by Sue Grafton
“Oh, Marty. This is gorgeous. Beck said it was spectacular, but this is really over the top. Mind if we look around?”
“Just don’t take long. I want to get home.”
“I promise we’ll make it quick. Think of it this way, if it weren’t for that stint in prison, I’d be working here myself. Isn’t there a roof garden?”
“The stairs are back that way. You can’t miss ’em. I’ll be in my office down that hall.”
“You could get lost in this place,” Reba said.
“Well, don’t. Beck’s not going to like it if he hears you’ve been here.”
“Mum’s the word,” she said, producing her dimples for him.
Reba circled the reception area with me following in her wake. As long as Marty was present, she was almost childlike in her hand-clapping enthusiasm, popping her head into offices here and there along the way, oohing and aahing. He watched us briefly and then went off in the opposite direction.
The minute he was out of sight, Reba dropped all pretense of touring and got down to business. I kept pace with her as she checked the names posted on the wall outside each office. When she reached Onni’s, she shot a look down the hall to make sure Marty wasn’t there. She moved to Onni’s desk, grabbed a tissue from the box, and used it as she started opening drawers. “Keep a lookout, okay?”
I checked the corridor behind me. Searching is my all-time favorite sport (except for time spent with Cheney Phillips of late). The edgy thrill of invading someone’s private space is heightened by the possibility of getting caught in the act. I wasn’t sure what she was looking for or I’d have joined her in the game. As it was, somebody had to stand guard.
Still opening and shutting drawers, Reba said, “God, I can’t believe Marty’s so paranoid. Must be off his meds. Ah.” She held up a chunky ring of keys that she jingled midair.
“You can’t take those.”
“Poo. Onni won’t be in until Monday. I can put ’em back by then.”
“Reba, don’t. You’re going to ruin everything.”
“No, I won’t. This is scientific research. I’m testing my hypothesis.”
“What hypothesis?”
“I’ll tell you later. Quit worrying.”
She left Onni’s office, trailing a hand along the wall as she returned to the reception area, scanning the lines of the ceiling. When she reached the elevators, she circled the central core, measuring with her eyes. Large abstract paintings dominated the walls and the lighting was such that one’s attention was irresistibly drawn from one artwork to the next.
“It would help if I knew what you were looking for,” I said.
“I know how his mind works. There’s something here he doesn’t want us to see. Let’s try his office.”
I wanted to protest but knew she wasn’t listening.
Beck’s corner location was prime—spacious, with clear cherry paneling and the same footstep-muffling green carpeting. The room was furnished with low-slung chrome-and-leather chairs of the sort that require winch and pulley action to remove yourself once you’ve been foolish enough to sit. His desktop was black slate, a curious surface unless he favored doing his long division in chalk along the length. Reba used the same tissue to avoid leaving latent prints on his desk drawers. I loitered uneasily in the doorway.
Dissatisfied, she pivoted. She studied every aspect of the room and finally crossed to the paneled wall, where she tapped her way across, listening for evidence of a hollow space behind. At one point, she activated a touch latch and a door sprang open, but the only treasure revealed was his liquor supply, complete with cut glass decanters and assorted glasses. She said, “Shit.” She pushed the door shut and returned to his desk. She sat in his swivel chair and did a second survey from that vantage point.
“Would you hurry up?” I hissed. “Marty could show up any minute, wondering where we went.”
She pushed the chair back and leaned down so she could examine the underside of his desk. She extended her hand, almost to the length of her arm. I wasn’t sure what she’d discovered and I didn’t care to be a witness. I stepped out into the hall and looked toward the reception area. So far no Marty. Idly I noted the fact that the paintings were graduated in size with the largest near the elevators and the smaller ones, in diminishing proportions back here. From the viewpoint of a visitor, the effect would be to create the illusion of corridors much longer than they were—an amusing trompe l’oeil effect.
Reba emerged from Beck’s office and grabbed me by the elbow, steering me toward the wide stairs that led up to the roof.
“What’s up there besides the roof garden?”
“That’s why we’re going up—because we don’t know,” she said. She took the steps two at a time and I kept pace with her. A glass door at the top opened into a fully landscaped garden: trees, shrubs, and flower beds separated by gravel paths that meandered out of sight. Landscape lighting made the whole of it glow. Chairs and umbrella-shaded tables were placed in assorted patios that were dotted throughout. A four-foot wall encircled the perimeter with dazzling city views in all directions.
Central to the garden was what looked like a gardener’s cottage, the exterior encompassed by trellises on which gaudy passionflower vines wound up and across, thick with purple blossoms. There was a sign half-concealed in the profusion of greenery. Curious, I pulled the foliage aside.
“What is it?” she asked.
“‘Danger. High Voltage.’ There’s a phone number for the building supervisor if work needs to be done. Must be a transformer or maybe part of the electrical service. Who knows? I guess it could be housing for the elevators, along with central heating and air conditioning. You have to put stuff like that somewhere.” The little building seemed to hum in a way that suggested you’d be fried to a crisp if you made one wrong move.
From the stairway, Marty called up to us. “Hey, Reba?”
“Up here.”
“I don’t mean to rush you, but we ought to get going. Beck doesn’t like strangers on the premises.”
“I’m hardly a stranger, Marty. I’m his favorite screw.”
“Yeah, well, he’ll be pissed anyway and take it out on me.”
“No problem. We’re ready anytime you are,” she said, and then to me: “Take your car keys and wallet out of your shoulder bag and leave it behind that thing.”
“My bag? I’m not going to leave my shoulder bag. Are you nuts?”
“Do it.”
Marty appeared at the top of the stairs, apparently not trusting us to come down the stairs on our own. He leaned against the stair rail, his breathing stertorous from the climb. Reba crossed to the landing and linked her arm into his, turning to admire the mountains visible in the distance. “What a view! Perfect setting for an office party.”
Marty took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, which was glistening with perspiration. “We haven’t done that so far. Good weather, the gals eat their lunch out here and grab a little sun. Bad days, they use the break room like they did at the old place, only this one’s fancier.”
“The break room? I didn’t see that.”
“I can show you on the way out.”
Reba turned to me. “Everything okay?”
“Right behind you,” I said.
The two started down the stairs. Grousing to myself, I’d done as she’d instructed, removing my keys and wallet from my bag, which I shoved behind a big potted ficus tree. I hoped she knew what she was doing because I sure as shit didn’t. Looking back wistfully, I moved toward the stairs.
I caught up with them in what looked like a midsize kitchen. Sink, dishwasher, two microwaves, a side-by-side refrigerator-freezer, and two vending machines, one with soft drinks, the other with candy bars, potato chips, peanut butter crackers, cookies, packages of nuts, and other fatty snacks. There was a large table in the center of the room surrounded by chairs.
“Is this great?” she said.
I said, “Swell.”
“Y
ou ready?” Marty asked me.
“Sure. I’m fine. It’s been fun.”
“Good. Let me get my briefcase and I can lock up.”
The three of us proceeded down the hall toward the elevators. As Marty passed his office, he ducked out of sight and reappeared with his briefcase. Reba leaned around the door frame. “Nice office. Did you do this yourself?”
“Oh god, no. Beck hired a design firm to handle everything, except the plants. We have another company for those.”
“Pretty highfalutin,” she remarked.
We watched as Marty pushed the elevator button, calling the car from down below. While we waited, Reba pointed to a third elevator on the far side of the reception desk. “What’s that one for?”
“Service elevator. It’s mostly for hauling cartons up and down, file cabinets, furniture, stuff like that. We have fifteen, twenty firms on these three upper floors. That’s a lot of office supplies and copy machines. Plus, the cleaning crew uses it when they come in.”
“Bart and his brother still work weekends?”
“Fridays, same as ever. They’ll be coming in at midnight,” he said.
“Nice to know some things don’t change. The rest is a major upgrade. Might know Beck would do that as soon as I’m out the door.”
The elevator arrived and the doors slid open. Marty reached around and pressed the Door Open button while he entered the alarm system code on the keypad to the right. Reba displayed only cursory interest. Once the three of us got on, Marty released the button and pressed 1 for the first floor. We descended without saying much, all three of us watching the digital floor numbers flash from 4 to 3 to 2 to 1.
As we emerged, the doors to one of the two elevators in the alcove opened and a two-man cleaning crew emerged with their cart and loaded a vacuum cleaner, assorted brooms and mops, industrial-size bottles of cleaning solutions, and packets of paper toweling to resupply the restrooms. Both wore coveralls with a company logo stitched across the back. One gave Willard a nod and he returned a one-finger salute. Reba watched the two men cross the alcove and enter the service elevator.
“What are they up to?”
Marty shrugged. “Beats me. I think they work on two.”
The doors closed behind them and the three of us continued to the entrance while Willard made a note of our departure time with the same blank stare he’d given us before. Marty didn’t bother to nod his good-byes, but Reba gave Willard a merry finger wave. “Thanks, Willie. Nighty-night.”
He hesitated and then lifted a hand.
“Did you see that? True love,” she said.
We went down to the lower-level parking garage. At the foot of the stairs, Marty said, “I’m parked over here. Where’re you guys?”
“That way,” I said, pointing in the opposite direction.
Reba shoved her hands in her jacket pockets and watched him walk toward his car. “Hey, Marty?”
He paused and looked back.
“Think about what I said. You don’t act soon, Beck’s gonna have your nuts in a vise.”
Marty nearly spoke, and then seemed to change his mind. He shook his head, his expression withdrawn, and turned on his heel.
She watched until he was out of sight and then the two of us walked the length of the garage.
“I didn’t like the look of those cleaning guys,” she said.
“Would you give it a rest?”
“I’m going on record. There’s something bogus about them.”
“Thanks for telling me. I’ll put a note in the file.”
When we reached the VW, I unlocked the door on my side, slid behind the wheel, and then leaned over and unlocked the passenger-side door for her. She got in and pulled the door shut, but when I went to insert the key in the ignition, she put her hand out. “Hang on a minute.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re not done yet. Soon as Marty pulls out, we can have another go.”
“You can’t go back up there. How’re you going to pull that off?”
“We can tell Willie you left your shoulder bag upstairs and you have to have it back.”
“Reba! You gotta quit this. You’re going to screw up the government’s case.”
“It’s the government that screws up. Look at the state we’re in. The country’s a mess.”
“That’s not the point. You can’t violate the law.”
“Listen to you, Miss Prissy Ass. What law?”
“Shall we start with breaking and entering?”
“That wasn’t breaking and entering. We went up with Marty. He let us in of his own free will.”
“And then you stole the keys.”
“I didn’t steal them. I borrowed them. I intend to put ’em back.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m telling you, I’m through with this,” I said. I turned the key in the ignition, shifted gears, and backed out of the space.
“Don’t you want your bag?”
“Not now. I’m taking you home.”
“Tomorrow morning, then, and I swear that’ll be the end of it, okay? I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“Why so early? It’s Saturday. The mall doesn’t open until ten.”
“We’ll be long gone by then.”
“Having done what?”
“You’ll see.”
“Uhn-uhn. No way. You can count me out.”
“You don’t come with me, I’ll do it on my own. No telling what kind of trouble I’ll get into.”
I would have closed my eyes in despair, but I was already pulling up the exit ramp and didn’t want to crash in my haste to get us out of there.
I turned right on Chapel. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Reba pull something from her jacket pocket, saying, “Well, this is cool.”
“What.”
“Looks like I stole something after all. Naughty me.”
“You didn’t.”
“Yes, I did. These are Beck’s. I found ’em in his desk in that Mickey Mouse secret drawer. Must be planning to skip town, the little so-and-so.” She was holding up a passport, a driver’s license, and assorted documents.
Abruptly I pulled over to the curb, greatly annoying the driver of the car behind me, who leaned on his horn and made a rude hand gesture. “Give me those,” I said, grabbing for them.
She held the documents out of my reach. “Hang on. This is the real deal here. A passport, birth certificate, driver’s license, credit cards. ‘Garrison Randell’ with Beck’s photograph. Must have cost a mint.”
“Reba, what do you think’s going to happen when he realizes that stuff ’s gone?”
“How’s he going to know?”
“How about he looks in his drawer the minute he gets back? That’s his means of escape. He probably checks the docs twice a day.”
“You’re right,” she said. “On the other hand, why would he suspect me?”
“He doesn’t have to suspect you. All he has to do is figure out who’s been in. Once he gets a bead on Marty, it’s over. Marty’s not going to risk his neck on your account. You’ll end up back in the clink.”
She thought about that. “Well, okay. I’ll put ’em back in his desk when I return Onni’s keys.”
“Thank you,” I said, but I knew I couldn’t take her at her word.
I dropped her at her place and rolled into my apartment at 11:15. The red message light was blinking on my answering machine. Cheney, I thought. There was something erotic in the very idea, and like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I nearly whimpered in response. I pressed the button and heard his voice. Eight words. “Hey, babe. Call me when you get in.”
I punched in his number and when he picked up, I said, “Hey yourself. Did I wake you?”
“I don’t mind. Where you been?”
“Out with Reba. I have tons to report.”
“Good. Come on over and spend the night,” he said. “I’ll make you French toast in the morning if you’re good.”
“Can’t. She’s picking me up here at eight.�
��
“How come?”
“Long story. I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“So how about I come get you and take you home in the morning in time to meet her?”
“Cheney, I can handle the drive. You’re only two miles away.”
“I know, but I don’t want you rattling around the streets at this hour. The world’s a dangerous place.”
I laughed. “Is that how it’s going to be? You’re all protective and I’m docile as a lamb.”
“You have a better idea?”
“No.”
“Great. I’ll pick you up in ten,” he said.
20
I waited for him outside, sitting on the curb, wearing a black turtleneck T-shirt and one of my new skirts. This was the third night in a row I’d be seeing him. Like a winning streak at the craps table, the roll was bound to come to an end. I couldn’t decide if I was being cynical or sensible in acknowledging the fact. I knew how the night was going to go. In the first moments of seeing him, I’d feel neutral—glad to be in his company, but not irresistibly drawn to him. We’d chat about nothing in particular and gradually, I’d become aware of him: the smell of his skin, his face in profile, the shape of his hands as he gripped the steering wheel. He’d sense my attention and turn to look at me. The minute we made eye contact, that low distant humming would start up again, vibrating through my body like the first rumbles of an earthquake.
Curiously, I didn’t feel I was in danger with him. Having blundered so often in relationships with men, I tended to be cautious, remote, keeping my options open in case things didn’t work out. Inevitably, things turned sour, which only served to reinforce my wariness. In retrospect, I could see that Dietz played the game exactly the way I did, which meant I was also safe with him, but for all the wrong reasons: safe because he was always off somewhere, safe because he probably wasn’t capable of coming through for me, and safe, most of all, because his detachment was a mirror of my own.