“I don’t know,” Eugene said, dubiously. “It surely sounded like him from what you described.”
Essie reached over and picked up a color studio photograph in an ornate silver frame. “This was taken on our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary,” she said. Her voice had a nasal cast and a grudging undertone. She passed the photograph to her brother as though he’d never seen it before and might like to have a peek.
“Shortly before John left for San Luis,” Eugene amended, passing the photo to me. His tone suggested John was off on a business trip.
I studied the picture. It was Daggett all right, looking as selfconscious as someone in one of those booths where you dress up as a Confederate soldier or a Victorian gent. His collar looked too tight, his hair too slicked down with pomade. His face looked tight too, as if any minute he might cut and run. Essie was seated beside him, as placid as a blancmange. She was wearing what looked like a crepe de chine dress in lilac, with shoulder pads and glass buttons, a big orchid corsage pinned to her left shoulder.
“Lovely,” I murmured, feeling guilty and false. It was a terrible picture. She looked like a bulldog and John looked like he was suppressing a fart.
I handed the picture to Essie again. “What sort of crime did he commit?”
Essie inhaled audibly.
“We prefer not to speak of that,” Eugene interjected smoothly. “Perhaps you should tell us of your own acquaintance with him.”
“Well, of course, I don’t know him well. I think I mentioned that on the phone. We have a mutual friend and he’s the one I was hoping to get in touch with. John mentioned that he had family in this area and I just took a chance. I’m assuming you haven’t spoken to him recently.”
Essie shifted on the couch. “We stuck by him as long as we could. The pastor said in his opinion we’d done enough. We don’t know what John might be wrestling with in the dark of his soul, but there’s a limit to what others can take.” The edge was there in her voice and I wondered what it was made of: rage, humiliation perhaps, the martyrdom of the meek at the hands of the wretched.
I said, “I gather John’s been a bit of a trial.”
Essie pressed her lips together, clutching her hands in her lap. “Well, it’s just like the Bible says. ‘Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you’!” Her tone was accusatory. She began to rock with agitation.
Whoa, I thought, this lady’s heat gauge has shot right up into the red.
Eugene creaked in his chair, snagging my attention with a gentle clearing of his throat. “You said you saw him on Saturday. May I ask what the occasion was?”
I realized then that I should have devoted a lot more time to the fib I’d told because I couldn’t think how to respond, I was so unnerved by Essie Daggett’s outburst that my mind went blank.
She leaned forward then. “Have you been saved?”
“Excuse me, what?” I said, squinting.
“Have you taken Jesus into your heart? Have you set aside sin? Have you repented? Have you been washed in the Blood of the Lamb?”
A spark of spit landed on my face, but I didn’t dare react. “Not lately,” I said. What is it about me that attracts women like this?
“Now Essie, I’m sure she didn’t come by to ponder the state of her soul,” Eugene said. He glanced at his watch. “My goodness, I believe it’s time for your medication.”
I took the opportunity to rise. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time,” I said, conversationally. “I really appreciate your help on this and if I need any more information, I’ll give you a call.” I fumbled in my handbag for a business card and left it on the table.
Essie had kicked into high gear by now. ” ‘And they shall stone thee with stones, and thrust thee through with their swords. And they shall burn thine houses with fire, and execute judgments upon thee in the sight of many women; and I will cause thee to cease from playing harlot, and thou also shall give no hire anymore …’”
“Well, okay now, thanks a lot,” I called, easing toward the door. Eugene was patting Essie’s hands, too distracted to worry about my departure.
I closed the door and trotted back to my car at a quick clip. It was getting dark and I didn’t like the neighborhood.
Chapter 4
Friday morning I got up at 6:00 and headed over to the beach for my run. For much of the summer, I’d been unable to jog because of an injury, but I’d been back at it for two months and I was feeling good. I’ve never rhapsodized about exercise and I’d avoid it if I could, but I notice the older I get, the more my body seems to soften, like butter left out at room temp. I don’t like to watch my ass drop and my thighs spread outward like jodhpurs made of flesh. In the interest of tight-fitting jeans, my standard garb, I jog three miles a day on the bicycle path that winds along the beach front.
The dawn was laid out on the eastern skyline like water-colors on a matte board: cobalt blue, violet, and rose bleeding together in horizontal stripes. Clouds were visible out on the ocean, plump and dark, pushing the scent of distant seas toward the tumbling surf. It was cold and I ran as much to keep warm as I did to keep in shape.
I got back to my apartment at 6:25, showered, pulled on a pair of jeans, a sweater, and my boots, and then ate a bowl of cereal. I read the paper from front to back, noting with interest the weather map, which showed the radiating spiral of a storm sweeping toward us from Alaska. An 80 percent chance of showers was forecast for the afternoon, with scattered showers through the weekend, clearing by Monday night. In Santa Teresa, rain is not a common event, and it takes on a festive air when it comes. My impulse, always, is to shut myself inside and curl up with a good book. I’d just picked up a new Len Deighton novel and I was looking forward to reading it.
At 9:00, reluctantly, I dug out a windbreaker and picked up my handbag, locked the apartment, and headed over to the office. The sun was shining with a brief show of warmth while the bank of charcoal clouds crept in from the islands twenty-six miles out. I parked in the lot and went up the back stairs, passing the glass double doors of California Fidelity, where business was already under way.
I unlocked my office and dropped my bag on the chair. I really didn’t have much to do. Maybe I’d put in a little bit of work and then head home again.
My answering machine showed no messages. I sorted through the mail from the day before and then typed up the notes from my visit with Lovella Daggett, Eugene Nickerson, and his sister, Essie. Since no one seemed to know where John Daggett was, I decided I’d try to get a line on Billy Polo instead. I was going to need data for an effective paper search. I put a call through to the Santa Teresa Police Department and asked to be connected to Sergeant Robb.
I’d met Jonah back in June when I was working on a missing persons case. His erratic marital status made a relationship between us inadvisable from my point of view, but I still eyed him with interest. He was what they called Black Irish: dark-haired, blue-eyed, with (perhaps) a streak of masochism. I didn’t know him well enough to determine how much of his suffering was of his own devising and I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out. Sometimes I think an unconsummated affair is the wisest course, in any event. No hassles, no demands, no disappointments, and both partners keep all their neuroses under wraps. Whatever the surface appearances, most human beings come equipped with convoluted emotional machinery. With intimacy, the wreckage starts to show, damage rendered in the course of passions colliding like freight trains on the same track. I’d had enough of that over the years. I wasn’t in any better shape than he was, so why complicate life?
Two rings and the call was picked up.
“Missing Persons, Sergeant Robb.”
“Hello, Jonah. It’s Kinsey.”
“Hey, babe,” he said, “What can I do for you that’s legal in this state?”
I smiled. “How about a field check on a couple of ex-cons?”
“Sure, no sweat,” he said.