K is for KILLER

by Sue Grafton

  “Hogwash! This is about you making money, you damn son of a bitch. What do you care about the citizens of this county? By the time this… this abomination comes to pass, you’ll be well out of it. Counting your profits while the rest of us are stuck with this eyesore for centuries to come.”

  Like lovers, Clark Esselmann and John Stockton, having once engaged, seemed to have eyes only for each other. The room was electrified, a ripple of excitement undulating through the audience.

  Stockton’s voice was syrupy with loathing. “Sir, at the risk of offending, let me ask you this. What have you done to generate employment or housing or financial security for the citizens of Santa Teresa County? Would you care to answer that?”

  “Don’t change the subject –”

  “Because the answer is nothing. You haven’t contributed a stick, not a nickel or a brick to the fiscal health and well-being of the community you live in.”

  “That is untrue… that is untrue!” Esselmann shouted.

  Stockton forged on. “You’ve blocked economic growth, you’ve obstructed employment opportunities. You’ve denounced development, impeded all progress. And why not? You’ve got yours. What do you care what happens to the rest of us? We can all go jump in the ocean as far as you’re concerned.”

  “You’re damn right you can jump in the ocean! Go jump in the ocean.”

  “Gentlemen!” The president had risen.

  “Well, let me tell you something. You’ll be long gone and the opportunity for growth will be long gone, and who’s going to pay the price for your failure of imagination?”

  “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!”

  The president was banging his gavel on the table without any particular effectiveness. Serena was on her feet, but her father was waving her aside with the kind of peremptory motion that had probably intimidated her from childhood. I saw her sink back down while he shouted, trembling, “Save your speeches for the Rotary, young man. I’m sick of listening to this self-serving poppycock. The truth is, you’re in this for the almighty buck, and you know it. If you’re so interested in growth and economic opportunity, then donate the land and all the profits you stand to make. Don’t hide behind rhetoric –”

  “You donate. Why don’t you give something? You’ve got more than the rest of us put together. And don’t talk to me about hiding behind rhetoric, you pompous ass….”

  A uniformed security guard materialized at Stockton’s side and took him by the elbow. Stockton shook him off, enraged, but a business associate appeared on the other side of him, and between the two of them he was eased out of the room. Esselmann remained on his feet, his eyes glittering with anger.

  In the general swell of side conversations that followed, I leaned over to the man next to me. “I hate to seem ignorant, but what was that about?”

  “John Stockton’s trying to get water permits for a big parcel of land he wants to turn around and sell to Marcus Petroleum.”

  “I thought stuff like that had to go through the county board of supervisors,” I said.

  “It does. It was approved last month by a five-oh vote on the condition that they use reclaimed water from the Colgate Water District. It looked like it was going to pass without opposition, but now Esselmann is mounting a counterattack.”

  “But why all the heat?”

  “Stockton’s got some land the oil companies would love to have. All worthless without water. Esselmann supported him at first, but now he’s suddenly opposed. Stubby feels betrayed.”

  I thought back to the phone call I’d overheard. Esselmann had mentioned the board’s being sweet-talked into some kind of deal while he was in the hospital. “Was Stockton working on this while Esselmann was out ill?”

  “You bet. Damn near succeeded, too. Now that he’s back, he’s using every ounce of influence to get the application turned down.”

  The woman in front of us turned and gave us a look of reproach. “There’s still business going on here, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sorry.”

  The president of the board was trying desperately to establish order, though the audience didn’t seem particularly interested.

  I put my hand across my mouth. “Have they voted on this?” I said in a lower tone.

  The guy shook his head. “This issue came up a year ago, and the water board set up a blue-ribbon panel to investigate and make recommendations. They had environmental impact studies done. You know how it is. Mostly a stalling technique in hopes the whole thing would go away. The matter won’t actually come to a vote until next month. That’s why they’re still hearing testimony on the subject.”

  The woman in front of us raised a finger to her lips, and our conversation dwindled.

  In the meantime, Esselmann sat down abruptly, his color high. Serena went around the end of the table and joined him on his side, much to his displeasure. Stubby Stockton was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear him on the patio, his voice still raised in anger. Someone was trying to calm him, but without much success. The meeting picked up again, the president moving adroitly to the next item on the agenda, a fire sprinkler system agreement that didn’t upset anyone. By the time I slipped out, Stockton was gone and the patio was empty.

  Chapter 18

  *

  I drove over to St. Terry’s, stopping to fill my car with gas on the way. I knew I’d reached the hospital after visiting hours had ended, but ICU had its own set of rules and regulations. Family members were allowed one five-minute visit out of every hour. The hospital was as brightly lit as a resort hotel, and I was forced to circle the block, looking for a parking space. I moved through the lobby and took a right turn, heading for the elevators to the intensive care unit upstairs. Once I reached the floor, I used the wall-mounted phone to call into the ward. The night shift nurse who answered was polite but didn’t recognize my name. She put me on hold without actually verifying Danielle’s presence on the ward. I studied the pastel seascape hanging on the wall. Moments later she was back on the phone with me, this time using a friendlier tone. Cheney had apparently left word that I was to be admitted. She probably thought I was a cop.

  I stood in the hallway and watched Danielle through the window to her room. Her hospital bed had been elevated to a slight incline. She seemed to cloze. Her long dark hair fanned out across the pillow and trailed over the side of the bed. The bruising on her face seemed more pronounced tonight, the white tape across her nose a stark contrast to the swollen, sooty-looking black-and-blue eye sockets. Her mouth was dark and puffy. Her jaw had probably been wired shut because there was none of the slack-jawed look of someone sleeping. Her IV was still in place, as was her catheter.

  “You need to talk to her?”

  I turned to find the nurse from the night before. “I don’t want to bother her,” I said.

  “I have to wake her up anyway to take her vital signs. You might as well come in. Just don’t upset her.”

  “I won’t. How’s she doing?”

  “She’s doing pretty well. She’s on a lot of pain medication, but she’s been awake off and on. In another day or two we could probably move her down to medical, but we think she’s safer up here.”

  I stood quietly beside the bed while the nurse took Danielle’s blood pressure and her pulse, adjusting the drip on her IV. Danielle’s eyes came open in that groggy, confused fashion of someone who can’t quite remember where she is or why. The nurse made a note in the chart and left the room. Danielle’s green eyes shone stark in the cloudy mass of bruises around her eyes.

  I said, “Hi. How are you?”

  “I been better,” she said through her teeth. “Got my jaw wired shut. That’s why I’m talkin’ like this.”

  “I figured as much. Are you in pain?”

  “Naw, I’m high.” She smiled briefly, not moving her head. “I never saw the guy, in case you’re wondering. All I remember is opening the door.”

  “Not surprising,” I said. “It may come back in time.”

&nbs
p; “Hope not.”

  “Yeah. Tell me if you get tired. I don’t want to wear you down.”

  “I’m okay. I like the company. What’ve you been up to?”

  “Not much. I’m on my way home from a meeting at the water board. What a zoo. The old guy Lorna used to sit for got into a big shouting match with a developer named Stubby Stockton. The rest of the meeting was such a bore until then, it nearly put me to sleep.”

  Danielle made a murmuring sound to show she was listening. Her lids seemed heavy, and I thought she was close to nodding off herself. I’d hoped Stubby’s name would spark some recognition, but maybe Danielle didn’t have a lot of spark to spare. “Did Lorna ever mention Stubby Stockton to you?” I wasn’t sure she even heard me. There was quiet in the room, and then she seemed to rouse herself.

  “Client,” she said.

  “He was a client?” I said, startled. I thought about that for a moment, trying to process the information. “That surprises me somehow. He didn’t seem like her type. When was this?”

  “Long time. I think she only saw him once. Other guy’s the one.”

  “What other guy?”

  “Old guy.”

  “The one what?”

  “Lorna screwed.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. You must have him mixed up with somebody else. Clark Esselmann is Serena Bonney’s father. He’s the old guy she baby-sat…”

  She moved her good hand, plucking at the bedclothes.

  “You need something?”

  “Water.”

  I looked over at the rolling bed table. On it was a Styrofoam pitcher full of water, a plastic cup, and a plastic straw with an accordion section that created a joint about halfway down. “You’re okay to drink this? I don’t want you cheating because I don’t know any better.”

  She smiled. “Wouldn’t cheat… here.”

  I filled the plastic cup and bent the straw, then held the cup near her head, turning the straw at an angle until it touched her lips. She took three small sips, sucking lightly. “Thanks.”

  “You were talking about someone Lorna was involved with.”

  “Esselmann.”

  “You’re sure we’re talking about the same guy?”

  “Boss’s father-in-law, right?”

  “Well, yeah, but why didn’t you tell me before? This could be important.”

  “Thought I did. What difference does it make?”

  “Fill me in and we’ll see what difference.”

  “He was into kinky.” She winced, trying to rearrange herself slightly in the bed. A spasm of pain seemed to cross her face.

  “You okay? You don’t have to talk about this right now.”

  ” ‘m fine. Ribs feel like shit, is all. Rest a minute.”

  I waited, thinking, “Kinky”? I pictured Esselmann getting his fanny spanked while he cavorted around in a garter belt.

  I could see Danielle struggle to pull herself together. “She went there after his heart attack, but he came on to her. Said she about fell over. Not that she gave a shit. Buck’s a buck, and he paid her a fortune, but she didn’t expect it when he seemed so… proper.”

  “I’ll bet. And his daughter never knew?”

  “No one did. Then later, Lorna let the information slip. She said word got back and that’s the last she saw of him. She felt bad. Daughter wanted to hire her, but old guy wouldn’t have it.”

  “What do you mean, word got back? Who’d she let the information slip to?”

  “Don’t know. After that she was tight-lipped. Said you only have to learn that lesson once.”

  Behind me someone said, “Excuse me.”

  Danielle’s ICU nurse was back. “I don’t mean to seem rude about this, but could you wrap it up? The doctors really don’t want her having more than five-minute visits.”

  “I understand. That’s fine.” I looked back at Danielle. “We can talk about this later. You get some rest.”

  “Right.” Danielle’s eyes closed again. I stayed with her for another minute, more for my sake than hers, and then I eased out of the room. The aide at the nurses’ station watched my departure.

  I found myself uncomfortably trying to conjure up an image of Lorna Kepler with Clark Esselmann. And kinky? What a thought.

  It wasn’t his age so much as his aura of formality. I couldn’t find a way to reconcile his respectability with his (alleged) sexual proclivities. He’d probably been married to Serena’s mother for fifty years or more. This all must have happened before Mrs. Esselmann died.

  I made a six-block detour to Short’s Drugs, where I purchased four eight-by-ten picture frames to replace the broken frames I’d brought with me from Danielle’s. Lorna and Clark Esselmann, what an odd combination. The drugstore seemed filled with the same conflicting images: arthritis remedies and condoms, bedpans and birth control. While I was at it, I picked up a couple of packs of index cards, and then I went back to my place, trying to think about something else.

  I parked, flipped the driver’s seat forward, and hauled the banker’s box full of Lorna’s papers from under Danielle’s blood-spattered bedclothes. For someone obsessive about the tidiness in my apartment, I seem to have no compunction at all about the state of my car. I piled my purchases on the box and anchored the load with my chin while I let myself in.

  I settled in at my desk. I hadn’t transcribed and consolidated my notes since the second day I was on the job, and the index cards I’d filled then seemed both scanty and inept. Information accumulates and compounds, layer upon layer, each affecting perception. Using my notebook, my calendar, gas slips, receipts, and plane ticket, I began to reconstruct the events between Tuesday and today, detailing my interviews with Lorna’s boss, Roger Bonney, Joseph Ayers and Russell Turpin up in San Francisco, Trinny, Serena, Clark Esselmann, and the (alleged) attorney in the limo. Now I had to add Danielle’s contention about Lorna’s involvement with Clark Esselmann. That one I’d have to check out if I could figure out how. I could hardly ask Serena.

  Actually, it cheered me to see how much ground I’d covered. In five days I’d constructed a fairly comprehensive picture of Lorna’s lifestyle. I found myself getting absorbed in my recollections. As fast as I filled cards, I’d tack them on the board, a hodgepodge of miscellaneous facts and impressions. It was when I went back through Lorna’s finances, transferring data from the schedule of assets, that I caught something I’d missed. Tucked into the file with her stock certificates was the itemized list of the jewelry she’d insured. There were four pieces listed – a necklace of matched garnets, a matching garnet bracelet, a pair of earrings, and a diamond watch – the appraised value totaling twenty-eight thousand dollars. The earrings were described as graduated stones, one-half – to one-carat diamonds, set in double hoops. I’d seen them before, only Berlyn had been wearing them, and I’d assumed they were rhinestones. I checked the time. It was nearly eleven, and I was startled to discover I’d been working for almost two hours. I picked up the phone and called the Keplers’ house, hoping it wasn’t too late. Mace answered. What a dick. I hated talking to him. I could hear some kind of televised sporting event blasting away in the background. Probably a prizefight, from the sound of the crowd. I stuck a finger up one nostril to disguise my voice. “Hi, Mr. Kepler, is Berlyn there, please?”

  “Who’s this?

  “Marcy. I’m a friend. I was over there last week.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s out. Her and Trinny both.”

  “You know where she’s at? We were supposed to meet up, but I forgot where she said.”

  “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Marcy. Is she over at the Palace?”

  There was an ominous silence from him while in the background someone was really getting pounded. “I’ll tell you this, Marcy, she better not be over there. She’s over at the Palace, she’s in big trouble with her dad. Is that where she said to meet?”

  “Uh, no.” But I was willing to bet money that’s where she wa
s. I hung up. I pushed the paperwork aside, shrugged into my jacket, and found my bag, pausing only long enough to run a comb through my hair.

  When I opened my front door, a man was standing just outside.

  I leapt back, shrieking, before I saw who it was. “Shit J.D.! What are you doing out here? You scared the hell out of me!”

  He’d jumped, too, about the same time I had, and he now sagged against the door frame. “Well, damn. You scared me, I was all set to knock when you came flying out.” He had a hand to his chest. “Hang on. My heart’s pounding. Sorry if I scared you. I know I should have called. I just took a chance you’d be here.”

  “How’d you find out where I live?”

  “You gave Leda this card and wrote it right here on the back. You mind if I come in?”

  “All right, if you can keep it brief,” I said. “I was on my way out. I’ve got something to take care of.” I moved back from the door and watched him edge his way in. I don’t like the idea of just anyone waltzing through my place. If I hadn’t had some questions for him, I might have left him on the doorstep. His outfit looked like the one I’d seen him in before, but then again, so did mine. Both of us wore faded jeans and blue denim jackets. He still sported cowboy boots to my running shoes. I closed the door behind him and moved to the kitchen counter, hoping to keep him away from my desk.

  Like most people who see my apartment for the first time, he looked around with interest. “Pretty slick,” he said.

  I indicated a stool, sneaking a look at my watch. “Have a seat.”

  “This is okay. I can’t stay long anyway.”

  “I’d offer you something, but about all I’ve got is uncooked pasta. You like rotelli, by any chance?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine,” he said.

  I perched on one stool and left the other for him, in case he changed his mind. He seemed ill at ease, standing there with both hands stuck in the back pockets of his jeans. His gaze would hit mine and then flicker off. The light in my living room wasn’t as kind to his face as the light in his own kitchen. Or maybe the unfamiliar surroundings had created new lines of tension.