Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [102]
“Thank you very much,” I said.
“No problem,” Leilani replied, her facial muscles not moving a bit. She turned and left the room, shutting the door behind her.
“Does she ever smile?” I asked Amanda. It was hard to imagine the two of them working together, considering how much Amanda liked to laugh.
“I think she cracked a small one when I gave her a Christmas bonus last year. Hey, who needs smiles when you can work the miracles she does. The DA’s office still hasn’t forgiven me for stealing her.”
We both glanced at the address Leilani had found.
“A post office box in Mariposa Valley,” I said. “That’s out in the Carrizo Plains. I haven’t been there in years.” The Carrizo Plains was in the far eastern part of San Celina County. Except for a few desert dwellers and sporadic groups of bird-watchers and hikers, the barren Carrizo Plains was pretty much left to its own counsel. Back in the fifties, there was a small flurry of interest by some Los Angeles developers who claimed it would be the next Palm Springs. Some streets were built and lots sold. There was even a motel and gas station constructed for the benefit of prospective buyers. But some kind of complication with water rights doomed the project, and all that was left were some windswept streets, rusty gas pumps, and the shell of the fifties-style motel called the Mariposa Valley Inn.
“I had to interview a witness out there once when I worked as a prosecutor,” Amanda said. “The only way to find anyone is to ask at the fire station. It’s about a half mile past the old motel.”
I folded the piece of paper and slipped it in my back pocket. “I’ll give it to Detective Hudson and let him take care of it.”
“Hey, why are you doin’ his work for him, might I ask?” I smiled. “Just to show him I can. He’s an arrogant Texan.”
“Oh, my, a Texan. I dated an attorney from Fort Worth once. Emphasis on the word once. By all means, use all my resources to put him in his place.”
“Thanks, Amanda. Again, I owe you one.”
“Who’s countin’?”
I used my cell phone to call Detective Hudson. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes tops.”
“It’s almost seven o’clock,” he said. “Where have you been? Your class was over at four-thirty, and it’s only a ten-minute drive.”
“I’ll explain when I get there,” I said, hanging up before he could harangue me. I wasn’t going to pay cell phone prices to be nagged at by the likes of a twangy-tongued detective. I called Gabe’s office where I got his voice mail so I called my house, hoping to find him there. When our answering machine replied, I left a quick message, trying not to project where or with whom he might be.
I sat for a moment staring at Eva Knoll’s address. She was a very old woman. Remembering Rose Brown and the guilt I felt about questioning her, I made a quick decision. What I was about to do would make Detective Hudson spit nails and quite possibly strangle me, but morally and humanely, it seemed my only choice. Before I went to his office, I dropped by the electronics store downtown and bought a small hand-sized tape recorder, the kind Emory used for interviews. I took it out of the box, slipped in one of the tiny tapes, and stuck it in my purse.
At the Sheriff’s Department, the front desk clerk, a young woman with a painfully sunburnt nose and dressed in a Hawaiian print dress, was hefting her red patent leather backpack over her shoulder, getting ready to leave. The offices appeared to be empty except for the departing receptionist.
“Benni Harper?” the young woman asked. She picked up a green apple from her desk and took a bite.
“Yes.”
“He’s really pissed,” the young woman said, around chews. “I’m a temp. Thank goodness. I’d never work full-time for these nutcases. And they’re supposed to be the good guys? Sheesh. Third office to your right. See ya.”
“Thanks,” I called after her, wondering if I should maybe follow her out and phone my information in.
I knew Detective Hudson was going to be annoyed that I didn’t run over to his