Hold of the Bone (13 page)

Caroline's unconvinced, but she asks, “Are you getting anywhere with it?”

“Little by little. At first it was just the two girls that followed their father to LA after the mother died. Now it turns out their boyfriends went looking for them. Seems they were worried about them, but you don't randomly try to find someone that's two hours ahead of you in a city the size of LA. They had to have known where the girls were going, but the daughter claims she didn't know where her father might be until she got down there.”

“Maybe they called the boys and told them where they were going.”

“Impossible. The boys were already on the road—no cell phones back then.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Now that Caroline has thawed a little, Frank can't help tease, “And now I'm really curious to go back because a woman the daughter went to school with intimated that the daughter was a lesbian.”

Caroline frowns. “How's that relevant?”

“It's not at all.” Frank grins. “I'm just trying to make you jealous.”

“How old is this woman?”

“Early sixties. Not bad lookin' if you like a weathered, lived-in kinda look.”

Caroline spears a snow pea. “Knock yourself out.”

“That's it? ‘Knock yourself out'?”

“That's it.”

“Aw, come on. Not gonna put up a fight for me?”

“Nope.”

“Damn.” Frank wraps her fork full of noodles. “That's cold.”

“No, it's not. I can guarantee she's got nothing on me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Frank laughs and leans across the table to kiss her. “Prove it.”

“Here? At the dinner table?”

Such a Caroline response, Frank thinks. She goads her, patting the table. “Right here. Right now.”

To Frank's surprise, Caroline drops her fork and does exactly that.

Chapter 15

The squad catches a hit-and-run on a twelve-year-old girl. The driver turns out to be an octogenarian they find quivering in his daughter's house. The next day officers get a call about a suspicious smell and find a Hispanic male dead in his apartment. He was apparently despondent that his wife left him and took their infant son. They'll know more pending the coroner's report, but even without a note, it appears to be a slam-dunk suicide.

Later in the week there's a holdup at the Silver Dollar on Manchester. The clerk in the liquor store is braver than smart and decides to fight back. Her valor earns her a quiet ride in the back of an ambulance. Braxton and Lewis have a lead that the shooter is one of two wannabe bangers trying to make their bones and be noticed. The clerk had a three-year-old son and was pregnant. It won't be long before the shooters are ratted out.

Thursday afternoon, Frank is in her captain's office explaining that the rash of homicides is likely an anomaly. Pintar is going to cover for her again this weekend, and Frank reassures her there is nothing to worry about. Pintar is smart, pretty, and ambitious. Because she could easily have a crush on her young boss, Frank keeps their relationship as professional as possible.

“How soon can you wrap these trips up?”

It's the kind of dumb question her old captain would have asked, and Frank gives Pintar a pained face.

“Come on, you know I can't answer that. Every time I talk to someone, I get a new lead. I don't have anything hard yet, but I'm getting a lot of interesting stories. Some corroborate, some don't. Just gotta keep knocking.”

Pintar's head bobs. Frank watches the auburn curls dance over a pair of enticing collarbones. She considers how it might be if she were twenty years younger. And Pintar wasn't her boss. And not straight. And—

Pintar waves a timesheet. “I see you didn't charge time for the weekend. I appreciate the time you're putting into this.”

“It's not a big deal.” Frank stands. “I'm just glad I can leave the squad in good hands when I go. You don't know what a relief that is.”

The captain grins, acknowledging what an ass her predecessor was.

“I can't handle a case as well as you do, but I like to think I'm a step up from Foubarelle.”

“A step?” Frank says at the door. “How about a couple flights?”

She tells the squad Lewis is in charge and to call if they need anything, then takes the stairs two at a time down to the parking lot. The 1-10 is right next to the station and she sees the northbound lane is stalled. Listening to traffic reports, she finagles side streets to the 1-70, where traffic is heavy but at least moving.

In the old days she'd have a cold one between her legs and the rest of the six-pack close at hand on the passenger seat. Now she settles in behind a sedan and pulls a binder onto her lap. She steers with her knee, one eye on the road, the other devoted to the murder book Lewis has copied for her. She tries to concentrate on names, dates, and relations, but her focus keeps wandering north. She is booked into the motel in Soledad so she can get an early start in the morning. If all goes well, she will talk to Sal's ex, the aunt on her father's side, and Mary Saladino's niece and nephew. The evening is open and she has Saturday morning for additional knock-and-talks, but what Frank is really looking forward to is dropping in on Sal at the store.

Still steering with her knee, Frank veers and honks as a truck cuts into her lane. An inch before creaming her, the driver corrects. Deciding there will be no surprise visits if she can't get to Celadores alive, Frank closes the binder and returns a hand to the wheel. Traffic lightens as the evening wears on. Once she clears Santa Barbara, Frank pushes the accelerator to eighty, eighty-five. She speeds not for the pleasure of it but from an indefinable urgency.

It is dark when she drives through San Luis Obispo. North of
the sleepy coastal city, tall hills blot the stars. Climbing a pass north of town her heart beats faster. She is at the tail end of the Santa Lucia Range. She has never read this in a book or seen it on a map, yet like a beast homing to its den Frank knows exactly where she is. The familiarity thrills even as it unnerves. Racing blind, with only stars and mountains for company, she thinks how excited she is to be heading home.

Frank wonders what kind of Freudian slip it is to call the mountains home, but presses harder on the gas. By the time she speeds through King City, she is almost giddy. She tries to convince herself it's just the excitement of leaving LA and working a case that's not a routine banger or drug-related homicide. The lie doesn't work.

When she reaches the motel, Frank pulls into a parking spot facing west. She cuts the engine and hugs the steering wheel. Out past the highway, beyond flatlands tamed, drawn, and quartered, rise the mountains, dense and lightless, their bulk so black as to render the night pale. There is no moon. Only stars hang over the mountains. She listens to a cricket sing its summer song. Blocks away, a dog barks and there is the constant, lonesome rush of the highway. A wordless song lifts in Frank's throat. She swallows it and rests her head on the wheel. When she looks up, the stars have shifted.

A polite young man checks her in at the motel. Frank strips and falls into bed, but she is not tired. She lies with her hands under her head, reading the ceiling by the light leaking in at the curtains. Throwing the covers off, she opens the window and stands naked in the tender air, holding a palm to the mountains. The dark mass is inscrutable. She lowers her hand and returns to bed. The breeze brings the mountains to her and she sleeps.

When the alarm goes off, Frank is surprised she slept through the night, hard sleep being a rarity in the comfort of her own bed, let alone this strange one. Over eggs and bacon next door, she prioritizes her to-do list. Sal's aunt will be her first visit.

The address takes her to a neat, comfortable home on the east side of town. A frail, blue-haired woman eventually answers the doorbell. She invites Frank in, explaining as they settle amid immaculate furnishings that Sal has told her about the investigation. Frank answers
a few of the aunt's questions, then asks what she knows about her brother's disappearance. After the same story everyone else has given her, Frank moves on to the day Mary Saladino died.

The woman shakes her perfectly coiffed head, saying, “That was a terrible day. Just terrible. Of course, everyone said it was an accident. Mary herself said she'd fallen, but I knew. I just knew.”

The old woman is still shaking her head and Frank asks, “What did you know?”

“Lieutenant, I loved my brother, but it was no secret that Dom had a horrible temper when he drank and it wasn't uncommon for him to take it out on poor Mary.”

“How would he do that?”

“Why, with his fists, of course. About every six weeks or so, fairly regularly, the poor dear would appear in town with a fresh bump or bruise. Of course, she always laughed it off, saying how clumsy she was and that she'd fallen. For a while we believed her. Mary liked a bit of a nip herself, but then the bruises became regular, and of course the girls talked.”

“What did they say?”

“Nothing direct, but it was intimated. I don't think either one of them ever wanted to go against their parents. But I know it frightened them.”

“How do you know that?”

“Lisette—my daughter—she told me once that the girls hid in the barn whenever they fought. I was horrified and made a point to talk to Dom about it. He was upset, very contrite. He never meant to get angry. It just happened. And in all fairness, when Mary was in her cups she had a tendency to egg him on.”

“About?”

“Oh, Mary came from money, the Dusi Ranch. She wasn't spoiled exactly, she'd work as hard as any hand, but I think she expected more from life. Dom always had it in his head that someday he'd get our land back, and while Mary didn't put the thought there she certainly encouraged it.” She makes a helpless gesture with her hands. “But the years went by and Dom was never more than the Mazettis' foreman. He wasn't any closer to owning the ranch than he'd ever been. It was
an unrealistic goal, of course, but still it was a bitter pill for them to swallow.”

“So which Mazetti was running the ranch when your brother worked it?”

She thinks back. “Ben ran it when we lived there, but he took a bad spill some years after the war. That was when John took over most of the fieldwork. I know Ben still took care of the business side of things for many years.”

“So your brother probably interacted most with John?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“How was their relationship?”

“I suppose
strained
would be the best way to describe it.”

“And the cause of the strain?”

“Mostly Dom wanting the ranch back and having his own ideas about what should be done on it.”

“Mostly?”

The aunt drops her gaze and rubs at a gnarled knuckle as if she can make it round and young again.

“What else caused the strain?”

Clasping her hands, the old lady meets Frank's gaze. “Just that.”

Frank nods, willing to let what is unspoken remain so. For now.

There is more confirmation of dates and times, after which Frank thanks the woman and heads north. The highway cuts through agricultural towns bordered by square fields of broccoli and cauliflower. Over it all, the mountains stand watch. Frank purposely ignores them. She finds the pallet plant right next to the highway and asks for Mike Thompson. The front office pages him and a tall man with a fringe of sandy hair enters expectantly. Frank flashes her ID.

“Lieutenant Franco, LAPD. I'd like to talk to you about Domenic Saladino.”

“Oh, yeah. I'd heard you were asking about him. We can talk in my office.”

Following him, she asks, “How'd you hear that?”

“My wife told me. Here, let me grab a chair.” He lifts a molded plastic one from the reception area and closes his door. Motioning Frank to take it, he rolls his own from behind the desk and sits next to her.

“Where'd she hear it from?

“Oh, shoot.” He frowns and runs a hand over his bald spot. “I don't remember. It's a small town, could have been anybody.”

Not wanting him on the defensive, she nods with a smile. “Guess I'm just used to being in LA, where nobody knows anyone. Can't get used to how friendly everyone is here.”

“We try,” he says with a smile. “How can I help?”

“I know you're busy and I don't want to take too much of your time, but you can start by telling me how you heard that Mary Saladino died.”

“That was a long time ago.”

He has been leaning forward eagerly, but now Thompson sits straight and buffs his head again. He is fairly trim, but his All-American good looks have crumpled, as they tend to do in men past a certain point, and he is stranded, looking his age.

“I remember I was in school, on the way to class. Pete—Pete Mazetti—grabbed me in the hall and told me she was dead and that the girls were driving to LA to look for their dad. And that Cass was drunk. I was scared—we were both scared—that she was gonna get in an accident. Cass was a daredevil, and the more she drank, the crazier she got. Pete had his old man's truck, so we took out after them. We didn't have any idea where we were going, but we knew they had to be on the 101 somewhere. We were going to try to catch up to them.” He shakes his head. “It was just dumb luck we didn't kill ourselves.”