Four Sue Grafton Novels

by Sue Grafton

I didn’t hear from Reba again until late Monday afternoon, after I arrived home from work. Mercifully she hadn’t called the office, where good business practice dictates that I answer the phone. She’d called my apartment twice, leaving a message at noon and then another one at 2:00. She sounded cheerful at the outset but increasingly plaintive as the day wore on. “Kinsey? Yoo hoo! Did you tell me you were going out of town or something? Don’t think so, but I really can’t remember for sure. I’m sorry to be such a pest, but Beck’s back in town and I’m antsy as hell. I really don’t know how much longer I can hold out. I’m on my way to Holloway’s to pee in a jar and shoot the shit with her. Then I’m supposed to go to an AA meeting, but I’m thinking I might skip. Too depressing, you know? Anyway, call me when you get this. Hope everything’s okay. Bye.”

  It was hard to leave her hanging when I’d been so available to her the week before. I felt like a mother cow separated from her calf—I could hear Reba’s bleating cries, but I wasn’t free to respond. I’d been serious when I promised Cheney I’d keep my distance, at least until the situation was under control. Once she’d talked to Vince and his pals, I could reassess. By then, of course, she might well have severed our relationship.

  In the meantime, I heard nothing from Cheney, a silence I ascribed to his being up to his ears in work. To avoid the silence, I left the apartment and headed over to see Henry. I tapped on the frame and he motioned me in. He had his heavy-duty mixer on the counter, a ten-pound sack of bread flour, yeast packets, sugar, salt, and water at the ready.

  “Can you put up with company?”

  He smiled. “If you can put up with the racket my mixer makes. I’m about to throw together a batch of bread, which I’ll let rise overnight and bake first thing tomorrow morning. Grab a stool.”

  I watched him measure ingredients, which he dumped in the big stainless-steel mixing bowl. Once he turned on the machine, we put our conversation on hold until he was done. We chatted while I watched him remove the sticky mass of dough, kneading and adding flour until the whole of it was smooth and elastic. He oiled a big wash pan, turned the dough in it until its surface glistened, and then covered it with a towel. He put the pan in the oven where the pilot light would generate the warmth necessary for the bread to rise.

  “How much are you making?” I asked, looking at the quantity of dough.

  “Four big loaves and two batches of dinner rolls, all for Rosie,” he said. “I may do up a pan of sticky buns if you’re interested.”

  “Always. I take it Lewis went home?”

  “I dropped him at the airport Saturday. And speaking of him, he did apologize for butting in, which may be a first. I guess it never occurred to him that his flying out would have that effect. I told him there was no point worrying. What’s done is done.”

  “Someone said the same thing to me yesterday under different circumstances,” I said. “At any rate, I’m glad the two of you are back on solid ground.”

  “Never any doubt of that,” he said. “What about you? I didn’t see much of you this weekend. How’s your new fellow?”

  “Good question,” I said. I told Henry the sorry saga of my bad behavior, risks taken, laws broken, gains, losses, and tension-filled escapes. He enjoyed the tale a lot more than Cheney had and for that I was grateful.

  A little after six, I returned to my place and fixed myself a hot hard-boiled-egg sandwich, with more mayo and salt than your internist would recommend. I was wadding up my paper towel when the phone rang. I tossed the wad and waited until the caller began to speak. Marty Blumberg identified himself and I picked up. “Hey, Marty. It’s me. I just now walked in.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me calling you at home. Something weird’s come up and I’d be curious what you think.”

  “Sure.” I picked up traffic noises in the background and pictured him calling from a pay phone.

  “You want the long version or the short?”

  “Long stories are always better.”

  “Right,” he said. “So here’s how this goes.” I could hear that momentary lull as he inhaled and released a mouthful of smoke. “I get home from work today and my housekeeper’s wringing her hands. She’s upset about something, but won’t say what. I press because I can tell she needs to unburden herself. She says, don’t get mad. I say, fine. She tells me she arrived at the house at nine, like always, and she sees this phone company truck parked in the drive and a couple of guys on the porch. She goes ahead and lets herself in the back and then answers the front door. This one guy says the phone company’s received a number of calls complaining the service is out and they’re going through the neighborhood checking all the lines. They want to know is my phone working, so she asks ’em to wait, tries the line, and sure enough it’s dead. Well, she’s paranoid—comes from watching way too many cop shows on TV—so she asks ’em to show some ID. Both have these pinch-on plastic picture dealies that say California Bell. Huerta writes down their names and employee numbers. Second guy has a clipboard and he shows her the work order, typed up as neat as you please. She figures it’s legit so she lets ’em in. You with me so far?”

  “Yes, but I don’t like the sound of it.”

  “Me neither,” he said. “She’s telling me this shit and I can feel the rocks piling up in my gut. The guys are in my study fifteen, twenty minutes, and then they come out and tell her everything’s hunky-dory. She asks what it was and they say the roof rats must’ve chewed through the outside wires, but now all’s well. Afterwards, she’s thinking none of this makes sense and she’s worried she did wrong. I act like no big deal and tell her I’ll handle it from here. So what I’m thinking is somebody’s either bugged my house or put a tap on my phone.”

  “Or both,” I supplied.

  “Shit, yes. Why else would I be calling from a fuckin’ minimart parking lot? I feel like an idiot, but I can’t take the chance. My phone’s tapped; I don’t want whoever’s doing it to realize I figured it out. That way I can feed ’em any bullshit I want. You think it’s the feds?” I could hear him take another puff on his cigarette.

  “I have no clue, but I think you’re right to worry.”

  “How can they do that? I mean, assuming they planted a bug, or, like, a listening device, wouldn’t that be illegal?”

  “Without a court order, sure.”

  “Trouble is, if it’s not them, it might be someone a whole lot worse.”

  “Like who?” I was thinking Salustio Castillo, but wanted to hear him say it.

  “Never mind who. Either way, I don’t like it. Friday night, when Reba laid out that shit about Beck, I figured she was yanking my chain. More I think about it, the more I’m thinkin’ maybe she was telling the truth. Beck always made a point of keeping me in the thick of it. Like she says, could be he’s setting me up.”

  “Who else is in on it?”

  “On what?”

  “The money laundering.”

  “Who says anyone? I never said that.”

  “Oh come on, Marty. You can’t launder that much money without help.”

  “I’m not a snitch,” he said, his tone indignant.

  “But other people are involved, right?”

  “I don’t know, maybe. A few, but you’re never going to get me to name names.”

  “Fair enough. So what’s in it for you?”

  “Same as everyone else. We’re paid to keep our mouths shut. We help Beck now and he’ll see that we’re set up for life.”

  “Life in a federal pen. That’ll be a treat,” I said.

  Marty ignored that, saying, “Truth is, I got plenty and I’d skedaddle right now if I could figure out how. If Customs is in on the deal, I can’t leave the country without getting my ass nailed. They flag my name in the computer, minute I check in for my flight, boom, I’m done for.”

  “I’m telling you, you better throw in your lot with the guys who count. Beck isn’t looking after you. He’s got himself to protect.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting that. I
mean, sure he may need us, but how far is he willing to go? Beck’s about Beck. Comes right down to it, he’d throw us to the wolves.”

  “Probably so.” I nearly confided the rumor I’d heard, that Beck was on the move and likely to disappear within the next few days, but the likelihood hadn’t been confirmed and the information wasn’t mine to pass on. “Of course, it’s always possible the phone company story is on the up and up…”

  “Nuh-uhn. Don’t think so.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I can’t help.”

  “What about Reba? I’ve been trying to reach her all day.”

  “Probably at the house. She had a meeting with her parole officer earlier so you might try her again.”

  “You talk to her, tell her to give me a call. This is making my stomach hurt. I’m anxious as hell.”

  “Look, let me talk to a friend of mine and see what I can find out.”

  “I’d appreciate that. You call back, you be careful what you say. Meantime, you hear from Reba, tell her the two of us gotta talk. I don’t like workin’ with a noose around my neck.”

  “Hang in there,” I said, and then winced at my choice of words.

  Once he disconnected, I dialed both Cheney’s home and work numbers and left messages. I tried his pager, punching in my home number in hopes he’d call back. Marty was moving into panic mode, which made him as unpredictable as Reba, though more vulnerable.

  I spent the evening stretched out on the couch, book propped in front of me pretending to read while I waited for Cheney’s call. I wondered where he was and whether he was still pissed off at me. I needed to talk to him about Marty, but more than that, I craved the physical contact. My body was remembering his with a low-level yearning disruptive to concentration. Before he arrived on the scene, I’d lived in a dead zone—not exactly buzzing with joy, but certainly not discontent. Now I felt like a pup just coming into heat.

  One of the problems with being celibate is that once sexual feelings resurface, they’re almost impossible to repress. I found myself remembering what had happened between us and fantasizing about what might come next. Cheney had a laziness about him, a natural tempo half the speed of mine. I was beginning to see that operating in high gear was a means of protecting myself. Living at an accelerated pace allowed me to feel only half as much because there wasn’t time to feel more. I made love the same way I ate—eager to satisfy the immediate hunger without acknowledging the deeper desire, which was to feel connected at the core. Avoiding the truth was easier if I was on the run. With quick sex, as with fast food, there was no savoring the moment. There was only the headlong rush to be done with it and move on.

  At 10:00, when the phone rang, I knew it was him. I turned my head, listening until the machine began recording the sound of his voice. I reached over and picked up, saying, “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself. You called.”

  “Hours ago. I thought you were ignoring me. Are you still mad?”

  “About what?”

  “Good.”

  “How about you? Are you pissed off?”

  “Not my nature,” I said. “Not with you at any rate. Listen, we need to talk about Marty. Where are you?”

  “Rosie’s. Come join me.”

  “You trust me to walk half a block by myself? It’s pitchy dark outside.”

  “I was going to meet you halfway.”

  “Why don’t you go the whole distance and meet me here.”

  “We can do that later. For now, I think we should sit and stare into each other’s eyes while I put a hand up your skirt.”

  “Give me five minutes. I’ll step out of my underwear.”

  “Make it three. I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.”

  By the time I locked the door behind me and reached the front gate, he was waiting on the other side of Henry’s wrought-iron fence. The sidewalk on his side was one step lower than the walk on mine, which made me feel tall. The night air was chill and the dark settled over us like a veil. I slid my arms around his neck. He tilted his head and ran his mouth down along my throat and across my collarbone. The fence pales were cold, blunt-tipped spears that pressed against my ribs. He rubbed his hands up and down my arms. “You’re cold. You should have a jacket on.”

  “Don’t need one. I have you.”

  “That you do,” he said, smiling. He eased a hand between the fence pales, ran his fingers under my skirt and up between my legs. I heard him catch his breath and then he made a sound low in his throat.

  “Told you.”

  “I thought it was a metaphor.”

  “What do either of us know about metaphors?” I said, laying my face against his hair.

  “I know this.”

  My turn to hum. “We should go to Rosie’s,” I whispered.

  “We should go in and lie down before impaling ourselves on this fence.”

  At midnight we made grilled cheese sandwiches—the only instance in life when Velveeta isn’t such a terrible idea. I found myself sidetracked by the crust, which was crisp, fully saturated with butter. Still munching, I said, “Hate to ask, but what’d Vince say when you told him about Reba and me?”

  “He stuck his fingers in his ears and hummed. Actually, he loved the information about the counting room. Said he’d put a note in the file and attribute the tip to an anonymous call. He’s scheduling the meeting with Reba for Thursday.”

  “Can’t he make it any sooner than that? He’s the one telling us Beck’s about to take off. Reba’s worried she’ll run into him.”

  “I can mention it to Vince, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope. That’s the downside of an operation like this, it’s unwieldy as hell. All she has to do is lay low.”

  “You give her the news. I’m not allowed to talk to her.”

  “That’s right. Because I’m looking after you.”

  “What about Marty? He’s the one you ought to be worried about. He’s really feeling the squeeze, convinced his phone’s tapped or he’s got a bug planted in his house.”

  “Could well be. Tell him to give us a call and we can talk about a deal.”

  “He’s not ready for that. He’s still looking for a way out of the bind he’s in.”

  “What do these guys think? They’re so smart they’re never going to get caught?”

  “They haven’t been caught so far.”

  23

  Tuesday morning passed in a great big boring blur. Given the egocentric nature of the world, I imagined that since nothing in particular was happening to me, there was nothing in particular happening to anyone else. In truth, events were transpiring that I would hear about only when it was too late to alter either cause or effect. My phone rang at 11:00—Cheney asking me to sit tight for the next half-hour as there was something he wanted me to hear. “You have a tape recorder?” he asked.

  “An old one, but it takes a regular-size cassette.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Fifteen minutes later he walked in the door. While I was waiting for him, I searched through my closet until I found the tape recorder. I opened a fresh package of AA batteries and by the time Cheney arrived, the tape recorder was set up and ready to go. “What is it?”

  He slipped the cassette in the machine. “Something the FBI picked up this morning. Some of it sounds garbled, but the techs have taken it as far as they can.” He pressed the Play button, triggering a generalized hissing and the ringing of a phone. A man on the other end picked up without identifying himself. “Yes?”

  The calling party said, “Problem.”

  The minute I heard the voice, I shot a look at Cheney. “Beck?”

  He pressed the Pause button. “The guy he’s talking to is Salustio Castillo. This was the first call he placed when he got to the office.” He pressed Play again.

  On the tape, Castillo was saying, “What?”

  “When I took delivery on that shipment, the inventory was off.”

  Silence. Hissing. “Impossible. ‘Off ’ m
eaning what?”

  “Short.”

  “By how much?”

  “A pack.”

  “Large or small?”

  “Large. We’re talking twenty-five.”

  Salustio was silent. “I supervised the count myself. What about the invoices?”

  “Not a match. I checked three times and the numbers don’t tally.”

  Salustio said, “I told you I wanted someone supervising your end—”

  “This wasn’t on my end.”

  “Or so you say.”

  Silence from Beck. “You know I wouldn’t do this.”

  “Do I? You’ve argued for a bigger cut of the action, which I can’t…there’s no way I can justify from my end. Now you say…missing, all I have is your word.”

  “You think I’d lie?”

  “Let’s call it inventory shrinkage. It’s been known to happen. From my perspective, you’re adequately compensated…don’t see it that way. So maybe you siphon off a percentage of the goods and that satisfies your need for a pay increase. What better cover than claiming I shorted you?”

  “I never said that.”

  “Then what?”

  “I said the total’s off. Might be the…mistake…”

  “Yours. Not mine.”

  “…”

  “Fix it.”

  Silence. There was a stretch of pure hissing on the tape.

  Tightly Beck said, “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

  “Make up the shortfall out of your end, which is where the loss occurred. My total’s correct and I want full payment deposited to my account. In the meantime, not to worry. I know you’re good for it. Pleasure doing business,” Salustio said, and clicked off.

  Beck said, “Fuck!” as he banged down the phone.

  Cheney turned off the tape.

  I thought the conversation was interesting, but I wasn’t clear why he wanted me to hear it. I was on the verge of making a comment when Cheney said, “A tightly packed bundle of hundred-dollar bills is one inch thick,” he said. “That’s twenty-five thousand dollars. I know because I asked the Treasury boys. Beck’s been back a day. If a currency delivery came in while he was gone, it makes sense he’d double-check the totals first thing.”