Digging Too Deep (12 page)

“‘And sune thou shalt be thrown aside, like any common weed and vile,’” Thatch quoted as the two stood outside Whittaker’s gate for a few seconds.

Tosca grinned. “So you know your Rabbie Burns,” she said. “Not my favorite poet, but I’d never say that in Scotland. Well, we might as well go home. We could finish the mead.”

Thatch’s cell rang. He listened, then said, “Sorry, have to make tracks. I’ll call you soon.”

“And to think,” said Tosca back in J.J.’s kitchen, slicing tomatoes, “he quoted that old drunkard Burns to me. Besides which I found out Thatch is a vegetarian. A strapping big chap like that! He said he’s from Wyoming. Isn’t that full of cattle ranches? Must be steaks galore there.”

“He quoted Burns? Well, well, so he has a soft side.” J.J. gave her mother a wide smile. “When am I going to meet this man that has attracted your attention so much?”

“I wouldn’t have minded if he’d chosen one of the more obscure poets like Artur Dall MacGurcaigh,” said Tosca, “or even a modern one like Aonghas MacNeacail. Why are you laughing?” She turned toward J.J. who was convulsed in giggles.

“Those names are hysterical. Did you make them up?”

“Of course not, but they’re Scottish Gaelic, not Cornish Gaelic, so what do you expect? Let’s have dinner. The salad’s ready.”

As Thatch drove away from the Trevant apartment he felt like kicking himself for quoting Robert Burns. He usually kept his love of poetry under wraps in public. Only his immediate family knew he had an entire bookcase devoted to his passion for the Romantic period. He treasured his volumes of Keats, Shelley, Byron and other eighteenth century poets. Thatch had to agree with Tosca, though. Burns wasn’t even close to being among his favorites. Still, the line fit perfectly, and he hadn’t been able to resist, considering her constant use of Cornish.

I bet my Great-granddad Murchadh would have understood her language, he thought. The old man had spoken fluent Gaelic, and Thatch remembered Grandpa Niall, too, speaking it as head of the MacAulay clan in the Scottish Highlands. Niall had sent Andrew, his eldest son, to America. Andrew landed in New York, hated its crowded, dirty streets and immediately set off for points west, where the mountain ranges and wide open prairies were more to his liking, reminding him of home.

Almost starving to death after a stint as a gold miner for the Carissa Mine, which soon went bust, Andrew MacAulay settled in northwest Wyoming as a homesteader. There was no fortune to be made from the hardscrabble land, but he survived, raised a family and died at the age of one hundred two.

The American MacAulays eventually lost touch with their Scottish ancestors, but Thatch enjoyed the romantic notion that he himself was probably a laird. It had been a family joke when the kids were growing up. “Maybe we’ll take a trip to Scotland one day and claim our heritage,” he’d tell them. They would always laugh and say, “When, when?”

Of course, they’d never made the journey. Life had intervened. Now, as Thatch let himself into his rambling ranch-style house on a small lot halfway up a bluff overlooking Newport Beach’s Back Bay, his curiosity about his roots returned. Yes, definitely a trip to Scotland or maybe Cornwall with a visit to a couple of those meaderies Tosca talked about, he thought, walking out to his favorite spot, the flagstone patio.

He’d bought the house seven years ago when his wife Barbara came home from the hospital, the cancer diagnosed as terminal. She’d refused to spend her final few weeks in the sterile environment of a hospice, wanting to say goodbye to her husband, son and daughter on her own terms. Thatch signed on with a twenty-four-hour nursing agency to care for her. His boss at the Secret Service Agency had been understanding, telling him to take as much time as he needed. As it turned out, Barbara succumbed only a month later. After settling his wife’s estate he’d offered the house to his children, but they had preferred to make their own living arrangements. Thatch rented it out until taking his retirement and moving back in.

At first he’d thought its memories would be too painful, the rooms empty and echoing; but the children persuaded him to stay there, and now he was glad he had. The patio overlooked the waters of the bay where over the centuries the Santa Ana River had cut a wide swath, carving out towering white cliffs. Designated an ecological and wildlife preserve, the bay was in constant motion, with habitats hosting red-tailed hawks and other birds cruising the thermals; sandpipers, egrets and black rails. In the salt marsh were jackknife clams, and in the freshwater ponds, crayfish.

Thatch took a beer from the refrigerator, settled himself into a well-worn rattan rocker, took a pull on the beer can and closed his eyes. Listening to the calls of the birds, he had come to identify most of them, but the harsh cawing of the crows and the screeching of the seagulls never failed to perturb him. They always seemed agitated and restless, and he tried to ignore them.

His cell phone rang. “Thatch, Dan. Just confirming tomorrow. Looking forward to it.”

“Me too, See you there.”

Thatch arrived early at Shaunessey’s pub for his lunch appointment with FBI Special Agent Dan Delano. He ordered two Stiegl beers at the bar and carried them to a table in a small alcove toward the rear of the restaurant. He put his satchel on the floor, sat down and set one of the beers opposite him. Across the room he recognized a couple of agents from the local FBI field office, where Delano was Assistant Director in Charge.

The FBI’s Los Angeles headquarters enjoyed crime jurisdiction over a population of eighteen million people and had field offices in seven counties in Southern California. Federal, state and city law enforcement agency personnel were a relatively small group, and many knew each other from various cases on which they’d collaborated.

Thatch nodded almost imperceptibly at the agents when their eyes met. He knew they knew he was ex-Secret Service, recently retired.

Taking his first sip of beer, he didn’t notice Delano arrive but acknowledged his presence after being slapped hard on the shoulder. A portly man in his mid-forties, reaching close to six feet, Delano was known for the wide grin that split his homely face almost in two. Who wouldn’t like a guy who smiles with such genuine warmth? Thatch recalled his wife saying.

“Hey, you remembered my favorite brew,” said Delano, sitting down opposite Thatch, setting a backpack on the floor, and nodding at the glass of beer on his side of the table. “Ready?”

Both men raised their glasses, chanting in unison, “
Es muss ein Stiegl sein!”

After they drank deeply of the Austrian beer, Thatch grinned and said, “So old age hasn’t caught up with you yet. You still remember the beer slogan we learned in Salzburg. But I can’t believe you’ve held on to that ratty old backpack you bought in Morocco.”

Delano smiled, took a quick look around the pub, nodded at the agents he recognized, then turned his attention back to his friend. “Been a while, Thatch, since we talked. How are you enjoying retirement?”

“Busier than I thought it’d be, to tell you the truth. I figured on having to buy a recliner and a plasma TV. But as you know, I’m an outdoors guy, and this geology hobby has blossomed into kind of a full-time occupation.”

“You don’t miss the Service?” said Delano. “Although I have to say I never envied you being at the sharp end of the spear, as you guys call it, and being on call twenty-four/seven. We’re used to surveillance, but I doubt I could keep such constant vigilance on a President of the United States without going nuts. So as I said, do you miss all that good stuff?”

“At first I did, sure, the daily briefings, the threat assessments, the highs of protecting the President, even the stress of the assignments, but that’s history now. Even the shoe-throwing incident in Iraq with President Bush.” He stopped to nod at Delano’s downturned mouth. “Yeah, I know. We were slow off the mark there. Didn’t react till the second shoe came flying through the air. Great aim, that journalist had. I guess shoe throwing is an art form in the Middle East. You hold it by the toe. The guy hurled both shoes with perfect accuracy.” He paused to grimace at the memory. “But that’s old news. One thing I did enjoy at retirement was donating the formal dark suits, the boring ties and those Hollywood-style dark sunglasses to charity. As you can see, I now live in jeans.”

“Well, it’s great to see you again. I’ve been meaning to get in touch, but you know how it is,” said Delano as a waitress came over to take their order. “You still a vegetarian, Thatch?”

“Absolutely, though I haven’t progressed to being a strict vegan, and I doubt I ever will.” Turning to the waitress, he said, “I’ll take the cheese lasagna.”

After Delano ordered beef stroganoff, and the waitress left, he said, “Fill me in on your life: Not remarried, are you?”

Thatch regarded his friend for a moment before replying. “Dan, this isn’t exactly a social lunch, though I’m glad to see you. You must have wondered why I asked you to bring your briefcase. I’m kind of working on something.” At Delano’s surprised expression he added quickly, “Strictly unofficially. I’m just doing a favor for a friend. It’s an oddball thing, possibly a crime.”

Reaching into the satchel he’d put under the table, Thatch brought out the rock and set it on the table between them. He turned it so that the broken-off side faced Delano, who said, “One of your geology finds?”

Thatch ignored the question. “Dan, see these little things sticking out? I’d like an analysis of exactly what they are.”

“Fossils?”

“Yeah. Maybe. Some kind. This so-called stone isn’t an actual stone, but that’s all I want to say right now. I know exactly what the composition is, but I’d like an official report, if you can swing it for me. Andy’s already opened a file jacket at the Newport Police Department, so we’re official, sort of.”

“You want a lab test?”

“Sure do. Your Bureau’s forensic services are much more extensive than ours. The Secret Service focuses more on counterfeit and financial matters, questionable documents, fingerprint and voice identification, and polygraphs.”

“True,” said Delano. “Your polygraph programs are phenomenal, and I know your ink library is unsurpassed. I was impressed with your old outfit when it started to provide forensic and technical help for missing and exploited children.”

“I’m not asking for special treatment from you, but I sure as hell am curious, which makes me impatient.”

“Jeez, Thatch, after all those years of learning to curb such emotions?”

“I know, I know. In a way it’s a relief to be able to admit to them. So what do you say, can you handle it?”

“I’ll find a way. I’m not an ADC for nothing. I think I have some pull at Quantico. Probably get it on a plane tonight. Hey, here’s our lunch. Another round?”

J.J. returned early from San Diego. After she and her mother had eaten a light supper, Tosca headed for the front door.

“Going for your evening walk?” J.J. got up from the dining table. “Maybe I’ll come with you, or how about another driving lesson? We haven’t taken the Healey out at night yet. I bet you’ve forgotten that the first gear is blocked off and has an overdrive, while the reverse gear is opposite to the usual configuration.”

“No, thank you, dear. I have enough difficulty in broad daylight trying to find that silly little lump of wood that pretends it’s a stick shift. Then there’s the choke and the start button, to say nothing of driving down the wrong side of the road along these unlit streets.”

“Mother, I’ve told you, it’s easy, especially as the car has a left-hand drive, which is perfect for driving here in the States.

I must admit that unusual back-to-front gear pattern does take a bit of learning, though.”

“Thanks, but again, no. I’m off to see the professor. I gave him a CD this afternoon. I want to see if he liked it.”

J.J. shook her head. “You know, I think we should move to Iceland. Soon, like tonight.”

Tosca laughed at her daughter’s comment, picked up one of her jugs of mead, put it into her tote bag and left for Whittaker’s house. Twilight was rapidly turning to night, the last faint rays of an orange sunset fading to gray. Boats sat silently at their moorings while one lone straggler, a small skiff, glided to a nearby dock. No breeze disturbed the sailboats this evening, free from the Santa Ana winds that blew in from the desert and set halyards snapping loudly against their masts. Tonight all was quiet.

Before ringing Whittaker’s bell Tosca paused to glance through his front window. Two brass standing lamps illuminated the room. Amazing, she thought, how no one on Isabel Island ever closed the drapes at night. During her evening walks she enjoyed staring through the windows at the lighted living rooms and making summary judgments on the owners’ taste in furniture and art works
.
One would never see such a disregard for privacy in England, of course, Tosca sniffed.

Haiden was seated at the piano. She could faintly hear him playing Debussy’s “Reverie.” Overwhelmed by the sensitivity he brought to the fragile piece, Tosca stood listening on the doorstep for several moments, enthralled. In spite of his cold, strange behavior, this man couldn’t possibly be a murderer, not with the tenderness his fingers on the keys revealed, she reflected. “These clumsy shells that house our souls may be cumbersome, but when we cast them off in death, they fall away to reveal the magnificence of our true glory,” she quoted to herself, although she had long forgotten its source. How fitting the observation seemed to her now with regard to the professor.

Was she mistaken about him? Did he appear evil to her simply because of his “clumsy shell,” his evasiveness, his dour manner? Surely these were not the qualities that determined a criminal mind. Quite the opposite, perhaps. After all, he’d just lost a wife. Maybe his soul was indeed pure, and Tosca was totally wrong and might be asked to leave America. She could just imagine how upset J.J. would be if that happened.