by Sue Grafton
Jon said, “I didn’t know you had a sweet tooth.”
“It’s weird. Now that I’m off alcohol, I crave sugar.”
Jon pulled the paper off his candy bar and bit in. “So what’s the big emergency?”
“I saw Michael Sutton this afternoon and he saw me. I came out of an AA meeting and he was there in the parking lot, picking up a girl. When Brent drove me back to the office, he followed.”
“So?”
“So why’s he tailing me? What if he goes to the police?”
“And says what? Two decades ago, we dug a hole. Big deal.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Oh, for god’s sake. You haul me out in the dead of night for this? You could have told me on the phone. The kid’s a punk. Nobody’s going to take him seriously. Besides, I can get to him anytime I want. He’s not a problem.”
“Get to him? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I know where he lives. I’ve kept an eye on him for years, following his illustrious career path. He’s not a threat. He’s a loser and a wimp. He’s what we call ‘malleable.’ You can talk him into or out of anything. Everyone knows that.”
“There’s something else,” Walker said. He was silent for a moment. “I think I might turn myself in.”
The sentence hung in the air between them.
Walker couldn’t believe he’d said it, but once the words were out of his mouth, he knew the idea had been hovering at the back of his mind for weeks.
Jon’s expression was neutral. “What brought this on?”
Walker shook his head. “I’ve been having panic attacks and they’re wearing me down. I’m tired of feeling tired. The damn anxiety’s tearing me apart. It didn’t bother me so much when I was drinking, but now …”
“So talk to your doctor about a sedative. Better living through chemistry.”
“Wouldn’t help. I mean, look at me. My life’s in the toilet. Carolyn’s kicked me out. I hardly see my kids. I killed a girl, for Christ’s sake. I can’t live this way.”
Bemused, Jon said, “Which step is this?”
“What?”
“AA’s famous twelve steps. Which one is this? Your ‘fearless moral inventory,’ am I right?”
“You know what, Jon? I don’t need your snide fucking comments. I’m serious about this.”
“I have no doubt. And what do you propose?”
“I don’t know yet. You should have seen me today, skulking around on side streets so Michael Sutton wouldn’t spot me and figure out where I work. It’s all catching up with us. And here’s the irony: for years, I drank to wipe out the guilt and all I managed to do was turn around and kill someone else.”
Jon shook his head. “Jesus, Walker. You’re deluding yourself. You don’t drink because you feel guilty. You drink because you’re a drunk. Get a clue. Confessing won’t change anything.”
“You’re wrong. I know I’m a drunk and I’ll deal with it. This is something else. I want to be square with life. I want to make amends. You’ve found a way to live with what we did. I can’t. I want it off my chest.”
“Good for you. Perfect. But your so-called amends will put my ass in a sling.”
“That doesn’t necessarily follow,” Walker said.
“You’re full of shit. How can you admit what you did without implicating me?”
“I’ll handle it. This is not about you.”
Jon seemed amused. “What are you picturing? You go to the cops and turn yourself in. You tell ’em what you did; you’re now so very sorry and you want to make it right?” He stopped and studied Walker, waiting for a response. “You’re never going to make it right. There’s no way. We fucked up big time. That little girl is dead.”
Walker said, “It would have helped if you’d read the label.”
“Would you get off that shit? I did. I told you a thousand times. Everybody takes Valium. Ten-milligram tabs are no big deal.”
“Guess again.”
“Fine. You can make that part of your pitch.”
“I will.”
“So what exactly do you hope to accomplish in your feverish eagerness to unburden your soul?”
“I need to find a way to live with myself. That’s all I’m saying. I want to clean up the mess we made.”
“Live with yourself ? Well, that won’t last long. You’re talking about felony murder, for which you’ll get the death penalty. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not. If there were any other way out, don’t you think I’d jump at it?”
“How the fuck do you expect to go up against the cops? They’ll grill your sorry ass from here to next Tuesday until you tell ’em what went down. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out you didn’t act alone. They’ll want you to name names, and mine’s the only one on the list.”
“I already told you this isn’t about you.”
“Yes, it is, you asshole. It’s about me the minute you open your damn mouth, which I’m telling you not to do.”
“Maybe I can make a deal. I tell ’em what I know as long as I don’t have to talk about anyone else. Just my part.”
“Great. That’s swell. I can see it now. ‘Gosh, Mr. FBI Agent, I’m willing to incriminate myself, but I want to be fair to the other guy.’ That’s not how it happens. Not with those guys. You’ve got no leverage. I’m the only thing you have to trade. Once you give yourself up, you’ll turn around and give me up, too.”
Walker’s tone shifted. “You’re forgetting it was your idea.”
“My idea? Bullshit. It was Destiny’s dumb-ass plan.”
“But she didn’t act on it and neither did Creed. You were the one who figured all the angles—”
“While you were doing what?”
“I did what you told me. You were always the man in charge. It was your show from the get-go. Now there’s a price to pay. This isn’t easy for me, you know? I have a wife and kids. What do you think is going to happen to them if I come forward?”
“Correction. You had a wife and kids. Now you got shit. You’re living in a crappy motel, dining on candy bars. Carolyn tossed you out on your ass.” He gestured impatiently. “Oh, skip that. Who cares? How much does she know, or do I dare inquire?”
“Nothing. I’ve never breathed a word to her.”
“Well, that’s a comfort. Walker, listen to me. I’m begging you to think about this and think hard. You’re in a righteous lather because you want to cleanse your own soul, but the first time you speak up, you’ll fall into a pile of shit from which you’ll never extract yourself. You can’t put me in the line of fire in the name of conscience.”
“It’s going to look better if I own up to my part before Michael Sutton rats us out. I’ve got that private eye breathing down my neck. She’s already put part of it together, the business about the dead dog. I didn’t think she could make the connection, but now it seems pretty fuckin’ obvious that I’m it.”
“So you’re linked to a dead dog? Why would that inspire your running to the cops? It’s not like that shit our parents laid on us when we were kids. ‘All you have to do, son, is tell the truth. As long as you’re honest, there won’t be any punishment.’ ”
Walker shook his head. “It’s only a matter of time before this whole thing blows. I can feel it in my bones.”
“If you quit worrying and keep your mouth shut, we’ll be fine.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Maybe I haven’t made myself clear. I love the life I lead. I’m fond of my own ass. I don’t want to die. I’m a respectable member of the community and I won’t go down without a fight.”
“Then you better come up with an alternative. I’m giving you fair warning. That’s the best I can do.”
30
Wednesday evening, April 20, 1988
When I got home from work, I tossed the mail on the kitchen counter, turned on the lights, and sat down at my desk. I needed to organize my thoughts. With the investigation in tatters, it seemed
imperative to catalog what I knew, consigning the details to index cards. There had to be a pattern, an overview into which all the little pieces would fit. Like an optical illusion, I was waiting for the shift, one image flipping over to its counterpart.
In both junior high and high school, I had trouble staying focused in classes where I was doing poorly, math being my weakest subject. Faced with a “thought” problem, my mind inevitably wandered to other matters. The math whizzes grasped the setup on sight. Not only could they divine the crux of the matter, but they’d start licking their pencil points and scribble the solution while I was still squirming in my seat. I wasn’t stupid by any stretch. I was easily distracted and my attention would shift to details that turned out to be irrelevant.
A train leaves Chicago for Boston traveling sixty miles an hour, while a second train leaves Boston, speeding toward Chicago at eighty miles an hour. A bird flies back and forth between the two …
And that’s as far as I’d get. I’d start wondering why the bird was behaving so erratically, positing a virus affecting the bird’s internal gyroscope. I’d daydream about who was on the train and why they were going from Chicago to Boston. Then I’d fret about what was happening in Boston that residents had crowded into the fastest train out. I’d never been to Boston and now I was forced to scratch it off my list.
What I experienced jotting down my notes was just another version of the same. I couldn’t “get” the big picture. I couldn’t grasp what was going on, so I found myself attending to issues that probably had nothing to do with anything. For instance, I wondered what they’d added to Rain’s lemonade that knocked her out. Probably some over-the-counter sleep aid, though the proper dosage must have been a trick. I thought about the kidnapper dressed as Saint Nick, curious how he’d come up with a Santa Claus suit in early July. Short of working in a department store at Christmas or standing outside a supermarket ringing a Salvation Army bell, it couldn’t be an easy outfit to rent in the middle of summer. There was no point in checking local costume shops to see if there were records going back that far. I could do it, but after twenty-one years, I’d be spinning my wheels, staying busy for the sake of it instead of canvassing with any hope of success.
I tossed my pen aside. This was pointless. Usually I surrender to the process, letting my thoughts idle while my attention is otherwise occupied. Recording minutiae is a form of play, temporarily derailing the analytical side of my brain. At the moment, frustration was jamming my circuits. There was something distinctly unpleasant about pondering the same disjointed facts when nothing new was coming in. I could fiddle the story any way I liked and the bottom line was the same. Michael Sutton was wrong. He’d made a mistake. Everything that rested on his basic premise was out the window.
Irritably I gathered the cards, secured them with a rubber band, and stuck them in a drawer. Enough of this. I needed Henry’s company and his counsel. I opened the front door and peered across to Henry’s kitchen. All his lights were out. I picked up my jacket and shoulder bag, locked my front door, and made a beeline for Rosie’s. I spotted him the moment I walked in. I pulled out a chair and sat down, peering at the plate Rosie had just put in front of him.
To her, he said, “Thank you, dear. It looks lovely.” He smiled, watching her depart.
“Is that the special of the day?”
He shook his head. “Oh no, you’ll want to steer clear of that.” He peered over his shoulder to make sure she wasn’t in eavesdropping range. By then she was at the bar chatting with William while she kept a close eye on us.
Henry put a hand to his mouth, in case she’d recently learned to read lips. “She’s serving calf’s-liver pudding with anchovy sauce. It comes with a cup of souse’s soup, made with sauerkraut.” He paused for a moment while he crossed his eyes and then pointed to his plate. “This dish is stuffed cabbage and it’s not half bad.”
“Got it,” I said.
He paused to study me. “How are you doing? I haven’t seen you for days.”
“Go on with your dinner. Let me grab a glass of wine and I’ll fill you in.”
“I can wait,” he said.
By the time I reached the bar, Rosie had disappeared and William had poured me a glass of bad wine. I said, “Thanks. Would you ask Rosie if I could have the stuffed cabbage? It looks fabulous.”
“Sure thing.”
I returned to the table, wineglass in hand. Moments later Rosie appeared with my dinner plate. Henry and I spent the next five minutes in companionable silence while we ate. When it comes to food, neither of us fools around. As a reward for cleaning our plates, Rosie brought us each a slice of chocolate-poppy seed torte that reduced us to a state of moaning satisfaction.
Henry said, “Now, tell me what’s going on. When you walked in, your expression was so dark I didn’t dare ask. Is the misery about family or work?”
“Work.”
“So skip that and bring me up to date on the family saga.”
“I can’t remember what was going on when we last spoke. Did I tell you I had dinner here with Tasha? This was a week ago.”
“News to me.”
“Wow, you really are behind.”
“Matters not,” he said mildly. “What’d she want?”
“Nothing. Surprise, surprise. She handed over a batch of letters she came across when she was cleaning out Grandfather Kinsey’s files. Some were letters Grand wrote to Aunt Gin and some she sent me. I haven’t read all of them. I mostly skipped around, but I picked up enough to know she was doing her best to maneuver Aunt Gin into surrendering custody. You can imagine how well that went down. Aunt Gin apparently read the first and sent the rest back unopened. Grand retaliated by hiring a private detective to spy on us.” I paused, correcting myself. “Well, ‘retaliated’ might be too strong a word. She wanted proof that Gin wasn’t a fit guardian.”
“By fair means or foul?”
“That’s about it. Her hunch was that Aunt Gin was gay and she figured if she could prove it, she’d have enough leverage to bring her to heel. Didn’t work out that way.”
“This was all in the letters? I can’t believe she’d spell it out.”
“She was too clever to do that. Among other things, Tasha came across invoices from the PI Grand hired. I drove to Lompoc yesterday and talked to him. He’s a nice guy though not inclined to confide. Dang. I had to pry the information out of him, but he finally told me what she was up to. He persuaded Grand that Aunt Gin was straight, which was always my perception. Grand dropped the matter and that was the end of that.” I lifted a finger. “I do harbor a tiny flicker of doubt. On a hunch, I asked him if he’d lie about it. I was curious if he was fudging for my sake, trying to make Aunt Gin sound better than she was. He deflected the question and responded with something else. I’m not saying he lied, but there was something he wasn’t saying. It may not mean anything, but I’m not a hundred percent convinced.”
“Not much in life is a hundred percent.”
“You have a point.”
“So now what? I’m assuming this precludes your going to the big family do at the end of May.”
“Probably. I haven’t decided yet.”
Rosie appeared at the table to collect our dessert plates, and we set the subject aside until she’d gone off to the kitchen with her tray.
“Now tell me about work. Last I heard, you were asking William for a bar rag to clean off a dog tag that smelled like dead rat.”
“Oh, man, you’re really out of date and I apologize. Not to put too fine a point on it, but to all intents and purposes, I’ve reached a dead end.”
I started with Diana and Ryan’s revelation about Michael Sutton’s birthday celebration at Disneyland and then went back in time and talked about my drive to Peephole and the conversation I’d had with P. F. Sanchez, who’d eventually given me the information about the veterinarian who’d put his dog down. I went into some detail about the shed at the rear of the clinic where euthanized animals were left for
pickup by animal control. I also told Henry about Deborah Unruh and the four-year-old, Rain, who’d served as the “practice child.” I went on to fill him in on Greg and Shelly, and my interview with her son, Shawn, who’d assured me the two of them weren’t involved in the kidnapping scheme because they’d left the state by then and were working their way north to Canada. The recitation took the better part of fifteen minutes, but I felt I’d summed it up admirably, even if I do say so myself.
Listening to the story as I relayed it to him, I could still see a certain logic in play. My prime assumption had been wrong, but there were pieces that still intrigued me, even at this late date. Ulf, the wolfdog. The similarities between the two crimes. The ransom demands that totaled forty grand. I couldn’t see the links, but they had to be there.
Henry seemed to take it all in, though I have no idea how he managed to keep the players straight. Once in a while he’d stop me with a question, but in the main, he seemed to follow the narrative. When I finished he thought about it briefly and then said, “Let’s go back to the conversation you had with Stacey Oliphant. What makes him so sure the kidnappers were amateurs?”
“Because they asked for chump change, to use Dolan’s words. Both thought it was odd to ask for fifteen grand when they could have asked for more. Stacey figured if they’d been professionals, they’d have ramped up the demand.”
“Must not have been chump change to them. If they were rookies, fifteen thousand might have seemed like a fortune.”
“Not that the money did them any good. Patrick photocopied the bills and then marked them …”
Henry frowned. “How?”
“Some kind of fluorescent pen he used in the export side of his clothing business. Deborah says the marks would have popped out under a black light, which a lot of kids had back then. She also says none of the money ever surfaced, at least as far as she’s heard.”
“They must have figured it out.”
“That’d be my guess.”
“Which is probably why they tried again,” he said. “If they discovered the bills were marked, they couldn’t risk putting the cash in circulation so they got rid of what they had and tried again. Only this time they snatched Mary Claire instead of Rain.”