“All right,” Hook told him. “I’m listening.”

Rider took out his cigarettes and offered one to Hook, who rejected it. The sergeant lit one himself, taking his time. Hook watched him with a cold, growing anger.

“We’ll be served in a minute,” Rider explained. “Just as soon not have the girl overhear anything, okay?”

“You could stop talking when she’s here,” Hook suggested.

“You’re a farmer, I believe your police chief said.”

Hook nodded, waiting, trying to control himself. “I raise cattle.”

“Your boy didn’t like it, huh?”

“He was waiting to be drafted. He wanted to see the country.”

The waitress came with their order and Rider asked her how her back was. It was better, she said, but not as good as it would be if she would only change jobs, get something where she could lie on her back all day. The sergeant laughed with her. Then she left.

“She’s a friend,” he explained. “I didn’t want to just clam up when she got here. You know how it is.”

“She’s gone now,” Hook said.

Rider took a quick drink, grimly set it down. “So she is. And now you want me to talk. Okay. Here’s the story as we have it so far. We think it’s the truth—there’s no reason for it not to be the truth—but we’re not about to call the case closed as yet. On the other hand, there are two witnesses, in substantial agreement, so there doesn’t appear to be any need for an inquest. Not yet, anyway.”

He took another drink and grimaced, as if he were trying to remember something, and failing. Hook waited for him to continue.

“Yesterday around noon your boy was hitchhiking down here on 101. You go through any time of day you’ll see a dozen of them trying to thumb a ride—hippies mostly, but some of them straight, like your kid. I figure he probably got a ride up from L.A. in the morning. Anyway, around noon this girl—this woman—picked him up. She’s about twenty-five, divorced, goes by her maiden name, Madera. Elizabeth Madera. A very beautiful girl. Comes from a very old Santa Barbara family.” The sergeant’s voice heaped scorn on the phrase. “And here that means something special. It’s kind of like a hunting license.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning some of ’em swing pretty high, wide, and handsome—and without having to pay dues. In some societies this girl might be labeled a whore. Here, she’s aristocracy.”

Hook was getting impatient. “Where’d she take him?”

Rider took another drink. “Home. To a beach house she shares with an older woman, a widow name of Dorothy Rubin. Actually it’s the Rubin woman’s place. Miss Madera just ‘stays there’—whatever that means. Anyway, she took him home. He was out there thumbing, probably hoping to get a lift to Big Sur or San Francisco. Instead he gets a ride about three miles up the coast to the beach house. Now you don’t have to be a genius to figure what Miss Madera had in mind—or why he accepted. Sex, Mr. Hook.”