“You make it sound as if she had a whole string—”
“Yes or no?”
“No. There was some gossip about it a while back, before Sheila and I got together, but that’s all it was.”
“How do you know that’s all it was?”
“Sheila said so. I asked her... I wanted to know... and she said absolutely not. He made a pass at her, more than one, but she wouldn’t have anything to do with him. I believe her.”
That makes one of us, I thought. As if people who cheat on their spouses never lie; as if the current occupant of the White House never lied. “What can you tell me about Lukash? Married, family man?”
“Yes. Wife and two sons, both at Stanford.”
“What is euphemistically known as happily married?”
“I don’t see how, if he’s making passes at other women. Besides, his wife’s a bitch.”
“Yes?”
“Bosses him around. Bosses everybody around.”
“So he’s a chaser.”
Smith shrugged. “The only gossip I’ve heard is the crap about him and Sheila.”
“What would his wife do if she caught him cheating?”
“Divorce him. Or Bobbittize him. She’s the type.”
So maybe that’s what’s scaring him, I thought. Doesn’t want the wife to find out about the lust in his heart for Sheila Hunter, requited or not.
I said, “Back to Sheila. If she wasn’t seeing Lukash, who was she seeing before you?”
He ground his teeth again. “Nobody.”
“No gossip about her and anybody else?”
“There’s always gossip floating around here.”
“Linking her and which men?”
“Listen, I don’t want—”
“I do want. Names, Trevor.”
“Why? The men... they don’t know anything about where she and Emily went.”
“Let me find that out for myself.”
“Cheap gossip, that’s all it is. You just remember that.”
I waited.
“All right.” He spat three names at me as if they were a bad taste in his mouth.
“They all live in Greenwood?” He nodded, and I said, “I’ll need addresses for them, too. And occupations and anything else you can tell me so I’ll have some idea of who I’m dealing with if I have to talk to them.”
“If?”
“I won’t do it except as a last resort. And if I do, I won’t mention you.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Look,” I said, “the bottom line here is that I’m on your side and Sheila and her daughter’s side. I think I told you that before. Don’t make me say it again.”
“Okay,” he said heavily. “Okay. I’m worried about her, that’s all.”
“Believe it or not, so am I.”
“I’ll get those addresses.”
11
Burnt Leaf Road was a snaky passage that led up into the hills. Dale Cooney had told Charles, the bartender, that she lived exactly one mile from the country club. Not so, according to my odometer, which measured the distance at 1.1 miles. Maybe the odometer in her Mercedes was off; mine had always been reliable. Or maybe she’d just rounded off the number for convenience or because it sounded better and what the hell did it matter anyway? Only somebody like me would even notice a thing like that and then ponder it as if it were one of life’s weighty issues.
There was a brick arch over the entrance to the driveway, an iffy proposition in earthquake country, though the bricks were moss-studded and looked old enough to have survived most big shakes since 1906. I drove on through and down a long gradual slope. The house, brick and rough-hewn wood, was also close to being a centenarian; it sat on a flat section, natural or man-made I couldn’t tell, about halfway down. Below it the slope was steeper and ended at a narrow creek and a section of dense woods. Over the tops of the trees I could see all the way to San Francisco Bay in the hazy distance. You’d have the same wide-angle view from inside the house.
A garage large enough for three cars sat off to the left. I parked a short distance in front of it and stepped out into a woodsy silence punctuated by birdsong. A redwood-bark path led me to the house. I had a story ready in the event Frank Cooney answered the door; if it was Dale Cooney, I’d arrange to meet her somewhere and make sure she understood that I meant business.
All well and good, except that nobody responded to the door chimes.
Now what?
I could hang around Greenwood and come back later, or I could leave a note, or I could set up a meeting by phone at some point. None of the choices had much appeal. I leaned on the bell again, mainly out of frustration, and the lack of response only increased it. Grumbling, I returned to the car.
Something caught my attention as I opened the door — a faint acrid smell that didn’t belong with the sweet woods flavor. I stood with my head up, sniffing like a hound. Faint, and familiar. Too familiar. I looked over at the garage. And the skin began to crawl on the back of my scalp, a sensation that worsened when I started over that way. Coming from inside the garage, all right.
There were no outside handles on the double doors: electronically controlled and locked down tight. No window or door on the near side; I ran around on the downhill side. Door there, but it was locked or jammed. Alongside it was a window, unshaded and unobstructed. When I put my face up close to the glass I had a dim view of the interior.
Gray haze filled it, the deadly kind I’d seen once before on a case. Through its puffy, hanging layers I could make out one car. Dale Cooney’s Mercedes, its top still down. Somebody was behind the wheel, head thrown back and to one side; I thought it was a woman but I couldn’t be sure.
I broke the window with my elbow. The seal in there must have been pretty tight; stinking carbon monoxide fumes came pouring out, driving me back and to one side. I went along the wall to the door and threw my weight against it. Jammed, not locked — it gave inward, scraping along the cement floor. I kicked it all the way open, releasing more of the gray poison, and then ran over to the house and hunted up a hose bib and soaked my handkerchief in cold water. Back to the garage, where the outpour through door and window had thinned. I took a couple of deep, slow breaths, held the wet handkerchief over my mouth and nose, and ducked inside.
The woman in the car was Dale Cooney. Dead — long dead. Her face was a bright, shiny cherry red.
The monoxide was in my lungs in spite of the handkerchief, tearing loose coughs and making me lightheaded. I got out of there into the fresh air, stood sucking it with my head down until I could breathe all right again. Then I hurried to the car, glanced at the mobile phone, unclipped the flashlight from under the dash instead. No hurry in making a 911 call. And there was something I wanted to check on first, something I’d noticed when I peered at the woman’s face up close.
I soaked the handkerchief again before I returned to the garage. The air in there was better now but still not breathable. I switched the flash on, held the beam on her face. Her eyes, wide open with the pupils rolled up, were like iridescent milk-glass in the beam; her mouth hung open, a ghastly rictus. I tasted bile in my throat, but it didn’t keep me from using the edge of the flash to gently turn her face toward me. Her head moved loosely on the stem of her neck — and when I touched and then lifted one of her hands, it felt cold, rubbery. Rigor had come and gone; she’d been dead since last night, maybe even yesterday afternoon.
On the seat beside the body was a leather handbag, a remote-control garage door opener, and a half-empty bottle of Speyburn single malt Scotch. Both the car and the dead woman reeked of whiskey. I checked the floor and the shelf seat in back; they were empty. Before I clicked off the flash and got out of there I took note of what she was wearing: expensive dark brown pants suit, the jacket adorned with an elaborate turquoise pin, and a full complement of lipstick and makeup. Out somewhere before this happened that required looking her best.