by Sue Grafton
“Mr. Holderman?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“My name’s Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “I was just looking at a house for sale on Ramona Road and the woman next door thought you could answer questions about the property. Her name’s Judy, by the way, and she said to tell you hi.”
“Judy’s a nice gal. Tell her hi back from me. You’re talking about Bob Tinker’s place. Well built, but it’s overpriced. House is worth three-point-five tops and he’s asking six, which is ridiculous.”
“Judy says he moved out and he hopes to rent or lease.”
“Man’s a fool. Anything he has, he thinks is worth double the actual value. You said questions.”
“I was wondering about the lot line. I have a friend waiting in the car who played on that hill as a child. There was an old oak he loved, but when we walked the property just now, he said the big tree he remembers is gone and the wire fence is new.”
“I wouldn’t say new. I put that fence in fifteen years ago, for all the good it does. Riders go over or around it. I might as well set up a toll booth and make ’em pay. You talk about trees. We lost a dozen or more in a storm some years back. Two eucalyptus and a big live oak went down. The oak was a beauty, too, a big guy, probably a hundred and fifty years old. It might well be the one he’s talking about. The utility company should have kept the deadwood trimmed. Tree was on the easement and had nothing to do with me or I’d have pruned it myself. Winds came up and the damn thing split in half, taking out trees on both sides. Woke me up out of a sound sleep.”
“Must have been a mess,” I said.
“Big time. The utility company sent a fellow with a chain saw to clear the downed trees. He wasn’t paid to work that hard so he took his sweet time—ten minutes’ worth of sweat and then a cigarette break. Went on for days. I know because I watched. Pay minimum wage, you get minimum work. Nobody seems to get that. Took him three weeks.”
I half turned, indicating Sutton in my car. “Would you mind if the two of us went up and looked around? It would mean a lot to him.”
“Fine with me. Half the fallen trees were actually on the property next door. House has been sold twice. The current owners are off at work, but I don’t think they’d mind if you wander a bit. You see anybody on horseback, you hightail it right back and let me know. I’m tired of the horseshit and horseflies.”
“Amen to that.”
8
Sutton and I walked between the two houses—Felix Holderman’s on our left and his neighbor’s to the right—with Alita Lane behind us. At one time the backyards might have been open to one another, creating a wide mantle of rolling lawns. With the introduction of swimming pools, fences had been erected to protect kids from mishaps and property owners from pricey lawsuits. Between the greensward on this side and the barren hill above there was a dense band of trees—pines and spruces, with a few sycamores and acacia thrown into the mix. Again, I wouldn’t have called this “the woods,” though it was more sheltered than the Kirkendalls’ property, where we’d started our search. The full-skirted evergreens did shield the area from view. I couldn’t see the wire fence with its burden of morning glories, but it had to be somewhere above us. Where we were, there was no reason to post a No Trespassing sign, because the natural undergrowth formed a barrier sufficient to block equestrian traffic. Riders following the marked trail wouldn’t wander this far afield.
Once we entered the trees, the ground was matted with decomposing plant material that sent up puffs of peat scent as we passed. There was no path to follow so we were forced to create our own. We split up and tramped through the brush, snapping twigs and fallen branches underfoot. I heard Sutton’s startled exclamation. “Found it!”
I waded through the scrub and waist-high weeds, holding my arms up like a swimmer moving toward the shallow end of a pool. When I reached him I saw the stump of the fallen oak, which was easily six feet across and hewn to eight inches or so aboveground. The tree trunk was hollowed by rot. The oak must have been dying from the inside out over a period of time, which meant the split wasn’t due entirely to the weight of the branches as Mr. Holderman had thought.
“This is it?” I asked.
“I think so. I’m almost sure.”
“Where were the guys when you caught up with them?”
Sutton pivoted and scanned his surroundings. “Down there.”
His focus shifted from tree to tree, and his gaze finally came to rest at a point some fifteen feet away. He moved in that direction and I lagged a short distance behind, watching as he reached a small clearing and stopped to study it. The circular patch of ground was bordered by tall evergreens and mature live oak. The tree roots had sucked all the nutrients from the hard-packed soil, leaving bare dirt. He moved a few feet to his right. “This is where they were digging. The bundle on the ground was under that tree.” He shook his head. “The place still smells the same. When you’re a kid, everything is so intense. It’s like you’re filtering reality through your nose. Wonder why that is?”
“Survival. Catch the scent of a bear once and you carry the sense memory for life.”
Sutton closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine. It just seems weird.”
I took Sutton with me to the office, where I unlocked the door and flipped on a few lights. He slouched in the chair he’d occupied the day before, stretching his legs out in front of him. I settled in my swivel chair, picked up the handset, and punched in Cheney’s number at the police department. As soon as he picked up I identified myself.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
I laid out the sequence of events, starting with my trip to Climping Academy and ending with Sutton’s identification of the area where he’d seen the two guys digging. When I was finished, there was a silence while he digested the information.
He said, “I have to talk to the detective sergeant. I’ll call you back.” I wasn’t sure how long we’d have to wait, but it was clear I needed to stay put so Cheney could get back to me, if need be. “You want coffee? I can make a pot,” I said.
“No thanks. I’m wired as it is. You have a bathroom I could use?”
“Take a left in the hall. It’s the only door on your right.”
“Thanks.”
It was 3:15 and I couldn’t remember if I’d eaten lunch, which probably meant I hadn’t. I opened my desk drawers in turn, but there wasn’t so much as a Tic Tac in the way of nourishment. I picked up my shoulder bag and went into search-and-seizure mode, peering into every crack and crevice. I like a big bag with a lot of nooks and crannies—outside compartments for magazines and books; inside pockets, some with zippers, some without; and a pouch on one end for car keys. I found two red-and-white-striped peppermints in clear cellophane. They’d been in my bag so long, the mints had softened and were now welded to the wrapping. I could have popped one in my mouth as it was and made it last for days.
I heard a toilet flush, and moments later Sutton reappeared.
“Want a mint?” I asked.
“No, thanks.” He resumed his seat and watched me peel the cellophane off the mint. He stirred restlessly. “So what happens next?”
I laid the mint on my tongue. It was heavenly to feel the sugar surge through my mouth. I tucked it in against my inner cheek so I could talk without spitting. I said, “No idea. I guess it depends on how seriously they’re taking this.”
We sat there in silence. I picked up a letter opener and tapped the point against the edge of my desk, practicing to be a drummer in case the private eye biz dried up. Sutton spent his time looking around the office at the bad paint job and the so-called wall-to-wall carpeting that had seen better days. I could tell he wasn’t impressed. I make enough money to support myself, but I’m not big on “day-core.” Then again, neither was he. Given what I’d seen of his place, he was hardly one to offer decorating tips.
I don’t keep magazines in my office. I’m not a doctor or a
dentist so what’s the point? Someone comes to see me and I’m here, we sit down and talk. If I’m not here, the door’s locked and they have to wait. Sutton didn’t seem any better equipped than I was for chitchat. I’d known the guy one day, and now that we’d gotten the potty question and the mint behind us, conversationally speaking, we had nothing to say to each other. I’m deficient when it comes to small talk, which is probably why I have so few friends.
I sat in my swivel chair, willing the phone to ring, and when it did I jumped.
It was Cheney. “Roosevelt says we can take a couple of crime-scene techs and a K-9 unit out to the site. We’re rounding people up now and should be ready to roll within the hour.”
“Great. That’s great.”
I gave him the address and we spent a few minutes chatting about the logistics. Alita Lane was too narrow to accommodate vehicles and miscellaneous police personnel, so we agreed to meet at the roadside parking strip near the polo field on Via Juliana. That settled, I dropped Sutton off at his house so he could pick up his car.
On the way back to Horton Ravine, I stopped at McDonald’s and scarfed down a Quarter Pounder and fries. I wasn’t sure how long the excavation would take and I wanted to make sure I had a wholesome meal under my belt. The soft drink I ordered was a small one. No point in taxing my bladder when relief wouldn’t be in range.
I arrived before Cheney did and used the time to change into an old pair of running shoes I kept in the trunk of my car. I hauled out my navy windbreaker and shrugged into that as well. The light was still good, but the sun was sinking, taking the pleasant daytime temperatures with it.
Sutton arrived in his MG and parked beside my Mustang. He had the top down and Madaline, the ex-addict, was in the car with him, which annoyed me no end. This wasn’t date night and it wasn’t a public spectacle. We were dealing with life and death and I didn’t want her hanging around like she was part of the scene. Goldie Hawn, Madaline’s golden retriever, sat on her lap, with her chin resting on the lowered window. I’d swear the dog knew who I was and sent me a loopy doggie smile by way of recognition. Madaline’s circulation must have taken a beating with eighty pounds of dog planted on her thighs. As I watched, she lifted a beer can to her lips and treated herself to a sip. So much for open-container laws.
Cheney finally showed up. The K-9 handler and cadaver dog were in a separate black-and-white that pulled in beside his car. Two minutes later one of the two evidence techs arrived, followed by the mobile crime lab with the second tech riding in the back. It looked like a circus arriving in town, men and equipment being set up for all the folderol to come. We had to wait for the photographer, but that gave Cheney the opportunity to approach the house on the property where they intended to dig. He was gone for ten minutes, talking to the couple whose hillside they wanted to invade.
The rest of us had emerged from our respective vehicles and we stood on the parking strip like extras on a movie set. We had nothing to do, but most people there were being paid for doing it. Sutton walked Cheney and the techs out to the burial site. Madaline and I were relegated to the sidelines while the professionals went to work. Two officers returned to the car to pick up traffic cones and the yellow plastic tape that would define the area. I wouldn’t be allowed within a fifty-yard radius, so I occupied my time chatting with the canine officer I knew from times past. Gerald Pettigrew had been a beat cop in my neighborhood some six years before. In those days, he’d been hefty, a black guy in his thirties with beefy shoulders and a gut on him that would be a liability in a foot chase. By the same token, if he managed to overtake you, you’d wish you’d run a lot faster because the guy could hand out punishment. He’d lost weight since I’d seen him last, a side effect of his working with the golden Lab he introduced as Belle.
Madaline took the occasion to let Goldie Hawn hop out of the car. The two dogs went through the usual heinie-smelling nice-meeting-you routine. Anyone who knows me will testify I’m not a fan of dogs, but I hadn’t felt at all hostile to these two. I took this as a sure sign I was getting old. Far from becoming set in my ways, my defenses were breaking down. At this rate, in another few years, the whole world would come rushing in and smother me with kindness.
I let Belle sniff my hand, which is something I’d seen other people do in the company of cats and dogs. I hoped the gesture would stave off a sudden snarling attack that would remove half my arm. I looked up at Gerald. “I pictured a bloodhound or a German shepherd.”
“A lot of breeds are good for search-and-rescue, which is what they’re usually trained for first. They learn to locate lost hikers or kids who wander off on a camping trip. You need a dog with a powerful retrieval instinct, a keen sense of smell, and a strong work drive. Even then, some are better than others. The last dog I worked with was a shepherd. He was good but high-strung, and he had a tendency to mope. Great nose, but it was clear the work upset him. I finally retired him because I couldn’t bear the accusatory look in his eyes.”
“What happened to him?”
“He’s now the family watchdog, which suits him better than sniffing for dead bodies in the underbrush. I heard about Belle through a friend of a friend, who’d been breeding Labs for years. She was just a little fur ball when I got her, but smart as they come. Labs are easy to train and they’re physically strong. They’re also good-natured, which is great for PR purposes. I can take her into schools and nursing homes and everybody falls in love with her.”
By then, Belle was lying on the grass at his feet, her gaze flicking across his face as he spoke. He smiled at her. “Look at that. She knows I’m bragging about her.”
“Does she work on a leash or off?”
“That depends on the terrain. Here I’ll take her off the leash and let her go about her business. If she finds something, she’ll come get me and take me back with her.”
Cheney reappeared and headed in our direction. Gerald signaled to Belle and the two walked out to meet him. A portable generator had been hauled out on the site, along with the big lamps that would make it possible to continue working when the daylight waned. I knew without even being present what the scene would look like. The digging would be done by hand. Two officers would run the loose dirt through a two-man sieve, hoping to capture any physical evidence left behind. The chances seemed slim to me, but these guys knew what they were doing and who was I to say? The entire process would be photographed and sketched, with relevant landmarks noted and measurements taken to ensure that a thorough record of the scene was kept.
The rest of us were left to amuse ourselves as best we could. A number of cars slowed and then moved on. As is usual, bystanders had begun to assemble. I assumed some were neighbors and others driving past the scene on the way home from work who had spotted the police cars and pulled in to see what was going on. There was nothing to do and not much to say after the first scanty explanations were passed along to new arrivals. People lingered, unwilling to leave before the final moments had played out. It was like being in a waiting room while someone else is giving birth. There was no drama in our immediate vicinity, but we all knew something important was going on. Such gatherings are often written off as morbid curiosity, looky-loos hoping for a glimpse of the injured or the dead. I prefer to attribute the behavior to a sense of community, people drawn together in the face of inconceivable tragedy.
Sutton had returned to the parking area and I could see him talking to a man nearby, filling him in. It was a story he’d tell repeatedly if Mary Claire’s body came to light. Madaline, still wearing her short shorts, had pulled on a pair of leggings and a loose-necked sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder, exposing the same tank top I’d seen earlier. She sat in Sutton’s MG smoking cigarettes with the passenger-side door open. I’d spent half a day in Sutton’s company and I already felt a motherly urge to warn him about skanks and tramps like her.
“What’s going on?”
I looked to my right and found a woman standing next to me, early thirties by my gues
s. She had shiny shoulder-length brown hair, blunt cut and very straight. Her glasses were frameless and the lenses accented the brown eyes behind them.
I said, “The police may have a line on an unsolved case.”
“Really. What’s the deal?”
“Remember when Mary Claire Fitzhugh disappeared? Someone came forward with information about two guys digging what might turn out to be her grave.”
We exchanged idle remarks with our attention turned toward Alita Lane. I glanced at her outfit—brown blazer, tweed skirt, black tights, loafers—wondering how she managed to look so sensible and stylish at the same time.
“Where’d the tip come from?” she asked.
“Someone read an article about the kidnapping. He thinks he might have stumbled on the burial when he was a kid.”
“Wow. That would be a break after all this time,” she remarked. “So what’s your connection?”
“I’m a PI in town. I know Cheney Phillips, the lead investigator.”
“Cool. I’ve known Cheney for years.”
“What about you? How’d you end up here?” I asked.
“I work for the Dispatch. One of the guys picked up chatter about it on the scanner and sent me to see what was happening.”
“Not much at this point,” I said. I’m not crazy about reporters and I didn’t want her probing for my client’s identity. I didn’t even want her to know I had a client because she’d try angling for an interview.
“How’d you hear about it?” she asked. Her tone was casual and the line was delivered as a throwaway as though she had little or no interest in my response. This was crafty reporter small talk designed to elicit information.
“Long story,” I said.
“Mind if I get your name?”
“You can keep my name out of it. This is not about me.”
“No problem. If you don’t want to be quoted, we can keep this off the record.”
“What’s to quote? I don’t know anything.”