He swung the door open. “I just don’t have the time, Alex. But if you want to go out there, fine. I appreciate the effort- I’ll even phone Bunker Protection, see if I can get them to be cooperative. Meanwhile, I go nut-hunting right here on the streets.”
“Good luck,” I said.
“Luck doesn’t seem to be cutting it.” He withdrew his hand from the door and placed it on my shoulder. “I’m being a cranky bastard, aren’t I? Sorry. Not enough sleep, too much futility.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
“Let me apologize anyway. Contrition’s good for the soul. And thanks for all your time on this. I mean it.”
“My thanks will be your getting good grades and cleaning your room.”
He laughed. Much too loudly. But maybe it helped.
21.
TWENTY MILES NORTH of L.A., everything empties.
I’d stopped at home long enough to pick up and scan the articles I’d photocopied at the library, gulp down some coffee, and get back on the freeway. The 405 took me to the 101 and finally Interstate 5, this time headed north. The last fast-food signs had been five miles back and I shared the freeway with flatbeds hauling hay, long-distance movers, the odd car, a few Winnebagos lumbering in the slow lane.
I had a heavy foot, speeding past brown, rumpled-blanket mountains, groves of scrub oak and pine and California pepper trees, the occasional grazing horse. The heat hadn’t let up, but the sky was awash with pretty clouds-lavender-gray swirls, satin-shiny, as if an old wedding dress had been draped over the world.
The clippings had given me three possible contacts: Teo-doro Alarcon, the ranch superintendent who’d found the bodies; Sheriff Jacob Haas; and the only other person to comment on Ardis Peake’s strange behavior without protection of anonymity, a kid named Derrick Crimmins. No listings on Alarcon or Crimmins, but a Jacob B. Haas had an address at Fairway Ranch. I called his number and a hearty male voice on a machine told me Jake and Marvelle were unavailable, but feel free to leave a message. I said I’d be in town on LAPD business and would appreciate it if Sheriff
Haas could spare me some time.
The highway forked, the truck route sprouting to the right and draining the traffic from three lanes. Radar surveillance warnings were all around, but the eternity of open road before me was too seductive and I kept the Seville at 85, zipping past
Saugus and Castaic, the western ridge of Angeles Crest National Forest, the Tejon
Pass, then the Kern County border.
Shortly after eleven, I exited at Grapevine and bought some gas. My freeway map showed me how to get to Fairway Ranch, but I confirmed directions with the sleepy-looking attendant.
“That’s for old people,” he said. He was around nineteen, crew-cut, tan, and pimpled, with four earrings in his left lobe.
“Visiting Grandma,” I said.
He looked up and down the Seville. “It’s pretty nice there. Rich people, mostly.
They play a lot of golf.” The minitruck with the huge wheels and the Radiohead bumper sticker parked near the garbage cans was probably his. Freshly waxed. His eyes narrowed as he continued to stare at the Seville. I try to keep the car in good shape, but it’s a ’79 and there are limits.
“Used to be another town around here,” I said.
His stare was dull.
“Treadway,” I said. “Farms, ranches, peaches, and walnut groves.”
“Oh, yeah?” Profound indifference. “Cool car.”
I thanked him and left, taking a narrow northeastern road toward the Tehachapi
Mountains. The range was gorgeous- high and sharp, peaks of varying height laid against one another masterfully, more perfectly arranged than any artist’s composition could ever be. The lower hills were dun, the upper ridges the precise ash-gray of the Beatty brothers’ dead faces. Some of the more distant crests had faded to a misty purple. Wintry colors even at this time of year, but the heat was more intense than in L.A., burning through the clouds as if they were tissue paper.
The road rose sharply. This was subalpine terrain. I couldn’t imagine it as farmland. Then ten miles in, a sign reading FAIRWAY RANCH: A PLANNED COMMUNITY directed me down a left-hand pass that cut sharply through walls of granite. Another sign-STEEP GRADE: REDUCE SPEED-came too late; I was already hurtling down a roller-coaster chute.