What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One (36 page)

Hate to think of anyone stuck out in this weather… living… or dead. Plenty of people in the “Missing” files
. Television journalist Christine Christian was still listed as a missing person.
Seven weeks, now, and no one seems to know what’s happened to the popular broadcaster
.

According to the satellite station where she had a contract, Christian had planned to drive north to the Bay Area to do research for a few days. Then she’d been scheduled to fly to
Tokyo from the local airport.
That makes sense . . . study earthquakes in San Francisco, and Japan
. She’d never made her flight, however, and never turned up anywhere else.

When her boss reported her missing, the sheriff’s department had checked her Santa Maria condo, but found nothing amiss, and her rent paid for months in advance. Her car wasn’t at her residence and hadn’t been discovered at the airport.

Though there were no real leads, Del did have a police sketch of an unnamed man who’d visited Sally’s Restaurant in MilfordHaven. Sally herself had seen and talked to this guy, who’d said at the time he was looking for the journalist. But circulation of both that sketch, and of Christine’s photograph, had yielded nothing further, at which point the case had been filed away as case. Officially, Del had let it go. Yet something about the case wouldn’t let go of
him
.

Why does a successful journalist—on her way to what sounds like an exciting trip—suddenly fall off the radar?
According to the DMV, she owned a black Ford Explorer.
If, instead of taking the more usual 101, she drove Highway 1
…
all those treacherous curves along the coast… that black car of hers could be hidden at the bottom of some steep ravine or even submerged in a rocky cove. Might take us months to locate it
.

On the other hand, she wouldn’t be the first person who’d decided to slip away from a job—or from a relationship.

There’d been nothing new for weeks. But now the cold case could be warming up. Today’s call wasn’t a break exactly, but at least it could be a starting point. Mr. Joseph Calvin—a wealthy pillar of Santa Barbara society—had reported a connection with the journalist, but had asked that Captain Sandoval assign the matter personally.

Sandoval had assigned Detective Dexter.
And for some
reason, Dex wants me in on the interview with him. And he said not to be in uniform
. Apparently, Calvin had called to explain that— though he didn’t feel he had any actual information relevant to Ms. Christian’s disappearance—he did know her, and thought it likely he’d seen her close to the time she must’ve gone missing. He’d added that he’d like to keep his cooperation as discreet as possible. Otherwise, the press would probably have a field day, which would not only be unpleasant for him, but might also harm their investigation.

Dex had placed the call and discovered that the earliest time Mr. Calvin could be available was this evening. Though he’d be at a charity function, he’d cut it short and be at his residence in time for a ten p.m. meeting with Dexter and Johnson.

Time to hit the road
. Del wondered what it’d be like for a bastion of white society to be questioned in his home late at night, especially with one white officer, and one black.
You never know how someone will feel about race until you get past the first veneer of manners
.

Del pulled on his allweather jacket and headed outside. Making sure the building was locked, he pressed his vehicle’s keyless entry remote, its mechanical chirp still an uncommon sound on the Central Coast. One of the perks of being a member of the Special Problems Unit was access to fourbyfour vehicles. The Suburban coughed into activity and, a few moments later, settled into a deep, growling purr as it gathered speed.

For the moment, this stretch of Highway 1 appeared safe and clear. But the mean streets of his own childhood in South Central L.A. sometimes rose out of the dark to haunt him. If a car backfired, he always first assumed it was a gunshot, his body reflexively tensing, his senses coming to full alert. Even
after twentysix months on the Central Coast, he hadn’t yet unlearned those innercity reactions. Perhaps, he thought as the Suburban ate up the miles, he never would. Indeed, perhaps he never should.

Del had kept his radio on low volume. Halfway to his destination, he heard, “TwentyfourZfour.”

“Zebrafour,” he answered quickly. He’d been the last to join the fourperson SPU, and that had given him the number “four.”

“Tentwentyone as soon as possible.”

“Tenfour.”

Tentwentyone meant “call base.” Twentyfour was the number for the main station at San Luis. As Del dialed his cell phone.
Who needs to talk with me privately without using the radio?

“Dispatch,” the sheriff’s office answered.

“This is Delmar Johnson.”

“I’ll put you through.” The night sped by outside the Suburban, and Del watched the road. Zebra was the code name for the SPU.
Well, the old adage says “When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.” He
chuckled to himself.
That works for the usual cases. But we catch the special problems
. He got serious as his superior came back on the line.

“Dex here. Sorry to give you such short notice, but you’ll have to handle the Calvin interview on your own.”

“Oh?”

“I know, irregular procedure, but we’re shorthanded tonight, and I’m still tied up at a situation over on the 101. No way I can get to Santa Barbara in time.”

“Should I cancel? Explain to Mr. Calvin that we could see him tomorrow?”

“No. I don’t know what’s so urgent, but the word came
down from Sandoval that we should speak to Calvin tonight. The man’ll probably be impressed by a suit ringing his doorbell so quickly after he volunteered to meet with us.”

Del glanced at his sleeve.
Damn. Not wearing a suit
. “Anything in particular I should ask him?”

“No, you know what to do. Standard stuff. You have good instincts. Fill me in first thing tomorrow.”

“Will do.” Del closed his cell phone and kept his foot steady on the accelerator. Mr. Calvin was in for a little surprise this evening.
One officer, not two—the black one—and in casual clothes, as though I’m dropping by for a chat
.

Del was eager to gauge his response.
You can tell a lot about a guy by his first reaction to the unexpected
.

Delmar Johnson lowered the window of his SUV, inhaling as the aromas of damp eucalyptus and woodsmoke wafted in.

He brushed aside the long tendrils of an enthusiastic ivy plant to find the security button outside the gates of the Calvin Estate.
Calma,
a carefully aged metal sign declared. Del had found the place easily, despite the long upward climb along a narrow road etched into the side of the mountain.

Some people call these hills. But just because the Santa Ynez Range starts at sea level doesn’t mean these aren’t true mountains. And these twisting lanes bordered with lush plantings and high walls that must conceal sumptuous estates…
. He’d have preferred seeing the scenery in golden afternoon sunlight, but even at night—with uplights illuminating the towering trees— the area was beautiful.

“Yes,” squawked the speaker on the ivy-covered wall.

“Deputy Johnson!” announced Del, his voice crashing
through the still night air.

A low hum resonated with the smooth motion of a well-oiled gate as it swung slowly inward. Almost immediately, a Y-intersection came into view with a sign pointing in each direction. A right arrow indicated
Service Entrance;
the left arrow was labeled
Main Entrance & Cottages,
Making his decision, Del turned left. He stepped on the accelerator to travel the final quarter-mile up to the main house.

This must be it … a circular driveway in front of the entrance. Old California they call this. Built like the Santa Barbara Mission
.

He noticed that the driveway continued onward— apparently toward the cottages, whatever they were. But he parked at the main house and crunched across gravel, then walked up the three wide steps. By the illumination of wrought-iron wall sconces on either side of the entrance, he took in the details of the heavy carved oak front door. Just as his hand traced the elegant lines of its curled-iron handle, the door opened abruptly, and he yanked his arm back to his side.

Del looked into the cool, gray eyes of a handsome, well-dressed man who stood about his own height of six-foot-two.
Mid-sixties, fit, self-assured
. Silver hair was neatly trimmed and perfectly groomed; tan sweater probably cashmere; high polish on expensive loafers.
Must be Joseph Calvin
.

“Good evening, Detective.” The man looked past Del into the dark. “Weren’t there supposed to be two of you?”

“I’m afraid Detective Dexter was detained. I’m Deputy Johnson.”

“I see. Come in. I’m Joseph Calvin, by the way.” He paused in the doorway only long enough to let the man enter, then spun on his heel, leaving Del to close the front door. As Calvin
led the way into his home, the footsteps of the two men echoed on terra cotta tile, the sounds rising through the high atrium of the central stairway. Del’s nostrils flared at the spicy scent of cut lilies that perfumed the chill air from their perch on a central foyer table.

As they entered a spacious room lined with bookshelves, Mr. Calvin began, “I appreciate your meeting me this late. I thought we’d talk here in my library. Please have a seat. I’d offer you a refreshment, but my butler has the night off.”

Del paused a moment to take in the glow from the huge stone fireplace, the oversized mahogany desk and the coordinating chairs. Before sitting, Del moved one of the guest chair till it was situated to his own liking, making sure his back wasn’t facing the door.

Calvin moved around the desk to sit in his high-backed leather chair. “I… I really don’t know how much I can tell you, but I want you to know I take this matter very seriously. Chris—Ms. Christian—is a friend of mine. I’m worried about her.”

“I see.” As Del shifted his weight to reach into the inside breast pocket for his notebook, his leather belt creaked. He adjusted the belt, wincing as his keys and cell phone case scraped against the carved chair. Del glanced up at his host, feeling as guilty as a kid who’d been caught doing something naughty in a stern teacher’s fifth-grade class.
This isn’t the time to let my feelings show
.

The two men sat in awkward silence for a moment, taking each other’s measure. Del called on his police training to keep his face neutral. Mr. Calvin’s expression seemed to him not so neutral, as it was inscrutable. A
hard man,
Del surmised—
in his own way maybe as hard a man as any I’ve collared and cuffed
.

“Well, are there questions we can get started with while we wait for Dexter?”

“No,” Del replied. “Detective Dexter won’t be able to join us. He sent his apologies, and asked that I speak with you.”

“On your own?”

“Yes, sir.”
Uncomfortable because I’m alone? Because I’m just a deputy? Or because I’m black? “If you
don’t mind.”

Calvin lounged back in his deep library chair, his demeanor suddenly more relaxed. “No, no, I just … I was expecting Dexter, but no matter. Where shall we start?”

I guess I must’ve passed muster if he’s willing to open up
. “You last saw Ms. Christian exactly when, Mr. Calvin?” Del held his pen poised over his blank notebook, moving it the moment the man spoke.

“It’s been a while now… seven weeks or so.” Calvin shifted position in his chair and crossed his legs.

“Seven weeks? You must’ve known she was missing. You didn’t worry till now?”

“She travels a lot. Overseas, for example. Some of her stories are shot in Asia, some in Europe. She kept me posted, usually. She was leaving on a trip. She was going to San Francisco, then to Tokyo. She missed our last appointment, but her plans could sometimes change suddenly. I figured she’d get in touch with me when she could.”

“And where did your last encounter take place?” Del looked up from his spiral pad, catching a wistful look on Calvin’s face.
The man does seem to have genuine affection for the missing woman
.

“It wasn’t an encounter, Deputy. It was a date. She, uh … we met at her place in Santa Maria. She’d invited me over—she was working late … I didn’t get there till about eleven. We’d
both been too tired to, uh … for any sort of entertainment that night. We simply went to sleep. We both had early appointments the following morning.”

“And you left on friendly terms?” Del used the flat tones of a practiced professional, insinuating nothing into his question.

Calvin re-crossed his legs and cleared his throat. “Yes, very friendly. We, uh, we were intimate that morning. Although we
were
interrupted.”

Del looked up. “And what was that, sir?”

“A phone call.
Again!”
Calvin looked out the window into the dark, his brow knitting into a deep furrow.

“You find these calls she receives … irritating?”