Bullet Point (11 page)

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.

“YOU WERE THERE?”
Greer said. “How could that be? Oh, my God—Art Pingree was babysitting you, took you along on a robbery?”

Toni shook her head. “Toni’s a nickname,” she said. “My real name’s Antonia.”

“And therefore…?” Greer said.

“I never talk about this,” Toni said. “I have no memory of it at all, of course, but at the same time it’s impossible to forget. And even if somehow I could forget, almost every day someone—usually someone I don’t know—looks at me funny.”

“Still not getting you,” Greer said.

Wyatt wished Greer wouldn’t say anything, wished she’d simply let Toni tell her story. He shot Greer a quick glance. She shot him back one of her own: first surprised, then annoyed.

Toni turned to Wyatt. “How did you know I was there? Was it in your research?”

“No,” Wyatt said. “It was just a wild guess.”

“Are you religious?” Toni said.

“Not really,” said Wyatt. “Why?”

“Me either,” said Toni. “But I used to wish I was—you know, hoping to make sense of things. On the other hand, you could say life’s worked out way better for me than it would have.” She was gazing at Wyatt’s face—one of her eyes inquiring and probing, the other not—gazing as though searching for something. “No one could ask for a better mom, for example. And I’ve had every opportunity—I got accepted early at Northwestern.”

“But?” said Greer.

“I’m sorry?” Toni said.

“I thought I heard a but.”

Toni bit her lip. Wyatt gave Greer another look. Greer smiled a mouth-only smile and rose. “Got a few calls to make,” she said. “I’ll leave you guys to it.”

What’s with her?
Wyatt thought. He watched Greer walk to the road and get in the car, aware that Toni was watching her, too.

“It’s a kind of group project, where you team up?” Toni said.

“Yeah.”

“That sounds interesting. Do you like Foothills?”

“It’s all right.” Which was probably true about Foothills, and at least not as direct a lie as saying,
Yeah, I like it.
Kind of stupid, since this whole…interview, if that was what you’d call it, was based on falsehood.

“The thing is,” Toni said, “I’m not sure I’d want this whole story in your project. Not that it’s a secret, but it’s not
really public, either. You know how the internet gets, so out of control.”

“We, uh, could change your name,” Wyatt said. “Change all the names, and the town, too.”

“You could?”

“Don’t see why not.”

Down in the car, Greer seemed to be watching, although the reflection of the bare treetops on the windshield made it hard to tell.

“In that case,” Toni said—she paused, then looked directly at him. “Notice anything about me?”

“No,” Wyatt said. “I mean, yeah, you’re, you know, nice-looking, but besides that, uh…”

She smiled, a very little smile, and shook her head slightly. “About my eyes,” she said. “Do you notice anything unusual about my eyes?”

Wyatt nodded.

“I knew you did. I always know.”

“Sorry, I—”

“No need to be sorry. I always know—but it doesn’t affect me. I don’t remember being any other way.” She pointed to the nonlively eye, the one with the tiny upside-down V scar above it. “This eye isn’t real. It’s a very good fake—we went to Denver for it.”

Wyatt didn’t know what to say. Toni had already ruled out saying sorry, and nothing else came to mind.

“The truth is I’m adopted,” Toni said. “My last name’s Pingree now, but it used to be Morales. My mother was killed when I was eight months old.”

“She was Esteban Dominguez’s girlfriend?” Wyatt wanted to be silent, let her tell her story, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“That’s right,” Toni said. “He was my biological father. My real father was Dad—William Pingree, but everyone called him Bud. Kind of a strange situation, the real father not being the biological one.”

“It’s good that you ended up with a real one,” Wyatt said.

“Yes!” said Toni. “Exactly. I’ve never had the slightest desire to look up Esteban Dominguez or anything like that. William Pingree was my dad, pure and simple. He suffered so much at the end.” Another tear formed in her good eye. “Have you ever seen someone die of cancer?”

“No.”

“He was so brave.” Toni wiped away the tear. “But that has nothing to do with your project. The point is my dad rented out a few houses on the North Side to some of his construction workers. One of them was Esteban’s brother, Luis. Of course, Dad didn’t know they were dealing drugs on the side. Art Pingree was the one who collected the rents, and he found out about the drug thing. He wasn’t a bad guy himself, but he was the follower type and he had these two buddies who
were
bad guys. One was called Doc, the other name I don’t remember. They decided it would be cool to rip off the drug dealers. Long story short, there was shooting. My mother got killed and I got shot.” Toni spread her hands.

“Who by?” Wyatt said.

“Who did the shooting, you mean?”

“Yeah,” said Wyatt. “I know it doesn’t matter legally, but…”

“That’s right. But it kind of does matter, doesn’t it? My dad thought so. It turns out that the two shots that mattered came from Art Pingree’s gun. He and the other two got sent to jail, and so did the Dominguez brothers, for drug dealing, and later they were deported back to Mexico. I was put in foster care, but after Art Pingree got killed, Mom and Dad adopted me. Nothing’s so bad it can’t be made a little better—that’s what my mom says.” She was silent for a moment or two, then looked at Wyatt. “Don’t you need to take notes or something?”

“I’ll remember,” Wyatt said. Down in the car and screened by the windshield reflection of the bare treetops, Greer seemed to be sitting very still.

“Any questions?” Toni said.

“What do you know about the trial?” Wyatt said.

“Not much. The judge gave Art Pingree and one of the bad guys life sentences. The other bad guy—Doc—testified for the prosecution in return for less jail time. He got out last year.” Toni’s good eye lost some of its sparkle. “The creepy thing is he came back here.”

“Here?”

“To Millerville. He’s on parole, of course, and the police chief told us they watch him, but still. Even more creepy—I wouldn’t even know him if I saw him.”

“Where, uh, does he live?”

Toni shivered. “I have no idea,” she said. “The police chief will know. Maybe you should be talking to him about
your project, but he wasn’t the chief back then.”

“That’s a thought,” Wyatt said. Loaded with problems, yes, but maybe the kind Greer could solve. He rose. “Thanks,” he said, “for the help.”

“No problem.” Toni rose, too. “Good luck with the project.” She held out her hand. He shook it. Her hand was small, but warm and surprisingly strong.

He got in the car. Greer didn’t say anything, or even look at him. They drove off. He was on the main street, almost back in the center of town, when she said, “Well, Mr. Bossman—are you going to share the story or not?”

He pulled over, parked in front of a convenience store. “What’s with you?” he said.

“With me? Nothing’s with me. Nothing’s ever with a third wheel.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then figure it out,” she said. “I’m thirsty.” She flung the door open, got out, and entered the convenience store.

He sat there, tried to absorb everything that had come at him, not really succeeding. Maybe pen and paper would help, to get the facts listed in bullet points—and if he got the facts and lined them up right, he’d know whether Sonny Racine was innocent, at least in the sense of not being the shooter. Wyatt was reaching toward the glove box when Greer’s phone went off, that ringing Dobro sound. He spotted the phone,
wedged between her seat and the console.

Wyatt dug out the phone, checked the screen.
HONG KONG
, it read, followed by a long number. He remembered Greer saying,
Curiosity killed the cat,
remembered as well what they’d been discussing at the time, namely the arson and her part in it, or not, and all that somehow added up to him clicking the talk button.

He didn’t say anything, just listened.

A man spoke. “Hey, baby,” he said. “How’re you doing?”

Wyatt said nothing.

“Greer?” said the man. “Can you hear me? It’s Van. Greer? Greer?”

Wyatt clicked off. The Dobro ringtone sounded again, almost immediately. Wyatt didn’t answer. After a minute or so the new-message icon popped up on the screen. Not long after that, Greer came out of the convenience store with an energy drink in her hand, and got in the car.

Wyatt handed her the phone. “I think there’s a message waiting.”

“You could have checked it. No secrets from you—the voice mail code’s seven four times.” Greer took the phone, glanced at the screen. “Nothing important,” she said, flipping the phone shut. “Where are we headed?”

“Not sure,” said Wyatt.

“No?” Greer sipped the energy drink. “I thought you were in command.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The masterly way you took over the Q and A of our pretty
little friend back there,” Greer said. “That’s what I mean. Ever going to share your discoveries, or is it just between the two of you?”

All of a sudden, Wyatt was angry. It didn’t happen often. “All right, let’s share,” he said. “Who’s Van?”

Greer shrugged. “No clue.” She took another sip, slightly off-target, so that a few red drops of energy drink trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes shifted toward him. “What’s that look for?” she said.

“I’ll try again,” Wyatt said. “Who’s Van?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That won’t work.”

“Huh?”

“Because you’re caught in a lie, Greer. Van just called you from Hong Kong.”

“Hong Kong? I don’t know anybody in Hong Kong. Must have been a wrong number.”

Wyatt’s voice rose. He was shouting now. “I answered your goddamn phone. Don’t you get it? He called you baby.”

She wiped the red trickle off her chin. “My mother’s husband’s a yeller, too,” she said, not raising her voice at all.

“What the fuck?”

“And nothing you do is going to make me change my story. I don’t know anyone in Hong Kong, don’t know anyone named Van. It was a wrong number, end of story.”

Wyatt got a grip on himself, forced his voice lower. But inside he was just as angry, or even more, now that it was bottled up. “You’re lying to my face,” he said. “He called you
by name. What kind of wrong number is that?”

Greer’s eyes narrowed, almost closing completely. She came close to looking ugly. “Maybe that’ll teach you not to spy on me.”

“I wasn’t spying on you.”

“You answered my phone. That’s spying.”

“You just said you had no secrets. Who’s Van?”

She didn’t answer.

“If you’re not hiding anything,” Wyatt said, “why don’t we call that Hong Kong number right now?”

“Know what?” Greer said. “You’re just like all the rest. You do sincerity better—that’s the only difference. Especially in bed. Lucky you.”

“You’re making no sense.”

“Don’t worry your little head about it,” Greer said, opening the door. “You’re free as a bird.” She got out, closed the door—not with a slam, more like the opposite, slow and careful, and walked off down the street. After two blocks she turned a corner and vanished from sight. She’d left nothing behind but the can of energy drink, balanced on the dash.

Wyatt just sat there. Time passed. He cooled down. After a while, he considered driving around, trying to find her, but what was the point? She’d come back when she was ready. And then? Wyatt had no idea.

He finished the energy drink, cooled down a bit more. He began to notice things going on around him, like a thin old man in a tweed jacket and bowtie, coming out of the convenience store. He wasn’t one of those bent-over old men; he
held himself erect, and moved briskly. The old man walked a few doors down and entered a brick building with a picture window in front. In gold paint on the window:

T
HE
M
ILLERVILLE
B
EACON

Established 1849

Your Town, Your News

Wyatt got out of the car.