W is for Wasted

“Great. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Department has a slush fund we use to pay the occasional confidential informant. I told the coroner you’d rustled up some good intel, saving me the work. I suggested you should be compensated for the time you put in.”

“Well, on that basis, I’m happy to accept.”

•   •   •

In the morning, I skipped my run. I could have made an earlier start or shortened the distance to carve out sufficient time, but I was in the mood to take a day off. I slept in until 7:15, scandalously late by my standards. To celebrate the change of pace, I put on a pair of pantyhose, my black flats, and my black all-purpose dress. This versatile and completely wrinkle-resistant garment is the only bona fide dress I own, good for cocktail parties, funerals, and semi-solemn occasions in between. I flapped a ceremonial rag across the shoulders where a fine layer of dust had settled. After that, I figured I was good to go.

I found a space in the parking structure adjacent to the coffee shop. Aaron had been watching for me and he rose to his feet politely when he saw me come in the door. I joined him in a booth by the window, where we could watch foot traffic out on the street—clerks, judges, court reporters, lawyers and their clients heading for the courthouse. A black-and-white bus, designated as the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department transport, pulled up at the curb and a parade of orange-clad and shackled inmates emerged from the vehicle and shuffled into the building, accompanied by three uniformed corrections officers.

Aaron’s hair was damp from his morning shower, comb tracks still evident as he handed me a menu and checked for the specials of the day. He wore a sport coat over a blue-and-white-checked shirt with a folded necktie visible in the pocket. He looked up as the waitress approached, coffeepot in hand. She filled our cups and delivered small pods of half-and-half from a pocket in her apron. We ordered, Aaron opting for bacon, scrambled eggs, and wheat toast, while I asked for the steel-cut oats, which came with small containers arranged on a separate tray: brown sugar, raisins, blueberries, butter, candied pecans, and a small pitcher of cream, for which I substituted milk. We chatted about inconsequential matters, and once the waitress delivered the food, took time out to eat.

Aaron ate faster than I did and when he finished the last bite of toast, he ran his napkin across his mouth and then tucked it under his plate. “I heard back from Sacramento late last night with a match on the prints, which confirm Dace’s identity. I thought I’d fill you in on his criminal history before we go over to the bank.”

“Ah. You must have talked to someone in Bakersfield.”

“I pulled up his file and then put in a call to one of the sheriff’s department homicide detectives.”

“Am I going to like this?”

“You might. The story’s actually more interesting than you’d think. Dace spent twelve years in prison on a felony murder conviction that was overturned a year ago.”

“Who’d he kill?”

“I’ll get to that. He’d had some earlier, minor skirmishes with the law. A couple of DUIs. A charge of drunk and disorderly that was later dismissed. Nothing of significance. For years, he ran his own tree-trimming company while he worked on a degree in landscape architecture . . . which he never got, by the way . . .”

“So I heard. Dandy tells me he was a bright guy, and very knowledgeable.”

“Apparently so. He had a reputation for being a hands-on kind of boss. He could push a crew, but he was more than willing to get up there himself when it came to proper pruning. In 1968, he took a bad fall; broke his shoulder and his left hip, which put him out of commission for a while. During his recovery he got caught up in prescription drugs and heavy drinking, which he had a penchant for in any event. Some of this you may know.”

“Not exactly, but close enough. I heard about the pain pills and alcohol,” I said. “I can’t imagine how you get from trimming trees to felony murder, but I’m all ears.”

“Well, he started on a downward spiral. You know how it goes. Once word got out about his boozing, his clients started dropping him, which meant his business went into the toilet. His wife threatened to kick him out, saying she didn’t want the kids exposed to his bad behavior. He managed to hold his marriage together, but things weren’t good by a long shot and the only work he could get was day labor. Bunch of them would stand out on a corner, like hookers, while prospective employers cruised by in their half-ton trucks, looking them over and quizzing them about their skills. He and another fellow named Herman Cates picked up a couple days’ work trimming trees . . .”