CHAPTER 9

Davy, who drives a truck for Toby’s, was willing to bring my car out. A hundred bucks for what would amount to maybe two hours was good news to him. And all I have to do is set the date, lock up my bike at the Ross Post Office, walk to Carmel Drive, and wait for Winslow to come out. And if he doesn’t, then I cancel Davy and we re-set it.

Detective Fuller showed up again. It was threatening rain and he wore a heavy coat, the collar turned up.

It was mid-morning.

“You don’t work, do you?” he said.

“I haven’t worked in three years. I paid off this house, my car is paid for, I draw some money from a 401K, and I have few expenses. I’m a carpenter. But after she died, I couldn’t seem to hit the nail straight. I did shitty work. I was a finish carpenter, did quality work, and suddenly I couldn’t concentrate. I left pecker tracks in the wood. Nobody likes that. Now I build birdhouses. Give them away.”

“You check up on our boy, Winslow?”

“Yes. I checked up on him. He’s a rich fucker. Got a trophy wife. Lives in a house that could be the lodge in a national park. “

“But you’re not planning on doing anything foolish?”

“No.”

“Then why did you buy a gun?”

“You checked up on me.”

“That’s right. Your name showed up when they ran the security check on you. They copy the sheriff’s office on all of these. Anybody in Marin County who buys a gun gets checked out by us. To see if we have them on our radar. You bought a Glock G43. Why did you suddenly decide to buy a gun?”

“No particular reason. You don’t think I’m going to shoot the asshole, do you?”

“I’m not sure what it is that you’re going to do. You don’t live in West Oakland. There’s not a rash of burglaries in your neighborhood. You don’t belong to a gang. There’s no longer a shooting range in Marin County. There’s no rash of threats to home owners, no sudden cluster of people doing armed home entries. So why go out and buy a hand gun?”

“No particular reason. These days everybody seems to be buying a handgun. I’m no different. It’s next to my bed.”

“It would be a good idea if you locked it up some place. Some place where it would be difficult for you to get to it easily.”

“Is this a neighborhood watch program? Does the sheriff’s department do this with anybody who buys a gun?”

“No. I just don’t want you to do anything foolish. Something that would put you away for the rest of your life. You shoot the sonofabitch and you’ll go away for a long time, maybe the rest of your days. Guy your age, if you’re lucky, they’ll send you to High Desert, which is way the fuck up in the northeast corner of the state and you’ll spend your time in the craft shop making birdhouses. If you’re unlucky, you’ll end up in San Quentin or Soledad where there are some really ugly people. You wouldn’t last a month in a place like that. And it would be a month you wouldn’t want to remember. Please tell me that you aren’t planning on doing anything to this fuckhead.”

“I’m hoping he has an accident. Maybe gets run over by a UPS truck or falls in the ocean and drowns.”

“As long as you’re not driving the UPS truck.”

“So have you found out anything else that might connect him to my daughter’s death?”

“Nothing. There’s no place to look. The truck driver who saw the collision only says it was a man driving. He stopped, went down to the bay, tried to get to your daughter, but it’s the deep part of the channel, just past White House Pool.”

“I know where it is.”

“Yeah, of course you do.”

“So he gets to live out his life, no punishment, nothing?”

“Nothing I can tie to him. Maybe he feels shitty about it. Maybe he has nightmares about what happened.”

“Maybe.” I looked at Fuller, put my hands to my face, scrubbed my face and said, “He drives an S-class Mercedes. A hundred grand. He lives in a fucking palace. He gives a shitload of money to museums. His fucking trophy wife at his side.” I could hear the rain now, drumming on the roof. Hard. The kind of day that would be a good one at North Beach. Rain driving down, the surf up, pounding on the beach, no chance for anybody who fell into that raging maelstrom.

“I tried to trace that Expedition,” Fuller said. “He traded it in on a Range Rover and then it got auctioned off. Went to a dealer in Stockton. The trail gets murky there. I won’t quit on this,” Fuller said. “I want you to know that. If I find anything, you’ll be the first one to know,” he said, rising. “And lock up that fucking gun. Please.”