When she saw the Rhoda A buttoned up tight and Jack’s truck gone, Rho felt a clenching in her gut. Easy, she warned herself, he’s only gone to the store for his daily ration of Bushmills.
She stepped on board and immediately noted something different. A gallon can of boat paint and a brush sat in the shadow of the transom, and an orange heavy-duty extension cord snaked from below deck to a belt sander near the portside rail.
Not Irish, then. He’d gone to the hardware store for sandpaper.
Everything’s changing for you. For me too... for the better, I think.
You were right, Dad. Night before last you shaved and trimmed your hair and paid a call on your longtime lady friend. This morning you started working on the boat. If only I didn’t know about your truck having been at Quinley’s—
She heard footsteps, turned and saw Guy walking along the access road to where they’d left his car the night before. He wore cords and a sweatshirt, and a baseball cap from under which the longish silver-gray hair at the nape of his neck curled.
He waved to her and called, “Jack okay?”
“More than okay. He’s started working on the boat.” She stepped onto the dock and walked toward him, feeling shy.
“Your father’s got an iron constitution.” He was pale under his tan, but otherwise looked no worse for the wear.
“You don’t look half as bad as you ought to,” she told him.
“Thanks a lot. My secret is a quart of water and a handful of vitamin Cs before bed, more water and Cs in the morning. You sleep well?”
“Yes. I was exhausted.”
“No nightmares?”
“No. Why—?” And then she remembered what today was. “You know, I hadn’t given a thought to it being the anniversary of the murders.”
“Then you have come to terms with them.”
“Guess so.” They began moving toward their vehicles. “About last night—” she said.
“Last night I was—” he said simultaneously.
They both smiled wryly.
“Couple of emotional recluses, aren’t we?” he commented. “Venture out, drop our baggage for each other to examine, then collect it and scurry back to our respective lairs.”
“I don’t want to do that anymore — retreat, I mean.”
“Neither do I. We’ll have to help each other stay out in the open.” He took her hand. “So what’s the news from the substation?”
She explained about Wayne, adding, “I hate the prospect of sitting across the table and interrogating him as if he were a criminal.”
“You’ll be just fine. Keep in mind that he may have a good explanation of why he ran.”
She shrugged, unwilling to discuss it further. “There’s something new from the lab on Ackerman.”
Guy’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she told him about the directions and the motor oil residue. “I think I know where it came from,” he said. “Are you up to another trip to the canyon?”
Her pulse quickened. “Yes. Let’s go.”
“It’s over here.” Guy stepped off the driveway and walked toward the old car under the pines. “Unfortunately, I disturbed the evidence when I found it. The manhole cover was off, and, seeing what the contents were, I thought I should replace it.”
He squatted down beside the makeshift oil sump, tugged off the cover, and motioned for Rhoda to have a look. She knelt beside him, thrusting her hand into the viscous liquid and feeling its consistency. Then she raised her fingers to her nose, sniffed and made a face.
She said, “There’s a fair amount of oil splashed on the ground. And this stick is coated with it, as if someone used it to poke around in there. You notice that the other day?”
“I don’t recall seeing it, but the light was bad. I took some photos, and they’re supposed to be ready today. Maybe they’ll show.”
She stood and picked up a tree branch. After probing the sump with it, she propped it against the car’s bumper. “Nothing in there but waste matter. Ackerman must’ve gotten the money.”
“Then what happened to it?”
“When we find that out, we’ll know who killed her.” She took a tissue from her pocket and scrubbed her fingers. “I’m going to call in, get a photographer and technician here.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
He watched as she walked away, admiring the trim lines of her small body and her strong, economical gait. Last night had put an awkwardness between them, but their earlier conversation had begun to bridge it.
Something moved in the tree above him. He looked up and saw a jay hopping about. Through the branches the sky was gray and gravid clouds blew across it from the west. Rain predicted, the first since he’d come here. He went back to the drive and walked along until he spotted the downed utility wire. One snip with insulated cutters and nine lives had been held hostage. One snip, and eight lives had ended.
Evil in the canyon, then and now.
“You’ve got one more day, Grossman, and then we’re bringing in the FBI.” Assistant Sheriff Pete Stedman’s jowls were set and his small eyes glared out of their fleshy pockets. The department’s second-in-command had made a special trip from Santa Carla to issue his ultimatum.
Rho glanced at Grossman and Shepherd to see how they were receiving it. The senior detective seemed relaxed, almost indifferent, and his fingers toyed idly with a pencil on the table in front of him. In contrast, Shepherd’s face was red, his eyes stormy.
Grossman said, “We’re very close to a break in the case.”
“Where’ve I heard that before? You’re down to, what? One deputy to assist now.” His gesture toward Rho indicated he found her a poor one at best. “The other... Christ knows what went on there, and I think you’re making a mistake allowing him to come in voluntarily. You got a woman dead, he’s your only lead. And on top of that today’s the anniversary of your other unsolved case, and now you tell me the Ackerman girl had a connection to those victims.”
Rho expected Grossman to point out that he hadn’t been with the department at the time of the canyon murders, but he said nothing.
Stedman added, “The former sheriff should have brought the feds in on that one a lot earlier than he did. We’re not making the same mistake twice.”
Grossman’s expression remained neutral, but his fingers tensed on the pencil.
“One day,” the assistant sheriff said. “Is that clear?”
The detective nodded, and Stedman heaved his considerable bulk from the chair. “Good.”
Grossman watched him leave the interrogation room, moving only his eyes. Then he looked from Rho to Shepherd. “You heard the man.”
“Shit!” Denny exclaimed. “Stedman’s been sitting behind a desk for so long he’s lost touch with what it’s like in the field! Did he even read our latest reports? No. He’s got his mind made up.”
“He’s afraid,” Grossman said, “and if you had any sense, you would be too.” He flopped a newspaper on the desk so they could see the front page.
The San Francisco Chronicle. NEW MURDER AWAKENS OLD FEARS ON SOLEDAD COAST.
“Shit,” Shepherd said again.
“Yeah, it’s hitting the fan for sure. By tonight the Sea Stacks’ll be full of media people from all over. So let’s get moving on this. You’ve got the list of people we’ve interviewed. We’ll divide it up, interview each of them again. And again, if necessary.”
Rho said, “That’s not possible, in one day.”
“Make it possible, Swift.”
The sidewalks of Signal Port were deserted, except for some rowdy kids cutting school and a few adults that Guy instinctively recognized as journalists. He drove past houses with their curtains drawn and closed-up businesses. The pharmacy where he’d left his film to be developed was open, but there were no other customers. The man behind the counter located the packet and made change wordlessly.