The Murder Book

Milo got rid of the surprised look almost immediately, but she saw it and smiled.

"Yes, I know. He told me he gave you all sorts of grief. His last years on the force were a rough time in Pierce's life, Detective Sturgis." She lowered her eyes for a moment. No more smile. "Did you know that when you rode with Pierce he was a drug addict?"

Milo blinked. Crossed his legs. "I remember that he used to take cold remedies- decongestants."

"That's right," said Marge. "But not for his sinuses, for the high. The decongestants were what he did openly. On the sly, he was fooling around with amphetamines- speed. He started doing it to stay awake on the job, to be able to get back home to Simi Valley without falling asleep at the wheel. That's where he lived with his first wife. He got hooked bad. Did you know Dorothy?"

Milo shook his head.

"Nice woman, according to Pierce. She's dead, too. Heart attack soon after Pierce retired. She was a chain smoker and very overweight. That's how Pierce first got his hands on speed- Dorothy had lots of prescriptions for diet pills, and he started borrowing. It got the better of him, the way it always does. He told me he'd turned really nasty, suspicious, had mood swings, couldn't sleep. Said he took it out on his partners, especially you. He felt bad about that, said you were a smart kid. He figured you'd go far…"

She trailed off.

Milo tugged at the zipper of his windbreaker. "Did Pierce talk much about his work, ma'am?"

"He didn't talk about specific cases, if that's what you mean. Just how rotten the department was. I think his work poisoned him as much as the speed. When I met him, he'd touched bottom. It was right after Dorothy's death, and Pierce had stopped paying rent on the Simi house- they never bought, just rented. He was living in a filthy motel in Oxnard and earning minimum wage sweeping the floors at Randall's Western Wear. That's where I first saw him. I was doing a show in Ventura, came in to Randall's to look at boots, collided with Pierce when he took out the trash. He knocked me on my rear, we both ended up laughing about it. I liked his laugh. And he made me curious. Someone that age, doing that job. Usually it's young Mexicans. Next time I came in, we talked some more. There was something about him- strong, no wasted words. I'm a gabby type, as you can see. Comes from living alone most of my life, talking to the horses. Talking to myself so as not to go nuts. This land was my grandfather's. I inherited it from my parents. I was the youngest, stayed home to take care of Mom and Dad, never strayed very far. The horses pretend they're listening to me. That's what I liked about Pierce, he was a good listener. Soon, I was making up reasons to drive down to Oxnard." She smiled. "Bought a lot of boots and jeans. And he never knocked me down again."

She reached for her coffee. "We knew each other a full year before we finally agreed to get married. We did it because we're old-fashioned, no way would either of us live together without paper. But most of what we had was friendship. He was my best friend."

Milo nodded. "When did Pierce get off speed?"

"He was already getting off when I met him. That's why he moved into that fleabag. Punishing himself. He had some savings and his pension, but was living like he was a broke bum. Because that's how he thought of himself. By the time we started going out, he was off dope completely. But he was sure it did damage to him. 'Swiss-cheese brain,' he used to call it. Said if they ever x-rayed his head, they'd find holes big enough to stick a finger through. Mostly, it was his balance and his memory- he had to write things down or they were gone. I told him that was just age, but he wasn't convinced. When he told me he wanted to learn how to ride, I worried. Here he was, not a young man, no experience, not the best balance. But Pierce managed to stay in the saddle until… The horses loved him, he had a calming influence on them. Maybe because of all he'd been through, getting himself clean. Maybe he ended up at a higher level than if he hadn't suffered. You'll probably find this hard to believe, Detective Sturgis, but during his time with me, Pierce was a blessedly serene man."

She got up, retrieved the picture atop the TV, held it out to us. Snapshot of Schwi

Old-time trapper or geriatric hippie, hand in hand with a sun-punished woman who barely reached his shoulder. I saw Milo's eyes widen.

"He was my Flower Power Grandpa," said Marge. "Different from when you knew him, huh?"

"A bit," said Milo.

She placed the picture in her lap. "So what kind of advice did you hope to get from him on this case of yours?"

"I was just wondering if Pierce had any general recollections."

"Something that old and now you're working it again? Who got killed?"

"A girl named Janie Ingalls. Pierce ever mention that name?"

"No," she said. "Like I said, he didn't talk about his work."

"Did Pierce leave any papers behind?"

"What kind of papers?"

"Anything to do with his work- newspaper clippings, photos, police mementos?"

"No," she said. "When he moved out of his Simi house, he got rid of everything. Didn't even own a car. When we went out, I had to pick him up."

"Back when I knew him," said Milo, "he was a photography buff. He ever get back into that?"

"Yes, he did, as a matter of fact. He enjoyed taking walks in the hills and capturing nature, bought himself a cheap little camera. When I saw how much he liked it, I bought him a Nikon for his sixty-eighth birthday. His pictures were pretty. Want to see them?"

She took us to the house's single bedroom, a tidy, pine-paneled space filled by a queen bed covered with a batik spread and flanked by two mismatched nightstands. Framed photos blanketed the walls. Hills, valleys, trees, arroyos dry and flowing, sunrises, sunsets, the kiss of winter snow. Crisp colors, good composition. But nothing higher than vegetable on the evolutionary scale, not even a bird in the sky.

"Nice," said Milo. "Did Pierce have his own darkroom?"

"We converted a half bath. Wasn't he talented?"

"He was, ma'am. When I knew Pierce, he liked to read about science."

"Did he? Well, I never saw that. Mostly he'd turned meditative. Could just sit in the living room and stare out at the view for hours. Except for the times when he got the cop look or had those dreams, he was at peace. Ninety-nine percent of the time he was at peace."

"During the one percent," I said, "did he ever say what was bothering him?"

"No, sir."

"During the last month or so before his accident, how was his mood?"

"Fine," she said. Her face clouded. "Oh no, don't go thinking that. It was an accident. Pierce wasn't a strong rider, and he was sixty-eight years old. I shouldn't have let him ride that long by himself, even on Akhbar."

"That long?" said Milo.

"He was gone half a day. Usually, he only rode for an hour or so. He had his Nikon with him, said he wanted to catch some afternoon sun."

"Taking pictures."

"He never got to. The roll inside his camera was blank. He must've fallen right at the begi

"Hit his head on a rock," said Milo.

She shook her head. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."