Marcia Muller: Burn Out

Well, you’re involved now, McCone, whether you like it or not. At least you’re an outsider, an observer with professional judgment, rather than a torn-up family member like Ramon…

He was in one of the sheriff’s department cars now, giving his statement to a deputy, but before they’d arrived he’d been crying in my arms. Later he’d be embarrassed by that, I knew, but at the time he’d needed comfort. I’d never mention his tears, and neither would he, but eventually they’d either put up a wall or forge a stronger bond between us.

Another deputy approached me. “Ms. McCone, I’m Deputy Drew Warnell. Can we talk?”

He was young, so smooth-faced that I’d bet he didn’t shave but every other day, and he turned his hat in his hands as he spoke, his dark hair falling in a thick shock over his forehead. I suggested we go sit in Ramon’s truck.

When we were settled, Deputy Warnell took out a notepad. “I understand you were with Mr. Perez when he discovered the deceased?”

I explained how I’d encountered Amy under disturbing circumstances that afternoon and told Ramon about them. “The man who rented the trailer, Boz Sheppard, was the one who threw her out of his truck. Ramon decided to come here and talk with him. He asked me to come along.”

“Why?”

“He said the situation needed a woman’s touch.”

“It wasn’t because you’re a private investigator?”

“No, I came as a friend.”

“So Mr. Perez entered the trailer and found the victim?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you take steps to ensure that he didn’t disturb the crime scene?”

“Because he moved too fast. I’d only seen the body seconds before he touched it. I did get him outside as quickly as I could.”

“Mr. Perez has identified the young woman as his other niece, Hayley Perez, last known address Las Vegas.”

“Yes.”

“Did you know Hayley Perez?”

“I don’t know any of the family, except for Ramon and his wife, Sara. He’s foreman at my husband’s and my ranch.”

“The Ripinsky place?”

“Yes.”

For a moment his official facade slipped and Drew Warnell seemed even younger. “I used to ride horses up there. My mom and dad were friends of Hy’s and Julie’s.”

“There’s only one horse left now-Lear Jet.”

He shook his head. “Must’ve come after my time. And I don’t think Mr. Perez was working there then.” He paused, seeming at a loss for further questions.

I asked, “D’you have any idea how long Hayley Perez has been dead?”

“Not long. The ME said within the last hour.”

Shortly before Ramon and I had arrived, then. “Shot at close range. How many times?”

“Once, straight into her heart-” He broke off, then said, “Ms. McCone, I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t be giving you these details.”

“And I shouldn’t’ve asked-professional habit.”

“You work for what agency?”

“I own McCone Investigations, in San Francisco.”

Something flickered in his eyes as he put it together. There had been huge publicity earlier in the year on the serial bomber case.

“Sorry,” he said. “I must be slow tonight. I didn’t make the connection until just now.”

“No worries.”

“I should’ve-”

I held up my hand to forestall yet another apology. “As I indicated earlier, I’m not here in a professional capacity. I see your colleague’s done with Ramon, and I really should be getting back to him. If you need to ask any further questions, you can reach me at the ranch.”

Ramon wasn’t fit to drive yet, so I took the wheel of his truck. As I turned onto the highway, he said, “I told the cops I’d break the news to Miri.”

“Where does she live?”

“You don’t want to go with me.”

“Remember what you said before? A woman’s touch?”

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Make a right turn on the first street this side of the Food Mart.”

After I’d driven into town and turned off, he said, “This won’t be pretty.”

“It never is.”

But the small gray clapboard house in the middle of the block was dark, and no one answered when Ramon knocked.

He said, “Miri’s probably at one of the bars or the motel-or passed out inside.”

“You have a key?”

“Nope.” He tried the knob, but unlike at the trailer where we’d found his niece’s body, the door was locked. “I better check the bars. Something like this, news gets around fast. A deputy goes off duty, he starts talking. That’s no way for Miri to find out.”

“Okay, where do we start?”

He looked away from me. “Not we-me. I’m okay now. You take the truck back to the ranch, get some rest. It’s almost midnight.”

I felt a flash of relief, but still felt compelled to say, “I don’t mind-”

“Sharon, I appreciate all you’ve done tonight. But Miri-I’ve got to handle her myself.”

“How’ll you get home?”

“I’ll call Sara when I’m done, ask her to come and get me.”

“Okay, then. Good luck with Miri.”

The phone was ringing when I let myself into the ranch house. As I went to pick up, I noticed the time on the old-fashioned kitchen clock: 12:23.

“Happy Halloween, McCone.” Hy.

“And the same to you.” I’d completely forgotten what the date was.

“Where’ve you been all this time? I’ve left messages on the machine, and on your cell.”

“Sorry I haven’t checked either. Where I’ve been is an awfully sad story.”

His voice sharpened when he asked, “What’s wrong?”

I went over the events of the evening.

“Jesus,” he said when I’d finished. “Poor Ramon. How’re you?”

“I’m handling it.”

“And?”

“That’s all. I was there for Ramon when he needed me. Now the county sheriff can deal with it.”

“… Right.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing, really.”

“You think this is going to suck me in, don’t you? You think that next thing I’ll be prowling around, trying to find out who killed that woman.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Well, good, because it’s not going to happen. That part of my life is over. Over. ”

“I hear you. Have you made any decisions yet? About your future?”

“No, not yet.”

We went on to discuss his day, our cats, and his coming up here on the weekend. After we ended the conversation, I took a hot shower and crawled into bed.

All I wanted was to blot out the events of a long, horrible day. Maybe if I could do that, even for a few hours, I’d be able to distance myself from Ramon’s trouble.

Maybe.

Distance-sure.

At around ten-thirty that morning I was washing out my coffee cup at the kitchen sink when Sara Perez’s SUV drove in and parked next to Ramon’s truck. She got out, looked inside the truck. Then she spotted me through the window, waved, and moved toward the house.

Sara was a short, heavy woman with gray hair in a long braid that hung nearly to her waist. In spite of her girth, she moved gracefully. A native of Oaxaca, Mexico, she was a midwife and concocter of herbal medicines, assisting at births and dispensing natural panaceas in remote towns all over the county, as well as a writer of children’s books aimed at the state’s soon-to-be-dominant Latino population.

When I met her at the mudroom door, I saw that her eyes were worried, her full lips cracked and raw as if she’d been nibbling at them.

“Ramon didn’t come home last night,” she said. “I heard about Hayley. The radio said he found her body and that you were with him.”

Damn! Why did they have to give out that information? No privacy-