Chapter Four

Rob Morrison lived in a small wooden clapboard house tucked in among a good dozen spruce trees about two miles south of town. A narrow dirt road, posted as Penzance Street, snaked through the valleys and hills, and his house was at the end of the road. A wide gully lay just beyond. I turned when I got out of the car and stared over the western horizon. I felt a moment of deep envy. When Rob Morrison awoke in the morning, it was to an incredible view of the Pacific Ocean through the skinny spruce trees. It felt like being at the edge of the world.

Maggie knocked on the unpainted oak door. "Rob? Come on, wake up. You'll be on duty again in another four hours. Wake up."

I heard movement from within the house. Finally, a man's deep voice called out, "Maggie, that you? What are you doing here? What's going on? How's Jilly?"

"Open up, Rob, and I'll tell you everything."

The door opened and a man about my age stood there, wearing only tight jeans with the top button open and a heavy morning beard. The sheriff had been right, this guy was in awesome shape. Thank God he'd been there at exactly the right moment. "Who are you?"

I stuck out my hand. "Name's Ford MacDougal. I'm Jilly's brother. I want to thank you for saving her life."

"Rob Morrison," the guy said and took my right hand in a very strong grip. "Yeah, hey, I'm sorry it ever happened. How is she?"

"Jilly's still in a coma," Maggie said. "Can we talk?" I said. Rob stood back and waved us in. "Mr. Thorne was here just two days ago so the place is still as clean as a virgin's memories."

Maggie said to me, "That means there isn't anything of interest anywhere, particularly dirt." "A blank slate," I said.

"An unsoiled blank slate. Right. I'm making coffee. Any for either of you?" At my nod, he said, "Black and strong as tar?" "That's it."

"Maggie, Earl Grey tea for you?" She nodded. Both of us followed him through the painfully neat living room to the small kitchen just beyond.

"Nice place," I said. "Who's Mr. Thorne?" Rob turned and smiled. "He's my housekeeper. Comes twice a week, keeps me from living like a pig. A retired salmon fisherman from Alaska. He calls my place his petri dish."

We sat on bar stools at the kitchen counter that separated the kitchen from the small rectangular dining area in front of two wide windows looking toward the ocean.

Soon the smell of coffee filled the air. I breathed in deeply. "The coffee at The Edwardian tasted like cheap watered-down instant."

"It was," Rob said. "Mr. Pete loves instant, makes it with lukewarm water, but only when Pierre Montrose, the owner, isn't there. I wouldn't be surprised if he stirred it with his finger." He poured the coffee and gently shoved a cup over to me.

He poured a cup of hot water over a tea bag. He added a single bag of Equal, stirred it, and gave it to Maggie.

We drank. I sighed deeply. "The best ritual in the world."

"Why don't you go get a shirt on, Rob?" Maggie said. "Mac and I won't move a muscle."

Rob just shrugged his superbly muscled shoulder. "Nan, I've got to take a shower. Let's talk. I can get dressed after you guys leave."

I not only felt like a slab of cold oatmeal, I felt really pathetic. This guy could probably shove me over with one hand and walk away whistling. It was depressing as hell. At least the coffee was waking me up, aches and pains and all. I still wanted that nap, but with Rob Morrison sitting across from me, his legs crossed at the ankles, holding his coffee cup against his bare muscled belly, I wasn't about to slouch or yawn.

At least the guy had to have a housekeeper to keep from living like a slob in a cave.

"Rob," Maggie said, leaning forward, cupping the tea mug between her hands. "Tell us everything you can remember, every detail. I'm going to record it, okay?"

"Yeah, sure, but you already know everything."

"Let's do it again. I want it on record this time. Mac needs to hear it too." Maggie made preliminary comments into the recorder. After a couple of false starts, Rob sat forward and said slowly and very clearly, "It was nearly midnight on Tuesday, April twenty-second. I was cruising north along the coast road. I didn't see anybody or anything until I came around a deep curve and saw Jilly's white Porsche in front of me. I saw the car go toward the railing. It didn't slow, just kept going, right on through. Then the Porsche speeded up. I was right on its tail. When it went over the cliff I was there in just a couple of seconds. I saw the headlights through the water and dove in right at that spot. It went down about fifteen, sixteen feet, I'd estimate, before the car hit the sand and settled. The driver's-side window was completely open. I managed to pull Jilly through the window with no loss of time since her seat belt wasn't fastened. I kicked off the bottom and headed straight up. I estimate that she wasn't underwater more than two minutes, tops.