"During the one percent," I said, "did he ever say what was bothering him?"
"No, sir."
"During the last month or so before his accident, how was his mood?"
"Fine," she said. Her face clouded. "Oh no, don't go thinking that. It was an accident. Pierce wasn't a strong rider, and he was sixty-eight years old. I shouldn't have let him ride that long by himself, even on Akhbar."
"That long?" said Milo.
"He was gone half a day. Usually, he only rode for an hour or so. He had his Nikon with him, said he wanted to catch some afternoon sun."
"Taking pictures."
"He never got to. The roll inside his camera was blank. He must've fallen right at the beginning and lain there for a while. I should've gone looking sooner. The doctor assured me that kind of head wound would have taken him right away. At least he didn't suffer."
"Hit his head on a rock," said Milo.
She shook her head. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."
"Sorry, ma'am." Milo stepped closer to the photos on the wall. "These really are good, ma'am. Did Pierce keep any albums of his slides or proofs?"
Marge stepped around the bed to the left-hand nightstand. Atop the table were a woman's watch and an empty glass. Sliding open a drawer, she removed two albums and placed them on the bed.
A pair of blue leather books. Fine morocco, a size and style I recognized.
No labeling. Marge opened one, began turning pages. Photographs encased in stiff plastic jackets, held in place by black, adhesive corner pockets.
Green grass, gray rock, brown dirt, blue sky. Pages of Pierce Schwinn's fantasy of an inanimate world.
Milo and I made admiring noises. The second book held more of the same. He ran a finger down its spine. "Nice leather."
"I bought them for him."
"Where?" said Milo. "Love to have one for myself."
"O'Neill & Chapin, right down the road- over by the Celestial Café. They cater to artists, carry quality things. These are originally from England, but they're discontinued. I bought the last three."
"Where's the third?"
"Pierce never got to it- you know, why don't I give it to you? I have no need for it and just thinking about Pierce's unfinished business makes me want to cry. And Pierce would've liked that- your having it. He thought a lot of you."
"Really, ma'am-"
"No, I insist," said Marge. Crossing the room and stepping into a walk-in closet, she emerged a moment later, empty-handed. "I could swear I saw it up here, but that was a while back. Maybe it's somewhere else… maybe Pierce took it over to the darkroom, let's check."
The converted bathroom was at the end of the hall, five-by-five, windowless, acrid with chemicals, a narrow, wooden file cabinet next to the sink. Marge slid open drawers, revealed boxes of photographic paper, assorted bottles, but no blue leather album. No slides or proofs, either.
I said, "Looks like Pierce mounted everything he had."
"I guess," she said. "But that third book- so expensive, it's a shame to let it go to waste… it's got to be here, somewhere. Tell you what, if it shows up, I'll send it to you. What's your address?"
Milo handed her a card.
"Homicide," she said. "That word just jumps out at you. I never thought much about Pierce's life before me. Didn't want to picture him spending so much time with the dead- no offense."
"It's not a job for everyone, ma'am."
"Pierce- he was outwardly strong, but inside, he was sensitive. Had a need for beauty."
"Looks like he found it," said Milo. "Looks like he found real happiness."
Marge's eyes moistened. "You're nice to say so. Well, it's been good meeting you. Coupla good listeners." She smiled. "Must be a cop thing."
We followed her to the front door, where Milo said, "Did Pierce ever have any visitors?"
"Not a one, Detective. The two of us hardly ever left the ranch, except to buy provisions, and that was maybe once a month for bulk shopping in Oxnard or Ventura. Once in a while we'd go into Santa Barbara for a movie or to a play at the Ojai Theater, but we never socialized. Tell the truth, we were both darned antisocial. Evenings we'd sit and look up at the sky. That was more than enough for us."
The three of us walked to the Seville. Marge looked toward the horses, and said, "Hold on, guys, groom time's coming."
Milo said, "Thanks for your time, Mrs. Schwinn."
"Mrs. Schwinn," said Marge. "Never thought I'd be Mrs. Anybody, but I do like the sound of that. I guess I can be Mrs. Schwinn forever, can't I?"
When we got in, she leaned into the passenger window. "You would've liked the Pierce I knew, Detective. He didn't judge anyone."
Touching Milo's hand briefly, she turned on her heel and hurried toward the corral.
CHAPTER 14
Back on Highway 33, I said, "So now we know where the book came from."
Milo said, "Guy pierces his ear, turns into Mr. Serene."
"It's California."
" 'He didn't judge.' You know what she meant by that, don't you? Schwinn decided my being gay was acceptable. Gee, I feel so validated."
"When you rode together, was he homophobic?"
"Nothing overt, just general nastiness. But what man of that generation likes queers? I was always on edge with him. With everyone."
"Fun times," I said.
"Oh yeah, whoopsie-doo. I always felt he didn't trust me. Finally, he came out and said so but wouldn't explain why. Knowing what we know now, maybe it was speed-paranoia, but I don't think so."
"Think the department knew about his addiction?"
"They didn't bring it up when they interrogated me, just concentrated on his whoring."
"What I find interesting is that they eased him out with full pension rather than bring him up on charges," I said. "Maybe because going public about a doping, whoring cop might have brought other doping, whoring cops to light. Or, it had something to do with handling the Ingalls case."
Several miles passed before he spoke again. "A speed freak. Asshole was a jumpy insomniac, skinny as a razor, gulped coffee and cough syrup like a vampire chugs blood. Add paranoia and the sudden mood swings, and it's Narco 101, I shoulda seen it."
"You were concentrating on the job, not his bad habits. Anyway, turns out whatever personal feelings he had toward you, he respected your skills. That's why he had someone send you the book."
"Someone," he snarled. "He dies seven months ago, and the book arrives now. Think that someone could be good old Marge?"
"She seemed to be dealing straight with us, but who knows? She's lived alone for most of her life, could've developed some survival instincts."
"If it was her, what are we dealing with? Schwinn's last wish to wifey-poo? And that doesn't explain why you were the go-between."
"Same reason," I said. "Schwinn covering his tracks. He pierced his ear but held on to a cop's survival instinct."
"Paranoid to the end."
"Paranoia can be useful," I said. "Schwinn had built a new life for himself, finally had something to lose."
He thought about that. "Okay, put aside who sent the damn thing and shift to the big question: Why? Schwinn held something back about Janie for twenty years and started feeling guilty all of a sudden?"
"For most of those twenty years, he had other things on his mind. Bitterness toward the department, widowhood, serious addiction. Sinking to the bottom, like Marge said. He got old, kicked his habit, and bought himself a bunch of new distractions: remarriage, easing into a new life. Learning to sit still and stare at the stars. Finally had time to introspect. I had a patient once, a dutiful daughter taking care of her terminally ill mother. A week before the mother passed on, she motioned the daughter over and confessed to stabbing the woman's father with a butcher knife as he lay sleeping. My patient had been nine at the time, all these years, she and the rest of the family had been living with the myth of the bogeyman- some nocturnal slasher. Her life had been a mass of fear and now she learned the truth from an eighty-four-year-old murderer."