by Sue Grafton
I made my way back to the front door and checked the parking lot without luck. I fired up the VW and cruised the neighborhood, pausing at all the street corners where the hookers hung out. Ten more minutes of this shit and I was heading home. Finally I pulled in at the curb, leaned over, and rolled my window down. A rail-thin brunette, wearing a T-shirt, miniskirt, and cowboy boots, separated herself from the wall she was leaning on. She ambled over and opened the door on the passenger side. I could see the puckering of goose bumps on her frail, bare arms.
“You want company?” She was strung out on something, throwing off that odd crackhead body odor. Her eyes kept sliding upward out of focus, like the roll on a TV picture.
“I’m looking for Danielle.”
“Well, hon, Danielle’s busy, so I’m covering her act. What you want, I can get, and that’s an actual fact.”
“Did she go home?”
“It’s possible that Danielle has gone back to her place. Give me ten dollars more and I’ll sit on your face.”
I said, “Rhyming. Very nice. Meter’s a little off, but otherwise you’re Longfellow.”
“Baby, don’t be strange. You got any change?”
“I’m fresh out,” I said.
“I won’t pout.” She pushed away from the car and sauntered back to her post. I pulled away, hoping I hadn’t unleashed a fit of iambic pentameter. It hadn’t occurred to me that Danielle might hang out at her place before going to work.
I headed up two blocks and hung a left, turning into the narrow alleyway where Danielle had her digs. I pulled even with the property and peered through the gap in the shrubs, my gaze moving up the brick walk that led to her door. Her curtains had been drawn, but I could see the glow of lights on inside. I really had no idea whether she brought Johns back to her place or not. It was close enough to the Palace to be practical, but there were also a couple of fleabag hotels in the area, and she might have preferred to take her business there. I saw a shadow pass the window, which seemed to suggest she was on her feet. My car engine chuffed noisily, headlights slicing through the dark like blades. I could feel myself vacillate. She might be alone and glad of company. On the other hand, she might be occupied. I really didn’t want to see her in a business context.
While I debated, I killed the engine and flicked out my headlights. The alley disappeared in pitch blackness, night insects chirring in the heavy silence. Within a minute my eyes were accustomed to the dark, and the landscape began to reassemble itself in shades of charcoal. I got out of the car and locked it behind me. Maybe I’d knock once. If she was busy, so be it. I felt my way from the alley to the brick walk, holding one hand in front of me lest I stumble over trash cans.
I reached her doorstep and cocked my head, listening for the sound of voices or canned laughter from the television. I gave a tentative knock. From the other side of the door, I heard low moans, sensuous and repetitive. Uh-oh. I remembered the first trailer I’d moved into after the death of my aunt. Coming in late one summer night, I’d heard a pregnant neighbor woman making sounds like that. Ever the good citizen, I’d gone over to her window, where I’d tapped and asked if she needed help. I’d thought she was in labor, realizing too late the process I’d interrupted was the one that made babies, not delivered them.
Behind me, someone moved out of the shadows near the alley and eased through the shrubs. Leisurely footsteps scritched on the pavement and gradually faded. Danielle’s moaning was renewed, and I backed up a step. I stared out at the alleyway with puzzlement. Was that her john I’d just seen? I leaned my head against the door. “Danielle?” No response.
I knocked again. Silence.
I tried the knob. The hinges made no sound at all as the door swung inward. At first, all I saw was the blood.
Chapter 16
*
The emergency room at St. Terry’s was bedlam, a glimpse into purgatory. There had been a six-car accident on the highway, and all of the examining rooms were filled with the injured and dying. In each cubicle, against the hot white cloth of the surrounding screens, I could see a shadow play of medical procedures against a backdrop of supply carts, wall-mounted oxygen, the hanging bags of blood and glucose, X-ray machinery. Once in a while the low hum of activity would be cut by hellish shrieks from the patient on the gurney. On one stretcher, unattended, the victim writhed as if licked by flames, crying, “Mercy… have mercy.” An orderly came by and moved him into a newly vacated examining room.
Doctors, nurses, and med techs had been mustered from every corner of St. Terry’s. I watched them work in perfect concert, actions urgent and precise. What the medical soap operas on TV conveniently omit is all the pain and the puke, body functions gone bad, needles piercing flesh, the bruises and the trembling, the low cries for help. Who wants to sit there and stare at real life? We want all the drama of hospitals without the underlying anguish.
In the waiting room, the faces of the relatives who’d been notified of the collision were gray and haggard. They spoke in hushed voices, family members huddled in small groups, their postures bent with dread. Two women clung together, weeping hopelessly. On the other side of the glass doors, at one end of the parking lot, the nicotine addicts had collected in a cloud of cigarette smoke. I’d seen Serena Bonney soon after Danielle was brought in, but she’d been swallowed up by the commotion.
When I’d first pushed open Danielle’s front door, she was lying on the floor naked, her face as pink and pulpy as seedless watermelon. Blood spurted from a jagged laceration in her scalp, and she moved her limbs aimlessly as if she might crawl away from her own internal injuries. I’d disconnected my emotions, doing what I could to stem the bleeding while I grabbed the phone off her bed table. The 911 dispatcher had alerted a patrol car and an ambulance, both of which arrived within minutes. Two paramedics had gone to work, administering whatever first aid they could.
The bruises on her body formed a pattern of dark, overlapping lines that suggested she’d been pounded with a blunt instrument. The weapon turned out to be a rag-wrapped length of lead pipe that her assailant had tossed in the bushes on his way out. The patrol officer had spotted it when he arrived and left it for bagging by the crime scene investigators, who showed up shortly afterward. Once the officer secured the scene, we moved out onto the small front porch, standing in a shallow pool of light while he questioned me, taking notes.
By then the alleyway was choked with vehicles. A stutter of blue lights punctuated the darkness, the police radio contributing a deadpan staccato murmur broken up by rasping intervals of static. A clutch of neighbors had assembled in the side yard in a motley assortment of sockless jogging shoes, bedroom slippers, coats, and ski jackets pulled on over nightclothes. The patrol officer began to canvass the crowd, checking to see if there were any other witnesses aside from me.
A sporty bright red Mazda pulled up in the alley with a chirp of tires. Cheney Phillips emerged and strode up the walk. He acknowledged my presence and then exchanged brief words with the uniformed officer, identifying himself before he moved into Danielle’s cottage. I saw him halt on the threshold and back up a step. From the open door he did a slow survey of the bloody scene, as if clicking off a sequence of time-lapse photographs. I imagined the view as I had seen it: the rumpled bedding, furniture knocked sideways and toppled. In the meantime, Danielle had been wrapped in blankets and shifted onto the gurney. I stepped aside for the paramedics as they brought her through the front door. I made eye contact with the older of the two. “Mind if I ride along?”
“Fine with me, as long as the detective doesn’t object.”
Cheney caught the exchange between us and gave a nod of assent. “Catch you later,” he said.
The gurney was eased into the back of the ambulance.
I left my car where it was, parked to one side of the alley behind Danielle’s house. I sat beside her blanket-covered form in the rear of the ambulance, trying to stay out of range of the young paramedic, who continued to monitor her vit
al signs. Her eyes were bruised and as swollen as a newly hatched bird’s. From time to time I could see her stir, blind with pain and confusion. I kept saying, “You’re going to be okay. You’re fine. It’s over.” I wasn’t even sure she heard me, but I had to hope the reassurances were getting through. She was barely conscious. The flashing yellow lights were reflected in the plate-glass storefronts as we sped up State Street. The siren seemed somehow disassociated from events. At that hour of the night the streets were largely empty, and the journey was accomplished with remarkable dispatch. It was not until we reached the emergency room that we heard about the multicar wreck out on 101.
I sat out in the waiting room for an hour while they worked on her. By then most of the accident victims had been tended to, and the place was clearing out. I found myself leafing through the same Family Circle magazine I’d read before: same perfect women with the same perfect teeth. The July issue was looking dog-eared.
Certain articles had been torn out, and someone had annotated the article on male menopause, penning rude comments in the margin. I read busy-day recipes for backyard barbecues, a column of readers’ suggestions for solving various parental dilemmas involving their children’s lying, stealing, and their inability to read. Gave me a lot of faith in the generation coming up.
Cheney Phillips walked in. His dark hair was as curly as a standard poodle’s, and I noticed that he was impeccably dressed: chinos and sport coat over an immaculate white dress shirt, dark socks, and penny loafers. He moved to the reception desk and flipped out his badge, identifying himself to the clerk, who was frantically typing up admissions forms. She made a quick phone call. I watched while he followed her into the treatment room where I’d seen them take Danielle. Moments later he stepped out into the corridor, again in conversation with one of the ER doctors. Two orderlies emerged, maneuvering a rolling gurney between them. Danielle’s head was swaddled in bandages. Cheney’s expression was neutral as she was rolled away. The doctor disappeared into the next cubicle.
Cheney glanced up and saw me. He came out into the waiting room and took a seat next to me on the blue tweed couch. He reached for my hand and laced his fingers through mine.
“How’s she doing?” I asked.
“They’re taking her up to surgery. Doctor’s worried about internal bleeding. I guess the guy kicked the shit out of her as a parting gesture. She’s got a broken jaw, cracked ribs, damage to her spleen, and God knows what else. Doctor says she’s a mess.”
“She looked awful,” I said. Belatedly I could feel the blood drain away from my brain. Clamminess and nausea filled me up like a well. Ordinarily I’m not squeamish, but Danielle was a friend, and I’d seen the damage. Hearing her injuries cataloged was too vivid a reminder of the suffering I’d witnessed. I put my head down between my knees until the roaring ceased. This was the second time I’d found myself fading, and I knew I needed help.
Cheney watched with concern. “You want to go find a Coke or a cup of coffee? It’ll probably be an hour before we hear anything.”
“I can’t leave. I want to be here when she comes out of surgery.”
“Cafeteria’s down the hall. I’ll tell the nurse where we are, and she can come get us if we’re not back by then.”
“All right, but make sure Serena knows. I saw her back there a little while ago.”
The cafeteria had closed at ten, but we found a row of vending machines that dispensed sandwiches, yogurts, fresh fruit, ice cream, and hot and cold drinks. Cheney bought two cans of Pepsi, two ham-and-cheese sandwiches on rye, and two pieces of cherry pie on Styrofoam plates. I sat numbly at an empty table in a little alcove off to one side. He came back with a tray loaded down with the food, straws, napkins, plastic cutlery, paper packets of salt and pepper, and pouches of pickle relish, mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise. “I hope you’re hungry,” he said. He began to set the table, arranging condiments on matching paper napkins in front of us.
“Seems like I just ate, but why not?” I said.
“You can’t pass this up.”
“Such a feast,” I said, smiling. I was too tired to lift a finger. Feeling like a kid, I watched while he unwrapped the sandwiches and began to doctor them.
“We have to make these really disgusting,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because then we won’t notice how bland they are.” He tore at plastic packets with his teeth, squeezing gobs of bright red and yellow across the meat. Salt, pepper, and smears of mayonnaise with a scattering of relish. “You want to tell me about it?” he said idly while he worked. He popped the lid on a can of Pepsi and passed an amended sandwich to me. “Eat that. No arguments.”
“Who can resist?” I bit into the sandwich, nearly weeping, it tasted so good. I moaned, shifting the bite to my cheek so I could talk while I was eating. “I saw Danielle last night. We had dinner together at my place. I told her then I might see her tonight, but I really went by on a whim,” I said. I put a hand against my mouth, swallowing, and then took a sip of Pepsi. “I didn’t know if she had company, so I sat there in the car with the engine running, checking it out. I could see she had her lights on, so I finally decided to go knock on her door. Worst-case scenario, she’d be with some guy and I’d tiptoe away.”
“He probably saw your headlights.” Cheney had eaten half his sandwich in about three bites. “Our moms would kill us if they saw us eating this fast.”
I was bolting food down the same as he was. “I can’t help it. It’s delicious.”
“Anyway, keep talking. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
I paused to wipe my mouth on a paper napkin. “He must have heard me, if nothing else. That car makes a racket like a power mower half the time.”
“Did you actually see him leaving her place?”
I shook my head. “I only caught a glimpse of him as he was walking away. By then I was on the porch, and I could hear her moan. I thought she was ‘entertaining’ from the sounds she made. Like I’d caught her in the throes of passion, maybe faking it for effect. When I saw the guy out in the alley, it occurred to me something was off. I don’t know what it was. On the face of it, there was no reason to think he was connected to her, but it seemed odd somehow. That’s when I tried the knob.”
“He probably would have killed her if you hadn’t showed.”
“Oh, geez, don’t say that. I was this close to leaving when I spotted him.”
“What about a description? Big guy? Little?”
“Can’t help you there. I only saw him for a second, and it was largely in the dark.”
“You’re sure it was a man?”
“Well, I couldn’t swear to it in court, but if you’re asking what I thought at the time, I’d say yes. A woman doesn’t usually whack another woman with a lead pipe,” I said. “He was white, I know that.”
“What else?”
“Dark clothes, and I’m sure he was wearing hard shoes because I heard his soles scratching on the pavement as he walked away. He was cool about it, too. He didn’t run. Nice, leisurely pace, like he was just out for a stroll.”
“How do you know he wasn’t?”
I thought about it briefly. “I think because he didn’t look at me. Even in the dark, people are aware of each other. I sure spotted him. In a situation like that, someone looks at you, you turn and look at them. I notice it most when I’m out on the highway. If I stare at another driver, it seems to catch their attention and they turn and stare back. He kept his face to the front, but I’m sure he knew I was watching.”
Cheney hunched over his plate and started in on his pie. “We had a couple of cars cruise the area shortly after the call came in, but there was no sign of him.”
“He might live somewhere down there.”
“Or had his car parked nearby,” he said. “Did she say she had a date tonight?”
“She didn’t mention an appointment. Could have been Lester, come to think of it. She said he’d been in a foul mood, whatever that consists of.
” The pie was the type I remembered from grade school: a perfect blend of cherry glue and pink, shriveled fruit, with a papery crust that nearly broke the tines off the fork. The first bite was the best, the pie point.
“Hard to picture Lester doing something like this. If she’s beat up, she can’t work. Mr. Dickhead’s all business. He wouldn’t tamper with his girls. More likely a john.”
“You think she pissed some guy off?”
Cheney gave me a look. “This wasn’t spur of the moment. This guy went prepared, with a pipe already wrapped to hide his fingerprints.”
I finished my pie and ran the fork around the surface of the Styrofoam plate. I watched the red of the cherry pie filling ooze across the tines of the plastic fork. I was thinking about the goons in the limousine, wondering if I should mention them to Cheney. I’d been warned not to tell him, but suppose it was them? I really couldn’t see the motivation from their perspective. Why would an attorney from Los Angeles want to kill a local hooker? If he was so crazy about Lorna, why beat the life out of her best friend?
Cheney said, “What.”
“I’m wondering if this is related to my investigation.”
“Could be, I guess. We’ll never know unless we catch him.”
He began to gather crumpled napkins and empty Pepsi cans, piling empty plastic packets on the tray. Distracted, I pitched in, cleaning off the tabletop.