The phone rang. Robbins passed it to Dennison, who listened for a moment without speaking.
When he did talk, his voice was tight, low-pitched. Then a fresh rush of blood brought color to his gray face. “Where? You’re positive? Don’t touch anything. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Get Innelman and make sure Paris knows.”
He gave the phone back to Robbins and stood. A taught smile crossed his face, aimed first at Raymond, then at Weir. “Okay, Weir — you want to know everything? You want to solve this case on your own? Get your ass up and follow me if you think you can handle the truth.”
Empire Plating was a smog-choked fifteen-minute drive from the county buildings back to east Newport. Jim pulled up behind Dennison to a big building in the industrial zone, just half a mile from Cheverton Sewer & Septic. Ray brought up the rear.
They followed Dennison through the front door, down a hallway, and into the shop. It was a massive high bay, with huge blowers that sent a breeze across the expanse, and hanging fluorescent tubes that did little to dispel the dismal industrial gloom of the interior. The dip pits ringed the perimeter — silver, chrome, brass — each a roiling storm of steam, vapors, and molten liquid metal. The heat was profound. The workers had been herded along one wall. Weir could see them loitering, drinking coffee, and smoking, eyeing them as they headed for a far corner. He couldn’t keep his thoughts away from Virginia.
Three Newport PD uniforms, arms crossed and strangely reverent, stood back from a dip pit that Weir could see was boiling furiously with what looked like silver. Mike Paris stood apart, gazing in. A few feet away lay a body covered by a yellow plastic tarp.
Paris said something into Dennison’s ear, then nodded briefly to Raymond and Jim, then to the long steel workbench beside the dipping pit. “Must have been in here since morning. No one needed this silver until noon, but when they uncovered the pool, they saw it. Foreman told me it’s twelve hundred degrees, so... well, you’ll see. Note’s on the bench over there, under the shoe.”
Dennison motioned toward the body, and the sergeant nodded at his officers. They pulled back the tarp and stood aside, each looking up and away in a different direction.
Weir had never guessed that something so inhuman could be so definitely human. The silver had stripped the fat and most of the flesh away, leaving in their place an oozing patina of bright metal. The eyes were pools of solid silver. The face was a bright, shrunken mask that followed more closely the contours of a skull than a face: no mouth or ears or nose, just the two high rises of cheekbones, a jut of chin, the prominence of what was once brow and forehead. The body was little more than a twisted relic of silver-black in the shape of a man. Only his athletic shoes had survived the furious metal — they were plated smoothly in shining silver, like something to be worn on a moon walk.
He caught his breath and followed Dennison to the workbench. The note was held down by a red espadrille, which Weir recognized immediately as Ann’s. The note was handwritten, and easy to read over Dennison’s shoulder:
To Whom It May Concern,
I am sorry for Lucy Galen. I am sorry for Ann Cruz. I could not help myself, so I think it is better I go away. Mother and father, I hope you understand. You can have my pictures.
Dennison regarded Raymond, then Jim. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ray. I’m goddamned sorry about everything. Take the day. Go home. Get drunk or something.”
But Raymond had already turned away and was heading out of the high bay. Jim caught up with him out in the parking lot by Raymond’s old station wagon. His chin was trembling and droplets of sweat covered his forehead. “Too goddamned convenient,” he said. “For Dennison, Cantrell, everybody but Horton Goins. Christ, did you see...”
Jim felt the outrage building up inside himself, a sharp, specific anger. Cool down, he thought; you must have a clear head for what is to come. “We’ve got options, Ray. We’ve got evidence against Cantrell, and a DA who isn’t stupid. We’re not out of this yet — not by a long shot.”
“The case is closed.”
“Theirs is. Ours isn’t.”
Raymond wiped his brown with his palm, took a deep breath, and sighed heavily. “Let it be Goins. That’s okay. It can be Goins.”
Weir grabbed Raymond by his shoulders, shook him hard, and pushed him back against the car. “It wasn’t Goins and you know it. We need a way into Cantrell’s beach house. We need a scene out front, so I can get into the garage. Now listen. Get into your car, go down to the PCH bridge, and pick up Mackie. Meet me on the boulevard, a block north of Cantrell’s house in one hour.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve got a stop to make in Costa Mesa.”
“Hi, Mr. Weird,” said Edith Goins. She tenderly dabbed an eye with a wadded tissue.
“Hello, Edith. May I come in?”
She left the door open and Jim stepped in. Emmett was sitting in his usual place in his usual black robe, hosted by the shadows. There was a box of Kleenex on his lap.
Jim sat down on the couch and listened to Edith sniffle. “I’m sorry for you,” he said. “You two have been through... an awful lot.”
Jim’s sympathy brought a fresh rush of tears from Edith. “I feel like we failed. Like we raised a man who killed two girls, then himself. I can’t... can’t explain how disappointed I am. I thought he was going to be all right. Mr. Weird — I’m so sorry for what Horton did to your sister.”
“He didn’t kill her, Edith.”
For the next five minutes, Jim used all his powers of persuasion to convince the Goinses that their son had been falsely accused. Slowly, Edith’s tears subsided and she leaned forward to receive every word he spoke. She was nodding in agreement as Jim described the political struggle in Newport, Cantrell and Ann, Horton’s as-yet inexplicable haunting of his sister.
“Well, I might believe all that,” said Edith, “as a balm to my grieving soul — but what can we do about it now? We know better than to tangle with those big boys out here.”
“First, you can tell me what Mom wanted from you, the last time she came out here.”
“Don’t you talk to your own ma?” asked Edith.
“She wasn’t too willing to talk about the visit. She knew I’d be seeing you — helping with Horton’s defense — so maybe she just figured—”
“Thanks, by the way, for not charging us no money. We’re just about broke. That nine hundred a month for Clozaril about breaks us. Ain’t been here long enough for Medi-Cal.”
“You’re welcome. Now, why was she here?”
Edith lit a long brown cigarette, inhaled mightily, blew out the smoke. “She was mostly curious about Horton. Who he was with before us.”
“And?”
“Alls we ever knew was Horton was on a farm up to Dayton area, and his mom didn’t want him no more. Horton wouldn’t have anything to do with the pigs, or something like that. His dad was paralyzed, in a wheelchair, they said, and Horton was too much for them. They had four other adoptions, if I remember right. The mom had ‘inappropriate behavior’ with Horton, whatever that was. I told your mom all this.”
Weir tried to imagine what Virginia was after. “What else did you talk about?”
Edith wiped her eyes again. There was a wonderful femininity to it.
“Lucy,” she said.
“Lucy in Hardin County?”
“That’s right. Lucy Galen, that Horton attacked in the swamp.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Just that, and the fact that Lucy was in the Manor View sanitarium last we knew. That was eight years back, though.”