"Mr. Tyler, there's something else that's been puzzling me. Maybe you can shed some light on it. If the murderer didn't want the bodies found, he could have chosen a thousand better places between here and the Bay Area. If he did want them found, his method seems a bit chancy. Any ideas?"
"Not so very chancy. Certainly this last one would have been found within a day or two. It's a relatively built-up part of the Road, and that patch of ground is pretty open. And the one they found along the creek, even that would have been discovered before too long. It's a public footpath, up from a public beach, and even at this time of year people use it regularly. I had to put in a fence along the creek to keep people out. She could have gone longer if the weather had been bad, I suppose." His face twisted in a parody of humor and he gave a short bark of desperate laughter. "Christ, what a macabre conversation."
"Yes. You were having a meeting that night, the night Amanda Bloom was left here, weren't you?"
"Yes, from eight until about one in the morning. It was impromptu, or anyway it wasn't supposed to be here, but the place we were supposed to meet, one of their kids came down with the chicken pox, so we met here instead."
"A political meeting, wasn't it?"
"Sort of. A group of us coastal landowners who oppose oil drilling off the coast. I gave their names to Trujillo at the time."
"And nobody saw anything."
"He must be invisible; nobody sees him anywhere."
It was an opinion that Kate had heard before.
"And the first one? Tina Merrill? It was quite some time before Tommy Chesler happened across her."
Tyler pushed himself abruptly away from the fireplace and went to pour a fresh glass of the smoky drink. Kate and Hawkin watched him patiently. It took two swallows and a circuit of the room before he spoke.
"I would have found her on the first of December if I'd been here. I always ride to the top of the Road on the first and then come back and put on a party for the residents, but I wasn't here. I had to fly to Seattle very suddenly on the thirtieth; my uncle was in an accident, and I didn't get back until the third."
"You told me that, yes," said Hawkin. "And you drove up the following day, was it?" Kate saw he was puzzled— wondering why this should so trouble Tyler.
"Rode, on horseback. On the fourth. And she wasn't there. Not on the Road, anyway, though she must have been just over the edge. She didn't… it had been cold," he ended, and took another swallow.
Hawkin's face took on a look of polite incredulity, and after a moment Kate realized that in spite of the weeks of evidence and despite Hawkin's fairly explicit words to the general assembly downstairs, the man Tyler was only now allowing himself to face the inevitable conclusion: that someone on his Road was responsible for the deaths of the three girls.
"And everyone on the road knew it was your habit to be on that stretch of the Road on the first of December. So there's a fairly good chance that whoever put her there meant for you to find her."
"I… think so. Which means whoever is doing this didn't just pick the Road off a map."
"No, Mr. Tyler, I think that is a pretty safe bet." Hawkin drained the last drops from his glass into his mouth and set the glass lovingly on the table. It took just a few minutes to wrap up the interview, arrange for access keys and a room for Trujillo and one other for the night, and make a list from Kate's notebook of the information they needed. They walked down the stairs together, and Tyler left them on the second floor landing to survey his private obstetrical ward. Hawkin leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.
"Give me your reactions so far."
"To Tyler?"
"To everything."
Kate thought for a moment.
"Did you notice that the only person here who wears a watch is Tyler's lady friend with the blond hausfrau braids?"
Hawkin looked surprised and then began softly to laugh. His face was transformed, and he looked considerably younger.
"Very good, Casey. No, I hadn't consciously seen it. The chatelaine with the watch and the keys to the storehouse, eh?"
"I only noticed it because I thought my watch was running slow, and when I went to check it I couldn't find anyone who had one. After that I began to study wrists. They may all have pocket watches, but no wristwatches."
"Interesting."
"About Tyler. He really was horrified that you connected him with the murders, but it didn't look like guilt or fear. His anger was real, too, though I wish I could have seen his face."
"Mmm," was Hawkin's only response. After a minute they descended from Tyler's ivory tower to rejoin the fray.
6
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Two hours and several residents later Kate pushed back her chair, scrubbed at her face with both hands, and went to join the line outside the toilet. As she walked back towards her desk, a hand from the kitchen thrust a steaming mug at her, and she buried her nose in the life-giving smell of fresh coffee. She carried it through the much-peopled living room and beyond to the long covered porch, where the clean air smelled of salt and trees and the rain that dribbled off the roof. A pile of wet dogs thumped their tails at her, and when she ignored them, tucked their noses back into each other's flanks.
Some thoughtful soul had draped a piece of canvas over the rose bower, and the guard, hearing the front door close, peered out at her, raised his own steaming cup in greeting, and stepped back under the shelter. Beyond his casual canopy she could see that the newsmen had arranged a series of more elaborate tents and marquees, some in bright colors, so that the space across the Road was beginning to resemble a high-class gypsy encampment. She could hear a mutter of voices and after a moment pushed her lethargy aside long enough to move to the far end of the veranda for an unobstructed view of the tent city.
Hawkin was there, talking with the newsmen. He looked every bit the proper police investigator, in a belted trench coat with the requisite crumpled fedora in his hand. He was facing away from her, but she could see that his feet were planted squarely, his back was straight, his gestures few and controlled. He turned his head slightly to listen to a question, and Kate saw him respond with a sharp shake and could see his mouth move in a "no" before he turned away again for the next question. There was the slightest sag to his shoulders now as they moved with a gesture of his unseen hands. In another few seconds the hat was clapped onto his head, and he turned back to the house with an air of getting back to his job. The reporters lingered until he reached the gate and then began to disperse.
The sag to his shoulders was more pronounced when he appeared on the stone walk. He reached the shelter of the porch and fumbled with belt and buttons until he extracted a large, limp handkerchief, which he proceeded to rub like a towel over face and hands. He shoved it back into its pocket and began to shrug off the wet coat when he saw Kate in her silent corner and grinned.
"I hope to God that's coffee and not some herbal concoction that tastes like dirty straw," he said.
"Coffee, just made, and strong enough to bite back. Want me to get you a cup?"
"No, it's too cold out here to stand around in wet shoes, thanks." Still, he made no immediate move for the door. "How's it going?"
"Nothing yet, if that's what you're asking."
"It's early still."
"Can I ask you something, Al?"
"Of course."
"How much of your method of talking to the media is deliberate?"