U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

“True, but you’re talking about turning yourself in anyway so I can’t see what difference it makes. By the time he comes back with his hand out, you’ll be in jail.”

“I told you I was thinking about turning myself in. I haven’t done anything about it.”

“Oh, sorry. You seemed pretty sure of yourself when we last spoke.”

“Because I couldn’t see an alternative.”

Jon said, “The way I look at it, a payoff now might buy us a couple of months, during which you might change your mind. I should probably point out that your confession will lose its impact if he gets to the cops before you do.”

“So why talk to him at all?”

“I’d like to hear what he has in mind.”

Walker was quiet for a moment, mulling over the idea. “Where does he want to meet?”

“He mentioned the coffee shop down the street from the bank. I guess he thinks he’ll be safe out in public.”

“Suppose he comes wired? Then anything we discuss, we’re both screwed. I thought the whole point was to find a way I could go to the cops without jeopardizing you.”

“That was before this came up.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t either, Walker. We turn him down, he’ll go to the police for sure.”

“You told me he didn’t have anything on us. We were just two guys burying a dog. Didn’t you say that?”

“Suppose he has an ace up his sleeve? That’s what worries me. I don’t like surprises. We’re better off knowing what it is.”

“Shit.”

“I don’t see a way around it,” Jon went on. “I mean, maybe the guy’s harmless, in which case, lucky us.”

“I don’t think we should be seen together. These days, every other business has security cameras. We don’t want that on film, the three of us huddled together in a coffee shop. It won’t look good.”

“I can always call him back and suggest someplace else if you can think of one.”

“What about Passion Peak? We’re the only ones who go up there. If you’re worried about a wire, all you have to do is pat him down.”

“You were the one worried about a wire, but it’s not a bad idea, a quick body search. If he’s clean, he won’t object.”

“When does he want to meet?”

“Well, that’s just it. He says soon. He sounds a bit anxious for my taste so the sooner the better. Would you have a problem cutting out of there for an hour?”

“Probably not. I’d have to reschedule a couple of things.”

“Why don’t you do that? I’ll call Michael and tell him I’m swinging by to get you and then we’ll meet.”

“Does he know about the park?”

“If not, I’ll give him directions. You cool with this?”

“I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right. I mean, how’d he get your name? I’m the one he saw.”

“That’s something we’ll have to ask him. Clearly, he knows more than we thought.”

“I don’t know about this.”

“Fine. Say the word and I’ll tell him it’s a no-go.”

“We should probably hear him out.”

“Agreed. That’s my point. If there’s a problem about the place, I’ll call you back. See you shortly.”

I walked back to the office in a state of suspended animation. Sutton’s death seemed incomprehensible. For the moment, I didn’t feel sorrow, I felt dismay. He’d gone off to meet someone and ended up dead. Unbelievable. Walker McNally couldn’t have done it. I’d seen him at the bank at 10:00. He had a morning full of meetings. It was 11:30 now. I didn’t see how he could have slipped away, driven up to Seashore, shot Sutton, and scurried back again. I assumed his license had been yanked because of his accident and he surely wouldn’t have hired a taxi or bummed a ride. Of course, killers probably aren’t that fussy about obeying traffic laws.

At the same time, if I was correct about Jon Corso and Walker being in cahoots, Jon could have been the shooter. He lived near the back entrance to the Ravine. Seashore Park wasn’t far from his house, three miles at best. He could have driven to the park, killed Sutton, and returned home, and who would be the wiser? I opened my Thomas Guide and checked his house number, tempted to cruise by and see if he was there. I had no intention of knocking on his door, but it wouldn’t hurt to look.

I went out to the Mustang and fired up the engine, plotting my route as I pulled away from the curb. The shortest path was to cut the two blocks over to Capillo and drive up the hill to the intersection where Capillo and Palisade crossed. I’d spent quite a bit of time in that area on a case I’d worked earlier in the year. If I turned left on Palisade and drove a mile, I’d be at Seashore; a right turn would take me past Little Pony Road, and then up another hill and into Horton Ravine.