Burn Out

by Marcia Muller

  I followed the line of the shrubbery. More covered windows. Other small patios. A garden, mostly turned earth and weeds, with a border of dried-out sunflowers. Finally a garage, large enough to hold at least three cars. There was a window in the rear, blocked by what looked to be cardboard.

  The dead sunflower border of the garden provided shelter. I went to the garage window.

  Cardboard, yes. A flattened carton with the words WOLF SUB-ZERO REFRIGERATOR printed on it. A box the appliance had been delivered in, not yet discarded. It didn’t quite fit the window; I peered through the crack to its side.

  A wall of shelving. A gray SUV; I couldn’t make out what kind.

  Chances were Hanover had a security system on the house. What would be the responding agency? The sheriff’s department? Not likely; they were too shorthanded to provide emergency services every time the system malfunctioned and set off the alarm, as sensitive ones are inclined to do. And none of the big outfits like ADT operated in this area; I knew because Hy and I had considered security for the ranch, then dismissed the idea. The ranch buildings hadn’t been subject to a break-in in all the time Hy had owned the property. If Hanover had any kind of security, it would probably be a loud alarm to repel intruders. Or a private patrol that came by once or twice a day.

  Take a chance, McCone. If that boat trailer of Bud Smith’s is in this garage, you’ve got Hanover nailed.

  Still, I hesitated, thinking of the damage I could do myself and the legal case against him if I was caught.

  I felt around the window frame. Flimsy aluminum. Billionaires will spend a fortune on the most ridiculous things, such as toilets that wash and dry your butt, but when it comes to the basics, like a garage window . . .

  I tugged at the frame. And the window slid open.

  No clanging alarm. Nothing but silence.

  I pushed the cardboard aside, peered into the garage.

  Door leading into the house. The SUV I’d partially seen earlier—a Saab. Gardening supplies and tools. Hot-water heater and furnace.

  And an empty boat trailer.

  First piece of evidence.

  I pushed the window open wider and climbed—wincing at the pain in my chest—into the garage.

  First I looked around to see if there were any junction boxes to indicate I was wrong about a silent alarm. None, and the circuit breakers were all on and clearly labeled. I turned my attention to the trailer. The dusty license plate secured to it was Smith’s, all right.

  Next I checked out the Saab. It too was dusty but nearly new, its interior clean and smelling of good leather. In the glove box I found a registration card in the name of Trevor Hanover. There was a trailer hitch, also nearly new, but with scratches that showed it had been used to tow something.

  Gingerly I got down on my hands and knees and examined the tires. Well-defined tread. I ducked to look at the undercarriage. Pine needles caught there, similar to those in the grove where I’d found Smith’s Forester.

  That was hard evidence.

  It’s a little-known fact that, like humans, trees possess distinctive DNA. I’d once been involved in a murder case in the White Mountains, where a cone from one of the ancient pines that grow there was the star witness that ultimately convicted the killer.

  Now for the house.

  I tried the knob on the door leading to the interior. It turned smoothly and silently. Beyond was a large laundry room, with tile counters and top-of-the-line appliances. Through a connecting door I stepped into a kitchen that would have been the envy of any celebrity chef.

  Another pain in my chest. I braced myself against a counter till it subsided. Even though the house’s interior was cool, I was sweating profusely. For a moment I felt disoriented, my sight blurring.

  I’d covered a lot of terrain in bad shape. I was dehydrated and could have internal injuries.

  There was a wall phone; I should pick up the receiver and call—

  A sound came from somewhere deep in the house.

  I shook my head, thinking I’d imagined it. The sound came again. I drew the gun, haltingly crossed the kitchen to a swinging door, and pushed it open. Beyond was a huge formal dining room. I stood in the doorway, steadying myself and listening.

  The sound continued, a kind of faraway drone. And now I could identify it: someone talking—in spite of the deserted appearance of the house. Hanover? He could have flown in again, stashed the plane in the hangar.

  I waited till my equilibrium returned. Then, gripping Hy’s .45, I went through the gloomy dining room full of heavy, antique furnishings that might have come from one of the state’s original land-grant haciendas, and paused at an archway on the far side. The voice had stopped.

  Several seconds of silence. Then I heard a thump and a cry of frustration. It sounded as if it had come from the other side of the hallway I was facing.

  I checked out the room opposite: a formal parlor, full of the usual uncomfortable furnishings and a grand piano. Empty.

  The hallway was long and tiled, running from a large foyer by the front door, with many arches opening to either side; at its end, a wide staircase swept up to the second story.

  I moved along the tiles, back against the wall, both hands steadying the weapon.

  First archway: a den. Real he-man’s room, with stuffed animal heads, a TV that took up a whole wall, and a pool table. No one there.

  Second archway: kids’ room. Toys, games, another big TV, jukebox—contemporary replica of those from the fifties—and comfortable furnishings.

  Third archway: crafts room. Sewing machine, easel, paints. Canvases stacked against the wall. Supplies arranged in plastic storage boxes on shelving. The topmost painting was a good, though bleak, portrait of the surrounding high desert. It was signed “B. Hanover.” Betsy, the soon-to-be ex-wife.

  I heard the voice again—subdued, more a mumbling now. Coming from behind the wide staircase. I glanced briefly into the rooms beyond the other archways as I moved ahead.

  At first I saw nothing but the high backs of a leather couch and chairs and a wall whose French doors were covered with blinds; probably they were the ones I’d seen overlooking the pool area.

  The mumbling continued. I moved into the room, slipped along the wall to the right. The furnishings were arranged in a U, with a handsome distressed wood coffee table in the center. Magazines were fanned out on it, next to a cordless phone unit whose handset was nowhere in sight. Beneath the table was a white, intricately woven area rug.

  And on the other side of the coffee table, a man was down on all fours.

  A bucket lay on its side next to him; water pooled on the hardwood floor between the rug and the French doors. The man was rubbing at a rust-colored stain on the rug. Back and forth, back and forth, pressing hard. Like a male version of Lady Macbeth.

  “Buddy, Buddy, Buddy . . .”

  I brought the gun up but didn’t speak.

  “Why’d you say no to me, Buddy?”

  He kept rubbing.

  “Why, Buddy?”

  I thought he sensed my presence then, because he looked up. But it was just reflex. The handsome face I’d seen in his publicity photos was crumpled and his mouth worked spasmodically. His eyes were dark, bottomless pits. I’d seen that look on people in shock, but never so extreme as this.

  This was a man whose interior had been totally shattered.

  Slowly I relaxed, lowering the gun. Neither Trevor Hanover nor Davey Smith was a danger to me or anyone else. Wherever this man had gone, he wasn’t coming back.

  His mouth worked some more, and then he lowered his head and continued scrubbing.

  “Buddy, Buddy, Buddy . . .”

  Thursday

  NOVEMBER 22

  The crowd of Thanksgiving Day revelers overflowed Ted and Neal’s spacious third-floor apartment on Telegraph Hill’s Plum Alley. They filled the living room and dining area, standing beside or sitting on the nineteen-thirties-style sofas, salon chairs, and ottomans, or hovering over the wi
ne bottles and hors d’oeuvres spread on the long table. They sat on the spiral staircase or leaned against the chrome-railed catwalk that connected the apartment’s front and rear bedrooms above the dining area. They congregated on the deck, where a sweeping view of Alcatraz and the Bay provided a dramatic backdrop. The only room we’d all been banished from was the kitchen that was tucked under the staircase, where Ted and his life partner, Neal Osborne, were putting together another of their famous Thanksgiving feasts. Wonderful aromas drifted out: roasting turkey, tangy cranberry sauce, sweet apple-cider yams, and stuffing that I knew contained a powerful combination of spices and sausages.

  Hy was on the deck, talking with Ricky. From my vantage point in the living room I watched the glint of sunlight on his dark blond hair and thick mustache. Felt a rush of pleasure at covertly observing the man who held my world together and supported me in everything I did.

  I made my way through the crowd and rejoined Rae, balancing my wineglass on a plate laden with Neal’s traditional stuffed mushrooms, tiny cheese-filled tarts, shrimp, and crispy cheddar puffs. God, if I kept snacking this way I wouldn’t be able to eat any dinner.

  Oh yeah? This was the first time I’d enjoyed food in weeks—maybe months.

  Rae picked up the thread of our earlier conversation, which I’d interrupted to go to the trough. “So you phoned the guy at Tufa Tower from the ranch and . . . ?”

  “He—Amos Hinsdale—made an anonymous call to the sheriff’s department. Asked that they send a car to make a welfare check at Rattlesnake Ranch. I walked out and he picked me up before the car arrived and an ambulance followed.”

  “You ream this Amos out about lending you a plane that nearly caused you to die?”

  “I didn’t have to; he felt terrible about putting me in so much danger. In fact, he drove me straight to a clinic in Bridgeport to have me checked out for injuries. Badly bruised ribs and sternum, was all, and he insisted on paying for everything, as well as telling the FAA that he was piloting the plane when it crashed. Now he’s decided to scrap his other plane, which is even worse than the one I crashed.”

  “And Smith—what was he doing till the sheriff’s people got there?”

  “Still scrubbing. Lark said he’d damn near worn a hole in the rug.”

  “And then?”

  “He went quietly. Looked puzzled when the paramedics lifted him up, then dropped his rag and . . . just went.”

  “It could’ve been an act, you know. He could be building an insanity defense.”

  “God, you’ve gotten cynical! It wasn’t an act; I saw his eyes.”

  “So what tipped him over the edge? Did he come back to destroy the evidence?”

  “Probably. But I think there was a more important reason: it was the only home he’s ever cared about.”

  “Why do you suppose he went off and left the evidence in the first place?”

  “After he killed Bud and disposed of his body, he had to get back to New York to try to hold his business together—time for the conglomerate’s annual stockholders’ meeting. But the board of directors scheduled a closed meeting and excluded him on a technicality.

  “So then, I guess, to keep his mind off what was happening in New York, he flew his jet back to the ranch and stashed it in the hangar. He must’ve come in late Thursday night or early Friday morning, because Amos Hinsdale says he was at home asleep then and didn’t hear the plane. On Friday at around noon Hanover called New York and was told his board had given him a vote of no confidence and ousted him. Then . . . I don’t know. He must’ve just disintegrated.”

  “And now?”

  I bit into the little cheese-filled tart. It was delicious.

  “Mono County will file homicide charges—they have enough evidence for that—but the case’ll never come to trial. Trevor Hanover and Davey Smith have ceased to exist. An empty shell will inhabit a facility for the criminally insane until it dries up and dies.”

  Rae once again looked skeptical. “These rich guys . . . I don’t know.”

  “You’re married to one.”

  “He’s different. He has me to keep him honest.”

  I looked across the room. Adah and Craig had just arrived. “Excuse me,” I said. “I need a few minutes alone with Adah.”

  Rae nodded and headed for the buffet.

  Adah smiled at me as I approached, gave me a hug. When we separated, Craig had disappeared in Rae’s wake.

  “He’s starving,” she said. “As always.” Then her expression sobered. “I guess you want my answer to your proposition.”

  “If you’ve decided.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, it’s a done deal.”

  “Great!”

  “An administrative position with your firm is perfect for me. No more getting called out in the middle of the night to look at decomposing bodies. No more SFPD politics. And best of all, I don’t have to leave the city and move to Denver. My mom and dad, they’re getting up there. Still feisty as hell, but . . .”

  “Besides, this is home.”

  “Sure is. Born and raised on Red Hill.” By Red Hill, she meant Bernal Heights, which used to be a hotbed of self-styled communists, socialists, and the occasional anarchist. Her Jewish mother and black father had been socialists with Marxist leanings, and now called themselves “wild-eyed liberals.”

  It was the perfect solution for me: I wouldn’t have to sell the agency; it was a vital entity, the culmination of everything I’d hoped to accomplish in life—and then some. But I did want to cut out the administrative work and take on only cases that truly interested me, and Adah was the chief component in my scheme. Now that she’d accepted the position I’d offered her almost two weeks ago, I could move forward. And move forward without worrying about the rent increase from the Port Commission; Glenn Solomon’s influence had staved that off for at least a year.

  We shook on our deal, and she said, “Shouldn’t we tell Patrick that I’ll be usurping some of his duties?”

  “I don’t think he’ll mind.” I looked around the room, spotted Patrick, and motioned him over.

  When he joined us, I told him I’d hired Adah as the agency’s new executive administrator, meaning she’d handle approving reports and expenditures, plus interview new clients and assign them to the proper operatives. Patrick would continue to coordinate all investigations. Both would report directly to me. I would attend some staff meetings and, when I didn’t, they would cochair them.

  “Shar, that’s good news!” he exclaimed. “I hate all the paperwork, and the staff meetings—I’m just not cut out for them. If you wouldn’t mind”—he looked at Adah—“I’d prefer you chair them in Shar’s absence.”

  “I can do that.” She smiled at him. They’d work together just fine.

  “So Adah’s coming on board two weeks from Monday,” I said to Ted as we were relaxing on the deck after the crowd had begun to thin.

  “It’s a damn good thing. We’re swamped. Are you coming back in the meantime?”

  “Monday. Hy and I are flying to the ranch tomorrow. We’re having a delayed Thanksgiving with Sara, Ramon, and Amy tomorrow night. They’re all pulling together, doing better, but today’s got to be gloomy for them, and they’ll need cheering up. And Saturday afternoon we have to greet the next member of our family. We’re having a palomino delivered. To keep my horse, King, company.”

  “Your horse? You hate horses!”

  “Let’s say I hate horses as a breed, but love them on an individual basis.”

  “I don’t believe this: you’re backing off on the business, and you’re in love with a horse?”

  My cell rang. I checked to see who the caller was. Kristen Lark. I excused myself and went inside. There were still enough people there to make talking impossible, so I went down the hall to where the glass-block elevator—a classic from the thirties—stood, its doors open. Inside I sat down on the floor before I called Lark back.

  “It’s Sharon,” I said.

  “Happy T
urkey Day.”

  “Thanks. Same to you. What’s happening?”

  “Nothing bad. Our perp is comfortably residing in the psych ward.”

  “The case will never to go trial.”

  “No. Save the county a lot of money. Philadelphia—where Davey Smith went to Wharton for his BA in finance—is looking at him concerning a series of rapes in the area when he was a student, and New York State is also interested. Recidivism of sex offenders . . .”

  “Yeah. And how’re you doing?”

  “. . . Better.”

  “Meaning?”

  “All that drinking—which I’m sure you noticed? It was partly because of the pressure of the case, but mostly because the Rabbitt was being strange and distant, so I figured he was having an affair.”

  “And?”

  “He wasn’t. He’d been brooding and trying to decide how to tell me he wants to leave the department and go to law school.”

  “How d’you feel about that?”

  “Happy. He’s got the GPA to get him into a lot of good schools on at least a partial scholarship. And I can get a job I’ll enjoy almost anywhere.”

  “So this is a happy Thanksgiving for both of you.”

  “The best yet.”

  We chatted for a moment or two about her turkey that had turned out well and her pumpkin pie that had burned. Then we promised to keep in touch and broke the connection.

  I sat there for a while, savoring the peace and happiness of one perfect holiday. The elevator doors closed, and the car began its slow downward descent. When they opened Hank Zahn, Anne-Marie Altman, and their daughter, Habiba Hamid, stepped in. They hadn’t been able to make dinner because of a previous family obligation, but had promised to stop by later.

  I looked at them and smiled. They were the perfect blended family: Hank, wire-haired and Jewish; Anne-Marie, blonde and WASPish; Habiba, with the beautiful dark-skinned features of her Arab forebears.

  It was all about family, really—and I had such a huge one that seemed to be expanding all the time. A few years ago I’d embraced—albeit tentatively—both branches of my birth family. This fall I’d added the Perezes and, of all things, a horse.