“Tell you what, Jaye. I don’t care about all of that. I only care about one thing-finding this guy. So look. You sit tight and give me a few days. I’ll come in with something. I’ll go up to the desert and talk to Cordell’s wife and take a look at the truck. I’ll find something you can go to the captain with. If I don’t, then I’ll eat my theory. You can cut me loose and I won’t bother you again.”
“Look, it’s not that you’re both-”
“You know what I mean. You’ve got court, other cases. The last thing you need is to have to overhaul on an old one. I know how it is. Maybe coming in here today was premature. I should’ve just gone up there and seen the widow. But since it’s your case and you’ve treated me like a human, I wanted to check with you first. Now, you give me your blessing and a little time and I’ll go up on my own. I’ll let you know what I get.”
Winston was silent for a long moment, then finally she nodded.
“Okay, you got it.”
LOCKRIDGE AND McCALEB took a succession of freeways from Whittier until they reached the Antelope Valley Freeway, which would finally take them to the northeast corner of the county. Lockridge drove one-handed most of the way, holding a harmonica to his mouth with the other hand. It didn’t give McCaleb much of a feeling of safety, but it cut out the meaningless banter.
As they passed Vasquez Rocks, McCaleb studied the formation and pinpointed the spot where the body had been found that eventually led to his knowing Jaye Winston. The slanted and jagged formation caused by tectonic upheaval was beautiful in the afternoon light. The sun was hitting the front rock faces at a low angle and throwing the crevices into deep darkness. It looked beautiful and dangerous at the same time. He wondered if that was what had drawn Luther Hatch to it.
“Ever been there, Vasquez Rocks?” Buddy asked after tucking the harmonica between his legs.
“Yeah.”
“Neat place. It’s named after a Mexican desperado who holed up in the crevices about a hundred years ago after robbing a bank or something. So many places to hide in there, they could never find him and he became a legend.”
McCaleb nodded. He liked the story. He thought about how his histories of places were so different. They always involved bodies and blood work. No legends. No heroes.
They made good time on the front of the wave of rush hour and weekend traffic out of the city and it was just past five when they got to Lancaster. They cruised through a subdivision called Desert Flower Estates, looking for the home where James Cordell had lived. McCaleb saw a lot of desert but not many flowers or homes that met his definition of estate. The subdivision was built on land as flat and most days as hot as a frying pan. The homes were Spanish style with red-barrel roofs and arched windows and doors in the front. There were dozens of matching developments scattered through the Antelope Valley. The homes were large and reasonably attractive. They were bought mostly by families escaping the expense and crime and crowding of Los Angeles.
Desert Flower Estates had apparently offered three different design plans to its buyers. Consequently, McCaleb noticed as they drove through, about every third house was the same and sometimes there were even side-by-side duplicates. It reminded him of some of the post-World War II neighborhoods in the San Fernando Valley.
The thought of living in one of the homes he was passing depressed him. And it wasn’t because of anything he saw. It was the distance this place was from the ocean and the feeling of renewal the sea gave him. He knew he’d never last in a neighborhood like this. He would dry up and blow away like one of the tumbleweeds they periodically passed on the street.
“This is it,” Buddy said.
He pointed to a number on a mailbox and McCaleb nodded. They pulled in. McCaleb noticed that the white Chevy Suburban he had seen in the crime scene video was parked in the driveway below a basketball rim. There was an open garage with a mini-van parked on one side and the other side cluttered with bikes and boxes, a tool bench and other clutter. Standing up in the back of the garage was a surf board. It was an old long board and it made McCaleb think that maybe at one time James Cordell had known something about the ocean.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” he said.
“It’s going to get hot out here. Maybe I could just go in with you. I won’t say anything.”
“It’s cooling down, Buddy. But if you get hot, run the air. Drive around a little bit. There’s probably kids selling lemonade around here someplace.”
He got out before any debate could begin. He wasn’t going to bring Lockridge into the investigation and turn it into amateur hour. On the way up the driveway he stopped and looked into the Suburban. The back was full of tools and there was clutter in the front seats. Hs felt a charge. He might be in luck. It looked as though the truck had been sitting untouched.
James Cordell’s widow was named Amelia. McCaleb knew that from the reports. A woman he assumed to be her opened the arched front door before he reached it. Jaye Winston had said she would call ahead to smooth his way in.
“Mrs. Cordell?”
“Yes?”
“My name’s Terry McCaleb. Did Detective Winston call about me?”
“Yes, she did.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“As opposed to a good time?”
“Poor choice of words. I’m sorry. Do you have some time that we can talk?”
She was a short woman with brown hair and small features. Her nose was red and McCaleb guessed she either had a cold or had been crying. McCaleb wondered if the call from Jaye Winston had set her off.
She nodded and invited him in, leading the way to a neatly kept living room where she sat on the sofa and he took the chair opposite her. There was a box of tissues on the coffee table between them. The sound of television was coming from another room. It sounded like cartoons were on.
“Is that your partner waiting in the car?” she asked.
“Uh, my driver.”
“Does he want to come in? It might get hot out there.”
“No, he’s fine.”
“You’re a private investigator?”
“Technically, no. I’m a friend of the family of the woman who was killed in Canoga Park. I don’t know what Detective Winston told you, but I used to work for the FBI and so I have some experience in these kinds of things. The Sheriff’s Department, as you probably know, and the LAPD have not been able to, uh, advance the investigation very far in recent weeks. I’m trying to do what I can to help.”
She nodded.
“First off, I’m sorry about what happened to your husband and your family.”
She frowned and nodded.
“I know it doesn’t matter what a stranger thinks but you do have my sympathy. From what I’ve read in the sheriff’s files, James was a good man.”
She smiled and said, “Thank you. It’s just so funny to hear him called James. Everyone called him Jim or Jimmy. And you are right, he was a good man.”
McCaleb nodded.
“What questions can I answer, Mr. McCaleb? I really don’t know anything about what happened. That’s what was confusing about Jaye’s call.”
“Well, first…” He reached down to his satchel, opened it and took out the Polaroid that Graciela had given him the day she came to his boat. He handed it across the table to Amelia Cordell. “Could you look at that and tell me if you recognize the woman or if you think she might be someone your husband could have known.”
She took the photo and stared at it, her face serious and her eyes making small movements as she seemed to study everything about the photo. She shook her head finally.
“No, I don’t think so. Is she the one who…”
“Yes, she was the victim in the second robbery.”
“Is that her son?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand. How could my husband have known this woman-are you suggesting that they might have-”