Where the road flattened before Sacramento the car showed up again, hanging well behind Marquez but staying with him, and he still thought it might be Kendall putting a tail on him. He slowed as he entered Sacramento city limits, and Alvarez closed the gap, got the plates, ran registration, and the name Marion Stuart came back.
Alvarez read off 141 Valero. “Recognize that, Lieutenant?”
“Durham’s home address.”
“You got it.”
“Is that him at the wheel?”
“It’s hard to tell. The driver is slouched down and I can’t read him well enough from here. Looks like him but I can’t say for sure. Do you want me to get closer?”
“Yeah, try to get a look.”
Alvarez never got the chance. The TransAm dropped down the Tenth Street exit into Sacramento, and they decided not to chase him. Marquez continued past Sacramento, crossed the causeway, drove through Davis, and Alvarez broke off.
“I’ll go back through Sacramento and check Durham’s house for the TransAm,” Alvarez said. “I’ll call you from there.”
“Run the name Marion Stuart every way you can. I’m headed to Keeler’s.”
“I’ll call if I learn something.”
Five miles outside Davis, Marquez turned down the long driveway that ran through an almond orchard to ex-chief Keeler’s house. He saw the unused decaying barn first, then the greenhouse where Keeler spent his days with orchids. Sally, the spaniel, charged out to meet him. The kitchen door was open, Keeler sitting at his table, fingernails dark from working the greenhouse soil, wearing an old sweater and pants that hung too loosely on him now. The room smelled of cigar smoke, and Marquez saw the stub lying on the table.
At the retirement party held here in the spring, Keeler and his wife of forty years, Clara, stood holding hands like a teenage couple, before raising their champagne glasses in a toast to the friends gathered in the yard. He’d given such a soft-spoken sentimental speech that the officers used to his gruffness and sharp temper had joked about it for days afterward. He and Clara were going to travel the national parks. He’d do a lot of fishing and they’d see the country together, which they hadn’t done since their honeymoon.
He pointed at a greenhouse he was restoring, and when he said he was going to grow orchids and win competitions the crowd laughed, Keeler, the flower grower. Smoke from pork ribs barbecuing had drifted across the gathering. White almond blossoms swirled and drifted onto the patio as the party continued into the dusk. Two weeks later Clara complained of a pain in her abdomen, lay down on their living room couch, and died of a burst aneurism.
“Bill Petroni’s wife has been murdered,” Marquez said, taking a chair at the table. “They’re looking for Bill to question him.”
He told Keeler about Stella’s murder, then took the call from Alvarez confirming the TransAm was parked up near Durham’s house. He asked Alvarez to get a hold of Roberts, let her know what had happened, tell her he wanted to focus on Durham’s background. Then to Keeler he described his last meeting with Petroni and the Sunday morning at the sheriff’s office where Bell and Charlotte Floyd had been present. Keeler listened and got awkwardly to his feet, a hip bothering him. He went to the refrigerator.
“That’s very, very sad about Stella,” he said, and pulled two Coors cans. “I know it’s early for a beer.” Keeler handed him a can. “And no one can find Bill this morning?”
“I looked for him. The county is looking hard.”
“He was here with Stella at our retirement party,” Keeler said.
“I remember them dancing, but you’re saying he was already with this other woman.”
“Chief, I really don’t know what’s going on with his life. He doesn’t seem to be going out with the younger woman anymore.”
“Is he part of your operation?”
“The truth is I haven’t had much communication with Petroni.”
Keeler took a drink of beer, looked through the open door at the sunlight on the yard, and asked, “What is it I can do to help you?”
Marquez told him what they had going on, including Sweeney. They came to the question of whether Keeler was willing to drive his camper up to Ice House Lake.
“I haven’t gone anywhere in it,” Keeler said.
“Maybe it’s time. It’s cold in the morning, clear, most of the people gone.”
Keeler’s eyes crinkled with dry humor. “Like going on vacation?”
“I trust you, chief, and I’m in a situation I’m not sure about.”
“All right, let me think it over today.”
Marquez talked with Bell as he drove into Mill Valley. There’d been phone calls from several TV stations and newspapers about Petroni. There’d been several calls from Kendall. The department was preparing a statement along the line of being very saddened by the murder and wishing the best for the family. No comment would be made on Petroni’s status, though his suspension and the fact police sought him for questioning were already in the news.
They talked about Sweeney, who, if he stuck to his itinerary, would leave for Tahoe tonight. Bell wanted to know they were ready, and he listened quietly, asking an occasional question. Two wardens in the Tahoe area would assist. Another they’d worked with before and liked the style of would drive up tonight from Kern County. Marquez told the chief he had visited Ed Keeler and was now in the Bay Area and wouldn’t return to the mountains until later tonight. He didn’t tell Bell about the TransAm, was still mulling that over. They discussed the latest call from the bear farmer, the offer to drop off the galls.
Marquez didn’t hang up with Bell until after he’d parked in Mill Valley. He watched Maria walk toward him, jeans low on her hips, belly exposed. She’d talked with Katherine months ago about piercing her navel, and Katherine had told her absolutely no. Her walk now, though teenage awkward, was that of a young woman.
They were nearing the point where they could still advise her and exert influence, but not so easily control her. Nor should we, he thought. She smiled at him as she got in the truck.
“Hey,” she said. “How long are you here?”
“I’ve got one other stop in the Bay Area and then I’ll head back up. We’ve got a lot of action right now. Tell me about this new call you got while we drive.”
“Okay, well, this guy called last night and had a kind of a twangy voice. He wanted you.”
“Twangy like an accent from somewhere.”
“More like he was pretending to be.”
“What else?”
“About his voice?”
“Anything that comes to mind.”
“That was all he said. Mom blew it all out of proportion.”
“I thought she was going to field all the unknown calls.”
“My friend was calling back. I thought it was him. If I had a cell phone, then none of this would be a problem. We wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
“We’re going to get you one today.”
“Really?”
“This afternoon.”
“No way!” “But your mom is only willing if you stop talking about piercing your navel or anything else, like your nose.”
“I would never pierce my nose.”
“Well, you can think about whether you want to agree to those conditions while we check out where this guy followed you.”
They drove to the street where she’d first noticed the minivan behind her. Retracing the route she remembered more about the caller with the southern accent.
“He didn’t want to leave his phone number, and he called me ‘little girl.’ What a freak! He said he was your hunting friend.”
“My hunting friend?”
“Right.”
This morning Marquez had talked with Katherine about pulling Maria out of school to go visit her grandmother for a week. Katherine would also move out of the Mount Tam house and stay in San Francisco with her best friend. It was giving into the fear and worry, but Kath said she’d rather do it this way, though it was obvious now that she hadn’t talked to Maria yet. And there was nothing that said a week would make a difference, but if they were going to take precautions, now was the time. He’d called Matt Fong and suggested he do the same, and he’d had the same conversation with his team. The phone call Maria had fielded last night had only reinforced that feeling.