Read Online Out at Night by Susan Arnout Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Arnout Smith
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trotted behind her car and threw up.
Chapter 8
She took 60 to the 10 to the 111, navigating switchbacks of purple hills cut with dark brown trenches and expanses of sand. Miles of desert stretched ahead. Wind turbines stood close to the road, marching in regiments up the brown hillside, protecting what looked, at a distance, like a compound of windmills—a family—the big ones towering over the little ones. She passed shopping outlets and a billboard advertising dinosaurs. Next to the road, the Union Pacific carried freight in a steady stream of double boxcars.
It was just after four and the dry desert sun turned the asphalt a shiny black. Just after seven in Harbor Island. She’d tried reaching Katie that morning when she’d flown in to Lindbergh Field and taken a taxi home to pick up her car and pack a few things for Palm Springs.
No answer. She’d tried again, compulsively, right away, and this time, the hotel desk clerk had apologetically said he’d thought they were already out.
Maybe they’d be back by now, Katie brimming with news.
Or not.
Maybe Katie wouldn’t want to share a piece of the day she’d had with her dad.
Grace hit the gas and passed a slow truck. The wind punched against her car and lifted it sideways in a scalding wash of blowing sand. It was a bump, a hiccup, a swat of a giant invisible hand, but its power sent a flush of heat up her body. She gripped the steering wheel and steadied the car. A row of giant windmills gyrated in a frenzied dance and the boxcars rolled on in a yellow swirl of dust.
Traffic was stalled on Indian Canyon Drive and Grace cracked her head out the window, straining to get a better look. Up ahead a police siren wailed, the sound undercut by the murmuring roar of protestors. The cars crawled forward.
Through her passenger window, Grace caught a glimpse of a brown valley sweeping down to her right. Wind turbines churned on the ridges. Dust spumed across a dirt road leading to a small train depot.
She put up the windows, adjusted the air conditioner, and spread MapQuest on the seat, wishing she had a map to navigate what came next.
___
It was an older neighborhood off Ramon Avenue, fading apartments and duplexes and cottages with cracked sidewalks. Grace missed it the first time and circled back. Bartholomew’s house was set back from the street, a cement pebbly structure with an iron gate. Barrel cactus lined the sidewalk.
Yellow police tape stretched over the paint-blistered front door. There was a padlock below the door handle. She pulled to a stop at the curb behind a police unmarked and locked up. A big guy fighting flab got out of the unmarked. He came over and they shook hands. Homicide Detective Mike Zsloski. Older, face permanently flushed, right on the edge of having a stroke.
She followed Zsloski up the walk, trying to recall which case they’d worked together. She went back in her mind through the cases in the last year and found it. A black gang member working out of north Palm Springs in the Gateway Posse Crips, who’d ended up stuffed into a sealed drum in San Diego harbor.
Zsloski offered a pair of gloves and she put them on as he took off the police tape and unlocked the padlock. “They finished up an hour ago.”
Grace nodded. It had taken from Wednesday night until midday Saturday to process Bartholomew’s house. She wondered why. He hadn’t died there.
The living room was an explosion of books, papers, folders stacked against the wall, burying the carpet, spilling out of the bookshelves, piled high on the coffee table. Crime lab print powder crusted the books and walls and light switches.
“Not that Bartholomew read much,” she said.
Zsloski smiled briefly. “We’re due there in fifteen. What you want to see’s in here.”
He took her down a short hall, opened a door and stood aside, letting her walk in first. Letting her see it.
Her stomach flipped.
It was a small room. In a normal house, it could have been a child’s
Chapter 8
She took 60 to the 10 to the 111, navigating switchbacks of purple hills cut with dark brown trenches and expanses of sand. Miles of desert stretched ahead. Wind turbines stood close to the road, marching in regiments up the brown hillside, protecting what looked, at a distance, like a compound of windmills—a family—the big ones towering over the little ones. She passed shopping outlets and a billboard advertising dinosaurs. Next to the road, the Union Pacific carried freight in a steady stream of double boxcars.
It was just after four and the dry desert sun turned the asphalt a shiny black. Just after seven in Harbor Island. She’d tried reaching Katie that morning when she’d flown in to Lindbergh Field and taken a taxi home to pick up her car and pack a few things for Palm Springs.
No answer. She’d tried again, compulsively, right away, and this time, the hotel desk clerk had apologetically said he’d thought they were already out.
Maybe they’d be back by now, Katie brimming with news.
Or not.
Maybe Katie wouldn’t want to share a piece of the day she’d had with her dad.
Grace hit the gas and passed a slow truck. The wind punched against her car and lifted it sideways in a scalding wash of blowing sand. It was a bump, a hiccup, a swat of a giant invisible hand, but its power sent a flush of heat up her body. She gripped the steering wheel and steadied the car. A row of giant windmills gyrated in a frenzied dance and the boxcars rolled on in a yellow swirl of dust.
Traffic was stalled on Indian Canyon Drive and Grace cracked her head out the window, straining to get a better look. Up ahead a police siren wailed, the sound undercut by the murmuring roar of protestors. The cars crawled forward.
Through her passenger window, Grace caught a glimpse of a brown valley sweeping down to her right. Wind turbines churned on the ridges. Dust spumed across a dirt road leading to a small train depot.
She put up the windows, adjusted the air conditioner, and spread MapQuest on the seat, wishing she had a map to navigate what came next.
___
It was an older neighborhood off Ramon Avenue, fading apartments and duplexes and cottages with cracked sidewalks. Grace missed it the first time and circled back. Bartholomew’s house was set back from the street, a cement pebbly structure with an iron gate. Barrel cactus lined the sidewalk.
Yellow police tape stretched over the paint-blistered front door. There was a padlock below the door handle. She pulled to a stop at the curb behind a police unmarked and locked up. A big guy fighting flab got out of the unmarked. He came over and they shook hands. Homicide Detective Mike Zsloski. Older, face permanently flushed, right on the edge of having a stroke.
She followed Zsloski up the walk, trying to recall which case they’d worked together. She went back in her mind through the cases in the last year and found it. A black gang member working out of north Palm Springs in the Gateway Posse Crips, who’d ended up stuffed into a sealed drum in San Diego harbor.
Zsloski offered a pair of gloves and she put them on as he took off the police tape and unlocked the padlock. “They finished up an hour ago.”
Grace nodded. It had taken from Wednesday night until midday Saturday to process Bartholomew’s house. She wondered why. He hadn’t died there.
The living room was an explosion of books, papers, folders stacked against the wall, burying the carpet, spilling out of the bookshelves, piled high on the coffee table. Crime lab print powder crusted the books and walls and light switches.
“Not that Bartholomew read much,” she said.
Zsloski smiled briefly. “We’re due there in fifteen. What you want to see’s in here.”
He took her down a short hall, opened a door and stood aside, letting her walk in first. Letting her see it.
Her stomach flipped.
It was a small room. In a normal house, it could have been a child’s
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