Free The McCone Files by Marcia Muller

accommodate the eastbound commuter rush—I shot into the fast lane. At the top of the grade midway through the tunnel, I shifted into neutral to give the engine a rest. Arid heat assailed us as we emerged; the temperature in San Francisco had been nothing compared to this.
    The freeway continued to descend, past brown sun-baked hills covered with live oak and eucalyptus. Then houses began to appear, tucked back among the trees. The air was scented with dry leaves and grass and dust. Fire danger, I thought. One spark and those houses become tinderboxes.
    The town of Orinda appeared on the right. On the left, in the center of the freeway, a BART train was pulling out of the station. I accelerated and tried to outrace it, giving up when my speedometer hit eighty and waving at some school kids who were watching from the train. Then I dropped back to sixty and glanced at Fitzgerald, suddenly embarrassed by my childish display. He was sitting up straighter and grinning.
    I said, “The temptation was overwhelming.”
    â€œI know the impulse.”
    Feeling more comfortable now that he seemed willing to talk, I said, “Did Mr. Kabalka tell you that he let me in on where you’re really from?
    For a moment he looked startled, than nodded.
    â€œIs this the first time you’ve been back here in Contra Costa County?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou’ll find it changed.”
    â€œI guess so.”
    â€œMainly there are more people. Place like Walnut Creek and Concord have grown by leaps and bounds in the last ten years.”
    The county stretched east from the ridge of hills we’d just passed through toward Mount Diablo, a nearly 4,000-foot peak which had been developed into a 15,000-acre state park. On the north side of the county was the Carquinez Strait and its oil refineries, Suisun Bay, and the San Joaquin River which separated Contra Costa from Sacramento County and the rest of the Delta. The city of Richmond and environs, to the west, were also part of the county, and their inclusion had always struck me as odd. Besides being geographically separated by the expanse of the Tilden Regional Park and San Pablo Reservoir, the mostly black industrial city was culturally light years away from the rest of the suburban, upwardly mobile county. With the exception of a few towns like Pittsburgh or Antioch, this was affluent, fast-developing land; I supposed one day even those north-county backwaters would fall victim to expensive residential tracts and shopping centers full of upscale boutiques.
    When Fitzgerald didn’t comment, I said, “Does it look different to you?”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œWait till we get to Walnut Creek. The area around the BART station is all high-rise now. They’re predicting it will become an urban center that will rival San Francisco.”
    He grunted in disapproval.
    â€œAbout the only thing they’ve managed to preserve out here is the area around Mount Diablo. I suppose you know it from when you were a kid.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI went hiking in the park last spring, during wildflower season. It was really beautiful that time of year. They say if you climb high enough you can see thirty-five counties from the mountain.”
    â€œThis pavilion,” Fitzgerald said, “is part of the state park?”
    For a moment I was surprised, then realized that the pavilion hadn’t been in existence in 1969, when he’d left home. “No, but near it. The land around it is relatively unspoiled. Horses and cattle ranches, mostly. They built it about eight years ago, after the Concord Pavilion became such a success. I guess that’s one index of how this part of the Bay Area has grown, that it can support two concert pavilions.”
    He nodded. “Do they ever have concerts going at the same time at both?”
    â€œSure,”
    â€œIt must really echo off these hills.”
    â€œI imagine you can hear it all the way to