The black iron gate was unlocked. They walked to the front door and rang the bell. A woman wearing loose white pajamas answered it immediately.
Monks did not have to be told that this was Coffee herself. She was beautiful, all right – sinewy body, coppery skin, and a thick silky mane of ebony hair that fell halfway down her back. She might have been African, Latina, Eurasian, or any combination.
But he sensed something cold, almost dead, back in her eyes – a knowing look that was beyond cynical, an awareness that from where she was, there was no place left to go. He had seen it in the eyes of junkies.
"Ray called me and told me you'd be by," she said. "I'll do this once." She did not move out of the doorway or invite them in.
"We'd just like to confirm that Ray Dreyer spent the night before last with you, Ms. Trenette," Larrabee said.
"Confirmed. Anything else?"
"We'd appreciate a chance to chat a bit. About your acquaintance with Ray and Eden, that sort of thing."
"Why in the world," she said scathingly, "would I chat with people like you?" She turned away and closed the door. It did not slam, which somehow resounded even more loudly than if it had.
Walking back to the van, Monks put his hands in his pockets. "My bad karma, catching up. I should have gone to her movie."
Larrabee nodded distractedly. "I'm thinking about where to go with this. There's nothing to take to the cops, yet. Just suspicion, and that's worthless. Especially-" Larrabee paused, and cleared his throat.
"Especially coming from a doctor who's feeling the heat?" Monks said sourly.
"Sorry. But yes. You got anything planned for this afternoon?"
Monks shook his head. "Sit around and chew my own liver."
"How about visiting Eden's parents? Sacramento, what's that, an hour-and-a-half drive, maybe two?"
"I'm not so sure they'd want to talk to me," Monks said.
"I can't see that you've got anything to lose."
Monks exhaled, then nodded. People had told him that before.
They reached the courtyard's iron gate. They paused, looking the place over once more. It was still, empty, almost desolate. Monks supposed that movie stars, especially ex-movie stars, led often-quiet lives, just like anybody else. But this place had the same feel as what he had seen in her eyes.
"Coffee looks used up," Monks said.
Larrabee closed the gate quietly. "That's a good way to put it," he said. "Used up."
Chapter 18
They bought deli sandwiches and took them back to Larrabee's, eating while he tracked down the address of Eden Hale's parents. Monks opted for Italian meatballs in a thick red sauce, messy but just the ticket. He finished every bite, swabbing the plate with the last bits of bread. He had not realized he was so hungry. The Hales lived in Citrus Heights, an area of Sacramento. Larrabee called and spoke briefly to Mrs. Hale, asking if she was willing to meet. Monks gathered from what he overheard that she was reluctant – apprehensive at why a private investigator wanted to talk to her. Larrabee assured her, with professional skill, that he would explain. He did not say anything about Monks coming along.
They exchanged the van for Larrabee's Taurus, a car he liked because it was so inconspicuous. The drive to Sacramento was a straight shot on Interstate 80, across the Bay Bridge, through Berkeley and the suburban sprawl east, out into the open of Fairfield and Vacaville. Even though it was early in the summer, the fields and foothills were already brown and parched.
Traffic was bumper to bumper, most of it traveling at eighty miles an hour or trying to, and squeezing even tighter together over the long narrow causeway into West Sacramento. Monks had a musty memory of a lesson learned in physical chemistry classes – that molecules forced closer together by heat and pressure would move faster and faster, until they finally boiled over or exploded.
Neither of them was familiar with the freeways in Sacramento proper. The spiderwebs of interchanges turned into an all-out free-for-all that had them battling their way through the maniacally confident locals. Signs would appear with the suddenness of flashcards, sending them careening across several lanes of traffic, desperate to make an exit or else they'd end up trapped in the speeding streams to Stockton, Tahoe, or Reno.
Finally, with relief, they found their way to Citrus Heights and joined the relatively normal street traffic. It was just before two p.m.
Tom and Noni Hale lived in an upscale area – a tract, like most of the city's suburbs, but older, built in the late fifties or early sixties, and more gracious. The house was ranch style, long and low with a stucco exterior and a red tile roof. It was weathered to a soft brindle color that helped give it a Spanish feel. But most of the comfortable quality came from the yard, large and private, closed in by oleander hedges and a vine-wreathed fence. Monks glimpsed orange and lemon trees in the back. He had a brief mental image of a laughing little girl, the picture of innocence, playing underneath them.
They got out of the car and walked to the door. It was significantly hotter here than in San Francisco – over a hundred, Monks was sure. The air had a different feel to it, an infinitely fine grit that seemed to abrade his skin and teeth. To the east, the snowcapped peaks of the Sierra Nevada looked like clouds through the hazy air. The Sierra foothills looked bone-dry, too.
A woman answered the bell. She was fiftyish, attractive, with carefully applied makeup and coiffed hair tinted auburn. A loose tunic covered a suggestion of spread around her waist, but tight pedal pushers showed off calves that were still slim and firm. Her face was tense with stress.
"Mrs. Hale? My name's Larrabee. I called earlier."
Her mouth made a little grimace. "Yes," she said, and stepped back to let them in. Larrabee did not move.
"This is my associate, Dr. Monks," he said.
She blinked, and then her eyes widened.
"You're – not – the one who-"
"I attended your daughter in the Emergency Room," Monks said.
"I can't believe you had the nerve to come here." Mouth trembling, she wheeled around and called, "Tom. This is that doctor!"
A man came striding into the room from another part of the house. Tom Hale had the look of a jock gone to seed, with thinning hair and a once powerful body turned shapeless. He was wearing a golf shirt and pleated white shorts. His face was red from sun, anger, and possibly booze.
"I did everything in my power to save your daughter's life, Mrs. Hale, and I've been saving lives for more than twenty-five years," Monks said. "I wouldn't dream of coming here if I couldn't say that."
Tom Hale ignored him and glared at Larrabee. "Is that what this is really about? You told us you had questions, but you brought him here to try to soften us up? Well, forget it."
"I came here because I'm willing to explain in detail what happened in the Emergency Room," Monks said. "I'll also tell you that the case will undergo a review by a team of medical specialists in the next few days. If they find that I was negligent, I'll quit practice."
Larrabee glanced at him, astonished. Monks had not known he was going to say that until he did. But he meant it.
Noni Hale's face had gone from outraged to doubtful.
"I did come because I have questions, Mr. Hale," Larrabee said. "Not to try to soften you up."
Slowly, Noni moved aside from blocking the doorway. "You have to understand, this is very hard for us," she said. Monks and Larrabee followed her into the house.