Marti loved to fly at night. Being in an airplane gliding through the darkness was almost like turning the world upside down and looking down at the stars instead of up. It was only the alignment of streetlights when they were above traffic that made the difference. She liked the real sky better, with an order that wasn’t as obvious, but she looked down until the city was behind them. The last thing she remembered was the darkness surrounding them and a few wispy clouds.
Vik shook her awake. “Los Angeles,” he said. She had fallen asleep without unfastening her seat belt.
Lieutenant Julie Webber was a tall woman, heading toward plump but not there yet. She wore her hair in a short, easily managed cut, dark brown with natural gray highlights. She smiled and held out her hand as she came toward them.
“Welcome to Los Angeles. How’s Frank?”
“Just fine,” Marti said, and added, “A good man to work for.”
“That he is,” Webber agreed. “I worked under him for twelve years before I moved out here to help take care of my parents.” She guided them along the concourse as she spoke. “He spoiled me for any other boss, but he also taught me what a good boss was, and how to put up with the . . . you know.”
“We sure do,” Vik and Marti agreed.
The condo Savannah Payne-Jones lived in wasn’t more than a fifteen-minute ride from the airport. It was unlike anything Marti had seen before and Julie Webber had to explain the layout.
From the outside it looked like it was built atop a hill, but when Julie keyed in the password and the gate swung open, they rode to the top of the hill, drove around to a unit in the back, and entered through the kitchen. Vik scooped up the mail that was scattered on the floor, and put it into a plastic evidence bag.
Stairs led down to the living room, with a cathedral ceiling, two long windows with small balconies overlooking the street and the city. Everything, walls, furniture, carpet, was white. They went down another flight of stairs and found a small hallway with a bedroom and a large bath. There were no windows.
“Basically we’re more or less underground now,” Julie explained. “Think of a hill, cut it in half and haul away the dirt. Build two stories at the top and put two stories along the side and you’ve got it.” Half a level further down there was a washer and dryer. There was a master bedroom with a huge walk-in closet and a bath at the bottom level. Marti thought of the side of the hill they were facing and felt claustrophobic.
“What if there’s an earthquake?” she asked. Suddenly all of the news footage of mudslides carrying houses along for miles came to mind.
“We try not to think too much about things like that.”
“The builders sure as hell don’t give it any thought,” Vik commented. “And the buyers have a death wish.”
They decided to begin the search here.
“I’ll just relax,” Julie said. “If you two don’t know just what you’re looking for now, you will if you find it.”
Marti shot half a role of color film and one in black and white before she and Vik began a methodical search. Jones was an orderly person. Her clothes and shoes were separated and hung by type and color. Marti turned out all of the pockets, kept the matchbooks, and put the Kleenex in a plastic evidence bag in case someone decided later that they should check for DNA. Even the lingerie and underwear were sorted that way when
Marti went through the drawers.
Prescriptions for an antidepressant and antianxiety medication were in the medicine chest. Marti took all soiled undergarments out of the hamper and put those in another plastic bag. She found several boxes of condoms in the nightstand by the bed. Marti saved the jewelry box for last. Jones had some very nice modern, expensive pieces. Marti identified a ring with a well-cut diamond solitaire and matching earrings, a genuine pearl necklace, a real emerald pendant, and a collection of crystal jewelry, some of which looked antique, all of which she was certain were made by identifiable craftsmen.
“Whatever the value of the Von Weiss pieces,” she commented, “Jones has stuff in here worth a lot more.”
“Sentimental value,” Julie murmured.
Vik came over to where they stood. He had a bag filled with his personal, favorite source of information, Jones’s papers.
Marti listed and bagged all of the jewelry and they began the journey upstairs. Uphill, Marti thought, and shivered in spite of herself at the thought of all that dirt collapsing before they reached the kitchen.
The washer and dryer were empty.
“Well, well,” Vik said when he opened the top drawer of one of two dressers. He called Marti over to snap a few photos, then took out and bagged an old sepia photograph in a pewter or silver frame. That was the only item they found in the room. The bed was made, two lamps turned off, one with no lightbulbs, the closets and bureau drawers were empty. Marti continued to photograph everything.
When they reached the living room she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Then she went to one of the windows, looked down the hill at the steady flow of traffic and thought about the possibility of the earth shifting beneath them. Her stomach felt queasy. That hamburger for supper, she decided, but she knew it wasn’t that.
Julie Webber took them to a restaurant that served seafood. Marti had lost her appetite at home hours earlier but enjoyed a bread bowl filled with clam chowder. Vik, who hadn’t been exposed to Joanna’s questionable cuisine and didn’t seem affected by the possibility of an earthquake or mudslide, ordered the surf and turf and ate with gusto.
When she was alone in her motel room, which was not only on the first floor, but built on level ground that was nowhere near any huge earth mounds, Marti took out the framed photograph. The frame was pewter, heavy. The dull finish complemented the muted gray, black and white of the photograph. The man was standing, but leaning toward the woman. He wore a wide- brimmed fedora that created shadows along the hollows of his face. Both were light-skinned enough to pass for white.
Marti wished she could tell the color of the woman’s eyes. They were light, but were they that shade of brown that Sara and Savannah Jones shared? The woman sat with her hands clasped in her lap. Her face was more animated than his was. Her mouth was compressed as if she wanted to burst out laughing. Marti caught a hint of mischief in her eyes. Her dress was modest, almost. The bodice was tight and there was just a glimpse of her breasts where it buttoned down the front. There was just the slightest tilt of her chin. Posed together as they were, leaning toward each other, looking intently at each other, but not touching. There was something about the photo that, to Marti’s eye, exuded a subtle but distinct sexuality.
The back of the photo slid right off; beneath was the usual piece of cardboard. When Marti pulled that out she found a letter. The paper was unlined with many creases and brown with age. It was written in black ink, the handwriting slanting downward and easy to read. When she unfolded the paper she could see that someone had balled it up, then smoothed it, out causing most of the creases. Curious, she read:
My Dearest Sweetheart,
Your letter oj Sunday was received this afternoon. I am glad
to hear you are well and taken care of, but I don’t know if I like so much that you keep such late hours. And your mother and aunt are worse aren’t they. You all have gotten quite bad since I left, haven’t you. Haven’t you a guilty conscience tho? I’ll bet you have. Maybe when I come to Lincoln Prairie again you will look so tired and played out that I’ll be disappointed in you or will I find my darling girl and just as pretty as a daisy? Well we’ll see.
It certainly is drawing nigh unto the time when our Lord will come to call his own, as everywhere there seems to be such strife and discontentment. Of course the harvest is plentiful for all His children to work hard but it seems that so many of His children are hanging on the hoe handle, so to speak, and only waiting for their time to receive their pay. It must Grieve our Lord to see so many that are careless and wandering. I trust dear hear that both of us may be so in love with our Lord that we may ever be ready to go where He Wants us to go and . . .
Both sides of the paper were covered. Page two stopped here. Marti read it again. There was no date on the letter or the photograph. When she was finished reading she wasn’t sure who the letter was written to, but she was certain that if it was the woman in the snapshot, the man standing beside her was not the man who had written it.