by Sue Grafton
She punched in 1949-19-4.
No deal.
She punched in 19-4-1949.
I could feel my heart thud. “That’s two.”
“Would you get off it? I know it’s two. I’m the one punching in numbers. Let’s just think about it for a second. What’s another possibility?”
“What about Onni’s birthday?”
“Let’s hope not. I know it’s November 11, but I’m not sure what year. Anyway, Beck hasn’t been boffing her long so he probably doesn’t have a clue himself.”
I said, “11-11 any year would be eight digits, not seven.”
She pointed at me, apparently impressed with my ability to count.
“What’s his wife’s birthday?” I asked.
“3-17-1952. But he’s blown that one so many times he’s probably spooked by now. Besides, he prefers numbers with internal connections or sequences. Know what I mean? Repeats or patterns.”
“I thought you said he used your birthday at one point.”
“True. That’d be 5-15-1955.”
“Hey, mine’s 5-5-1950,” I chirped, sounding like a lunatic.
“Great. We’ll do a joint celebration when the dates roll around next year. So what should I try? His birth date backwards or mine straight ahead?”
“Well, his birth date backwards has an internal logic if you group the numbers. 949-191-4. Would he break it down that way?”
“Might.”
“Just do one or the other before I have a heart attack.”
She punched in 5-15-1955. A moment of silence and then the doors slid open. “My birthday. Sweet. You think he still cares?”
I pushed the Stop Run button and watched her wipe her prints off the keypad, taking care not to trigger the alarm. “Wouldn’t want anyone to know we were here,” she said, happily.
Meanwhile, I was staring straight ahead. The room was probably six feet by eight—not much bigger than a closet. The cleaning cart we’d seen was shoved up against the left wall. A U-shaped counter took up much of the remaining floor space. I looked up. The room seemed to be well ventilated, the walls heavily padded. A smoke detector and a heat detector had been installed in the shadowy upper reaches of the ceiling, where I could see sprinkler heads as well. Rungs embedded in the wall formed a ladder that went straight up. Around the perimeter of the ceiling, I could see rectangles of daylight roughly corresponding to the vents in the fake gardener’s cottage on the roof. Reba was right. In a pinch, you could probably gain entry to the room from the roof. Or escape that way.
There were three currency-counting machines on one arm of the counter and four currency-bundling machines on the adjacent counter. Open suitcases were lined up on the third section, packed with tightly wrapped bundles of hundred-dollar bills. Under the counter, ten cardboard cartons were lined up, their top flaps open, packed with additional bundles of hundreds, fifties, and twenties in U.S. currency. Each bundle was shrink-wrapped, with paper adding-machine tape circling packets of five. There were two styrofoam coffee cups visible and a pile of empty cups in a wastebasket, which also contained wads of discarded plastic wrappers. Several silver-dollar-size plastic disks with small blades were being used to slit the wrappers.
Reba said, “Geez. I’ve never seen so much money.”
“Me neither. It looks like they’re pulling bundles from these boxes, removing the wrappers, running the bills through the currency counter, and then rewrapping them for transport.”
She advanced a few steps and checked the total on one of the currency counters. “Take a peek at this puppy. They’ve run a million bucks through this.” She picked up a bundle and weighed it in her hand. “Wonder how much this is. Wouldn’t you love to know?” She sniffed it. “You’d think it would smell good, but it doesn’t smell like anything.”
“Would you keep your hands to yourself?”
“I’m just looking. I’m not doing anything. How much do you figure is in one of these, twenty grand? Fifty?”
“I have no idea. Don’t mess with that. I’m serious.”
“Aren’t you curious what it feels like? It doesn’t weigh all that much,” she said. She wiped her prints from the wrapper and put the bundle back, surveying the space. “How many guys you think work here besides the two we saw?”
“There’s not room for three. They probably come in weekends when the activity’s less conspicuous,” I said. I reached out and put my hand on one of the styrofoam cups and nearly moaned in fear. “This is still warm. Suppose they come back?”
“No one can get to us. The elevator’s on hold.”
“But if they find the elevator on hold, won’t they know something’s wrong? We have to get out of here. I’m begging you.”
“Okay, okay. But I knew I was right about the room. This is incredible, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely. Who gives a shit? Let’s go.”
I backed out of the room and into the service elevator. The other set of doors was still open and I stuck my head out into the corridor to assure myself that no one had entered the premises while we were in the room. Reba was having trouble dragging herself away. I said, “Reba, come on!” sounding every bit as tense and impatient as I felt.
She moved into the elevator as though mesmerized and entered the seven-digit code. The doors on that side of the elevator slid closed. She replaced the wall padding and adjusted the quilted matting to conceal the second set of doors.
“What took you so long?”
“It’s all so beautiful. Can you imagine having even half the bundles in there? You’d never have to lift another finger as long as you lived.”
“No problem. Your life wouldn’t last that long.”
We exited through the elevator doors that opened into Beck’s offices and Reba released the Stop Run button. We waited until the service elevator doors closed, and then went around the corner and got back on the public elevator.
She released the hold button, the doors closed, and we began our leisurely descent. I was nearly sick with anxiety, but she didn’t seem affected. The woman had nerves of steel.
When we reached the lobby level and stepped off, Willard looked up from his desk with a smile. “You find it?”
I held up my shoulder bag to show our mission had been accomplished. My hands were shaking so badly I thought he’d spot the trembling from across the lobby. I was doing what I could to maintain a semblance of normality until we could ease out the front door and be on our way.
Reba, true to form, made a point of crossing to his desk, where she stretched up on tiptoe and rested her arms on the counter, holding her injured finger close to his face. “You got a first-aid kit? Look at this. I about crippled myself.”
Willard peered at her knuckle, inspecting the wound that was no bigger than a hyphen. “How’d you do that?”
“I must have snagged it on something. Sucker hurts. You can kiss it and make it better if you want.”
He shook his head, smiling indulgently, and started opening his desk drawers. While he rummaged around in search of a Band-Aid, I noticed Reba’s gaze flicking across the monitors, taking in all ten views.
Willard held up a bandage. “Think you can manage this yourself?”
“Don’t be mean. After all I’ve done for you?” She held out her finger and he pulled the red thread that opened the paper packaging. He removed the Band-Aid and applied it.
She said, “Thanks. You’re a doll. I’ll recommend a raise.” She made a kissing noise at him as we headed for the door.
Behind us, Willard left his perch and followed, taking out his jumble of keys so he could unlock the front door. “Don’t you be coming back. This is the last of it.”
“I won’t, but you’ll miss me,” she said as we scooted through the door.
“I doubt that,” he said, and Reba blew him another kiss. I thought she was laying it on a bit thick, but Willard didn’t seem to mind. He turned the keys in the lock and we were safe.
22
Reba slowed he
r BMW to a stop in front of my apartment. As I got out and shut the car door behind me, I saw that Cheney’s little red Mercedes was parked at the curb. I felt a surge of anxiety. I’d intended to fill him in on my adventures with Reba over the past couple of days, but Jonah’s call had intervened and he’d gone off to the shooting scene without my having spoken a word. The omission made me uneasy, as though I were deliberately holding out on him. Even referring to our activities as “adventures” sounded like an attempt to minimize the fact that what we’d done could jeopardize the investigation. Last night’s incursion into Beck’s offices had been risky enough. In a pinch, an argument could be made that Marty had invited us to tour the premises, but his offer hadn’t extended to our rifling through desk drawers and stealing Onni’s keys. He’d certainly never given us permission to return in his absence and enjoy the run of the place. I wanted to tell Cheney about the bundles of cash being counted, repackaged, and packed into suitcases, but I knew the discovery encompassed a little matter of criminal trespass, which tainted the knowledge. Nonetheless, I needed to unload before my withholding the information became an issue in itself.
I went through the gate and around the side of my studio, as burdened with guilt as though I’d slept with another man. I could make excuses for my conduct, but I was accountable all the same. Cheney was sitting on my front step, still in the clothes he’d been wearing the night before. He smiled when he saw me, looking exhausted, but good. Confessing was bound to impact our relationship. I dreaded the consequences, but I had to speak up.
I sat down on the step and slipped my hand into his. “How’d it go? You look beat.”
“Big mess. Two gangbangers dead. Hooker got caught in the crossfire and she’s dead, too. Jonah sent me home to shower and change clothes. I’m due back at one. How’s by you?”
“Not that good. We need to talk.”
He focused on my face, his eyes searching. “Can it wait?”
“I don’t think so. This is about Reba. We’ve got a problem.”
“Meaning what?”
“You’re not going to like this.”
“Just spit it out,” he said.
“She and I connected up for dinner last night. She wanted to introduce me to Marty Blumberg, Beck’s company comptroller, and I couldn’t see the harm. He has dinner at Dale’s every Friday night so that’s where we went. He comes in and the three of us are schmoozing away. Next thing I know, she tells him how the feds are mounting a case against Beck and he—Marty—is going to end up taking the blame if he doesn’t do something quick. I had no idea what she thought she was doing, but there it was.”
Cheney closed his eyes and hung his head. “Geez. I don’t believe it. What the hell’s wrong with her?”
“It gets worse. She tells him Onni’s a federal agent and she’s screwing Beck’s brains out as a way of getting the goods on him. At first, Marty resists. He really doesn’t want to believe it, but Reba shows him the photos and reels him in. Then she gets us invited up to the offices—ostensibly for a tour—but she uses the opportunity to scour the place for anything she can lay her hands on, which turns out to be Onni’s keys.”
I continued the rundown, giving him an unvarnished account of what had happened over the course of the past two days. I could tell he was getting pissed before I was even halfway through. He was tired. He’d had a long night and this was the last thing he needed. At the same time, I felt compelled to tell him the truth. Either I revealed the whole of it—of myself—or what was the point?
I moved on to events of the morning and when I’d finished, Cheney blew. “You gotta be out of your head! Aside from the issue of unlawful entry, if Beck gets wind of it, he’ll know something’s off and that’s the end of it for us.”
“How’s he going to find out?”
“Suppose Marty spills the beans or the security guy has second thoughts about letting you in. He knows both of you by name. All it’d take is one offhand remark from either of those guys. Doesn’t matter how solid the government’s case is, defense attorney puts you on the stand and he’ll take you apart. Not that he’ll have the chance. Long before it comes to that, the feds will slap you with charges of obstruction of justice, tampering with evidence, and god knows what else. Perjury for sure the minute you try to cover your ass. Reba’s got no credibility. Convicted felon, woman scorned. Anything she says is automatically suspect.”
“Then why’d you bring her into it? If she’s so useless, why recruit her in the first place?”
“Because we needed a confidential informant, not a friggin’ one-man posse. You’re a pro. You know better—or I assumed you did. The feds play for keeps. Compromise an operation like this and you’re the one who pays. What’s it to her? She’s got nothing to lose.”
“Cheney, I hear you. I know I should have stopped her, but I couldn’t see a way to do it. Once she told Marty what was going down, events just started to escalate—”
“Bullshit. You were a willing participant. What you did was illegal—”
“Got it. I know. I’m aware of it,” I said. “On the other hand, how could I walk away? She’s in this because of us—because of me to be specific. I feel some responsibility for what’s happening to her.”
“Well, you better start taking responsibility for your own behavior. If this sting goes down the shitter, you’ll be in more trouble than you can shake a stick at.”
“Wait a minute. Wait. I don’t mean to sound defensive, but I got backed into this. When the deal first came up, I told you I didn’t want to do it, but you talked me into it, smutty photographs and all. Fade out, fade in. I’m sitting there at Dale’s and she opens her mouth and blows the deal wide open. What was I supposed to do? If I’d gotten up and left, there was no way of guessing what the hell she’d do next. Believe it or not, I was trying for damage control. I’ll admit the situation snowballed—”
“Just do me a favor and stay the hell away from her, okay? She calls you, hang up and leave the rest of it to us. I’ll get Vince on the horn and bring him up to speed. We’ll see what he can salvage, if anything.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to screw things up.”
“Well, you can’t do anything about it now. What’s done is done. Just keep your distance from Reba. Promise.”
I held a hand up like I was taking an oath.
“I’ll call you later,” he said brusquely. He got up and headed around the corner to his car. I heard him fire up his engine and peel away from the curb with a chirp of rubber on pavement. I could feel my face burning for an hour afterward.
I locked myself in my apartment and tidied my underwear drawer. I needed to do something small and useful. I had to get a handle on life in a risk-free arena where I could feel competent again. Maybe folding underpants didn’t amount to much, but it was the best I could do. I moved on to the chest of drawers and refolded my shirts. Then I tackled the junk drawer downstairs. I hated the idea of being prosecuted. Obstruction of justice was serious damn shit. I pictured myself in jail garb, legs shackled, hands manacled in front, doing the traditional inmate two-step while shuffling to and from court. That began to seem a bit melodramatic and I decided there was no point in going overboard on the self-flagellation. So I’d goofed. Big deal. I hadn’t killed anyone.
After an hour, I became aware of voices outside my door, one being Henry’s. I glanced out the kitchen window, but the angle was too extreme for me to see who else was there. I went to the front door, popped the locks, and opened it a crack. Henry, Lewis, and William were standing together in the driveway. Lewis and William were both in three-piece suits while Henry wore his usual shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops. He’d backed the station wagon out of the garage and Lewis was loading his bags in the rear. As I looked on, I heard a soft ping, and William removed his pocket watch from his vest and checked the time. He took out a small packet of trail mix and made a production of opening the sealed cellophane, which generated copious crackling noises. Henry flicked him a look of
annoyance but continued the conversation with Lewis, which seemed to be about nothing in particular. I eased the door shut, gratified that one conflict had been peacefully resolved, or so I hoped. The truth about strong emotion is that it’s difficult to sustain. Despite how victimized we feel, it’s hard work hanging on to anger, even when it’s tinged with righteousness. Holding a grudge against someone is (sometimes) more trouble than it’s worth.
Reba called at 2:00. As I’m constitutionally unable to resist a ringing phone, I was on the verge of snatching up the handset. I hesitated, curbing the impulse, and let the machine pick up. She said, “Oh, poo. I was hoping you’d be there. I just had this big ol’ stinkin’ fight with Lucinda and I’m dying to tell you about it. I practically threw her out on her ass only not really, but you know, figuratively speaking. Anyway, call me when you can and I’ll fill you in. Also, there’s something else we need to talk about. Bye-bye.”
She called again at 3:36. “Hey, Kinsey, me again. Don’t you check messages these days? I’m going stir-crazy up here. We really need to talk so give me a buzz when you get in, okay? Otherwise, I can’t be responsible for what I do. Ha ha ha. That’s a joke…sort of.”
At 5:30, she left only her name with a request that I call.
I went into the office Monday morning and buried myself in the work I’d neglected the previous week. I’d read about the parking-lot shootout in the morning paper, and I knew the STPD vice and homicide detectives were working with the gang detail, interviewing witnesses and running down leads. The Santa Teresa gang population tends to be stable, their activities carefully monitored. Periodically, however, gang members from Olvidado, Perdido, and Los Angeles will swing through town, especially on holiday weekends when the homeboys, like everyone else, are hoping for a change of scene. Happily police officers from those communities make the same swing through town so that unbeknownst to the gangbangers, they’re still under the watchful eye of the law.