I Is for Innocent

by Sue Grafton

  I closed the trunk and moved around to the driver’s side, where I unlocked the car and searched the interior, starting with the rear. The seats were covered in a dark green suede cloth that smelled of cigarette smoke and ancient hair oil. The scent conjured up a quick flash of Morley and a sharp jolt of regret. “God, Morley, help me out here,” I said.

  The floor in the back netted me a gas receipt and a bobby pin. I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for . . . an invoice, a pack of matches, or a mileage log, anything to indicate where Morley had gone and what he’d done in the course of his investigation. I slid into the driver’s seat and placed my hands on the steering wheel, feeling like a kid. Morley’s legs were longer than mine and I could barely reach the brakes. Nothing in the map pockets. Nothing on the dashboard. I leaned over to my right to check the glove compartment, which I found crammed with junk. This was more my speed. Cleaning rags, a lady’s hairbrush, more gas receipts (all local and none recent), a crescent wrench, a pack of Kleenex, a used windshield wiper blade, proof of insurance and registrations for the last seven years. I removed item after item, but nothing seemed pertinent to the case itself.

  I returned everything to the glove compartment, tidying the contents in the process. I straightened up and put my hands on the steering wheel again, imagining I was Morley. Half the time when I search I don’t find jackshit, but I never give up hope. I’m always thinking something’s going to come to light if I just open the right drawer, stick my hand in the right coat pocket. I checked the ashtray, which was still full. He’d probably spent a lot of time in the Merc. In this business, where you’re on the road a lot, your car becomes a traveling office, a surveillance vehicle, the observation post for a nightlong stakeout, even a temporary motel if your travel funds run short. The Mercury was perfect, aging and nondescript, the sort of vehicle you might note in your rearview without really seeing it. I checked the car above eye level.

  On the sun visor, he’d attached a “leather-finish” vinyl utility valet with a mirror, a slot for sunglasses, and a pencil and blank memo pad that looked unused. The valet was attached to the visor by two flimsy metal clamps. I reached up and pulled the visor down. On the underside, Morley’d slipped a six-inch strip of paper under one of the clamps. It was the perfect place to tuck such things; “To Do” lists, receipts for cleaning, parking lot tickets. The strip had been torn from a perforated flap for one of the film envelopes used by a One-Hour Foto Mart in a Colgate shopping mall. The strip showed an order number, but no date, so it might have been up there for months. I slipped the paper in my pocket, got out of the car, and locked it up again. I completed the return trip to the utility porch, where I dropped the keys in the brown bag with the files I’d left.

  I drove the five blocks to the mall. An Asian fellow, wearing rubber gloves, was visible through the plate glass window of the One-Hour Foto Mart, removing strips of film from the developer. Prints on a conveyor moved slowly down one side of the window and across the front. Fascinated, I paused, watching as a surprise fortieth birthday party progressed from cake and wrapped presents on a table to a crowd of grinning well-wishers looking smug and self-satisfied while the birthday boy in sweaty tennis togs pretended to be a good sport.

  I was stalling, postponing the inevitable. I wanted the photo order to be pivotal. I wanted the pictures to relate to the investigation in some terribly meaningful and pithy way. I wanted to believe Morley Shine was as good a private eye as I’d always believed he was. Oh well. I pushed the door open and went in. Might as well get it over with. Chances were I’d be looking at a set of snapshots from his last vacation.

  The interior of the shop smelled of acrid chemicals. The place was empty of customers and the young clerk who waited on me took no time at all coming up with the order. I paid $7.65 and he assured me that I’d be reimbursed for any prints I didn’t like. I left the envelope sealed until I reached my car. I sat in the VW and rested the envelope on the steering wheel. Finally, I opened the top flap and slid the prints into the light.

  I made a startled sound . . . not a real word, but something punctuated with an audible exclamation point.

  There were twelve prints altogether, each marked at the bottom with last Friday’s date. What I was looking at were six white pickup trucks, two views each, including one with a dark blue logo with five interlocking rings. The company was Olympic Painting Contractors; Chris White’s name was printed underneath with a telephone number. Morley had been on the same track I was, but what did it mean?

  I sorted back through the photographs. It looked as though he’d done exactly what I meant to do. He’d apparently visited various businesses and used-car lots around town and had taken pictures of six- and seven-year-old white pickups, some with logos, some without. In addition to Chris White’s company truck, there was one utilized by a gardening firm and one used by a catering company with a camper shell on top. Clever touch. Because he’d incorporated a variety of trucks in the “lineup,” it was possible that a more detailed recollection might be triggered from the one and only witness we had.

  I stared out the car window, pondering the implications. If he’d talked to Regina Turner at the Gypsy Motel, she’d never mentioned it to me. Surely she’d have brought it up if she’d been queried twice about the same six-year-old fatal accident. But how else could he have known about the logo and color of the vehicle, if not from her? David Barney might have told him about the truck that nearly knocked him down. Morley might have thought to check old issues of the newspaper just as I had myself. Maybe he acquired a copy of the original police report on the hit-and-run and then decided to take the pictures with him when he interviewed the only witness. A description of the truck plus Regina’s name and place of business would have been noted by the first officer on the scene. The problem was, I hadn’t spotted the police report among the files I’d found, nor had I seen any photocopies of the newspapers to indicate that he was curious about other incidents on the night Isabelle was killed. When I’m working a case, I tend to take a lot of notes. If anything happened to me, the next investigator coming down the pike would know what I’d done and where I’d meant to go next. Clearly, Morley didn’t work that way. . . .

  Or did he?

  I’d always given him credit for being both smart and efficient. The guy who trained me in the business was a nut about details, and since he and Morley had been partners, I’d assumed it was an attitude they shared. I suspect that’s why I was so dismayed when I finally saw Morley’s offices. It was the chaotic state of his paperwork that made me question his professionalism. What if he wasn’t as disorganized as he seemed?

  A sudden image intruded.

  When I was a kid, there was a novelty item that circulated through our elementary school. It was a fortunetelling device, a “crystal ball” that consisted of a sealed sphere with a little window, the whole of it filled with dark water in which a many-sided cube floated. The cube had various messages written on it. You would pose a question and then turn the ball upside down in your hand. When you righted it, the cube in the water would float to the surface with one of the printed messages uppermost. That would be the answer to your query.

  In my gut, I could feel a message begin to rise to the surface. Something was off here, but what? I thought about what David Barney’d said when he’d suggested Morley’s death was a shade too convenient. Was there something to that? It was a question I couldn’t stop and pursue at the moment, but it had a disquieting energy attached to it. I set the notion aside, but I had a feeling it was going to stick to me with a certain burrlike tenacity.

  At least with the pictures, Morley had saved me a step, and I was grateful for that. I took comfort from the fact that we were thinking along the same lines. I could go straight back to the Gypsy and show these to Regina.

  “Well, that was quick,” she said when she caught sight of me.

  “I was lucky,” I said. “I came across a batch of snapshots that should do the job.”

&nbs
p; “I’ll be happy to take a look.”

  “I have one question first. Did you ever hear from an investigator named Morley Shine?”

  Her face clouded briefly. “Nooo, I don’t think so. Not that I recall. In fact, I’m sure not. I’m good with names—my return customers like to be remembered—and his is unusual. I’d know if I’d talked to him, especially about this. What’s the connection?”

  “He was working on a case until two days ago. He died Sunday evening of a heart attack, which is why I was called in. It looks like he saw a link between the same two incidents.”

  “What was the other one? When you were here earlier, you said a near miss of some sort.”

  “A white pickup truck bumped a guy at an exit off the southbound One-oh-one. This was about one forty-five. He claims he knew the driver, though he had no idea there’d been a hit-and-run earlier.” I held out the envelope. “Morley Shine dropped these off to be developed. If he meant to talk to you, he was probably waiting until he picked up the prints for ID purposes.” I placed the envelope on the counter.

  She adjusted her glasses and removed the twelve snapshots. She studied them thoughtfully, giving each picture her undivided attention before she laid it on the counter, making a line of trucks, like a motorcade that marched across the blotter. I watched for a reaction, but when Tippy’s father’s truck crossed her line of vision, there was no alteration in her expression, no remark indicating surprise or recognition. She studied the six trucks with care and then put an index finger on the Olympic Painting pickup. She said, “This is the one.”

  “You’re sure of that.”

  “Positive.” She picked up the print and held it closer. “I never thought I’d see this again.” She flashed me a look. “Maybe we’ll finally see someone brought to justice after all these years. And wouldn’t that be nice.”

  I had a brief image of Tippy. “Maybe so,” I said. “Anyway, you’ll hear from the police as soon as I talk with them.”

  “Is that where you’re off to?”

  I shook my head reluctantly. “I have something else to do first.”

  I made a quick call to Santa Teresa Shellfish, but Tippy’d traded shifts and wasn’t going to be in that day. I left the motel and headed for Montebello, hoping I could catch Tippy at home . . . preferably without her mother hovering in the background. In essence, I’d put the woman on notice. Rhe knew something was up, though she probably didn’t have a way to guess just how serious it was.

  West Glen is one of the primary arteries through Montebello, a winding two-lane road lined with tall hedges and low stone walls. Morning glories spilled over the fence tops in a waterfall of blue. The gnarled branches of the live oaks were laced together overhead, the sycamores interplanted with eucalyptus and acacia trees. Thick patches of hot pink geraniums grew by the road like weeds.

  The small stucco cottage that Rhe and Tippy occupied was a two-bedroom bungalow built close to the road. I squeezed my car in on the shoulder and walked up the path to the porch, where I rang the bell. Tippy appeared almost instantly, shrugging into her jacket, purse and car keys in hand. She was clearly on her way out. She stared at me blankly with her hand on the doorknob. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have a couple more questions, if you don’t mind,” I said.

  She hesitated, debating, then she checked her watch. Her expression denoted a little impromptu wrestling match—reluctance, annoyance, and good manners doing takedowns. “God, I don’t know. I’m meeting this friend of mine in about twenty minutes. Could you, like, really make it quick?”

  “Sure. Can I come in?”

  She stepped back, not thrilled, but too polite to refuse. She was wearing jeans and high-heeled boots, a portion of a black leotard visible under her blue denim jacket. Her hair was down today and it trailed halfway down her back, strands still showing waves where the French braid had been undone. Her eyes were clear, her complexion faintly rosy. Somehow it made me feel bad that she looked so young.

  I took in the cottage at a glance.

  The interior consisted of a combination living room/dining room, tiny galley-size kitchen visible beyond. The walls were hung with original art, probably Rhe’s handiwork. The floors were done in Mexican paving tiles. The couch was upholstered in hand-painted canvas, wide brushstrokes of sky blue, lavender, and taupe, with lavender-and-sky-blue pillows tossed carelessly along its length. The side chairs were inexpensive Mexican imports, caramel-colored leather in a barrel-shaped rattan frame. There was a wood-burning fireplace, big baskets filled with dried flowers, lots of copper pots hanging from a rack in the kitchen area. Dried herbs hung from the crossbeams. Through French doors, I could see a small courtyard outside with a pepper tree and lots of flowering plants in pots.

  “Your mom here?”

  “She went up to the market. She’ll be back in a minute. What did you want? I’m really really in a hurry so I can’t take too long.”

  I took a seat on the couch, a bit of a liberty as Tippy hadn’t really offered. She chose one of the Mexican chairs and sat down without enthusiasm.

  I handed her the pictures without explanation.

  “What’re these?”

  “Take a look.”

  Frowning, she opened the envelope and pulled out the prints. She shuffled through with indifference until she came to the Olympic Paint truck. She looked up at me with alarm. “You went and took a picture of my dad’s pickup?”

  “Another investigator took those.”

  “What for?”

  “Your father’s truck was seen twice the night your aunt Isabelle was murdered. I guess the other P.I. meant to show the pictures to a witness for identification.”

  “Of what?” I thought a little note of dread had crept into her voice.

  I kept my tone flat, as matter-of-fact as I could make it. “A hit-and-run accident in which an old man was killed. This was on upper State in South Rockingham.”

  She couldn’t seem to formulate the next question, which should have been, Why tell me? She knew where I was headed.

  I went on. “I thought we ought to talk about your whereabouts that night.”

  “I already told you I didn’t go out.”

  “So you did,” I said with a shrug. “So maybe your father was the one driving.”

  We locked eyes. I could see her calculate her chances of squirming out from under this one. Unless she fessed up to the fact that she was driving, she’d be pulling her father right into the line of fire.

  “My dad wasn’t driving.”

  “Were you?”

  “No!”

  “Who was?”

  “How should I know? Maybe somebody stole the truck and went joyriding.”

  “Oh, come on, Tippy. Don’t give me that. You were out in the truck and you fuckin’ know you were so let’s cut through the bull and get down to it.”

  “I was not!”

  “Hey, face the facts. I feel for you, kiddo, but you’re going to have to take responsibility for what you did.”

  She was silent, staring downward, her manner sullen and unresponsive. Finally she said, “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  I nudged her verbally. “What’s the story, were you drunk?”

  “No.”

  “Your mom told me you’d had your license suspended. Did you take the truck without permission?”

  “You can’t prove any of this.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “How are you going to prove it? That was six years ago.”

  “For starters, I have two eyewitnesses,” I said. “One actually saw you pull away from the scene of the accident. The other witness saw you at the southbound off-ramp on San Vicente shortly afterward. You want to tell me what happened?”

  Her gaze flickered away from mine and the color came up in her cheeks. “I want a lawyer.”

  “Why don’t you tell me your side of it. I’d like to hear.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything,” she said.
“You can’t make me say a word unless I have an attorney present. That’s the law.” She sat back in the chair and crossed her arms.

  I smirked and rolled my eyes. “No, it’s not. That’s Miranda. The cops have to Mirandize you. I don’t. I’m a private eye. I get to play by a different set of rules. Come on. Just tell me what happened. You’ll feel better about it.”

  “Why would I tell you anything? I don’t even like you.”

  “Let me take a guess. You were living at your dad’s and he was out and these friends of yours called you up and just wanted to go out for a little while. So you borrowed the truck and picked them up and the three of you or the four of you, however many it was, were just messing around, drinking a couple of six-packs down at the beach. Suddenly it was midnight and you realized you better get home before your father did so you quick took everybody home. You were barreling home yourself when you hit the guy. You took off in a panic because you knew you’d be in big trouble if you got caught. How’s that sound? Close enough to suit?”

  Her face was still stony, but I could see that she was fighting back tears, working hard to keep her lips from trembling.

  “Did anybody ever tell you about the fellow you hit? His name was Noah McKell. He was ninety-two years old and he’d been staying at that convalescent hospital up the street. He had the wanderlust, I guess. His son told me he was probably trying to get home. Isn’t that pathetic? Poor old guy used to live in San Francisco. He thought he was still up there and he was worried about his cat. I guess he forgot the cat had been dead for years. He was heading for home to feed it, only he never got there.”