Chapter Four

Freedom, California, is a small, seaside community located in San Remo County, halfway between Santa Barbara and San Francisco. I was born and raised here.

Now I was living in a rented, not-quite-fully-furnished, two-bedroom condo that offered views of the Freedom Township foothills on one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other. It felt transient enough to satisfy my need for impermanence.

I studied criminal justice at John Jay University in New York City, and upon graduation, joined the Los Angeles Police Department.

I was immediately at home in L.A., in Hollywood, actually, totally dedicated to my work and to the nonconventional lifestyle of a resolute single, more intent upon hooking up than on settling down.

At six-three, thirty-one years old, physically fit and okay-looking, living in a universe that contained some of the most attractive women on the planet, I believed I was heading into what I would come to remember as the best years of my life. A fantasy that was cut short by my father’s illness, the reality of which wiped out whatever wind was filling my sails.

Having been overwhelmingly re-elected to a third term as San Remo County Sheriff, he had pushed all of my buttons and persuaded me to move back to Freedom and become his Chief Deputy. I was to cover his back and ostensibly succeed him when he could no longer fulfill his duties as his ALS progressed.

It wasn’t the job that attracted me. It was the father/son thing. We had never been close, Burton Steel, Senior, and me, B.S., Junior. He was a difficult man, guarded, dour, and emotionally unavailable.

During my time at Jay College, I had undergone a couple of years of psychoanalysis, which had a significant impact on me. When my father became ill and asked me to join him, I knew it would be the only chance I would have to deal with whatever unfinished business existed between us. So I returned to the nest. The nest I had come to wish I might flee at the earliest opportunity.

Communication with the old man had always been difficult. He had never been given to introspection. Now, facing near-certain death, he retreated even farther from self-examination. He was distracted and depressed. And angry.

He was still able to push my buttons, and at the same time, fill me with despair. I arrived in Freedom well-intentioned and eager for the challenge of deepening our relationship, only to be disillusioned and disappointed.

I often found myself angry, too, unable to capture his attention and fearful that whatever opportunity for closeness I had imagined we might achieve was no more than a pipe dream.

I was in my office, feet up, staring out the window, gazing at a darkening sky, mulling, when Marsha Russo knocked on my door.

Marsha was a robust woman of significant energy, a “shtarker,” as my father called her, quick-witted and smart-mouthed.

“Problem,” she said as she sat down heavily in front of my desk.

“What problem?”

“Kimber Collins Carson.”

“The widow?”

“The widow.”

“What about her?”

“She’s gone.”

“She’s gone?”

“Stop repeating everything I say. Yes. She’s gone. I phoned to set up an appointment and when the phone went unanswered, I drove out to her condo.”

“Because?”

“Something didn’t feel right. In any event, she wasn’t there. Her car was in the garage and she wasn’t home.”

“So?”

“So I checked around a bit. Seems an Uber driver picked her up at around seven o’clock last evening and brought her to Freedom Field.”

“And?”

“She took a shuttle to LAX, followed by a United flight to Newark.”

“So she’s left the state.”

“She has. Yes.”

“When you spoke with her yesterday, did you make mention of the fact she shouldn’t leave the state?”

“She was so plotzed, it wouldn’t have mattered what I mentioned to her.”

“Plotzed?”

“Colloquialism for heavily sedated.”

“Have you tried to reach her? Isn’t she from New Jersey?”

“Montclair, actually. I phoned her parents’ house. Twice.”

“And?”

“She wouldn’t take my call.”

“But she was there.”

“According to the man who answered the phone, she was.”

I knew this didn’t bode well, either for the widow or for me. I could already hear the District Attorney in my mind’s ear and I fully expected to soon be on the receiving end of his displeasure.

Marsha interrupted my reverie. “What do you want to do, Buddy?”

“This raises her suspect profile.”

“You think she did it?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never even spoken with her. I’m guessing she wanted to be with her family. But leaving town and not responding to your calls isn’t good. I’ll inquire as to the D.A.’s wishes.”

“I’m sorry about this, Buddy.”

“Me, too.”

Assistant District Attorney Alfred Wilder picked up my call. “What do you want?” he said.

“And a good day to you, too, Skip.”

“What is it, Buddy? I’m totally jammed here.”

“I’ve got a conundrum.”

“What?”

“A conundrum. You know, a problem. A quandary. A dilemma.”

“I know the definition of conundrum, Buddy. Don’t be such a jerk.”

“Key figure in the Henry Carson murder case skipped town.”

“Excuse me?”

“Carson’s wife. She left the state.”

“How could she have done that?”

“She took a local to LAX and a red-eye to Newark.”

“Jesus, Buddy. Possible suspect in a murder case. She’s not supposed to leave the state.”

“That’s why I’m calling.”

“Lytell’s not going to like this.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Jesus, Buddy.”

“You already said that.”

“He’s definitely not going to like this.”

Rather than continuing to listen to Wilder’s phumphering, I suggested, “How about you to get back to me on this, okay, Skip?”

I ended the call without waiting for his reply.