by Sue Grafton
Claas turned his attention back to me. “We understand you were married to a former vice detective named Magruder.”
I was completely taken aback. “Mickey? That’s right. Is this about him?” I felt a tingle of fear. Connections tumbled together in a pattern I couldn’t quite discern. Whatever was going on, it had to be associated with his current financial straits. Maybe he’d robbed a bank, scammed someone, or pulled a disappearing act. Maybe there was a warrant outstanding, and these guys had been assigned the job of tracking him down. I covered my discomfort with a laugh. “What’s he up to?”
Claas’s expression remained remote. “Unfortunately, Mr. Magruder was the victim of a shooting. He survived, he’s alive, but he’s not doing well. Yesterday we finally got a line on him. At the time of the assault, he didn’t have identification in his possession, so he was listed as a John Doe until we ran his prints.”
“He was shot?” I could feel myself move the needle back to the beginning of the cut. Had I heard him correctly?
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He’s all right, though, isn’t he?”
Claas’s tone ranged somewhere between neutrality and regret. “Tell you the truth, it’s not looking so good. Doctors say he’s stable, but he’s on life support. He’s never regained consciousness, and the longer this goes on, the less likely he is to make a full recovery.”
Or any at all was what I heard. I could feel myself blink. Mickey dying or dead? The detective was still talking, but I felt I was suffering a temporary hearing loss. I held a hand up. “Hang on. I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to comprehend.”
“There’s no hurry. Take your time,” Aldo said.
I took a couple of deep breaths. “This is weird. Where is he?”
“UCLA. He’s currently in ICU, but he may be transferred to County, depending on his condition.”
“He always had good insurance coverage, if it’s a question of funds.” The notion of Mickey at County didn’t sit well with me. I was taking deep breaths, risking hyperventilation in my attempt to compose myself. “Can I see him?”
There was a momentary pause, and then Claas said, “Not just yet, but we can probably work something out.” He seemed singularly unenthusiastic, and I didn’t press the point.
Aldo watched me with concern. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m just surprised,” I said. “I don’t know what I thought you were doing here, but it wasn’t this. I can’t believe anything bad could ever happen to him. He was always a brawler, but he seemed invincible, at least to me. What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to piece together,” Claas 1said. “He’d been shot twice, once in the head and once in the chest. A patrolman spotted him lying on the sidewalk little after three A.m. The weapon, a semi-automatic, was found in the gutter about ten feet away. This was a commercial district, a lot of bars in the area, so it’s possible Mr. Magruder got into a dispute. We have a couple of guys out now canvassing the neighborhood. So far no witnesses. For now, we’re working backward, trying to get a line on his activities prior to the shooting.”
“When was this?”
“Early morning hours of May fourteenth. Wednesday of last week.”
Claas said, “Do you mind if we ask you a couple of questions? “
“Not at all. Please do.”
I expected one of them to take out a notebook, but none emerged. I glanced at the briefcase and wondered if I was being recorded. Meanwhile, Claas was talking on. “We’re in the process of eliminating some possibilities. This is mostly filling in the blanks, if you can help us out.”
“Sure, I’ll try. I’m not sure how, but fire away,” I said. Inwardly, I flinched at my choice of words.
Claas cleared his throat. His voice was lighter, reedier. “When you last spoke to your ex-husband, did he mention any problems? Threats, disputes, anything like that?”
I leaned forward, relieved. “I haven’t spoken to Mickey in fourteen years.”
Something flickered between them, one of those wordless conversations married couples learn to conduct with their eyes. Detective Aldo took over. “You’re the owner of a nine-millimeter Smith and Wesson?”
“I was at one time.” I was on the verge of saying more but decided to rein myself in until I figured out where they were going. The empty box that had originally housed the gun was still sitting in the carton beside my desk, less than six feet away.
Claas said, “Can you tell us when you purchased it? “
“I didn’t. Mickey bought that gun and gave it to me as a wedding gift. That was August of 1971.”
“Strange wedding present,” Aldo remarked.
“He’s a strange guy,” I said.
“Where’s the gun at this time?”
“Beats me. I haven’t laid eyes on it for years. I assumed Mickey took it with him when he moved to L.A.”
“So you haven’t seen the gun since approximately…”
I looked from Claas to Aldo as the obvious implications began to sink in. I’d been slow on the uptake. “Wait a minute. That was the gun used?”
“Let’s put it this way: Yours was the gun that was found at the scene. We’re still waiting for ballistics.”
“You can’t think I had anything to do with it.”
“Your name popped up in the computer as the registered owner. We’re looking for a starting point, and this made sense. If Mr. Magruder carried the gun, it’s possible someone took it away from him and shot him with it.”
“That puts me in the clear,” I said facetiously. I felt 1like biting my tongue. Sarcasm is the wrong tack to take with cops. Better to play humble and cooperative.
A silence settled between the two. They’d seemed friendly and confiding, but I knew from experience there’d be a sizable gap between the version they’d given me and the one they’d withheld. Aldo took a stick of gum from his coat pocket and tore it in half. He tucked half in his pocket and slipped the paper wrapper and the foil from the other half. He slid the chewing gum into his mouth. He seemed disinterested for the moment, but I knew they’d spend the return trip comparing notes, matching their reactions and intuitions against the information I’d given them.
Claas shifted on the couch. “Can you tell us when you last spoke to Mr. Magruder?”
“It’s Mickey. Please use his first name. This is hard enough as it is. He left Santa Teresa in 1977. I don’t remember talking to him after we divorced.”
“Can you tell us what contact you’ve had since then? “
“You just asked that. I’ve had none.”
Claas’s gaze fixed on mine, rather pointedly, I thought. “You haven’t spoken to him in the past few months,” he said, not a question, but a statement infused with skepticism.
“No. Absolutely not. I haven’t talked to him.”
While Detective Claas tried to hold my attention, I could see that Aldo was making a discreet visual tour of the living room. His gaze moved from item to item, methodically assessing everything within range. Desk, files, box, answering machine, bookshelves. I could almost hear him thinking to himself: Which of these objects doesn’t belong? I saw his focus shift back to the cardboard box, So far, I hadn’t said a word about the delinquent payments on Mickey’s storage bin. On the face of it, I couldn’t see how withholding the information represented any criminal behavior on my part. What justice was I obstructing? Who was I aiding and abetting? I didn’t shoot my ex. I wasn’t in custody and wasn’t under oath. If it seemed advisable, I could always contact the detectives later when I “remembered” something relevant. All this went through my mind in the split second while I was busy covering my butt. If the two picked up on my uneasiness, neither said a word. Not that I expected them to gasp and exchange significant looks.
Detective Claas cleared his throat again. “What about him? Has he been in touch with you?”
I confess a little irritability was creeping into my response. “That’s the same thing, isn’t it, whether I t
alk to him or he talks to me? We divorced years ago. We don’t have any reason to stay in touch. If he called, I’d hang up. I don’t want to talk to him.”
Aldo’s tone was light, nearly bantering. What are you so mad about? The poor guy’s down for the count.”
I felt myself flush. “Sorry. That’s just how it is. We’re not one of those couples that turned all lovey-dovey once the papers were signed. I have nothing against him, but I’ve never been interested in being his best friend, nor he mine, I might add.”
“Same with my ex,” he said. “Still, sometimes there’s a piece of business, you know, a stock certificate or news of an old pal. You might forward the mail, even if you hate their guts. It’s not unusual for one ex to drop the other a note if something relevant comes up.”
“Mickey doesn’t write notes.”
Claas shifted in his seat. “What’s he do then, call?”
I could feel myself grow still. Why was he so determined to pursue the point? “Look. For the fourth or fifth time now, Mickey and I don’t talk. Honest. Cross my heart. Scout’s honor and all that. We’re not enemies. We’re not antagonistic. We just don’t have that kind of relationship.”
“Really. How would you characterize it? Friendly? Distant? Cordial?”
“What is this?” I said. “What’s the relevance? I mean, come on, guys. You can’t be serious. Why would I shoot my ex-husband with my own gun and leave it at the scene? I’d have to be nuts.”
Aldo smiled to himself. “People get rattled. You never know what they’ll do. We’re just looking for information. Anything you can give us, we’d appreciate.”
“Tell, me your theory,” I said.
“We don’t have a theory,” Claas said. “We’re hoping to eliminate some angles. You could save us a lot of time if you’d cooperate.”
“I’m doing that. This is what cooperation looks like, in case you’re not accustomed to it. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I don’t even know where Mickey lives these days.”
The two detectives stared at me.
“I’m telling you the truth.”
Detective Claas asked the next question without reference to his notes. “Can you tell us where you were on March twenty-seventh?”
My mind went blank. “I haven’t the faintest idea. Where were you?” I said. I could tell my hands were going to start shaking. My fingers were cold, and without even thinking about it, I crossed my arms and tucked my hands against my sides. I knew I looked stubborn and defensive, but I was suddenly unnerved.
“Do you have an appointment book you might check?”
“You know what? I think we should stop this conversation right now. If you’re here because you think I was somehow involved in a shooting, you’ll have to talk to my attorney because I’m done with this bullshit.”
Detective Aldo seemed surprised. “Hey, come on. There’s no call for that. We’re not accusing you of anything. This is an exchange of information.”
“What was exchanged? I tell you things, but what do you tell me? Or did I miss that part?”
Aldo smiled, undismayed by my prickliness. “We told you he was injured and you told us you never talked to him. See? We tell you and then you tell us. It’s like a dialogue. We’re trading.”
“Why did you ask where I was March twenty seventh? What’s that about?”
Claas spoke up. “We checked his telephone bills. There was a call to this number that lasted thirty minutes. We assumed the two of you talked. Unless someone else lives here, which you’ve denied.”
“Show me,” I said. I held out my hand.
He leaned down and reached into the partially opened briefcase, sliding out a sheaf of phone bills, which he passed to me without comment. On top of the stack was Mickey’s bill for April, itemizing his March service. I glanced at the header, noting that the phone number on the account was the same one I had. At that point, his February bill was already in arrears. The past-due notice warned that if his payment wasn’t received within ten days, his service would be terminated. I let my eye drift down the column of toll calls and long-distance charges for March. Only two calls had been made, both to Santa Teresa. The first was March 13, made to Mark Bethel’s office. I’d heard about that from Judy. The second was to my number. Sure enough, that call was made on March 7 at 1:7 P.M. and lasted, as specified, for a full thirty minutes.
Chapter 9
*
I’m not sure how I got through the remainder of the conversation. Eventually the detectives left, with phony thanks on their part for all the help I’d given them, and phony assurances on mine that I’d contact them directly if I had anything more to contribute to their investigation. As soon as the door closed, I scurried into the bathroom, where I stepped into the empty bathtub and discreetly spied on them through the window. I kept just out of sight while Detectives Claas and Aldo, chatting in low tones, got into what looked like a county-issued car and drove away. I’d have given anything to know what they were saying ��� assuming the discussion was about Mickey or me. Maybe they were talking sports, which I don’t give a rat’s ass about. As soon as they were gone, I returned to my desk and flipped back through my desk calendar to the page for March 7. That Thursday was entirely empty, as were the days on either side: No appointments, no meetings, no notation of events, professional or social. Typically, I’d have spent the day at the office, doing God knows what. I was hoping my desk calendar would jump-start my recollection. For the moment, I was stumped. All I knew was I hadn’t talked to Mickey on March 7 or any other day in recent years. Had someone broken into my apartment? That was a creepy prospect, but what other explanation was there? Mickey could have dialed my number and spoken to someone else. It was also possible someone other than Mickey made the call from his place, establishing a connection that didn’t actually exist. Who would go to such lengths? A person or persons who intended to shoot my ex-husband and have the finger point at me.
It rained during the night, one of those rare tropical storms that sometimes blow in from Hawaii without warning. I woke at 6:36 A.M. to the sound of heavy raindrops drumming on my skylight. The air gusting through the open window smelled of ocean brine and gardenias. May in California tends to be cool and dry. During the summer months following, vegetation languishes without moisture, a process of dehydration that renders the chaparral as fragile as ancient parchment. The rolling hills turn gold while the roadsides glow hazy yellow with the clouds of wild mustard growing along the berm. By August, the temperatures climb into the 80s and the relative humidity drops. Winds tear down the mountains and squeeze through canyons. Between the sundowners, Santa Anas, and the desiccated landscape, the stage is set for the arsonist’s match. Rains might offer temporary relief, delaying the inevitable by a week or two. The irony is that ram does little more than encourage growth, which in turn provides nature with additional combustible fuel.
By the time I woke again at 5:59, the storm had passed. I pulled on my sweats and went out for my run, returning to the apartment only long enough to toss a canvas duffel in the car and head over to the gym. I lifted weights for an hour, working my way through my usual routine. Though I’d only been back at the process for two months, I was seeing results, shoulders and biceps taking form again.
I was home at nine. I showered, ate breakfast, tossed some items in my fanny pack, grabbed my shoulder bag, left a note on Henry’s door, and hit the road for L.A. Traffic was fast-moving, southbound cars barreling down the 101. At this time of day, the road was heavily populated with commercial vehicles: pickups and panel trucks, semis and moving vans, empty school buses, and trailers hauling new cars to the showrooms in Westlake and Thousand Oaks. As I crested the hill and eased down into the San Fernando Valley, I could see the gauzy veil of the smog that had already begun to accumulate. The San Gabriel Mountains, often obscured from view, were at least visible today. Every time I passed this way, new construction was under way. What looked like entire villages would appear on the crest of a hill,
or a neighborhood of identical condominiums would emerge from behind a stand of trees. Billboards announced the availability of new communities previously unheard of.
Overhead, two bright yellow aircraft circled, one following the other in an aerial surveillance focused on those of us down below. The berm was littered with trash, and at one point I passed one of those perplexing curls of tire tread that defy explanation. Once I reached Sherman Oaks, I turned right on the San Diego Freeway. The foliage along the berm was whipped by the perpetual wind of passing vehicles. Several towering office buildings obstructed the view, like sightseers on a parade route with no consideration for others. I took the offramp at Sunset and drove east until the UCLA campus began to appear on my right. I turned right onto Hilgard, right again on Le Conte, and right onto Tiverton, where I paid for a parking voucher. There were no parking spots available in the aboveground lot. I began my descent into the underground levels, circling down and down until I finally found a spot on C-1. I locked my car and took the elevator up. The extensive grass and concrete plaza served both the Jules Stein Eye Clinic and the UCLA Hospital and Medical Center. I crossed to the main entrance and entered the lobby, with its polished granite walls and two-tone gray carpet with a smoky pink stripe along the edge. The reception area on the right was filled with people awaiting word of friends and family members currently undergoing surgery. Two teenage girls in shorts and Tshirts were playing cards on the floor. There were babies in infant seats and a toddler in a stroller, flushed and sweating in sleep. Others were reading newspapers or chatting quietly while a steady foot traffic of visitors crossed and recrossed the lounge. The lobby chairs and adjoining planters were boxy gray modules. On the left, the gift shop was faced in a curious hue somewhere between mauve and orchid. A large glass case contained sample floral arrangements in case you arrived to see someone without a posy in hand.