falling. “All right, then. I know what Samantha is, but I still love her. And in her way, she loves me. If she’s not coming home, she always calls. Always. But tonight she hasn’t. If she were off with… someone else of her own free will, she would’ve let me know by now. That’s the way it works with us, especially at a time like this.”

  Guy sat at the hotel bar, his beer untouched, brooding over the events that had changed the course of his life. Guilt, strong and bitter tonight, assailed him.

  Diana, he thought. If only I hadn’t taken on that particular project. If only I hadn’t persuaded you to help me. If only I’d used better judgment—

  “Mr. Newberry?”

  He started, swiveled toward the source of the voice. Lily Gilardi, dressed in black jeans and a heavy turtleneck sweater, her dark hair caught up in a ponytail. She registered surprise at the intensity of his look and took a step backward.

  “I… um, I wanted to thank you,” she said. “You prevented a real bad scene last night.”

  “Don’t mention it. I gather your brother doesn’t much care for your boyfriend.”

  “Wayne hates him. By the way, have you seen Alex? I was supposed to meet him, and he’s nearly an hour late.”

  Guy shook his head and motioned at the empty stool beside him. “Let me buy you a drink while you wait.”

  “Why not?” She slipped onto the stool, caught the bartender’s eye. He poured a glass of wine and set it in front of her. “Town’s kind of crazy tonight,” she commented. “Big fight going down in the parking lot at the Oceanside when I drove by. Sheriff’s department’s called in the CHP to help out.”

  “People are having a pretty extreme reaction to a stranger’s murder.”

  “You wouldn’t think it was if you lived here.”

  “No? Why not?”

  She shrugged, making wet circles with her glass on the lacquered surface of the bar.

  “What is it like to live here?”

  “Terrible. You’ve got all these great towns on the coast—nice restaurants, shops, things to do, tourist bucks pouring in—and then there’s Signal Port. Even quiet places like Oilville and Deer Harbor have something going for them. At least folks there aren’t scared to death of their own neighbors.”

  “And here they are? Why?”

  She flashed him a scornful look. “Come on, Mr. Newberry. Hugh Dawson over at the Sea Stacks has been telling anybody who’ll listen about you being a reporter who’s writing a book on the Cascada Canyon murders. If you want to know anything, ask me. But I’m warning you—I was just a kid when they happened, so you probably know more about them than I do. If those files Hugh claims you’ve got are as thick as he says.”

  So his cover was completely blown. Well, it had to happen sooner or later. And while it could cause problems, ultimately it would work to his advantage if he could develop contacts like Lily. Of course, he was going to be in big trouble with Rhoda Swift.…

  “Mr. Newberry,” Lily said, “if you knew something about a crime, something that might help the cops, would you go to them and tell them, even if it meant getting you and somebody you cared about in a lot of trouble?”

  He studied her. She was looking down into her glass, a thick lock of hair that had escaped the ponytail screening her face. “That would depend on the crime. An
d the trouble.”

  “Like I said, a lot of trouble.”

  “I take it we’re talking about the murder of that woman.”

  She nodded. “Normally I’d stay out of it, but she seemed like an okay person.”

  “You talked with her?”

  “Me and Alex. At Point Deception. She asked us to call a couple of numbers for her, but Alex wouldn’t let me. I feel really, really bad about that. And there’s something else—”

  “Hey, babe, what’s this?”

  Lily swiveled, her knees bumping Guy’s stool. “Honey!”

  Alex wore a beige down jacket with smears of mud across its front, and there was a dirty smudge on his high cheekbone. His gaze grazed Guy’s face, suspicious, bordering on the hostile, and then shifted to Lily’s. “I asked you, what’s going on?”

  “Mr. Newberry just bought me a drink, that’s all. What happened to you?” She motioned at his jacket.

  “Skidded off the road. Truck got stuck in the ditch, I had to push it out.”

  “Oh, poor baby!”

  “So what were you and Mr. Newberry talking about?”

  She flashed a warning look at Guy. “What it’s like to live here.”

  “And you told him like paradise.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Guy said, “May I buy you a drink, Mr. Ngo?” He pronounced the name as a Vietnamese would.

  Alex’s eyes flickered in surprise, but all he said was, “Thanks, but Lily and I’ve got things to do.”

  “But, honey, I thought we were having dinner—”

  “Plans’ve changed. We’ll take a rain check, Mr. Newberry.” He pulled Lily off the stool and propelled her toward the door, a hand on either of her shoulders.

  Guy watched them go, thinking that Lily was destined to make bad choices and be pushed around by the men in her life, even the ones who were concerned for her welfare. And Alex Ngo was the kind who could swiftly scent that quality in a woman and use it to his advantage.

  Too bad Alex had shown up. Guy would have liked to know the “something else” that Lily had alluded to.

  Rho pulled her cruiser next to Wayne’s at the foot of the Calvert’s Landing Pier. The deputy leaned against the car, one foot propped on its bumper, arms folded across his chest. The parking lot was jammed with vehicles, and on the second floor of the small shopping arcade the lights of Tai Haruru restaurant glowed warmly; on the bluff above, the floodlit facade of the Tides Inn seemed stark in comparison.

  “Hey, Wayne,” she called as she got out of the cruiser. “The dispatcher passed along your message. What’s happening?”

  “Let’s take a walk, huh?” He motioned toward the pier.

  Rho nodded and fell into step beside him. “Everything seems under control here.”

  “Now it is. I broke up a fight earlier—couple of guys who’d had too much navy grog. Had to beat the shit outta them. One came at me with a tire iron, the other wanted to help. They’re on their way to the lockup at County, along with a kid who just couldn’t keep from talking trash at me.”

  Rho was silent. She doubted the tire iron story, and busting a kid for talking back was excessive force. When they reached the end of the pier, she asked, “So why’d you want me to meet you?”

  “We got a problem.” The big deputy leaned with his back against the rail, facing her. Waves lapped against the pilings, and the scent of brine, creosote, and kelp was strong. Rho thrust her hands in the pockets of her uniform jacket and waited.

  Wayne said, “It’s about that writer fellow you had dinner with last night. Guy Newberry.”

  She listened with mounting unease as he related the story that was making the rounds of the shops and taverns. When he finished she said, “I had no idea why he was here. He told me he was a freelance writer and thinking of relocating, but he seemed more interested in talking about his new laptop than his work.”

  “And now we know why. Did he ask you about the murders?”

  “No. Mainly we traded life histories.” Although, come to think of it, Newberry hadn’t volunteered much of his own.

  “You say anything about the murders?”

  “God, no!”

  “I don’t have to tell you how bad it could get if he opens up that can of worms.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind of fellow is he?”

  She considered. “Well, up to now I’d’ve said a little full of himself but basically decent. But—”

  “The folks at the hotel said he seemed very interested in you. So here’s what I’m thinking: Maybe if you talked to him, explained what a book on that crime would do to us, he’d give it up.”

  “I doubt that. To him, it’s probably just business. If I said something, it might make him even more interested in writing it.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but you never know.”

  Rho moved to the railing and leaned against it, head down, taking measured breaths. This can’t be happening, she thought.

  “Thing that worries me,” Wayne said, “is that he might try to link this new murder with the old ones.”

  “How? I don’t see any connection.”

  “Doesn’t have to be. He can manufacture one. Writers make up stuff all the time. When I heard about Newberry, I called a buddy of mine on the NYPD. Turns out he’s done books like this before, bestsellers. And he used to write for the Times, lots of magazines. With his contacts he could get national publicity on what’s happening here.”

  “Like the Wynne woman’s family did back when.”

  “Right.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  Wayne glanced at his watch, straightened. “I better get going. You heading down to Signal Port?”

  “All the way to Westhaven, to look for Samantha Lindsay’s car.”

  “Odds’re ten to one she’s shacked up with somebody.”

  “I don’t know, Wayne. Apparently it’s a deviation from a long-established pattern.”

  “Well, good luck, kiddo. And think about what I suggested. A personal appeal from you to Newberry wouldn’t hurt.”

  Rho didn’t reply. She remained where she was, listening to his footsteps slap along the pier. There was a burst of music and laughter as the door of the restaurant opened and shut, the clatter of feet on the stairs, the echo of voices in the parking lot. Engines started up, gravel crunched under tires, and then the sounds faded as the vehicles drove away. Then the night grew quiet, except for the lap of waves and the faint percussive beat of the band playing inside Tai Haruru.

  A personal appeal. Wayne was being naive if he thought that would work with a man like Guy Newberry. Now that she knew his real purpose in striking up an acquaintance, she recognized his type: insensitive, egotistical, determined to get what he wanted, no matter what the cost to others. He’d push ahead with his book, and the town would suffer. Her own fragile emotional balance would be thrown off, maybe never recover. Already she was dreaming of that night in the canyon in full horrifying detail. How long before she began dwelling on it during her waking hours?

  You already are.

  She pressed her fingertips to her temples, shook her head. The gesture did nothing to stem the flow of memories that picked up where her dream had left off.

  She’d given Heath Wynne’s body over to the medics and was standing paralyzed in her bloody shirt when Wayne drew her aside. “Don’t fall apart now, kiddo,” he had said. “Get moving and don’t fuck up the scene. We’ve got to find out how many more people are here—dead or alive.”

  She took a deep breath, nodded, and followed him up the embankment to the driveway. Other deputies were entering the small shingled house where earlier she had come upon three bodies—Claudia, Mitch, and Eric Blakeley, she would later learn. Still others were moving toward a geodesic dome set some distance away in the trees. Wayne turned on a flashlight, told her, “Cover me.” She took her .357 from its holster and they continued along the rutted dirt track.

  About fifty yards deeper into the canyon they came upon a
rough board shack with what looked to be a couple of sheds behind it. Wayne held up his hand for her to stop and moved slowly toward the shack’s door. She readied her weapon as he flattened against the wall, reached for the knob, flung the door inward. After he shone the flash around the interior he said, “Nobody.”

  She let her breath out slowly, motioned at the sheds. He nodded and started toward them. She followed, hands slick with sweat on the grip of her gun. Abruptly Wayne stopped, hearing the same sound she did.

  It was only a whimper, but so laden with terror that it might as well have been a scream. It came from the far shed, and Rho hurried toward it, ignoring Wayne’s grunt of protest. He caught up with her, and had his flashlight ready when she opened the door.

  The shed was actually a sleeping place, with two child-size bunks on the wall across from the small high window. The bottom bunk was bare except for a thin mattress. Rho went over and peered into the top bunk. A sleeping bag was bunched there, and it shook as the whimpers intensified.

  She motioned Wayne back, put her hand on the bag. The shape inside it stiffened. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re safe now.”

  No response, not even a breath.

  “Don’t be afraid. We’re here to help you.”

  A small sob.

  “I want to take you out of here. Is that okay?”

  Louder sobs now.

  “Will you sit up for me? So I can help you?”

  It was at least fifteen seconds before the bag moved and the child sat up. A girl, maybe five or six years old. Matted brown hair, big eyes made dark by terror and swollen by crying. Bloody scratches and tears on her cheeks. Mouth working, ready to cry out.