“Take one of those from the wall by the window.”
I glanced over my shoulder, spotting several blackand-white photographs of him in various settings. “Right,” I said. I set aside the lapful of papers I was sorting and crossed to the closest grouping. In the largest frame, an unsmiling Tom Newquist and the sheriff, Bob Staffer, were pictured together at what looked to be a banquet. There were several couples seated at a table, which was decorated with a handsome centerpiece and the number 2 on a placard in the middle. Staffer had signed the photograph in the lower right-hand corner: “To the best damn detective in the business! As Ever, Bob Staffer.” The date was April of the preceding year. I lifted the framed photo from the hook and held it up to the fading light coming in the window.
Tom Newquist was a youthful sixty-three years old with small eyes, a round bland face, and dark thinning hair trimmed close to his head. His expression was one I’d seen on cops ever since time began-neutral, watchful, intelligent. It was a face that gave away nothing of the man within. If you were being interrogated as a suspect, make no mistake about it, this man would ask tough questions and there would be no hint from him about which replies might relieve you of his attention. Make a joke and his smile in response would be thin. Presume on his goodwill and his temper would flash in a surprising display of heat. If you were questioned as a witness, you might see another side of him-careful, compassionate, patient, conscientious. If he was like the other law enforcement officers of my acquaintance, he was capable of being implacable, sarcastic, and relentless, all in the interest of getting at the truth. Regardless of the context, the words “Impulsive”‘ and “passionate” would scarcely spring to mind. On a personal level, he might be very different, and part of my job here was determining just what those differences might consist of. I wondered what he’d seen in Selma. She seemed too brassy and emotional for a man skilled’ at camouflage.
I glanced up to find her standing in the doorway, watching me. Despite the fact that her clothes looked expensive, there was something indescribably cheap about her appearance. Her hair had been bleached to the texture of a doll’s wig, and I wondered if up close I could see individual clumps like the plugs of a hair transplant. I held up the picture. “Is this one okay? I’d like to have it cropped and copies made. If I’m backtracking his activities for the past couple of months, the face could trigger something where a name might not.”
“All right. I might like to have one myself. That’s nice of him.”
“He didn’t smile much?”
“Not often. Especially in social situations. Around his buddies, he relaxed … the other deputies. How’s it coming.
I shrugged. “So far there’s nothing but junk.” I went back to the masses of paper in front of me. “Too bad you weren’t in charge of the bills,” I remarked.
“I’m not good with numbers. I hated high school math,” she said. And then after a moment, “I’m beginning to feel guilty having you snoop through his things.”
“Don’t worry about it. I do this for a living. I’m a diagnostician, like a gynecologist when you have your feet in the stirrups and your fanny in the air. My interest isn’t personal. I simply look to see what’s there.”
“He was a good man. I know that.”
“I’m sure he was,” I said. “This may net us nothing and if so, you’ll feel better. You’re entitled to peace.”
“Do you need help?”
“Not really. At this point, I’m still picking my way through. Anyway, I’m about to wrap it up for this afternoon. I’ll come back tomorrow and take another run at it.” I jammed a fistful of catalogs and advertising fliers in the trash bag. I glanced up again, aware that she was still standing in the door.
“Could you join me for supper? Brant’s going to be working so it would just be the two of us.”
“I better not, but thanks. Maybe tomorrow. I have some phone calls to make and then I thought I’d grab a quick bite and make an early night of it. I should finish this in the morning. At some point, we’ll have telephone records to go through. That’s a big undertaking and I’m saving it for last. We’ll sit side by side and see how many phone numbers you can recognize.”
“Well,” she said, reluctantly, “I’ll let you get back to work.”
When I had finished for the day, Selma gave me a house key, though she assured me she generally left the doors unlocked. She told me she was often gone, but she wanted me to have the run of the place in her absence. I told her I’d want to look through Tom’s personal effects and she had no objections. I didn’t want her walking in one day to find me poking through his clothes.
It was fully dark when I left and the streetlights did little to dispel the sense of isolation. The traffic through town was lively. People were going home to dinner, businesses were shutting down. Restaurants were getting busy, the bar doors standing open to release the excess noise and cigarette smoke. A few hardy joggers had hit the sidewalks along with assorted dog owners whose charges were seeking relief against the shrubs.
Once I was out on the highway, I became aware of the vast tracts of land that bore no evidence of human habitation. By day, the fences and the odd outbuildings created the impression the countryside had been civilized. At night, the mountain ranges were as black as jet and the pate slice of moon scarcely brushed the snowy peaks with silver. The temperature had dropped and I could smell the inky damp of the lake. I felt a flicker of longing to see Santa Teresa with its red-tile roofs, palm trees, and the thundering Pacific.
I slowed when I saw the sign for Nota Lake Cabins. Maybe a crackling fire and a hot shower would cheer me up. I parked my car in the small lot near the motel office. Cecilia Boden had provided a few low-voltage lights along the path to the cabins, small mushroom shapes that cast a circle of dim yellow on the cedar chips. There was a small lighted lamp mounted by the cabin door. I hadn’t left any lights on for myself, sensing (perhaps) that the management would frown on such extravagance. I unlocked the door and let myself in, feeling for the light switch. The overhead bulb came on with its flat forty-watt wash of light. I crossed to the bed and clicked on the table lamp, which offered forty watts more. The digital alarm was flashing 12:00 repeatedly, which suggested a minor power outage earlier. I checked my watch and corrected the time to its current state: 6:22.
The room felt drab and chilly. There was a strong smell of old wood fires and moisture seeping through the floorboards from underneath the cabin. I checked the wood in the grate. There was a stack of newspapers close by meant for kindling. Of course, there was no gas starter and I suspected the fire would take more time to light than I had time to enjoy. I went around the:, room, closing cotton curtains across the windowpanes. Then I peeled off my clothes and stepped into the. shower. I’m not one to waste water, but even so, the hot began to diminish before my four minutes were up. I rinsed the last of the shampoo from my hair a split second before the cold water descended full force. This was beginning to feel like a wilderness experience.
Dressed again, I locked the cabin and headed back toward the road, walking briskly along the berm until I reached the restaurant. The Rainbow Cafe was about the size of a double-wide trailer, with a Formica counter with eight stools running down its length and eight red Naugahyde booths arranged along two walls. There was one waitperson (female), one short-order cook (also female), and a boy busperson in evidence. I ordered breakfast for dinner. There’s nothing so comforting as scrambled eggs at night; soft cheery yellow, bright with butter, flecked with pepper. I had three strips of crisp bacon, a pile of hash browns sautéed with onion, and two pieces of rye toast, drenched in butter and dripping with jam. I nearly crooned aloud as the flavors blended in my mouth.
On the way back to my cabin, I paused to use the pay phone outside the office. This consisted of an oldfashioned glass-and-metal phone booth missing the, original bifold door. I used my credit card to call Dietz. “Hey, babe. How’s the patient?” I said when he answered.