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“All I know is that Mr. Long called and told me that he would be visiting the ranch,” Clementine said.
“You mean Brady Long,” Alvarez clarified. An easy assumption; according to all reports, Hubert was on his deathbed.
“Yes.” Clementine’s lower lip quivered and she wrung her hands nervously. Her son, Ross, a tall, sullen kid, looked like he would rather be anyplace else on earth than standing in the vestibule of the home of a dead man and talking to an officer of the law. His head was shaved, a straggly goatee decorated his chin, and a tattoo peeked out from the neck of his ski jacket. Snow had melted on the jacket’s shoulders and Ross’s jeans were wet at the top of his boots, as if he’d been walking through deep snowdrifts. His face was a little red. The cold? Exertion? He nearly sneered at Alvarez and carried the air about him that suggested he would have liked the words Bad Ass inked across his forehead.
“You didn’t talk to Mr. Long?” she asked Ross. He shook his head vigorously, losing a bit of the disinterested, cool-appearing demeanor he was trying so hard to convey.
“You’ve been outside this morning?”
“Yeah . . . I went . . . I was in town.”
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All the evidence from the crime had been collected, but the sheriff’s department had roped off the den with crime scene tape, and the hallways and dining area were a mess—fingerprint powder blackening the walls and furniture, footprints tracked throughout the house.
“What can you tell me about that conversation?”
she asked Clementine.
“As I told the other officers, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Every so often, Mr. Brady, he would call and tell me to stock the kitchen and bar because he was going to come back and spend a few days here to unwind. That’s how he usually put it,
‘unwind’ or ‘relax’ or ‘get away from the grind.’”
“Do you know what he was ‘getting away’ from?”
“He never confided in me.”
Alvarez wasn’t certain that was the truth. “You work for him, too?” she asked Ross.
“When I’m not in school. I help out Santana.”
“He’s like the foreman,” Clementine ventured.
“Ross is his helper.”
“Along with some others?”
Clementine was nodding.
“You’ve worked for the Longs for quite a while.”
“Over twenty years.”
“And Ross’s father?” Alvarez looked at the boy, who shifted from one foot to the other.
“He left us. Before Ross was born. I wasn’t married and he . . . he didn’t want a baby.” She licked her lips and looked at the floor.
“His name is Alvin Schwartz and he’s a real asshole. He’s a cop, too,” Ross added.
“Enough!” Clementine said, shushing her son.
“Al? Who works at the jail?” Alvarez pictured the jailor, a part-timer who was in his early forties. A big 352
Lisa Jackson
guy, ex-football-player type, who wore his hair clipped so short as to be nearly bald. Other than the hairstyle, there was little resemblance between father and son.
