When Scott DiStefano finally made his way to the door ten minutes later, my patience had worn thin. He was around six feet tall and probably twenty pounds underweight. His blond hair reached his collarbones, giving him a California-surfer look that seemed oddly out of place in the high desert. His skin had a yellowish tint, but he hadn’t started picking at it yet. It wasn’t unfathomable that a woman who looked like Daisy would have once been married to him, because he wasn’t an ugly man. But he was doing his best to ruin what was left of whatever handsome traits he’d once possessed.
He looked at me indifferently and said, “You a cop?”
“I’m a reporter with the Desert News. I’m here to ask you some questions about Pauline Thorpe.”
“Shiiiiiit,” he said, drawing the word out as if he had better things to do.
I got a good look inside his mouth. His teeth had started to rot.
“You must have known her well, considering you were married to her granddaughter, Daisy.”
His eyes flickered with recognition when I said Daisy’s name. “What’s it matter if I know Pauline?”
“It matters because someone killed her.”
He leaned against the doorframe. “That cop wanted to know where I was and I told him. I got nothing else to say.”
I studied him, wondering what he’d done to Daisy before she left him. She said he’d stolen and pawned their things. Had he also abused her in some way? Roughed her up a little?
“Somehow I don’t believe you. And if I feel like you might have something else to tell me, I’ll be back. You can count on that, Scott.”
He slammed the door in my face. I stood there for a moment, teeth clenched, doubting that Scott DiStefano was as innocent as he wanted me to believe. There was something that connected him to Pauline Thorpe’s murder, but I didn’t know what it was. At least not yet.
I walked back to the car, and after beeping open the door with my remote, I reached in and grabbed the water bottle I’d been drinking from on the drive there. It was three-quarters of the way full. The dog growled at me as I approached, but when I crouched down and filled the dusty, empty bowl, it eagerly lapped at the water until it was gone. I refilled it and when the dog had gotten its fill, it flopped down on the grass and made a contented sound.
“I’ll try to remember to bring you a burger next time,” I said, because something told me that I would be back. I scratched the dog behind its ears and then got in my car and drove away.
*
The newsroom was crowded when I returned, or as crowded as it would ever get with such a small staff. Maggie was typing furiously while talking into a headset, and one of the copyeditors and Paul were deep in conversation. When I reached my desk, I turned on my computer and typed in the web address for a search engine dedicated to finding people. By plugging Scott DiStefano’s address into the reverse-lookup feature, I was able to determine that a man named Dale Reber, age thirty-four, owned the home. A Google image search of that name revealed a picture of the man who had answered the door. In the photo, he looked a few years younger and not quite as strung out, but it was obvious that it was him. Next I searched court records under his name but came up empty-handed, which surprised me. Either Dale Reber was smarter than the average tweaker, or he was very lucky.
Scott had mentioned he’d told the police his whereabouts at the time of Pauline’s murder. It was time to pay a follow-up visit to Jack Quick, and this time I wouldn’t leave until he talked to me.
*
Jack only kept me waiting for twenty minutes. He didn’t seem all that happy to see me, but he didn’t seem like he minded, either, which meant I was making progress.
“Brooks McClain, Desert News,” I said.
“Yeah, I remember. Follow me,” he said, leading me down the hallway to his office.
The remains of his lunch—a deli sandwich by the looks of it—were scattered across the desktop. Jack swept the crumbs and a few errant shreds of lettuce into the garbage can and took a drink of his soda, crunching the ice in a way that made me wince.
Without waiting to be directed, I sat down in the chair opposite his desk. “I understand you’ve questioned Scott DiStefano?”
“Yep.”
“And?”
“I know that he was drinking cheap beer at the Desert Tap at the time of Pauline Thorpe’s murder. A bartender by the name of Chase Arroway vouched for him.”
“Has Scott been eliminated as a suspect?”
“Pretty hard to keep him on the hook with an alibi and no physical evidence.”
“You believe the bartender?”
“Not necessarily, but I’ve got no way to prove that he’s lying. For all I know, Scott was sitting on that barstool, just like he claimed.”
“Have any other leads panned out?” I asked.
“Off the record, no, so if you’ve got anything to add, I’d be happy to hear it.” Jack had just revealed the real reason he’d deigned to speak to me. “How did you know we questioned Scott?” he asked.
“I paid him a visit at home about an hour ago.”
Jack leaned back in his chair and looked at me with mild interest. “Really? What was that like? I didn’t actually go there myself. I sent a patrolman to bring him in.”
“Rundown house in the desert. A man named Dale Reber answered the door. He was armed. I could tell by his appearance that he was a heavy meth user, and I’m sure his paranoia meter is off the charts, which explains the gun. Frankly, I’m surprised anyone even came to the door. They’re not cooking, though. I detected no anhydrous and security was way too lax. If you had a warrant, I doubt you’d find meth in any significant quantity. I’d venture their financial situation is somewhat precarious, which means their supply is, too. That can make people do really stupid things.”
Jack looked at me appraisingly. “What’s your take?”
“At this point, I’m not sure. When I questioned Scott about Pauline Thorpe, he denied all involvement. According to Daisy DiStefano, there doesn’t seem to be anything missing from the apartment, but she seems pretty convinced that her ex-husband is somehow involved. She told me she’s worried that she was the target, not her grandmother.”
“I’m inclined to agree with her,” Jack said.
“I think I’ll have a chat with that bartender.”
“You sure about that? I avoid the Desert Tap if at all possible, and I’m a cop.”
I stood. “What can I say, Jack? I’m in dire need of some excitement.”
He slid a business card across the desk. “Stay in touch.”
I pocketed the card and decided not to acknowledge his request. As far as I was concerned, he could do the waiting this time.
“I’ll see you around,” I said and showed myself out.
*
The Desert Tap was like something straight out of Deliverance. The men all looked related and like they lived in tents. Meth is especially unkind to the fairer sex, and the women who were present looked haggard and old, regardless of their true age. There were plenty of tweakers in San Francisco, but the sheer size of the population meant that the users were spread out. Here, they all seemed to congregate in one place. I doubted there was a single person in the room who wasn’t currently enjoying a meth high, which—according to anecdotal evidence—is vastly superior to just about everything, including food, sleep, and sex.
The big draw, in addition to the Pabst Blue Ribbon which was currently on special for happy hour, were the two pool tables, judging by the people playing continuously, burning off their drug-fueled energy.
I couldn’t have been any more conspicuous if I’d tried, considering I was the only man in the joint wearing a suit. I also had all my own teeth, which only served to further differentiate myself from the clientele. Heads turned when I sat down at the bar, their eyes narrowing with suspicion.
The bartender looked down his nose at me and sneered. He appeared to be in his early twenties. Full-sleeve tattoos on both arms. Stained wifebeater. P
ockmarked skin. Longish hair that probably hadn’t been washed in days.
Judge me, loser. I dare you.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Give me a beer.”
Silently, he poured PBR into a visibly dirty glass and waited for me to pay. I pulled a five-dollar bill from my wallet and laid it on the bar.
“Are you Chase Arroway?” I asked, taking a drink and hoping I didn’t contract anything that couldn’t be cured with a round of strong antibiotics. Inwardly, I grimaced; I hadn’t tasted beer that bad since quarter-draw night in college.
“Who wants to know?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Who are you?”
“Brooks McClain.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to ask you a few questions.”
“You a cop?”
Wow. Twice in one day. Must be the tie. “I’m a reporter.”
He snorted. “That’s worse than a cop. You ask questions, but you got no power. Only thing worse than a reporter is a lawyer.”
“Nice to know my place in the hierarchy.”
He looked confused. “The what?”
“Never mind.” I pushed the beer away. “I’ve been told you corroborated Scott DiStefano’s claim that he was here on the evening of September fourteenth.”
“Huh?”
I felt the beginning of a headache. “That means that when the police asked you if Scott had been here, you said yes.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Well, was he actually here at that time?”
“Yeah. He was.”
“Do you remember what time he showed up? What time he left?”
“Look. I told the cops he was here because he was. I’m not sure of the exact times. I’m not his babysitter. He was here for at least an hour in the early evening. That’s all I can tell you.” He turned away to help another customer and then moved to the other end of the bar where he struck up a conversation with an old man playing video poker.
Scott’s alibi wasn’t airtight, but it was probably strong enough to prohibit further questioning unless the police were willing to arrest him on suspicion of murder, and I doubted they had enough evidence to do it.
“I know where the garage sale is,” a voice said beside me.
I turned to see who had slid onto the stool, recoiling when I got a good look at him. His age was indeterminable, somewhere between thirty and sixty. He’d been badly burned on his face and hands; his fingers were rounded stumps. I wondered how close he’d been to the meth lab when it blew.
“Jesus,” I said. “Where’d you come from?”
“I know where the garage sale is,” he repeated.
Garage sale? “Yeah, I don’t know what that is,” I said. “And I’m not looking for it.”
He leaned back his head and laughed, a horrible cackling sound.
“Stop it,” I said.
He picked up my glass with his stubby, scarred fingers and drained it. “For twenty bucks and a pack of cigarettes, I’ll tell you.” The grin he gave me was wide, toothless, and horrifying. The stuff nightmares were made of.
I stood. “Sounds like a bargain, but like I said, I’m not looking for the garage sale.”
Suddenly his eyes went cold and he pulled a short, rusty knife from his pocket with more speed than I would have thought possible considering the condition of his hands. He jabbed it at me, narrowly missing my torso, and not one person in the bar stopped what they were doing. I reached out and grabbed his wrist, squeezing until the knife clattered onto the bar. His strength was surprising. Feeling unnerved, I walked backward toward the door so he wouldn’t have the opportunity to stab me from behind.
Outside, I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight. One glance at my watch told me it was only four thirty in the afternoon. It didn’t matter, because I was officially done with this day. When I reached my Jeep, I started the engine but didn’t pull out of the small lot behind the bar where I’d parked. Curiosity got the better of me, so despite my resolve to leave Jack Quick hanging for a while, I found myself texting him instead.
What’s it mean when a meth head talks about a garage sale?
His answer came thirty seconds later. You bring in an item and they pay you in meth. Almost everything has been stolen. Mobile. New location every day. Motherfuckers.
Thanks.
I drove out of the parking lot and headed home, feeling some nostalgia for the freaks of San Francisco.
CHAPTER 15
SCOTT
Dale had been thoroughly pissed off after the reporter left, flying into a rage as soon as Scott closed the door.
“This is the second time a cop has shown up at this house looking for you,” he said.
“Relax. He wasn’t a cop.” Scott was two hours into his high and feeling argumentative, but he decided not to feed Dale’s paranoia by mentioning that the man was actually a reporter. “He’s just some guy nosing around about Pauline Thorpe. I told him the same thing I told the cop: I had nothing to do with it.”
Dale started pacing. His hair was thick and curly, and as he walked around the room, he ran his hands through it so that it stood on end, giving him the look of a mad scientist. “You can’t keep drawing attention to us. Don’t you know they’re watching?”
“Who?” Scott asked. He was in the middle of prying apart an old MP3 player, and Dale’s ranting was starting to get on his nerves.
“Them,” Dale said.
Scott rolled his eyes. “Actually, they’re not.”
“Maybe they’re not watching you, DiStefano. But they’re watching me. And if you fuck up my chance with Brandon, I’ll kill you.”
Dale often threatened Scott and the other occupants of the house with bodily harm, but since he rarely followed through, they mostly tuned him out. But Scott’s curiosity had been piqued.
“Who’s Brandon?” he asked.
“He’s a dealer. Pretty well known, too. The guy who used to sell for him went and got himself arrested, so Brandon needs someone to take over his customers until he gets out of jail.”
“And he asked you? Really?” Scott started laughing. A person would have to be out of their mind to willingly enter into any kind of business relationship with Dale. It’s true that he knew everyone in town who was holding or using, but he’d never been able to get his own operation off the ground. He could usually find the drugs, but his business skills were nonexistent. He’d rather play mind games: come through with the drugs, tell you it didn’t matter when you paid, and then—when whoever he’d gotten the bag from started leaning on him—announce that you had one hour to come up with the money. It made him feel important.
It made Scott want to punch him.
“I don’t know why that’s so funny,” Dale said.
“Of course you don’t.” Scott might have lost everything, but he still held himself in higher esteem than Dale. He was a lot smarter, too.
Scott had thought about dealing, but none of this middleman shit Dale took part in. Often, when he was on a binge, he’d come up with elaborate business plans about how to build the biggest drug operation in San Bernardino County. But his addiction had grabbed him so fiercely, and so quickly, that he’d never been able to put a plan into action. Never been able to look beyond his next high or set aside enough money to get started. Listening to Dale ramble on, Scott realized he’d finally found the way to make it happen. No more scrambling every few days for drug money. No more scrounging for something to steal and sell.
“So what do you have to do?” Scott asked.
“Brandon’s going to front me an ounce when his next shipment comes in. I’ll have one week to pay him.”
It was a test, and Scott knew exactly what would happen: Dale would skim off the top like he always did and the chance of him selling enough to pay Brandon back was negligible at best. He was more likely to go on a binge to end all binges and would probably end up dead. Scott couldn’t care less whether Dale lived or die
d, but he didn’t want this opportunity to slip through his fingers.
“I want in.”
Now it was Dale’s turn to laugh. “Why the fuck would I give you a piece of this?”
“Because I know how to run a business, and you don’t. And if you think selling drugs means you can ignore basic business principles, you’re wrong. If you want to make this work, if you want to turn a profit, you need my help. That’s what I’m contributing.”
“No way,” Dale said, but Scott knew the wheels in his head were already turning.
“Suit yourself.” Scott shrugged and went back to his MP3 player, engrossed in the intricacy of the tiny pieces.
“You better know what the hell you’re talking about,” Dale said. “This ain’t no restaurant. We aren’t peddling little plates of fancy food. I got ideas, too. I know people.”
Scott set the MP3 player down. “For once just shut up and listen,” he said. “This is what we’re going to do.”
CHAPTER 16
DAISY
I discovered I was different when I was four years old. My preschool teacher organized a tea and we spent one whole day in the classroom making invitations. I was so excited that I used extra glitter on mine. I loved my preschool teacher and my classmates, and couldn’t wait for my grandmother to sit beside me while we sipped lemonade and ate cookies. I wore a special dress and my grandmother rolled my long hair onto sponge curlers the night before so that it hung in perfect spirals down my back. When the teacher told us our guests had arrived and would be joining us in a minute, I beamed with pride. I couldn’t wait to show my grandmother the special placemat I’d made for her and the place card at her seat, the one on which I’d drawn a bunny rabbit.
But when everyone filed in, no one referred to their guest as Grammy the way I did. They called them Mommy, Mama, or Mom.
“What do those words mean?” I asked my grandmother.
“A Mommy is someone who gave birth to you or adopted you,” she said.
“You didn’t do those things?” I asked, not really sure what either of them meant.