"You do any drugs now?"
"No, and I haven't had a drink in fifteen years. Alcohol makes your tongue loose. I couldn't take the chance."
"Who was she involved with? Any indication at all?"
He shook his head again. "The guy was married."
"How do you know?"
"She told me that much."
"And you believed her?"
"I can't think why she would have lied. He was somebody respectable and she was underage."
"So this was somebody with a lot to lose if the truth came out."
"That'd be my guess. I mean, she sure didn't want to have to tell him she was knocked up. She was scared."
"She could have had an abortion."
"I guess… if it came to that. She only found out about the baby that day."
"Who was her doctor?"
"She didn't have one yet for that. Dr. Dunne was the family physician, but she had the pregnancy test at some clinic down in Lompoc so nobody'd know who she was."
"Seems pretty paranoid. Was she that well known?"
"She was in Floral Beach."
"What about Tap? Could the kid have been his?"
"Nope. She thought he was a jerk and he didn't like her much either. Besides, he wasn't married and it was nothing to him even if the kid had been his."
"What else? You must have given this a lot of thought."
"I don't know. She was illegitimate and she'd been trying to find out who her old man was. Her mom refused to tell her, but money came in the mail every month, so Jean figured he had to be around someplace."
"She saw the checks?"
"I don't think he paid by check, but she was getting a line on him somehow."
"Was she born in San Luis County?"
There was a jangle of keys and we both looked over to see the deputy at the door. "Time's up. Sorry to interrupt. You want more, Mr. Clemson has to make arrangements."
Bailey got up without argument, but I could see him zone out. Whatever energy our conversation had produced had already drained away. The numb look returned, giving him the air of someone not too bright.
"I'll see you after the arraignment," I said.
Bailey's parting look flickered with desperation.
After he left, I sat and jotted down some notes. I hoped he didn't have any suicidal tendencies.
6
Just to fill in another blank, I pulled into the gas station in Floral Beach and asked the attendant to top off my tank. While the kid was taking care of the windshield, I took my wallet and went into the office, where I studied the vending machine. Nothing but Cheetos for $1.25. Cheatos, I thought. There was no one at the desk, but I spotted someone working out in the service bay. I went to the door. The guy had a Ford Fiesta up on the lift, whipping lug nuts off the right rear wheel with an air-driven lug wrench.
"Can I get some change for the vending machine in here?"
"Sure thing."
The fellow set the wrench down and wiped his hands on a rag tucked into his belt. "Tap" was stitched in an embroidered script on the patch above his uniform pocket. I followed him back into the office. He moved in an aura of motor oil and tire smell, giving off that heady scent of sweat and gasoline fumes. He was wiry and small, with wide shoulders and a narrow butt, the type who might unveil a lavish tattoo when he took off his shirt. His dark hair was curly, combed into a crest on top, the sides swept into a ducktail in the back. He looked about forty, with a still-boyish face getting leathery around the eyes.
I handed him two dollars. "You know anything about VWs?"
He made eye contact for the first time. His were brown and didn't show much life. I suspected car woes were going to spark the only interest I'd be able to generate. He flicked a look out to the pumps, where the kid was just finishing up. "You got a problem?"
"Well, it may not be much. I keep hearing this high-pitched whine when I get up around sixty. Sounds kind of weird."
"You can hit sixty in a tin can like that?" he said.
A car joke. He grinned, punching open the register.
I smiled. "Well, yeah. Now and then."
"Try Gunter's in San Luis. He can fix you up." He dropped eight quarters into my palm.
"Thanks."
He moved back out to the service bay and I pocketed the change. At least I knew now who Tap Granger was. I paid for the gas and headed up two blocks to the motel.
As it turned out, I didn't talk to Royce at all that afternoon. He'd retired early, leaving word with Ann that he'd see me in the morning. I spoke briefly with her mother, filling her in on Bailey's current state, and then went on upstairs. I'd picked up a bottle of white wine on my way through San Luis and I stashed it in the small refrigerator in my room. I hadn't unpacked, and my duffel was tucked in the closet where I'd left it. I tend, on the road, to leave everything in a suitcase, digging out my toothbrush, shampoo, and clean clothing as the need arises. The room remains bare and unnaturally tidy, which appeals to a streak of monasticism in me. This room was spacious, the designated bedroom area separated from the living/ dining/kitchenette by a partition. Factoring in the bathroom and a closet, it was bigger than my (former) apartment back home.