Bullet Point

20

Wyatt and Greer walked to the front door of 32 Cain Street, a white door, the paint peeling here and there, revealing black paint underneath. Greer pressed the buzzer. Wyatt listened, heard no buzzing sound from within, or anything else. Maybe nobody was home; maybe they’d gone for good. Greer tried the buzzer again, then knocked, hard knocks, one-two-three; Wyatt was surprised her fists, not very big or powerful-looking, could make noise like that.

A woman spoke on the other side of the door. Wyatt had heard no footsteps: she might have been standing there the whole time. “Who’s there?” she said.

“We’re from Foothills Community College,” Greer said, so natural and confident Wyatt could almost believe it himself. “We’ve got a few questions for our school project.”

Silence.

“Easy ones,” Greer said.

More silence, and then: “Are you here for the rent?”

“The rent?” said Greer. “No. We’re from the community college. We just need a minute or two of your time.”

“The car’s not here,” the woman said, “in case you want to repo it.”

“We don’t want your car. We just want your help.”

“My help?” The door opened. A woman stood there, blinking in the light. She was old, wore a threadbare robe, had bare feet, one with a big bunion, the other slender and nicely shaped. She looked at them, her expression puzzled and a little afraid. “What kind of help?”

“Just answering a few questions,” Greer said. “Not for attribution if you don’t want.”

The woman began to look less afraid, more confused. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Greer said. “How long have you been living here?”

“Almost five years now. But there’s no lease or nothin’, which is how come the landlord-”

Greer cut her off with a quick chopping motion. “Do you know the Dominguez brothers who used to live here?”

“The place was empty when we moved in. I can’t be held responsible…” Her voice trailed away. After moment or two, she blinked again and said, “Are you cops? You look too young to be cops.”

“We’re not cops,” Wyatt said. “But a murder was committed in this house.”

The woman took a step back. “That was long before my time.”

“But you know about it?” Wyatt said.

“Too late. I knew too late.”

“What do you mean?” Wyatt said.

“Ever hear of bad luck?” said the woman. “What’s badder than living where murder’s been done? We’d never have moved in if we’da known. Then it was too late.”

“Couldn’t you have moved out?” Wyatt said.

“And gone where? It’s not so easy.”

“What do you know about the murder?” Greer said.

“Nothin’.”

“You must have heard something about it.”

The woman shrugged. “Drug deal gone wrong or some such. Why are you asking all these questions, anyways?”

Greer’s tone sharpened. “We told you. For our project-it’s about the murder.”

The old woman gave Greer an unfriendly look. “Sounds like a no-good project to me.” She turned to Wyatt. “Why don’t you take your question to the goddamn landlord-he’s owned this place forever.”

“Okay,” Wyatt said. “Who’s the landlord?”

“Slumlord’s more like it-owns the whole godforsaken street.” She bent down, clasping her robe at the throat with one hand, fishing through a scattering of unopened envelopes on the floor with the other. She picked one up, ripped out the return address from the upper left, handed it to Wyatt.

“Pingree Realty?” he said.

“Bloodsuckers,” said the old woman.

“Any relation to Art Pingree?” Wyatt said.

“How would I know? Think I socialize with those people?” She leaned closer to Wyatt. He smelled booze on her breath. “I’m choosey about my friends.”

Back in the car. “Art Pingree’s the nephew of Sonny’s boss?” Greer said.

“Yeah.”

“See what this means? The Dominguez brothers were renting the house from old man Pingree. The nephew found out they were drug dealers and cooked up the plan.”

“You should be a detective,” Wyatt said.

“Not a bad idea,” said Greer. She paused, then raised a finger, brought it down on Wyatt’s lips. A charge went through him. She smiled. He’d never seen her look better.

The Pingree Realty office was in a strip mall a few blocks from the town hall, a pizza place on one side and a liquidation store on the other. Wyatt and Greer approached the door. It opened and a middle-aged woman came out, lighting a cigarette.

“Help you with something?” she said, squinting at them through the smoke. “In the market for a cute little starter home, maybe? I happen to have one, several, in fact, and there’s never been a better time.”

Greer smiled-amused by the idea, Wyatt thought, or maybe she even liked it. “We’re looking for Mr. Pingree.”

“Mr. Pingree?”

Greer pointed to the gold-lettered printing on the plate-glass window: PINGREE REALTY.

“Oh, that,” said the woman, taking another drag. “I kept the name is all. Pingree sold out. I took over ten years ago this summer.”

“Where can we find Mr. Pingree?” Greer said.

The woman shook her head. “Cancer, I think it was, which was why he was selling. What’s this about?”

“We’re-” Wyatt began, ready to again offer up the community college story, but Greer cut him off.

“We’re researching our family tree,” she said.

“You’re related to the Pingrees?” the woman said.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“I thought that kind of thing was done online these days.”

“Mostly,” said Greer, “but sometimes you run into a dead end.”

The woman studied Greer’s face, then nodded. “Mrs. Pingree and her daughter are still around,” she said. “Two-seventeen Willow Street.” A phone in the office started ringing. The woman took one last big drag, ground the cigarette butt under her heel, and went inside.

“Family tree?” Wyatt said. “Where did that come from?”

“Isn’t it true in a way?” Greer said. “Your family tree, to be specific.”

Wyatt could see that; and more: they were researching perhaps the most important incident in the life of that tree.

Willow Street was by far the nicest part of Millerville that they’d seen. Big old wooden houses with lots of porches and turrets lined both sides, separated by broad lawns and tall hedges, although there were no willow trees in sight, and FOR SALE signs poked up here and there. Wyatt stopped in front of 217, a brown house with yellow trim. “Family tree or school project?” he said.

“School project.”

They climbed the stairs to the porch, knocked on the front door. No answer.

“What if they’ve all gone for good,” Greer said, “and we just move in and live happily ever after in this great big house?”

Wyatt didn’t like that idea, even found it a bit creepy-Art Pingree’s criminality maybe being at the root of how Sonny Racine lost his freedom. He was casting around without success for some light or even funny way to put that when a minivan came down the street and pulled into the driveway. A girl about Wyatt’s age got out of the driver’s side door, slung a backpack over her shoulder, and headed for the porch. She saw Wyatt and Greer standing there and came to a stop.

“Can I help you?” she said. She was short and lean, with dark hair and eyes and light brown skin.

Greer stepped down from the porch, Wyatt following. “Hi,” Greer said. “We’re looking for Mrs. Pingree.”

“That’s my mom,” the girl said. “She won’t be home till six.”

“Um, okay,” Wyatt said, turning toward the Mustang, parked on the street.

But Greer, as he’d been learning, didn’t discourage easily. She gave her hair a quick shake, smiled at the girl, and said, “Maybe you can help us. We go to Foothills CC and we’re working on this project.”

“Do you know Billy Friel? He goes there, too.”

“Don’t think so,” Greer said. “Is he in criminal justice?”

“I’m not sure. He was a year ahead of me, at Polk High.” She looked at Wyatt, back to Greer. “You guys didn’t go to Polk, did you?”

“We’re from Silver City,” Greer said. “What we’re supposed to do on this project is write a report on some real-life crime, from A to Z, kind of like Law and Order.”

The girl looked a bit puzzled.

“But more analytical,” Greer said. “Twenty pages minimum, double-spaced, no fancy fonts.”

The girl laughed. She was very pretty, with lively eyes; actually, Wyatt realized, noticing something strange, only one of her eyes was lively. The other didn’t seem to be sparkling as much, or at all. “Like Braggadocio,” she said.

Greer laughed, too. “Exactly,” she said. “I’m Greer and this is Wyatt.”

“Hi,” said the girl. “My name’s Toni.”

“Cool,” said Greer. “The case we’re looking into involved someone named Art Pingree. We wondered if-”

“Oh, my God,” Toni said. She turned pale. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

“Christ,” said Wyatt, putting the pieces together and suddenly feeling sick. “He’s your brother.”

Toni shook her head, very fast, as though wanting to make that suggestion go away. “Oh, no, no, no. Nothing like that.”

“You’re not related to Art Pingree?” Greer said.

Toni winced, almost like she’d been slapped. “No,” she said.

“We’ve got the wrong Pingrees?” Greer said.

“No,” Toni said again.

“I don’t understand,” Greer said.

“You’ve got the right Pingrees.” Slowly, as though her legs were losing strength, Toni sat on the top step. Greer sat beside her, just as slowly, a couple of feet away. Wyatt stayed where he was, standing at the bottom of the stairs, fighting instincts that were urging him to get back in the car and leave.

“I’m a little lost,” Greer said.

Toni nodded, whether agreeing that Greer was lost or because she herself was lost, Wyatt didn’t know. “Art Pingree was my mom’s nephew,” Toni said.

“Was?” said Greer.

“He’s dead. He got killed in Western State Prison; didn’t last a week, my mom said.”

“Who killed him?” Greer said.

“Some inmates, I guess,” said Toni. “I’m not sure if they ever found out who.” She glanced down at Wyatt. He saw a tiny white scar over her nonlively eye, shaped like an upside-down V. “You didn’t know he was dead?”

“No,” Wyatt said.

“How much research have you done?” Toni said.

“We’re just getting started,” said Greer. “Maybe it would help if you just gave us a quick run-through on the whole thing. It was all about robbing some drug dealers, right?”

“I guess so,” said Toni. She took a deep breath. “But I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“No?” said Greer. “I’m not sure I-how old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Meaning you weren’t even alive when the robbery happened. So the trauma couldn’t-”

Toni, her voice rising sharply, cut off whatever Greer was going to say about trauma. “That’s not true. I was alive. Very much alive.” A tear appeared at the outside corner of the lively eye.

“My apologies,” Greer said. “But you must have been just a baby.”

“Just a baby, yes.”

“So you couldn’t remember your cousin,” Greer said, “or anything about the whole incident, really.”

“My cousin?”

“If Art Pingree was your mother’s nephew, then don’t you have to be his cousin?”

“What a horrible idea,” Toni said.

The tear grew too big for her eye to contain, and spilled over her lower eyelid, running down her cheek. Wyatt had an idea-not a real idea, with a foundation of reason and logic, more like simply the final product.

“Were you there when it happened?” he said.