“Who do you think does?”
She shrugged. “His mom, I’m pretty sure.”
“What makes you think that?”
“When she called to tell me what happened, she said she had her suspicions.”
“She tell you what those were?”
“Only thing she said was that she was afraid the guy might come after her if he knew she was pointing fingers.”
“Where can I find her?”
“I’m not going to get in trouble, am I?”
“No.”
Cherry searched my eyes. “I don’t know why,” she said, “but for whatever reason, I believe you.”
Chad’s mother, Sissy Barbieri, lived in the bedroom community of Thousand Oaks, north of Los Angeles. Why they call it Thousand Oaks is beyond me, considering that most of those one thousand trees appear to have been cut down long ago. What isn’t in short supply in Thousand Oaks are expensive cars and block after block of perfectly manicured lawns surrounding perfectly immaculate, Spanish-themed minimansions. The Stepford Wives would fit right in.
The closest airport to Thousand Oaks was in Camarillo, about thirteen miles away. Flying the Duck wouldn’t have worked, especially with the plane’s electrical problems that Larry had yet to diagnose. So I drove instead down the 101 freeway in my truck.
The address Cherry had given me was on Silver Oaks Drive, which was clearly among one of Thousand Oak’s lesser enclaves — modest, single-story ranch-style homes wedged close beside each other on a stretch of bleak, sun-baked real estate a block off the noisy freeway. Sissy’s house was noteworthy only for its especially decrepit appearance. Paint was peeling off the siding. A rain gutter hung from over the porch like a hiker clinging to a cliff. A weight bench and bar bells sat rusting on the scrum of devil grass and other weeds that passed for a front yard.
I parked as a matter of practice three houses down the street — far enough away to maintain the element of surprise, yet close enough to get to my truck if I had to in a hurry — walked in, and pressed the bell.
No answer. No sound of a bell ringing inside. I tried the steel-grated storm door. It was unlocked. I opened it and knocked on the front door. A dog began barking crazily inside the house — a small dog, by the sound of it. A few seconds passed, then the door opened, revealing a woman in a maroon, terrycloth bathrobe clutching the nub of a cigarette in the fingers of her right hand. Mid-forties, five foot five, 160 pounds. Her dirty blonde hair was shoulder-length, uncombed and unwashed. Deep sallow creases rimmed blue eyes. She planted her left hand on her hip and shifted her weight, a purposeful move that parted the top of her robe and allowed me a better peak at her pendulous, untethered breasts. You could tell she’d once been beautiful. All she was now was hard.
“Tofu, no!” She turned to yell at a trembling, goggle-eyed Chihuahua barking and snarling at me. Then she looked back at me. “What happened to the regular guy?”
“Pardon?”
“The regular guy? From the dispensary?”
I looked at her blankly.
“I ordered half an ounce of Super Lemon Haze. It was supposed to be here two hours ago. What is wrong with you people? Your ad says same-day delivery. Do you know how long I’ve been sitting around, waiting for my medicine?”
“I’m not from a medical marijuana dispensary.”
“You’re not?”
“No.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Well, do you have any weed on you?”
“Are you Sissy Barbieri?”
She took a drag on her cigarette, eyeing me with sudden suspicion.
“Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Logan. I was there when they found your son, Chad.”
Her demeanor softened instantly.
“You were there?”
I nodded.
“My baby didn’t deserve to die the way he did,” Chad’s mother said.
“I know this isn’t easy, Sissy, but I’d like to come in and ask you a few questions about him.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Ones that could help bring whoever killed him to justice.”
“You a cop?”
“No.”
“Then who are you?”
I told her. She asked to see my driver’s license.
“You live in Rancho Bonita?” she said, studying it.
“I do.”
“You’re not a rapist or anything like that, are you?”
“No.”
She eyed me, debating my trustworthiness, then handed me back my license and stepped aside. I thanked her for taking the time and walked in.
Barking and snarling, Tofu the Chihuahua held her ground on beige carpet that could’ve used a steam cleaning, until I reached down to pet her. She flopped over on her back, trembling, legs in the air, and I scratched her tummy. Suddenly, we were BFFs.
Sissy grabbed a quart bottle of Early Times bourbon off a glass-top coffee table and held it up with her eyebrows raised as if to offer me a hit.
“No, thanks.”
“You won’t mind if I do?”
“Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere.”
She filled an orange plastic cup with whiskey and lowered herself onto a sagging, zebra-print sofa, tucking her bare feet underneath her robe. I sat down opposite her on a love seat that matched the sofa. Hanging on the wall behind her was a large oil painting of Paris flanked on either side by framed black-and-white photographs of wild horses running across the Desert Southwest.
“So,” she said, “what was it you wanted to ask me about Chad?”
“I understand you may have some insights into who shot him.”
Sissy stubbed out her cigarette in a frog-shaped ashtray overflowing with butts and fired up another one with a red Bic lighter sitting on the coffee table, next to a glass bong. She inhaled deeply, turned her head, expelled the smoke over her left shoulder, and sat back again, massaging her lower face.
“Who told you that?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“It was Chad’s girlfriend, wasn’t it? That little bitch.”
I didn’t say anything.
“She’s making shit up. We never talked about anything like that.”
“You’re scared, Sissy. I can see it in your face.”
“I do not know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re lying, Sissy. You’ve stopped looking at me. You’re covering your mouth, scratching your nose. You just placed that bourbon bottle between you and me like a barrier. All of that tells me that you’re being guarded. What are you guarding, Sissy?”
“Who are you?”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you help me find who killed Chad before he kills somebody else.”
Tears began to stream down her cheeks.
“You don’t understand,” she said.
“What don’t I understand?”
She shook her head no and wiped her nose with the back of her right hand.
“I do understand, Sissy. I understand that this is your son we’re talking about. I also know you don’t want anybody else to die the way Chad did. No mother would want that.”
She began to weep, rocking and wailing uncontrollably, covering her eyes.
I got up, gently took the cigarette from her hand, and set it down in the ashtray. I told her I was sorry for having upset her. I was patting her back, trying to console her and get her to talk to me.
That’s when the front door flew open and a stout man burst in, armed with a skinning knife.
SIXTEEN
He came at me growling, teeth clenched. Five foot ten, 220 pounds, early forties, grizzled red beard, blue do-rag on his head, jeans, Harley T-shirt, heavily tattooed arms, a biker’s keychain, black leather motorcycle boots. Frankly, I was focused more at that moment on his weapon of choice — a ten-inch hunting knife with a curved blade and stag horn handle — than on who he was or why he seemed bent on slicing me like deli ham. What I needed was a weapon of my own, and I had about two seconds to find one.