Ah, there was the problem-she didn't know this part of Agoura as well as she should have, and she'd confused Foothill Place with Foothill Drive. She was on Foothill Drive now-and there, there it was, Comado Canyon Road, in the upper-left-hand corner of the map. She'd never heard of it before-it must be one of those new streets that jog up and down the grassy hills like roller coasters. Everything was new out here, a burgeoning, bustling, mini-mall-building testimonial to white flight, the megalopolis encroaching on the countryside. Ten years ago this was rural. Ten years before that you couldn't find it on the map. Kyra was sure there must be some really primo properties up here, older houses, estates, ranches the developers hadn't got to yet. The schools were good, property values holding their own, maybe even rising a bit-and it was just a hop, skip and jump from Woodland Hills, Malibu and Calabasas. She should look into it, she really should.
The rain fell off as abruptly as it had begun, gray banks of drizzle bellying up to the hills like inverted clouds, and Kyra started up the engine, looked over her shoulder and wheeled out onto the blacktop road. She came to a T and bore left, past a tract of single-family homes and up into the undulating hills where the houses were farther apart-nothing special, but they had property, an acre or more, it looked like-and she saw half a dozen blond-haired children going up and down a long drive, and a flock of sheep patched into a greening hillside. The trees seemed to stand up a bit straighter here, their leaves washed clean of six months' accumulation of dust, particulates and hydrocarbons and whatever else the air held in suspension. It was pretty country-real estate-and it made her feel good.
The road forked again and became narrower, a remnant of the cart path that must once have been here, ranchers hauling hay or whatever to feed their cattle, Model T's and A's digging narrow ruts along the inside shoulders of the switchbacks, woodstoves and candlelight, chickens running free-Kyra didn't know what it was, but she was swept up in a vision of a time before this one, composed in equal parts of _Saturday Evening__ Post covers, _Lassie__ reruns and a nostalgia for what she'd never known. These people really lived in the middle of nowhere-Arroyo Blanco was like Pershing Square compared to this. It was amazing. She had no idea there was so much open space out here-and not five miles from 101, she bet, and no more than twelve or fifteen from the city limits, if that. Was it still in L.A. County, she wondered, or had she crossed the line?
It was then, wondering and relaxed, enjoying the day, the scenery, the season, that she spotted the inconspicuous little sign at the head of a blacktop drive tucked away in a grove of eucalyptus just past the Comado Canyon turnoff: FOR SALE BY OWNER. She drove right past it, parting the veil of blue-gray mist that shrouded the road, but then she checked herself, pulled over onto the shoulder and made a U-turn that took her back to the driveway. The sign wasn't very revealing-FOR SALE BY OWNER was all it said, and then there was a phone number beneath it. Was there a house in there? A ranch? An estate? Judging from the size of the eucalyptus-huge pale shedding old relics with mounds of sloughed bark at their feet-the place hadn't been thrown together yesterday. But it was probably nothing. Probably a paint-blistered old chicken shack with a bunch of rusted-out cars in the yard-or a trailer.
She sat there opposite the drive in her idling car, the window rolled down, the sweet fresh breath of the rain in her face, watching the silver leaves of the eucalyptus dissolve into the mist and then reappear again. It was twenty of five. She'd told the boy's mother-Karen, or was it Erin? — that she'd be by to pick up Jordan at five, but still, she didn't feel any compulsion. It was Christmas, or almost Christmas, and it was raining. And besides, the woman-Karen or Erin-had sounded sweet on the phone and she'd said there was no problem, Kyra could come whenever she wanted, the boys were playing so nicely together-and you never knew what was at the end of a drive if you didn't take the time to find out. The sign was an invitation, wasn't it? Of course it was. Real estate. She pushed in the trip odometer, flicked on the turn signal, took a precautionary look over her shoulder and started up the drive.
She left the window open to enjoy the wet fecund ever-so-faintlymentholated smell of the eucalyptus buttons crushed on the pavement and let her eyes record the details: trees and more trees, a whole deep brooding forest of eucalyptus, and birds calling from every branch. Half a mile in she crossed a fieldstone bridge over a brook swollen with runoff from the storm, came round a long sweeping bend and caught sight of the house. She was so surprised she stopped right there, a hundred yards from the place, and just gaped at it. All the way out here, on what must have been ten acres, minimum, stood a three-story stone-and-plaster mansion that could have been lifted right out of Beverly Hills, or better yet, a village in the South of France.
The style was French Eclectic, simple, understated, with a tony elegance that made the late Da Ros place seem fussy, even garish, by comparison. From the hipped roof with its flared eaves to the stone quoins accenting windows and doors and the thick sturdy plaster walls painted in the exact pale-cinnamon shade of the eucalyptus trunks and festooned with grapevines gone blood-red with the season, the place was a revelation. The grounds too-the plantings were rustic, but well cared for and well thought out. There was a circular drive out front that swept round a pond with a pair of swans streaming across it, and the pond was set off by casual groupings of birch and Japanese maple. FOR SALE BY OWNER: she'd have to play this one carefully, very carefully. Kyra let the car roll forward as if it had a mind of its own; then she leaned into the arc of the drive, swung round front and parked. She spent half a minute with her compact, ran both hands through her hair, and went up the steps.
A man about fifty in a plaid flannel shirt and tan slacks answered the door; behind him, already trying on a smile, was the wife, stationed beside a mahogany parlor table in a long white entrance hall. “You must be here to see the house?” the man said.
Kyra never hesitated. She was thinking two mil, easy, maybe more, depending on the acreage, and even as she was totting up her commission on that-sixty thousand-and wondering why she should have to share it with Mike Bender, she was thinking about the adjoining properties and who owned them and whether this place couldn't be the anchor for a very select private community of high-end houses, and that's where the money was, in developing-not selling-developing. “Yes,” she said, giving them the full benefit of her face and figure and her nonpareil-closer's smile, “yes, I am.”
There were places where the spoor was interrupted, the footprints erased by the force of the downpour that had swept over the hills while Delaney was sitting in the police cruiser wasting his breath. That was all right. He knew which direction his quarry had taken and all he had to do was keep moving up the shoulder till the prints became discernible again-and he didn't need much, the scuff of a toe in the gravel or the cup of a heel slowly filling with dirty yellow water. If he could track a fox that had slipped its radio collar and doubled back through a running stream for three hundred yards before climbing up into the lower branches of a sycamore, then he was more than capable of tracking this clumsy Mexican all the way to Hell and back-and that was exactly what he was going to do, track him down if it took all night.
It was getting dark, black dark, by the time he reached Arroyo Blanco Drive, and when he saw by the lights of a passing car that the prints turned left into the road he wasn't surprised, not really. It explained a lot of things-the graffiti, the photo, all the little incidentals that had turned up missing throughout the community, the plastic sheeting, the dog dishes, the kibble. The fire had flushed him out and now the drunken moron was camped out up here, spraying his graffiti, stealing kibble, shitting in a ditch. And then it came to him: What if he was the one who'd started the fire? What if the wetback with the hat was innocent all along and that's why the police couldn't hold him? This one had been camped down there somewhere, hadn't he? Delaney saw the glint of the shopping cart all over again and the trail plunging down into the canyon and the Mexican there in the weeds, broken and bleeding, and he couldn't help thinking it would have been better for everyone concerned if he'd just crawled off into the bushes and died.