CHAPTER 16

The news of Davy’s death was a front page article in the Independent Journal. WEST MARIN MAN KILLED AT WORK. The article told of the Sheriff’s deputies being called by a rancher who found Davy’s truck sitting in the field, out of fuel. Inside was Davy’s body and the Sheriff’s deputy told the reporter that there was no evidence of anyone else at the scene, just the truck, loaded and ready to be driven from the field, and the driver shot inside the cab. Investigation was ongoing, the article said. There was the hint that it was a drug deal gone wrong.

Nothing else. Nobody came to call on me. I cleaned the Glock, locked it in a cupboard in the garage. I spent several days cleaning up my tools and then I called Ken Kowalski, a contractor I had worked for in the past.

“I’m looking for work,” I said.

“I thought you retired. At least that was the word at the union hall.”

“No, I took some time off. Maybe you heard about my daughter’s death. It took the starch out of me, but things have settled down, and if you’re interested, I’m available.”

“Of course I’m interested. These days it’s hard to find somebody who knows which end of the hammer to hold onto. I’ve got a job in Ross going right now.”

“Not Ross,” I said. “I’d prefer something a bit farther away from home.”

“Suit yourself,” he said. “How about Petaluma? I’ve got a kitchen remodel going and I need somebody to do cabinets.”

“Just my thing,” I said.

So I went to the job in Petaluma, spent several days tearing out old cabinets and installing new ones. The work was familiar and Ken was happy with what I did. And while I was tearing the old cabinets off the wall and installing new sheetrock and hanging the new cabinets, I thought about Earl Winslow. I thought about how he had dived into the face of that wave. That should have been a clue for me. I should have shot him right there. But of course that would have led to a police investigation when they recovered a body with a gunshot wound. If they recovered it. Still, there had to be some other way to deal with him. I watched him dive into that wave again and again. Every time I ripped a nail out of the wall or peeled off part of cabinet, I saw him stepping out of his loafers, running toward the water, suddenly head down, arms outstretched, cleaving into that wild water, like somebody who had experience swimming in the sea. He had been lucky. He had swum parallel to the breaker line, knowing that he couldn’t get back in where I was, but looking for a break in the surf and three miles south he got lucky. A ranger, a thousand to one chance looks out, says to himself, hey, there’s a sea lion. Whoops! What’s that? An arm. Let me get my glasses out of the truck. Holy shit, it’s a man out there, and he’s in trouble. What the fuck is he doing out there? The helicopter at Two Rock plucks somebody off a rock or a cliff or out of a drifting boat several times a year He didn’t even lose his fucking cuff links! Only he’s a fucking seashore incident, another person who foolishly waded too close to that dangerous surf. Another statistic.

Detective Fuller showed up again.

“You’re off somewhere during the day,” he said.

“I’m back at work.”

“Good idea. Idle hands are the devil’s playground.”

“That’s nice. I should remember that.”

“Our friend Winslow has changed his habits.”

“Why should I be interested?”

“Probably no particular reason. And then, again, it might be something that would pique your interest. He no longer drives his car himself. He has a driver. An ex-cop who’s carrying a weapon.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Because I stopped by, asked him about his dip in the ocean, said we were following up on his accident. I told him the Sheriff was concerned that nothing untoward would happen to him. He said he was pleased that we were concerned, but he had done something stupid, got punished for it by the ocean, and was lucky to survive. He said he was making a generous donation to the Coast Guard fund for the relatives of officers who had lost their lives in rescue attempts. I asked him about his car, the one we found in the parking lot at North Beach. Was he still driving it? Just routine, I said. And he said, no, he had a driver, gave me his name. So I ran a check on the guy and he came up with a permit to carry. He was a cop in Oakland who retired. Apparently he now lives in the quarters over Winslow’s garage.”

“Why would I give a shit about this?”

“No particular reason.”

“So this is just a social call?”

“You could call it that. You mind telling me where you were last Wednesday morning?”

“Probably right here. I didn’t go back to work until Friday. Why?”

“Nothing much. I’m working another case, kid who got bushwhacked out at Five Brooks. A nine millimeter. Isn’t that what you bought?”

“You think I shot some kid out in West Marin?”

“No. I didn’t say that. You still got that gun you bought?”

“I did what you told me to do. I locked it up where I can’t easily get to it.”

“That’s good.”

“And I have no interest in Earl Winslow. That’s water under the bridge.” And I suddenly had an image of water and my daughter hanging upside down in it.

“I appreciate your efforts, but unless you can come to me and say, I’ve got the goods on that sonovabitch and we’re going to trial and we’re going to put him away for the rest of his life, then I’m no longer interested in anything about him. I hope that’s clear.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that.”

We talked a bit about the shut-down of the Johnson Oyster Farm at Drake’s Bay. He said he thought it was bullshit, that the National Park was riding roughshod over the owner’s rights. I agreed with him. Actually, I didn’t care one way or another, was only vaguely aware of the controversy. And then he left.

Why had he asked me about my Glock? Had he talked to somebody who had talked to Davy? Had he come across my stay at the Tomales Bay Lodge? Had he talked to the clerk who had given Davy my address? Had the bartender at the Old Western remembered me talking to Davy? But he had left with the comment, “I’m glad to hear you say that.” Apparently Fuller was leaving me alone, had come to warn me that Winslow now had an armed driver protecting him. I would have to be more careful.