O is for OUTLAW

by Sue Grafton

  When I reached my neighborhood, I cruised the block, looking for a parking place that wasn’t shrouded in darkness. I spotted only one unfamiliar car, a darktoned Jaguar sitting at the curb across the street from my apartment. I pulled up around the corner onto Bay and waited to make sure no one had followed me. Then I locked up and walked the half block back. I was feeling foolish, but I still preferred to listen to my intuition. I knew the gate hinge would squeak, so I avoided it and approached by traversing the neighbor’s yard along the wooden fence. Maybe I was being dumb, but I couldn’t help myself.

  When I reached the far side of Henry’s garage, I lifted my head above the fence and looked. I’d left the back light on, but now my porchlet was in shadow. Henry’s lights were out as well. A mist seemed to hover in the grass like smoke. I waited without moving, letting my eyes adjust to the dark. As in most cases, even the darkest night isn’t without its ambient illumination. The moon was caught in the branches of a tree. Splashes of light spilled down in an irregular pattern. I listened until the crickets began to chirp again.

  I divided Henry’s backyard into segments and scanned them one by one. Nothing to my immediate left. Nothing near his back step. Nothing near the tree. The garage cast a triangle of blackness onto the patio so that not all his lawn furniture was visible. Still, I could have sworn I saw a form: the head and shoulders of someone sitting in one of his Adirondack chairs. It could have been Henry, but I didn’t think so. I sank down below the fence. I reversed myself, easing back through the neighbor’s yard to the street beyond. The leather boots I wore weren’t designed for tiptoeing on wet grass, and I slipped as I crept along, hoping not to fall on my ass.

  Once I gained the street, I had to wipe some doggie doo off my shoe heel, lest the odor alone make a target of me. I fumbled in the bottom of my bag until I found my penlight. I shielded the narrow beam with the palm of my hand and swept the Jaguar. All four doors were locked. I half expected the vanity plate to read HITZ R US. Instead, it said DIXIE. Well, that was interesting. I approached the backyard this time from the neighbor’s property to the left of Henry’s, first navigating up their driveway, then making a wide circle across Henry’s yard along the rear flower beds. From this vantage point, I could see the silhouette of her tangled hair. She must have been dying to smoke. As I watched, her desire for a cigarette overrode her caution. I heard the flick of a lighter. She cupped a hand to her face and applied the flame to the end of a cigarette and inhaled with a nearly audible sigh of relief. No weapon, at any rate, unless she could wield one with her feet.

  By then, I was close to the back of the Adirondack. “Gee, Dixie. Never light up. Now all the snipers in the neighborhood can get a bead on you.”

  She gasped, nearly levitating from her seat as she whipped her head around. She grabbed the arm of her chair and her handbag tumbled from her lap. I saw the cigarette fly off in the dark, the ember making a most satisfactory arc before it was snuffed in the wet grass. She was lucky she hadn’t sucked it down her throat and choked to death. “Shit. Oh, shit! You scared the crap out of me,” she hissed.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She had a hand to her chest, trying to still her wildly banging heart. She bent at the waist, hyperventilating. I was singularly unimpressed with the possibility of heart failure. If her heart seized, she died. I was not going to do CPR on her. She was wearing what looked like a flight suit, a one-piece design with a zipper up the front. The oversized, baggy look was offset by the fact that she had the sleeves rolled midway up her arm, thus demonstrating how petite she was. She stooped to pick up her shoulder bag, which was battered leather, shaped like a mail carrier’s pouch.

  She tucked it under one arm. She put a hand to her forehead and then to her cheek. “I need to talk to you,” she said, still sounding shaken.

  “Had you thought about calling first?”

  “I didn’t think you’d agree to see me.”

  “So you wait in the dark? Are you nuts?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. The old gentleman in the house was up when I arrived an hour ago. I could see him in the kitchen when I came around the corner, so I unscrewed the porch bulb. I didn’t want him to notice and wonder what I was doing.”

  “What are you doing? I’m still not entirely clear.”

  “Could we go inside? I promise I won’t stay long. I didn’t bring a jacket and I’m freezing.”

  I felt a flash of annoyance. “Oh, come on,” I said.

  I set off across the yard. When I reached the porch, I gave the bulb a twist and saw the light come on. She followed me meekly. I took out my house keys and unlocked the door.

  I took a moment to slip my shoes off. “Wipe your feet,” I said crossly before I entered the living room.

  “Sorry. Of course.”

  I pulled out a kitchen stool for her and then went around the kitchen counter and retrieved a brandy bottle from the liquor cabinet. I took out two jelly glasses and twisted the cork, pouring us both two fingers. I tipped my head back and flung the brandy to the back of my throat. I swallowed liquid fire, my mouth coming open, invisible flames shooting out. Damn, that was nasty, but it brought relief. I shuddered involuntarily the way I do when swilling NyQuil. I was calmer by the time I looked up at her. She’d chugalugged as I had, but she seemed better able to take the brandy in stride.

  “Thanks. That’s great. I hope you don’t mind if I have a cigarette,” she said, reaching into her bag as if with my consent.

  “You can smoke outside. I don’t want you smoking in here.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” she said, and put the pack away.

  “And quit apologizing,” I said. She’d come here for something. Time to get on with it. I said, “Speak,” like she was a dog about to demonstrate a trick.

  Dixie closed her eyes. “What Mickey and I did was inexcusable. You have every right to be angry. I was obnoxious on Monday when you came to the house. I apologize for that, but I was disconcerted. I always assumed you’d received my letter and elected to do nothing. I guess I enjoyed blaming you for being disloyal. It was hard to give that up.” She opened her eyes then and looked at me.

  “Go on.”

  “That’s it.”

  “No, it’s not. What else? If that’s all you wanted, you could have written me a note.”

  She hesitated. “I know you crossed paths with Eric on your way down the drive. I appreciated your keeping quiet on the subject of me and Mickey. You could have caused me a lot of trouble.”

  “You made the trouble. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “I’m aware of that. I know. But I’ve never been sure if Eric knew about what happened.”

  “He never mentioned it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Consider yourself lucky. I’d leave it at that, if I were you.”

  “Believe me, I will.”

  I felt myself subdivide, one part fully present, the other part watching from a distance. What she’d said so far was true, but there was bound to be more. Lacking my native talent in the liar-liar-pants-on-fire department, she couldn’t help but color slightly, a bright coin of pink appearing on each cheek.

  I said, “But what? You want assurances I’ll keep my mouth shut from here on out?”

  “I know I can’t ask.”

  “That’s correct. On the other hand, I don’t know what purpose it would serve. Believe it or not, just because you ‘done me wrong’ doesn’t mean I’d turn around and do likewise. Is there anything else?”

  Dixie shook her head. “I should probably go.” She picked up her handbag and began to search for her keys. “I know he invited you to dinner. Eric’s always been fond of you.”

  I thought, He has?

  “He’s anxious to have you over, and I hope you’ll agree. He might think it odd if you refused the invitation.”

  “Would you give it a rest. I haven’t seen either one of you in fourteen years, so why would it seem odd?”

>   “Just think about it. Please? He said he’d probably call you early in the week.”

  “All right. I’ll consider it, but no guarantees. It seems awkward to me.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.” She stood and held out a hand to me. “Thank you.”

  I shook hands with her, though I wondered in the moment if we’d made some unspoken pact. She moved to the door, turning back, her hand on the knob.

  “How’d you do in the search for Mickey? Any luck?” she asked.

  “The day after I talked to you, a couple of LAPD detectives showed up on my doorstep. He was shot last week. “

  “He’s dead?”

  “He’s alive but in bad shape. He may not survive.”

  “That’s awful. That’s terrible. What happened?”

  “Who knows? That’s why they drove up here to talk to me.”

  “Have they made an arrest?”

  “Not yet. All I know about it is what they told me so far. He was found on the street a couple of blocks from his apartment. This was Wednesday of last week. He’s been in a coma ever since.”

  “I’m, I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s nothing required.”

  “Will you let me know what you hear?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  In a fragile voice, she said, “Please?”

  I didn’t bother to reply. Then she was gone, leaving me staring at the door. I resented her thinking she had equal grieving rights. More than that, I wondered what she was really up to.

  Chapter 15

  *

  Friday morning, I woke up at 5:58, feeling logy and out of sorts. Every bone in my body was begging for more sleep, but I pushed aside the covers and reached for my sweats. I brushed my teeth and ran a comb through my hair, which was sticking out in all directions as though electrified. I paused near the gate and did an obligatory stretch. I started with a fast walk and then broke into a trot when I reached the beachfront park that runs along Cabana Boulevard.

  The morning sky was dense with cloud cover, the air hazy. Without the full range of sunlight, all the warm reds and yellows had been leached from the landscape, leaving a muted palette of cool tones: blues, grays, taupe, dun, smoky green. The breeze blowing off the beach smelled of wharf pilings and seaweed. In the course of my run, I could feel the interior fog begin to lift. Intense exercise is the only legal high I know, except for love, of course. Whatever your inner state, all you have to do is run, walk, ride a bike, ski, lift weights, and suddenly your optimism’s back and life seems good again.

  Once recovered from my run, I drove over to the gym, which is seldom crowded at that hour, the prework fanatics having already come and gone. The gym itself is spartan, painted gunmetal gray, with industrial carpeting the same color as the asphalt in the parking lot outside. There are huge plate-glass mirrors on the walls. The air smells of rubber and sweaty armpits. The prime patrons are men in various stages of physical fitness. The women who show up tend to fall into two categories: the extremely lean fitness fiends, who trash themselves daily, and the softer women who arrive after any food-dominated holiday. The latter never last, but good for them anyway. Better to make some effort than do nothing for life. I fell somewhere between.

  I started with leg extensions and leg curls, muscles burning as I worked. Abs, lower back, on to the pec deck and chest press, then on to shoulders and arms. Early in a workout, the sheer number of body parts multiplied by sets times the number of repetitions is daunting, but the process is curiously engrossing, pain being what it is. Suddenly I found myself laboring at the last two machines, alternating biceps and triceps. Then I was out the door again, sweaty and exhilarated. Sometimes I nearly wrench my arm from its socket patting myself on the back.

  Home again, I turned on the automatic coffeepot, made the bed, showered, dressed, and ate a bowl of cereal with skim milk. Then I sat with my coffee and read the local paper. Usually, as the day wears on, my flirtation with good health is overrun by my tendency to self-abuse, especially when it comes to junk food. Fat grams are my downfall, anything with salt, additives, cholesterol, nitrates. Breaded and deep-fried or saut��ed in butter, smothered in cheese, slathered with mayonnaise, dripping with meat juices ��� what foodstuff couldn’t be improved by proper preparation? By the time I finished reading the paper, I was nearly dizzy with hunger and had to suck down more coffee to dampen my appetite. After that, all it took was a big gob of crunchy peanut butter I licked from the spoon while I settled at my desk. I’d decided to skip the office as I’d dutifully caught up with paperwork the day before.

  I placed Detective Aldo’s business card on the desk in front of me and put a call through to Mark Bethel. I’d actually given up hope of ever speaking to him in person. Sure enough, he’d popped down to Los Angeles for a campaign appearance. I told Judy about Mickey and she went through the usual litany, expressing concern, shock, and dismay at life’s uncertainties.

  “Can Mark do anything to help?” she asked.

  “That’s why I called. Would you ask him if he’d talk to Detective Aldo and find out what’s going on? They’re not going to tell me, but they might talk to him since he’s Mickey’s attorney, or at least he was.”

  “I’m sure he’d do that. Do you have a number?”

  I recited the number and gave her Detective Felix Claas’s name as well. I also gave her Mickey’s address in Culver City.

  She said, “I’m making a note. He should be calling when he’s finished. Maybe he can touch base with Detective Aldo while he’s still in Los Angeles.”

  “Thanks. That’d be great.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Just one more thing. Can you ask Mark what’s going to happen to Mickey’s bills? I’m sure they’re piling up, and I hate to see his credit get any worse than it is.”

  “Got it. I’ll ask. He’ll think of something, I’m sure. I’ll have him call you when he gets in.”

  “No need for that unless he has a question. just let him know what we talked about and he can take it from there.”

  I sat at my desk, wondering what to do next. Once more, I hauled out the assorted items I’d lifted from Mickey’s and studied them one by one. Phone bill, the Delta Airlines ticket envelope, receipts from the Honky-Tonk, savings passbooks, phony documents. Emmett Vanover, Delbert Amburgey, Clyde Byler, all with trumped-up personal data and a photo of Mickey’s face plastered in the relevant spots. I went back to the plane ticket, which was issued in the name Magruder. The flight coupons were missing, I assumed, used for the trip, but the passenger receipt and itinerary were still in the ticket envelope. This was an expensive round trip for a guy with no job. What was the relevance, if any? The trip to Louisville might have been personal. Hard to know about that, since we hadn’t talked in years. I laid the ticket on the desk beside the other items, lining them up in various configurations as though a story could be fabricated from the proper sequence of events.

  When I was a kid, my Aunt Gin kept me supplied with activity books. The paper was always cheap, the games and puzzles designed to shut me up temporarily so she could read for an hour without my interrupting. I’d lie on the trailer floor with my big pencil and a box of crayons. Sometimes the instructions would entail the finding and circling of particular words in a gridwork of letters, sometimes a search for specific objects in a convoluted jungle picture. My favorite was dot-to-dot, in which you constructed a picture by connecting consecutively numbered points on the page. Tongue peeking out of the corner of my mouth, I’d laboriously trace the line from number to number until a picture emerged. I got so good at it, I could stare at the spaces between numbers and see the picture without ever setting pencil to paper. This didn’t require much in the way of brains as the outline was usually simple: a teddy bear or a wagon or a baby duck, all dumb. Nonetheless, I can still remember the rush of joy when recognition dawned. Little did I know that at the age of five I was already in training for my later professional life.

&n
bsp; What I was looking at here was simply a more sophisticated version of dot-to-dot. If I could understand the order in which the items were related, I could probably get some notion of what was going on in Mickey’s life. For now, what I was missing were the links between events. What was he up to in the months before the shooting? The cops had to be pursuing many of these same questions, but it was possible I was in possession of information they lacked, having stolen it. In the rudimentary conscience I seemed to be developing, I knew I could always opt for the Good Citizen’s Award by “sharing” with Detective Aldo. In the main, I don’t hold back where cops are concerned. On the other hand, if I dug a little deeper, I might figure it out for myself, recapturing the thrill of discovery. There’s nothing like the moment when everything finally falls into place. So why give that up when, with just a tiny bit more effort, I could have it all? (These are the sorts of rationalizations Ms. Millhone engages in when failing to do her civic duty.) I hauled up my handbag and began to sift through the contents, coming up with Wary’s phone number on the back of a business card. Maybe Mickey had said something to him about the trip. I picked up the phone and dialed Los Angeles. It was only ten-fifteen. Maybe I could catch him before he went off to breakfast. I had a vision of Wary’s wire-rimmed glasses and his waist-length brown hair. Two rings. Three. When he finally answered, I could tell from his voice he’d been deeply asleep.

  “Hey, Wary. How’re you? Did I wake you?”

  “No, no,” he said valiantly. “Who’s this?”

  “Kinsey in Santa Teresa. ” Silence. ” Mickey’s ex.

  “Oh, yeah, yeah. Got it. Sorry I didn’t recognize your voice. How’re you?”

  “Fine. And you?”

  “Doing great. What’s up?” I could hear him lock his jaw in the effort to suppress a yawn.

  “I have a quick question. Did Mickey say anything about the trip he made to Louisville, Kentucky?”