by Sue Grafton
I located the convalescent hospital, a one-story stucco structure flanked on three sides by parking lots. From the outside, the fifty-bed facility looked plain and clean, probably expensive. I parked at the curb and climbed four concrete steps to the sloping front walk. The grass on either side was in its dormant stage, clipped short, a mottled yellow. An American flag hung limply from a pole near the entrance.
I pushed through a wide door into a comfortably furnished reception area, decorated in the style of one of the better motel chains. Christmas hadn’t surfaced yet. The color scheme was pleasant: blues and greens in soothing, noninflammatory shades. There was a couch covered in chintz and four matching upholstered chairs arranged so as to suggest intimate lobby chats. The magazines on the end tables were neatly fanned out in an arc of overlapping titles, Modern Maturity being foremost. There were two ficus trees, which on closer inspection turned out to be artificial. Both might have used a dusting, but at least they weren’t subject to whitefly and blight.
At the desk, I asked to see the nursing home director and was directed to the office of a Mr. Hugo, halfway down the corridor to my left. This wing of the building was strictly administrative. There were no patients in evidence, no wheelchairs, gurneys, or medical paraphernalia. The very air was stripped of institutional odors. I explained my business briefly, and after a five-minute wait Mr. Hugo’s personal secretary ushered me into his office. Nursing home directors must have a lot of holes to fill in their appointment books.
Edward Hugo was a black man in his mid-sixties with a curly mix of gray and white hair and a wide white mustache. His complexion was glossy brown, the color of caramel. The lines in his face suggested an origami paper folded once, then flattened out again. He was conventionally dressed, but something in his manner hinted at obligatory black-tie appearances for local charity events. He shook my hand across his desk and then took his seat again while I took mine. He folded his hands in front of him on the desk. “What can I help you with?”
“I’m trying to learn the name of a former patient of yours, an old gentleman who was killed in a hit-and-run accident six years ago at Christmas.”
He nodded. “I know the man you’re referring to. Can you explain your interest?”
“I’m trying to verify an alibi in another criminal matter. It would help if I could find out if the driver was ever found.”
“I don’t believe so. Not to my knowledge, at any rate. To tell you the truth, it’s always bothered me. The gentleman’s name was Noah McKell. His son, Hartford, lives here in town. I can have Mrs. Rudolph look up his number if you’d like to speak to him.”
He went on in this manner, direct, soft-spoken, and matter-of-fact, managing in our ten-minute conversation to give me all the information I needed in a carefully articulated format. According to Mr. Hugo’s account of the night in question, Noah McKell had removed his IV, disconnected himself from a catheter, dressed himself in his street clothes, and left his private room by the window.
I was surprised by that. “Aren’t the windows kept locked?”
“This is a hospital, Miss Millhone, not a prison. Bars would constitute a danger if a fire ever broke out. Aside from that, we feel our patients benefit from the fresh air and a view of some greenery. He’d left the premises on two other occasions, which was a matter of great concern to us, given his condition. We considered the use of restraints for his protection, but we were reluctant to do so and his son was adamant. We kept the bed rails up and we had one of the aides look in on him every thirty minutes or so. The floor nurse went in at one-fifteen and discovered the empty bed.
“Of course, we moved very quickly once we realized he was gone. The police were alerted and the security people here began an immediate search. I received a call at home and came right over. I live up on Tecolote Road so it didn’t take me long. By the time I got here, we’d heard about the hit-and-run. We went to the scene and identified the body.”
“Were there any witnesses?”
“A desk clerk at the Gypsy Motel heard the impact.” he said. “She ran out to help, but the old man was dead. She was the one who called the police.”
“You remember her name?”
“Not offhand. Mr. McKell would be able to tell you, I’m sure. It’s possible she’s still there.”
“I think I better talk to him in any event. If the driver was found, I won’t need to take any more time with the questions.”
“I’d like to think he would have told us if that were the case. Please give me a call and let me know what you find. I’d feel better about it.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Hugo, and thanks for your help.”
I called Hartford McKell from a public telephone booth that was located near a hamburger stand on upper State. There was no point in going back to the office when the accident site was only two blocks away. I pulled out a pen and a notepad, prepared to take notes.
The man who answered the phone identified himself as Hartford McKell. I explained who I was and the information I needed. He sounded like a man without humor—direct, impatient, with a tendency to interrupt. In the matter of his father’s death, he made it clear he wasn’t interested in commiseration of any sort. The story seemed to spill out, his anger unabated by the passage of time. I refrained from comment except for an occasional question. The driver of the vehicle had never been found. The Santa Teresa Police had conducted an intense investigation, but aside from the skid marks, there hadn’t been much in the way of evidence at the scene. The only witness—the motel desk clerk, whose name was Regina Turner—had given them a sketchy description of the truck, but she hadn’t seen the license plate. It was one of those traffic fatalities that outraged the community and he’d offered a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward for the information leading to the arrest and conviction of the driver. “I brought Pop down here from San Francisco. He’d had a stroke and I wanted him close. You know where he was headed every time he left? He thought he was still up there, just a few blocks from his place. He was trying to get home because he was worried about his cat. Animal’s been dead now for fifteen years, but Pop wanted to make sure his cat was okay. It makes me crazy to think someone’s gotten away with murder.”
“I can understand—”
He cut me off. “No one can understand, but I’ll tell you one thing: You don’t run over an old man and then drive on without a backward glance.”
“People panic,” I said. “One in the morning, the streets are virtually empty. The driver must have figured no one would ever know the difference.”
“I don’t really care what the reasoning was. I want to nail the son of a bitch. That’s all I care about. Do you have a line on this guy or not?”
“I’m working on it.”
“You find the driver and that twenty-five thousand is yours.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. McKell, but that’s not my prime interest in the matter. I’ll do what I can.”
We terminated the conversation. I got back in the car and drove the two blocks down State Street to the intersection where the elder McKell was killed. The + formed by the two cross streets was bounded by a motel, a vacant lot, a garden-style medical complex, and a small bungalow, which looked like a private residence, converted now to real estate offices. The Gypsy was an unassuming block of units, with all the architectural grace of a two-by-four, bounded on all sides by strip parking. An accordion-pleated metal portico jutted out in front. The two-story building had probably gone up in the sixties and seemed to rely heavily on concrete and aluminum-frame sliding doors. I parked in the portion of the motel lot set aside for registration. The office was glass-enclosed with ready-made mesh drapes blocking out the early afternoon sun. A blinking neon sign out in front alternated NO and VACANCY.
The woman behind the desk was big—not the giant but the large economy size. She had a big well-shaped nose, a large mouth rosy with lipstick, ice-blond hair pulled up in a braid on top, the coil of hair wrapped around itself until it formed a rope
. She wore mauve glasses with beveled frames, the lower portion of both lenses smudged slightly with peachy foundation makeup. Her street clothing was obscured by a pink nylon smock of the sort worn by cosmetologists.
I took out a business card and placed it on the counter. “I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Regina Turner.”
“Well, I’ll try. I’m Regina Turner. Glad to meet you,” she said. We shook hands. Our conversation was put on hold briefly when the telephone rang; she held one finger up as a digital marker while she verified some reservations. “Sorry for the interruption,” she said when she’d hung up. She gave my card a perfunctory glance and then focused a sharp look on my face. “I don’t answer questions about the folks who stay here.”
“This is about something else,” I said. I was halfway through my explanation when I saw her clock out. I could tell she’d already leapfrogged to the end of the conversation. “You can’t help me,” I said.
“I wish I could,” she replied. “The police talked to me just after that poor old man was killed. I felt awful, honestly, but I told them everything I know.”
“You were working that night?”
“I work most nights. Anymore, you can’t get good help, especially around the holidays. I was right here at the desk when the accident occurred. I heard the squeal . . . that’s an awful sound, isn’t it? And then a thump. This pickup must have barreled around the big bend out there at sixty miles an hour. Truck caught the old fella in the crosswalk and flung him right up in the air. Looked like somebody been gored by a bull. You know how in the movies you see ’em get tossed like that? He came down so hard I could hear him hit the pavement. I looked out the front window and saw the truck pull away. My view of the intersection is excellent. You can see for yourself. I dialed nine-one-one and went out to see what I could do. By the time I got to him, the poor man was dead and the truck had taken off.”
“Do you remember the time?”
“Eleven minutes after one. I had that same little digital clock sitting on the counter and I remember seeing that the time was one-one-one, which is my birthday. January eleventh. I don’t know why, but something like that will stick with you for years afterwards.”
“You didn’t see the driver?”
“Not at all. I saw the truck. It was white, with some kind of dark blue logo on the side.”
“What kind of logo?”
She shook her head. “That I can’t help you with.”
“This is good though. Every little bit helps,” I said. There were probably only six thousand white trucks in California. The particular pickup involved in the accident might have been junked, repainted, sold, or taken out of state. “I appreciate your time.”
“You want your card back?” she asked. “You keep it. If you think of anything that might help, I hope you’ll get in touch.”
“Absolutely.”
At the door, I hesitated. “Do you think you could identify the truck if I brought you some pictures?”
“I’m pretty sure I could. I may not remember it, but I think I’d recognize it if I saw it again.”
“Great. I’ll be back.”
I returned to my car, aware of the little rush of hope I was having to subdue. I wanted to make an assumption here. I’m not a fool. I could see the probability that the white pickup truck involved in McKell’s death was the same pickup that had bumped into David Barney approximately thirty minutes later and approximately eight miles away. There was too much at stake to jump to conclusions about who was driving it. Better to play it by the book as I’d been taught. The first step was to take pictures of several similar vehicles, including the truck owned by Tippy’s father, Chris White. If Regina Turner could make a positive ID, then I’d have something concrete to start with. Step two, of course, was to figure out who had actually been at the wheel.
14
I went back to the office, again parking my car in Lonnie’s slot. As usual, I took the stairs two at a time all the way to the third floor and spent a moment leaning against the wall gasping while I recovered my breath. I let myself into the law office through the plain unmarked door halfway down the hall from the entrance. It was an exit we used as a shortcut to the bathrooms across the hall from us. Originally, the third floor consisted of six separate suites, but Kingman and Ives had gradually assimilated all the available space except for the rest rooms, located in the corridor so as to be accessible to the public.
I unlocked my door and checked for messages. Louise Mendelberg had called, wondering if there was any way I could get Morley’s keys back to them that afternoon. Morley’s brother was due in and they wanted to make his car available. Any time would be fine if it was not too much trouble.
I decided to get my desk organized and then Xerox the files I’d picked up at Morley’s house so I could return them at the same time. I sat down and went through the mail, putting bills in one pile and junk in the wastebasket. I opened all the bills and did some quick mental arithmetic. Yes, I could pay them. No, I couldn’t quit my job and retire on my savings, which were nil anyway. I peeked at the balance in my checkbook and paid a bill or two just for sport. Take that, Gas & Electric. Ha ha ha! Foiled again, Pacific Telephone.
I gathered up the stack of folders and went down to use the copier. It took me thirty minutes to Xerox all the data and reassemble the files. I put the originals back in the grocery bag Louise had given me for the purpose, set aside a box of files to review at home, and then removed my 35-millimeter camera from the bottom drawer and loaded it with a roll of color film. I hauled out the telephone book and looked up Tippy’s father in the yellow pages under Painting Contractors. Chris White’s company, Olympic Painting, was featured in a substantial quarter-page box ad that listed his name, company address, telephone number, license number, and the scope of his work: “complete painting services, water blasting (we provide the water), custom colors and matching, fine wood finishing, wallpapering.” I jotted down all the information relevant to my purposes. After I dropped off the files, I was going to go find five or six white pickup trucks and take pictures. I had a quick chat with Ida Ruth and then went out by the same door I’d entered, hauling the grocery bag and a cardboard box.
The drive to Colgate was pleasant enough. The day was clear and chilly and I flipped on the VW’s heater so that it would blow hot breath on my feet. I was beginning to give serious thought to the possibility that David Barney might be innocent. Up to this point, we’d all been operating on the assumption that he was the one who shot Isabelle. He was the obvious suspect, with the means, the motive, and the opportunity to have killed her, but murder is an aberrant deed, often born of passions distorted by obsessiveness and torment. Emotion doesn’t travel in a straight line. Like water, our feelings trickle down through cracks and crevices, seeking out the little pockets of neediness and neglect, the hairline fractures in our character usually hidden from public view. Beware the dark pool at the bottom of our hearts. In its icy, black depths dwell strange and twisted creatures it is best not to disturb. With this investigation, I was once again uncomfortably aware that in probing into murky waters I was exposing myself to the predators lurking therein.
Morley Shine’s driveway was empty, the red Ford rental car nowhere in evidence. The Mercury still sat on the grass in the side yard. I stood on the porch and studied the pattern of rust spots on the fender while I waited for someone to answer my knock. Two minutes passed. I knocked again, this time louder, fervently hoping that I wasn’t rousing Dorothy Shine from her sickbed. After five minutes, it seemed safe to assume that no one was home. Maybe Louise had taken Dorothy to the doctor or the two had been required to put in an appearance at the funeral home to pick out a casket. Louise had told me they left the back door unlocked so I made my way around the side of the house, passing through the breezeway between the garage and house. The door to the utility room was not only unlocked, but slightly ajar. I rapped again at the glass and then waited the requisite few minutes in case someone
was home. Idly, I surveyed the premises, feeling vaguely depressed. The property looked as though it was ready for the auction block. The backyard was neglected, the winter grass dry and frost-cropped. In the weedy flower beds that bordered the yard, last autumn’s annuals were still planted in dispirited clumps. Once-sunny marigolds had turned brown, a garden of deadheads with leaves limp and withered. Morley probably hadn’t sat out here with his wife for a year. I could see a built-in brick barbecue, the cook surface so rusty the rods on the grill nearly touched each other.
I pushed the door all the way open and let myself in. I wasn’t sure why I was being so meticulous. Ordinarily, I’d have popped right in and had a look around, just because I’m nosy and the opportunity was presented. This time I really didn’t have the heart to snoop. Morley was dead and what remained of his life should be safe from trespass. I left the grocery bag of files on the washing machine as instructed. The very air smelled medicinal, and from the depths of the house I could hear the ticking of a clock. I pulled the door shut behind me and returned to the street.
As I took out my car keys, I realized with a flash of irritation that I’d meant to leave Morley’s keys in the bag with the files. I turned on my heel and retraced my steps at a half trot. As I passed the Mercury, I could feel my steps slow. Wonder what he has in the trunk, my bad angel said. Even my good angel didn’t think it would hurt to look. I’d been given ready access to both his offices. I had his very keys in hand and in the interest of thoroughness it seemed only natural to check his vehicle. It was hardly trespassing when I had implied permission. By the time I reached that phase of my rationalization, I had popped open the trunk and was staring down in disappointment at the spare tire, the jack, and an empty Coors beer can that looked as if it had been rolling around in there for months.