“What’s he study and write?”
“I don’t know. I’ve seen some of the books he reads. Old historical books. European mostly.”
I took pamphlets for the metal sculptures tour, the Borrego night sky tours, and the poisonous dwellers of the desert program.
“It’s good to care about other people,” I said. “The way you care for Mr. Broadman.”
“Do you think I’m a simpleton?”
“No, why?”
“A statement like that sounds like you’re talking to a child.”
“I’m just making small talk while I clean up on the brochures.”
“It’s too hot out here by now to do most of that stuff anyway,” she said. “I’ll get you a bag.”
She handed me a brown paper grocery bag from somewhere below the counter, and I swept the brochures in. Then began selecting more, scanning the graphics for promising topics.
“Do you have any favorites?” I asked. “Of these desert things to do.”
She gave me a pale appraisal, pushed a lank length of hair back behind one ear. “I like the wildflowers but they’re gone. Pictograph Trail is a nice hike. Especially if you like native culture, which I do. It’s on the cover.”
She tapped a brochure. I saw the venous catheter port high on her arm, an always ready portal for chemotherapy. A surgically implanted port implies a long haul and I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad one.
“I enjoy Harris’s company,” I said. “He’s got that subtle sense of humor.”
“Not much of one, though,” Cassy said.
“Kind of a homebody, is he?”
She gave me another doubtful look. “He gets out. Almost every day.”
“That his silver Tahoe out front?” I nodded toward the window.
“Yeah. And don’t ask me where he goes. He tells me that we all own the rights to our secrets. I think his are from the war. Obviously.”
“And yours?”
“Oh, no special secrets. I’m all about world peace. My little world, anyway.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Weisberg. Harris told me the politician hired you to find his wife.”
“I’m looking.”
“Abduction terrifies me. I dream about it even though it’s never happened to me. In the dreams, I’m claustrophobic. I’m enclosed by immovable dark things. Oh, don’t miss Hellhole Canyon. A good hike. I don’t see why they gave it such a terrible name.”
She leaned over the pamphlet rack to find one, set it on the new pile. I slipped the Hellhole Canyon brochure under the others and scooped them all into the paper bag.
Held up my best picture of Brock Weld and his consort on my phone. Fishing.
She studied it.
“I’ve never seen either of them.”
“Thanks for looking,” I said. “Peace, Cassy Weisberg.”
“You too.”
Twenty-Five
As we climbed out of Borrego Valley toward his campaign headquarters, Dalton worked his phone: posting, talking, tweeting, returning media calls. Half-lit by bourbon, he mumbled his replies as he posted them, so I got the gist. The cops had rattled him and Harris Broadman had set something loose in him, and now Dalton’s reaction was to put his foot on the gas.
Most of the interview requests he passed on to his reelection committee, but he returned one to Fox News and expanded on the idea that “mentally disturbed Natalie could easily have spent some campaign donations on personal stuff because it’s so damned hard to navigate the fed rules anymore. And these allegations against me are nothing but a political hack job by Democrats who want to run the last Republican out of state office. Just ask ’em — they’ll tell you that.”
Etc.
“It’s crazy, man,” he said, ending the call. “You tell the world your bipolar wife might have blown a few campaign dollars for a round of golf with contributors, and people go bonkers. I’m getting way more media than before — everybody wants me! They can’t get enough dirt. And guess what? The money’s flooding in again big-time, right after my press conference. Speaking of which.”
Dalton shoved himself up in the seat, worked out his wallet and pulled a thick stack of bills. I heard him counting them off.
“Here’s the eight hundred to get us started,” he said. “Even though that was days ago. I’ll have the rest but… it might be a while. I’m good with this, Roland. Hope you are, too.”
“I enjoy being shorted by my clients.”
“Shit.” He broke the wallet back open.
“Forget it, Dalton. Pay me when you can.”
“You know I will.”
“I don’t know what you’ll do.”
“Really? After all this?”
“Hang on to your money,” I said. “For now.”
Dalton put his wallet away then fished a flask from a coat pocket.
I declined.
He took a draw. “So, there’s a lot of people saying I can’t just blame this indictment on Natalie, that I’m a real bastard for trying to do so.”
“It looks bad, Dalton. The way you talk about her bipolar condition. It makes you sound like a pig.”
“I do bring home the bacon.”
“There you go again.”
“Want to be my campaign manager?”
“No. Someone’s had your wife captive for ten days and you’re joking.”
“Heroes cry on the inside.”
“Any idiot can say stuff like that.”
We came down the mountain from Valley Center on Cole Grade Road, a fast road with long views. It was late morning and the ceanothus was blue against the green slopes.
Dalton set his phone on his leg, took another swig, and let out a soft groan. “I borrowed money to buy that bridal set. If you bought the engagement ring and the wedding ring as a combo, you saved some shekels. To be honest, I was really proud to give them to her. We were just stupid in love. You’ve been like that?”
“I have.”
He gave me a look. “It kind of started a civil war in my family. Marrying her. My older brother, Kirby, was the one who introduced us. He wanted her bad. Half killed me when I told him she was going with me. Dad and Tola were pulling for me, mostly because Kirby was unstable and they really liked Natalie. Mom and Grandpa, though, they were for Kirby all the way. Thought I’d betrayed a brother. Broke a Strait bond. Maybe I had. Hell, I was fifteen. Later Kirby did what he did to Dad and everything changed.”
“Which was?”
“Big fight. Dad just a little slower than he used to be. Kirby, way strong for his age, and mean. A good fair fight until Kirby used one of his kung fu moves and tripped Dad back hard with his foot. Well, they say the Lord moves in strange ways and He sure did that night. The back of Dad’s head hit the river-rock barbecue pit so hard it sounded like a pistol shot.”
I thought of Archibald Strait, healthy looking but apparently unconscious in his hospital bed, catching some sunshine in Virgil’s rock fortress living room.
“That’s not the story Virgil told me,” I said.
“He prefers the Better Burger robbery story.”
“I’m surprised you all could pass it off for so many years.”
“Surprised why? East County is Strait country. We write the stories.”
Which was the first thing we new East County deputies were told when starting out in that vast, hard country. I was one of them only briefly. But back then I hadn’t realized quite how true it was.
“Because of who she is, Natalie always has men after her,” said Dalton. “Women like her always do. It’s not looks. It’s not even behavior. It’s attitude. An unknowable thing. A certain kind of man senses that in her and the rest is simple nature. He knows what he wants and where it is. That’s what got me to marry her. Love her.”