O is for OUTLAW

by Sue Grafton

  I sat in my swivel chair, jotting down everything I could remember from the evening. Activities at the Honky-Tonk were turning out to be less sinister than I’d imagined. Maybe, as Tim had said, Mickey simply went there to drink and hustle Thea. I had to admit philandering would have been in character for him.

  When the coffee was done, I got up from my chair and poured myself a mug, adding milk that seemed only mildly sour. I returned to my desk, where I remained on my feet, idly pushing at the index cards. There were still countless minor matters that didn’t fit the frame: Mickey’s being shot with my gun, and the long hissing message on my answering machine. That had originated from his apartment the afternoon of March 7. Who’d called me and why? If Mickey, why not leave a message? Why let the tape simply run to the end? If it wasn’t Mickey, then what was the purpose? To imply contact between us? It had certainly made me look bad in the eyes of the police.

  I sat down at my desk and began to play with the cards. I had to assume Mickey was on the track of Benny Quintero’s killer. That question would nag at him as long as he lived. Benny’s death had never been officially ruled a homicide, but Mickey knew he’d been blamed, despite the fact that charges had never been filed. In light of his checkered history with the department, his involvement in the matter had called his credibility into question and further damaged his already tainted reputation. As he saw it, his only choice was to abandon the profession he’d loved. His life after that had never amounted to much: booze, women, a shabby apartment. He couldn’t even hold on to the sorry job he’d found: Pacific Coast Security with its faux-cop uniform and dimestore badge. He must have dreamed of escape, creating a way out with his caches of money and his phony IDs. I turned over a few cards, making a column, sorting facts in no particular order.

  Idly, I set two index cards on edge, using the weight of each to support the other. I added a third, leaving the right side of my brain in neutral while I constructed a maze. Building card houses was another way I’d amused myself as a kid. The first floor was easy, requiring patience and dexterity but not much else. To add a second story to the first, you had to append a flat layer of cards, deftly floating a “ceiling” on the substructure until the whole of it was covered. Then began the real work: starting again from square one. First balance two cards atop the structure below, using the pair for their mutual support. Then add a third at an angle to the first two. Then add a fourth, then a fifth. At any point in the process, as the overall dimensions increased, there was always the danger that the whole of it would collapse, tumbling in on itself like ��� well, a house of cards. Sometimes, perversely, I’d even done this myself, snapping a corner with my finger, watching as the cards deconstructed in slow motion like a demolition project.

  I glanced at the card in my hand, reading the note on it before I added it to the pile. Carefully, I added another card to the maze. I paused to remove it, reading the datum again. I experienced a jolt of insight and felt myself blink. I’d seen a connection, two index cards suddenly appearing in conjunction. What a dummy I was that I hadn’t seen it before! A name showed up twice and I could feel my perception shift. It was like the sharp dislocation of a temblor, coming out of nowhere, fading away soon after. What I spotted was the name Del Amburgey, the man to whom Shack had introduced me at the Tonk. Delbert Amburgey was also the name on one of Mickey’s packets of fake IDs: California driver’s license, credit cards, social security card.

  I set the index cards aside, pulling out the documents with Mickey’s face laminated on top of what were probably Delbert’s vital statistics. I swiveled in my swivel chair and studied the effect. Did these documents belong to Delbert or had his identity been lifted? Was the date of birth real or bogus, borrowed or invented, and how had it been done? I knew credit card scammers often got into “Dumpster diving,” coming up with charge slips or carbons, even credit card statements discarded once the monthly bills had been paid. The information on the statements could be used to generate additional credit. The scammer would apply for cards based on lines of credit previously established by the individual in question. Any number of new accounts might be opened in this way. With a name, address, and social security number, ATM cards could be obtained, along with blank checks or proceeds from insurance policies. The scammer would supply the credit company with a substitute address, so the owner of the card remained unaware that goods and services were being charged to his or her legitimate account. The cards could also be milked through a series of cash withdrawals. Once the credit limit was exceeded, the scammer could either make the minimum payment or move on, fencing items or selling them at a discount and pocketing the profits. Actually, counterfeit documents like those in Mickey’s possession were worth money on the open market, where felons, illegal aliens, and the chronically bankrupt could buy a brand-new start in life with thousands of dollars of fresh credit at their disposal.

  I went back to Mickey’s financial statements. I studied his savings passbook, beginning to understand the regular withdrawals of $600 on dates that corresponded with his trips to the Tonk. I thought about Tim and the conversation we’d had about the second floor, where he was claiming he might add tables. In retrospect, I marveled at how carefully I’d been duped. He’d offered me the bait, the unlocked door, and the subsequent glimpse of what had appeared to be undeveloped floor space. I’d seen the bouncer scan the drivers’ licenses of those granted admission to the bar. Since the bar retained a copy of each credit card transaction, the numbers would have been easy enough to match to the drivers’ license data. I couldn’t guess at the whole of it, but there were people who’d know.

  I looked at my watch again. It was 1:55. I said, “Oh, shit.” I’d told Thea I’d meet her as soon as she got off work at two. I leapt up, shoved all the cards in my desk drawer and locked it, put Mickey’s phony IDS back in their hiding place. I grabbed my jacket and car keys. Within minutes, I was on 101, driving north again toward Colgate, restraining the temptation to put the gas pedal to the floor. Traffic was light, the freeway virtually deserted, but I knew this was the hour when the CHP would be out. I didn’t need a traffic stop or a speeding ticket. I found myself talking out loud, encouraging the VW’s performance, praying Thea would wait for me at the coffee shop until I arrived. The restaurant shared a parking lot with the bowling alley next door. Every slot was filled and I groaned as I circled, looking for a place. Finally, I left my car in a moderately legal spot. I cut the lights and the engine as I opened the car door and emerged. It was:13. I locked the car and then did a run/walk to the restaurant, pausing for breath as I hauled the door open and started looking for her.

  Thea sat at a back booth, smoking a cigarette. The harsh fluorescent lighting washed all the lines from her face, leaving her expression as blank as kabuki makeup.

  I slid into the seat across the table from her. “Thanks for waiting,” I said. “I was caught up in paperwork and lost track of the time.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “My life’s rapidly turning to shit anyway. What’s one more thing?”

  She seemed curiously withdrawn. My guess was she’d had too much time to reconsider. At the Honky-Tonk earlier, I could have sworn she’d confide. People with problems are generally relieved at the chance to unburden themselves. Catch them at the right moment and they’ll tell you anything you ask. I was kicking myself I hadn’t had the opportunity to take her aside then.

  I said, “Look, I know you’re pissed off because I didn’t own up to who I was, “

  “Among other things,” she said acidly. “I mean, give me a break. You’re a private detective, plus you’re Mickey’s ex-wife?”

  “But Thea, get serious. If I’d said that up front, would I have learned anything?”

  “Probably not,” she conceded. “But you didn’t have to lie.”

  “Of course I did. That was the only means I had of getting at the truth.”

  “What’s wrong with being straight? Or is that beyond you?”

  “
Me, straight! What about you? You’re the one screwing Mickey behind Scott’s back.”

  “You were screwing him too!”

  “Nope. Sorry. Wasn’t me.”

  She looked at me blankly. “But you said “Uh-uh. You might have leapt to that conclusion, but I never said as much.”

  You didn’t?”

  I shook my head.

  She started blinking, nonplused. “Then whose diaphragm was it?”

  “Good question. I just got the answer to that myself. It looks like dear Mickey was screwing someone else.”

  “Who?

  “I think I’d better keep mum, at this point.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Which part? You know he was seeing someone. You saw the evidence yourself. Of course, if you weren’t systematically betraying Scottie, you wouldn’t have to worry about these things.”

  Her gaze hung on mine.

  I said, “You don’t have to look quite so glum. He did the same thing to me. That’s just how he is.”

  “It’s not that. I just realized I didn’t mind so much when I thought it was you. At least you’d been married to him, so it didn’t feel so bad. Is he in love with this other woman?”

  “If he is, it didn’t stop him from picking up on you.”

  “Actually, I pursued him.”

  “Oh, boy. I hate to say this, but are you nuts? The man’s a barfly. He’s unemployed, and he’s older by what, fifteen years?”

  “He seemed, I don’t know, sexy and protective. He’s mature. Scottie’s temperamental, and he’s so self-involved. With Mickey, I felt safe. He loves women.”

  “Oh, sure. That’s why he betrays us every chance he gets. He loves each one of us better than the last, often at the same time but never for long. That’s how mature he is.”

  “You think he’s going to be okay? I’ve been worried to death, but I can’t get the hospital to say a word.”

  “I hope so, but really I have no idea.”

  “But you’re hooked in, aren’t you?”

  “I guess. What feels strange is I’d put him out of my mind. Honest, I hadn’t thought of him in years. Now that he’s down, he seems to be everywhere.”

  “I feel the same. I keep looking for him. The door at the Tonk opens and I think he’ll walk in.”

  “Why’d he keep coming back? Was it you or was something else going on?”

  “Don’t ask. I can’t help you. I mean, I care about Mickey, but not enough to put my life on the line.”

  “Isn’t it possible Scottie knows?”

  “About Mickey and me?”

  “That’s what we’re discussing,” I said patiently.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “How do you know it wasn’t Scott who shot Mickey?”

  “He wouldn’t do that. Anyway, his dad told us Mickey was gunned down two blocks from his apartment. Scottie doesn’t even know where Mickey lives.”

  “Well, that’s weak. I mean, think about it, Thea. Where was Scottie a week ago last Wednesday?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Was he with you?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. She stared at the table, going over it in her mind. “Tuesday, I was off. I wasn’t feeling good.”

  “Did you talk to Scott on the phone?”

  “No. I called and he was gone, so I left a message and he called me back the next day.”

  “In other words, he wasn’t with you that Tuesday night or early Wednesday morning. We’re talking May fourteenth.”

  Thea shook her head.

  “What about the next day? Did you see him then?”

  She stubbed out her cigarette. “I don’t remember every single day.”

  “Start with what you do remember. When did you see Scottie last?”

  Grudgingly, she said, “Monday. He and Tim had a meeting on Sunday. He drove up for the night and then left for L.A. the next day. I didn’t see him again until the weekend. That was Saturday a week ago. He drove up here yesterday and goes back to L.A. tomorrow.”

  “What about you? Were you with Mickey at all on the night he was shot?”

  She hesitated. “I went down to his apartment, but he was gone.”

  “Couldn’t Scottie have followed you? He could have hung out in town. Once you got in your car, all he had to do was tail you to Mickey’s.”

  She stared at me. “He wouldn’t have done that. I know you don’t like him, but that doesn’t make him bad.”

  “Really. You told me he’d kill you if he ever found out. “

  “When I said he’d kill me it was, what do you call it ���”

  “Figurative.

  “Figurative,” she repeated. “Scottie wouldn’t actually shoot anyone.”

  “Maybe his motive was something more serious.”

  “Like what?”

  “A scam.”

  Thea’s face underwent a shift. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “Then let’s change the subject. The first time I came in, Thursday of this week, Tim was pissed off at you. What was that about?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Are Tim and Scottie partners?”

  “You’d have to ask them.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “I don’t have a comment.”

  “Why? Are you involved in it too?”

  “I gotta go,” she said abruptly. I watched as she gathered up her jacket and her purse. She studiously avoided looking at me as she slid out of the booth.

  It was:45 when I finally crawled into bed. I woke at 6 A.M. from long habit, nearly rolling out for my jog until I remembered it was Sunday. I lay for a moment, looking up at the skylight. The sun must have been close to rising because the sky was growing lighter as though a dimmer were being turned up. I felt oddly hungover for someone who’d drunk so little. It had to be the smoky bar, the conversation with Duffy, and tension between me and Thea, not to mention the late-night theorizing and driving around at all hours. I got up and brushed my teeth, took two aspirin with a big glass of water, and then returned to bed. In less than a minute, I was sleeping again. My bladder woke me at ten. I did an inner-body survey, checking for symptoms of headache, nausea, and weariness. Nothing seemed to be amiss and I decided I could face life, but only with the promise of a nap later on.

  I went through my usual morning routine: showered, donned my sweats, and made a pot of coffee. I read most of the Sunday paper, then wrapped myself in a quilt and settled on the couch with my book. Turned out to be nap time at 1 P.M. and I slept until five. I climbed up the spiral stairs and checked myself in the bathroom mirror. My hair, as I suspected, was mashed flat on one side and sticking up in clumps on the other like dried palm fronds. I stuck my head under running water and emerged moments later with a more refined arrangement. I stripped off my sweats and pulled on a turtleneck and jeans, gym socks, my Sauconys, and Mickey’s jacket. I picked up my shoulder bag, locked the door behind me, and crossed the patio to Henry’s, where I tapped on his back door. There was no immediate response, but I realized the bathroom window was open a few inches, and I could hear sounds of a shower. Steam wafted out scented with soap and shampoo. I knocked on the window a familiar rat-a-tat-tat.

  From inside, Henry yelled, “Yo!”

  “Hey, Henry. It’s me. I’m on my way to Rosie’s for supper. Want to come?”

  “I’ll be there in a jiffy. Soon as I’m done in here.”

  I walked the half block to Rosie’s, arriving at five-thirty, just as she was opening for business. We exchanged pleasantries, which in her case consisted of abrasive comments about my weight, my hair, and my marital status. I suppose Rosie’s a mother figure, but only if you favor the sort that appear in Grimm’s fairy tales. It was her avowed intention to fatten me up, get me a decent haircut, and a spouse. She knows perfectly well I’ve never met with success in that department, but she says eventually (meaning when I’m old and dotty, demented, and infir
m) I’ll need someone to look after me. I suggested a visiting nurse, but she didn’t think that was funny. Then again, why should she? I was serious.

  I sat down in my usual booth with a glass of puckery white wine. It’s hellish to learn the difference between good wine and bad. Henry wandered in soon after, and we let Rosie browbeat us into a Sunday night supper that consisted of savanyu marhahus (hot pickled beef to you, pal) and kirantott karfiol tejfolos martassal, which is deep-fried cauliflower smothered in sour cream. While we mopped up our plates with some of Henry’s homemade bread, I filled him in on the events of the past few days. I must say, the situation didn’t seem any clearer when I’d laid it out to him.

  “If Mickey and Mrs. Hightower are having an affair, her husband had as much reason to shoot him as Thea’s boyfriend,” he pointed out.

  “Maybe so,” I replied, “but I got the impression Eric had made his peace with her. I keep thinking there’s more, something I haven’t thought of yet.”

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  “Not that I know, but thanks.” I glanced up as the door opened and the waiter from the Hightowers’ party came in with a hardback book under one arm. He wore a tweed sport coat over a black turtleneck, dark trousers, and loafers polished to a fare-thee-well. Having seen him in his white jacket serving drinks the night before, it took a moment to come up with his name.

  I turned to Henry as I rose. “Can you excuse me for a minute? There’s someone I need to talk to.”

  “Not a problem. I’ve been itching to finish this,” he said. He brought out a neatly folded copy of the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle and a ballpoint pen. I could see he was half done, completing the answers in a spiral pattern, starting at the edges and working toward the center. Sometimes he wrote in the answers leaving out every other letter because he liked the way it looked.

  Stewart was passing the booth when he caught sight of me. “Well, hello. How are you? I wondered if you’d be here.”