“Running errands.”

  He exhaled sharply as he rebandaged my hand. “We found the truck driven by the person who shot at you.”

  “You did? Who were they? Why were they shooting at me? How did you find them?”

  “Apparently, your neighbor, Mr. Treton, has an excellent pair of binoculars.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Anyway, he keeps them right by the window, and while he was dialing 911, he wrote down a partial license plate of the truck. That’s why I was trying to get in touch with you all day.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I just assumed you wanted to harass me as usual.” His annoyed look cheered me. “So who was it?”

  “Good question. The truck was reported stolen out of a grocery store parking lot about a half hour before you were shot at.”

  “Did you dust for fingerprints?”

  “I know my job, Benni,” he said wryly. “Wiped clean.”

  “Oh.” I propped my left elbow up on the kitchen table and rested my cheek on it. “So what happens now?”

  “What happens now is we go get some dinner. Unless, of course, some food has miraculously appeared in your refrigerator.”

  I was hungry, starving in fact. But the thought of spending an evening sitting across from Ortiz eluding his questions was not the least bit appealing. I was afraid he’d somehow worm out of me what I was doing tomorrow.

  “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

  “Well, I am.” He picked up the kitchen phone and started dialing.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I think I’m ordering a pizza.”

  “What? You can’t ...”

  He held up his palm and quickly ordered a large thick-crust mushroom and black-olive pizza and a six-pack of Cokes.

  “You’re incredibly arrogant,” I said when he hung up the phone.

  He smiled at me, unruffled. “In my line of work, that could be taken as a compliment.” He gathered up the first-aid supplies and stuck them back in the cupboard. “You really need to invest in some more first-aid supplies.”

  “Who do you think you are? You walk in like you own the place ...” Then something dawned on me. “Oh, no, you are not spending the night here again. That’s final. No discussion, no argument, no way. I mean it.”

  He loosened his tie further and laughed. “No, not tonight. I don’t think they’ll try again. Besides, my reputation couldn’t stand it.”

  “Your reputation? What about mine?”

  “A woman who’s found two bodies in less than two weeks? Sweetheart, your reputation is already suspect.”

  I stared at him for a moment, trying to decide what I should do. Part of me wanted to tell him to get lost. Another part didn’t want to spend another evening with no one to talk to except the newscasters on TV.

  “Look,” I said. “I’ll let you stay the evening if you promise one thing. No questions. For once, let’s just be like normal human beings. Can you do that? Just for tonight?”

  “Are you holding anything back from me?”

  I looked him straight in the eye. “Yes.”

  He smiled slowly. “Well, looks like we’ve made some progress here. At least you’re telling the truth now. Okay, just for tonight then. I think it would be wiser if you told me what you’re hiding, but I’ll try not to mention it again.”

  So for three hours we ate pizza, drank Cokes and laughed at the similarities of growing up in small towns in Kansas and California.

  At one point, I asked him something that had been bugging me since this whole thing started.

  “How did you know I was at Trigger’s the day after Marla’s murder?”

  “Very complex police procedure. I had you tailed.”

  “I didn’t see anyone following me,” I said in amazement.

  “Good, that means it was done right. Now, I have a question for you.”

  I looked at him suspiciously.

  “Not about the case,” he said. “Tell me, did you really castrate a bull when you were ten?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, that. It didn’t seem to impress you much when I said it.”

  “Cops learn early to hide their true feelings.” He picked an olive off his slice of pizza and popped it in his mouth. “I won’t tell you what went through my mind. Did you, or was that a lot of hot air?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Actually, it was a calf, and my dad did help me. It was part of a 4-H project, so I had to do it rather than the ranch hands who usually castrated our calves. It’s not as hard as it sounds. You take this thing called an elastrator and fit them around the scrotum of the calf. Then when both testicles are through the rubber rings, you release the pressure and the ring constricts. It cuts off the blood supply and the testicles eventually fall off. Easy as pie. Doesn’t hurt except for the first hour or two.”

  “Easy for you to say.” His face held a slightly pained look.

  I laughed and picked up another piece of pizza. “C‘mon, Friday. I thought you said you spent every summer at your grandfather’s farm.”

  “Wheat farm. Big difference. No blood and guts there unless you fall in front of a combine.”

  “Why philosophy?” I asked at one time during the evening. “I’d expect a cop to get a degree in criminal justice or torture techniques or something.”

  “Aaron—Chief Davidson—talked me into it. We were partners when I was going for my bachelor’s. I talked so much about this philosophy class I was taking, he said I’d be stupid not to keep studying something that excited me so much.”

  A flicker of some emotion crossed his face and I wondered just how sick his friend was. “He was right,” he said. “Being a cop is tough. There’s only so much crap you can see without it affecting how you view life. Those classes saved my life. Now, tell me about you. Why do you call your grandmother Dove?”

  “Well, the family story goes that my dad didn’t talk until he was almost three years old and when he did, the first word he said was ‘Dove’ because that was what my grandfather always called her. Since Daddy is the oldest of six kids, it just set a precedent. No one’s ever called her anything else.”

  By the time he stood up to leave at ten o‘clock, I was almost sorry to see him go. But my mind was already on my trip to Salinas.

  “This is my unlisted number.” He jotted it down on the back of a business card as I walked him to the door. “Call me if you need me.”

  I turned the card over and read it. “Aaron Davidson—Chief of Police.”

  “They plan on him coming back,” he said lightly. “Why don’t you come by the station tomorrow and we’ll have lunch?”

  I continued staring at the card, afraid to look up, afraid he’d somehow read in my face what my plans were for tomorrow. But if I said no, he’d be suspicious. He might even have me followed.

  “Sure,” I said, feeling sad and angry at the same time. It was much easier being deceitful to someone you didn’t like. “How about one o‘clock?”

  “That’s fine.”

  After he left, I leaned against the front door, scratching my cheek with the edge of his business card. Any semblance of friendship started tonight would be over when I didn’t show up for lunch tomorrow. A part of me felt regretful, but not enough to cancel my plans.

  The tule fog was heavy when I left the next morning at five o‘clock with a small overnight bag holding a change of clothes. At the last minute, I stuck Jack’s pistol in my purse. The road to Salinas was desolate in spots, and after the incident with the pickup truck, I felt better about having it with me. I’d left a message with Constance’s housekeeper that I was going to Santa Barbara to check on a couple of used pottery wheels and a kiln that a community college was selling. If nothing else, I was getting adept at lying. A useful skill if I ever wanted to sell used cars or vacation time-shares, two distinct career probabilities if Constance actually noticed how much work I’d been missing lately.

  I stopped for gas in the town of Gonzales and ate at the first open cafe. A hand-printed sign peeking out from behind pink gingham curtains promised the best huevos rancheros in town. From the number of people, mostly Spanish, crowded in the small dining room, it must have been the truth. I sat down at the gray Formica counter and spun the aluminum creamer as I waited for my order. The buzz of mixed English-Spanish conversations reminded me of weekends at Elvia’s house when I was a girl. A Spanish-music station played a song I remember Elvia’s mother singing. The Aragon brothers, children of rock-and-roll, made fun of the Spanish folk music Sẽnora Aragon loved, though one of them, Rafael, did his master’s thesis on it, and in the process, began to listen to it on the sly. Whether you want it or not, your upbringing can sneak up on you when you’re not looking.

  The spicy, meaty smell of the eggs and salsa was more appealing when they weren’t actually sitting in front of me. The closer Salinas loomed, the more my stomach churned worrying about what I would find out from Suzanne Hart. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was delving into this deeper than I should. Was knowledge always better than ignorance? That was a philosophical question that probably had no answer, or maybe too many. I thought about Ortiz. It was probably just the kind of question he’d love to debate or, more likely, lecture on.

  “No like?” my chubby, coronet-braided waitress asked as she refilled my coffee cup.

  “Si,” I said, and smiled apologetically. “Not hungry. No hambre.” I patted my stomach and tried to remember the Spanish word for sick.

  “Ah.” She rubbed her own stomach and I noticed for the first time she wasn’t chubby, she was pregnant. Her face held a question.

  “No.” I shook my head and sighed. “Corazón.” I lay my hand across the front of my flannel shirt, over my heart.

  She touched a small brown hand to her smooth cheek. “Men,” she said, nodding her head in sympathy.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, thinking about Jack and Wade, and with some reluctance, Ortiz. “Men.”

  I stopped at a Unocal gas station just outside of Salinas to check the phone book. I looked under “Hart” and found four listings. None of them knew a Suzanne. That left the bars. There were no listings under “Bar” and an unbelievable number under “Restaurants.” I tried “Nightclubs” and found a list that seemed manageable and probable. She might have gotten a job doing something else, but it seemed unlikely. The money made by cocktail waitressing was good, and people usually stayed with what they knew. For two tens and an extra five, the young gas station attendant sold me his last two rolls of quarters. I checked my watch—eleven-thirty—most of the bars should be open. I leaned against the glass wall of the phone booth and started dialing.

  A little over an hour later, I had three possibilities—two Suzannes and a Susan. None of them with the last name Hart. But then, there was no guarantee that she was using that name. Susan was working now, but the two Suzannes worked the evening shift and wouldn’t be on until six o‘clock.

  The Susan ended up being, as I expected, a washout. She’d lived in Salinas her whole life, had never been to San Celina and was married with twins, a Ford Explorer and a new guinea pig. All of this was told to me in less than five minutes. I would have known more if I hadn’t insisted that I had a pressing engagement across town in fifteen minutes.

  The next six hours dragged like one of Garnet’s family stories. I walked for hours, stopping every so often for coffee or a Coke, too nervous to eat or sit anywhere for long. By the time I drove to the first bar, a long, narrow stucco building painted red and called the Short Branch Saloon, the caffeine had me as jumpy as a cat during an earthquake.

  The Suzanne who worked there arrived a half hour late for her shift. I drank another Coke, fended off two cowboys wanting to two-step and tried to still my nervous foot. By the time she came in, I almost pounced on her. I followed her into the tiny, rose-scented bathroom and questioned her while she slipped into her short denim skirt and satiny Western shirt. In the dingy mirror she applied a thick layer of peach base on her pale, middle-aged face.

  “I don’t think I’m the gal you’re looking for, hon.” She took a rat-tailed brush and teased the crown of her white-blond hair, then smoothed a thin layer of hair over it. I hadn’t seen anyone do that to their hair in twenty-five years. “I don’t know any Marla, and I sure as heck never worked in San Celina. Dated a guy from there once. Rodney Joe Barnett. Know him?”

  “No,” I said, leaning against the sink, feeling like I wanted to throw up.

  “You okay, hon?” She looked at me, concerned. “You look awful pale. You want some of my Max Factor here?” She held out the liquid makeup bottle.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” I bent over and splashed cold water on my face. “Too much caffeine, I think.”

  “We just can’t handle it like we used to, can we?” she said with a final jab to her hair.

  My last chance was a large, splashy country-western bar called Aunt Sudie’s Goodtime Emporium and Drinking Establishment. The sign had enough neon in it to make the grade in Vegas. It attracted a crowd younger than most country-western bars and there was a six-dollar cover charge. I went up to the crowded horseshoeshaped bar in the middle and asked for Suzanne.

  “Called in sick,” the thin, gauzy-haired bartender said, laying a red napkin down in front of me. “What’ll it be?”

  My heart dropped into my stomach. I ordered a Coke and tried to think of what to do.

  “If her real name is Suzanne Hart, I need to talk to her,” I blurted out when he set the drink in front of me. My voice sounded more desperate than I intended.

  He gave me a curious but guarded look. “What about?”

  “It’s personal.”

  He looked at me and shrugged.

  “Were you the guy I talked to earlier?”

  “I don’t know. When was that?”

  “I called earlier and asked if there was a Suzanne working here. You, or somebody, said yes. Was that you?”

  “Could be.” He wiped the counter in front of me. I started to speak again, but he held up a finger and took an order from three giggling girls wearing almost identical outfits of short black denim skirts, fringed Western shirts and large Hopi-style silver earrings.

  “What do you want her for?” He turned back to me, his pale green eyes mild and watchful.

  “I have some information she might want,” I said.

  “You tell me the information,” he said. “And maybe I’ll pass it on to her.”

  “I told you. It’s personal.”

  With an indifferent look he started mixing the drink orders of a tired-looking waitress in silver boots. The house band struck up “Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys.” He hummed along with the song, his eyes shifting over to me every so often.

  “What makes you think she’s the Suzanne you’re looking for?” he asked about ten minutes later. He folded his towel and hooked it to his belt.

  “Tell her Marla’s dead, and we’ll see if she’s the right Suzanne.”

  That got a reaction.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  He called the other bartender over, whispered in his ear and then headed for the back of the bar, skirting the large dance floor filled with two-stepping bodies. I contemplated following, afraid he might take off and spirit her away before I could talk with her, but he was gone before I could get out of my seat. I poked at my ice and prayed he wasn’t lying.

  A few minutes later he came back, an angry look on his face.

  “She’ll see you,” he said, coming back behind the bar. “But not without me there and I don’t get off until midnight.”

  “But ...” I started.

  “Take it or leave it.”

  “Fine,” I snapped. “I’ll be waiting back there.” I pointed to a small round table as far away from the dance floor and band as possible. Even so, I fought off dance requests all night, my refusals becoming more irritable as the night dragged on and the rhinestone cowboys got more obnoxious. After five hours of the house band’s repertoire of twenty country songs, I could have played lead guitar on any of them.

  “Brown Jeep’s mine,” the bartender said as we walked out into the clear, cold night shortly after midnight.

  I followed him to a neighborhood of inexpensive tract homes a few miles away. He pulled up in the driveway behind a light-colored Dodge Charger and waited for me to park in front and walk across the wet, nubby grass.

  He opened the door with a key from a ring attached to a long chain on his belt and stepped in ahead of me.

  “Suzanne, it’s Nick.”

  I stepped inside the small, overheated living room. A redheaded woman, thick through the middle, with spindly legs in black stretch pants and a billowing zebra-print top rose from the green plaid sofa.

  “What happened to Marla?” she asked in a low, grating voice.

  I inhaled unevenly and told her about Marla and Eric. Her face paled when I finished. The tattooed dagger over her right thumb seemed to lengthen as her fingers danced with an unlit cigarette.

  “I don’t want to cause any trouble for you,” I said. “Just tell me if any of this has to do with my husband.”

  “Who’s your husband?” she asked.

  “John Harper. Jack. He was killed in a car accident on old Highway One about nine months ago.”

  “Oh, no.” She bent over and held her head in her hands.

  “What?” I asked in a desperate voice, my pulse racing.

  She sat up, gestured for a light from Nick, who shook his head.

  “Just give it,” she said. “I’ll quit some other time.

  “I worked with Marla at Trigger’s, but I guess you know that already.”

  I nodded and she continued.

  “One night we closed the place like we usually did, pushing the drunks out the door, counting the till. Then we decided to take a six-pack and a pizza and go down to the beach. Marla was having some man problems and we were going to talk.”

  She inhaled deeply on her cigarette and gave a tiny, cat cough. “She knew of a beach where you could drive right out on the sand. We were going to watch the sunrise. On the way we passed someone stumbling along the road. It was the strangest thing. Not a car anywhere. Just this guy tripping on his own feet along this little road. All dirty and bloody. Big gash on his arm.”