O is for OUTLAW

by Sue Grafton

  “Can I talk to you?”

  “Be my guest,” he said, gesturing toward the booth where he traditionally sat. I gave Henry’s arm a squeeze, which he barely noticed, given his level of concentration. Stewart waited till I was seated and then sat down across from me, the book on the seat beside him.

  “What’s the book?” I asked.

  He picked it up, holding the spine toward me so I could read the title, The Conjure-Man Dies by Rudolph Fisher. “I usually read biography, but I thought I’d try something new. Detective novel written in the early thirties. Black protagonist.”

  “Is it good?”

  “Haven’t decided yet. I’m just getting into it. It’s interesting.”

  Rosie appeared. She stood by the table, her eyes fixed on the far wall, avoiding the sight of us. I noticed she was wearing slippers with her bright blue cotton muumuu.

  Stewart reached for the menu and said, “Good evening, Rosie. How’re you doing? Any specials I should hear about?”

  “You tell him is good, the pickled beef,” she said. Rosie can speak in perfect order the English when it suits her purposes. Tonight, for some reason, she was behaving like someone recently admitted to this country on a temporary visa. She seldom addresses men directly unless she’s flirting with them. A similar inhibition applies to strangers and women, children, the hired help, and people who pop in and ask directions of her. She might answer your question, but she won’t look.

  I said, “The pickled beef is great. Fabulous. And the deep-fried cauliflower is not to be believed.”

  “I think I’ll have that,” Stewart said, setting aside the menu.

  “What to drink?” she asked.

  “Try the white wine. It’s piquant. The perfect complement to pickled beef,” I said.

  “Sounds good. I’ll try it.”

  Rosie nodded and departed while Stewart shook his head. “I wish I had the nerve to order something else. That Hungarian stuff is for the birds. I come here because it’s quiet, especially on Sundays. I go home with indigestion keeps me up half the night. Now what can I do for you?”

  I need to ask you about the Hightowers.”

  “What about them?” he asked, with a caution that didn’t bode well for me.

  I took a deep breath. “Here’s the deal,” I said. “My ex-husband was shot in Los Angeles. This was in the early morning hours, May fourteenth. He’s currently in a coma, with no clear indication he’ll pull out of it. For various reasons too complicated to go into, I’m trying to figure out what happened. Obviously, the cops are too.” I was watching his eyes: intelligent, attentive, giving, nothing away. I went on. “Both the Hightowers know Mickey, and I’m trying to determine if there’s a link.”

  “What’s your question for me? Because some things I’ll tell you and some I won’t.”

  “I understand. Fair enough. What’s your job?”

  “My job?”

  “Yeah, what do you actually do for them?”

  “Chauffeur, handyman. I wait table sometimes.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  “It’ll be two years in June. Same as Clifton. He tends bar at parties like the one they had last night. Otherwise, he manages the house and handles general maintenance. All the major repairs are hired out, but it seems like there’s always something broken or in need of adjustment.”

  “What about Stephanie? Does she work for both of them or just Dixie?”

  “She’s Mrs. H’s personal assistant. She comes in Mondays and Thursdays, noon to five or five-thirty. Mr. H takes care of his business on his own. Phone calls and letters, personal appointments. He keeps it all up here,” he said, tapping his head.

  “I take it there’s a cook, as well?”

  “Cook and cleaning crew. There’s two women do the laundry and another one does flowers. Plus the gardeners, the pool guy. I wash the cars and Mr. H’s van. Clifton and the cook, her name’s Ima, both live on the property. The rest of us live out and come in as needed.”

  “Which is when?”

  “It varies. I’m usually not there during the week. Fridays and Saturdays I’m always on call, especially if the two of them are going out. Other times Mr. H prefers to drive himself. Mrs. H likes the car. They have a six-passenger limo she enjoys.”

  “Did you drive either one of them to Los Angeles last week?”

  “I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t go down on their own.”

  “You know Mickey Magruder? Goodlooking guy, in his fifties, an ex-cop?”

  “Doesn’t sound familiar. What’s his connection?”

  “We go way back, the four of us. More than fifteen years. Mickey and Dixie were having an affair back then. I have reason to believe they’ve rekindled the flame. I’m wondering if Eric knew.”

  Stewart thought briefly; then he shook his head. “I don’t carry tales.”

  “I can appreciate that. Is there anything you can tell me?”

  “I think you’d do better asking one of them,” he said.

  “What about the marriage? Do they get along okay? “

  Again, Stewart paused, and I could see the conflict between his knowledge and his reticence. “Not of late,” he said.

  Chapter 23

  *

  That was as much as I was able to get from him. I must say I admired his loyalty, though it was frustrating. The evening wasn’t completely unproductive. Henry’s point was well taken. If jealousy was the motive for the shooting, the number of suspects had just increased. Eric Hightower was in the mix and Thea was another candidate, though not a particularly strong one. She’d risked a lot for Mickey, and while she professed her care and concern, that might have been laid on for my benefit. Dixie was another possibility. What would she have done if she’d discovered Mickey’s affair with Thea?

  The problem was, it all seemed so melodramatic. These people were grown-ups. I found it hard to picture any of them lurking in the shadows, plugging away at Mickey with my gun. It’s not like you don’t read about such things in the daily paper, but the scenario left too many things unexplained. For instance, who was Duncan Oaks? How was he related to events? Was Mickey on the trail of the person or persons responsible for Benny’s fatal beating?

  We left Rosie’s at eight, Henry and I, walking home in the dark without saying much. Once back in my apartment, I sat down at my desk yet again and reviewed my notes. Within minutes, I realized my heart wasn’t in it. I made a pile of cards and shuffled, dealing myself a tarot reading of the data I’d collected. No insights emerged, and I finally packed it in. Maybe tomorrow I’d be smarter. There was always the outside chance.

  Six A.M. Monday morning, I rolled out of bed, pulled on sweats, brushed my teeth, and went for a three-mile jog. The predawn light was gorgeous: the ocean luminous blue, the sky above it orange, fading to a thin layer of yellow, then a clear blue sky beyond. Along the horizon, the oil rigs sparkled like an irregular line of diamond scatter pins. The absence of cloud cover eliminated any special effects when the sun finally rose, but the day promised to be sunny and that was sufficient for me. When I finished the run, I headed over to the gym, where I variously stretched, curled, extended, crunched, hyperextended, pressed, pecked, pushed, shrugged, raised, pulled down, and pulled up weights. At the end of it, I felt keen.

  I went home and showered, emerging from the apartment at nine in my jeans, ready to face the day. I drove my car north on 101, taking the offramp that put me in range of the county offices adjacent to the VA. I parked and went into the Architectural Archives, where I gave the Honky-Tonk’s address and asked to see whatever drawings and blueprints they had on hand. I was given a set of progress prints showing the vicinity plan, site plan, demolition plan, foundation and framing plans, elevations, and electrical legend. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for. I returned the prints and headed for the parking lot where I’d seen a pay phone.

  I dialed directory assistance and asked for the number of the Secret Service
in L.A., the offices of which were actually listed as part of the U.S. Treasury Department. In addition to the L.A. number, I was given a telephone number for the agency in Perdido. I charged the call to my credit card, punching in the Perdido number. The phone rang once.

  “Secret Service,” a woman said.

  How secret could it be if she was willing to blurt it out that way?

  I asked to speak to an agent and she put me on hold. I stared out across the parking lot, listening to the sibilant ebb and flow of traffic on the highway. The morning was clear, the temperature in the 50s. I imagined by afternoon that would warm to the usual 70s. The line was picked up moments later, and a flatvoiced gentleman introduced himself. “This is Wallace Burkhoff. “

  I said, “I wonder if you can help me. I’m calling because I suspect there’s a credit card scam being operated from a bar in Colgate.”

  “What kind of scam?”

  “I’m not sure. A friend of mine ��� actually, my ex-husband ��� bought some phony documents from a fellow up here. I think the owner of the bar might be running a regular manufacturing plant.” I told him about the Honky-Tonk: the scanning device for drivers’ licenses and my guess about the matching of credit card charge slips to names on licenses. On the surface, it sounded thin, but he listened politely as I talked on. “A couple of days ago I saw a truck on the premises. Ten cartons had been unloaded and stacked in the corridor. The boxes were marked PlasStock, which the owner told me was plastic glassware and cutlery.”

  “Not quite.” Burkhoff laughed. “PlasStock specializes in commercial equipment for manufacturing plastic cards and blank card stock for medical ID cards and health club memberships.”

  “Really? My ex has three sets of fake IDs in his possession, including drivers’ licenses, social security cards, and a fistful of credit cards. I’m reasonably certain some of the data came from a regular bar patron, because I was introduced to the guy, and the name and approximate date of birth are the same.”

  “What’s his interest in acquiring phony IDs?”

  ‘He’s a former vice detective, and I think he picked up on the operation three or four months back. I mean, I can’t swear this is true, but I have the receipts he kept from a series of visits to the place and I also have the phony documents with his picture plastered all over them. “

  “Would he be willing to talk to us?”

  “He’s currently out of commission.” I told Agent Burkhoff about Mickey’s condition.

  “What about yourself?”

  “Hey, I’ve already told you as much as I know. This is outside my area of expertise. I’m just making the call. You can do with it as you please.”

  “Where’s their base of operation?”

  “I think it’s somewhere in the building. Yesterday, the owner set it up so I had a chance to see the second floor. It was empty, of course, but I did spot a number of electrical outlets. I don’t know what kind of equipment would be in use, “

  “I can tell you that,” he said. “Optical scanners, encoding machines, shredders, embossers, tippers that’s what puts the gold on the newly embossed numbers, laminators, hologram punch devices. You see anything like that?”

  “No, but I suspect they were operating in the space until a couple of days ago. I checked with the local architectural archives and took a look at the plans submitted when the owner applied for building permits. The structure’s one of the few in town with a basement and my guess is they moved the operation down there.”

  “Give me the particulars and we’ll check it out,” he said.

  I gave him the name and address of the Honky-Tonk and Tim’s name and home address. I added Scottie’s name to the mix, along with the dates Mickey’d been there and the names on the assortment of phony documents he had. “You need anything else?”

  “Your name, address, and phone.”

  “I’d prefer not,” I said. “But I’ll make copies of the IDs and put those in the mail to you.”

  “We’d appreciate that.”

  I hung up, hauled out the telephone book, found my travel agent’s number, and put a couple of coins in the slot. I told her I needed plane tickets for Louisville and gave her my budget limitations.

  “How much?”

  I said, “Five hundred dollars?”

  She said, “You’re joking.”

  I assured her I wasn’t. She tapped the information into her computer. After much silence, many sighs, and some additional clicks, she told me the best she could do was an airline that had been in business for less than two years and was offering a no-frills flight to Louisville out of LAX with only two connections, Santa Fe and Tulsa. There was no advance seat assignment, no movie, and no meal service. She assured me the company hadn’t filed for bankruptcy (yet) and hadn’t reported any major flaming crashes to date. The point was I could get there for $577.

  I had her book me on an early morning flight, leaving the return ticket open since I really had no idea how long my inquiry would take. Basically, I’d make it up as I went along. In addition to the plane fare, I reserved a rental car at the airport in Louisville. I’d find a motel when I got there, preferably something cheap. At the end of this, if nothing else, my debt of guilt with regard to Mickey would be paid in full. I went home, packed a duffel, and chatted briefly with Henry, letting him know I’d be gone for some indeterminate period. I also put a call through to Cordia Hatfield, telling her of my arrival later in the afternoon.

  I stopped by the travel agent’s and picked up my ticket, then drove over to the office, where I spent the balance of the morning getting life in order in case I didn’t make it back. The drive to Culver City was uneventful, and I parked in the alley behind Mickey’s building at 4:55. I left the duffel in the car, not wanting to seem presumptuous about staying overnight. Cordia had extended an invitation, but she hadn’t seemed that thrilled.

  I knocked on the Hatfields’ door, wondering if they’d hear me over the blare of the TV set. I waited a moment and then knocked again. The sound was cut and Cordia opened the door.

  I’d last seen the two sisters on Thursday, only four days before, but something in her manner seemed different. She stepped back, allowing me to enter. The apartment, as before, was uncomfortably warm, the temperature close to 80, windows fogged over with condensation. Steam curled from a pot simmering on the stove. The bubbling liquid was cloudy, and a collar of scum had collected on the surface. The air smelled of singed pork and something else, unfamiliar but faintly dunglike. The TV had been muted, but the picture remained: the late afternoon news with its steady diet of calamities. Belmira seemed transfixed. She sat at the kitchen table, tarot deck in hand, while under her chair, Dorothy chewed on a bony bundle of something crunchy and dead.

  “Is this a bad time?” I asked.

  “As good as any,” Cordia said.

  “Because I can come back later if it’s more convenient. “

  “This is fine.” She wore a long-sleeved cotton housedress in shades of mauve and gray with a smocklike apron over it, trailing almost to the floor. She turned to the stove, reaching for a slotted spoon that she used to adjust ingredients in the boiling water. Something floated to the surface: heart-shaped skull, short body, not a lot of meat on it. I could have sworn it was a squirrel.

  “How have you two been?” I said, hoping for an answer that would clue me in.

  “Good. We’re fine. What can we do for you?”

  Abrupt, to the point, not entirely friendly, I thought. “I’m on my way out of town, and I need to check Mickey’s for something someone left with him.”

  Her tone was aggrieved. “Again? You were just up there last night. We saw lights on till close to midnight. “

  “At Mickey’s? Not me. I was in Santa Teresa all weekend. I haven’t been here since Thursday morning.”

  She looked at me.

  “Cordia, I swear. If I’d wanted to get in, I’d have asked for the key. I wouldn’t go in without permission.”

&nbs
p; “You did the first time.”

  “But that was before we met. You’ve been very helpful to me. I wouldn’t do that behind your back.”

  “Suit yourself. I won’t argue. I can’t prove it.”

  “But why would I be here now if I’d already been in last night? That doesn’t make sense.”

  She reached into her pocket and took out the key. “Return it when you’re done and let’s hope this is the last of it.”

  I took the key, aware that her manner was still stony and unyielding. I felt terrible.

  Belmira said, “Oh, my dear!” She’d turned over four cards. The first was the Page of Swords, which I knew now was me. The remaining three cards were the Devil, the Moon, and Death. Well, that was cheering. Belmm looked up at me, distressed.

  Cordia moved quickly to the table and snatched up the cards. She crossed to the sink, opened the cabinet under it, and tossed the deck in the trash. “I asked you to quit reading. She doesn’t believe in tarot. She told you that last week.”

  I said, “Cordia, really, “Go on up to the apartment and be done with it,” she snapped.

  Belmira’s misery was palpable, but she didn’t dare defy Cordia. Nor did I, for that matter. I tucked the key in my pocket and let myself out. Before the door closed behind me, I could hear Bel protesting her loss.

  I unlocked Mickey’s front door and let myself in. His drapes were still closed, blocking the light except for a narrow gap between panels where the late afternoon sun cut like a laser, warming the interior. The air was dense with dust motes and carried the moldy scent of unoccupied space. I stood for a moment, taking in the scene. With no one to clean the place, many surfaces were still smudged with fingerprint powder. If someone had been in the apartment the night before, there were no obvious signs. I skipped the rubber gloves this time and did a quick walk-through. On the surface, it was just as I’d seen it last. I paused in the bedroom door. A small gauzy piece of cloth trailed out from under the bed. I got down on my hands and knees, lifted the bottom of the spread, and peeked under the bed. Someone had systematically removed the fabric covering the bottom of the box spring, and it lay on the carpet like a skin shed by a snake. I knelt by the bed and lifted one corner of the mattress. I could see a line where the fabric had been scored by something sharp. I lifted the bulk of the mattress, turning it over with the sheets still in place. The underside had been gutted, slit the entire length at ten-inch intervals. Stuffing boiled out, cotton tufts protruding where the thickness had been searched. There was something both sly and savage in the evisceration. I did what I could to restore the bed to a state of tidiness.