Empty Places, page 10
This was where Robin died.
Matt turned slowly into the trail, stopping before we reached the clearing.
"Let's check it out, Pete," he said. He took a small overnight bag from the rear seat and started walking up the trail.
The bush where Robin's body had come to rest was easily identified. Strips of the yellow police ribbon hung from it like bright Christmas garlands, and a splotch of ground at the base of the bush where Robin had bled was still darker than the surrounding dirt. A rough line of white spray paint, broken and half covered by blow sand, outlined where she had fallen.
A wave of undefinable emotion swept over me. Something ached inside of me as if I had been jabbed in the solar plexus, causing me to bend over and drop to one knee. Without thinking, I reached out and touched, then grabbed a handful of the bloody dirt.
Matt paid no attention to the spot where Robin died. He slowly walked the perimeter of the clearing, head bent low, stopping occasionally to bend down and push away some sand, then straightening and walking again. Finally, he knelt, set down his bag and studied the ground the way he had the crime scene photos. He called me over to his side.
I let the dark sand sift through my fingers then rose, embarrassed by my act. Matt appeared not to notice. He waved me over. "What'd you find?" I asked.
"Tire track," Matt answered, pointing to the ground. The spot he pointed to was the bed of a small, dry gully, about an inch deep and six inches across. It was one of thousands similar pathways cut out of the dry earth by the runoff of several past rainfalls. In its dry bed, where Matt pointed, were the barely visible ridges of a tire track.
Matt took a soft bristle brush from his bag and swept the loose sand from the track, exposing more of the tread impression. It had been made by a wide tire, and part of the tread had been gouged out. "That's the tread mark that was in the photos we saw at the S.O., isn't it?" I asked.
"Yeah, it's a Blue Streak," Matt said. He shook out the brush and placed it back in his bag, then removed a ruler and a small camera.
"What are you doing, Matt?"
"Taking its picture." He laid the ruler alongside the tire track, focused the camera and took several pictures at different exposures.
"Why are you so interested in this? I thought what's his name—Shorty—said the impression was made before Robin was killed."
"That he did," Matt said, replacing the lens cap on his camera. He picked up the ruler and placed it and the camera back in his bag. "But he was wrong."
Matt stood and stretched his legs, shaking one and then the other.
"It rained the day before Robin was murdered. Rained hard. Hard enough to flood one of the roads just down the hill there." Matt pointed down toward Dillon Road, in the direction of Desert Hot Springs to the west. "That's what I looked up at the library yesterday. The weather report in the back issues of the newspaper."
"Yeah, so?"
"That kept gnawing at me when I looked at those photos," Matt continued. "A rain that hard would have wiped out this tire impression. At the very least, it would have been partially filled in with silt. But look at it." Matt pointed to the tire track. "It's in perfect shape."
"You're saying it was made at the time Robin was murdered?"
"I'm saying it had to be made the day Robin was murdered, either before she was killed or at the time. The ground must have still been soft when it was made. These little gullies usually stay wetter longer than the rest of the ground. It couldn't have been after the murder, because there'd be matching tire marks in this clearing and down the trail. Remember, Shorty said the killer tried to wipe away his tire tracks?"
"So, we have a tire track that may or may not be connected to Robin's murder," I said. "Where's that lead us?"
"What we have is a tire track that is probably related to Robin's murder," Matt corrected. "I'd say it would have to be more than coincidence that someone happened to be up here in this clearing the same day a murder took place here." He bent over and picked up his bag. "And where it leads us, lad, for now is up the hill."
✽ ✽ ✽
We drove up the access road until we reached the foot of the valley wall. The road continued on, turning and following the foothills toward the south where, beyond our sight, the aqueduct burrowed through the distant mountains. We parked next to one of the giant bunker-like cement hatches that allowed access to the underground river below us. The sound of millions of gallons of Colorado River water rushing beneath our feet gurgled up from the huge doors, yet this part of the desert was as thirsty as the rest.
I walked several yards from the car, out onto a small mesa perched above the valley, and looked down at the cities spread across the flat alluvium plain. A soft brown cloud covered the valley floor. The tourist board called it desert haze; I just called it smog. Up this high, though, the sky was clear; even with the overcast I could see to the end of the valley and to the Salton Sea beyond. And with the traffic noise lost in the distance, a person could hear the desert, the rustle of rabbits and lizards in the brush, the rush and gurgle of the aqueduct, and at evening, after the sun went down, the sound of coyotes baying at the night.
When I returned to the car, Matt was leaning against it drinking a soda. The trunk was open, and I could see the pistols and rifles laid out neatly, each in its own unzipped carrying case. Several bottles were lined up against the hillside. I lit a cigarette and took a soda from the ice chest. "I don't want to shoot, Matt," I said.
"Humor me, Pete." Matt's voice was flat, serious. He reached into the trunk and picked up a .357 Colt Python, the revolver he carried as a service weapon when he was still with the sheriff's office. Matt gripped the weapon by its cylinder, hefting it to test its weight. The powerful magnum, with its six-inch barrel, looked small in his huge hand. "I need to see how rusty you've become."
"Need?"
Matt nodded and handed me the pistol.
I stared at the revolver, now looking much bigger in my smaller hand. Instinctively, I tested its grip and balance. I knew the weapon well and knew that its balance was perfect. The custom grips fit my hand and the Python felt like a deadly extension of my arm, just as Colt had designed it to do. I set the soda down and stamped out my cigarette. "Magnum loads?" I asked.
Matt shook his head. "Just .38s."
I paced off 30 feet from the bottles, turned and settled into a firing stance, left leg forward and slightly bent, right arm extended and braced by my left, head resting on the right shoulder. I pulled back the hammer and sighted in on the first bottle.
The first shot dug a deep burrow in to the ground four inches below and to the left of the bottle.
"You've got your damn finger wrapped around the trigger, lad," Matt admonished. "It's pulling you off to the left. Use just the first joint of your finger, remember?"
I adjusted my grip, cocked the hammer and fired. The bullet went high and wild. "You jerked, you jerk," Matt said. "Squeeze the trigger. And watch your breathing."
I took a deep breath, let half of it out, sighted and fired. The bottle exploded into small pieces. I cocked the hammer, sighted on the second bottle, and squeezed the trigger. The second bottle shattered. I repeated the performance with the two remaining rounds.
"Not bad, lad," Matt said, handing me six more bullets. "Now let's try it with the hammer down."
I dropped the cylinder and ejected the empty shells, still warm from their firing. The silver, blunt-nosed bullets slipped easily into their holes and the cylinder closed with a solid snap. I took up the same firing stance and squeezed the trigger. The pull was harder as the pistol engaged its double action, turning the cylinder and cocking the hammer mechanically. The first two shots missed, the third barely found the target, and the remaining three slammed head on into the bottles.
I repeated the exercise. This time all six bullets found their targets. An unexpected pride swelled inside me. I turned and smiled smugly at Matt.
The old bear was unresponsive.
"That was okay, lad," he said, taking the weapon from my hand and reloading it. "For target shooting. Show me what you can do in a combat shoot."
I placed more bottles and cans against the hillside, then took the loaded gun when Matt handed it to me.
I faced the targets directly, legs at shoulder width, the gun in my hand at my side, waiting for Matt's signal.
"Go!"
I raised the weapon and dropped into a combat stance, knees bent, the pistol braced with both hands hovering just below eye level. In quick succession I fired all six rounds. Nothing moved on the hillside except dirt.
Shaking his head, Matt dropped six more rounds in my hand and said nothing. I reloaded, took my position and waited for his signal. At the word, I fired six more times, slightly slower, taking a second to properly line up each target. The first bottle burst into fragments. The next two shots missed. The remainder slammed head-on into their targets.
"Not too bad," Matt said, handing me six more bullets and retrieving the empties. "But if those bottles could shoot back, those two you missed would have killed you by now."
"That's why we have gun control for bottles, Matt," I replied.
We spent the next hour fine-tuning a skill I thought I never wanted to hone again. On the last round, the gun exploded in my hand, kicking the barrel high, but the tin can target splintered into small fragments. Matt walked over with a sheepish grin.
"That last round was a magnum load," I said.
"I wanted to see how you'd shoot with an unexpected surprise," he said, handing me a cold soda. "You did fine, lad." Matt put one of his big paws on my shoulder and shook me. "Just fine."
I lit a cigarette and leaned against the car as Matt put the Python back in its case.
"So why the shooting practice, Matt?"
Matt straightened, took off his hat and wiped his face with it. He put the hat back on, reached into the trunk and handed me a small, silver automatic pistol. It was a .25 caliber Raven, the same pistol he fired at the intruder's car. "I want you to carry this," he said.
"You're joking."
"No, I'm not," he said. "It's just a belly gun, not very accurate. But I've got expanding point bullets in it and, if you're close enough, it'll do the job. Here's an extra clip." He handed me a magazine no longer than two inches with five rounds in it. Then he buried his hand in his pants pocket and produced an even smaller pistol. "I want you to carry that, too."
The gold revolver was no more than three inches long. Its trigger had no guard around it, and the diminutive hammer needed to be cocked back before firing. It looked like a child's miniature cap pistol, but the cylinder held four .22 caliber bullets. "Carry it as a backup. It's inaccurate as hell, but close up it might be some use. Hide it somewhere where no one will frisk you, like the crotch of your undershorts."
"What is this, Matt? What the hell are you talking about?"
Matt stared off toward the valley floor. His eyelids squeezed together, but his eyes didn't focus on anything.
"Pete," he said, "I think this thing with Robin is going to get bad. Real bad." He turned his face to me. It was rigid, save for the constant flexing of his jaw muscles. "I'm pretty certain that tire track has something to do with Robin's murder. And it's a Blue Streak."
I shook my head, not understanding. "So, what the hell is a Blue Streak?"
"It's a special heavy-duty tire used almost exclusively by police departments," Matt said. "I think Robin was murdered by a cop."
CHAPTER 13
BY THE TIME WE pulled into the gas station, a searing dagger of pain had knifed its way through the side of my head. I wasn't certain what caused my head wound to flare up again—the loud clap of the pistol shots or the discussion we had on the way down from the aqueduct and the place where Robin had died.
Matt was certain the tire track was connected to Robin's murder. He was equally certain the break-ins at her apartment and her TV station were also related. He felt he had the what, but he couldn't fathom the why. The only motive he totally ruled out for Robin's murder was the Goodbar slaying the sheriff's office said it was.
"The killer was after something Robin had," Matt said. "I think he still is. If we can find out what that is . . ." He let the sentence hang.
The old bear was also certain Robin's murderer would come after me next.
"He's got to, Pete," Matt explained. "You're the only person with access to all her belongings. He's got to figure you have whatever he wants, or you'll eventually stumble onto it. The son of a bitch can't take that chance."
"I don't necessarily see that, Matt," I said. "If the burglaries are connected to Robin's death, what makes you think the killer hasn't already found what he wanted?"
Matt shook his head.
"Nothing, lad, but instinct," he admitted. "In my gut, I know he's still looking. It's just a hunch, but I've learned to play my hunches. Sometimes they pan out."
Unfortunately, I knew that hunches often did pan out and that scared me. The last hunch I had made me follow that group of soldiers in El Salvador. I had a sickening feeling Matt's hunch could have a similar result.
"That's why you want me armed to the teeth," I said. "You think I can flush him out like one of those lambs they tie up in the jungles to flush out lions and tigers."
"Frankly, I've always thought of you more as a stubborn goat," Matt said, his mouth stretched in a satisfied grin. "But an armed goat."
I watched out the window as we passed a palm grove sitting incongruously among the dunes. Local legend had it that the small oasis was originally planted as a set for a Valentino movie. Now it sheltered a secluded private home. It would be nice, I thought, to live in such seclusion, with your own forest of trees sheltering you from the glare of the desert sun and from the blast of its winds, hidden from the murderers and killers who inhabited this desert and this planet.
"How does Carlos Tinnerman figure into this?" I asked.
"I don't think he does," Matt said, matter-of-factly. "He's too Red, White, and Blue." I gave Matt a look that registered severe doubts about his logic. "Come on, lad, the man's an American hero. He's been out there helping the Contras and everything."
That only made my head ache worse. The Nicaraguan Contras, the American-financed rebels fighting the communist Sandinista government, were being promoted in the U.S. as our allies. But allies aren’t always good guys. The American trained and equipped Salvadoran soldiers who rifle-butted me were supposed to be our allies, too. And those of us who spent any time sweating in the Central American heat knew the Contras were spending more time smuggling drugs to the U.S. than fighting a counter-revolution.
"You've been buying into that Ronald Reagan crap too much, Matt," I said. "You can do whatever you want, as long as you say it's for God and country. There are a whole lot of Reagan 'patriots' in jail, Matt. A lot more who should be. And that goes for the Contras, too."
Matt harrumphed and grew quiet. My head throbbed too much to try to convince Matt about what was really happening down south, and I tried to change the subject back to Robin's murder.
"You know that gas station near where we dog-legged over the interstate?" I said. "Pull in there. I used to have a source who worked there. He usually had a good grip on the local crime scene. Maybe he knows something about Robin or bad cops. Or something."
Matt complied but didn't say a word.
The gas station was an oasis for modern times. It stood alone in the desert, servicing the passing caravans of automobiles traveling the interstate. It was baked relentlessly by the heat and buffeted by hot winds. Heat waves shimmered off its black asphalt, and the white paint on its buildings was bleached even whiter by the sun. It smelled of gasoline and old grease mixed with earth. The humidity, which felt thicker now we were back on the valley floor, gave a tackiness to the odor.
I spotted a water fountain mounted on the side of the building and popped a pain pill into my mouth. The water was warm, almost hot, and tasteless. I sensed, rather than saw, the mechanic walked up to me. He was tall and wore dark-et blue coveralls with the sleeves missing and the legs cut short. I guessed his age to be mid-twenties, but his face was parched and darkened by the heat, and he had the weathered features of a man thrice that age.
"Help ya?" the mechanic asked, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. A tag sewn on his coveralls said his name was Ralph.
"Yeah, I'm looking for an old friend who works here," I said. "Tex. Is he around?"
Ralph's face hardened, his eyes narrowed.
"Tex don't work here no more," he said. "Not since he . . . not since his accident. Sorry."
Ralph turned and walked back to his garage. I followed behind him.
"Tex had an accident? That's too bad," I said. "What happened? Was he hurt bad?"
Ralph's head sunk lower, but he didn't turn around.
"Just had hisself an accident. Got hurt bad enough." Ralph ducked under a car raised on a hydraulic lift, picked a wrench off a tool stand and started twisting something under the car.
I stooped and looked under the car. "Well, that's . . . that's too bad. I've been away for a few years and I'd really like to see him. Tell him about my travels, you know?"
Ralph said nothing. He just kept twisting something with the wrench.
"You got an address for old Tex? A phone number?" I asked. Still silence. I stooped lower and saw the bit of Ralph's wrench was empty. He was simply tightening air. "You know, that tool works better if you actually use it on a bolt."
The mechanic stopped his imaginary work and looked down at me. "Mister, see that sign over there?" He waved the wrench toward the wall. "It says the public ain't allowed in the garage on account it might be dangerous. Someone could get hurt. Know what I mean?"
"Kind of the way Tex got hurt?" Ralph just stared at me with dead eyes. "Okay, I'm gone. But listen, Ralph. I'm an old friend of Tex and I want to see him. Let me leave a couple phone numbers where he can reach me. You call him, tell him Peter Brandt's in town. That's Peter Brandt. Let me write it down."
