He heard a car pulling into the driveway, and went to the window. His .357 clunked against the frame as he moved aside the curtain and watched his father step from the car, then lean back in and take out two big bags of groceries. Shephard could not remember being so happy to see him in all his life. He met him at the door and took a bag, Wade studying him intently. “You look like a young cop with something on his mind,” Wade said.
While his father put away the groceries, Shephard told him the story. Wade’s face tightened, and he feigned concentration on the chore at hand. The toothpaste went into the refrigerator. Shephard outlined his evidence: the threats to witnesses Tim and Hope, the cobalt and cadmium traces used in paints, the near match between the Identikit and the old Surfside photograph of Mercante, Ed Matusic’s tale of violence and cunning at the Folsom riot, and “Manny Soto’s” release two weeks ago from Lompoc. Wade leaned against the counter, the color draining from his face. “Mercante... simply can’t be alive. He died, five years ago.”
“The cons call it cut and run, pop. Azul raised it to an art form.” Shephard filled a glass of water from the tap and handed it to Wade. “It’s Mercante. He may as well have signed his name. You said it yourself once. Money, a woman, silence, or revenge. He wants revenge. He wants you. By the way, pop, Helene Lang is dead. She killed herself this morning.”
He watched his father close his eyes, try to stand straight and reconstitute himself. Wade labored into the dining room and slumped into a chair. Shephard followed.
“She may have been a crazy old woman,” he said, “who thought Joe was in love with her, that Joe killed Burton. But she believed it right to the end.” When Wade looked up he seemed smaller, as if what part of him had slumped into the chair had continued into the fabric and vanished. Shephard wondered if he would ever get it back.
“I suppose she did,” Wade said, in hardly more than a whisper.
When the phone rang, Shephard answered it. Pavlik’s voice came through, rushed and excited: “Tom, I did your homework. Jim Peters doesn’t have anything to worry about today. He died a few years back in an auto wreck. But the Honorable Francis Rubio is alive, somewhere. I got in touch with his son, Francis Junior, but he won’t give us the old man’s address. Did you find Wade?”
Shephard looked into the dining room. “He’s here.”
“What next?”
“Give me Rubio Junior’s number. Maybe I can... make an impression.”
Wade eyed Shephard quietly while he hung up from Pavlik and then dialed. On the fourth ring a woman answered hastily. “One moment,” she snapped.
A very long moment later, Shephard found himself talking to Frank Rubio, Jr., who spoke in a clipped and irritated voice. “He doesn’t live with us any more,” he explained. “I’m handling medical and estate matters now. I suppose that’s what you’re calling about.” Mr. and Mrs. Rubio are in the middle of a nasty one, Shephard thought.
“Not exactly. Can you tell me where he lives?”
After another long silence, Francis Rubio, Jr., said that his father was now in a very fine house in Santa Ana, but had all but lost his mental faculties. His Newport Beach home was in escrow, his finances in order, and visits by old friends, new friends, and financial sharps of any kind would be useless. Was this clear?
“Clear as day, Frank,” Shephard answered. “How about a visit by an old enemy?”
“For what purpose?” Rubio demanded, losing patience.
“To kill him,” he answered flatly. He waited for the click of the receiver. “Rubio, are you alone right now?”
“No.”
“Can you get that way?”
The phone hit something hard. Shephard heard their voices in the background, then Frank Rubio was back. “Okay. Now just what the fuck is going on? Who are you?”
Shephard explained. He told Frank Rubio that his father had heard a case thirty years ago, that he had sent the defendant to prison, and the man had been let out. He explained that two of the witnesses had been murdered, and Francis Rubio stood a good chance of being next. Rubio listened without comment, then grunted.
“Sounds pretty farfetched to me,” he said. Years of experience had taught Shephard that the best antidote for stupidity was silence. He waited and Rubio grunted again, but with less conviction. “You’re not kidding?”
“I’m not kidding, Frank, buddy. And this isn’t my idea of a fun Sunday. Give me your father’s address. How much longer do I have to sit here and beg you to help me save his life?”
Another long pause, then: “Maybe you’re not who you say you are. How do I know you’re not the one who’s after him?”
“Francis, I’m a detective. My badge number is two-seven-one-eight, my partner is Carl Pavlik, and you can call him at the station right now to check me out. I’m demanding your help. And I’m telling you, the more time you waste, the sorrier you might be.”
“It’s called... Ross Manor. He’s... in a nursing home, a very good one, though. Ross Street in Santa Ana, it’s in the book. The director is Claire Bailey. I—”
“Don’t even think of going out there. Stay put and wait for my call.”
When Shephard heard the woman’s voice again, he realized Rubio was speaking under pressure. “Maybe we could bring him back here,” he said quietly.
“You might have to.” Through the line, Shephard heard a door slam.
“I can do that,” Rubio said finally. In the background, the woman’s voice barked impatiently. “I can at least goddamned do that much.”
Wade had disappeared down the hall. When he came back a few minutes later, with his white suit hanging on him and his eyes remote in thought, he gave Shephard the least convincing smile he’d seen in thirty years. Shephard had never seen him so dispirited, as if something inside him had slowed. Even his voice was brittle. They agreed — though Wade argued until his arguments made no sense — that he would leave town. “And what do you plan to do, Tommy?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve got to get to Francis Rubio. Get him out of Santa Ana for a while. Take a vacation, pop. Let your assistant deliver the sermon next week. Your ratings will soar when you get back.”
His father smiled feebly, his eyes still gazing inward, lost on some solitary vision. He brought a .38 snubnose from his coat pocket, and a box of ammunition. “Don’t look at me like I’m a helpless old man,” he said finally. “I can still take care of myself. I think I’ll go down to Mexico for a few days. See the hospital site. I’ll leave you a note, here on the table, when I leave.” He stood up, hugged his son, and walked down the hallway toward his bedroom.
“Dad, your toothpaste is in the refrigerator.”
The LaVerda carried him out Laguna Canyon Road, onto Interstate 5, and through Irvine, Tustin, into Santa Ana. The wind continued unabated, casting him from one lane to the next without warning, stinging his face with sand. At Irvine Boulevard he angled to the off ramp, caught the green light, and headed downtown. A tumbleweed, strangely out of context in the city, rolled across the street in front of him and ran up against a chain-link fence. The elm trees that lined Ross Street tossed in the wind while two children on skateboards held out their coats to harness a free ride through the darkness.
Ross Manor was a converted Victorian-style home with a sprawling green lawn studded with empty white chairs. As Shephard pulled his motorcycle to the curb, he noted that two old men were sitting on the wide porch, facing each other, rocking slowly in the porch light. They eyed him silently as he came toward them.