Cheney said, “The rain was a little late this year. By March, the hills will be as green as Ireland.” He saw Harry turn the windshield wipers on intermittent, and said, “I hope we stay with this light mist. A full-on downpour would really make things difficult.” He waved a hand as Harry curved left. “There’s Nicasio, one square block, really. Its claim to fame is the 1871 red schoolhouse. It’s a historical landmark.”
Harry said, “The Nicasio Reservoir is up ahead. You’ll see this area is a real mix, with a few exclusive, expensive homes sitting next to farm country and to old hippie hangouts.”
Eve said, “Hard to believe we’re so close to the gazillion people living in San Francisco.”
They were all thinking, We’re talking about the ridiculous weather and the scenery because Mickey O’Rourke is dead.
Harry pulled in to what looked like a makeshift parking lot, climbed out of the Chevy, and opened a gate. “Here it is. Ranch Road.” And he got back into the SUV and drove through the gate. He followed the narrow, dirty road through trees and fancy horse pastures and hills dotted with cows. They came across a white Crown Vic with a green sheriff’s ID on the side, parked at the edge of the road.
Bud Hibbert, the Marin County sheriff, was tall and runner-lean, with a full head of iron-gray hair that glistened with a light film of rain. He had a craggy, weathered face that announced he sat squarely in his fifties, and dark, smart eyes that looked like they’d seen about everything.
“How’d the FBI get hold of a U.S. Marshals’ SUV?” he asked, nodding toward the big black Suburban.
“I’m Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri,” Eve said, and shook his hand. “I’m their procurer.” She introduced everyone, and Sheriff Hibbert introduced his three deputies, all from Civic Center Main Station.
Hibbert said to Cheney, “I got the particulars you sent out on Federal Prosecutor Mickey O’Rourke Friday afternoon. When we realized the body was O’Rourke, I pulled our guys back immediately to preserve the crime scene for you. You’ve got a forensic team coming?”
Cheney nodded.
Sheriff Hibbert said, “The two kids who saw the killer—we knew they weren’t blowing smoke because Rufino Ramirez’s dad is a deputy sheriff in our Point Reyes Substation.
“We haven’t seen this kind of thing around here, Agents, since the trailside murders. It’s already all over town.”
Hibbert raised his face. “It’s been raining on and off all morning. I’m afraid I can feel more coming. No choice, let’s do this,” he said, and turned toward his cruiser and said over his shoulder, “Deputy Sheriff Ramirez took his boy, Rufino, and his friend, Eleanor, back to his house; then he called the other parents over, so they’re all together, waiting for you. How far behind you is the forensic team?”
Cheney said, “They’re only a few minutes out. I called Joe Elder, the forensic team leader, told him you’d have a deputy waiting here for them at the same place where you met us.”
Sheriff Hibbert nodded, climbed into his Crown Vic, and led them slowly past a few more dirt tracks before turning left at the fourth, which threw them into a mess of thick oak and bay trees. Soon they saw half a dozen more cars pulled onto the grass along the dirt tracks, their passenger sides pressed up against the trees. The tracks narrowed to a dirt path.
The sheriff pulled over, got out of his Crown Vic, and waved them forward. He said, “We figure the killer parked some twenty feet down this trail; that’s where we found tire tracks, nice and clear before the rain picked up. Our guys are taking the tire casts now. He carried O’Rourke’s body about a hundred feet farther into the woods. This is private land, but you can’t see the house from here.”
They followed him along a narrow trail, the trees so thick overhead it looked like twilight in the woods. There was no wind to speak of, but the air was pregnant with rain, and a light drizzle continued to fall. When they reached a small clearing, Sherlock looked up, hoping to see a bit of sun, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen. She hoped heavy rain would hold off for a while longer to give the forensic team time enough to set up some cover.
Marin County officers circled Mickey O’Rourke’s grave, talking, drinking coffee. Savich saw the hole was maybe three feet deep, deep enough to keep Mickey O’Rourke hidden in this desolate spot for decades, if it hadn’t been for those two kids. He wanted to meet them. He nodded to the deputy, then leaned down and pulled back a white tarp. They stared down into Mickey O’Rourke’s bone-white face and the obscene red slash across his neck. The deputies around the grave looked on with them.