Using my brights, the speed bumps in the center of the road, and blind faith to guide me, I drove faster. A couple of miles in, I heard a deep mechanical stutter. It grew louder, deafening, seemed to be descending upon me.
Two sets of cherry-red lights appeared at the top of my windshield, then lowered and ranged directly in front of my field of vision before rising sharply and pulling ahead on a northward trajectory.
Twin searchlights began scything the darkness, highlighting treetop and fissure, brushing over the mountainside, cAposing momentary flashes of shimmer and luster to the east.
Water. Another peek of it around a curve.
Then a crest of concrete. Concrete piers, a sloping spillway.
I tried to follow the copters' light-strokes, saw the dam rising a quarter mile above the water table.
Round-edged WPA architecture.
A staked placard by the road: MORRIS DAM AND RESERVOIR. L.A. FLOOD MAINTENANCE DISTRICT.
A long time since floods had needed to be maintained in Southern California; the current drought was four years running.
Still, the depth of the reservoir had to be substantial. Hundreds of millions of gallons, inky and secretive.
Milo had said to look for a utility road on the dam side. The first two I passed were blocked by padlocked metal swing gates. Five miles later, as the road looped sharply to accommodate the northern ridge of the reservoir, I saw it: sparking road flares, flashing amber emergency lights atop orange-and-white sawhorses. A convention of vehicles, some idling and huffing out white smoke.
Arura Police black-and-whites. LA. Sheriffs. Three Park Service Jeeps. Fire Department paramedic van.
Behind one of the Jeeps, a foreign contingent: the bowl-butt of Rick's white Porsche. And another white car: Mercedes 560 SEC.
Brushed-steel wheels.
A sheriff's deputy stepped into the middle of the road and halted me.
Young, female, blond ponytail. A figure that lent the beige uniform more style than it deserved.
I stuck my head out the window.
"Sorry, sir, the road's closed."
"I'm a doctor. Mrs. Ramp's daughter is my patient. I was asked to be here."
She asked me my name, requested ID to back it up. After looking at my license, she said, "One moment. Meantime, why don't you turn off your engine, sir."
Stepping to the side of the road, she talked into a hand-held radio and returned, nodding.
"Okay, sir, you can just leave your car right here with the keys in, as long as you don't mind my driving it if I have to."
"Be my guest."
"They're all down there." Pointing to an open swing-gate. "Be careful, it's steep."
The path was a vehicle-wide swath through mesquite and young conifers.
Paved, but a slight softness beneath my soles said it had been recent.
The blacktop provided some traction, but I still had to walk sideways to maintain balance on the fifty-degree slope.
I sidestepped my way down a quarter mile before I saw the bottom. Flat area, maybe sixty feet square, leading to a small wooden dock that bobbed on the banks of the reservoir. Hazard lanterns had been rigged on high poles, flooding the space with sallow light.
People in uniforms crowded around looking at something to the left of the dock, trying to talk over the roar of the copters. From where I was standing none of the conversation was audible.
I continued to descend and saw the object of attention: A RollsRoyce, its rear end submerged in the water, its front wheels lifted several feet off the ground. The driver's door was open. Hanging open hinged near the center-post. The kind of doors old Lincoln Continentals used to have suicide doors.
I peered into the crowd, saw Don Ramp in shirtsleeves next to Chief Chickering, staring at the car, one hand on his head, the other clutching his trousers, gathering a handful of worsted. As if trying, literally, to hold himself together.
No immediate sign of Milo. Finally I spotted him off to one side, out of the light. He had on a plaid shirt and jeans and his arm was around Melissa. A dark blanket covered her shoulders. Their acks were to the car. Milo's lips were moving. I couldn't tell if Melissa was listening.
I made my way down to them.
Milo noticed me coming and frowned.
Melissa looked up at me but remained under his arm. Her face was white and still, like a Kabuki mask.
I spoke her name.
She didn't respond.
I took both of her hands and gave them a squeeze.
She said, "They're still under," in a disembodied voice.
Milo said, "The divers," in the practiced tone of an interpreter.
One of the helicopters circled lower over the reservoir, using its beam to sketch spheres of light in the black water. The sketches decayed before they were complete. Someone shouted. Melissa yanked her hand free and turned toward the sound.
One of the park rangers held a flashlight near the shoreline.
A wet-suited diver surfaced, pulling up his mask and shaking his head.
As he stepped completely out of the water, another diver emerged. Both of them began removing their scuba tanks and weight belts.
Melissa made a groaning sound, like gears grinding, then shouted, "No!" and ran over to them. Milo and I went after her. She reached the divers and screamed, "No! You can't stop now!"
The divers backed away from her and lowered their gear to the ground.
They looked at Chickering, who'd come over, accompanied by a deputy sheriff. Some of the other men were glancing our way.
Ramp hung back, still fixated on the cat "What's the situation?"
Chickering asked the divers. He had on a dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie. The toes of his wingtips were coated with mud. Uniforms were assembling behind him, watchful, like a nighttime posse itching to ride.
"Black as coal," said one of the divers. He shot an uneasy glance at Melissa, turned back to the San Labrador chief. "Really dark, sir."
"Then use light!" said Melissa. "People night-dive all the time with lights, don't they!"
"Miss," said the diver. "We..." He searched for words. He was young-not much older than she. Freckled, with a downy blond mustache under a peeling nose. A thread of algae clung to his chin.
His teeth began to chatter and he had to clench his jaws to make them stop.
The other diver, just as young, said, "We did use lights, miss."
He bent over and picked something off the ground. Black-cased bulb attached to a rope lanyard. He let it swing a few times and put it back down.
"Swat Submersible, miss. We used the yellow bulbs-they're excellent for this kind of... The problem here is that even during the day it's pretty murky. At night..." Shaking his head, he rubbed his arms, looked down at the ground.
The blond diver had seized the opportunity to move several feet away.
Standing on one leg, he pulled off a flipper, switched legs, and began to tug at the other. Someone brought him a blanket identical to the one around Melissa's shoulders. The other diver looked at it longingly.
"It's drinking water "It's a reservoir, dammit!" said Melissa. how can it be muddy?"
"Not muddy, miss," said the dark-haired diver. "Murky. Kind of opaque. It's the natural color of the water-minerals. Come here during the day and you'll see the color's this real deep green-" He stopped himsel?, looked to the crowd for confirmation.
The deputy stepped forward. A brass tag above one pocket said GAUTIER.
Below it were rows of ribbons. He looked about fifty-five.
His eyes were tired and gray.
"We're going to do everything to find your mother, Miss Dickinson," he said, showing even, tobacco-stained teeth. "The helicopters will keep going, covering a twenty-mile semicircle above the highway, which will take us well above the Crest Highway. As far as the reservoir, those boats the dam people sent out right at the beginning went over every square inch of surface. The copters are going over it again, just to make sure. But in t
erms of below the surface, there's really nothing we can do right now."
He spoke softly and deliberately, trying to communicate horror without being horrible. If Gina was below the surface, there was no need for urgency.
Melissa kneaded her hands, glared at him, working her mouth.
Chickering frowned and took a step closer.
Melissa shut her eyes, threw up her hands, and let out a wrenching cry.
Slamming both hands over her face, she bent at the waist, as if gripped by cramps. "No, no, no!"
Milo made a move toward her but I got there first and he retreated.
Taking hold of her shoulders, I drew her to me.
She fought, kept repeating the word no.
I held her fast, and gradually she loosened. Too loose. I put a finger under her chin and lifted her face. She was cold and plastic to the touch. It was like positioning a mannequin.
Conscious, breathing normally. But her eyes were static and unfocused and I knew if I let go, she'd sink to the ground.
The crowd of uniformed men watched. I drew her away.
She moaned and some of them flinched. One man turned his back, then others. Gradually, most of them began drifting back to the Rolls.
Chickering and Gautier lingered. Chickering stared at me, puzzled and irritated, shook his head, joined the car crowd. Gautier watched him leave with a raised eyebrow. Turning back to me, he glanced down at Melissa and gave a look of concern.
"It's okay," I said. "We're going to get out of here if that's okay with you."
Gautier nodded. Chickering was looking at the water.
Don Ramp stood alone, in muck up to his ankles. He'd somehow turned into a frail-looking, stooped man.
I tried to catch his attention, thought I had when he turned toward me.
But he was staring past me with eyes as muddy as his shoes.
The helicopters had moved on, emitting fly-on-carrion buzzes from somewhere in the north. Suddenly, my senses expanded, like the lens of a camera. I heard water lapping against the shore. Smelled the chlorophyll tang of the underbrush, the hydrocarbon stink of leaking motor fluids.
Melissa stirred, opening, too.
Like a wound. Crying softly, rhythmically. Her grief rising to a high mewl that danced above the water and the hard-data chorus of the men at the shore.
Milo frowned and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
He'd been standing behind me and I hadn't noticed.
Maybe it was that movement that snapped Ramp out of his trance. He walked toward us, took half a dozen halting steps before thinking better of it and turning around.
Milo and I half-walked, half-carried Melissa up to my car. He returned to the Rolls and I drove her home, prepared for therapy. She put her head back and closed her eyes, and by the time I reached the bottom of the mountain road, she was snoring lightly.
The gates to the house on Sussex Knoll were open. I carried her up to the front door and knocked. After what seemed like a long time, Madeleine answered, wearing a white cotton dressing gown buttoned to the neck. No surprise on her broad face; she had the weathered look of one used to grieving alone. I walked past her, into the huge front room, and deposited Melissa on one of the overstuffed couches.
Madeleine hurried off and came back with a blanket and a pillow.
Sinking to her knees, she propped up Melissa's head, slid the pillow under it, removed Melissa's sneakers, spread the blanket over her, and tucked the corners under her feet.
Melissa turned on her side, facing the back of the sofa. There was squirrely movement under the blanket. A couple of shifts of position, then a hand peeked out, thumb extended. The hand wormed its way totally free and the thumb came to rest on Melissa's lower lip.
Still kneeling, Madeleine brushed the hair from Melissa's face.
Then she stood, straightened her dress, and gave me a hard, hungry look that demanded information.
I curled a finger and she followed me across the room, out of Melissa's earshot.
When we stopped, she was standing very close to me, breathing hard, heavy bosom heaving. Her hair was braided tightly. She'd put on some kind of rosewater cologne.
"Only the car, monsieur?"
"Unfortunately." I told her about the helicopter search.
Her eyes remained dry but she brushed them hastily with her knuckles.
I said, "She may still be in the park somewhere. If she is, they'll find her."
Madeleine said nothing, pulled at a finger joint until it cracked.
Melissa made sucking sounds around her thumb.
Madeleine looked at her, then back at me. "You stay, monsieur?"
"For a while."
"I am here, monsieur."
"Good. We'll take shifts."
She didn't respond.
Not sure if there'd been a language problem, I said, "We'll take turns.
Make sure she's not alone."
She didn't acknowledge that, either. Just stood there, eyes like granite.
I said, "Is there anything you want to tell me, Madeleine?"
"Non, monsieur."
"Then feel free to rest.
"No tired, monsieur.
We sat together on opposite sides of the couch where Melissa dozed.
Madeleine got up a few times to fuss with the blanket, even though Melissa had barely moved. Neither of us talked. Every so often, Madeleine cracked a knuckle. She was working on the tenth one when the doorbell chimed. Hurrying to the entry with as much grace as her bulk would allow, she opened the door and let in Milo.
"Monsieur Sturgis." Once more eager for news.
"Hello, Madeleine." He shook his head, gave her hand a quick pat.
Looking past her, he said, "How's our girl?"
"Sleeping."
He came into the room and stood over Melissa. Her thumb was still in her mouth. Some hair strands had come loose, veiling her face.
He made a move, as if to brush them away, stopped himself, and whispered, "How long's she been out?"
"Since I got her in the car," I said.
"That okay?"
The two of us shifted several feet away. Madeleine moved in, close to Melissa.
"Given the circumstances-," I said.
Madeleine said, "I will stay with her, Monsieur Sturgis."
"Sure," said Milo. "Dr. Delaware and I will be in the downstairs study."
She gave a small nod.
As Milo and I walked to the windowless room, I said, "You seem to have made a friend."
"Old Maddy? Not exactly a giggle a moment but she's loyal and makes a great pot of coffee. She's originally from Marseilles. I was there twenty years ago. Stopover on my way home from Saigon."
Papers covered with Milo's handwriting obscured the blotter on the small white desk. Another set of notes and a cellular phone lay atop a fruitwood writing table. The phone's antenna was extended.
Milo pushed it closed.
"This was Melissa's work station," he said, pointing to the table. "We set up Info Command Central in here. She's a smart kid.
Industrious. We were on the horn all day-none of it led anywhere, but she didn't let it get to her. I've seen rookie detectives who didn't handle frustration nearly as well."
"She was motivated."
"Yeah." He went behind the desk and sat down.
"How'd you find out about the car?" I said.
"We took a sandwich break at seven. She was joking about ditching Harvard and becoming a private eye first time I'd seen her smile. I figured at the least I was keeping her mind off it. While we were eating I made a routine check with Baldwin Park CHP Been doing it once per shift so as not to be seen as a giant pain in the ass.
Didn't really expect it to lead anywhere. But the gal at the desk said, Oh yeah, that one just turned up, and told me the details.
Melissa must have seen the look on my face and dropped her food. So I had to tell her. She insisted on coming with me."
"Better than waiting around."
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Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 06 - Private Eyes Page 34