First light, and the fog drifted up from the cove behind the ruins of Quinley’s. Ned Grossman’s car was pulled nose-in to the chain-link fence near the rusted realty sign. Rho parked her truck next to it and got out, shivering in the damp, chill air.
Instead of getting out of his vehicle, Grossman swung open its passenger-side door and motioned her inside. He handed her a white foam cup and said, “Let’s give ourselves a chance to wake up while we wait for the others.”
She accepted the container gratefully, prying off the plastic lid and miraculously managing not to spill any coffee. Processing Lily Gilardi and finding someone to transport her to jail in Santa Carla, plus briefing Grossman on recent developments, had taken most of the night, and she’d had only a few hours’ sleep on top of a grueling day.
She sipped the coffee, willing it to take effect, and stared at the charred ruins behind the fence. They were overgrown by vegetation that twined up the supports of the gas-station canopy and crawled across the peaked roofline. She pictured the place as it must have appeared in the fifties: a welcome oasis beside a much narrower strip of highway. Its proprietor would have dispensed snacks and soda, beer and bait, and warnings about the hazards of traveling this remote stretch of coastline. The hotel in Signal Port had still functioned then, but there were no other lodging places except small auto courts at Westhaven and Calvert’s Landing. Sheriff’s patrols were infrequent and emergency care nonexistent. The scattered homes between the towns relied on kerosene lamps and propane, unless their owners had installed costly electric generators; hand pumps on sinks and outhouses in the woods were common. People lived and died here without ever traveling farther than Santa Carla, and that journey was time-consuming and difficult.
“What’re you thinking?” Grossman asked.
“About how it must’ve been here back before I was born. My dad’s told me stories.”
“It was pretty primitive. My grandparents had a cabin near Deer Harbor that they built in the forties. Even when the utility lines were extended north from Signal Port in the early sixties, they never took advantage of the service. Said it didn’t matter, and they were right. We had woods full of deer and owls and woodpeckers. A sand beach. A great view of Goat Rock. Some of my happiest times were spent there.”
“What d’you remember best?”
“The day the bear stole a blueberry pie my grandmother had cooling on the windowsill. Peach ice cream made in a hand-cranked machine. Corn popped over the fire and soaked in butter. Freshly caught fish frying in the pan, with onions.” He paused, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I guess I don’t have to tell you what I focused on during childhood.”
“Not a bad focus.” She sipped coffee, feeling strangely at ease with her superior officer. “How’s Everett doing?”
“What made you think of him? Of course — food. Well, the neighbor who’s taking care of him says he and the dog’re getting on famously. Trouble is, old Ev’s developed a fondness for hamburger — cooked hamburger. Kind of pricey on a cop’s salary.”
Rho grinned. “To say nothing of an extra cooking chore—” She broke off as a cruiser pulled up beside her truck. “Wayne’s here.”
“Wayne? Dammit!” Grossman tossed his empty coffee cup into the backseat. “He’s supposed to be establishing the route Ackerman took to get here. What the hell’s he doing? He shouldn’t be on the scene anyway, since his sister’s a material witness. Goddamn it!” He threw open his door and got out of the car. Rho followed at a cautious distance.
Grossman walked toward Wayne in the gait of a big cat stalking its prey. Although the deputy had two inches and more than fifty pounds on him, his was the more imposing presence. He said, “Did I request you to be on the scene, Gilardi?”
“No, sir, you didn’t, but I thought you could use some help. Besides, I’ve got a vested interest—”
“Which is precisely why I don’t want you here. I have technicians coming from Santa Carla, and when they arrive Deputy Swift will show me where your sister described finding the victim’s personal effects, and they’ll comb the area. I don’t want anyone with a vested interest involved in that process.”
Wayne flushed.
Grossman added, “Have you submitted your report on Ackerman’s route north yet?”
“I traced her as far south as Sonoma County, to the Ocean Cove store—”
“Put it in writing, Gilardi.”
Rho saw Wayne’s hands fist at his sides and his shoulders bunch as he prepared to take a swing at Grossman.
Don’t, for God’s sake, Wayne!
Grossman saw it too. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” he warned. “Go back to the substation and write your report. Then take the day off. You need it.”
Wayne regarded the detective with a flat, hot stare. Then he pivoted and went to his cruiser. As he turned onto the highway he sprayed Rho’s truck with loose gravel.
“Thanks, Gilardi,” she muttered.
Grossman was watching the departing car with narrowed eyes. “Our boy’s got a temper.”
“Yes.”
“He always been that way?”
“No.”
“What changed him?”
She compressed her lips. Guy had told her about Wayne’s affair with Claudia Blakely before he left her house in the early hours of the morning. She was duty bound to report the information, yet she’d withheld it in her earlier briefing of Grossman. To tell him seemed a betrayal of the man who had mentored her.
“What is it, Swift?”
“...The change in Wayne has to do with the Cascada Canyon murders. They changed us all.”
Grossman waited.
She moved to the fence, her back to him, fingering a late-blooming rose that felt like tissue paper. “Wayne’s got a reputation as a... I guess you could say a ladies’ man.”
“The reputation consistent with fact?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
God, she wished Guy had never shared what he knew! She could single-handedly be responsible for destroying Wayne’s career. “At the time of the murders he was involved with one of the victims, Claudia Blakeley.”
“You mean romantically involved?”
“Yes.”
“You know about it at the time?”
“No. I only found out early this morning.”
“Can you substantiate it?”
“There’s an eyewitness to Wayne picking Blakeley up on the highway, necking with her in his car — his patrol car, I guess.”
“Get a statement.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it after I leave here. But do you really think it’s evidence of official misconduct on Wayne’s part?”
Grossman seemed to weigh his response carefully. “Necking in your patrol car isn’t acceptable behavior, but I’d be willing to overlook that. What bothers me is we’re talking about an officer who misplaced evidence in the case. And let you take the blame.”
“I don’t see what misplacing those blood samples has to do with—”
“Don’t you?”
“You’re saying that he might’ve deliberately misplaced them? Or tampered with other evidence?”
“I’m saying that he may have been involved in the murders.”
When Guy stepped out of his room at the bed-and-breakfast at nine that morning, he came face-to-face with Becca Campos. She clutched an armload of sheets and towels to her breasts as if for comfort, and her eyes were red from crying.
“Becca,” he said, “what’s wrong?”
“Virge Scurlock’s dead. They found her day before yesterday, and the sheriff’s department tried to keep it quiet, but everybody was talking about it to those rotten reporters, and now it’s on the news and in all the papers.”
“Did you just find out about it?”
“No, my boyfriend told me right after, but I just can’t stop crying. I loved Virge, she was the nicest person I ever worked for.” Her tears spilled over and Becca dropped the linens and buried her face against Guy’s shoulder.