Three Complete Novels: A Is for Alibi / B Is for Burglar / C Is for Corpse

by Sue Grafton

  “What about your clothes?”

  “Those went last week. I’ll have to scour the Goodwill thrift store and buy ’em back.”

  “Oh ye of little faith. Dolan swore you’d be fine. You should have listened to him.”

  “What does he know? The man’s a mess. Didn’t I tell you he was heading for another heart attack? Talk about a time bomb.”

  “I know. I told him the same thing, but there was no stopping him. What about you, are you really feeling okay?”

  “Terrific. Full of beans. I’m determined to come down. Don’t know how I’ll get there, but I’ll find a way.”

  “The doctor’s letting you drive?”

  “Of course. It’s no business of hers. Problem is, I sold my car and let my license lapse.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Well, I didn’t want to take the test again. I was sure I’d be dead.”

  “What about the lease on your house?”

  “Shit, I’d forgotten about that. Healthy, but homeless. What a turn of events. By the way, did Dolan tell you what happened here?”

  “We never had a chance to talk.”

  “Triple homicide this morning—woman, her boyfriend, and her kid shot to death. The ex-husband’s fled into the back-country, where he’s hiding out. All the SO guys have been pulled into the search. This guy’s a wilderness expert, a paramilitary type. No telling how long it’s going to take to flush him out. Forensics is still at the crime scene, which means they won’t get to us again until they wrap that up. Could be days.”

  “So why hang around down here? Once Dolan’s out, I can drive us home in his car and that’ll save you the trip.”

  “No way. I’m bored to tears up here. I got cabin fever so bad, I’m about to go insane. Besides, if you two come home, we’ll just have to turn around and go back again.”

  “Assuming there’s a link between the Mustang and Jane Doe,” I said.

  “Trust me, it’s there and Dolan thinks so, too. You been in business as long as we have, you develop a feel for these things. We’re getting close.”

  “Actually, I’d agree. I talked to a dentist this morning who remembered her—someone like her, at any rate. He thinks she was one of the last patients he treated before he had to retire. The guy’s ninety-three now and couldn’t give me the name, but everything else he says seems to fit. I checked with the principal at Quorum High and he referred me to the alternative high school for problem kids. I haven’t had a chance to deal with that—I’d just stopped by the motel to give Dolan the news when I found him in the throes of this heart attack.”

  “You hang on ’til I get there. Then we’ll put our heads together and decide what’s next. How will I find you?”

  “I’ll be around somewhere. If I’m not at the motel, you can try me here. You know Dolan’s car. Just keep an eye out for that. This town’s so small you can hardly miss.”

  “Let me get a pencil and paper and you can give me that address. As soon as I find wheels, I’ll be on my way.”

  I gave him the name and address of the motel.

  He said, “Do me a favor and reserve a room in my name.”

  “Why not take Dolan’s? He’s already forked out the bucks for it.”

  “Good plan. Let’s do that.”

  “While we’re at it, I need you to do me a favor. Could you stop by my apartment and pick up my leather jacket before you hit the road? It’s hanging in my downstairs closet. I’ll tell Henry to let you in and he can show you where it is.”

  “It’s that cold?”

  “To me it is. You better be prepared.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman in scrubs come out of the treatment area with a manila folder in hand. “I think the doc just showed. I’ll call you back if there’s anything to report.”

  Dr. Flannery, the ER physician, was in her late forties, small, with short, pale brown hair, a broad forehead, thin lips, and deep lines in her face. Her nose was a raw pink, as though she’d blown it a few times since she’d applied her makeup. She had a tissue in her pocket and she dabbed at it before she held her hand out. “Sorry. Allergies. I’m Dr. Flannery. Are you Mr. Dolan’s friend?”

  We shook hands. “Kinsey Millhone. It’s actually Lieutenant Dolan.”

  She checked his chart. “So it is.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s been stabilized, but he has a serious left coronary arterial blockage. We’ll be admitting him as soon as his paperwork’s done. I’ve spoken to his cardiologist in Santa Teresa and he’s suggested a cardiac surgeon he knows in Palm Springs. Dr. Bechler’s on his way now. As soon as he’s seen the patient and reviewed the EKG, the two of them will talk. I’m guessing they’ll insert a stent. The choice is Lieutenant Dolan’s, but that’s what I’d do if I were in his shoes.”

  I made a face. “They’ll open his chest?”

  The doctor shook her head. “They’ll run a catheter through a small incision in his left inguinal area and go up through the vein.”

  “How long will he be in?”

  “That depends on his progress. Not as long as you’d think. Two days.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Of course. I’ve plugged him full of morphine so he’s feeling no pain. The effect is about the same as a four-martini lunch.”

  “Not unusual for him.”

  “So I gathered. We had a little chat about that. I told him the smoking and heavy drinking would have to stop. He has to clean up his act around food as well. If you eat like he does, you should do the same yourself. QP’s with cheese?”

  “He ratted me out?”

  She smiled. “Make sure we know how to reach you. He’s listed you as next of kin, which means you’re cleared for visits if you keep it brief. You want to follow me?”

  I tagged after her as she pushed through the door and padded down the highly polished corridor. When we reached Dolan’s cubical, she pulled aside the curtain on its overhead track. “I have a visitor for you.”

  Dolan mumbled a reply. Dr. Flannery held up five fingers, signaling a five-minute visit. I indicated I understood and she withdrew. I looked down at Dolan. “How’re you feeling?”

  His eyes were closed and he had a goofy smile on his face. His color had improved. He was stretched out on the table, his upper body draped with a cotton coverlet. His shoes were off and the toe of one sock was pulled up to form a little cap, which made him look like a kid. He was still on oxygen; attached to a bank of machines that monitored his vital signs. He had an IV line in each arm. A bag of clear liquid had been hung on one pole and I counted fifteen drips. He began to snore.

  I took his hand, wagging it. “How’re you doing?”

  He opened his eyes. “I’m good.”

  “You were in big trouble, you dork. You should have called for help.”

  “Heard you knock. Couldn’t move. Glad you got in.” He spoke carefully, as though his lips had been injected with novocaine.

  “Me and my little key picks. Don’t tell.”

  His eyes closed again and he put a finger to his lips.

  I said, “I put a call in to Stacey and told him where you were. He says his X-rays are clear and he’s coming down.”

  “Said the same to me. No point arguing.”

  “Tell me about it. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was adamant. I figured as long as you’re stuck in here, he might as well pitch in. We can’t do much for now, but maybe we can stir things up. I’m hoping Forensics will come up with something good. I think we’ll put him in your room if I can have the key.”

  “Hang on.” Dolan revived himself long enough to fumble in his pants pocket and extract his key. I tucked it in my shoulder bag, thinking I’d stop by and pick up my typewriter before Stacey arrived.

  The desk clerk appeared at the curtain with a plastic hospital bracelet and a sheaf of documents affixed to a clipboard. “I have your jewelry, Lieutenant Dolan. I just need your signature and you’ll be on your way.”

  He r
oused himself, lazily gestured her in. “Sign away my life.” He turned to me. “You okay on your own?”

  “Don’t worry about me. You take care of yourself and get some rest. I’ll stop by this evening. You behave.”

  “Good deal.”

  Before I left Quorum General, I put a call through to Henry. He was out. I left a message on his machine, telling him about Dolan’s heart attack. I also mentioned that Stacey’d be stopping by. I told him where my jacket was and said I’d call later when there was more to report. It was 1:35 when I emerged from the hospital and returned to the parking lot. I hadn’t realized how tense I was until I’d unlocked the car door and slipped behind the wheel. I took a good deep breath and did a neck roll. Anxiety was roiling through my body now that I was on my own. I hadn’t realized how dependent I’d become on Dolan. It was nice to compare notes, nice to share meals, even fun to knock heads. My attachment didn’t contain a shred of romance, but it did trigger a longing to be connected to someone. I’d trained with two old guys, who’d taught me the business many years before. Maybe it was them I missed.

  I flipped through my note cards. The next obvious move was to chat with the principal at the alternative high school. I wished Dolan were on hand so he could handle it. Though I hated to admit it, he’d be subjected to a lot less guff. Mano a mano. Once he flashed that badge of his, people tended to respond. I picked up my minimap and located the Kennedy Pike, then fired up the Chevy and pulled out of the lot. On the way down Main Street, I detoured into a filling station and pumped gas into the tank. I stood there clutching the pump, watching the gallons go in while the total sales price went up. The process took so long I thought the tank must have sprung a leak. I’m accustomed to my VW with its gas tank the size of a bucket of paint. $29.46 later, I nosed out of the station and turned right.

  Once I reached Kennedy Pike, I drove west, scanning for sight of the cemetery and the white frame structure across the street from it. This section of Quorum was made up of endless flat, empty fields stitched together with lines of trees that served as windbreaks. When I finally spotted the cemetery, it looked as flat as the fields around it. There was only a smattering of visible headstones. Most were laid flat in the ground. I could see a few concrete benches and a sparse assortment of plastic bouquets that had been left near graves. The surrounding fence was iron and without ornament. Square brick support posts appeared at fifteen-foot intervals. There were seven full-sized trees of an indeterminate type, but the branches hadn’t leafed out yet and the limbs looked frail against the April sky.

  Just beyond the cemetery entrance and across the street, I saw the Lockaby Alternative High School. I wondered if the students made the same melancholy association: from Youth to Death with only a stone’s throw between. When you’re of high school age, the days go on forever and death’s little more than a rumor at the end of the road. Dolan and I knew death was just a heartbeat away.

  I parked in the lot and followed the walkway to the front porch, up a flight of wide wooden steps. This must have been a farmhouse once upon a time. It still carried an air of small rooms and cramped hopes. I let myself into the foyer, where eight kids were sprawled on the floor with sketchbooks, doing pencil drawings of the staircase. The teacher glanced up at me and then continued moving from student to student, making brief suggestions about perspective. From upstairs, I could hear another class in progress. Laughter trickled down the treads like leaking water. I don’t remember anything funny from my high school days.

  To my right, the former parlor served as the main office, complete with the original fireplace. The hearth and surround were dark redbrick and the whole of it was topped with a dark mahogany mantelpiece. There was no counter separating the reception area from the office secretary, whose desk had been arranged facing the wide bay window. She interrupted her typing to turn and look at me. She seemed pleasant; dark-haired, plump, probably in her forties, though it was hard to tell. When she said, “Yes, ma’am?” several dimples appeared in her cheeks. She pulled out a chair and patted the seat.

  I crossed the room and sat down, introducing myself. “I’m looking for Mrs. Bishop.”

  “She’s in district meetings all day, but maybe I can help. I’m Mrs. Marcum. What can I do for you?”

  “Here’s the problem,” I said, and launched into the tale. I’d told it so often that I had it down pat; the search for Jane Doe’s identity in fifty words or less. For the umpteenth time, I described Jane Doe and the series of interviews that had led me to Lockaby. “Do you remember anyone like that?”

  “Not me, but I’ve only been here ten years. I’ll ask some of the teachers. Mrs. Puckett, who teaches typing, doubles as the guidance counselor. She’d be the one who’d recognize the girl if anyone did. Unfortunately, she’s out today—we all get a mental-health day every couple of months. She’ll be in first thing tomorrow morning if you want to come back.”

  “If she does recognize the girl, would you have her records somewhere?”

  “Not going back that far. We had a fire here eight years ago. Between the smoke and water damage, we lost the majority of our files. It’s a wonder the whole place didn’t go up in flames. The fire department saved us. They were here in seven minutes and knocked it down in thirty before it had a chance to spread.”

  “How’d it happen?”

  “Fire chief said electrical. We had wiring that dated from the original construction—1945. He said it was a wonder it hadn’t happened before. Now we have smoke detectors, heat detectors, and a sprinkling system—the works. We’re lucky we weren’t wiped out. Happily for us, there weren’t any injuries or loss of life. Paperwork, who cares? It accumulates faster than I can file it.”

  “The kids like it here?”

  “They seem to. Of course, we’re a magnet for the trouble-makers—dropouts, truants, delinquents. We get them when everyone else gives up. We only have a handful of teachers and we keep the classes small. Most of our students do poorly in an academic setting. Basically, they’re good kids, but some are slow. Short attention spans. They’re easily frustrated and most of them suffer from poor self-images. With a regular high school curriculum, they lose heart. Here the emphasis is practical. We cover the basics—reading, writing, and math—but we teach them how to write a résumé, how to dress for a job interview, simple etiquette. Art and music, too, just to round them out.”

  “Sounds like something every school should do.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

  The phone on her desk rang, but she made no move.

  “You want to answer that?”

  “They’ll try back. I’m often out of the office and they’ve learned. You have a business card?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why don’t you give me a number. I’ll try to reach Betty Puckett and have her give you a call.”

  “That’d be great.” I took out a card and jotted down the name of the motel, the phone number, and my room number on the back. “I appreciate this.”

  “I can’t swear she’ll know the girl, but if she was ever a student here, I promise you, Betty dealt with her.”

  “One more question: Dr. Nettleton seemed to think this girl was in a foster home, so I’m wondering if Social Services might help?”

  “I doubt it. They closed that office years ago, and I have no idea how you’d locate the old files. It’d be Riverside County, but that’s as much as I know. You’ll have a battle on your hands. They’re worse than schools are about access to records, especially on a juvenile.”

  “Too bad. I had hopes, but I guess not.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ll figure it out eventually. It’s just a question of time.”

  When I left Lockaby, I was no better informed, but I was feeling encouraged. Once in the car again, I sat for a moment, beating out a little rhythm on the steering wheel. Now what? In the confusion of the moment, I hadn’t thought to ask Dolan what he’d learned from the Quorum PD and the sheriff’s office
about the old missing-persons reports. I’d ask him when I went to visit. I did a mental check of our list. The only item we hadn’t covered yet was the issue of the tarp and whether one had been stolen at the time the Mustang was taken. I started the car and backed out of the slot, took a left on the Kennedy Pike, and returned to town.

  The McPhee’s redbrick ranch house looked deserted when I arrived—doors shut, curtains drawn, and no cars in the drive. I passed the house, cruising slowly, and at the next intersection, did a U-turn and drove back. I parked across the street. I disliked the idea of seeing Ruel again, but who else could I ask about the tarp? While I’d remained largely in the background during the impounding of the Mustang, he’d still associate me with his loss of face.

  I sat and studied the house, wondering if I could handle the question by phone. Chickenshit idea. Where possible, it’s always better to deal in person. I was on the verge of taking off, postponing the visit until later in the day, when an approaching car slowed and turned into the drive. Edna.

  Once she turned off the engine, I could see her fussing in the front seat, gathering packages. After a bit of maneuvering, she got out with her purse over her shoulder, a grocery bag in one hand, and two department store carryalls clutched in the other. She pushed the door shut with one hip and moved to the rear of the car, setting down the carryalls while she opened the trunk. She placed her purse and the grocery bag on the driveway, reached into the trunk, and removed several additional grocery bags. I could see her debate whether she could manage everything in one trip or if she’d be forced to make two. I took the opportunity to get out of my car and cross the street at a trot. “Hi, Edna. Kinsey. Can I give you a hand?”

  She looked up with surprise, coloring slightly at the sight of me. “I can manage.”

  “There’s no sense in making two trips. Why don’t I take these and you can handle the rest?” I leaned forward and picked up her purse, one grocery sack, and the two large paper carryalls. “You must have spent all morning running errands.”

  “The family’s coming for supper and I’m running late. I want to get a pot roast in the oven.” Her demeanor had softened, though she seemed ill at ease. Good manners apparently took precedence over any discomfort she felt at my reappearance on the scene. Ruel would have cut me dead, but the removal of the Mustang had little to do with her. It’d been sitting in the garage for years, anyway, and she was probably tired of his procrastination. His collection of classic cars must have seemed like a lousy investment since he’d apparently made no effort to restore even one of them.