I thought it was entirely possible she'd commissioned Misty to dummy up a passport and other phony documents for herself as well as for Marty. If that were the case, she might be on her way out of the country, though I couldn't believe she'd go without saying good-bye to her dad. She might not confide her destination, but surely she'd find a way to let him know that she was okay. Not for the first time, I was thinking my relationship with Reba was at an end. She'd blow off her parole and take her chances as a fugitive.
When I reached the entrance to the Lafferty estate, the gates were closed. I pulled up to the keypad, rolled down my window, and pressed the call button. I could hear the line ring inside. Once. Twice. Freddy picked up, her voice sounding scratchy over the intercom system.
I stuck my head out the window and raised my voice. "Freddy? It's Kinsey. Can you let me in, please?"
I heard a series of peeps and then a low humming noise as the gates swung open to the full. I flipped on my brights and eased my way down the drive. I could see house lights twinkling through the trees. As I rounded the last curve, I saw that the second story was dark but the lights were on in many of the first-floor rooms along the front. Lucinda's car was parked in its usual spot and I could feel my eyes cross at the notion of encountering her. As I got out of the car, I caught motion to my right. Rags sauntered along the drive at a pace perfectly calculated to intercept my path. When he reached me, I leaned down and scratched between his ears. His long pumpkin-colored fur was silky, his purr becoming more pronounced as he arched his big head and pushed against my hand. "Listen, Rags. I'd be happy to take you in, but if Lucinda answers the door we got no shot at it."
He trailed up the walk with me, sometimes running around in front to inspire additional stroking and conversation. I could see where owning a cat would render a grownup completely goofy in time. I reached for the bell, but the front door swung open in advance of my ring. Lucinda was framed in the porch light, wearing a crisp-looking yellow coatdress, with pale hose and matching yellow heels. She looked tanned and fit, her streaky blond hair arranged as though permanently swept by wind. She said, "Oh! Freddy said someone rang at the gate, but I didn't realize it was you. I thought you were out of town."
"I was. I just got back and I need to talk to Mr. Lafferty."
She let that sink in. "I suppose you might as well come in." She stepped aside to let me enter, frowning with annoyance when she caught sight of Rags. She barred him with a quick foot and pushed him out of the way. That's the kind of person she was, a cat-kicker. What a bitch. As I stepped into the foyer, I spotted a small overnight case sitting near the door. She'd set her purse on the console table and she paused to check her reflection in the mirror, adjusting an earring and an errant strand of hair. She opened her purse, apparently searching for her keys. "Nord's not here. He collapsed this morning and I had to call the paramedics. He's been admitted to Saint Terry's. I'm on my way over to take him his toiletries and robe."
"What happened?"
"Well, he's desperately ill," she said, as though I'd been stupid to inquire. "All this upset over Reba has taken its toll."
"Is she here?"
"Of course not. She's never here when he needs her. That's a job that falls to Freddy or me." Her smile was self-satisfied and brittle, her manner brisk. "Well now. What can we do for you?"
"Is he allowed to have visitors?"
"You must not have heard me. He's ill. He shouldn't be disturbed."
"That wasn't what I asked. What floor is he on?"
"He's on the cardiac ward. If you insist, I suppose you could speak to his private-duty nurse. What is it you want?"
"He asked me to do a job. I'd like to give him my report."
"I'd prefer you didn't."
"But I don't work for you. I work for him," I said.
"She's in trouble again, isn't she?"
"I guess you could say that."
"You don't understand what this has done to him. He's had to rescue her all his life. Reba keeps putting him in the same position. She sets it up so that if he doesn't step in, she'll be doomed, or so she'd like him to think. I'm sure she'd deny this, but she's really still a child, doing anything she can to get her father's attention. If anything happened to her, he'd forever blame himself."
"He's her father. He gets to help her if he wants."
"Well, I may have put an end to that."
"How so?"
"I called Priscilla Holloway, Reba's parole officer. I thought she should be aware of what's been going on. I'm sure Reba's been drinking and probably gambling as well. I told Ms. Holloway Reba left the state, and she was furious."
"You'll get her sent back to prison."
"That's my hope. We'd all be better off, including her."
"Great. That's perfect. Who else did you tattle to?" I meant the question as a piece of sarcasm, but the silence that followed suggested I'd scored an unexpected bull's-eye. I stared at her. "Is that how Beck found out where she was?"
She dropped her gaze. "We had a conversation on the subject."
"You told him?"
"That's right. And I'd do it again."
"When was this?"
"Thursday. He came to the house. Nord was sleeping so I spoke to him myself. He'd been looking for her and he was very concerned. He said he didn't want to cause a problem, but he thought she'd taken something. He was quite uncomfortable and I had to work very hard persuading him to tell me what it was. He finally admitted she stole twenty-five thousand dollars. He said he didn't want to make trouble, but I thought that was nonsense and told him where she was."
"How'd you get Misty's address?"
"I didn't have her address, I had yours. Nord scribbled a note to himself the night you called. The Paradise Motel. I saw it written on the pad beside his bed."
"Lucinda, Beck manipulated you. Don't you see that?"
"Hardly. He's a lovely man. After what she did to him, I'd have told him even if he hadn't asked."
"Do you have any idea what you've done? A man was kidnapped because of you."
She laughed, tucking her purse under one arm as she picked up the overnight case. "No one was kidnapped," she said, as though the notion were absurd. "Really. You're just like her, creating drama where there is none. Everything's a crisis. Everything's the end of the world. It's never anything she's done. She's always the victim, always expecting someone else to pick up after her. Well, this time she'll have to take responsibility. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get over to the hospital and leave these items for Nord."
She opened the door and snapped it shut behind her. In the face of her conviction, I hadn't managed to challenge her view or express even the first shred of protest. There was an element of truth in what she'd said, but it wasn't the whole truth.
"Miss Millhone ?"
I turned to find Freddy standing in the hall behind me. "Did you hear her? The woman's horrible," I said.
"Now that she's gone, I wanted to let you know. Reba was here. She arrived shortly before Miss Cunningham stopped by to pick up Mr. Lafferty's things."
"Where'd she go?"
"I don't know. She came by cab and she was only home long enough to pick up her car and a change of clothes. She said she'd go over to the hospital to see her father, but she'd time it to avoid crossing paths with Miss Cunningham. She's going to call Mr. Lafferty's doctor and have his visitors restricted to family only, including me, of course."
Freddy permitted herself a sly smile. "That was my idea."
"Serves Lucinda right. How serious is his condition?"
"The doctor says he'll be fine. He was dehydrated and his electrolytes were out of balance. I believe he's suffering from anemia as well. The doctor intends to keep him for a couple of days."
"Well, good. That's one less thing to worry about, especially if the staff can keep Lucinda at bay. Did Reba say anything at all about where she'd be?"
"Staying with a friend."
"She doesn't have a friend. Here in tow
n?"
"I believe so. This was a fellow, someone she met after she got home."
I thought about that briefly. "Maybe someone from AA... though now that I say that, it seems unlikely. I can't see her at a meeting this late in the game. What about reaching her? Did she leave a number?"
Freddy shook her head. "She said she'd call by the house at nine, but she was concerned Mr. Beckwith would find her again."
"I'll bet. Lucinda's been dishing out the information right and left," I said. "Look, if you hear from her, tell her it's important we talk. Did she leave a suitcase by any chance?"
"No, but she did have one with her. She put it in the trunk of her car before she left."
"Well, let's hope she calls in." I glanced at my watch. "I'll be at my office for the next couple of hours and then I'll head home."
My office always feels odd at night, its flaws and shabbiness exaggerated by the artificial light. As I sat at my desk, all I saw through the window was dinginess reflected back at me, the dust and ancient rain streaks barring any view of the street. On weekends this part of downtown Santa Teresa is dead after 6:00 P.M., city buildings closed for the night, the courthouse and public library dark. The bungalow I occupied was the middle unit of three; identical stucco structures that, at some point, represented modest housing. Since I'd moved in, the bungalows on both sides of mine had remained vacant, which afforded me the quiet I preferred, at the same time creating an unsettling sense of isolation.
I sorted through the mound of mail the carrier had shoved through my slot. Much junk, a few bills, which I sat down and paid. I was restless, eager to get home, but felt I should stay, in the hopes that Reba would call. I did some filing. I straightened out my pencil drawer. It was make-work but gave me something useful to do. I kept glancing at the phone, willing it to ring, so when someone rapped on my side window, I nearly leaped out of my skin.
Reba was outside, concealed in the shadowy space between my bungalow and its twin next door. She'd traded her shorts for jeans and her white T-shirt looked like the one she'd been wearing when she left CIW: I unlocked the window and raised the sash. "What are you doing?"
"You have access to those garages out back?"
"Sure, the one for this unit. I've never used it, but the landlord did give me the keys."
"Grab 'em and let's go. I gotta get my car off the street. I've had those goons on my tail ever since I left the house."
"The ones we saw in L.A. ?"
"Yeah, only one of 'em now has a black eye, like he walked into a door."
"Oh, dear. Wonder if I did that with my widdle chair," I said. "How'd you get away?"
"Fortunately, I know this town a lot better than they do. I led 'em around for a while, then sped up, doused my lights, turned down a little side road, and then behind a hedge. The minute I saw their car pass, I doubled back and came here."
"Where have you been all this time?"
She seemed agitated. "Don't ask. I've been busy as a little bee. Get a move on. I'm cold."
"I'll meet you out back."
I closed the window and locked it. In my bottom desk drawer I lifted aside the phone book and picked up two silver keys hooked together on a paper clip. I picked up my bag and found my trusty penlight, checking the strength of the batteries as I moved down the hallway and out the rear door. A short patch of stubby grass separated the bungalows from the row of three garages along the alley. Reba'd parked her car in the shadow of a pyracantha bush that had probably scratched the shit out of the paint on the right-hand side. I could see her at the wheel, smoking a cigarette while she waited for me.
There was a light fixture with a forty-watt bulb attached to the wood beam above the middle garage, which was the one assigned to me. The bulb yielded just enough light to see by if your eyes were good. I fumbled with the padlock and finally popped it open. I unhooked it from the hasp and hauled up the overhead door with a labored groaning of wood and rusty hinges. I flashed my penlight across the walls and floor, which were bare, smelling of motor oil and soot. There were cobwebs everywhere.
Reba flipped her cigarette out the window and started her car. I stood back as she pulled into the garage. She got out, locked her car door, and came around to the rear. She popped the trunk lid and hauled out a suitcase of a size appropriate for an airplane carry-on, though you'd have to maneuver it to get it in the overhead bin. The bag had an extendable handle and a set of wheels. She seemed preoccupied, caught up in a mood I couldn't read.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Fine."
"Just for the yucks, are you going to tell me what's in there?"
"Want to see?"
"I do."
She collapsed the handle and laid the suitcase flat, unzipped the top portion and flipped it open.
I found myself looking at a metal box, maybe fifteen inches high, eighteen inches long, and eight inches deep. "What the hell is that?"
"You're joking. You don't know?"
"If I knew, I wouldn't ask, Reeb. I'd exclaim with joy and surprise."
"It's a computer. Marty took his with him when he left. He also stopped by the bank and picked up all the floppy disks from the safe-deposit box. You're looking at Beck's business records - the second set of books. Hook it up to a keyboard and monitor, you've got access to everything: bank accounts, deposits, shell companies, payoffs, every dime he laundered for Salustio."
"You're turning it over to the feds, right?"
"Probably. As soon as I'm done... though you know how cranky they get about stolen property."
"But you can't even think about keeping this. That's why those guys went after Marty, to get it back. Isn't it?"
"Exactly. So let's put a call through to Beck and offer him a trade. We get Marty, he gets this."
"I thought you just said you'd turn it over to the feds?"
"You weren't listening. I said 'probably.' I'm not sure their crappy investigation is worth Marty's life."
"You can't handle this yourself. Negotiate with Beck? Are you out of your mind? You have to tell Vince. Bring in the cops or the FBI."
"No way. This is my only chance to get even with that son of a bitch."
"Oh, I get it. This isn't about Marty. It's about you and Beck."
"Of course it's about Marty, but it's also about settling the score. It's like a test. Let's see what Beck's made of. I don't think it's such a bad deal - Marty in exchange for this. The fact the feds want it is what makes it so valuable."
"There are more important things in life than revenge," I said.
"Well, that's bullshit. Name one," she said. "Besides, I'm not talking about revenge. I'm talking about getting even. Those are two different things."
"No, they're not."
"Yes, they are. Revenge is you hurt me and I grind you underfoot until you wish you were dead. Getting even restores the balance in the Universe. You kill him, I kill you. Now we're even. What else is capital punishment about? Getting even is just what it sounds like. Tit for tat. You hurt me, I hurt you back. We're square again and all's right with the world."
"Why not get even by turning him over to the IRS?"
"That's business. This is personal, between him and me."
"I don't get what you want."
"I want him to say he's sorry for what he did to me. I gave up two years of my life for him. Now I have something he wants so let him beg for it."
"That's asinine. So he pulls a long face and says sorry. What difference will that make? You know what he's like. You can't ever do business with a guy like him. You'll get screwed."
"You don't know that."
"I do. Reba, would you listen to me? He'll work you over the first chance he gets."
Her face was set. "Why don't you go get your car and bring it around? I'll wait for you here."
I shut my mouth and closed my eyes. Why argue the point when her mind was made up? "You want help with this garage door?"
"I can handle it." I returned to the office. I locked the back
door behind me, then moved down the hall turning off lights as I went. I grabbed my shoulder bag and went out the front door, pausing long enough to lock up. I stood for a moment, scanning the darkened street. All the cars in range belonged to neighbors, vehicles I'd seen before and could identify on sight. I let myself into my car and fired up the engine. I drove around the corner and nosed my VW into the alleyway.
Sue Grafton - R Is For Ricochet Page 33