The Trade. Shirley Palmer

down. I’d dropped my cell on the beach. Where was I supposed to find help?”

      “You could’ve taken her to the Civic Center there in Malibu, couldn’t you?”

      “She was already dead, and flames were coming over the ridge. What would have been the point of attempting that?” He wanted to ask if this guy had ever been caught in a firestorm, but the answer was obvious. He hadn’t.

      “You’ve shown an interest in claiming this baby, Mr. Lowell. Why is that?” Barstow asked.

      Out of his peripheral vision, Matt saw Ned open his mouth, then close it without speaking. He hadn’t told Ned what he intended.

      “No reason. I just thought…I didn’t like the idea that she might be cut up for the purpose of training doctors.”

      “Who told you that would happen?”

      “Doesn’t it?”

      Barstow shrugged. “A young woman was found yesterday morning on Encinal Canyon Road. It’s possible she was the mother.”

      “Really?”

      “You don’t sound too surprised. Did you know this girl?”

      “Know her? No, I didn’t know her. I would’ve told you if I knew her. Look, I found a child on the beach in the middle of a wildfire. I did the best I could to keep her alive. I feel terrible that I wasn’t able to, but I got in touch with the authorities as soon as I could, which was around midnight. After I’d spent hours fighting to save my house. I thought it would be the right thing to do to give her a burial. Where are you going with this?”

      Flores joined the conversation. “Why do you feel so threatened by these questions?”

      “I don’t feel threatened, Mr. Flores.” Matt made a conscious effort to relax. Flores was right, he sounded defensive. “I just don’t understand why you’re talking to me about a young girl found dead in Encinal.”

      “Well, the spot in Encinal is not too far from where you said you picked up the child on the beach. You’ve shown quite an interest in that baby. We’re just trying to do our job, get to the bottom of who knew what and when they knew it,” Flores said.

      Matt held his eyes. They were a mid-brown, the sort of brown usually described as warm. But these were as cold as any Matt had seen, and the slight smile hovering around Flores’ tight lips didn’t help.

      “Well,” he said, “if I can help you do that, of course I will. Anyway, are you sure the girl you found was the mother?”

      Neither man responded. It was clear they were not here to answer questions, just ask them.

      “Would you be willing to give a sample for DNA testing, Mr. Lowell?” Flores asked. “Just for the record.”

      “Now wait a minute,” Ned said. “Just you guys wait a minute here—”

      “It’s okay, Ned,” Matt said. He turned to Barstow. “Why are you asking me to do that?”

      “There’s nothing to it, Mr. Lowell, nothing invasive,” Barstow said. “A swab, some saliva, that’s all.”

      “You haven’t answered the question,” Ned said. “Is he suspected of some crime?”

      “We don’t know that a crime has been committed, Mr. Lowell. This is just routine.”

      Matt sat back and let Ned run with it. He’d seen Ned’s face and knew better than to start an argument with him in front of a couple of detectives.

      “Routine, bullshit,” Ned said. “What happens to that sample afterward? It’s kept on record, right? So my brother, who has done absolutely nothing except behave like a model citizen, now has his DNA on record in a police file connected to some unknown girl’s death?”

      Flores shook his head. “The sample will be destroyed.”

      “Come on,” Ned said. “We’re supposed to trust the police department that screwed up the blood evidence in the O.J. Simpson case?”

      Barstow turned to Matt. “We have your shirt, Mr. Lowell, and we don’t need your permission to test it.”

      “Then why are you asking for saliva?”

      “Well, cooperation would count in your favor—”

      Ned was on his feet. “What are you talking about, in his favor? Is he being accused of something?”

      “No. Well. Thank you, we’ll be in touch. If you remember anything else, give us a call.” Barstow produced a small leather cardholder, removed a business card and placed it on Matt’s desk. He glanced at Flores, and both detectives rose. “And we’re the sheriff’s department, not LAPD. Just so you know. Anyway, thanks for your time.” At the door, Barstow turned. “Your horses get out okay?”

      “Yes, thanks,” Matt answered.

      Barstow nodded and offered a polite smile. The two detectives left the room, leaving behind a faint trail of stale cigarette smoke, and the unspoken words hanging in the air.

      They suspected him of murder.

      CHAPTER 6

      Matt turned off his laptop and pushed back from his desk in the corner of the living room. It was no good. He couldn’t work. It seemed as if he’d been going over the same set of drawings for the last three hours. All he could think of was the conversation with the detectives and the two creatures who’d somehow fallen into the middle of his life, the baby who had died in his arms, and the young girl who may or may not be the baby’s mother.

      He got to his feet, poured another cup of coffee, his third that morning, took it to the window. Rays from the sun pierced the bottom of the mounting gray-and-white thunderclouds, and sparkled in large intermittent coins of light on the water. The temperature had dropped dramatically since the fire, and rain was in the forecast.

      A flight of California brown pelicans swept low, wingtips skimming the top of the waves. Matt followed their glide with his eyes until they disappeared over the water. The pelicans were making a comeback after the DDT disaster in the seventies that had damn near wiped them out.

      He picked up the phone, punched out the number for the animal shelter in Agoura, identified himself to the woman who answered, described his two horses, the small gentle Andalusian mare he’d bought for Ginn, his own buckskin quarterhorse gelding, and asked how soon he could pick them up.

      “The sooner the better,” she said. “We’re like Noah’s ark over here. If you can tell me what time you’ll be here, I’ll have them brought in from the pasture.”

      “I have to make a couple of calls, see if I can borrow a trailer. Probably be around one, is that okay?”

      “Sure. See you then,” she said and hung up.

      Margie Little’s place had been burned out, so he called the Malibu Riding Club, agreed to pay double the usual boarding fee—the stable manager made sure he was aware she was doing him a favor, that space was tight after the fire, and he had, after all, removed his horses from the club for no reason she had been able to fathom. But as a courtesy, he could leave his Range Rover at the club, use one of their trailers and a pickup to get his horses from Agoura. If he were still a member, she’d waive the rental fee, but since he wasn’t, of course, there would be a charge.

      He loaded Barney into the Range Rover and took the Pacific Coast Highway north. The roadblocks at Topanga and Trancas had been removed, but traffic was still sparse. By tomorrow, if the rain held off, Sunday drivers would be out in force inspecting the damage—the chimneys still standing surrounded by rubble, the blackened beams from collapsed roofs, the burned-out armchairs and sofas that had once enclosed celebrity bottoms.

      He slowed at the sign for Encinal Canyon Road. The girl’s body had been found less than a mile from the PCH. On impulse,