Open Season (Alex Delaware #40)

Chapter 28

Chapter

28

The following morning I was up early enough to have breakfast with Robin, walk Blanche, feed the fish, take a run, shower and dress, and be out of the house by ten after nine. That hour meant likely commuter traffic on the 405 North, but Waze and its cousins all agreed that the freeways remained the best way to get to Simi Valley.

Turned out pessimism wasn’t justified. The alleged fifty-minute ride boiled down to forty-two as I zipped north, switched to the 118 West, and drove the longer arm of the trip toward Walt Swanson’s address.

The sun was avid, evoking patches of glare where tree-shade failed to intervene. Leading to a curious mottling that gave the road an odd piebald look.

No street trees, these were well-established sycamore, eucalyptus, and liquidambar trees planted by homeowners on their own sod, trying to soften the character of tracts jerry-built after World War II.

I’d pulled up a photo of Swanson’s property last night but that didn’t help much because most of the houses were aspiring ranchitos like his.

Much of the northern valley shared by L.A. and Ventura counties is like that, mile after mile of hasty construction undertaken in the fifties to accommodate the flood of aerospace workers migrating to SoCal. Back when the region had been about more than movies.

Later decades witnessed an influx of retired military plus cops and firefighters lured by the low-cost, open-space atmosphere and the distance, actual and emotional, from the mean streets they worked every day.

Back when I was in grad school, one of my classmates had rotated through a Simi clinic and returned sneering.

“Cops. Slimy Valley.”

I’d looked at her in surprise.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing.”

“Figures,” she said, with the kind of florid confidence that results when it’s based on nothing.

“What does?”

“You’re from the boonies? Indiana or something.”

“Missouri.”

“Same difference. All those places are fucking intolerant.”

—

No need to search for the address, the orange Camaro was a beacon. I continued past it, covered the rest of the block, reversed, found a view-spot several properties west, and took in details.

Walter F. Swanson’s gravel-roofed and spray-stuccoed pale-pink house sat primly behind a tiny but brilliantly green lawn sharing frontage with a two-vehicle cement pad. Multicolored impatiens and thriving sago palms nudged the facade. No sign of the minivan.

Milo was right: If Walt Swanson was raking in illicit cash, he wasn’t spending it for all to see.

On the other hand, the web had estimated the current value of the twelve-hundred-sixty-seven-square-foot “ranchito” at nearly nine hundred thousand.

Ah, Southern California.

Toss in a full pension, disability payments, and some private freelancing and Swanson would be primed for a move to a normal real estate market—Idaho, the dry side of Washington—where he could live like a land baron.

I chewed on that for a few seconds, knew I was filling mental space with empty conjecture.

Time to get out of here. Just as I reached for the ignition key, a vehicle approached from the east, driving slowly.

Narrow and tall, small tires, silver paint, Ford logo on a black grille.

The minivan turned into Walt Swanson’s driveway and parked next to the Camaro.

Swanson exited. No black suit or muscle shirt or trendy eyewear. Gone also was the swagger the ex-cop had shown at the Boykinses’ residence. Today’s baggy brown T-shirt, wrinkled khaki shorts, and sandals made him look smaller.

Today he trudged and had conceded to a slight hunch.

He walked to the passenger side of the van, took several minutes to emerge.

Guiding a woman. Not chivalry, she needed it.

Smallish, wearing a beret from which ginger curls escaped, borderline emaciated, with that unmistakable pallor. Every step she took was labored but she smiled at Swanson as they proceeded slowly and he smiled back.

When the two of them finally made it to the front door, he kissed her cheek then patted it gently.

Holding on to her, he unlocked the door and helped her in.

She’d never stopped smiling.

I was just about to leave when Swanson reappeared and returned to the rear of the van, this time exiting with three supermarket shopping bags that he brought into the house.

Then nothing. For five minutes, ten, fifteen.

I escaped.

—

Seeing people in new contexts can be educational and what I’d seen moved me in that direction. But I resisted total conversion to the innocence of Walt Swanson despite his loving care of the woman I assumed to be his wife.

Easy enough to be charitable, peg him as a devoted husband and leave it at that.

But entering Milo’s world had long disrupted conventional thinking and I found myself wondering about the financial and emotional cost of caring for a loved one with health issues. The possibility that had led to criminal freelancing.

On the other hand: Slimy Valley.

An acrid, vicious appraisal, tossed out by someone training to be a therapist. Last I’d heard the appraiser was treating movie stars and trying to write a book.

None of which was relevant to the guilt or innocence of Walt Swanson.

I reached Milo while waiting to get on the 118 on-ramp and told him about my drive-by.

He said, “Talk about beyond the call of duty. Gracias. Yeah, a sick wife could exert financial pressure. Or like you said, he’s just a devoted husband. See any connection to Boykins being in a wheelchair? And, now that I think about it, to Keisha being sick. Maybe some kind of rapport between them?”

“Interesting question,” I said.

“You come up with an answer, let me know. Bottom line: Any gut feeling either way about Swanson?”

“Nope.”

“Honesty,” he said. “Don’t get to deal with that often. Okay, see you soon.”