U is for Undertow

by Sue Grafton

  He wanted to reach out, but he was aware that any gesture he made would seem woefully inadequate. Had someone really died because of him? Carolyn’s anguish was contagious and he felt tears spill from his own eyes, his weeping as automatic as yawning in the presence of someone who’s just yawned. At the same time, in the most detached and clinical part of his brain, he was hoping she’d catch sight of his tears and feel sorry for him. She was capable of mood swings and emotional shifts, being outraged one minute and forgiving the next. He needed her on his side; not an enemy, but his ally.

  “Baby, I’m sorry. I had no idea,” he whispered. His voice cracked and he could feel the tension in his chest as he choked back a sound. “I can’t believe it. I’m sick about it.”

  Her face snapped up, her tone incredulous. “You’re sick about it? You’re sick? You were drunk on your ass. How could you do that? How COULD you?”

  “Carolyn, please. You have every right to be furious, but I didn’t mean to do it. You have to believe me.” He knew he was sounding too rational. This wasn’t a time to try persuading her. She was too upset. But how could he survive if she turned on him? All their friends loved Carolyn. They’d take their cue from her. Everyone said she was an angel; considerate, warm, loyal, kind. Her compassion was boundless—unless or until she felt betrayed. Then she was merciless. She’d often accused him of being cold, but at the core of her being, she was the one with a stony heart, not him.

  He said, “I’m not asking for sympathy. This is something I’ll have to live with the rest of my life.” Inwardly, he winced because the tone was off. He sounded petulant when he meant to sound remorseful.

  She took a tissue from her handbag and wiped her eyes, pausing then to blow her nose. She made a sound that was an audible sigh and he wondered if the worst of the storm had passed. She was shaking her head with a small sad smile. “Do you want to know what I came home to? You’ve probably forgotten this along with everything else. I found an empty vodka bottle and six empty beer cans tossed in the trash. There was whiskey all over the patio where you’d knocked over the Maker’s Mark. You must have fallen against the table because it was tipped up on its side and there was broken glass everywhere. It’s a wonder you didn’t cut your own throat.”

  She paused and pressed the tissue against her mouth. She shook her head again, saying, “I don’t know you, Walker. I have no idea who you are or what you’re about. I’m serious.”

  “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry. I’ll never have another drink again as long as I live. I give you my word.”

  “Oh, for god’s sake. Spare me. Look at you. You’ve been drunk for days and now an innocent girl is dead.”

  He knew better than to go on defending himself. He’d just have to ride it out, let her get it all out of her system, and then maybe she’d relent. He held his hand out, palm up, in a mute plea for contact.

  She leaned forward. “I’m filing for divorce.”

  “Carolyn, don’t say that. I’ll quit. I promise you.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your promises. You said you could quit anytime you wanted, but you meant as long as I kept an eye on you. The minute my back was turned, you were at it again and look at the result. I’m not your keeper. That’s not my job. You’re in charge of yourself and you blew it.”

  “I know. I understand. I have no defense. I’m begging you not to do this. We’re a family, Carolyn. I love you. I love my kids. I’ll do anything to make this right.”

  “There’s no way to make it right. That poor girl died because of you.”

  “Don’t keep saying that. I get it and you have no idea how horrible I feel. I deserve the worst. I deserve anything you want to throw at me—hatred, blame, recriminations, you name it—only please not right now. I need you. I can’t get through this without you.”

  Her smile was mocking and she rolled her eyes. “You are such a horse’s ass.”

  “Maybe so, but I’m an honorable man. I’ll take full responsibility. You can’t condemn me for one lapse in judgment—”

  “One lapse? Perhaps along with everything else, you’re forgetting your previous DUI.”

  “That was years ago. The whole thing was dumb and you know it. The cop pulled me over because the tag on my license plate was expired. The guy was a moron. You said so yourself.”

  “Not so much of a moron he didn’t smell whiskey on your breath and haul you off to jail. I was the one who bailed you out. Because of you, the social worker nearly tossed out our application to adopt—”

  “Fine. All right. I did that, Your Honor. I’m guilty as charged. I’ve apologized a hundred times, but you keep bringing it up. The point is, nothing came of it. No harm, no foul …”

  She got up and reached for her coat. “Tell the judge ‘No harm, no foul’ at your arraignment. That ought to be good for a laugh.”

  The rest of the day went by in a blur. He feigned more pain than he felt, just to get more medication. God bless Percocet, his new best friend. He picked at his supper tray, then flipped from channel to channel on the TV set, too restless to focus. He ran through the confrontation with Carolyn a hundred times. What he hadn’t dared confess, for fear of her heaping even more venom on him, was that he actually felt nothing one way or the other. How could he regret consequences when the before and the after and the in-between were gone?

  At 9:00 P.M. he woke with a start, unaware that he’d fallen asleep. He heard footsteps in the hall and turned to the door expecting to catch sight of Blake Barrigan. He’d never had much use for the guy, but their wives were friends and he was sorely in need of a friend himself just now. Barrigan, like most doctors, was capable of keeping judgment at bay, appearing sympathetic whether he felt that way or not.

  When Herschel Rhodes appeared in the doorway, Walker thought he was hallucinating. Herschel Rhodes? Why was he stepping into his hospital room? Walker had known him at Santa Teresa High School, where the two had occasional classes together. Herschel was a homely teen, awkward and overweight, with bad skin and no social skills. To compensate for his failings he was earnest and studious, the poor schmuck. Teachers fawned over him because he paid attention in class and actually participated. That’s how out of it he was. The boy was hell on raising his hand and the answers he gave were usually right. He turned in his class assignments on time, even going so far as to type his term papers, including the copious footnotes. What a little kiss-ass. Herschel was one of those kids shunned and ignored by the popular kids. No one was ever outright rude to him and if he was aware of the smirks and eye rolling that went on behind his back, he gave no indication of it.

  He was now in his late thirties, still round-faced, with his dark hair slicked back in a style Walker hadn’t seen since the early 1960s. He’d been a merit scholar and graduated from Santa Teresa High third in his class. Walker had heard he’d graduated from Princeton and had then gone on to Harvard Law. He’d passed the bar the first time around. His specialty was criminal defense. Walker had seen his full-page ad in the yellow pages—murder, domestic violence, DUI, and drug offenses. It seemed like a sleazy way to make a living, but he must have done well at it because Walker’d seen his house in Montebello and the guy lived well. He’d become better-looking with age, and the traits that were deficits in his teens now stood him in good stead. He was reputed to be a ruthless competitor at anything he undertook—golf, tennis, bridge. “Cutthroat” was the word they used. He played hard, he played to win, and no one got in his way.

  Herschel seemed startled at the sight of him. “Jesus, you look like shit.”

  Walker said, “Herschel Rhodes, of all people. I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “Hello, Walker. Carolyn asked me to stop by.”

  “As an attorney or a friend?”

  Herschel’s expression was bland. “We’re hardly friends.”

  “Nicely put. If you must know, I’m in the doghouse with her, piece of shit that I am. I can’t believe she’s taking pity on me.”

 
Herschel smiled slightly. “She figured it was in her best interests. You go down, she goes down with you. None of us wants to see that.”

  “Oh, god no,” Walker said. “Have a seat.”

  “This is fine. I can’t stay long. I hope you know the kind of trouble you’re in.”

  “Why don’t you spell it out for me? I’m not sure if anyone’s mentioned it, but the past four or five days are completely blank as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Not surprising. You came into the ER with a blood alcohol of 0.24—three times the legal limit.”

  “Says who?”

  “They drew blood.”

  “I had a concussion. I was out.”

  Herschel shrugged.

  “They drew blood when I was out? What horseshit. Can they do that?”

  “Sure, under the implied consent law. When you apply for and receive a driver’s license, you consent to a chemical test on request. Even if you’d been conscious, you wouldn’t have had much choice. If you’d refused, or tried to, you’d have been charged with a refusal and they’d have taken the blood anyway pursuant to Schmerber Versus California—a U.S. Supreme Court case about the need to preserve evidence that’s dissipating.”

  “Shit. I love it. Schmerber Versus California. Is that all? Give me the rest of it. You’re bound to have more.”

  “You’ll be charged with Penal Code 191.5—gross vehicular manslaughter while intoxicated. That carries four, six, or ten years, unless you have a prior, in which case it’s fifteen years to life.”

  “Fuck.”

  “When did you get a DUI?”

  “Two years ago. Look it up. The date escapes me.”

  “You’ll also be charged with VC-20001, subsection C—felony hit-and-run after a fatal DUI accident—”

  “What are you talking about? What hit-and-run?”

  “Yours. You left the scene. The cops found you half a mile away, trudging down the pass all by your lonesome. One shoe off and one shoe on. Remember the nursery rhyme? ‘Diddle diddle dumplin’, my son John, went to bed with his trousers on; one shoe off and the other shoe on …’ ”

  Walker said, “Quit already. I know the one you mean.” He would have denied it, but he suffered a quick flash of himself stepping on a rock. He’d cussed and hopped on one foot, laughing at the pain.

  Herschel continued in the same mild tone, his gaze fixed on Walker’s. Walker wondered if it was malevolence he was seeing in his eyes, Herschel Rhodes’s long-awaited and oh-so-delicious revenge for past slights.

  “You’ll also be charged with VC-23153 A and B—DUI causing injury. If you’ve been convicted of a DUI within the past ten years, you could be charged with second-degree murder under the Watson case—”

  “Shit on you, Herschel. I just got done telling you I have a fucking prior so why don’t you stick VC-23153 up your ass?”

  “Have you talked to anyone else about this?”

  “Just you and my wife. Believe me, that’s more than enough.”

  Herschel leaned closer. “Because I have one piece of advice for you, pal: Keep your mouth shut. Don’t discuss this with anyone. If the subject comes up, you button your lip. You’re a deaf-mute. You no speaka da language. Are you hearing me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. The doctor’s talking about releasing you tomorrow morning—”

  “So soon?”

  “They need the bed. I’ll see if I can talk the cops into waiting until you’re home to take you into custody. Otherwise, they’ll arrest you right here, handcuff you to the rail, and post a cop outside the door. Whichever way it goes, remember these two words. Shut. Up.”

  Walker shook his head, saying “Shit” under his breath.

  “In the meantime, you’d be smart to put yourself in rehab, at least make a show of cleaning up your act.”

  “I can’t go into rehab. I have a family to support.”

  “AA, then. Three meetings a week minimum, daily if it comes down to it. I want you to look like a guy renouncing his sins and repenting his evil ways.”

  “Are you going to get me out of this mess?”

  “Probably not, but I’m the best hope you have,” Herschel said. “If it’s any comfort, you won’t go to trial for another three to six months. Speaking of which, I need a check.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty grand for starters. Once we get to court, we’re talking twenty-five hundred dollars a day, plus the cost of expert witnesses.”

  Walker kept his expression neutral, not wanting to give Herschel the satisfaction of seeing his dismay. “I’ll have to move money over from savings. I don’t keep cash like that in my checking account. Can it wait until I get out?”

  “Have Carolyn take care of it. Nice seeing you.”

  13

  Monday, April 11, 1988

  Peephole, California, is essentially two blocks long and ten blocks wide, a stone’s throw from the Pacific Ocean. A Southern Pacific Railroad track runs parallel to the 101, separating the town from the beach. A tunnel runs under both the train tracks and the highway, making it possible to reach the water if you’re willing to walk hunched over through a damp and moldy-smelling fifty yards of culvert. At the northernmost end of town there’s a banana farm. The only other businesses are a service station selling no-name gas and a fresh-produce stand that’s closed for most of the year.

  I activated my left-turn signal and slowed, eyes pinned on the rearview mirror to make sure no one was plowing into me. At the first break in oncoming traffic, I turned off the highway and crossed the tracks, which put me at the midpoint, half the town to the right of me and half to the left. The ebb and flow of the surf and the surging and receding waves of cars on the highway created a hush of white noise. There was something lazy in the air. My driving tour was brief because there wasn’t much to see. The streets were narrow and there were no sidewalks. There were roughly 125 homes in a hodgepodge of architectural styles. Many of the original summer cottages still stood, probably tricked out by now with proper insulation, forced-air furnaces, air-conditioning units, and triple-glazed windows. These were people with storage problems. The yards I passed were littered with everything from boat hulls to broken birdbaths to old suitcases. Discarded furniture had been tossed off the porch steps, perhaps awaiting a sweep by the alley fairies.

  I turned onto Zarina Avenue, checked the house number, and found myself peering at a one-story shingle-and-adobe house with a crudely constructed chimney piercing the roof on one end. A flaking white-painted picket fence staggered around the property, enclosing a length of gravel driveway bordered by patches of overgrown grass. A chicken-wire fence surrounded the vestiges of a garden planted in winter vegetables. A shaggy-coated yellow mongrel roused himself from a nap and sauntered in my direction, wagging his tail. The mop of hair hanging over his face made it look like he was watching me from behind a bush. This was the third dog I’d encountered in the past week, and I could feel my resistance fading. The dogs I’d met were a good-natured crew, and as long as none of them barked, snarled, snapped, bit, jumped on me, humped my leg, or slobbered o’ermuch, I was happy to make their acquaintance. This one followed me to the front door and watched expectantly as I knocked on the frame of the screen. He studied the door as I did, glancing at me now and then to show he was attentive to the plan and supportive of my aims.

  The man who opened the door had to have been descended from one of the blue-eyed Irish-Hispanic clan who’d prospered in Peephole since the mid-1800s. His hair was the color of new bricks, clipped short and threaded with gray. He was tall and thin, broad-shouldered, with ropy muscles and a weathered nut-brown complexion that suggested hours in the sun. His jeans were well worn and rode low on his hips, and his blue denim shirt had a rip in one sleeve. I placed him at the north end of sixty.

  “Yes?”

  I said, “Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for P. F. Sanchez.”

  “That’s me. Who are you?”

  “Kinsey Millhone,” I
said. My impulse was to shake his hand, but that would have necessitated his opening the screen and I could tell he was already wondering if I was selling soap products door-to-door, while I was wondering if he was married. The Polk and the Haines hadn’t mentioned a spouse, and he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. The cornflower blue of his eyes was the same shade as Henry’s.

  “Mind if I ask what the P. F. stands for?”

  “Placido Flannagan. People call me Flannagan, or sometimes Flan,” he said. “I have an uncle and two cousins named Placido, so I use my middle name.”

  “So you’re Harry Flannagan’s, what, great-grandson?”

  “Let me guess. You’re an amateur genealogist. That’s usually the story I get when a stranger asks about Harry.”

  “Actually, I’m a private detective.”

  He scratched his chin. “That’s a new one. What brings you to my door?”

  “I found your telephone number on an ID tag, buried with a dog. I was curious about the circumstances. In case you’re wondering, you’re listed in Peephole in two crisscross directories, which is how I came up with your address.”

  “A dog.”

  “A dead one.”

  His mouth pulled down with skepticism. “Woofer’s the only pooch I own and you’re looking at him. He may be old, but as nearly as I can tell, he’s not dead yet. You sure about this?”

  “Pretty sure,” I said. “The dog’s name was Ulf.”

  He stood stock still for a moment and then squinted at me. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Kinsey.”

  He opened the door. “You better come in.”

  I entered the house, stepping directly into the main room with Woofer at my heels. The dog padded the perimeter with his nose down, following the scent of an unseen creature, very possibly himself. The place was old. The thick walls were stucco and the ceiling was exposed timber, dark with age. The fireplace itself was a half-round of stucco tucked into one corner. The mantel was a curve of raw wood with a pair of antlers mounted above it. The furniture was Victorian, four chairs and two sofas lined up against the walls as though the center had been cleared for dancing. Three dingy rag rugs had been tossed on the floor and Woofer chose the biggest for the next phase of his nap. The room smelled like damp ash, the lingering scent of last winter’s fires.