But both were muscle cars, an old fishtailed Chevy painted red and white, and a low-riding orange roadster with the top down; and he could hear the bantering voices of several young men echoing from the restrooms. Moving into the bushes at the edge of the clearing, he’d settled down, listening, wanting to know where they were headed and to assess their character, see whether it would be safe to try to make nice and con a ride—he was feeling desperate to move on—but already their strident voices made his skin twitch.
The voices grew louder and more raucous, then two young men emerged laughing and idly shoving each other, scruffy-looking fellows, a Caucasian and a Latino, long hair hanging down their backs, black jackets and baggy black jeans sagging wrinkled over dusty black boots. Ducking down, Pan remained still as they swung into the Chevy, watched the driver race the engine with a heavy foot and take off in a storm of dirt and gravel. With his eyes squeezed closed, he’d felt gravel pepper his face. Soon three more guys followed. Laughing loudly, they didn’t bother to open the doors of the roadster but swung in over the top, took off with a roar, another shower of dirt and rocks and blast of exhaust.
Then, blessed silence.
Pan came out of the bushes. The rest stop was deserted once more, the sun low, the only sound the hushing of the sea. Heading for the willow tree beside the restrooms, he scaled its rough bark through its lacy fronds, leaped to the warm metal roof, and curled up in the willow’s late shade. On the roof, safe from dangerous humans and coyotes, he slept. The coyotes yipped and yodeled all night.
He dreamed he was crouched, not beneath the willow tree, but in an oak outside the nursing home. In his dream, the night was red with flames, his elderly friends were being led out, or wheeled and carried out to safety from the licking flames. Then the flames were mixed with other fires: hearth fires, bonfires, blazes from other times, ghostly flames echoing from past centuries. He heard bits of conversation that were not of this time, saw strangers’ faces tangled together without order. Only when a late car pulled into the rest stop did he wake.
The wind was up, the night growing cold. He looked the driver over, but didn’t like what he saw. Between midnight and dawn only three cars came, stayed a little while as the drivers used the restroom, then left again. Pan remained where he was, on the tin roof. Dawn broke late, beneath dark clouds, the sky heavy, the wind icy. He watched a U-Haul truck rumble in off the highway and park at the edge of the pine grove just beyond the picnic tables—and that was how he met Denise Woolsey.
The driver got out, sat down at one of the tables and opened a brown bag that apparently contained her breakfast. A large woman in jeans, flat-heeled boots, soft leather jacket over a faded khaki shirt. Interested, Pan had slipped to the edge of the roof to look her over, had watched her feed a nervous squirrel a portion of her sandwich, watched her fill a paper cup of water for the little beast, and knew she’d be his next ride.
He rode with Denise as far as the San Francisco Bay Bridge, where she meant to head inland for Stockton. He tried not to think about getting out of the safe and cozy cab when she stopped for gas and to use the restroom, he didn’t relish going it alone on the mean and windy streets of the city. But he’d find his way. He always did. Somehow he was always able to sniff out an accommodating soul to carry him. In the world of concrete and fast cars he didn’t have much choice, it was either con some softhearted human, use all his charm and panache, or perish.
14
Slipping into the conference room, Joe watched Juana and the chief escort their loud, pushy female visitor back to Max’s office, both officers trying to hold their tempers. She was a big, square woman, solidly constructed, her skin tanned and coarsened from the sun as if she might be an avid golfer, her sun-streaked hair hanging limp to just below her jaw, her scowl lines deeply embedded. Where Debbie cultivated a helpless demeanor, her older sister, Esther, exuded an overriding bad temper, her dark brown eyes flat and cold, a woman Joe would prefer not to tangle with.
Following behind the chief, slipping inside his office and quickly beneath the credenza, he watched Esther settle heavily into the leather couch facing Max’s desk. Juana sat tentatively on the arm of the leather chair to Esther’s right, easing her sore knee, her black uniform stark against the tan leather. Max stepped to the credenza, reached for the coffeepot that smelled of the usual overcooked brew, turned to Esther and offered her a cup.
“No,” she said defiantly, with no touch of a graceful refusal. “Why did you call me here? Is this about my mother? What’s she done now? I just got back in town, I haven’t even unpacked. Whatever kind of trouble she’s gotten into, I’m not responsible for her, and I don’t appreciate your messages. My husband uses that answering machine for business.”
“Your husband is with Kraft Realty?” Max asked, knowing perfectly well that Perry Fowler owned half the business. She nodded curtly. He said, “I was at your house twice, Mrs. Fowler. I left messages on the door, and then two e-mails asking you to come in.”
“I’m here now. What do you want?”
“I asked you in here with bad news. To tell you that your mother died yesterday morning.”
The woman’s eyes widened, her mouth pursed tight, but Joe couldn’t read her expression. Was it pain? Remorse? Some sort of distaste? “What did she die of?” she said. “Did she drink that much, to go into some kind of alcoholic seizure?”
“Why do you say that?”
“That’s the first thing you think of, with a drunk. Or did her heart give out, from abuse?”
“There was a fire,” Max said. “Her house burned, there was little left, just blackened timbers and ashes.” Put off by the woman, was he goading her to see what she might reveal? For sure, he was taking a cop’s keen pleasure in seeing her squirm. He didn’t trust this woman, and the tomcat felt completely in tune with the chief’s sentiments.
Esther sat pressing one hand to her mouth, her other hand fisted so tight her knuckles had whitened. Max said, more gently, “She was dead before the fire broke out.”
This seemed to ease her, help her regain her composure. “Who have you notified?”
“Your sister, Debbie. She preferred that we notify you.”
“If Mother died before the fire, how did she die?”
“She was poisoned.”
“Poisoned? What did she get hold of? Or, what was she taking?” she said suspiciously. “Was she on some kind of pills?”
He didn’t answer.
She was quiet for some time. “You’re not saying she . . . that someone gave her poison? Oh, you must be mistaken. You’re not saying she was murdered? Why would someone do that? Who would take the trouble? Not for money. She had nothing, whatever money she earned, she drank away.”
“She could have drunk the poison by accident,” Max said, “though it doesn’t seem likely.”
“I can’t believe someone would do that. Are you saying they burned her house, too?”
“We’re not sure yet whether it was arson.”
“I can certainly imagine her setting the house on fire by accident, you know how they are when they drink. She was never careful, she’d leave the electric heater too close to the bed, leave something on the stove with the burner on high, dash over when she saw flames, smother them with a wet towel.”
She didn’t ask how Debbie was taking their mother’s death, she didn’t ask if Debbie was on her way down from Oregon. She showed little sign of pain or loss, no pity. Nor did she ask about Billy. Didn’t she care that her sister’s little boy might have died in the fire or been badly burned? Max glanced at Davis, whose stern face was ungiving, then turned back to Esther. “When did you last see your mother?”