"Find anything useful?" Vic asked, glancing over at the passenger seat.
"More than I expected." Miles scrolled through search results he’d gathered during the first half of their trip. "The Hartwell mine—officially called the Hartwell Claims—was originally staked in 1852, during the height of the Gold Rush. It changed hands several times over the decades, but it fell to Larry Hartwell in the early 1970s."
"Was it still producing then?"
"No, production had stopped years earlier. But Larry saw tourist potential. He reopened it as the 'Hartwell Hole Experience.' Underground tours, gold panning demonstrations, the whole nine yards." Miles clicked through to another page. "Looks like it was moderately successful through the eighties and early nineties. Family-friendly attraction, school field trips, that sort of thing."
Vic slowed as they approached a weathered wooden sign barely visible through overgrown vegetation. "What happened to shut it down?"
"Insurance costs, mostly. Plus some safety concerns after a minor cave-in in '97 when a pair of twenty-somethings went in looking for gold. No one was hurt, but it spooked the insurance company." Miles then moved on to another article. "Larry Hartwell died in 2003, and his daughter Diana inherited theproperty. She closed the tourist operation permanently almost right away."
"Diana Hartwell." Vic turned onto a dirt road that seemed to lead nowhere. "What else can you find about her?"
Miles typed rapidly and scanned as Vic drove. "Not much online. She's kept a low profile since closing the mine. No social media presence that I can find. No recent news articles. But…interestingly enough, thereisa result for the Golden Gate Museum of Natural History. Looks like she’d been on staff for about fifteen years, according to this staff directory."
"What's her position?"
"Curator. Specializes in geological exhibits." Miles looked up from the screen, considering. "So, a museum curator with access to gold specimens and expert knowledge of San Francisco's mining history."
"Someone who'd understand the symbolic significance of gold in the city's development," Vic agreed. "And someone with legitimate reasons to handle gold professionally."
“Diana is checking a whole lot of boxes.”
The dirt road curved around a small hill, and suddenly they could see their destination. The land spread out before them, flat and featureless except for patches of yellowed grass and scattered boulders. In the distance, a deteriorating forest of oak and pine created a natural barrier. Miles wasn’t certain, but he assumed that somewhere beyond that lay the actual mine shafts.
A modest single-story house sat near the front of the property, its paint faded and siding warped from years of weather. A few outbuildings clustered nearby—a barn, a storage shed, what might have been a gift shop in better days. The whole place had the melancholy air of abandoned dreams. It looked like a remnant from a ghost town but with a warm, nostalgic charm.
Vic parked near the house and they climbed out, shoes crunching on the gravel driveway. The afternoon sun felt warm on Miles's shoulders, but there was something desolate about the silence. No birds, no insects, just the whisper of wind through dry grass. A lone Toyota pickup truck was parked in the dusty driveway.
They approached the front door of the house, noting the drawn curtains and general appearance of emptiness. There were clear indications of recent activity—a watering can beneath flowerboxes on the windows, and a pair of old, tattered boots by the front door. Vic knocked firmly on the door, the sound echoing off the porch roof. They waited, knocked again, but no response came from within.
"Nobody home," Miles said, stating the obvious.
"Or they're just not answering." Vic walked to a window and peered through a gap in the curtains. "Looks empty, though. No lights, no movement."
A voice behind them made them both turn. "Can I help you folks?"
A man in his sixties approached from the direction of the barn, wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag. He wore work clothes that had seen better decades and a John Deere cap pulled low over weathered features. His gait suggested a lifetime of physical labor, but his eyes were sharp and alert.
"FBI," Vic said, showing her badge. "I'm Special Agent Stone, this is Dr. Sterling. We're looking for Diana Hartwell."
The man nodded, unsurprised by their presence. He removed his hat and held it by his side. "Sam Ragland. I work the land here, have since Larry took it over in the seventies." He gestured toward the house. "Diana's not here, though. She's at work."
"At the museum?" Miles asked.
"That’s right. Golden Gate Museum of Natural History. She's a curator there. Rocks and minerals and such." Sam tucked the rag into his back pocket. "Been there for years. Usually doesn't get home until after six on weekdays."
“And what is it you do around here, Mr. Ragland?”
He chuckled and said, “Not much. I’m starting to think Diana only keeps me on as a reminder of her dad. I was close with him. I used to keep the behind-the-scenes doings for the tours running. But for the last…God, the last twenty years almost, I’m little more than a handyman. I cut the grass, keep the old barns and sheds stable. Last week I fixed the dishwasher in the kitchen. Shit like that, you know?”
"Mr. Ragland, do you mind if we ask you a few questions about the property?” Vic asked.
“Not at all,” Ragland said, taking a seat on one of the porch steps.
“Have you noticed any unusual activity lately? Strangers coming around, anything like that?"
Ragland’s expression grew thoughtful. "Can't say I have. Pretty quiet out here most days. Just me and Diana, and she keeps to herself."
