by Sue Grafton
“Get off it. You know how many strip joints there are in this town?”
“Thirty-five. This is the thirteenth I’ve tried. Must be my lucky number. Can we chat?”
“About what? I start work in two minutes. I need time to get centered. Gig like this is tough unless you have your head on straight.”
“I won’t keep you long.”
Gingerly she perched and I wondered if the wooden chair seat felt cold on her bare butt. The sensation couldn’t be that keen, but she didn’t yelp or otherwise vocalize dismay. She said, “Is this a fishing expedition or did you want something in particular?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I just thought if I heard from her, I could pass the message along—provided it’s not obscene.”
“I’ve heard she’s in town. I’m hoping to talk her into coming back to California before she blows the terms of her parole.”
“It’s no skin off my nose what she blows. Or who, for that matter.”
“I understand you were cellmates.”
“Six months or so. I got out before she did—obviously.”
“She told me you kept in touch.”
“Why not? She’s a nice kid and she’s fun to be around.”
“When was the last time you heard from her?”
Mock thought. “Must have been last Christmas. I sent her a card and she sent one back.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Sorry to cut this short, but that music is my cue.”
“If she happens to get in touch, tell her I’m in Reno. We really need to talk.” I’d written the name of the motel, the telephone number, and my room number on a slip of paper that I handed her as she stood.
She took the note, though she had no place to put it unless she stuck it up her bum. “So who’s paying you?”
“Her dad.”
“Nice job. Like a bounty hunter, huh.”
“It’s more than a job. I’m a friend and I’m concerned about her welfare.”
“I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. One thing about Reba, she can take care of herself.”
I watched her head for the bar. The matching moons of her ass scarcely wobbled as she walked, and I could see the muscles in her thighs flex and relax with every step she took. Bumping and grinding must be better than Jazzercise, plus she didn’t have to pay the weekly freight. I made a stop in the ladies’ room, where I availed myself of the facilities before returning to my car.
Once there, I fired up the engine and sat with the windows rolled down, listening to the radio to pass the time. An hour later I began to worry about (1) running out of gas, or (2) asphyxiating myself with my own exhaust fumes. I cut the radio, killed the engine, and stared at the brick wall in front of me. This was the perfect screen on which to project recent memories of Cheney Phillips, probably not such a hot idea as he was many miles away.
Unwittingly, I dozed. Lights from a passing car flashed across my windshield and I woke with a start. I looked to my right as Misty’s car passed behind me and slowed. She exited the parking lot and turned right. I started my car, backed out of the space with a quick chirp of tires, and pulled out shortly after she did. A glance at my watch showed it was 4:00 A.M. Apparently she did a six-hour shift instead of the usual eight put in by the ordinary working bloke. Then again, it was hard to imagine prancing around in high heels for more than a couple of hours at a stretch.
I kept the Ford Fairlane in view, allowing as big a lead as I could give her without losing sight of her altogether. There were fewer cars on the road now and many of the storefronts were dark. The big casinos were still doing a lively business. Misty pulled up to the front entrance to the Silverado Hotel. The wide overhang that stretched across the eight-lane drive was so densely studded with lightbulbs that the air seemed to shimmer with artificial heat. Misty got out of the car and handed the keys to a valet. The big glass doors opened and closed automatically as she approached and disappeared inside.
There were two vehicles in line between her car and mine. I leaped out and tossed my keys to an irritated-looking valet who’d been chatting with a pal. “Could you keep the car close? There’s a twenty in it for you. I shouldn’t be long.”
Without waiting for a reply I trotted toward the front doors and entered the vast lobby, which was sparsely populated at that hour. I did a quick survey. There was no sign of Misty. She could have slipped into a waiting elevator, into the ladies’ room to my right, or into the casino dead ahead. Pick one, I thought. As I moved into the casino, smoke settled around me like a delicate mantilla. The silvery pings and grace notes from the slots were like a series of falling coins, the chirping of money as it trickled down the drain. Aisles ran in grids between the slot machines, the faces of which glowed bright red, green, yellow, and a saturated blue. I was struck by the patience of the few late-night players—like ants tending aphids on the underside of a leaf.
As I walked, I was glancing right and left, looking for Misty, whose height and black hair would surely set her apart. Toward the rear there were restaurants. I could see a coffee shop, a sushi bar, a pizza parlor, and an “authentic” Italian bistro offering six kinds of pasta and a variety of sauces, complete with Caesar salad, for $2.99. I spotted Misty in the lounge, though my gaze slid right past her at first and touched on the man who sat across the table from her. He was red-haired and gaunt, his complexion ruddy and pitted with acne scars. Neither saw me. I eased into the lounge, which was open on two sides. I sat at the bar some distance away, watching as the two conferred. The bartender ambled over and I ordered a glass of Chardonnay. There were not many patrons present at that hour, and I worried I’d be conspicuous sitting alone.
Out on the casino floor a great whooping and hollering went up, and shortly thereafter a party of five women came in, drunk and triumphant. One flourished a bucket of quarters, having won a five-hundred-dollar jackpot. My line of vision was obscured by their boisterous presence, but they provided me cover. I watched Misty engaged in a lengthy discussion with the man, leaning forward intently as the two examined something on the table in front of them. Finally, satisfied, she passed him a fat white number 10 envelope that I was betting contained a wad of cash. In exchange, he returned the item to a manila mailing pouch and handed it to her. I watched as she shoved it in her oversize purse. I tossed a five-dollar bill next to my empty glass and got up, leaving the bar in anticipation of her departure. I paused near the elevators, sliding a glance in her direction as she passed me and hurried toward the door. I followed in her wake.
She gave the valet parker her ticket, and while she waited for her car, I angled left, keeping my head turned and my back to her. My car was parked near the entrance. I reclaimed my keys, tipped the valet, and slid under the wheel. Two minutes later, her car rolled into view and the valet hopped out. She handed him a tip and took his place under the wheel. I watched her exit the lot. I eased in behind her, this time with only one car between. Once I was convinced she was on her way home, I took a left and sped along a parallel course. I arrived moments before she did. I killed my lights and slouched in my seat, eyes barely clearing the steering wheel. She turned into her drive as she had before, parked, crossed to her front door, and went in.
The front light went out. I sat there for a minute, sorely tempted to return to my motel and crawl into bed. Surely she was in for the night, or what little was left of it. I was tired, I was bored, and I was hungry again. I pictured breakfast in a twenty-four-hour coffee shop: orange juice, bacon and scrambled eggs, buttered rye toast covered with strawberry jam. Then sleep. There had never been any guarantee that Reba was in Reno. I’d taken the chance because it made sense, given what I knew of her. The two of them had certainly been in touch—why else would her number show up on Nord Lafferty’s telephone bill? But that hardly spoke to the issue of her present whereabouts. I sat up, staring at Misty’s half-darkened house and the narrow line of light running along the bottom of her garage door.
Why park in the driveway when she had a gara
ge right there in front of her? In one of those unexpected jolts, I was clunked in the noggin by the obvious. If Misty were alone, she probably wouldn’t need two bulging bags of groceries or a carton of smokes. The groceries might have represented her weekly run, but the woman didn’t smoke. In the time we’d spent chatting, most smokers would have found an excuse to light up. It was actually that thin line of light at the bottom of the garage door that made me curious. I got out of the car and crossed the street.
27
I checked the garage windows first. Nicks in the brown paint that covered the glass revealed a makeshift guest room: a chair, a chest of drawers, a double bed, and a lamp sitting on an end table fashioned from a cardboard box. The disheveled linens suggested current occupancy, as did the red cotton sweater flung at the bottom of the bed, which I recognized as Reba’s. A hard-sided gray suitcase lay open on the floor near the chest of drawers. The duffel was unzipped on the chair, clothes spilling out.
I circled the house as I had before. The pull latch on the wooden gate made scarcely a sound as I moved into the backyard and approached the lighted window. I ducked and came up at an angle, peering over the sill. Reba and Misty sat together at the desk with their backs to me. I couldn’t see what they were doing and their voices were too muffled to discern the topic of conversation, but it was sufficient for the moment to know that Reba was in range.
Here was the question I asked myself: did I dare go back to my motel without confronting them? I was desperate for sleep, but I worried if I waited until morning, one or both of the women would be gone. Of course, I’d be facing the same dilemma anytime I let Reba out of my sight. For the moment, I was reluctant to give up the only advantage I had, which was that I knew where she was, but she didn’t know that I knew.
Blessedly, as I watched, Misty gathered up the items they’d been inspecting and tucked them into the mailing pouch I’d seen earlier. Reba left the room and Misty followed, flicking the light switch as she passed. I made my way to the front of the house and hovered in the shadow of the evergreens. Ten minutes later, the living room light went out. I eased across the front of the house to the drive. Another fifteen minutes passed and then the line of light under the garage door was extinguished as well. I figured my little chickadees were in for the night.
I drove back to my motel through a city that was wide awake but quiet. The sun wouldn’t be up for another hour or so, but the sky had already lightened to a pearly gray. I parked, took the stairs to the second floor, and unlocked my door. The room was drab but clean enough, as long as you didn’t use a black light or get down on your hands and knees with a magnifying glass. I peeled off my clothes and took a good hot shower, then did what I could to secure the drapes across the window. The fabric was a heavyweight plastic, dark red, and very tastefully flocked. Add to that, vinyl wallpaper with its lightning bolts of silver and black, and you had a most amazing decor. I pulled back the pink chenille spread and settled between the sheets, turned off the lights, and slept like the dead.
At some point, my subconscious gave me a nudge. I remembered Reba telling me what a whiz Misty was at reproducing fake passports and other phony documents. Was that why Misty was meeting the fellow at the Silverado? Even in my sleep, I felt a whisper of fear. Maybe Reba was planning to make a run for it.
At 10:00 the next morning the phone rang. I lifted the handset and laid it against my ear without moving my head. “What.”
“Kinsey, this is Reba. Did I wake you?”
I rolled over on my back. “Don’t worry about it. I appreciate the call. How’re you doing?”
“Pretty much okay until I heard you were here. How’d you find me?”
“I didn’t find you, I found Misty,” I said.
“So how’d you do that? I’m just curious.”
“Detective work, dear. That’s what I do for a living.”
“Huh. That surprises me.”
“What does?”
“I figured Pop was able to hire you because you weren’t any good. Clearly you weren’t busy, or why would you agree to such a dumb-ass job? Drive his daughter back from prison? You can’t be serious.”
“Thanks, Reeb. That’s nice.”
“I’m saying I was wrong. Truth is, it shocked the hell out of me when Misty said you showed. I still don’t get how you did it.”
“I have my little ways. I hope you called for something more important than congratulating me for being less incompetent than you thought.”
“We need to talk.”
“Tell me when and where and I’ll be there with bells on.”
“We’ll be at Misty’s until noon.”
“Great. Give me the address and I’ll be over in a bit.”
“I thought you’d already have the address.”
“Guess I’m not perfect,” I said, though as a matter of fact I was. She recited the address and I pretended to make a note.
Once she hung up, I got out of bed and crossed to the window. I pushed open the drapes and winced at the harsh desert sun. My room looked out over the backside of another dingy two-story motel, so there wasn’t much to see. By resting my forehead against the glass, I could see the flashing neon sign on the casino down the street still winking its invitation. How could anyone drink or gamble at this hour?
I brushed my teeth and showered again, trying to jumpstart myself. I dressed and then sat down on the edge of the bed and put a call through to Reba’s father. Freddy told him I was on the line and he took the call in his room, sounding frail. “Yes, Kinsey. Where are you?”
“At the Paradise. It’s a motel in downtown Reno. I thought I’d give you an update. Reba called a while ago. I’m on my way over to Misty’s to talk to her.”
“You found her, then. I’m glad. That didn’t take long.”
“I cheated. Someone gave me Misty’s home address before I left Santa Teresa. I kept an eye on the place for hours, but I didn’t think Reeb was there. Misty has a very promising career as a nude dancer at a strip joint called the Flesh Emporium. I followed her to work and chatted with her before she went on. When I asked about Reba, she never batted an eye. Swore up and down the two of ’em hadn’t been in touch since Christmas. I gave her the number of my motel and lo and behold, Reba called.”
“I hope you’ll be able to persuade her to come home.”
“Hey, me too. Wish me luck.”
“Ring me anytime you like. I appreciate your efforts on her behalf.”
“Happy to be of help.”
We exchanged a few more remarks and I was preparing to disconnect, when I heard a small click. I said, “Hello?”
“I’m still here.”
I hesitated. “Is Lucinda there?”
“Yes. She’s downstairs. Did you want to speak with her?”
“No, no. I was just curious. I’ll call you as soon as I know where we stand.”
After I hung up, I sat for a moment and stared at the phone. I was almost certain Lucinda had been listening in. Freddy would never be guilty of such an offense. Lucinda, on the other hand, was clearly someone who needed to insert herself in the thick of every situation, someone who needed to be informed so she could exercise control. I thought about how she’d pumped me for information, how much she’d resented being locked out of Nord’s room when he and I conferred. Under the guise of being oh-so-concerned, she’d wreaked havoc in Reba’s life, and she’d do so again if she had the chance. She was the kind of woman you didn’t want to turn your back on when leaving a room.
I crossed the motel parking lot to McDonald’s, where I ordered three large coffees, three OJs, three hash browns, and three Egg McMuffins to go. According to my calculations, Misty, Reba, and I—assuming we cleaned our plates—would each be supplied with 680 calories, 85 grams of carbohydrate, and 20 grams of fat. I amended my order, adding three cinnamon buns just to round things out.
I drove back to Misty’s, this time parking in the driveway. Reba was waiting when I knocked on the door. She was barefoot
, in a pair of red shorts and a white tank top without benefit of a brassiere. I held the bag out. “Peace offering.”
“What for?”
“Invading your turf. I’m sure I’m the last person in the world you wanted to see.”
“Second to last, just ahead of Beck. You might as well come in,” she said. She took the bag and moved down the hall toward the kitchen, leaving me to close the door. I did a quick check of the living room in passing. The interior was sparsely furnished: bare linoleum flooring, wood-laminate coffee table, one of those brown tweed couches that can flatten to a bed. Brown tweed chair, end table, lamp with a flouncy shade. The next room on the right was the office I’d seen. There was a modest-size bedroom across the hall.
“Getting an eyeful?” Misty asked. She sat at the kitchen table in a black satin robe that was tied at the waist, boobs close to bulging out of her lapels. I was surprised the weight didn’t cause her to lose her balance and flop over in her plate.
Reba had a lighted cigarette on the ashtray in front of her. She was drinking a Bloody Mary.
Oh, perfect, I thought.
“You want one?”
“Why not? It’s after ten,” I said. I reached into the McDonald’s bag and unloaded the goodies while Reba made me a drink and set it at my place. I looked at Misty. “You’re not having a drink?”
“I got bourbon in here,” she said, pointing to her coffee with a red-lacquered nail.
I sat down and doled out hash browns and Egg McMuffins, leaving the cinnamon buns, orange juice, and coffee in the center of the table. “Sorry if I seem rude, but I’m starving to death.” Neither seemed to object as I unwrapped my Egg McMuffin.
There was a blissful few minutes while the three of us munched. I figured business could wait. I didn’t have a clue what we were doing anyway.
Reba finished first. She wiped her mouth on a paper napkin she kept wadded in her fist. “How’s Pop?”
“Not that well. I’m hoping to talk you into going home.”
She took a drag of her cigarette. The house felt chilly and I marveled at her bare arms and legs. I tried a sip of Bloody Mary—largely vodka with a thin mist of Bloody Mary mix on top, like blood in a toilet bowl. I could feel my eyes cross as the burning liquor went down. She said, “Does Holloway know?”