Free The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) by Marcia Muller Page A

term.
    “Where’re we goin’ to go, honey?” Her voice was tremulous; she was trying not to cry.
    “Wherever. At least we’re still together.”
    I thought quickly, then turned on my flashlight and approached them. They froze like a pair of frightened deer caught in the glare of headlights.
    “What were you two doing down there?” I asked in a brusque, official voice.
    “Nothing, ma’am. Just lookin’ for shelter till this wind stops.” He raised his hand at the sky.
    “Have you sheltered there before?”
    “Twice, maybe three times. But that was in the fall when it was warmer.”
    “Did you see anybody else tonight?”
    They both shook their heads.
    “Only fools like us would try it in this weather,” the man said. “Like I was tellin’ her when we climbed out, even a doorway’s better than down there.”
    “Okay. You know we usually arrest people for trespassing on this lot, but in weather like this…well. I’m not going to hassle you. In fact, I’ll help you people out.”
    “Why would you do that?”
    I thought of Joey McCone, dead of a drug overdose in a rain-soaked shack near Eureka.
    “Let’s just say I once had a brother who was in a fix like yours.”
    “What happened to him?” the woman asked softly.
    “He died. I don’t want that to happen to either of you—or your baby.”
    The woman closed her eyes; the man cleared his throat gruffly.
    I dug in my pocket, pulled out what cash I had there. Didn’t count it—it wasn’t much, but enough to help people with none at all. Added my business card to it.
    “Take this. If you need any more help, get hold of me.”
    After a hesitation, the man took it. “Thank you.”
    “Better get going; there’s a rainstorm supposed to blow in soon.”
    When they were gone, I slipped through the fence and descended carefully by the light of my flash. The pit was the same desolate, post-apocalyptic scene as before: slabs of broken concrete, discarded household items, rags and cans and other trash. But this time I noticed something new: the top to a refrigerator’s vegetable crisper, snapped in half. I had one like it, and I’d long yearned to exert the same violence upon it.
    Slowly I prowled the bottom of the pit, looking for…what? I wasn’t sure. In a cleared area near the center were the remains of a fire, not the same remains I’d seen on my previous visit. I shone the flashlight on charred wood stained with drippings. There was no evidence of a pot of any sort, much less an iron one suitable for boiling an infant. I squatted down, leaned closer, sniffing. Bacon. Other meat odors. Something sweet. What…? Marshmallows. Even the homeless were entitled to a treat once in a while—
    I picked up a stick and stirred through the charred wood pieces. Something glinted among them. I poked at it. A piece of metal with a small bit of leather attached to one end. I placed it in one of the plastic bags I keep in my “skulking clothes” for collecting evidence, then stirred the wood and ashes some more. Next, a cigarette lighter—gold, expensive-looking, probably a Dunhill. What the hell was that doing here?
    Well, one of the homeless people might have found or stolen it, then dropped it while lighting a fire. I flipped the lid and flicked the control on its side: it didn’t work; the wick and elements looked burned out. Maybe tossed away by someone who didn’t know they could be replaced? Or couldn’t afford to replace them? It went into another bag.
    There were remnants of long matches such as you use to start fireplaces or barbecues; a ballpoint pen with the name of its supplier obliterated; a segment of a thick ornamental gold cord; a paper clip chain, the clips in the shape of dog bones; a buckle that looked as if it might have come from a watchband. You never know, so all of that went into baggies too.
    Clang!
    Something struck a sheet of metal close to my head. Instinctively I turned the flash off and dropped to the ground, covering my