Backfire

28

Near Nicasio, California

Forty-five minutes northwest of San Francisco

Sunday afternoon

Harry turned the U.S. Marshals’ Chevy Suburban west off Highway 101 on Lucas Valley Road, drove about ten miles, then turned right on Nicasio.

Sherlock looked out over the rolling hills of cattle and horse country. “The hills are still all gold and brown, even with the rain.”

Cheney said, “The rain was a little late this year. By March, the hills will be as green as Ireland.” He saw Harry turn the windshield wipers on intermittent, and said, “I hope we stay with this light mist. A full-on downpour would really make things difficult.” He waved a hand as Harry curved left. “There’s Nicasio, one square block, really. Its claim to fame is the 1871 red schoolhouse. It’s a historical landmark.”

Harry said, “The Nicasio Reservoir is up ahead. You’ll see this area is a real mix, with a few exclusive, expensive homes sitting next to farm country and to old hippie hangouts.”

Eve said, “Hard to believe we’re so close to the gazillion people living in San Francisco.”

They were all thinking, We’re talking about the ridiculous weather and the scenery because Mickey O’Rourke is dead.

Harry pulled in to what looked like a makeshift parking lot, climbed out of the Chevy, and opened a gate. “Here it is. Ranch Road.” And he got back into the SUV and drove through the gate. He followed the narrow, dirty road through trees and fancy horse pastures and hills dotted with cows. They came across a white Crown Vic with a green sheriff’s ID on the side, parked at the edge of the road.

Bud Hibbert, the Marin County sheriff, was tall and runner-lean, with a full head of iron-gray hair that glistened with a light film of rain. He had a craggy, weathered face that announced he sat squarely in his fifties, and dark, smart eyes that looked like they’d seen about everything.

“How’d the FBI get hold of a U.S. Marshals’ SUV?” he asked, nodding toward the big black Suburban.

“I’m Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri,” Eve said, and shook his hand. “I’m their procurer.” She introduced everyone, and Sheriff Hibbert introduced his three deputies, all from Civic Center Main Station.

Hibbert said to Cheney, “I got the particulars you sent out on Federal Prosecutor Mickey O’Rourke Friday afternoon. When we realized the body was O’Rourke, I pulled our guys back immediately to preserve the crime scene for you. You’ve got a forensic team coming?”

Cheney nodded.

Sheriff Hibbert said, “The two kids who saw the killer-we knew they weren’t blowing smoke because Rufino Ramirez’s dad is a deputy sheriff in our Point Reyes Substation.

“We haven’t seen this kind of thing around here, Agents, since the trailside murders. It’s already all over town.”

Hibbert raised his face. “It’s been raining on and off all morning. I’m afraid I can feel more coming. No choice, let’s do this,” he said, and turned toward his cruiser and said over his shoulder, “Deputy Sheriff Ramirez took his boy, Rufino, and his friend, Eleanor, back to his house; then he called the other parents over, so they’re all together, waiting for you. How far behind you is the forensic team?”

Cheney said, “They’re only a few minutes out. I called Joe Elder, the forensic team leader, told him you’d have a deputy waiting here for them at the same place where you met us.”

Sheriff Hibbert nodded, climbed into his Crown Vic, and led them slowly past a few more dirt tracks before turning left at the fourth, which threw them into a mess of thick oak and bay trees. Soon they saw half a dozen more cars pulled onto the grass along the dirt tracks, their passenger sides pressed up against the trees. The tracks narrowed to a dirt path.

The sheriff pulled over, got out of his Crown Vic, and waved them forward. He said, “We figure the killer parked some twenty feet down this trail; that’s where we found tire tracks, nice and clear before the rain picked up. Our guys are taking the tire casts now. He carried O’Rourke’s body about a hundred feet farther into the woods. This is private land, but you can’t see the house from here.”

They followed him along a narrow trail, the trees so thick overhead it looked like twilight in the woods. There was no wind to speak of, but the air was pregnant with rain, and a light drizzle continued to fall. When they reached a small clearing, Sherlock looked up, hoping to see a bit of sun, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen. She hoped heavy rain would hold off for a while longer to give the forensic team time enough to set up some cover.

Marin County officers circled Mickey O’Rourke’s grave, talking, drinking coffee. Savich saw the hole was maybe three feet deep, deep enough to keep Mickey O’Rourke hidden in this desolate spot for decades, if it hadn’t been for those two kids. He wanted to meet them. He nodded to the deputy, then leaned down and pulled back a white tarp. They stared down into Mickey O’Rourke’s bone-white face and the obscene red slash across his neck. The deputies around the grave looked on with them.

Eve couldn’t bear it, just couldn’t. She swallowed, turned away. She said, “Ramsey is going to hate this. Why did he have to die?”

There was no answer to that.

They all turned around at the sound of footsteps coming up the trail.

“That’ll be our forensic team,” Cheney said, and waved when he saw Joe Elder.

“What are you standing in our way for!” Joe yelled, still from a distance. “Move your carcasses, let us through.”

Joe was nearing retirement now. He was impatient with fools, impatient with everyone, as a matter of fact, and would generally snort at anyone in his vicinity.

They listened to him bark out orders to his team of two men and two women, snarl at the deputies who happened to get into his space, and shout for some coffee for him and his people.

There was silence when they at last lifted Mickey O’Rourke out of his grave. Eve crossed herself, a habit ingrained from her childhood, and said a prayer. She looked over at Harry, whose face seemed to be carved from stone. His hands, though, were clenched at his sides.

Since there wasn’t anything more for them to do, Sheriff Hibbert led them to the Ramirez house. It was a mile away off another dirt road, a small clapboard house set pressed against a knot of bay trees.

They heard the two kids’ high, excited voices before they got through the front door. After introductions and their assurances no one would browbeat the kids, Julio Ramirez led them in from the kitchen.

They were eleven years old. Emma’s age, Sherlock thought, and skinny as skateboards. They looked both scared and excited, just like their parents. Eleanor looked a great deal like her mother, small and fine-boned, quite unlike her father, lucky for her.

Rufino was a good-looking kid, the image of his deputy father. A future heartbreaker, Eve thought.

It took about ten minutes before Deputy Ramirez convinced the other parents to adjourn back to the kitchen and wait. Finally they got the kids settled at the ancient mahogany dining room table, each with a soft drink and within easy reach of a plate of chocolate-chip cookies provided by Eleanor’s mother.

In another few minutes, they gently got Eleanor and Rufino to the point in their story where their explorations took them near the clearing.

Keep it light, Sherlock thought. “You two were smart not to call out to him.”

Rufino said, “We almost did, then Ellie grabbed my arm and pointed. We both saw the shovel and the big mound of earth. Ellie nearly peed her pants, she was so scared.”

Ellie punched him in the arm. “Yeah? Well you did, too, Ruf.”

Sherlock grinned at both of them. “I can sure understand that. Can you tell us what the man was wearing?”

Eleanor said, “A raincoat, it was brown, and he was wearing a Giants ball cap. It was drizzling.”

Rufino said, “We were trying to find a double rainbow, but we didn’t. We never saw his face because he had his back to us. He was pounding down a big pile of earth, then he pulled branches over the-”

“The grave,” Eleanor said, and squeezed Rufino’s fingers. “It was really gross.”

Rufino said, “And we knew right away it was a grave and we knew this man wasn’t good, so we were real quiet.”

Eve thought, You’re both alive because he never realized you were there. There was no doubt in Eve’s mind the man would have killed both children and buried them with Mickey O’Rourke. Her ponytail swung forward as she leaned toward the kids. “Did you see any part of his face? Like his profile?”

“No,” Rufino said. “We were always behind him. His boots were real dirty. His feet were small, like my dad’s.”

Harry asked, “Was your impression that he was tall? Short? Fat?”

“He was kinda tall,” Ellie said without hesitation, “and he wasn’t fat, but not as skinny as Ruf’s dad.”

“Was he about your dad’s height, Rufino?” Eve asked.

Rufino wasn’t sure; the guy was pretty far away. He knew the deputy marshal was disappointed, but he didn’t want to make anything up, and she smiled at him when she realized it. He smiled back. Yes, indeed, a girl slayer, Eve thought again.

She said, “Did he seem old to you? Young?”

“Old,” both kids said at once.

“Older than your parents?”

Neither child was sure about that. To these kids anyone over twenty was old.

Cheney said, “Then what happened?”

Rufino drank the last of his soda and wiped his hand across his mouth. “After he put some branches over the grave, he leaned down and picked up the shovel.”

Ellie said, “He said something, then he walked away.”

Harry felt his heart pick up. “Did you hear what he said?”

Ellie said, “Yes, sir, but it didn’t make any sense to Ruf or me. It was something like RIP and then a name-Mickey I think. We were afraid to move, so we sat there for another five minutes.”

Rufino said, “We heard a car motor start, it was a long ways away, but we heard it. We figured he was leaving so it was okay to move.”

Ellie said, her small voice trembling, “It was horrible. We sat there and stared at those branches and all that black earth and knew there was a dead body under the ground.”

Rufino leaned over and patted her back. “It’s okay, Ellie, it’s okay.”

Cheney said, “Let me tell you, kids, you’re both heroes. Without you, the man you saw buried would probably never be found. And you’ve really helped us.”

Rufino patted Ellie’s back again. “Since you’re a girl hero I guess it’s okay for you to be scared.” The little girl stopped shaking.

Another chocolate-chip cookie each, and everyone at the table knew the kids were tapped out. They were still excited but wrung out. They all went out into the kitchen to thank the parents and tell them how incredible and smart their kids were. Sherlock studied Rufino’s dad-maybe five feet ten inches, give or take, one hundred fifty pounds, give or take. Was Sue the taller of the two?

When they returned to the grave site with Sheriff Hibbert, they stared down into the empty hole. The rain had picked up, and the dirt was fast becoming mud and sliding into the hole. “RIP, Mickey, that’s what he said over Mickey’s grave.” The sheriff looked at each of them. “I really want you to nail this bastard.”

There was a moment of silence. Sherlock said, “The killer matches the general description of Ramsey’s shooter. More or less.”

Harry said, “If it is the same guy it’s got to tie in to the Cahills. But it could be a woman, this Sue, I suppose.” He pushed one of his fists into his palm.

Savich nodded. “Okay, we don’t know exactly when O’Rourke died yet, but my guess from seeing the body is he was murdered fairly recently. Did the killer head back from the hospital after his attempt to kill Ramsey on the elevator to where he’d stashed Mickey O’Rourke in order to kill him?”

Yes, he had, Harry thought, and nodded.

Eve turned to Sheriff Hibbert. “So he might have stashed Mickey O’Rourke somewhere near here. You have any ideas about that, Sheriff?”

Sheriff Hibbert nodded. “Deputy Ramirez told me there’s an old farm shack in the woods near here, on property that belongs to a new house a developer built some six years ago. As for the shack, it’s been deserted for years. Let’s go see.”

They fell in behind the sheriff’s car and soon turned off another dirt road onto a rutted path. They slowly made their way about fifty feet until they couldn’t go any farther.

Sheriff Hibbert leaned out the window. “We can’t see the new house from here because the dirt road-Mason’s Cross-is set at a ninety-degree angle in the middle of a bunch of oak and bay trees. We’ve got to walk the rest of the way to the shack.”

They climbed out of the Suburban into the drizzling cold rain and mud and trudged after the sheriff for about twenty yards.

Hibbert stopped. “There it is.”

They stared at a dilapidated wooden shack, probably older than Sheriff Hibbert’s parents.