by Sue Grafton
“That wouldn’t take much, the way I eat,” I said. “Speaking of which, you want dinner? I don’t cook, but I can have a pizza delivered. I have to go out in a bit, but you’re welcome to join me.”
“I wouldn’t mind some pizza,” she said. “If you just do the veggies, without all the sausage and pepperoni, it’s not even bad for you. Try that place around the corner. I bonk the owner sometimes. He gives me a big discount because I chew his bone.”
“I’ll mention that when I call the order in,” I said.
“Here, I’ll do it. Where’s the phone?”
I pointed to the phone on the table beside the answering machine. We both noticed the blinking light.
“You got a message,” she said. She reached down automatically and pressed the replay button before I had a chance to protest. It seemed as rude for her to listen as to open my mail. A mechanical computer voice announced that I had one message. Beep.
“Oh, hi, Kinsey. This is Roger. I just wanted to touch base and see how things were going. Anyway, you don’t have to call back, but if you have any more questions, you can reach me at home. Bye. Oh, I guess I better give you the number.” He recited his home phone and then hung up with a click.
“Lorna’s boss,” she said. “You know him?”
“Sure. Do you?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I met him once.” She picked up the phone and punched in a number she seemed to know by heart. She turned and looked at me while the phone rang on the other end. “I’m going to have ‘em leave the cheese off. It cuts the fat,” she murmured.
I left her to the negotiations while I made us each a cup of tea. The night I’d met her, she’d seemed wary, or maybe that was just her working persona. Tonight she seemed relaxed, nearly buoyant. Her mood was probably drug-induced, but there was actually something charming about her ingenuousness. She had a natural goodwill that animated every gesture. I heard her conducting business with the kind of poise that must come from “bonking” guys from every walk of life. She put a hand over the mouthpiece. “What’s the address here? I forgot.”
I gave her the number, which she recited into the telephone. I could have taken her to Rosie’s with me, but I didn’t trust Rosie to be polite. With William gone, I was worried she might revert to her former misanthropy.
Danielle hung up the phone and took off her jacket, which she folded neatly and put on one end of the sofa. She came over to the counter, clutching her oversize shoulder bag. Somehow she seemed as graceful as a colt, all arms and long legs and bony shoulders.
I passed her a mug of tea. “I have a question for you.”
“Hold on. Let me say something first. I hope this is not too personal. I wouldn’t want you to take offense.”
“I really hate sentences that start that way,” I said.
“Me too, but this is for your own good.”
“Go ahead. You’re going to say it anyway.”
She hesitated, and the face she made conveyed exaggerated reluctance. “Promise you won’t get mad?”
“Just say it. I can’t stand the suspense. I have bad breath.”
“That haircut of yours is really gross.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“You don’t have to get sarcastic. I can help. Honestly. I was working on my license as a cosmetologist when I first connected up with Lester…”
“Mr. Dickhead,” I supplied.
“Yeah, him. Anyway, I’m a great cutter. I did Lorna’s hair all the time. Give me a pair of scissors and I can turn you into a vision. I’m not fooling.”
“All I have is nail scissors. Maybe after dinner.”
“Come on. We got fifteen minutes until the pizza gets here. And look at this.” She opened up her shoulder bag and let me peek. “Ta-da.” Inside she had a brush, a little hair dryer, and a pair of shears. She placed the hair dryer on the counter and clacked the scissors like a pair of castanets.
“You came over here with that stuff?”
“I keep it with me all the time. Sometimes at the Palace I do haircuts in the ladies’ room.”
I ended up sitting on a kitchen stool with a hand towel pinned around my neck, my hair wet from a dousing at the kitchen sink. Danielle was chatting happily while she trimmed and clipped. Snippets of hair began to tumble around me. “Now don’t get scared. I know it looks like a lot, but it’s just because the whole thing’s uneven. You got great hair, nice and thick, with just the tiniest touch of curl. Well, I wouldn’t call it curl so much as body, which is even better.”
“So why didn’t you get your license?”
“I lost interest. Plus, the money’s not that hot. My father always said it’d be a great fallback position if the economy went sour, but hooking’s better, in my opinion. A guy might not have the bucks to get his hair blown dry, but he’s always got twenty for a BJ.”
I mouthed the term BJ silently. It took me half a second to figure that one out. “What are you going to do when you get too old to bonk?”
“I’m taking classes at city college in financial management. Money’s the only other subject that really interests me.”
“I’m sure you 11 go far.”
“You gotta start somewhere. What about you? What will you do when you’re too old to bonk?”
“I don’t bonk now. I’m pure as the driven snow.”
“Well, no wonder you get cranky. What a drag,” she said.
I laughed.
For a while we were silent as she concentrated on her work. “What’s the question? You said you had something you wanted to ask.”
“Maybe I better check my cash supply first.”
She pulled my hair. “Now don’t be like that. I bet you’re the kind who kids around to keep other people at a distance, right?”
“I don’t think I should respond to that.”
She smiled. “See? I can surprise you. I’m a lot brighter than you think. So ask.”
“Ah, yes. Did Lorna mention pulling twenty grand out of a hank account before she was supposed to go out of town?”
“Why would she do that? She always traveled with a guy. She never spent her own money when she went someplace.”
“What guy?”
“Anyone who asked,” she said, still clipping away.
“You know where she was headed?”
“She didn’t talk about that stuff.”
“What about a diary or an appointment book?”
Danielle touched her temple with the tip of her scissors. “She kept it all up here. She said otherwise her clients didn’t feel safe. Cops raid your place? They got a search warrant, you’re dead, and so’s everybody else. Quit wiggling.”
“Sorry. Where’d the money go? It looks like she closed out the whole account.”
“Well, she didn’t give it to me. I wish she had. I’d have opened an account of my own just like that.” She snapped the scissors near my ear, and seven hairs fell to earth. “I meant to do that,” she added. She set the scissors on the counter and plugged in the hair dryer, picking up locks of hair on the bristles of the hairbrush. It’s incredibly restful to have someone fooling with your hair like that.
I raised my voice slightly to compete with the noise. “Could she have paid off a debt or posted bail for someone?”
“Twenty G’s in bail would be a hell of a crime.”
“Did she owe anybody?”
“Lorna didn’t have debts. Even credit cards she paid off before finance charges went on,” she said. “I bet the money was stolen.”
“Yeah, that occurred to me, too.”
“Must have been after she was dead,” she added. “Otherwise Lorna would have fought tooth and nail.” She turned the dryer off and set it aside, stepping back to scrutinize her handiwork. She took a moment to fluff and rearrange individual strands and then nodded, apparently satisfied.
The doorbell rang, Mr. Pizza Man on the doorstep. I handed Danielle twenty bucks and let her conclude the deal while I ducked into the downstairs bathroom and checked
myself in the mirror. The difference was remarkable. All the choppiness was gone. All the blunt, stick-out parts that seemed to go every which way were now tamed and subdued. The hair feathered away from my face in perfect layers. It even fell into place again if I shook my head. I caught sight of Danielle reflected in the mirror behind me.
“You like it?” she asked.
“It looks great.”
“Told you I was good,” she said, laughing.
We ate from the box, splitting a large cheeseless veggie pizza, which was tasty without causing all my arteries to seize up. At one point she said, “This is fun, isn’t it? Like girlfriends.”
“You miss Lorna?”
“Yeah, I do. She was a kick. After work, her and me would pal around downtown, find a coffee shop, have breakfast. I remember once we bought a quart of orange juice and a bottle of champagne. We sat out in the grass at my place and drank mimosas until dawn.”
“I’m sorry I never got to meet her. She sounds nice.”
At eight we folded the box and stuck it in the trash. Danielle put her jacket on while I got mine. Once outside, she asked me to drop her off at her place. I took a left on Cabana, following her directions as she routed me down a narrow alleyway not that far from Neptune’s Palace. Her “hovel,” as she referred to it, was a tiny board-and-batten structure at the rear of someone else’s yard. The little house had probably been a toolshed at one time. She got out of the car and leaned back in the window. “You want to come in and see my place?”
“Maybe tomorrow night,” I said. “I got some stuff to do tonight.”
“Pop by if you can. I got it fixed up real cute. If business is slow, I’m usually home by one… provided Lester isn’t bugging me to score. Thanks for dinner and the ride.”
“Thanks for the cut.”
I watched her clop off into the night, high heels tapping on the short brick walk to her front door, dark hair trailing down her back like a veil. I fired up my car and headed for the Keplers’ house.
I parked in the driveway and made my way along the flagstone path leading to the porch. The porch light was off, and the yard was dark as pitch. I picked my way up the low front stairs, which were dimly illuminated by the light from the living room windows. Janice had told me they usually ate dinner at this hour. I tapped on the front door and from the direction of the kitchen heard a chair scrape back.
Mace answered my knock, his body blocking most of the light spilling out the door. I smelled tuna casserole. He had a paper napkin in one hand, and he made a swipe at his mouth. “Oh, it’s you. We’re eating supper right now.”
“Is Janice here?”
“She’s already left. She works eleven to seven every day, but some girl got sick and she went in early. Try tomorrow,” he said. He was already moving to shut the door in my face.
“Mind if I talk to you?”
His face went momentarily blank, just a tiny flick of temper that wiped out any other expression. “Pardon?”
“I wondered if you’d object to a quick chat,” I said.
“Yeah, I do. I work a long, hard day, and I don’t like people watching while I eat.”
I felt a flash of heat, as though somebody’d taken a blow torch to the back of my neck. “Maybe later,” I said. I turned and moved down the porch steps. As the door closed behind me, he muttered something obscene.
I backed out of the drive with a chirp and threw the car into first. What a turd. I did not like the man at all. He was a horse’s ass and a jerk, and I hoped he had itchy hemorrhoids. I drove randomly, trying to cool down. I couldn’t even think what to do with myself. I would have gone to Frankie’s to talk to Janice, but I knew I’d say spiteful things about her spouse.
Instead, I went to the Caliente Cafe, looking for Cheney Phillips. It was still early for a Wednesday night, but CC’s was already crowded, sound system blasting and enough cigarette smoke to make breathing unpleasant. For a place with no Happy Hour, no two-for-one deals, and no hors d’oeuvres (unless you count chips and salsa as a form of canapé), CC’s does a lively business from the time it opens at five p.m. until it closes at two in the morning. Cheney was sitting at the bar in a dress shirt, faded jeans, and a pair of desert boots. He had a beer in front of him and was talking with the guy sitting next to him. When he saw me, he grinned. Lordy, I’m a sucker for good teeth, “Ms. Millhone. How are you? You got your hair cut. It looks good.”
“Thanks. You got a minute?”
“Of course.” He picked up his beer and eased himself off the bar stool, scanning the place for a vacant table where we could talk. The bartender was moving in our direction. “We need a glass of Chardonnay,” Cheney said.
We found a table on the side wall. I spewed for a while about my dislike of Mace Kepler. Cheney wasn’t all that fond of the man himself, so he enjoyed my comments.
“I don’t know what it is. He just gets me.”
“He hates women,” Cheney said.
I looked at him with surprise. “Is that it? Maybe that’s what it is.”
“So what else are you up to?”
I spent a few minutes filling him in on my trip to San Francisco, my talk with Trinny, her confession about the porno tape, and finally the money missing from the account. I showed him the bank statement, watching his face. “What do you think?”
By then he was slouched down on his spine, his legs stretched out in front him. He had one elbow propped up on the table, and he held the statement by one corner. He shifted on his seat. He didn’t seem impressed. “She was going out of town. She probably needed money.” He sat and studied the bank statement while he sipped at his Corona.
“I asked Danielle about that. She says Lorna never paid. She only traveled with guys who sported her to everything.”
“Yeah, but it still isn’t necessarily significant,” he said.
“Of course it isn’t necessarily significant, but it might be. That’s the point. Serena says J.D. went into the cabin briefly while they were waiting for the cops. Suppose he lifted it.”
“You think it’s sitting right there, this big wad of dough?”
“Well, it could be,” I said.
“Yeah, right. For all you know, Lorna was involved in off-track betting or she picked up a fur coat or bought a shitload of drugs.”
“Uhn-hun,” I said, cutting in on his recital. “Or maybe the cash was lifted by the first officer at the scene.”
“There’s an idea,” he said, not liking the image of police corruption. “Anyway, you don’t know it was cash. It could have been a check made payable to someone else. She could have moved the money over to her checking account and paid the balance on her Visa bill. Most people don’t walk around with cash like that.”
“I keep picturing a wad of bills.”
“Well, try to picture something else.”
“Serena might have taken it. She pointed a finger at J.D., but really, all we have is her word she didn’t go into the cabin herself. Or maybe Lorna’s parents found the stash and kept their mouths shut, figuring they’d have to have money for the funeral. I was going to ask about that, but Kepler pissed me off.”
Cheney seemed amused. “You just never give up.”
“I think it’s interesting, that’s all. Besides, I’m desperate for a lead. Mace Kepler doesn’t have a record, does he? I’d love to get him on something.”
“He’s clean. We checked him out.”
“Doesn’t mean he isn’t guilty. It just means he hasn’t been caught yet.”
“Don’t get distracted.” He pushed the statement across the table. “At least you know who mailed the porno tape to Mrs. K,” he said.
“It doesn’t lead anywhere.”
“Don’t sound so depressed.”
“Well, I hate these raggedy-ass investigations,” I said. “Sometimes the line is so clear. You pick up the scent and you follow it. It may take time, but at least you know you’re going someplace. This is driving me nuts.”
Cheney shrug
ged. “We investigated for months and didn’t get anywhere.”
“Yeah, I know. I don’t know what made me think I could make a difference.”
“What an egotist,” he said. “You work on a case three days and you think, boom, you should be solving it.”
“Is that all it’s been? Feels like I’ve been on this sucker for weeks.”
“Anyway, something will break. Killer’s been sitting around all this time thinking he’s in the clear. He’s not going to like it that you’re nosing around.”
“Or she.”
“Right. Let’s don’t get sexist about homicide,” he said.
Cheney’s pager went off. Until that moment I hadn’t even been aware that he was toting one. He checked the number and then excused himself, going into the rear of the bar to use the pay phone. When he came back, he said he had to leave. One of his informants had been arrested and was asking for him.
After he left, I hung around long enough to finish my wine. Business was picking up, and the noise level was rising, along with the toxic levels of secondhand cigarette smoke. I grabbed my jacket and my shoulder bag and headed for the parking lot. It was not even midnight, but all the parking spaces were filled and cars were beginning to line the road out in front.
The sky was overcast. The lights from the city made the cloud cover glow. Across the road, at the bird refuge, a low mist was rising from the freshwater lagoon. A faint sulfurous smell seemed to permeate the air. Crickets and frogs masked the sounds of traffic on the distant highway. Closer at hand, an approaching freight train sounded its horn like a brief organ chord. I could feel the ground rumble faintly as the searchlight swept around the bend. The man on the hike went by. I turned and stared after him. The mounting thunder of the train made his passage seem as silent as a mime’s. All I was aware of was the dancing of the lights, his juggling performance, for which I was an audience of one.
In the side lot, I spotted the rounded roofline of my VW where I’d parked it in a circle of artificial light. A shiny black stretch limousine was parked across the row of cars, blocking four vehicles, including mine. I peered toward the driver’s side. The window was lowered soundlessly. I paused, pointing at my car to indicate that I was hemmed in. The chauffeur touched his cap but made no move to start his engine. Little Miss Helpful, I waited for half a second and then said, “Sorry to bother you, but if you can just move up about three feet, I think I can squeeze out. I’m the VW at the back.” The chauffeur’s gaze moved to a point behind me, and I turned to see what he was looking at.