Final Grave (23 page)

Meri Ann turned around.

Tony stood in the doorway, wringing a dingy pink oil rag. “How about that beauty, huh, Jack? She’s a sixty-five, original everything, 306 under the hood. I’m doing her points and plugs. The guy wants it yesterday; that’s why I’m still here.” Tony’s small pale eyes avoided hers.

“We need to talk,” she said.

He continued to face Mendiola. “About what? Jack, come on. I told you, I’m busy.”

She recalled a curious expression on Tony’s face the first time they’d met. “Tell me about the last time I was here, Tony. You thought you knew me, didn’t you? Mendiola thought you were hitting on me, but I don’t think so. What was going on with you?”

He shook his head and eased into the room, moving to the chair behind his desk.

“Did I remind you of someone?”

He looked at Mendiola, as if for approval and lowered himself into his chair. The color had drained from his face.

“Answer her, Tony. She knows about the incident with you and Mark and the Dunlap woman.”

“We fucking had a deal, Jack. You told me not to worry, that everything was—”

“Shut up and answer her.” Mendiola turned to face Meri Ann. “For the record, we never had a deal.”

Tony scooted to the edge of his chair and turned his reluctant gaze to Meri Ann. “Yeah,” he said. “You looked familiar. Not so much like I remember the lady, um, from that day in the parking lot, but more from the newspaper photos. They ran her picture weeks after and then a year later on the anniversary. I… I cut one out. Don’t ask me why, but… .” He kept twisting the oil rag, momentarily lost for words, then asked. “So who are you, her kid or something?”

With great effort, Meri Ann controlled her temper. “Joanna Dunlap was my mother, and you were probably the next to the last person to see her alive, unless you killed her.”

“I don’t need this shit.” He started to rise.

Mendiola kicked the desk. “Sit down.”

“I didn’t kill nobody. All Mark and me did was cruise a few parking lots, raise a little hell. Talk about rotten luck, an old lady calls the cops and another one croaks—I mean dies.”

Meri Ann eyes and lips narrowed. “You dumb punk. What’d you do, hassle every lone woman you came across that day? I read the incident report. The complainant was sixty years old and you and your buddy terrorized her. That what you did to my mother?”

Tony folded his arms, his face as void of emotion as the box of fan belts on the side of his desk.

“Think of it, Tony, my mother’s dead and the last thing she saw before her killer was your sorry face. What did you say to her?”

Mendiola watched Tony.

Meri Ann watched Tony.

Tony watched the clock on the wall.

No one spoke. Meri Ann waited. It felt like forever, and the silence finally spooked Tony.

She heard him swallow.

“I’m sorry, all right, sorry.” His words burst out like bullets. “I was loaded, looking to get laid, the frigging day turned to shit.” He slumped back in the chair, his small frame growing smaller, his hard facade broken. “What do you want from me?”

Anger sat in her stomach, a hard ball the size of her fist. “I want you to reach down into your memory way back to that afternoon.”

“Twenty years ago? In the eighties?” He made it sound as if there were covered wagons back then.

“I’m not leaving here until you give me something. I want to hear what happened, every detail no matter how small.”

Tony smoothed the lock of hair combed over his thinning scalp. He looked sick, like he might toss his lunch. He cleared his throat and rolled his eyes up in thought.

“Mark and me started drinking at noon.” He’d dropped the rag and wrung his hands as he spoke. “We smoked some weed. About six we were coming down from it. No action and the weather cold as a witch’s tit. We bought a six-pack in Albertson’s. That’s where we saw the old bat. Then we saw your ma. She looked hot.”

Meri Ann moved closer to the desk but didn’t speak.

Tony licked his lips, again, swallowed. “We cruised up beside her, close enough to reach out and touch her. But she played it cool, you know?”

“Cool?” Meri Ann wanted to shake him until his puny head flew off.

“Yeah, she was all alone near the end of the parking lot. But she didn’t break a sweat. Just kept walking, head in the air like we weren’t even there. But we… we cut her off.” He shook his head. “I feel bad about what I did. I mean I didn’t touch her, but the way you said, I was almost the last person to say anything to her. I never thought about that. It sucks, you—”

“Just stick to the story,” Mendiola broke in.

Tears welled in Tony’s eyes, and he wiped them with his fist. “Nothing happened. I told you, Jack. We heard a car horn and backed off.”

“What kind of car?” Meri Ann asked.

“Neither one of them saw the car,” Mendiola said.

“If you don’t mind, let Tony tell me,” she snapped.

“I saw a red Jeep.” Tony shook his head. “I think it was a Jeep. Jack said that was her car. Anyway, we were headed the other way. Chrissake, we didn’t want trouble.”

More like they didn’t want to pick on someone their own size. Meri Ann put the palms of her hands on the desk and leaned closer to Tony’s face. “Sylvie, is she your aunt?”

“My great aunt,” he said.

“She said, according to you, Tony that my mom didn’t look happy to see whoever honked that horn.”

“Yeah, I guess she was glad to get rid of us. But no she didn’t look upbeat. I mean, I can’t remember now the exact expression, just what I told Aunt Sylvie.”

Meri Ann inched close enough to see pinhead beads of perspiration on Tony’s upper lip. She said, “Think carefully. Did you hear my mom say anything?”

He chewed on his thumb for a while, worrying the thought. “I never told anyone but Mark. And he laughed at me, like, get your ears examined. Really, it sounded pretty stupid. Didn’t make sense.”

“Try me, Tony.”

“It sounded like she called him, Birdie.”

“Birdie, as in birds?” Mendiola appeared shocked. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

Tony didn’t answer, just shook his head.

Meri Ann’s mouth went dry. A vision of Harold Graber and his raptors flashed before her. She spun around to face Mendiola. “Got enough gas in your truck to get us to Idaho City?”

For the second time in less than two hours, Mendiola appeared contrite. “The tank’s three-quarters full, plenty to get us there and back.”

Chapter Twenty-seven
 

M
endiola’s foot held heavy on the gas pedal as he headed out of town on highway 44, the route to Harold Graber’s. He didn’t let up until he reached the tighter curves, half way up the mountain. Even then he pushed the envelope, as if getting there ten minutes quicker might solve the case or ease his shame of having been a party to missing that small, possibly critical piece of evidence.

Fehr sat to his right with her face turned to the window. She was pissed about the Tony incident and rightly so. He knew procedure even back then. So why hadn’t he asked the question she’d asked Tony? Why hadn’t he just done his job?

The Blazer’s automatic transmission shifted down, whining as it climbed. One hand gripped the wheel; the other held the gearshift. He did it out of habit, recalling his Stingray with the standard transmission and the ultimate feel of control.

Right now he was out of control. Another foul-up with Dillon, and he’d be demoted or out on the street looking for a job. And if she caught wind of this omission… whoa. The thought of not being a cop made his hands sweat. He wiped them one at a time on his Levi’s.

He leaned into a curve. “I want to make this right.”

“And I want you to.” She didn’t look over when she said it, just hugged the door, as if she couldn’t get far enough away from him.

The problem was Graber, a crazy old coot who kept to himself, answered to no one, and didn’t give a shit. The guy’s gumption reminded Mendiola of his dad when he was strong and healthy. Maybe that was part of his reluctance to drill Graber harder.

“You’ve got to believe me, Tony never said a thing about birds, or we’d have followed up. I wish to hell he had.”

“Let’s move on, Mendiola. What’s done is done. At this point I’m just grateful for the lead.”

That ought to have made him feel better, but something in the way she said it ticked him off. “I don’t want to pop your balloon,” he shot back. “But don’t be so damned determined to shy away from Wheatley.
Robin
Wheatley, FYI. Ever think about Robin as in the bird category?”

She chewed on that for a moment which meant she hadn’t considered it. “It’s a stretch compared to The Birdman Graber,” she said. But since Graber’s gone off the deep end, it seems lightweight to me. You’ll understand when we see him.”

He caught her determined chin out of the corner of his eye, the strained cords in her neck. Made him wonder just what had happened between her and Graber.

“He’s saved every newspaper article ever written about my mom. At least it looks that way. You should see the size of the file. Yes. He keeps a file.”

He shook his head, not wanting to argue, not with his ass already in a sling. He slapped the steering wheel in frustration. “Where’s the motive? Look, I remember talking to a lonely guy who’d built one helluva fine facility. He picked up injured birds as far north as Lewiston. Spent a small fortune on public service announcements to publicize the rescue number. I’m telling you he turned gray when we told him she was missing. Went ballistic, offered to organize a search team.”

“It might have been an act. It’s not too far-fetched, Mendiola. All I’m saying is the clippings indicate heightened interest. Plus he’s a hunter with a medical background. And he’s anti-establishment. He held a shotgun on me because he thought I was from animal services.”

“Theoretically you’re right,” he said. “But Wheatley also knows his way around hospitals. Yeah, Graber hunts, but as you know, so does half of Idaho. Men and women.”

“I get it. You don’t want to admit you screwed up, that Tony’s comment has pushed another suspect into the ring. Well, it has.”

His face flushed, hot from the truth. He clamped his mouth shut, turned the radio on low. “Ease off, Fehr. We’re on our way up there, aren’t we?”

She didn’t even look over, but sat with her nose pressed to the glass. Fine with him.

He cracked his window and took in the scent of Ponderosa pine, sweet and clean. At each bend in the road, he searched for the entrance to Graber’s place.

“One more thing about hunting,” she said, “A friend of mine—let me clarify—a friend of Mom’s knew Graber as a boy. He said his dad and Graber senior hunted together. The two boys tagged along. My mom’s friend claims Graber’s interest bordered on perverse. He enjoyed the killing. That’s a flag.”

“But this guy takes care of sick birds.”

“It doesn’t compute for me either. He’s secretive and crazy, but not so crazy if you know what I mean. As I’ve said, he told me my mother was dead and held up an article about the find on Table Rock. He said those bones were hers, and now we know the skull at the second scene didn’t belong to Mom. He said someone was watching me and someone is.”

He mulled this over, but didn’t respond immediately. He too suspected the first skeleton was her mother’s and wondered how Graber had come to the same conclusion from the vague newspaper article. He recalled Graber as a brilliant eccentric who gave up a life of privilege. Now her comments planted a grain of doubt and the possibility she raised nagged at him. “It’s been years since I’ve seen him.”

“Birdie. It gives me the chills,” she said. “I’m sure Mom or Dad called someone Birdie.”

“But was it Graber?”

“I… I think so.”

Mendiola turned into the eagle sanctuary, his tires churning dirt on the bumpy road and clouding the air behind him—but not in front of him. Sunlight reflected off the eastern mountains, coloring them rose, then purple. The quiet beauty calmed him, bringing back memories of his youthful forays into the countryside. It made him realize how much he hated Boise’s new growth. Hell, every time he turned around he identified with Graber holed up in his mountain cabin with no traffic hassles or bosses or weird cases with victim’s relatives breathing down his neck.

Graber’s board-and-batten cabin came into view. At the same time Mendiola got his first rank whiff of caged birds. “I forgot how it stinks.”

Her hand covered her mouth and nose as she spoke. “I don’t think he’s home. His truck’s not here. Last time it was parked over there.” She pointed toward the back of the house.

Mendiola left the engine idling and glanced about. The house was dark and no smoke coming from the chimney. He started to shift into reverse.

“Wait,” she said. “Let’s look around.” She opened the door and jumped out, moving easily up a rough stone stairway.

The wind billowed her coat as if it were Batman’s cape. Bat Woman, he corrected. Much as she irritated the hell out of him, he respected her drive, her determination to right the wrong of her mother’s death. It was the intensity of her drive that worried him.

He switched off the engine and went after her. “Slow down. Ever hear of trespass laws?”

She grimaced, then glanced at the woods to her left.

A elderly man broke through a thicket of young pines, apparently heading for the cabin. It was not Graber, not unless he’d suddenly gone stark white, grown a scraggly beard and gained twenty pounds. A dead furry animal, the size of a terrier swung from the man’s right hand. The guy carried a shotgun over his left arm, broken open and pointing at the ground.

Mendiola nudged her. “We’ve got company.”

“That’s not Graber.”

“Right.” He started up the stone stairs and called to the man, “Evening, Sir.”

“Same to you.” His eyes squinted behind folds of heavy lids. “If you’re looking for Harold, he’s not here. Don’t expect he’ll be back for a while, neither. He asked me to feed his birds. I help out time to time.”

“Do you know where he is?” Fehr asked.

“No, ma’am. I don’t get into Harold’s business and he don’t get into mine. We’re neighbors, just the same. I live a couple of miles over the ridge. Name’s Leroy.”