looked at Paco. He must have known that the principal and I were talking about him, but he said nothing, asked no questions.
“Let’s go to your house and get that note that Cassie wrote me,” I said. “Where do I drive?”
“Go left,” he said.
I pulled out of the school lot and turned left.
Paco directed me through three more turns, and then we headed out into the countryside on a narrow, paved road. We drove two miles, turned again, drove two more miles.
“It’s that drive,” he said, pointing at a craftsman-style bungalow set back from the road and surrounded by an old cedar fence. The house was brown shingle with white window trim and white columns marking the edges of a wrap-around porch. It looked like it had been built at the turn of the 20th Century. The white paint was peeling off the columns in long strips. The front door was scratched as if from a dog that wanted in. One of the windows had a diagonal crack running through it.
Out front was a realtor’s For Sale sign.
I pulled onto a circular drive of crushed white rock. Scraggly, brown weeds poked up through the rock. From up in the air, it would look a little like someone had sprinkled oregano onto a powdered-sugar doughnut. At the center of the doughnut drive grew a fan palm.
Off to the side was a rectangular parking area on which sat a Chevy pickup and a Corvette, both in much better condition than the house.
“Nice spread you got,” I said.
“This is the landlord’s house. We live in the house out back,” Paco said. He pointed to a dirt drive that went through the fence, down the outside edge of the property.
“What’s the landlord’s name?”
“Kevin.”
“Kevin what?” I said.
“Kevin Garnett.”
“Like the NBA player?”
“Yeah,” Paco said. “That’s how I remember his name.”
“But your landlord isn’t that Kevin Garnett.”
“No. He’s white. And a lot shorter.”
“How long has the landlord had the house for sale?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Awhile.”
I drove down the dirt drive and followed it 75 yards back. The dirt road was compacted smooth, but it went up and down in broad dips and crests. The Jeep bounced hard.
We came to a small house that made the landlord’s house look like it belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest.
The wood siding was weathered into deep cracks. The roof leaned and had multiple missing shingles. Two of the three front steps up to the front porch were missing.
Behind the house was a large greenhouse made of wood frame and covered with plastic sheeting. It was probably 50 feet wide and stretched 100 feet long. Behind it was a larger field with planting rows shaped into the dirt by farm equipment. Whatever had grown in those beds over the summer had been trimmed away, no doubt to be replaced with new growth come spring.
“This is our house. The note is inside.”
I parked. Paco jumped out, ran up to the porch, and jumped over the missing steps.
I let Spot out to run around, which he did with enthusiasm, nose to the ground, tail held high, the smells of a farm unusual and exciting.
Paco reached for the doorknob, jiggled it, then turned around and came toward me.
“The door’s locked.”
“Shouldn’t it be?”
“It’s never locked,” he said.
“But when Cassie left with you in the middle of the night yesterday, didn’t she lock it?”
Paco shook his head.
“Did you watch her shut the door and leave without locking it? Or are you just remembering times when she didn’t lock it?”
“I didn’t watch her, but she never locks it. The landlord uses one of the rooms to store stuff. He doesn’t want the house locked.”
We heard a noise and turned to see the pickup coming down the dirt drive. It was coming fast, its wheels bouncing on the uneven surface. Despite the recent rain, the sun had shined enough that a dust plume rose behind it like a giant bushy tail.
The pickup made a fast stop, wheels skidding a bit. A man jumped out wearing a
“Let’s go to your house and get that note that Cassie wrote me,” I said. “Where do I drive?”
“Go left,” he said.
I pulled out of the school lot and turned left.
Paco directed me through three more turns, and then we headed out into the countryside on a narrow, paved road. We drove two miles, turned again, drove two more miles.
“It’s that drive,” he said, pointing at a craftsman-style bungalow set back from the road and surrounded by an old cedar fence. The house was brown shingle with white window trim and white columns marking the edges of a wrap-around porch. It looked like it had been built at the turn of the 20th Century. The white paint was peeling off the columns in long strips. The front door was scratched as if from a dog that wanted in. One of the windows had a diagonal crack running through it.
Out front was a realtor’s For Sale sign.
I pulled onto a circular drive of crushed white rock. Scraggly, brown weeds poked up through the rock. From up in the air, it would look a little like someone had sprinkled oregano onto a powdered-sugar doughnut. At the center of the doughnut drive grew a fan palm.
Off to the side was a rectangular parking area on which sat a Chevy pickup and a Corvette, both in much better condition than the house.
“Nice spread you got,” I said.
“This is the landlord’s house. We live in the house out back,” Paco said. He pointed to a dirt drive that went through the fence, down the outside edge of the property.
“What’s the landlord’s name?”
“Kevin.”
“Kevin what?” I said.
“Kevin Garnett.”
“Like the NBA player?”
“Yeah,” Paco said. “That’s how I remember his name.”
“But your landlord isn’t that Kevin Garnett.”
“No. He’s white. And a lot shorter.”
“How long has the landlord had the house for sale?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Awhile.”
I drove down the dirt drive and followed it 75 yards back. The dirt road was compacted smooth, but it went up and down in broad dips and crests. The Jeep bounced hard.
We came to a small house that made the landlord’s house look like it belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest.
The wood siding was weathered into deep cracks. The roof leaned and had multiple missing shingles. Two of the three front steps up to the front porch were missing.
Behind the house was a large greenhouse made of wood frame and covered with plastic sheeting. It was probably 50 feet wide and stretched 100 feet long. Behind it was a larger field with planting rows shaped into the dirt by farm equipment. Whatever had grown in those beds over the summer had been trimmed away, no doubt to be replaced with new growth come spring.
“This is our house. The note is inside.”
I parked. Paco jumped out, ran up to the porch, and jumped over the missing steps.
I let Spot out to run around, which he did with enthusiasm, nose to the ground, tail held high, the smells of a farm unusual and exciting.
Paco reached for the doorknob, jiggled it, then turned around and came toward me.
“The door’s locked.”
“Shouldn’t it be?”
“It’s never locked,” he said.
“But when Cassie left with you in the middle of the night yesterday, didn’t she lock it?”
Paco shook his head.
“Did you watch her shut the door and leave without locking it? Or are you just remembering times when she didn’t lock it?”
“I didn’t watch her, but she never locks it. The landlord uses one of the rooms to store stuff. He doesn’t want the house locked.”
We heard a noise and turned to see the pickup coming down the dirt drive. It was coming fast, its wheels bouncing on the uneven surface. Despite the recent rain, the sun had shined enough that a dust plume rose behind it like a giant bushy tail.
The pickup made a fast stop, wheels skidding a bit. A man jumped out wearing a
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