H is for HOMICIDE

by Sue Grafton

  “Does he have other brothers?”

  “Juan and Ricardo. They were here yesterday.”

  “What about parents?”

  “His father was sent to prison for child abuse. He was killed in prison when they heard what he did to Raymond.”

  “Which was what?”

  Luis looked up at me. “He don’t talk about that and I don’t ask.” He went back to his saucepan, stirring hypnotically. “His mother ran off and left when he was seven or eight.”

  “He’s the oldest?”

  “Of the boys. There’s three older sisters hate his ass. They think it’s his fault what happened to the parents.”

  “Another happy childhood,” I said. “How long have you known him?”

  “Six, eight months. I met him through a capper of his named Jesus.”

  Bibianna appeared in the doorway, a blanket across her shoulders like an Indian. “Raymond back yet?”

  Luis shook his head.

  She disappeared again, and a short time later I could hear shower water running. Luis left the sauce to simmer on the stove and prepared to take the dog for a walk. When he picked up the chain, he discovered the chewed leather section of the leash. Under his breath, I heard him murmur a worried “Shit.” I kept my mouth shut, imagining I might engender a sense of loyalty in the mutt. Luis found another way to attach the leash to Perro’s collar, and the two left the apartment.

  Bibianna reappeared, fully dressed this time. She found a dog-eared deck of cards and sat on the floor next to the coffee table, where she laid out a game of solitaire. I considered hunting for the phone, but I didn’t want to call Dolan with Bibianna close by. The less she knew about who I was, the better. I flipped on the television set. The day already had an odd feel to it ��� idle, unstructured, without purpose or appeal ��� like a forced vacation in a cutrate resort.

  Bibianna seemed preoccupied and I hated to cut into that, but we seldom had time alone and I needed information.

  “How often does he get violent?” I asked.

  She turned a dark look on me. “Not every day. Sometimes two or three times a week,” she insisted. “I talked to Chago about it once and he told me it started when Raymond was just a little kid. He’d blink his eyes and then the twitches started and pretty soon he was barking and coughing. His father figured he was doing it on purpose, just to get attention, so he used to beat him up. He did some other stuff, too, which got him thrown into prison. Poor Raymond. He was hyperactive in school, in trouble all the time. It’s probably why his mother left…”

  “And he’s done it ever since? The whole time you’ve known him?”

  “He got better for a while, but then it started up again, worse than before.”

  “Can’t the doctors do anything?”

  “What doctors? He doesn’t see doctors. Sometimes sex calms him down. Booze or sleep, dope. Once he got the flu and had a fever a hundred and three. He was fine, no problem, never even had a twitch. He was great for two days. Flu went away, he was at it again, this time licking his lips, doing this weird thing with his hands. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s depressing.”

  Raymond returned just before lunch with a folded newspaper and a bag of doughnuts. Luis and the dog came in right behind him. If Raymond was in mourning for his brother, I saw no signs of it. The ticcing seemed less evident today, but I couldn’t be sure. He left the room at intervals and I began to suspect he was venting in the other room. That or shooting up. I was just getting into a really trashy soap, my bare legs thrown over the arm of the chair, sandal flapping on one foot, when he and Luis sat down at the kitchen table, talking softly in Spanish. During the next commercial, I went into the kitchen and got myself a glass of water. I paused, peering over Raymond’s shoulder to see what they were up to. It was pure nosiness on my part, but he didn’t seem to mind. What I’d thought was the daily paper turned out to be a throwaway rag filled with classifieds. Luis flipped to the automobile section and folded back the pages. I checked the dateline. Thursday, October 27. These were probably new listings for the weekend coming up. Luis skipped over the trucks, vans, and imports and concentrated on the domestic cars for sale.

  “Here’s one,” Luis said. With a Magic Marker, he circled an ad for a 1979 Caddy. I leaned closer, reading, “Good condition. $999. OBO.”

  “What’s OBO?” I asked. I knew, but I wanted to demonstrate some interest and I thought showing ignorance was the safest bet.

  “Or best offer,” Raymond said. “You want a Cadillac?”

  “Who, me? Not especially.”

  “I like that Chrysler Cordoba,” Raymond said to Luis, pointing to the next box. Luis drew a wobbly-sided egg around the ad for a “77 white, runs/looks great. $895/obo.” A telephone number was listed on both ads.

  Raymond got up and left the room, returning with the telephone, which he plugged into the wall jack. I pulled up a chair and sat down. Luis continued to circle ads while Raymond placed call after call, inquiring about each car that interested them, making note of the address. When this exercise was complete and they’d culled out the ads of interest, Luis made a list on a separate piece of paper.

  Raymond glanced at me. “You have car insurance?”

  “Sure.”

  “What kind?”

  I shrugged. “Whatever the state of California requires. I’ve been thinking I should drop it since my car’s dead. Why?”

  “You have liability and collision?”

  “How do I know? I don’t walk around with the details of my car insurance memorized. The policy’s up in Santa Teresa.”

  “Can’t your insurance company give you the information?”

  “Sure. If they looked it up.”

  “Might be worth it to get your car fixed if you got collision coverage.” Raymond lifted the telephone receiver and held it out to me. “Call ‘em.”

  “Right now?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all,” I said with an uneasy laugh. I could feel my heart start to bang in my chest. The thumping felt so conspicuous I checked to see if my T-shirt was pulsating in the front. For a moment my mind went blank. I couldn’t remember California Fidelity’s number, I couldn’t remember the contact number Dolan had given me, and I couldn’t decide which to try in any event. I took the receiver.

  I punched in the 805 area code, hoping for the best. Automatically, my fingers moved across the face of the telephone, dialing CF in a medley of musical tones that sounded like “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” I wondered if Dolan had been in touch with Mac Voorhies. Was I going to have my cover blown right here on the spot?

  The number rang twice. Darcy answered. I hoped I didn’t sound like myself when I said, “May I speak to Mr. Voorhies?”

  “Just a moment, please. I’ll ring his office.” She clicked off. Music played in the background, filling telephone limbo with an orchestrated rendition of “How High the Moon.” Inexplicably, the lyrics popped into my head unbidden. I thought about Dawna, wondering how long the cops could hold her. Wounded or not, she was dangerous.

  Chapter 15

  *

  Mac came on the line. “Voorhies.”

  “Mr. Voorhies, my name is Hannah Moore. I have car insurance with your company and I wanted to check on my coverage.”

  There was dead silence. I knew he recognized my voice. Raymond leaned his head close to mine, angling the phone so he could listen to the conversation.

  Mac hesitated. I could hear him grope with the request, trying to figure out what was going on and what he could say without jeopardizing my situation, whatever that might be. He knew me well enough to realize I wouldn’t make such a call without a good reason. “Is this regarding an automobile accident?” he asked cautiously.

  “Well, no. I, uhm, might be driving a friend’s car and he doesn’t like the idea unless he knows I’m covered.” Raymond’s face was six inches away from mine. I could smell his after-shave and feel the warm, slightly adenoidal cha
racter of his breath.

  “I can understand that. Is your friend there now?” Mac asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you have the policy number handy?”

  “Uh, no. But the agent is Con Dolan.”

  Raymond drew back and reached for a piece of paper, scratching out a note. “Ask about collision.” I hate it when people coach me when I’m on the phone. He pointed significantly. I waved at him with irritation.

  “Uh, it’s really the collision I need to know about,” I amended.

  Another awkward pause. I smiled at Raymond wanly while Mac cleared his throat. “I tell you what I’ll do, Miss…”

  “Moore.”

  “Yes, all right. Why don’t I see if I can get in touch with Mr. Dolan. He’s no longer with the company, but I’m sure he’s still in town. I can check our files for the coverage and get back to you. Is there a number where you can be reached this afternoon?”

  Raymond pulled his head back and put a finger to his lips.

  I said, “Not really. I’m staying with this guy in Los Angeles, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be here. I could call again later if you’ll tell me what time.”

  “Try five this afternoon. I should have the information by then.”

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate it.” I handed Raymond the receiver and he hung it up.

  “What’d he say?”

  “He’s going to check. I’m supposed to call him back this afternoon at five.”

  “But as far as you know the insurance is in effect.”

  “I told you it was.”

  Raymond and Luis exchanged a look. Raymond looked over his shoulder at Bibianna, still intent on her game of solitaire. “Get your jacket. We’re going out.” And then to me. “You need a jacket? She’ll give you one.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “We’re going on a drive-down.”

  “Whatever that is,” I said.

  We took Sepulveda Boulevard up to Culver City, with Luis at the wheel. Bibianna was being sullen, sitting silently in the backseat with her arms crossed while Raymond either made calls on the car phone or rubbed, petted, and generally annoyed her, rambling on about all the money he meant to make, all the things he’d done, and all the big plans he had for the two of them. I had to give that guy some lessons. He was going about this all wrong. Aside from the fact that (unknown to him) she was already Mrs. Jimmy Tate, she was never going to tumble to all the smoke he was blowing. Women don’t want to sit around listening to guys talk about themselves. Women like to have conversations about real things, like feelings ��� namely, theirs. Raymond seemed to think he just hadn’t persuaded her yet of the depth of his affection. I wanted to scream, “She knows that, you dummy! She just doesn’t give a shit.” We pulled up at the first address. The ‘79 Caddy was parked at the curb, a black Seville, being offered by a muscular black guy with a pink shower cap, a tattooed teardrop on his cheek, and a gold hoop through his left ear. Honestly, I’m not making this stuff up. He wore a T-shirt and low-slung jeans, with his Calvin Kleins sticking out above his belt. He was actually very cute with a mustache and goatee, a mischievous smile, and a little space between his teeth. Bibianna stayed in the car, but I got out and stood around with the guys, shifting from foot to foot while the three of them entered into a long and tedious negotiation. Raymond went through several sequences of ticcing, but the black guy didn’t react except to stop making eye contact. I could see that in some circles, Raymond would be treated like a walking basket case. I wanted to speak up protectively and say, “Hey, the guy can’t help it, okay?”

  The OBO turned out to be a hundred dollars less than the $999 listed in the paper. Raymond turned his body slightly and took out a fat cylinder of bills with a rubber band wrapped around them. He slipped the rubber band over his wrist while he peeled off the right denominations. The pink slip was signed and changed hands, but I couldn’t believe Raymond was actually going to take it down to the DMV. Habitual criminals never seem to be troubled about things like that. They do anything they please while the rest of us feel compelled to play by the rules.

  The black guy strolled off as soon as the transaction was completed. Raymond and Luis made a study of the car, which seemed to be in reasonable shape. Chrome flakes were peeling off the bumper and the right rear taillight had been smashed. The tires were bald, but the body didn’t show any major dents. The interior was gray, a rip in the passenger seat neatly sutured with black thread. The floor, front and back, was littered with fast-food containers, empty soft drink cans, crushed cigarette packs, newspapers. Luis took a few minutes to shove it all into the gutter, emptying the ashtray in a little mountain of cigarette butts.

  “What do you think?” Raymond asked me.

  I couldn’t imagine why my opinion mattered. “Looks better than anything I ever drove.”

  He stuck a finger in the key ring and flipped the keys into his palm. “Hop in. Bibianna goes with him.”

  I glanced over at the dark green Ford where Bibianna sat. She was perched up on the backseat, using the rearview mirror to braid her dark, glossy hair. “Fine with me,” I said.

  I got into the Caddy.

  Raymond got in on the driver’s side and slipped his seat belt on. “Buckle up,” he said. “We’re going to have an accident.”

  “Is this car insured? We just bought the damn thing,” I said with surprise.

  “Don’t worry about that stuff. I can call my agent later. He does anything I want.”

  I buckled up, trying to picture myself in a neck brace.

  The transmission was automatic. The car had power locks and power brakes, power windows. Raymond started the engine, which thrummed to life. He adjusted the rearview mirror and waited while a silver Toyota passed at cruising speed before he pulled into the lane of traffic.

  I tried the power windows, which went up with a quiet hum. “How do we do this?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  We seemed to drive randomly, taking Venice Boulevard through Palms, turning right on Sepulveda into an area called Mar Vista. These were neighborhoods of small stucco bungalows with small yards and tired trees with leaves that were oxygen-starved from all the smog in the air. Raymond watched the streets like a cop looking for the telltale indications of a crime in progress.

  “What makes this a drive-down?”

  “That’s just what we call it when we’re out cruising for an accident. Car’s called a bucket. I got a fleet of buckets, a whole crew of drivers doing just what we’re doing. You’re a ghost.”

  I smiled. “Why’s that?”

  “Because you don’t get paid, therefore you don’t exist.”

  “How come I don’t get paid?”

  “You’re a trainee. You’re just here to beef up the head count.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I said. I turned and looked out the window on the passenger side. “So, what are we looking for?”

  Raymond glanced at me sharply, suspicion etched in his “I’m just trying to learn,” I said.

  “A victim. We call ‘em vies,” he replied in belated answer to my question. “Somebody running a stop sign, backing out of a drive into the right-of-way, pulling out of a parking space…”

  “And then what?”

  He smiled to himself. “We hit the guy. You want to catch the rear quarter panel because the damage shows up nice and nobody gets hurt.”

  We drove around for an hour, unable to conjure up a traffic offender for the life of us. I could see that Raymond was impatient, but oddly enough, there was no twitching whatever during the time in the car. Maybe work was soothing to his battered nervous system. “Let me try,” I said.

  “You serious?”

  “If I score, I want the money. What’s it pay?”

  “A hundred bucks a day.”

  “You’re full of shit. I bet you make a fortune and I want a fair shake.”

  “Pushy bitch,” he said mildly.

  We traded places. I took a mome
nt to slide the front seat a little closer to the gas pedal and the brake. I eased the Caddy into traffic. By then, we’d worked our way up Lincoln Boulevard to the outskirts of Santa Monica. At Pico, I cut left, picking up Ocean Avenue at San Vicente. Raymond hadn’t paid much attention, but when he saw the direction I was taking, he looked at me with surprise. “What’s wrong with Venice?”

  “Why not Beverly Hills?” I asked. At first the idea seemed to unsettle him, but he could see the possibilities. We worked our way up to Sunset Boulevard and headed east, passing the northern perimeter of the sprawling UCLA campus. Just past the Beverly Hills Hotel, I took a right onto Rexford. I found it soothing to cruise along the wide tree-lined streets. This was an area known as the “flats” of Beverly Hills. The houses were oversize and filled the lots from side to side. All the lawns were green, the shrubs trimmed, gardeners blowing errant leaves down the driveways. Shade trees were planted along the grassy stretch between sidewalk and street, sycamores interspersed with oaks. High fences shielded the backyard tennis courts from sight. Now and then, I caught a glimpse of a swimming pool and cabana. The stoplight at Santa Monica Boulevard was green. I drove the Caddy sedately into the heart of the Beverly Hills shopping district.

  Technically, I knew I was skating on thin ice with this drive-down. The only thing I remembered about undercover work from police academy days is that it’s against “public policy” for an officer of the law to participate in the commission of a crime or incite someone to do so. Happily, I wasn’t actually an officer of the law, and if it ever came right down to it, it would be Raymond’s word against mine. Helping Raymond stage a few fraudulent accidents seemed to me the quickest way to persuade him I was on the up-and-up.

  Raymond stared out the window, his manner uneasy. “You’re never going to find any business up here.”

  “Want to bet?” I had just spotted a late-model Mercedes pulling out of a parking lot in the middle of the block, left turn signal blinking. The car was a four-door sedan, a conservative black with a vanity plate that read BULL MKT. The woman driving was probably forty years old, with a cap of blond hair and big round sunglasses pulled down toward the tip of her nose. I slowed the Caddy, mentally apologizing for my sins in advance. I came to a full stop and politely waved her out. She gave me a quick wave and a smile, showing perfect caps. “What are you doing!”