TEN MINUTES later David pulled into his driveway. Spent and stupefied. The white Ford that had been behind him since the jail slid under the big sycamore by the curb. His heart fell further.
David got out and lifted the garage door. He pulled Wendy’s new bike out of the way, and Matthew’s beloved Mickey Mouse guitar. Amazing what kids could leave in the sure path of a car.
He pulled the station wagon in. Got out and took a deep breath as he reached for the rope to pull down the door. Looked out at the darkening sky. Saw the kitchen light on at the Cranes’ across the street. Looked at the Ford under the sycamore and knew he had to go face the music.
Hambly sat behind the wheel. Window down. News station on. Looked at David.
“Get in,” he said.
David went to the passenger side and got in.
“Five days,” said the agent.
“I’ve been thinking about your offer.”
“Offer? There’s nothing to think about. You give me information or I send the pictures to the newspapers, your parents, brothers, wife, and key congregational members of the Grove Drive-In Church of God. I was very clear on that.”
David listened to the words but his mind jumped its track. He found himself understanding how people committed murder. And sympathizing with them.
“I’m not sure what to tell you,” he said.
“I’m sure you’ve thought about Stoltz and your father and the John Birch Society and the National Volunteer Police down south.”
“I actually haven’t.”
“Too busy with God?”
“I don’t see Stoltz,” said David. “He’s in Washington, where your bosses are.”
Hambly ignored the threat. “What about Max and his JBS chapter? Come on-I know you’ve attended meetings. I know you see him. I know you’ve heard things.”
“My father thinks the JBS is doing good work,” said David. “Informing people about the Communist conspiracy. Some of their ideas seem a little…exaggerated. But they’ve never said one thing about shooting Negroes or whatever it is you’re suggesting.”
“Not one thing?”
“Never. It’s not a secret organization. They have bookstores and phone numbers you can call for information. They give away little red, white, and blue plastic pens with the number on them. They’re dentists and engineers and lawyers and schoolteachers and-”
“I heard Dick Nixon was in town. Come by the old house last Saturday?”
David stared out the windshield. Saw Peg Crane at her kitchen window, looking out. Always there. Like she was washing dishes, but she was more like a DEW system for the block.
“Yes,” said David. “We talked very briefly.”
“Finally,” said Hambly, as if hugely relieved.
David was aware of Hambly taking out a notebook and pen but he kept looking at Peg Crane. “He asked about my church. He said he was sorry he couldn’t see eye-to-eye with Dad and Stoltz.”
“Meaning what?”
“Whatever you want it to mean.”
“Go on.”
“I said I thought they’d support him in November.”
“How do you know that?” asked Hambly.
“It was just polite small talk.”
“Talking votes to a presidential candidate is small?”
“It was just my opinion,” David said.
“Was your father sorry, too, not seeing eye-to-eye with his old Yorba Linda buddy?”
“He didn’t say, either way,” said David.
“Dick not quite aggressive enough for him? Won’t destroy villages to save them? Not willing to drop the bomb on Moscow if they keep sending guns to the North Vietnamese?”
“Who cares what my father thinks of Richard Nixon?”
“Like I said before,” said Hambly, “I care. I’m the one who cares.”
“That’s all I’m going to say.”
David swung open the door, stepped out under the sycamore, and slammed it. Peg Crane hadn’t moved. He sighed and looked back at the special agent.
Hambly grinned. “Have you talked to that Marxist Washburn out at UCI? Figured out how many kids he’s registered into the American Communist Party?”
“I have not.”
“Call anytime, Jude.”
David leaned in the open window. “I will. I’ll call you next time. Until then, stay off my block. We have children and elderly people here. I don’t want them in the presence of evil.”
“Evil,” said Hambly. “Reverend, you crack me up. Hey, did you know your buddy Langton was questioned by the Laguna cops today? They wondered what he knew about the Boom Boom Bungalow killing.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“They’ve got a witness who saw a guy running from the victim’s room. Got into a car and sped away. Witness got the plates-for Howard’s cute little Triumph convertible. Witness took his sweet time coming forward because he wasn’t supposed to be boom-booming that night. But there it is.”
“That’s not possible,” said David. “Howard’s wife will vouch for him.”
“Vouch or lie?”
David straightened, looked down at the grass. Breathed deeply. “Lie. But-”
He couldn’t continue. Thought of his Father in heaven but couldn’t continue.
“But what, Rev?”
“Nothing. Nothing.”
David looked into the car. Hambly eyed him with the binary detachment of a rattlesnake. To strike or not to strike.
“My guess,” said Hambly, “is the cops will smell something wrong unless Howard and his wife are both really talented liars. If they shake and break them, they’ll put Howard in a lineup and see what the witness says. If the witness picks Howard, he’ll have to use you as his alibi. This is a murder rap we’re talking about. This is serious. Maybe you should be lining up your ducks, too.”
“What ducks?”
“If Howard tries to use you as an alibi, deny everything he says. Barbara would have to hang tough when she lies about being with you that night. But I’ll bet she’s tougher and cooler than you are.”
“Quite a bit,” he said quietly.
“And she does know about all this, right?”
“Yes,” he said, more quietly. He’d known it would end in disaster. All of it. Everything. Just a matter of when. The rest of his life blank and empty like that old marquee in front of the Grove Drive-In Theater.
“Janelle’s not around to corroborate Howard’s tale,” said Hambly. “And I’m not going to. I really don’t want to show those pictures. I’ll just stay out of it.”
“Why would you do that?”
“You’re no good to me if you lose your family, your congregation, and everything you’ve worked for. And you’re a nice guy.”
“You’re beyond evil.”
“Think about it, Judas. And imagine the alternative.”
26
IT TOOK NICK ALMOST one hour to make the evening drive from Santa Ana to Los Angeles. Damned traffic. But nice to be driving the Red Rocket, which was usually for Katy and the kids. The 428 cc would really go if you stood on it. Too bad there were so many cars on the road right now, but on the way home he’d fly.
He used the time to wonder about Neemal and the odd kinks in some men’s minds. Which was one of the reasons why Nick had wanted homicide detail. To understand the kinks. But why do that? To understand himself? Maybe. He had a theory that everyone had kinks. Different kinds. Different amounts. He turned on the news and watched the smog-stained peak of the Disneyland Matterhorn go by. A little red bobsled zoomed out of the mountain and back in.
The FBI “Road School” was held at the sheriff’s station downtown. Nick had heard about it from some friends in the Southern California chapter of the International Association for Identification. The FBI had this agent named Doug Teteni who could show you how to learn more from a murder scene. They said Teteni could make sense of things that didn’t make sense at first. Teteni was especially good at what the FBI called “stranger murders”-where men would kill people unknown to them, wait, then kill again. Teteni had worked on the infamous Gein case in Wisconsin, where the guy had made clothing and adorned furniture with the skin of his victims.