by Sue Grafton
“What trip”
“This was week before last. He departed May eighth and returned on the twelfth.”
“Oh, that. I knew he was gone, but he never said where. Why’d he go?”
“How do I know? I was hoping you’d tell me. Given his finances, I’m having trouble understanding why he took off for five days. The plane ticket cost a fortune, and he probably had to add meals and a motel on top of that.”
“Can’t help you there. All I know is he went someplace, but he never said why. I didn’t even know he left the state. Dude didn’t like to fly. I’m surprised he’d get on a plane going anywhere.”
“Did he talk to anyone else, someone in the building he might have mentioned it to?”
“Could have. I doubt it. It’s not like he had buddies he confided in. Say, you know what might help? I just thought of this. Once his phone was disconnected, he used to pop in and borrow mine. Kind of pay-as-you-go but he was always careful to keep square. I can find the numbers, if you want.”
I closed my eyes, saying small prayers. “Wary, I’d be indebted to you for life.”
“Hey, cool. I’m going to put the phone down and go look on my desk.”
I heard a clunk and I was guessing the handset was now resting on his bed table while he padded around, probably bare-assed naked. A full minute passed, and then he picked up the phone again. “You still there?”
“Indeed.”
“I got the statement right here. They bill on the fifteenth, so this was in yesterday’s mail. I haven’t even opened it yet. I know some calls he made were out of state because he left me ten bucks and said he’d pay the difference later when the bill came in.”
“Really. Did you ever hear what was said?”
“Nope. I made it a point to leave the room. I figured it was private. You know him. He never explained anything, especially when it came to his work. He was stingy with exposition in the best of circumstances.”
“What makes you think this was work?”
“His attitude, I guess. Cop mode, I’d call it. You could see it in his body, the way he carried himself. Even half in the bag, he knew his stuff.” I could hear him shuffling papers. Distracted, he said, “I’m still looking. Have you heard anything?”
“About Mickey? Not lately. I guess I could call Aldo, but I’m afraid to ask.”
“Here we go. Okay. Oh. There was just one. This’s the seventh of May. Lookit here. You’re right. He called Louisville.” He read the number off to me. “Actually, he made two to the same number. The first was quick, less than a minute. The longer one, ten minutes, was shortly afterward.”
I was frowning at the phone. “It must have been important to him if he flew out the next day.”
“A man of action,” he said. “Listen, I gotta get off the phone and go take a leak, but I’ll be happy to call you back if I think of anything else.”
“Thanks, Wary.”
Once I hung up, I sat and stared at the phone, trying to “get centered,” as we say in California. Ten-twenty here, that would make it one-twenty in Kentucky. I had no clue who he’d called, so I couldn’t think of a ruse. I’d have to make it up as I went along. I dialed the number.
“Louisville Male High School. This is Terry speaking. May I help you?”
Male High School? Terry sounded like a student, probably working in the office. I was so nonplused I couldn’t think of anything to say. “Oops. Wrong number.” I put the handset back. Belatedly, my heart thumped. What was this about?
I took a couple of deep breaths and dialed again.
“Louisville Male High School. This is Terry speaking. May I help you?”
“Uh, yes. I wonder if I might speak to the assistant principal? “
“Mrs. Magliato? One minute.” Terry put me on hold, and ten seconds later the line was picked up.
“Mrs. Magliato May I help you?”
“I hope so. My name is Mrs. Hurst from the General Telephone offices in Culver City, California. A call was placed to this number from Culver City on May seventh, and the charges are currently in dispute. The call was billed to last-name Magruder, first name Mickey or Michael. Mr. Magruder indicates that he never made such a call, and we’ve been asked to identify the party called. Can you be of some assistance? We’d appreciate your help.”
“What was that name again?”
I spelled it out.
She said, “Doesn’t sound familiar. Hold on and I’ll ask if anybody else remembers talking to him.”
She put me on hold. I listened to a local radio station, but the sound was pitched too low for me to hear what was being said. She came back on the line. “No, I’m sorry. None of us talked to anyone by that name.”
“What about the principal? Any possibility he might have taken the call himself?”
“For starters, it’s a she and I already asked. The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
I thought about the names on the phony documents and pulled them closer. “Uh, what about the names Emmett Vanover, Delbert Amburgey, and Clyde Byler? ” I repeated them before she asked, which seemed to piss her off.
“I know I didn’t speak to any one of them. I’d remember the names.”
“Could you ask the office staff?”
She sighed. “Just a moment,” she said. She put a palm across the receiver and I could hear her relay the question. Muffled conversation ensued and then she removed her hand. “Nobody spoke to any of them either. “
“No one from Culver City?”
“No-oo.” She sang the word on two notes.
“Ah. Well, thanks anyway. I appreciate your time.” I hung up the phone and thought about it for a minute. Who did Mickey talk to for ten minutes? It certainly wasn’t her, I thought. I got up from the desk and went back to the kitchen, where I took out a butter knife and the jar of extra-crunchy Jif. I took a tablespoon of peanut butter on the blade and spread it on the roof of my mouth, working it with my tongue until my palate was coated with a thin layer of goo. “Hello, this is Mrs. Kennison,” I said aloud, in a voice that sounded utterly unlike me.
I returned to the phone and dialed the number again. When Terry answered, I asked the name of the school librarian.
“You mean Ms. Calloway?” she said.
“Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten. Could you transfer me?”
Terry was happy to oblige, and ten seconds later I was going through the same routine, only this time with a variation. “Mrs. Calloway, this is Mrs. Kennison with the district attorney’s office in Culver City, California. A call was placed to this number from Culver City on May seventh, billed to last-name Magruder, first name Mickey or Michael, “
“Yes, I spoke to him,” she said, before I could finish my tale.
“Ah. Oh, you did. Well, that’s wonderful.”
“I don’t know if I’d call it wonderful, but it was pleasant. He seemed like a nice man: articulate, polite.”
“Can you remember the nature of the query?”
“It was only two weeks ago. I may be close to retirement, but I’m not suffering from senile dementia not yet, at any rate.”
“Could you fill me in?”
“I could if I understood what this had to do with the district attorney’s office. It sounds fishy as all get out. What’d you say your name was? Because I’m making a note of it, and I intend to check.”
I hate it when people think. Why don’t they just mind their own business and respond to my questions? “Mrs. Kennison.”
“And the reason for the call?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to say. This is a legal matter, and there’s a gag order in effect.”
“I see,” she said, as if she didn’t.
“Can you tell me what Mr. Magruder wanted?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“Mr. Magruder’s been shot. He’s in a coma at the moment. That’s as much as I can tell you without being cited for contempt of court.”
That seemed to work. She said
, “He was trying to track down a former Mate High School student.”
“Can you give me the name?”
“What’s your first name again?”
“Kathryn. Kennison. If you like, I can give you my number here and you can call me back.”
“Well, that’s silly. You could be anyone,” she snapped. “Let’s just get this over with. What is it you want? “
“Any information you can give me.”
“The boy’s name was Duncan Oaks, a 1961 graduate. His was an outstanding class. We still talk about that group of students.”
“I take it you were the school librarian back then?”
“I was. I’ve been here since 1946.”
“Did you know Duncan Oaks personally?”
“Everybody knew Duncan. He worked as my assistant in his sophomore and junior years. By the time he was a senior, he was the yearbook photographer, prom king, voted most likely to succeed “He sounds terrific.”
“He was.”
“And where is he now?”
“He became a journalist and photographer for one of the local papers, the Louisville Tribune, long since out of business, I’m sorry to say. He died on assignment in Vietnam. The Trib got swallowed up by one of those syndicates a year later, 1966. Now whoever you are and whatever you’re up to, I think I’ve said enough.”
I thanked her and hung up, still completely unenlightened. I sat and made notes, using the cap of the pen to scrape the peanut butter from the roof of my mouth. Was this an heir search? Had Mickey taken on a case to supplement his income? He certainly had the background to do P.I. work, but what was he doing and who’d hired him to do it?
I heard a tap at my door and leaned over far enough to see Henry peering through the porthole. I felt a guilty pang about the night before. Henry and I seldom had occasion to disagree. In this case, he was right. I had no business withholding information that might be relevant to the police. Really, I was going to reform, I was almost sure. When I opened the door, he handed me a stack of envelopes. “Brought you your mail.”
“Henry, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad at me,” I said. I tossed the mail on the desk and gave him a hug while he patted me on the back.
“My fault,” he said.
‘No, it’s not. It’s mine. You’re entirely right. I was being obstinate.”
“No matter. You know I worry about you. What’s wrong with your voice? Are you catching cold?”
“I just ate something and it’s stuck in my teeth. I’ll call Detective Aldo today and tell him what I’ve found. “
“I’d feel better if you did,” he said. “Did I interrupt? We can do this another time if you’re hard at work.”
“Do what another time?”
“You said you’d give me a lift. The fellow from the body shop called to say the Chevy’s ready.”
“Sorry. Of course. It’s taken long enough. Let me get my jacket and my keys.”
On the way over to the body shop, I brought Henry up to date, though I was uncomfortably aware that even now I wasn’t being completely candid with him. I wasn’t lying outright, but I omitted portions of the story. “Which reminds me,” I said. “Did I tell you about that call to my place?”
“What call?”
“I didn’t think I’d mentioned it. I don’t know what to make of it.” I laid out the business about the thirty minute call from Mickey’s place to mine in late March. “I swear I never talked to him, but I can tell the detectives didn’t believe me.”
“What was the date?”
“March twenty-seventh, early afternoon, one-thirty. I saw the bill myself.”
“You were with me,” he said promptly.
“I was?”
“Of course. That was the day after the quakes that dumped the cans on my car. I’d called the insurance company and you followed me over to the shop. The claims adjuster met us there at one-fifteen.”
“That was that day? How do you remember these things?
“I have the estimate,” he said and pulled it from his pocket. “The date’s right here.”
The incident returned in a flash. In the early morning hours of March 7 there’d been a series of tremblers, a swarm of quakes as noisy as a herd of horses thundering across the room. I’d woken from a sound sleep with my entire bed shaking. The brightly lighted numbers on my digital alarm showed :06. Clothes hangers were tinkling, and all the glass in the windows rattled like someone rapping to get in. I’d been up like a shot, pulling on my sweats and my running shoes. Within seconds. that quake passed, only to be followed by another. I could hear glass crashing in the sink. The walls had begun to creak from the strain of the rocking motion. Somewhere across the city, a transformer exploded and I was blanketed in darkness.
I’d grabbed my shoulder bag and fumbled down the spiral stairs while I groped in the depths for my penlight. I’d found it and flicked it on. The wash from the beam was pale, but it lighted my way. In the distance, I could hear sirens begin to wail. The trembling ceased. I’d taken advantage of the moment to snag my denim jacket and let myself out the door. Henry was already making his way across the patio. He carried a flashlight the size of a boom box, which he shone in my face. We spent the next hour huddled together in the backyard, fearful of returning indoors until we knew we were safe. The next morning, he’d discovered the damage to his five-window coupe.
I’d followed him to the body shop and an hour later I’d driven him home. When I’d returned to my apartment, my message light was blinking. I’d hit the REPLAY button, but there was only a hissing that extended until the tape ran out. I was mildly annoyed. I assumed it was pranksters and let it go at that. Henry was standing right there and heard the same thing I did; he suggested a malfunction when the power had been restored. I’d rewound the tape to erase the hiss and had thought no more about it. Until now.
Chapter 16
*
As soon as I got home, I put a call through to Detective Aldo, eager to assert my innocence on this one small point. The minute he picked up the phone and identified himself, I launched right in. “Hi, Detective Aldo. This is Kinsey Millhone, up in Santa Teresa.” Little Miss Cheery making friends with the police.
I was just embarking on my explanation of the March phone call when he cut me short. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for days,” he said tersely. “This is to put you on notice. I know for a fact you violated crime-scene tape and entered that apartment. I can’t prove it for now, but if I find one shred of evidence, we’ll charge you with willful destruction or concealment of evidence and resisting a peace officer in the discharge of his duties, punishable by a fine not exceeding one thousand dollars, or by imprisonment in a county jail not exceeding one year, or by both. You got that straight?”
I’d opened my mouth to defend myself when he slammed down the phone. I depressed the plunger on my end and replaced the handset, my mouth as dry as sand. I felt such a hot flash of guilt and embarrassment, I thought I’d been catapulted into early menopause. I put a hand against my flaming cheek, wondering how he knew it was me. Actually, I wasn’t the only one guilty of illegal entry. Mickey’s phantom girlfriend had entered the premises at some point between my two visits, making off with her diaphragm, her necklace, and her spray cologne. Unfortunately, aside from the fact that I didn’t know who she was, I couldn’t accuse her without accusing myself as well.
I spent the rest of the day slinking around with my mental tail between my legs. I hadn’t been so thoroughly rebuked since I was eight and Aunt Gin caught me smoking an experimental Viceroy cigarette. In this case, I was so heavily invested in Mickey’s concerns, I couldn’t afford to have my access to his life curtailed. I’d hoped clearing myself with Aldo in the matter of the phone call would net me information about the current status of his investigation. Instead, it was clear that his trust was so seriously eroded he’d never tell me a thing.
I used the early evening hours to pick my way through a plate of Rosie’s stuffed beef rolls.
She was pushing vese porkolt, which (translated from Hungarian) turned out to be heart and kidney stew. Remorseful as I felt, I was prepared to eat my own innards, but my stomach rebelled at the notion of vital piggie organs simmered with caraway seeds. I spent the hours after supper tending to my desk at home, atoning for my sins with lots of busywork. When all else fails, cleaning house is the perfect antidote to most of life’s ills.
I waited until close to midnight to return to the Honky-Tonk. I wore the same outfit I’d worn the night before since it was previously smoked on and required laundering anyway. I’d have to hang Mickey’s leather jacket on the line for days. This was now Friday night and, if memory still served me, the place would be packed with feverish weekend celebrants. Driving by, I could see the parking lot was jammed. I cruised the surrounding blocks and finally squeezed into a space just as a Ford convertible was pulling out. I walked the block and a half through the darkened Colgate neighborhood. This was an area that had once been devoted solely to single-family homes. Now a full third had been converted to small businesses: an upholsterer, an auto repair shop, and a beauty salon. There were no sidewalks along the street so I kept to the middle of the road and then cut through the small employee parking lot at the rear exit.
I circled the building to the entrance, where the line of people awaiting admittance seemed to be singles and couples in roughly equal numbers. I gave the bouncer my driver’s license and watched him run it through his scanning device. I paid the five-dollar cover charge and received the inked benediction on the back of my right hand.
As I moved through the front room, I was forced to run the gauntlet of chain smokers standing four deep at the bar, shifty-eyed guys trying to look a lot hipper than they actually were. The music coming from the other room was live that night. I couldn’t see the band, but the melody (or its equivalent) pounded, the beat distorted through the speakers to a tribal throb. The lyrics were indecipherable but probably consisted of sophomoric sentiments laid out in awkward rhyming couplets. The band sounded local, playing all their own tunes, if this one was any indication. I’ve picked up similar performances on local cable channels, shows that air at A.M. as a special torture to the occasional insomniac like me.