K is for KILLER

by Sue Grafton

  When we got back to the emergency room, Serena called the OR and had a chat with one of the surgical nurses. Even eavesdropping, I couldn’t pick up any information. “You might as well go on home,” she said. “Danielle’s still in surgery, and once she comes out, she’ll be in the recovery room for another hour. After that, they’ll take her to intensive care.”

  “Will they let me see her?” I asked.

  “They may, but I doubt it. You’re not a relative.”

  “How bad is she?”

  “Apparently she’s stable, but they’re not going to know much until the surgeon gets finished. He’s the one to give you details, but it’s going to be a while yet.”

  Cheney was watching me. “I can run you home, if you like.”

  “I’d rather stick around here than go home,” I said. “I’ll be fine if you want to go. Honest. You don’t have to baby-sit.”

  “I don’t mind. I got nothing better at this hour anyway. Maybe we can find a couch somewhere and let you grab a nap.”

  Serena suggested the little waiting room off ICU, which was where we ended up. Cheney sat and read a magazine while I curled up on sofa slightly shorter than I was. There was something soothing about the snap of paper as he turned the pages, the occasional clearing of his throat. Sleep came down like a weight pressing me to the couch. When I woke, the room was empty, but Cheney’d draped his sport coat across my upper body, so I didn’t think he’d gone far. I could feel the silky lining on his jacket, which smelled of expensive after-shave. I checked the clock on the wall: it was 3:35. I lay there for a moment, wondering if there was some way to stay where I was, feeling warm and safe. I could learn to live on a waiting room couch, have meals brought in, tend to personal hygiene in the ladies’ room down the hall. It’d be cheaper than paying rent, and if something happened to me, I’d be within range of medical assistance.

  From the corridor I heard footsteps and the murmur of male voices. Cheney appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Ah. You’re back. You want to see Danielle?”

  I sat up. “Is she awake?”

  “Not really. They just brought her down from surgery. She’s still groggy, but she’s been admitted to ICU. I told the charge nurse you’re a vice detective and need to identify a witness.”

  I pressed my fingers against my eyes and rubbed my face. I ran my hands through my hair, realizing that for once – because of Danielle’s cutting skills – every strand wasn’t standing straight up on end. I gathered my resources and let out a big breath, willing myself back to wakefulness. I pushed myself to my feet and brushed some of the wrinkles out of my turtleneck. One thing about casual dressing, you always look about the same. Even sleeping in a pair of blue jeans doesn’t have much effect. From the corridor, we used the house phone to call into the ICU nurses’ station. Cheney handled the formalities and got us both buzzed in.

  “Am I supposed to have a badge?” I murmured to him as we moved down the corridor.

  “Don’t worry about it. I told ‘em you’re working undercover as a bag lady.”

  I gave him a little push.

  We waited outside Danielle’s room, watching through the glass window while a nurse checked her blood pressure and adjusted the drip on her IV. Like the layout in the cardiac care unit, these rooms formed a U shape around the nurses’ station, patients clearly visible for constant monitoring. Cheney had chatted with the doctor, and he conveyed the gist of her current situation. “He took her spleen out. Orthopedic surgeon did most of the work, as it turns out. Set her jaw, set her collarbone, taped her ribs. She had two broken fingers, a lot of bruising. She should be all right, but it’s going to take a while. The cut on her scalp turned out to be the least of it. Mild concussion, lots of blood. I’ve done that myself. Bang your head on the medicine cabinet, it looks like you’re bleeding to death.”

  The nurse straightened Danielle’s covers and came out of the room. “Two minutes,” she said, lifted fingers forming a V.

  We stood side by side, in silence, looking down at her like parents taking in the sight of a newborn baby. Hard to believe she belonged to us. She was nearly unrecognizable: her eyes blackened, jaw puffy, her nose packed and taped. One splinted hand lay outside the covers. All of her bright red acrylic nails had popped off or broken, and it made her poor swollen fingers look bloody at the tips. The rest of her was scarcely more than a child-size mound. She was drifting in and out, never sufficiently alert to be aware of us. She seemed diminished by machinery, but there was something reassuring about all the personnel and equipment. As battered as she was, this was where she needed to be.

  Leaving ICU, Cheney put his arm around my shoulders. “You okay?”

  I leaned my head against him briefly. “I’m fine. How about you?”

  “Doing okay,” he said. He pressed the down arrow for the elevator. “I had the doctor leave orders. They won’t give out any information about her condition, and no one gets in.”

  “You think the guy would come back?”

  “It looks like he tried to kill her once. Who knows how serious he is about finishing the job?”

  “I feel guilty. Like this is somehow connected to Lorna’s death,” I said.

  “You want to fill me in?”

  “On what?” The elevators opened. We stepped in and Cheney pressed 1. We began to descend.

  “The piece you haven’t told me. You’re holding something back, are you not?” His tone was light, but his gaze was intent.

  “I guess I am,” I said. I gave a quick sketch of my conversation in the limousine with the Los Angeles attorney and his sidekicks. As we emerged from the elevator, I said, “You have any idea who the guy could be? He said he represented someone else, but he might have been talking about himself.”

  “I can ask around. I know those guys come up here for R and R. Give me the phone number and I’ll check it out.”

  “I’d rather not,” I said. “The less I know, the better. Are they running prostitutes up here?”

  “Maybe something minor. Nothing big time. They probably control local action, but that may not mean much more than skimming off the profits. Leave the nuts and bolts to the guys under them.”

  Cheney had parked on a side street closer to the front entrance than the emergency room. We reached the lobby. The gift shop and the coffee shop were both closed, shadowy interiors visible through plate-glass windows. At the main desk, a man was engaged in an agitated conversation with the patient information clerk. Cheney’s manner underwent a change, his posture shifting into cop mode. His expression became implacable, and his walk took on a hint of swagger. In one smooth motion he’d flipped his badge toward the clerk, his gaze pinned on the fellow giving her such grief. “Hello, Lester. You want to step over here? We can have a chat,” he said.

  Lester Dudley modified his own behavior correspondingly. He lost his bullying manner and smiled ingratiatingly. “Hey, Phillips. Nice to see you. Thought I caught sight of you earlier, down around Danielle’s place. You hear what happened?”

  “That’s what I’m doing here, otherwise you wouldn’t see me. This’s my night off. I was home watching TV when the dispatcher rang through.”

  “Not alone, I hope. I hate to see a guy like you lonely. Offer still stands, day or night, male or female. Anything you got a taste for, Lester Dudley provides….”

  “You pandering, Lester?”

  “I was just teasing, Phillips. Jesus, can’t a guy make a little joke? I know the law as well as you do, probably better, if it comes right down to it.”

  Lester Dudley didn’t suit my mental image of a pimp. From a distance he had looked like a surly adolescent, too young to be admitted to an R-rated movie without a parent or guardian. Up close I had to place him in his early forties, a flyweight, maybe five four. His hair was dark and straight, slicked back away from his face. He had small eyes, a big nose, and a slightly receding chin. His neck was thin, making his head look like a turnip.

  Cheney did
n’t bother to introduce us, but Lester seemed aware of me, blinking at me slyly like an earth-burrowing creature suddenly hauled into daylight. He wore kid’s clothes: a long-sleeved cotton knit T-shirt with horizontal stripes, blue jeans, denim jacket, and Keds. He had his arms crossed, hands tucked into his armpits. His watch was a Breitling, probably a fake, riddled with dials, and far too big for his wrist. It looked more like something he might have acquired sending off box tops. “So how’s Danielle doing? I couldn’t get a straight answer from the broad at the desk.”

  Cheney’s pager went off. He checked the number on the face of it. “Shit…. I’ll be right back,” he murmured.

  Lester seemed to bounce on his heels, ill at ease, staring after Cheney as he moved over to the desk.

  I thought I ought to break the ice. “You’re Danielle’s personal manager?”

  “That’s right. Lester Dudley,” he said, holding out his hand.

  I shook hands with him despite my reluctance to make physical contact. “Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “I’m a friend of hers.” When you need information, you can’t afford to let personal repugnance stand in your way.

  He was saying, “Clerk’s giving me a hard time, wouldn’t give me information even after I explained who I was. Probably one of those women’s liberation types.”

  “No doubt.”

  “How’s she doing? Poor kid. I heard she really got the shit kicked out of her. Some crackaholic probably did it. They’re mean sonsa bitches.”

  “The doctor left before I had a chance to talk to him,” I said. “Maybe the clerk was under orders not to give out information.”

  “Hey, not her. She was having way too much fun. Enjoying herself at my expense. Not that it bothers me. I’m always taking flak from these women’s libber types. Can you believe they’re still around? I thought they gave it up by now, but no such luck. Here just last week, this bunch of ball busters? Came down on me like a ton of bricks, claimed I was engaged in white slavery. Do you believe that? What a crock. How can they be talking about white slavery when half my girls are black?”

  “You’re being too literal. I think you miss the point,” I said.

  “Here’s the point,” he said. “These girls make good money. We’re talking big bucks, megadollars. Where these girls going to get employment opportunities like this? They got no education. Half of ‘em’s got IQs in double digits. You don’t hear them whining. Do they complain? No way. They’re living like queens. I’ll tell you something else. This bunch of ball busters isn’t offering a damn thing. No jobs, no training, not even public assistance. How concerned could they be? These girls have to earn a living. You want to hear what I told ‘em? I said, ‘Ladies, this is business. I don’t create the market. It’s supply and demand.’ Girls provide goods and services, and that’s all it is. You think they care? You know what it’s about? Sexual repression. Male-bashing bunch of fuzz-bumpers. They hate guys, hate to see anyone get their jollies with the opposite sex….”

  “Or,” said I, “they might object to the idea of anyone exploiting young girls. Just a wild guess on my part.”

  “Well, if that’s their position, what’s the beef?” he asked. “I feel the same way as them. But they treat me like the enemy, that’s what I don’t get. My girls are clean and well protected, and that’s the truth.”

  “Danielle was well protected?”

  “Of course not,” he said, exasperated that I was being so dense. “She shoulda listened to me. I told her, ‘Don’t take guys home.’ I told her, ‘Don’t do a guy without I’m outside the door.’ That’s my job. This is how I earn my percentage. I drive her when she goes on appointments. No crazy’s going to lay a hand on her if she’s got an escort, for cripe’s sake. She don’t call, I can’t help. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Maybe it’s time she got out of the life,” I said.

  “That what she’s saying, and I go, ‘Hey, that’s up to you.’ Nobody forces my girls to stay in. She wants out, that’s her business. I’d have to ask how she’s going to earn a living…” He let that one trail, his voice tinged with skepticism.

  “Meaning what? I’m not following.”

  “I’m just trying to picture her working in a department store, waitressing, something like that. Minimum-wage-type job. Beat-up like that, it’d be tough, of course, but as long as she don’t mind coming down in the world, who am I to object? You got scars on your face, might be a trick to get employment.”

  “Nobody’s said anything about facial scars,” I said. “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “Oh. Well, I just assumed. Word on the street is she got busted up bad. Naturally, I thought, you know, some unfortunate facial involvement. It’s a pity, of course, but a lot of guys try to do that, interfere with a poor girl’s ability to make a living, undercut their confidence, and shit like that.”

  Cheney reappeared, his gaze shifting with curiosity from Lester’s face to mine. “Everything okay?”

  “Sure, fine,” I said tersely.

  “We’re just talking business,” Lester said. “I never did hear how Danielle is. She going to be all right?”

  “Time to go,” Cheney said to him. “We’ll walk you out to your “Hey, sure thing. Where they got her, up in orthopedics? I could send some flowers’f I knew. Someone told me her jaw’s broke. Probably some coked-up lunatic.”

  “Skip the flowers. We’re not giving out information. Doctor’s orders,” Cheney said.

  “Pretty smart. I was going to suggest that myself. Keeps her safe from the wrong types.”

  I said, “Too late for that,” but the irony escaped him.

  Once we reached the street in front of St. Terry’s, we did a parting round of handshakes as though we’d just had a business meeting. The minute Lester’s back was turned, I wiped my hand on my jeans. Cheney and I waited on the sidewalk until we saw him drive away.

  Chapter 17

  *

  It was close to four in the morning as Cheney’s little red Mazda droned through the darkened streets. With the top down, the wind whipped across my face. I leaned my head back and watched the sky race by. On the mountain side of the city, the shadowy foothills were strung with necklaces of streetlights as twinkling as bulbs on a Christmas tree. In the houses we passed, I could see an occasional house light wink on as early morning workers plugged in the coffee and staggered to the shower.

  “Too cold for you?”

  “This is fine,” I said. “Lester seemed to know a lot about Danielle’s beating. You think he did it?”

  “Not if he wanted her to work,” Cheney said.

  The sky at that hour is a plain, unbroken gray shading down to the black of trees. Dew saturates the grass. Sometimes you can hear the spritzing of the rainbirds, computers programmed to water lawns before the sun has fully risen. If the cycle of low rainfall persisted as it had in the past, water usage would be restricted and all the lush grass would die. During the last drought, many home owners had been reduced to spraying their yards with dense green paint.

  On Cabana Boulevard, a kid on a skateboard careened along the darkened sidewalk. It occurred to me that I’d been waiting to see the Juggler, the man on the bike, with his taillight and pumping feet. He was beginning to represent some capricious force at work, elfin and evil, some figment of my imagination dancing along ahead of me like the answer to a riddle. Wherever I went, he’d eventually appear, always headed somewhere in a hurry, never quite arriving at his destination.

  Cheney had slowed, leaning forward to check the skateboarder as we passed him. Cheney raised a hand in greeting, and the kid waved back.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “Works night maintenance at a convalescent home. He had his driver’s license pulled on a DUI. Actually, he’s a good kid,” he said. Moments later he turned into Danielle’s alley, where my car was still parked. He pulled in behind the VW, shifting into neutral to minimize the rumble of his engine. “How’s your day looking? Will you have time to sleep?
”

  “I hope so. I’m really bushed,” I said. “Are you going to work?”

  “I’m going home to bed. For a couple of hours, at any rate. I’ll give you a call later. If you’re up for it, we can get a bite to eat someplace.”

  “Let me see how my day shapes up. If I’m not in, leave a number. I’ll get back to you.”

  “You going into the office?”

  “Actually, I thought I’d go over to Danielle’s and clean. Last I saw, the place was covered with blood.”

  “You don’t have to do that. The landlord said he’d have a crew come in first thing next week. He can’t get ‘em till Monday, but it’s better than you doing it.”

  “I don’t mind. I’d like to do something for her. Maybe pick up her robe and slippers and take ‘em over to St. Terry’s.”

  “Up to you,” he said. “I’ll watch ‘til you take off. Make sure your car starts and the boogeyman don’t get you.”

  I opened the car door and got out, reaching down for my handbag. “Thanks for the ride and for everything else. I mean that.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I slammed the door, moving over to my car while Cheney hovered like a guardian angel. The VW started without a murmur. I waved to demonstrate that everything was okay, but he wasn’t ready to let go. He followed me home, the two of us winding up and down the darkened streets. For once, I found a parking space right in front of my place. At that point he seemed to feel I was safe. He shifted into first and took off.

  I locked the car, went through the gate, and walked around to the back, where I unlocked my front door and let myself in. I scooped up the mail that had been shoved through the slot, flipped a light on, set my bag down, and locked the front door behind me. I started peeling off my clothes as I climbed the spiral stairs, littering the floor with discarded articles of clothing like those scenes in romantic comedies where the lovers can hardly wait. I felt that way about sleep. Naked, I staggered around, closing the blinds, turning off the phone, dousing lights. I crawled under the quilt with a sigh of relief. I thought I was too tired to sleep, but as it turned out I wasn’t.