Perri O'Shaughnessy - Presumption Of Death

“Sandy?” She knew the voice, but in her new surroundings it jarred.

“Forget me already?”

“Of course not.” Sandy Whitefeather had been Nina’s secretary in her law office at South Lake Tahoe, but this summer was doing some kind of work with the federal government at the Bureau of Indian Affairs, something to do with the rights of the Washoe tribe, her people.

At the moment, decaffeinated, Nina couldn’t recall details. “Where are you?”

“D.C.”

“It’s dawn here.”

“Not too early for the police to call.”

Groggy, squinting at her watch, Nina said, “You’ve joined the police?”

“Right, I’m the new attorney general. Wake up, we have to talk. The police called me.”

“From South Lake Tahoe?” She pulled herself up and propped her back against the headboard. “What do they want?”

“Not Tahoe. Monterey County Sheriff.”

“Oh.” What in the world? “Why would the sheriff’s office call you?”

“You won’t believe this,” Sandy said, then stopped.

“Won’t believe… what?”

“Heard about some local fires?”

They had been in the paper all week, the devastating early fires of California. Spring this year had brought drought and with it, fire. Thousands of acres of scourge, hundreds of millions in damage. Last night, right before falling asleep, they had listened to an analysis on NPR. “Yeah.”

“Some near you? In Carmel Valley?”

“Now you mention it, yes. Three arson fires in the last month, right? What is it, Sandy?”

“Tuesday night was the third one. Easy to tell it was arson, they found evidence of kerosene. There was a victim this time.”

Nina thought about the dead man in her dream. All the fright of the night flowed back. It’s going to be someone I know, she thought to herself, and she gritted her teeth and said, “Go on.”

“They say,” Sandy said. She paused. “They say the body might be Willis.”

“Wish? No!” Her lungs expelled their breath, and she held a fist to her heart. “No!”

Sandy’s son was spending the summer in the area working at Paul’s investigative firm. He lived with roommates in a house Nina owned in Pacific Grove.

“Well, is he there?” Sandy asked. Her usually deadpan voice held something new and vulnerable and huge and overwhelming in it. Motherhood.

“No,” she told Sandy. “What-”

“Did you see him last night?”

“No.”

“Huh. Joseph thought maybe you had him there.” Joseph was Wish’s father, probably holding down the fort at the ranch in Markleeville during Sandy’s travels. They had animals there, and, besides, after a long journey that had lasted for years, Joseph seldom left their ranch now.

“Let me think,” Nina said rapidly. “Wait. He asked to take the rest of the week off from the office. Paul mentioned it. Why do”-in spite of her dry mouth, Nina swallowed-“the police think it’s Wish?”

“He went up the Robles Ridge above Carmel Valley Village Tuesday night with another boy. Fire burned fifteen acres on the ridge. His roommates say he didn’t come home that night or last night either. The arson team found a body. That’s why.”

Oh, no, no, no. Paul stirred. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“No fear,” Sandy continued. “It isn’t him.”

Funny how that phrase, no fear, the logo on a baseball cap, a phrase Nina so connected to her own son, struck down all her defenses. “What do you mean?”

“It isn’t him.”

“Did they ask you to come here and identify him?”

“Oh, I’m coming, but I know what I know.”

As if Sandy could see her across the three thousand miles, Nina nodded. Then she said painfully, “How do you know?”

Silence ate at the line. Sandy finally said, “I’m his mother. I know. I would feel it if he was gone. No noise strikes the house. I can say his name. Some other things that you’re not going to understand. Anyway. I want you to find him.”

“We will.”

“Is Paul there?”

Nina handed the phone to Paul. “It’s bad,” she whispered. “That fire in Carmel Valley we heard about in the news last night? They found a body and… they think it’s Wish.”

Paul took the phone from her. The sheet fell off his naked body, but he didn’t notice. “What’s going on?” he asked. And then, uh huh, uh huh s followed many times before he hung up. He jumped from the bed, strode over to the sliding doors, and opened them. Damp air flowed in. He breathed deeply.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

“He was supposed to be at Tahoe with his father. Sounds like he never made it.”

“I said good-bye to him at the office on Tuesday night. Paul… if he’s dead?”

“We deal with what we have right now. Sandy believes he’s alive.”

“She’s three thousand miles away,” Nina said.

“We’re here. Let’s get going.”

After dressing and a quick bite, they drove to the sheriff’s office in Salinas. Along the road farmworkers were picking late strawberries. The Salinas Valley was one of the richest agricultural areas in the world, lying between the southern coast ranges and the Pacific. Farmers raised lettuce, artichokes, grapes, and thirty other crops in the fields along the river. They were in the land of the California missions, and not too long ago the workers bending over the rows of plants would have been mission Indians, not Latinos.

The fields ended abruptly and town began. In an old art deco building courtesy of WPA workers in the 1930s, the main offices for the enormous County of Monterey had just opened for business. The deputy on duty sent them along to check with the county arson investigator for details about the fire. “Coroner’s not done with the body yet. You can’t see it.”

The summer’s usual cool ocean breezes hadn’t made it this far inland yet, leaving a hot sun in charge this early Thursday morning. The heat made Nina sweat, so she peeled off her sweater before going inside the nearby building that housed the fire investigator’s office.

A young girl at a desk in the entryway had just told them they were out of luck, when in blew David Crockett, a perspiring, huffing man in his late thirties with curly black thinning hair, wearing running shoes and sweats. He gave them a piercing look and took Paul’s ID.

“Right. I remember you from Monterey Police, Paul. You broke open that warehouse-fraud case in Seaside.” He shook his hand. “You’re on your own now, I hear.”

“Have been for years. Good to see you again, too, Davy. Thought you were headed to Sacramento.”

“I’ve been up there for the past two years. Been assigned down here only a few days.”

Paul looked at him. “Excellent job on that triple homicide in Roseville last year. I’d like to talk some more about that case sometime. The evidence trail your people established was outstanding. Got him what he deserved. Death row’s too kind for bastards like him.”

“Thanks.” Crockett sat them down to wait in an undecorated wood-paneled office. “Give me five seconds,” he said, and left. They heard the sound of water running somewhere outside.

“What do you think of him?” Nina asked.

“He’s dogged. Resourceful. He stays calm.”

“High praise. Did you two get along?”

“I was working my way out of the police force by then and not in the best of moods. So let’s put it this way, I hope I have since earned his respect.”

“Well, any relationship you have, exploit it, okay?”

“Do what I can,” said Paul.

Crockett came back, cheeks freshly scrubbed, decked out in creased navy slacks, a dress shirt, and tie.

“Jane, bring us some coffee,” he said to the young woman at the desk in front.