Till the Butchers Cut Him Down by Marcia Muller

whole time they lived there, I kept wishing they’d go away.”
    I got out my card with the office and car-phone numbers and scribbled down my home number as well. “If they come back, will
     you call me?”
    “Sure.” She took the card, fingered its raised lettering. “Look, you want me to try to find out where they went? I could ask
     the people on the other side when they come home from work tonight. I think they’re the only ones on the street who had much
     to do with the Blessings.”
    “I’d appreciate that, and I’d pay—”
    She shook her head. “No, it’d be my pleasure. I’m kind of fascinated by P.I.’s. On ‘All My Children,’ there’s this guy, Tad?
     He used to be a P.I., but then he got amnesia from falling off the bridge and came back two years later thinking he was somebody
     else. The new P.I.’s, Charlie and Hayley, are okay, but they don’t have Tad’s—” She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
     “Sorry! My husband
hates
it when I do that.”
    I smiled. “Doesn’t bother me. Speaking of Tad, it’s noon. I don’t want to make you miss your program.”
    * * *
    I’d just passed the turnoff for Skyline Drive on my way back to the city when the car phone buzzed. I picked it up and heard
     Suits’s agitated voice. “Dammit, Sherry-O, I’ve been trying to get you for an hour!”
    “My name is Sharon, and I’ve been out of the car—on your business.”
    Suits ignored the comment. “I need you—now.”
    I sighed. “Where are you?”
    “My Oakland office.”
    “I can be there in forty-five minutes.”
    “No, go to Bay Vista. That second key I gave you works the elevator to the roof. I’ll have Josh pick you up in the bird.”
    “Suits, I’d rather—”
    “Josh’ll be waiting. Hurry, please. The goddamn butchers’re trying to cut me down.” He broke the connection.
    I replaced the receiver none too gently. Butchers—good God, he could be dramatic! But this latest crisis might be relevant
     to the case. …
    I drove to Bay Vista.
    * * *
    “Shut that thing down and come talk to me!” I shouted at Josh Haddon.
    He frowned and pointed to his ear.
    I ducked under the JetRanger’s rotor and shouted again. He nodded and turned off the engine. The rotor whiffled to a stop.
    I moved away and perched on the wall, nine stories above the ditch where construction workers and equipment toiled. Josh came
     over and leaned beside me, taking out a cigarette and lighting it in cupped hands. “T.J.’ll be furious if we don’t get to
     the office ASAP,” he said.
    “Too bad. I need to ask you some questions.”
    He glanced at me, lines around his eyes crinkling. “You don’t take any shit from him.”
    “No. Do you?”
    He shrugged. “Man’s got a lot of power.” Paused to drag on his cigarette and added, “But it’s easy to tune him out when I
     fly.”
    “You’ve been piloting for him how long?”
    “Thirteen years. Things sure have changed. At first all we had was my little patched-up Cessna.” His mouth tightened—something
     unpleasant about the memory.
    “So you’ve been with him during all his turnarounds?”
    “Knew him before he did the first. Back then I was flying for the … company.”
    “What company?”
    He smiled slowly. “Actually, it was a dope farm up near Garberville.”
    “He turned a
marijuana farm
?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “And you were their pilot?”
    “Yeah. Those were great days.” His freckled face softened, the way a child’s does when recalling a special Christmas. “Was
     a terrific spread, way up in the hills. Belonged to a guy named Gerry who’d made some money down in Hollywood and sunk it
     all into the land. He was growing class stuff; you could smell it for miles. I was flying it all over the country in my Cessna.
     We were distributing incredible quantities, getting top dollar. Trouble was, Ger wasn’t making any profit, and nobody could
     figure out why.”
    “So Suits …”
    “Suits.” He shook his head.