“Don’t worry about your hair. Hers is wetter than yours.”
The doorbell rang.
“Just a second,” Deana called out. She picked up the knife.
“Why don’t you leave that here?”
Deana raised an eyebrow, kept the knife, and held it at her side, blade forward, as she stepped to the bathroom door. She turned the knob slowly, keeping the lock button depressed so it wouldn’t ping out. She jerked the door open fast. Nobody there. Leaning out, she looked both ways. “The coast is clear,” she said.
The ghost is clear, Leigh thought, following her out. That’s what Deana used to say when she was about four and didn’t know any better. It didn’t seem like very long ago. Now she’s eighteen, and looking after me.
Deana led the way to the front door and opened it.
“Come in,” she said, lowering the knife.
Mace stepped in, followed by the woman. The woman’s short brown hair was slicked down. Her blouse and cutoff jeans looked wet. “Any trouble?” Mace asked.
“We haven’t seen anyone,” Leigh said. “We were worried he might’ve gotten into the house, though, so we waited in the bathroom.”
“It’s about the only door with a lock,” Deana added.
“Good place to wait,” Mace said. “Ladies, this is Sergeant Blaylock. Sergeant, Leigh and Deana West.”
They nodded greetings.
“I’ll take a look around,” he said. He turned away. As he walked up the hallway, he lifted his shirttail and pulled a small revolver from a holster at the back of his belt.
Sergeant Blaylock stayed.
“You got one, too?” Deana asked.
She patted her shoulder bag. Her head moved slightly as she scanned the living room. “I heard you own the Bayview,” she said, glancing at Leigh before returning her gaze to the room beyond. “That’s a fabulous place.”
“Thank you.”
“Anytime some guy wants to impress me, that’s where he takes me. Works, too. Maybe I could hit you up for the veal scaloppine recipe. Or is that classified information?”
“I’ll get it for you,” Leigh assured her. The recipe was to be kept secret, but she liked Sergeant Blaylock. She felt a bond with this slim, attractive woman who looked as if she’d just lost a sorority tug-of-war. She didn’t know why she felt this bond. Maybe it had to do with the sergeant coming to her home on a Sunday morning, ready to put it on the line for her. “For your eyes only,” she added.
“Fair enough.”
“Are you Harrison’s partner?” Deana asked.
“Used to be. When we were in radio cars.” She frowned toward the corridor. “Mace!” she yelled.
“Yo!” he called back.
“He might take all morning,” she said, “but when he’s done you can bet your petuties you won’t have anyone creeping out at you.”
“Are you two on duty?” Deana asked.
Leigh wished she would quit.
“We are now,” the sergeant said.
“How come you’re all wet?”
“Sorry about that.” She looked down, apparently to see whether she was dripping. “You know the Old Mill Stream in Mill Valley?” She fluttered the front of her blouse. “This is it, Charlie.”
Charlie.
What is this, Leigh wondered, a conspiracy to keep dredging up Charlie Payne?
“We came right over, so I didn’t have time to change.”
“If you’d be more comfortable in dry clothes,” Leigh said, “you’re welcome to something of mine.”
“No. Thanks anyway, Ms. West.”
“Leigh.”
“Leigh it is. I’m Mattie.”
“I’m Deana.”
“I caught that.”
“You called me Charlie.”
“Yeah, I do that.”
“My father’s name was Charlie.”
Here we go again, Leigh thought.
But it didn’t go any further, because Mace came striding down the corridor. He held his short-barreled revolver close to his shoulder, pointed at the ceiling. “It’s all right back there,” he said. Before reaching them, he stepped down into the den and disappeared behind the fireplace area that separated the den from the living room.
A little while later, he walked past the rear of the fireplace and made a circuit of the living room, checking the sliding glass doors and looking behind furniture. At the far side of the living room, he unlocked the door, ran it open, and stepped outside. He vanished, then reappeared, walking the deck that stretched along the entire rear of the house.
When he came back, he headed for the kitchen. Leigh heard his footsteps on the floor, then the squeak of the door opening into the garage.
Finally, he returned. “The place is secure,” he said, and put his revolver away. “That’s to say, nobody’s here but us. There’s no indication of forced entry. You’ve got drop pins on your sliding doors, which is good. You should do something about the windows, though. Pick up some quarter-inch dowel rods to drop in the runners, that’s the easiest way. Cut them off in lengths that’ll let you open the windows a few inches for fresh air, but no farther.”
“We’ll have to take care of that,” Leigh said.
“You might want to invest in an alarm system that’ll tie in to a private security patrol. Oh, and the gravel strip under the windows is a good idea. Announces the presence of intruders in that area. If and when, of course.”
Leigh nodded.
“Let’s take a look at the car.” He opened the front door. “Do you have your keys?” he asked.
“I do,” Deana said, pulling a chain out of her T-shirt. A house key dangled at its end.
They stepped outside. Mattie shut the door.
“That’s another thing,” Deana said, pointing at the newspaper on the stoop. “It’s always up at the top of the driveway. When I came out this morning, it was right here.”
“Okay. We may want to have the lab check it.” They crossed to the driveway. A shiny, black Trans Am was parked in front of the garage. “What time did you first notice the car?” Mace asked as they started up the sloping pavement.
“Around eight-thirty,” Leigh said. “Just before we phoned.”
“We were to go running,” Deana added.
“What did you do when you saw it?”
“Hauled ass back to the house.”
“Deana.”
“Sorry.”
“Did you hear any unusual sounds? Last night or this morning?”
“No.”
“Nothing.”
Just before they reached the top of the driveway, Leigh saw the old red Pontiac. Even in the bright sunlight, it looked ominous. It reminded her of that movie Christine. The car in that movie was red, too, but not a Pontiac. It had a life of its own, and she imagined this one starting up with no one inside. It won’t, she told herself. It damn well better not.
They crossed the road. Squatting, Mace touched the exhaust pipe. Then he peered through the open driver’s window. Mattie, beside him, looked into the backseat. She opened her shoulder bag and followed Mace to the front, where he bent down and inspected the smashed-in areas.
Mattie took out a notepad. She started writing.
“The damage appears consistent with the facts of the hit,” he said. He dug a pocketknife out of his pocket, pried out a blade, and scraped at the bent metal grille. His knife point came away with a tiny pile of powder that looked like rust. He fingered it off, rubbed the dust with his thumb, sniffed and tasted it.
Deana looked at Leigh and wrinkled her nose.
“We’d better have a crime-scene unit come out,” he said.
“Then this is the one?” Leigh asked.
“I can’t say for sure. It’s a strong possibility, though.” He looked over his shoulder at Mattie. “We’ll notify the Tiburon PD. They’ll need to be in on this, but they’ll probably be agreeable to letting our people handle the detail work.”