To Catch the Moon (10 page)

She said nothing, and Penrose launched into
his spiel. About the evidence that had been collected from the
house. The autopsy results. The nationwide search for Treebeard.
Not once did Joan Gaines say a word. All she did was cross and
recross her legs, and occasionally finger her hair, as if all she
wanted was to get this over with.

Alicia watched. As a prosecutor she was
constantly assessing people: defendants, witnesses, potential
jurors. After ten years in the business, she prided herself on her
instincts.

Yet those instincts were in a muddle when it
came to Joan Gaines. There was something false about her, though
Alicia thought that was true of most rich people. She was about the
coldest fish Alicia had ever run across. What kind of woman didn’t
ask a single question about how her husband had been killed? What
kind of wife didn’t care to know the details? It was so far from
the typical spousal reaction that Alicia didn’t know what to make
of it.

Finally Penrose was finished. Silence
fell.

“How did you meet your husband?” Alicia heard
herself ask, and was rewarded with an affronted look from Joan
Gaines and a scowl from Penrose. She was curious, she realized, not
just to hear the answer to that question but to hear Joan Gaines
talk about her murdered spouse.

“We met in New York,” she said
eventually.

“You were living there at the time?”

Her tone was curt. “I was working in
investment banking.”

“Was this before Mr. Gaines bought Headwaters
Resources?”

“Yes, he was still in private equity.”

Penrose cut in, with another pointed glare at
Alicia. “Joan, I drafted a potential time line for the trial,
assuming that Treebeard is picked up within the next few days, as
we expect him to be. I know you need to plan your time.” He reached
down into the leather briefcase at his feet and pulled out a manila
file. He was about to spread it open on the coffee table when he
stopped. The dirty tea tray was in the way.

Slowly Joan turned her head from Penrose
toward Alicia. “I’m so sorry,” she said, though there was no
apology in her smooth voice. Her blue eyes shone with a curious
light. “Will you clear that, please?”

Alicia froze. Maybe she hadn’t heard right,
or had misunderstood. “Excuse me?”

“Will you clear that?”

She’d heard right. She’d understood.

Nobody moved. It felt to Alicia as if time
stopped. Even Penrose seemed to be in a kind of suspended
animation.

Something inside her seethed. The small, dark
crypt in her soul where she’d buried the frustrations of
thirty-five years. Always having to do without, her and her
sisters. Her father never home because he was driving that damn
eighteen-wheeler. The drawn, worried face of her mother, her beauty
stolen at a young age by poverty and childbirth. Her own burden,
knowing she was the only one who could pull the family out of the
mire. And worst of all, that horrible night when she learned that
her father had fallen asleep at the wheel, and knew from then on
that what he had done, she would have to do. She would have to
support her mother and sisters. Then and always.

Most times Alicia was resigned to her
history. Sometimes it grated. And sometimes, as on this night, it
fueled a cold anger that could barely contain itself within her
skin.

“No,” she heard herself say into the silent
room, “I will not clear it. If you want it cleared, either do it
yourself or call room service.”

The other woman’s eyes narrowed. Alicia
forced herself to hold Joan Gaines’ stare, though her heart pounded
fiercely inside her chest. Penrose was oddly forgotten; it was as
if the two women were alone in the room. Abruptly Joan Gaines stood
up. “We’re finished here.”

Alicia had a feeling of having won a point in
a contest that had not yet been declared. She remained seated and
smiled, her heart still thumping. “Actually, I have a few more
questions. I was curious what time you returned home last Saturday
and what you were so busy doing that you didn’t notice your husband
lying with an arrow in his chest on the floor of the library.”

“That’s enough, Alicia,” Penrose barked, his
face flushed, but Joan Gaines said nothing at all. She didn’t even
acknowledge the question. Instead she strode to the door of her
suite, Penrose scrambling to collect his briefcase and manila file.
Alicia knew he’d read her the riot act but she couldn’t say she
cared.

After a moment, Alicia rose as well and made
for the suite’s main door, which Joan Gaines was already holding
open. Penrose was clearly apologizing to her, putting his limited
persuasive powers to the test. To Alicia it didn’t look like he was
having much success.

They had just entered the corridor when a
young man in a chauffeur’s uniform ran up, laden with shopping bags
sporting the Neiman Marcus logo. Surprised, Alicia halted to
watch.

“Sorry to be so slow getting your packages
up, Mrs. Gaines.” Nearly out of breath, he dropped the bags just
inside the suite. “Let me know if you’ll need me again tomorrow.”
He hurried away.

Alicia stood still, watching the young
widow’s fine features set into stone.
What woman
, she
wondered,
goes on a shopping spree two days after her husband is
murdered?

The Latina prosecutor and the society wife
regarded each other wordlessly, until Joan Gaines retreated a step
and quietly shut her suite’s door.

Alicia joined Kip Penrose at the elevator
bank, her mind filling with unanswered questions. Even Penrose was
silent as they exited the hotel into Pebble Beach’s chilly December
air.

*

Milo arrived early for his eight-thirty
rendezvous with Prosecutor Maldonado but had plenty to survey at
Carmel’s Mission Ranch to keep him occupied before her arrival. In
a small parking lot between some unassuming white clapboard
buildings, he parked the rental Explorer next to an old-style green
Ford pickup bearing, in small gold block letters, the words
Robert Kincaid Photography
.

He chuckled. It was the truck Clint Eastwood
drove when he starred in
The Bridges of Madison County
,
apparently being stored at the hotel the actor now owned. Milo had
heard tell of Eastwood’s long-standing attachment to the peninsula,
his stint as mayor of Carmel, and his mid-1980s purchase of the
ranch, which otherwise would have been demolished to make way for a
condo development. That would have been a sorry fate for such a
historic property, which in past incarnations had been not only a
dairy but a World War II officers’ club, and which boasted an
enviable Carmel River Valley location. In daylight hours it
provided a panoramic view of the Carmel Highlands and Point Lobos
across a picket-fenced meadow dotted with grazing sheep.

Milo found the bar and set himself up at a
small table. It was a cozy room with a country feel, warmed by a
fire blazing in a stone hearth. In the far corner a television
blared
Monday Night Football
to a group of avid male
watchers, all nursing beers and flushed faces. “Dos Equis with
lime,” Milo told the waitress.

He had his strategy for the evening mapped
out, mostly because he’d employed it before, on other players in
other stories. He’d ask his lovely companion a few token questions
about the Gaines murder case, less to get her answers than to pave
the way for future disclosures. He’d gain her trust. He’d seduce
her, not physically but psychologically, so that when he really
needed inside info down the road, she’d give it to him.

Some might call it cynical. Milo called it
good reporting. And who did it hurt? His viewers got better stories
and his sources enjoyed his assiduous protection. Win-win, as far
as he was concerned.

Minutes later, when Alicia Maldonado walked
into the bar and brought to a halt every last murmur of
conversation, Milo realized it was a good thing she was his
companion for the evening. For if he had been with any other woman,
he would have had trouble keeping his eyes from straying to the
dark-haired, olive-skinned beauty who now stood before him.

She could not be described as glamorous. Or
fashionable. Her navy-blue suit clearly had seen better days, and
the same could be said for the wheat-colored overcoat topping it.
Yet something about her confident stride, the intelligent light in
her brown eyes, the careless toss of that long wavy hair over her
shoulder, made her arresting, vibrant. As he’d found at the press
conference it was hard not to stare at her, hard not to become
mesmerized by the thoughts rapidly playing out on the expressive
planes of her face.

“You didn’t have any trouble finding the
place?” she asked.

He rose, both out of politeness and to help
her shed her coat. “None at all. Actually, my hotel’s not far
away.”

“Oh?” They both sat, setting off a clatter of
wooden chair legs on the hardwood floor. “Where are you
staying?”

“The Cypress Inn.”

“Doris Day’s place? I’m surprised.” Again the
offhand toss of the hair. “It’s a great little hotel, but I would
think reporters would stay with everybody else who’s here on
business. Like at the Monterey Plaza Hotel.”

“I just like the Cypress Inn.” He paused,
slightly chagrined. He felt odd making this admission. “There’s
always a dog or two in the lobby.” The actress was famous for her
love of animals, particularly of the canine variety, and ran one of
the few hostelries that catered to travelers and their pets.

Alicia smiled. “You like dogs?”

“Love ‘em. Grew up with Labs, big golden Labs
who drooled all over and knocked things off low tables when they
swished their tails. Paris and Helen.” He shook his head,
remembering those sloppy, adorable members of the family. “I wish I
could own a dog now, but my travel schedule doesn’t permit it. So I
have to get my fix other ways.”

She nodded, with a wise look in her eyes that
said she understood a crazy work life. The waitress sidled over.
Alicia glanced at Milo’s Dos Equis. “I’ll have the same, please,”
she said, which made Milo smile.

“What’s so funny?”

“I can’t remember the last time I was with a
woman who ordered a beer. It’s either wine or whatever is the
cocktail of the moment. Usually something in a martini glass, with
grenadine in it to make it pink. To mask the fact that it’s made
with three kinds of vodka.”

She laughed, a pretty sound. “Where do you
live that you meet all these vodka-drinking women?”

“D.C. Though—”

“You’re hardly ever there.”

“Right.”

Alicia’s Dos Equis arrived. They were silent
while the waitress filled Alicia’s chilled glass, took Milo’s order
for a second, and glided away.

“So,” Milo said. Time to get the ball
rolling. “I know it’s not politically correct to say so, but you
must be enjoying the Gaines case. A high-profile murder prosecution
is the sort of thing careers are built on.”

“You’re right.” Her tone was light. “It’s not
politically correct to say so.”

“How did you come to be involved?”

She hesitated. He had the idea she was
deciding whether to tell him the truth or make something up. Then,
“I was the first D.A. at the scene.”

“Really? How did that happen?”

“Good luck, I guess.”

He doubted that. “More likely good timing.”
He thought for a moment. “I know you’ve prosecuted homicides
before. That must make you a rarity in the Monterey County D.A.’s
office.”

She shrugged. “There are a few of us.”

“But still, you got selected to be the D.A.’s
number two on the big case.”

“As I say, I got there first.”

“Penrose must have a lot of faith in
you.”

She said nothing.

“Have you worked with him for a long
time?”

“Since he became D.A. Three years ago.”

“Not before?”

She shook her head.

“Still, you must be one of his
favorites.”

Again she smiled that enigmatic smile, but
was silent. It was a bit like having a drink with Mona Lisa. “So.”
He thought back to what he knew of the murder. “Daniel Gaines was
killed on Saturday. How—”

“His body was
discovered
on Saturday,”
she cut in, then abruptly stopped.

“Aha!” Jokingly Milo pointed a finger at her.
“Finally I learn something! So you have evidence it actually
happened on Friday?”

She sipped her beer, her eyes averted. Milo
waited. Still nothing. “It must have been difficult to be at the
scene,” he offered several seconds later. “Such a violent
killing.”

“There’s no such thing as a nonviolent
killing.”

“Hm. Guess not.” Closed-mouthed little minx,
wasn’t she? It was clear he wasn’t going to get a damn thing out of
her. Admirable, actually. “So,” he said, “why did you decide to
become a prosecutor?”

That line of questioning she didn’t seem to
mind. “Sometimes I’m surprised I did.” She squinted, as though
casting her mind back in time. “I don’t remember what I thought I’d
do when I was in law school. I had vague notions of practicing law
for a while, then running for office. Then a friend of mine
suggested I interview with the Monterey County D.A.”

“Which went well, apparently.”

“I remember going into it thinking they would
all be a bunch of Nazis. They sort of were. In my first round of
interviews I had three older white guys, all with buzz cuts, like
they’d all been in the military. Not that I have anything against
the military, but you know what I mean.”

He nodded.

“But we actually had a conversation. A real
give and take. I couldn’t believe it for a while, but eventually I
realized that I agreed with them about a lot of things. Then they
invited me back for round two, then round three, then...” She
stopped.

“The rest is history.”

“As they say.” She sipped her beer. He sensed
she’d had enough of talking about herself, so wasn’t surprised when
she turned the tables. “Where did you grow up?”