County Line (7 page)

I haven’t talked to Peter McKrall for the better part of a year, though there was a time when I called him friend. The three of us met during the course of a murder investigation back when I was still working and partnered with Susan—a god awful mess thick with bodies, RJ and Pete nearly among them. In the aftermath, as she recovered from a gunshot wound and he recovered from a decade’s worth of psychological fuckery, Pete and Ruby Jane found themselves an unlikely couple. The romance was born of tribulation, and twitchy from the beginning. Pete was never sure of who or what he wanted to be; Ruby Jane was as focused and assured as anyone I’ve ever known. That they were together at all is a mystery I’ll never solve, but at his best he could be charming and thoughtful. I assumed they shared something on a more intimate level than either was willing to share with me.

Things deteriorated when Pete took a job in California, manager of a commercial plant nursery. The position was supposed to be temporary, a stepping stone to a better job at a larger nursery back in Oregon. The better job never materialized. The last time I saw him, Pete had come to town for a long weekend to see Ruby Jane—his final trip from Walnut Creek before the relationship went tits up once and for all. Not that the breakup was clear to anyone at the time. I didn’t learn it was truly over until months later when I made a clumsy, semi-spontaneous pass at Ruby Jane. A day later, I was in intensive care—gunshot wound of my own—followed by months of difficult recovery. I never did find out what Pete thinks about me and Ruby Jane—or if she’s even spoken to him about us. Far as it goes, I’m still not sure what Ruby Jane thinks about me and Ruby Jane.

I highlight his entry and hit TALK. He answers just as I’m sure it’s going to voicemail.

“Hey, Pete, it’s Skin. Long time.”

I hear the faint sound of an engine. Maybe he’s on the road.

“Pete? You there?”

Another pause, but then I hear a breath. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“I’m at work.” There’s no mistaking the tone in his voice. Terse.

“I won’t keep you then—”

“Good.” And he’s gone. Call time: sixteen seconds.

I leave the small office, my mind a turbulent stew of confusion and exhaustion. Past the roaster, through the hallway, into the apartment. I come to a stop next to the forlorn claw foot. Chase Fairweather left a scum ring. All the cleaning I did, I forgot to scrub the tub. Or maybe I made an unconscious choice. Doesn’t matter now. The atmosphere in the room is oppressive; a dense, still reminder of Ruby Jane’s bewildering absence. I move quickly, turn off lights and television. I hesitate near the smelly couch cushions, decide to leave them for now. Maybe I’ll come back for them, or maybe Ruby Jane will return first. I don’t know. Someone will have to deal with the alarm panel too, but not now, not today. I open the side door. Stop short.

As I stare at the empty spot where my car used to be, I find myself imagining Ruby Jane in California. In Walnut Creek.

With Pete.

It would explain everything.

- 7 -

Every Exit an Opportunity

I’ve been driving past almond trees, celery fields, and strawberries for the better part of an hour when my phone rings. A 503 number according to the display, but not one I recognize. Not Peter, not Ruby Jane.

“Sir, I’m calling to let you know we’ve recovered your car.” It’s a cop.

“Thank you. Where is it now?”

“We’ve brought it to Rivergate impound.”

I wince; that’ll cost me. If he’d called me first, I’d have asked him to make sure it was locked up and leave it parked until I return. “Okay. I’m out of town. I’ll see if I can arrange for someone to come pick it up.” Marcy might be willing, assuming I can get some cash to her. There’s paperwork too, but maybe I can get Susan to grease that. She knows Marcy and can vouch for her.

But the cop isn’t finished. “I’m afraid it will need to be towed, sir.”

“What are you telling me?”

“It’s in pretty bad shape.”

“Stripped?”

“Not really. We pulled it out of Johnson Creek.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Someone drove it down the Springwater Corridor and dumped it in the water at Tideman Johnson Preserve. A cyclist reported it.”

“Christ.”

“You’re gonna need some engine work and a professional cleaning.”

A triple-trailer blasts past me on the right, whacking the car with its backwash and putting my own excessive speed to shame. “Shit. I’ll have to work something out.”

“There’s a storage fee—”

“I know. I know …”

I hang up. I’ve been on the road since eight, having delayed only long enough to report the car and arrange for my second rental car in as many days and hit the road.

By the time I passed Eugene, a giant coffee with a couple of add shots burning a hole in my stomach, I’d convinced myself I’m out of my fucking mind. The thought of Ruby Jane with Pete floods in and out of my thoughts as I drive, a bitter tide. South of Roseburg I pull into a rest area to piss and refill my coffee. Before I get out of the car, I tilt the mirror to look at my blotchy, weary face.

Accusation stares back.

“If she’s with him, it’s because she wants to be with him.” In the bathroom, as I wash my hands, I glimpse my reflection again, this time warped by the scratched, stainless steel mirror over the sink. “If she didn’t tell you, it’s because she didn’t want you to know.” The Lions Club volunteer in the traveler’s aid booth offers me an Oreo with my coffee. All I hear is my own voice inside my head. “Go home, Skin.” Back in my car, I continue south. Every exit offers an opportunity to come to my senses, turn off, turn around, turn back. I ignore them all.

My tenuous logic rests on a foundation of rationalization.
She’s there, she’s not there
. If she’s not there, Peter will be, and Peter can tell me how to find Jimmie. And then, hell, at that point, I might just as well drive the remaining, short distance to Jimmie’s house, apartment, condo. Jimmie is wealthy. I picture him with a place on Russian Hill or Pacific Heights, an anchor building on a well-trod corner, three or four stories with a
chi-chi
café or bar on the ground floor. He’s got the top two floors filled with art and antiques purchased as investments, leases out the rest of the building. In my mind, he’s a shitty landlord. But, really, I know nothing about him except he’s Ruby Jane’s greatest source of irritation, a man to whom she paid quarterly dividends, to whom she owed some percentage of her dream.

As the flat Sacramento Valley opens up before me, six hours out, I’ve worked through my rationalizations so many times I no longer know what I believe.
She’s there, she’s not there. Peter knows something, Peter knows nothing
. I’ve imagined scenarios so absurd and impossible that when I stop for gas in Red Bluff I’m half ready to believe I’ll find Ruby Jane, Pete, and Jimmie in the truck stop restaurant. Playing euchre, drinking Old Fashioneds, plotting the overthrow of Cuba. It all makes equal sense. In a moment of lucidity, standing over yet another anonymous urinal, I call Peter again, get no answer, and find it within myself to leave him a reasoned message explaining why I’d called in the first place. I imagine him stepping away from the euchre game with a knowing nod to his partners. “Jimmie, I’m going to call Skin back and give him your home address. Okay?” Ruby Jane tells him to hurry up, it’s his deal, and besides, he’s responsible for coordinating the air cover for the marine landing.

I feel like I’m coasting downhill when I reach the I-680 cut-off from I-80. I haven’t been in California in years, and never in Walnut Creek. At one time, that would have meant forethought and planning with a Thomas Guide and a highlighter. But now I’ve got the rental company’s GPS telling me where to go, my very own digital enabler with a soothing, synthetic voice. If it had my best interests in mind, it would tell me to go home, or to go to hell. Instead it directs me to Peter’s nondescript apartment complex east of the interstate near what I presume is Walnut Creek’s commercial core. Or maybe the whole town is commercial core. Ever since I left behind the broad, agricultural flats of the Central Valley I’ve felt like I was driving through an endless combination industrial park/strip mall characterized by the Lego School of architecture. I follow Miss Tom-Tom’s directions from the exit, right at the fork, ahead two-tenths of a mile, right again, watch for road construction. I know I’ve reached my destination only because she tells me so. The complex, called Vista View, is a Spanish Mission/Cape Cod mash-up which looks out at two other complexes and a church parking lot, catty-corner from the back of a Target.

I park, traipse through hyper-manicured landscaping until I find the entryway leading to Peter’s apartment. Second floor, in the back.

My plan, such as it is, is to ask him how he’s doing, when he last heard from Ruby Jane. The tide is out. Ruby Jane, I’m now sure, is in some unknown, unguessed location. But when I knock, he opens the door on the second rap, as if he was standing there waiting for me. The suddenness of his appearance is like a wave crashing in.

“Where is she?”

He blinks at me, his mouth working as if he can’t decide how to respond. Then his eyebrows lower. “How the hell should I know?”

I try to see past him into the apartment. The door opens onto a short, dark hallway, the cool glow of a compact fluorescent light bulb in the room beyond. I can hear the television. “She’s in there.”

“Skin, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“You’re saying she’s not here?”

He looks at me with a mixture of contempt and sadness. “You drove all this way because you think I’m hiding Ruby Jane?”

“Pete, damn it.”

“She’s not here.” He steps out of my way. “Come in, check everywhere. She’s not here.”

“Jesus.” I run my hand over my face. My skin is hot to the touch. “Pete …”

“What on earth were you thinking?”

“You hung up on me.”

“Maybe I didn’t feel like talking to you.” He turns and heads back into the apartment. I follow, sheepish. “You drove six hundred miles because I hung up on you.”

“I’m worried. No one knows where she is. When I talked to
you …” I sigh, collapse onto a dinette chair. “It had been a long night.”

“And an even longer day.”

“I drove fast.”

“I haven’t talked to her in months, Skin.”

“How many months?”

“You feeling jealous? You?”

“Christ. I’m an idiot.”

“Join the club.”

I wait for him to offer me something. I’m not hungry, too busy digesting my own organs all day, but my mouth is dry and my head pounding. He joins me at the table, eyes on his folded hands. The room is classic Pete, one wall nothing but fastidiously maintained plants, but everything else in vague disarray. Newspapers piled up on the floor next to the couch, empty glasses on the coffee table. The television is tuned to what looks like an infomercial. Whatever Pete had for dinner, it featured garlic.

“In your message, you asked about James. You think he knows something?”

“I don’t know. I tried to get hold of him, but I got stiffed at his company. Directory assistance was a brick wall.”

“So you figured I owe you a favor?”

“Pete, come on, it wasn’t me got between you and Ruby Jane.”

“No, I got between me and Ruby Jane all on my own.”

I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. “All I want is to make sure she’s all right.”

He drums his fingers on the table, then reaches up and pulls at his lower lip. I’ve seen that look before. Peter trying to make a decision. He stands up suddenly. “Stay here.” He disappears into the hallway, returns before I can object. He offers me a folded piece of paper. “Here.”

I open a printout from a computer address book:
James Whitacre
, with a San Francisco address and phone number.

“You had this printed out already. Were you expecting me?”

“When I got your message, I looked it up. I printed it out and stuck it in my coat pocket in case you called me again. Never expected to be handing it to you.”