by Sue Grafton
Beck crossed to Marty’s car and opened one of the rear doors. The guy in whose arms I was locked fell into the backseat and dragged me in on top of him. He flipped me so that I was pinned under him, my face mashed against the upholstery. His weight was so crushing, I couldn’t draw a breath. I thought my ribs would collapse, crushing my lungs in the process. I tried a groan, but all I could manage was a huffing sound, barely audible.
“Get the fuck off her,” someone snapped.
The guy dug an elbow in my back as he lifted himself off me. At the same time, he took my right wrist and wrenched my arm up behind me while he shoved my head toward the floor. I was staring at the floor mats, my nose six inches away. Someone folded my legs in and slammed the door. Half a second later, I heard Beck’s car door slam. He started his engine while the driver of Marty’s car slid under the wheel, shut the door, and started the car. He pulled away sedately. We slowed at the exit to the parking lot. No squealing of brakes. No calling attention to ourselves in any way. As far as I knew, Reba was still out there on the asphalt, trying to stanch the blood gushing from her nose. I’d caught a glimpse of my backseat companion, who had a white gauze patch taped across his left eye. Two harsh red and purple bruises ran along his cheek like streaks of paint. The chair leg must have come close to taking that eye out, which is probably why he’d so relished mauling me. I focused on the drive. I assumed we were forming a two-car motorcade. I thought about the kidnappings I’d seen in movies, how the heroine later identified the final destination by the sound of the tires crossing railroad tracks or the bleat of a foghorn in the distance. Most of what I heard was my companion’s labored breathing. Neither of the two guys was in as good a shape as they appeared. Or perhaps, more flattering to us, Reba and I had put up more of a fight than they’d expected.
We turned left onto Cabana Boulevard and proceeded at an easy pace for less than a minute before we slowed to a stop. I was guessing this was the light at the intersection of State and Cabana. The driver turned on the radio and music filled the car, a male vocalist singing, “I want your sex…”
My new best friend said, “Turn that shit off.”
The driver said, “I like George Michael.” But the radio did go off.
“Roll your window down and see what Beck wants.”
I could picture Beck’s car in the lane next to ours, him making that rolling gesture, leaning across the front seat of his car to converse. Annoyed, our driver said, “Okay, okay. Got it. I’m doing that!” And to the fellow in the backseat, “He has the key card, so we’re supposed to follow. How many times he tell us that?”
Faintly, in the distance, I heard sirens approaching. The wailing grew louder, the sound splitting in two. Two cop cars, oh please.
I tried turning my head, hoping for a glimpse of something out the window, but all that netted me was a searing jerk to my arm. The sirens were almost on top of us. I caught the strobe of lights from two patrol cars that passed in rapid succession. The sirens trailed down Cabana Boulevard, volume diminishing until it faded altogether. So much for help being on the way.
We turned right on what I was guessing was Castle. When we slowed to a second stop, I imagined the light at Montebello Street. We started up again, proceeding at maybe ten miles an hour. I caught the hollow sound of the road as it went under the freeway. We came up the incline on the other side, which would put us on Granizo. Left on Chapel. We had to be going to Beck’s office, which was only a couple of blocks away. I knew the stores along the mall would be closed and the office buildings locked. The “card” the driver had referred to probably triggered the mechanical barrier to the underground garage. Sure enough, I felt us slow and then turn right, easing down a ramp. At this hour, the garage would be empty. We drove the length of the cavernous space and pulled into a spot. Beck must have parked just ahead of us because I heard his car door slam before our driver had a chance to shut his engine down.
I was hauled unceremoniously from the backseat and set on my feet. I’d hoped to catch Beck’s eye, establish a connection, thinking I had a better chance of charming him than the goons on each side of me. He avoided my eyes, his face set. We waited while he opened his trunk and extracted the rolling bag. The sides were scraped gray, embedded with the beach sand accumulated from its being dragged across the pavement. The handle had snapped. Beck flipped the suitcase and knelt beside it. He unzipped the compartment and pulled open the flap.
Empty.
I stared as though trying to catch the mechanics of a magic trick. Reba had showed me the computer. It had been in there less than an hour ago, but where had it gone? The only time we’d been separated was when I’d left her in the alley while I went to fetch my car. She must have taken advantage of my absence to remove the computer and lock it in the trunk of her car. Which meant she’d anticipated Beck’s betrayal and she’d beat him to the punch. By the same token, he must have known she was going to pull a fast one, or why snatch me?
Beck stood up and pushed the bag with his toe, his expression thoughtful. I was expecting fury, but he seemed bemused instead. Maybe he liked Reba’s taking the conflict to such extremes, imagining his ultimate victory the sweeter for it. He turned and walked toward the elevators.
The three of us followed, our footsteps clattering like a herd of beasts in the vast empty space. The guy with the injured eye kept a steady pressure on the arm he’d wrenched up behind me. There was no way I could move without ripping my arm out like a cooked chicken wing. The elevator doors opened and the four of us trooped in. Beck pressed the button. The doors closed and the elevator began its ascent.
“Why here?” I asked.
“So Reba will know how to reach me. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re engaged in a little battle of wits.”
“That’d be hard to miss.”
Beck sent me a fleeting smile.
The doors opened at shop level. We emerged inside the Beckwith Building and trooped across the marble lobby to the public elevators that would take us to the fourth floor. I turned to look at Willard, who was sitting at his desk. He watched us pass without comment, his face the same handsome blank. I sent him what I hoped was a pleading look, but I got nothing in return. How could such a good-looking guy have so little life in his eyes? Couldn’t he see what was going on? Beck was his boss. Maybe he was paid the big bucks to look the other way.
We went up to the fourth floor. The elevator doors opened to reveal offices filled with artificial light, the colors as dazzling as a Disney cartoon. Long sweeps of green carpeting, bright abstract paintings in a line down the hall. Healthy plants, modern furniture. I expected to be marched off to Beck’s office, but he steered me around the corner to the freight elevator. He pressed the call button and the doors opened. He moved to the back wall of the elevator and pushed aside the gray quilted padding. He punched the code into the keyboard mounted on the elevator wall. The door to his counting room slid open. Beck pressed the Stop Run button and stepped aside, turning to look at me. He had his hands in his raincoat pockets.
Nobody said a word.
Peripherally, I saw the counting and bundling machines. In the same flash, I saw that all the cardboard boxes had been emptied of loose bills, which were now packaged and stacked on the countertop.
What I had no way to avoid was the sight of Marty. He’d been tied to a chair, beaten almost beyond recognition. His head was slumped on his chest. Even without a full view of his face, I knew he was dead. The curve of his cheek was puffy and dented, dried blood turning black at his hairline. Blood had oozed from his ears and coagulated along the collar of his shirt. I made a sound and jerked my head, blocking out the sight. Pain shot through me as though I’d been tapped with a taser gun. My palms were instantly damp and a flash of heat swept over me. I felt the blood drain out of my head. My legs buckled. The guy with the eye patch caught me and supported me briefly. Beck pressed a button and the doors to the counting room eased shut.
I was walked, rubber-legged, to Beck�
�s office, where I sank onto the couch and covered my face with my hands. The image of Marty was like a photograph that I saw now in negative, light and dark reversed. There was conversation going on above my head—Beck instructing the two guys to get the body out of there and dispose of it. I knew they’d take him down in the service elevator to the ground floor, where they could drag him through the service corridor and out to the garage. They’d stick him in the trunk of his car and dump his body by the side of the road. Odd, so odd. I’d seen it in his eyes—this ending, this death—but I’d been unable to intervene.
My vision condensed, threatening to shut down. Dark closed in from the periphery and I had that curious sensation in my ears—white noise—that told me how close I was to fainting. I put my head down between my knees. I remembered to breathe. Within a minute, the air seemed to cool and I could feel the darkness recede. When I looked up, the two guys were gone and Beck was sitting at his desk. “Sorry about that. It’s not what you think. He had a heart attack.”
“He’s dead all the same and it’s your fault,” I said.
“Reba had her share in it.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Take a look at what she did. We’re supposed to have a deal and she shows up with an empty suitcase? What’s she think, she can fuck with me and get away with it?”
“She didn’t steal the computer. Marty took it with him when he left.”
“I don’t give a shit who took it. All she had to do was give it back and he might be alive. The stress was what killed him. Couple of harmless punches and he was gone.”
I couldn’t argue with the man. He was so sure of himself and his thinking was so bent. Where was this going to end? The contest between them had spiraled out of control and matters could only escalate. Beck had the upper hand. It was as simple as that. He had me.
He smiled slightly. “You’re hoping she’ll call the police, but she won’t. You know why? Because it wouldn’t be any fun. She’s a gambler. She likes betting against the house. Poor girl’s not nearly as smart as she thinks she is.”
“I don’t want to talk about this shit. The two of you can hash it out.”
“I’m sure we will.”
We sat, the two of us, waiting for the phone to ring. I’d given up trying to predict what either would do. My job was taking care of me. The problem was, I was tired and feeling panicky. The jitters were causing my hands to shake and I was having trouble marshaling my thoughts. Beck rocked back in his swivel chair, fiddling with a paperweight, tossing it from hand to hand.
I noticed a row of cardboard boxes, lined up along the wall, all of them neatly taped and ready to be shipped. His office was a mess—shelves half empty, numerous bulging files on his desk. It looked as if Beck was all packed and ready to go. No wonder he was hell-bent on reclaiming his computer and his floppy disks. The disks and his hard drive contained his entire enterprise, every nickel he owned, all the money he’d salted away, shell corporations, Panamanian bank accounts. He wasn’t a man who remembered numbers or dates. He had to have it written down or it was lost to him. He knew as well as I did the data would be his undoing if it fell into the wrong hands.
I said, “I have to go to the ladies’ room.”
“No.”
“Come on, Beck. You can tag along with me and listen at the door while I tinkle.”
He shook his head. “Can’t do it. I want to be by the phone when she calls.”
“What if it takes an hour?”
“Tough.”
We waited in silence. I checked my watch. The crystal was smashed, the hands permanently frozen at 11:22. I couldn’t see a clock from where I sat. Time dragged on and on. If and when Reba called, I had one more chance to signal the agents recording Beck’s calls. I wasn’t sure how I’d manage it or what I’d say, but the possibility was there.
The silence went on for so long that when the phone finally rang, I jumped. Beck picked up the handset and held it loosely against his ear. He smiled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “Hey, Reeb, good girl. I knew you’d touch base. Are you ready to do business? Oh wait. Hang on a second. I have a friend of yours here and wondered if you wanted a chance to speak to her.”
He pressed the speaker function on the phone and the office was filled with the hollow sound of Reba’s voice. “Kinsey? Oh, geez…are you okay?”
I said, “I could use some help here. Why don’t you call Cheney and tell him what’s going on?”
“Forget him. Let me talk to Beck,” she said, irritated.
Now that his hands were free, Beck opened his desk drawer and took out a gun. He slipped the safety off and pointed it at me. “Hey, Reeb? Sorry to interrupt, but let’s cut to the chase. Listen to this.”
He pointed at the wall above my head and fired. A sound came out of my throat, half scream and half moan. Tears sprang into my eyes. He said, “Oops. I missed.”
She said, “Beck, don’t.”
“I’m not very good with this thing. Willard tried to show me, but I can’t seem to get the hang of it. Should I try again?”
“Ohmygod, ohmygod. Oh, please, Beck, don’t hurt her.”
“I didn’t hear your answer. You ready to do business?”
“Don’t fire again. Don’t shoot. Don’t do that. I’ll bring the thing. I got it. It’s in the trunk of my car. I put it in a duffel.”
“You said that before. I believed you then, but look what you went and did. You pulled the big switcheroo.”
“I swear. I’ll do it right this time. I’m not far. Give me two minutes. Just hang on. Please.”
His tone was skeptical. “Gee, I don’t know, Reeb. I trusted you. I thought you’d play fair. What you did was bad. I’d say very bad indeed.”
“This time I’ll bring it for sure. No tricks. I swear.”
Beck was watching me while she spoke. He winked and smiled, having a wonderful time. “How do I know you won’t pull the same old gag? Give me a duffel and there’s nothing inside.”
I stood up and pointed at the door, mouthing, “I have to pee.”
He motioned me to sit again while Reba, sounding desperate, was saying, “I know what we can do. I’ll come in through the service corridor. You can go to Willard’s desk and watch on the monitor. I’ll unzip the bag and show you the computer. You can see it with your own eyes.”
I clutched the crotch of my jeans and then clasped my hands, mouthing, Please… I pointed at the hall again.
Distracted, he waved the gun at me, motioning me to sit down. I was edging out of the room. I held up a finger, whispering, “I’ll be right back.”
I left the room and walked rapidly down the hall, footsteps soundless on the carpeting. I pulled office doors shut as I passed, letting them bang, bang, bang. I could hear him yell, “Hey!” He didn’t sound angry so much as annoyed at my disobedience.
I doubled my pace. I reached the vestibule. Mercifully, the service elevator doors stood open. I moved to the back wall and punched in the code for the counting room. 5-15-1955. Reba’s birthday. The doors slid open.
Out in the corridor, I could hear Beck shout my name, banging into offices in search of me. He fired a shot that made me jump even at this remove. While I’d known I wouldn’t shoot him, I wasn’t at all convinced he wouldn’t shoot me, accidentally if nothing else. I yanked off one shoe and set it in the path of the open elevator door. The door slid shut, encountered the shoe, and popped open again, a process that repeated like a tic. I turned and pressed the G button on the opposite panel, dispatching the freight elevator to the garage level. The doors were slow to respond, which gave me time enough to cross to the second set of doors. I yanked my shoe from the track and slipped into the counting room as the corridor doors slid shut. The doors to the counting room slid shut half a beat later, and I was safe. Temporarily, at any rate.
Marty’s body was still there.
I went on disconnect and blocked any and all emotional responses. Now was the wrong time. I toss
ed the shoe aside, not daring to take time to slip it on again. I looked at the ladder affixed to the wall, following the sight of it, rung by rung, all the way to the top. I started climbing, one shoe off and one shoe on, diddle-diddle-dumpling, my son John. I knew the trap door at the top opened onto the roof. Once there, I’d hide or hang over the parapet screaming until the cops showed up. Maybe officers were already scrambling—regular Santa Teresa cops, the SWAT team, hostage negotiators—all of them decked out in bulletproof vests.
I flicked a look at Marty, still bound to his chair. Why hadn’t the guys done as Beck instructed? They were supposed to get him out of there, but they’d left him where he was. My hands were perspiring, but I ventured a second quick look down, noting what I’d failed to spot earlier. The counting and bundling machines were still sitting on the counter. The currency was gone. Instead of disposing of the body, the goons must have packed up the cash and removed that instead.
I reached the top rung of the ladder and reached for the door directly above my head. I couldn’t find a lock or a knob or any means to open it. I ran my hand across the surface, looking for a hook or a handle, any kind of lever that might cause it to spring open. Nothing. I clung to the top rung, hanging on for dear life while I tried to get my fingertips in the crack. I banged on it with the flat of my hand, then pushed as hard as I could.
Below, I heard the elevator door slide open. I laid my head against the ladder and held my breath.
In a conversational tone, Beck said, “That door’s locked so you might as well come down. Reba’s on her way. Soon as we’ve settled up, you’re free to go.”
I looked down at him. He was wearing his raincoat, apparently in preparation for his departure. He had the gun in one hand and it was pointed right at me. He probably didn’t have a clue how much pressure it took to pull the trigger. If he inadvertently blew my head off, I’d be dead all the same. He leaned down and picked up my shoe.