Gone

“He here often?”

“Once in a while. All I see is the damn cars speeding by. Lots of ragtops, that’s how I know about the shirts.”

“He ever stop to talk?”

“You didn’t hear me?” said Bondurant. “He speeds by.” A gnarled hand slashed the air.

“How often is once in a while?” said Milo.

Bondurant half turned. His hawk-nose aimed at us. “You want a count?”

“If you’ve got charts and graphs, I’ll take them, Mr. Bondurant.”

The old man completed the turn. “He’s the one who killed her?”

“Don’t know.”

“But you’re thinking he could be.”

Milo said nothing.

Bondurant said, “You’re a quiet guy, except when you want something from me. Let me tell you, government never did much for the Bondurant family. We had problems, no help from the government.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Coyote problems, gopher problems, draught problems, prowling hippie problems. Damned mourning cloak butterfly problems- I say ‘butterfly,’ you think cute ’cause you’re a city boy. I think problem. One summer they swarmed us, laid their eggs in the trees, destroyed half a dozen elms, nearly polished off a sixty-foot weeping willow. Know what we did? We DDT’ed ’em.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “That ain’t legal. You ask the government can I DDT, nope, against the law. You say what should I do to protect my elm trees, they say figure something out.”

“Butterfly homicide’s not my thing,” said Milo.

“Caterpillars all over the place, pretty fast-moving for what they were,” said Bondurant. “I had fun stepping on ’em. The car guy kill the girl?”

“He’s what we call a person of interest. That’s government double-talk for I’m not go

Bondurant allowed himself half a smile.

Milo said, “When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Maybe a couple of weeks ago. That don’t mean nothing. I’m asleep by eight thirty, someone’s driving past I ain’t go

“Ever notice anyone with him?”

“Nope.”

“Ever see anyone else go to that property?”

“Why would I?” said Bondurant. “It’s above me a good mile and a half. I don’t go prowling around. Even when Walter Maclntyre owned the land I never went up there because everyone knew Walt was nuts and excitable.”

“How so?”

“I’m talking years ago, Mr. Detective.”

“Always interested in learning.”

“Walter Maclntyre didn’t kill no girl, he’s been dead thirty years. The car guy must’ve bought the land from Walter’s son, who’s a dentist. Walter was also a dentist, big practice in Santa Monica, he bought the land back in the fifties. First city folk to buy. My father said, ‘Watch and see what happens,’ and he was right. Walter started off like he was go

“What Russians?”

“The ones from Russia,” said Bondurant. “Communists. That’s what Walter was nuts about. Convinced himself any minute they were go

“Obsessive.”

“You want to use that word, fine.” Bondurant hitched his jeans again and returned to his truck on bandy legs. He put the antifreeze back on the passenger seat, slapped the palm of his hand on the hood. The smoke had reduced to occasional wisps.

He said, “Ready to go. Hope you find whoever killed that girl. Beautiful thing, damn shame.”

The entrance to the property was unmarked. I overshot and had to travel half a mile to find a spot wide enough for a U-turn. As is, my tires were inches from blue space and I could feel Milo ’s tension.

I coasted back slowly as he squinted at the plot map. Finally, he spotted the opening- ungated and shaded by twisting sycamores. Hard-pack dirt ramping high above the canyon.

Two S-turns and the surface converted to asphalt, continued to climb.

“Keep it slow,” said Milo. Doing the cop-laser thing with his eyes. Nothing to see but dense walls of oak and more sycamores, a skimpy triangle of light on the horizon suggesting an end point.

Then, two acres in, the land flattened to a mesa curtained by mountains and canopied by a cumulus-flecked sky. Uncultivated acres had given way to bunchgrass, coastal sage, yellow mustard, a few struggling loner oaks in the distance. The asphalt drive cut through the meadow, straight and black as a draftsman’s line. Three-quarters of the way to the back of the property stood a massive barn. Flanks of redwood board silvered by time. Dour slab-face unbroken by windows, shingle roof wind-blunted at the corners. A ludicrously small front door.

Cool air carried some of the mustard tang our way.

Milo said, “No building permits issued.”

“Folks round these parts don’t truck with no guv-ment.”

Nowhere to conceal the Seville completely. I left it parked off the asphalt, partially hidden by tree boughs, and we walked. Milo ’s hand dangled over his jacket.

When we were fifty feet away, the building’s dimensions asserted themselves. Three stories high, a couple hundred feet wide.

He said, “Thing that size but the door’s too small to get a car through. Wait here while I check the back.”

He took out his gun, sidled around the barn’s north side, was gone a few minutes, returned with the weapon reholstered. “Show-and-tell time.”

Double rear doors, ten feet high, were wide enough for a flatbed to drive through. Clean, oiled hinges looked freshly installed. A generator large enough to power a trailer park chugged. Behind us some kind of bird trilled but didn’t show itself. Tire tracks scored the dirt, a frenzy of tread marks, too many to make sense of.

Near the right-hand door a padlock lay on the dirt.

I said, “You found it that way?”

“That’s the official story.”

The barn had no hayloft. Just a three-story cavity, cathedral-sized, vaulted by stout, weathered rafters, walls tacked with white drywall. Dust filters like the one we’d seen in the PlayHouse garage whirred every twenty feet or so. An antique gravity gas pump stood to the right of an immaculate worktable. Shiny tools in a punchboard rack, chamois cloths folded into neat squares, tins of paste wax, chrome polish, saddle soap.

A flagstone spine wide enough for a four-horse march ran up the center of the room. Both sides were lined with what Dr. Walter Maclntyre had conceived as horse stalls.

The doors were gone and the concrete floors were swept clean. Each compartment held a gas-eating steed.

Milo and I walked up the flagstone. He looked into each car, placed his hand on the hoods.

A quartet of Corvettes. Two bathtub Porsches, one with a racing number on its door. Brad Dowd’s newer silver roadster, a black Jaguar D-Type, lurked like a weapon, unmindful of the cream Packard Clipper towering snobbishly in the next stall.

Slot after slot, filled with lacquered, chromed sculpture. Red Ferrari Daytona, the monstrous baby-blue ’59 Caddy Brad had driven to Nora’s house, silver AC Cobra, bronze GTO.

Every hood cold.

Milo straightened from the deep bend it took to inspect a yellow Pantera. Walked to the far wall and surveyed the collection. “A boy and his hobbies.”

“The Daytona costs as much as a house,” I said. “Either he pays himself a huge salary, or he’s been siphoning.”