His eyes clouded. "I remember Scott when he was a kid. Running around the groves, always cheerful. The house was happy. They were rich folks, but down-to-earth."

He got up, filled a glass with bottled water from the fridge. "Sure you don't want a drink?"

"Thanks, I will."

He brought both tumblers to the coffee table. Two gulps and his was empty.

"Refill time," he said. "Don't want to parch up like a raisin. Need more BTUs on the A.C."

Another trip to the kitchenette. He drained the glass, ran his finger around the rim, set off a high-pitched note. "You still haven't told me why you're here."

I began with Claire's murder. Her name drew no look of recognition. When I recounted Peake's babbling, he said, "I can't believe you came all the way up here because of that."

"Right now, there's very little else to go on, Mr. Haas."

"You just said he's deteriorated, so who cares what he says? Now, what is it exactly you think I can help you with?"

"Anything you can tell me about Peake. That night."

His hands flew together and laced. Fingertips reddened as they pressed into knuckles. Nails blanched the color of clotted cream.

"I've spent a long time trying to forget that night, and it doesn't sound like you've got any good reason to make me go through it again."

"I'm sorry," I said. "If it's too difficult-"

"Damn thirst," he said, springing up. "Must be going diabetic or something."

Chapter 22

Haas returned looking no happier, but resigned.

"It happened at night," he said, "but no one found out till the morning. I was the second to know. Ted Alarcon called me-he was one of Scott's field supervisors. Scott and Ted were supposed to drive up early to Fresno, take a look at some equipment. Scott was going to pick up Ted, and when he didn't, Ted called the house. No answer, so he drove over, went in."

"The door was open?" I said.

"No one locked their doors. Ted figured Scott had overslept, maybe he should go upstairs and knock on the bedroom door. That shows you the kind of guy Scott was-a Mexican supervisor felt comfortable going upstairs. But on the way, Ted passed through the kitchen and saw it. Her." He licked his lips. "After that, God only knows how he had the strength to go upstairs."

"The papers said he followed the bloody sneaker prints."

"Ted was a gutsy guy, Vietnam vet, saw combat."

"Any idea where I can locate him?"

"Forest Lawn," he said. "He died a couple years later. Cancer." He patted his sternum. "Fifty years old. He smoked, but nothing will convince me the shock didn't break down his health."

He sat up straighter, as if affirming his own robustness.

I said, "So Ted went upstairs, saw the rest of it, and called you."