Sue Grafton Novel Collection

by Sue Grafton

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Pudgie. That’s why he went to prison. For killing Cathy Lee Pearse.”

  “Not her. Another one. This was after he killed her.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “He’s bragging about what happens to any bitch tries to cross him. He said he picked up this chick in a bar. She had some dope on her and the two of them got loose. They go out to the parking lot to play grab ass, but she turns all sour on him and starts giving him a hard time, which pisses him off. When she refuses to put out, he offs her and sticks her in the trunk of Cathy Lee’s car. He drives around with her two days, but he’s worried she’ll start to stink, so he dumps her when he gets to Lompoc.”

  “Where’d he pick her up?”

  “What bar? Don’t know. He never said. He didn’t mention the town, either. I’d guess Santa Teresa. It had to’ve been before he hit Lompoc because that’s where he got caught.”

  “What about the dump site? Did he say where that was?”

  “Some place outside town where she wouldn’t be found. I guess they managed to nail him on Cathy Lee, but nobody knew about the other one, so he was free and clear on that.”

  “What made you suddenly remember? This doesn’t sound like something that would slip your mind.”

  “It didn’t ‘slip my mind,’” he said, offended. “You’re the one came to me. I never offered to snitch. I didn’t ‘suddenly’ do anything. I remembered the minute his name came up.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me then?”

  “We’d only just met. How’d I know I could trust you? I had to think about that.”

  “What made you decide to tell me?”

  “I probably should’ve kept my mouth shut if it comes right down to it. Frankie’s a bad-ass. Word leaks out and my sorry butt is fried. He’s not a guy you fuck with and expect to live.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Did he say anything else?”

  “Not that I remember offhand. Time, I didn’t pay much attention. Jail, everybody brags about stuff like that. It’s mostly bullshit, so I didn’t attach anything to it. I mean, I did, but then that’s the last I ever heard of it. Now you’re saying some girl’s body was dumped and right away I think about him.”

  “You’re sure about this.”

  “No, I’m not sure. He might’ve made the whole thing up. How the hell should I know? You said call and I did.”

  I thought about it briefly. This could be a hustle, though for the life of me, I couldn’t see what Pudgie was getting out of it. “That’s not much to go on.”

  “Well, I can’t help you there.”

  “How’d he kill her?”

  “Knife, I guess. Said he stabbed her, wrapped her up, and stuck her in the trunk. Soon as he got to Lompoc, he pitched her off the side of the road and hightailed it out of there. By the time the cops picked him up he figured he was safe. All they cared about was nailing him for Cathy Lee.”

  “Did he know the girl?”

  “I doubt it. He didn’t talk like he did.”

  “Because I’m curious about his motive.”

  “You gotta be kidding. Frankie doesn’t need a motive. She could’ve looked at him funny or called him a pencil dick. If she knew he was on the run, she might’ve threatened to turn him in.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “I’ll have to give this some thought. Where are you calling from?”

  “A place I hang out in Creosote. My sis drove up from the desert and brought me back to her house.”

  “Is there any way I can reach you if I need to get in touch?”

  He gave me a number with an area code.

  I said, “Thanks. This could be a big help.”

  “Where’s Frankie now?”

  “I’m not sure. We’ve heard he’s in town.”

  “You mean the fucker’s out?”

  “Sure, he’s been paroled.”

  “You never said that. Oh, shit. You have to swear you won’t tell him where you heard this. And don’t ask me to testify in court because I won’t.”

  “Pudgie, you couldn’t testify in court. This is all hearsay. You didn’t see him do anything so quit worrying. I’ll tell the two cops I’m working with, but that’s the end of it.”

  “I hope I haven’t made a mistake.”

  “Relax. You’re fine.”

  “You buy me those cigarettes?”

  “No, but I owe you a bunch.”

  Dolan picked me up at the office Tuesday morning at 10:00. I’d managed my usual 6:00 A.M. run, after which I’d showered and dressed. I had coffee and a quick bowl of cereal, making it into the office by 8:35. By the time I heard Dolan’s car horn, I’d finished catching up on all the odds and ends on my desk. Dolan had the good grace to toss his cigarette out the window as soon as I got in. Stacey’s biopsy had been scheduled for 7:45, but neither of us wanted to talk about that. After I’d wrenched open the car door on the passenger side and hauled it shut again, I told Dolan about Pudgie’s call.

  He said, “Don’t know what to make of it. What do you think?”

  “I’d love to believe him, but I’m not sure how credible he is for a jailhouse snitch. He did seem to have a couple of the details right.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, he knew she’d been stabbed and he knew she’d been wrapped in something at the time she was dumped.”

  “It’s possible he took a flyer, guessing at the fine points to make himself seem important.”

  “To me? Why would he care?”

  “Because he’s flirting with you. Gave him an excuse to call.”

  “Is that it? Well, I’m thrilled.”

  “Point is, what he says is useless. It’s all air and sunshine.”

  “And hearsay as well.”

  “Right.”

  The next stop was Frankie’s to see what we could shake loose from him. Dolan had talked to Frankie’s parole officer, Dench Smallwood, who’d given him the address.

  On our way across town, Dolan told me he’d gone through the murder book again. Early reports had made reference to three stolen vehicles, one of which was the red 1967 Chevrolet in which Frankie’d been stopped. Melvin Galloway had been asked to follow up on the other two, but gauging from the paperwork, it was impossible to tell what he’d actually done. Miracle was a fugitive and his arrest was a feather in Galloway’s cap. Given his reputation for laziness, the routine aspects of the investigation probably didn’t have much appeal. It was possible he’d simply claimed he’d handled the query when he’d let the matter slide. The red convertible C. K. Vogel had seen turned out to be a 1966 Ford Mustang, owned by a man named Gant in Mesquite, Arizona, just across the California line. Stacey had asked Joe Mandel to run the VIN and license plate to see where the vehicle was now. If Mandel could determine the current whereabouts, it might be worthwhile to track it down and take a look.

  The room Frankie rented was located in the rear of a frame house on Guardia Street. We picked our way down the drive, avoiding a cornucopia of spilled garbage from an overturned can. Surrounding orange and red hibiscus shrubs had grown so tall that the narrow wooden porch was cold with shade. Dolan knocked on the door while I stood to one side, as though worried I’d be fired on through the lath-and-plaster wall. Dolan waited a decent interval and knocked again. We were on the verge of departing when Frankie opened the door. At forty-four, he was baby-faced and clean-shaven. He wore a T-shirt and loose shorts, with a sleep mask pushed up on the top of his head. His feet were bare. He said, “What.”

  “Mr. Miracle?”

  “That’s right.”

  Dolan moved his windbreaker aside, exposing the badge on his belt. “Lieutenant Dolan, Santa Teresa Police Department. This is Kinsey Millhone.”

  “Okay.” Frankie had mild brown wavy hair and brown eyes. His gaze was direct and tainted with annoyance. I was surprised to see he had no visible tattoos. He’d been in prison for the past seventeen years and I expected him to look as though he’d been rolling naked and wet a
cross the Sunday funnies. He wasn’t overweight by any means, but he looked soft, which was another surprise. I picture prison inmates all bulked up from lifting weights. His eyes caught mine. “I suit you okay?”

  I declined a response.

  Dolan said, “You have a late night? You seem cross.”

  “I work nights, if it’s any of your business.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Janitorial. The Granger Building on the graveyard shift. I’d give you my boss’s name, but you already have that.”

  Dolan smiled slightly. “Matter of fact I do. Your parole officer gave it to me when I talked to him.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “May we come in?”

  Frankie glanced back across his shoulder. “Sure, why not?”

  He stepped away from the door and we crossed the threshold. His entire living quarters consisted of one room with a linoleum floor, a hot plate, an ancient refrigerator, an iron bedstead, and little else. In lieu of a closet, he had a rack made of cast iron pipe on which he’d draped his clothes, both dirty and clean. I could see a cramped bathroom through a door that opened off the rear wall. In addition to an ashtray full of butts, there was a tumble of paperback books on the floor by his bed, a mix of mystery and science fiction. The room smelled of ripe sheets and stale cigarette smoke. I’d have killed myself if I were forced to live in a place like this. On the other hand, Frankie was used to prison, so this was probably an improvement.

  There was no place to sit so the two of us stood while Frankie crawled back in bed and pulled the sheet across his lap. The ensuing conversation seemed bizarre, like a visit with Stacey in his hospital room. I’d never seen anyone other than the chronically ill opt to be interviewed prone. It suggested a wary sort of self-confidence. He straightened the sheet and folded the top over once. “You can skip the small talk. I’m working again tonight and I need my sleep.”

  “We’d like to ask you about the time you spent in Lompoc before you got picked up.”

  “What about it?”

  “How you got there, what you were doing before your arrest?”

  “Don’t remember. I was stoned. I had shit for brains back then.”

  “When the officers pulled you over, you were six miles from the spot where a young girl’s body was found.”

  “Wonderful. And where was that?”

  “Near Grayson Quarry. You know the place?”

  “Everybody knows Grayson. It’s been there for years.”

  “It seems like quite a coincidence.”

  “That I was six miles away? Bullshit. I have family in the area. My dad’s lived in the same house forty-four years. I was on my way to visit.”

  “After killing Cathy Lee.”

  “I hope you aren’t here coughing up that old hair ball. I’ll tell you one thing, they never should have nailed me for murder one. That was strictly self-defense. She came at me with a pair of scissors—not that I need to justify myself to you.”

  “Why’d you run? Hardly the actions of an innocent man.”

  “I never said I was innocent. I said—oh hell, why should I tell you? I was in a panic, if you want to know the truth. You do meth, you don’t think straight. Temper runs hot and you think everybody’s after you.”

  “No need to be defensive,” Dolan said.

  “Please forgive me. I beseech you. People wake me up, I get cranky sometimes.”

  Dolan smiled. “You get cranky, you fly off the handle, is that it?”

  “You know what? I’ve done my time. Not a mark on my record in seventeen years. Credit for time served, good behavior, the whole shootin’ match. Now I’m out, I’m clean, and I’m gainfully employed so you can go fuck yourself. No offense.”

  “Prison did you good.”

  “Yes, it did. See that? Rehabilitation works. I’m living proof. Went from bad to good and now I’m free as a bird.”

  “Not quite. You’re still on parole.”

  “You think I don’t know that? All the fuckin’ rules they lay down? Tell you something, you won’t catch me in violation. I’m way too smart. I’m willing to play fair because I don’t intend to go back in. And I mean, ever.”

  “You know the problem with you, Frankie?”

  “What’s that, Lieutenant? I’m sure you’ll spell it out in great detail.”

  “You may be righteous today, but back then you didn’t know enough to keep your big mouth shut.”

  “Come on. What is this?”

  “I told you. We have an unsolved homicide with circumstances similar to Cathy Lee’s.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t help you there. I don’t know jack about that. You want anything else, you can talk to my attorney.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “Haven’t hired one yet, but I’ll let you know. Where’s this horseshit coming from, or is that classified?”

  “We got somebody willing to put the ju-ju on you.”

  “Ju-ju, my ass. What have you got, some ex-con having lunch on my expense account? I didn’t kill the chick. You’re full of shit.”

  “That’s not what our witness says. He says you bragged about it afterward.”

  “You’re blowin’ smoke and you know it. You had anything on me, you’d’ve showed up with a warrant instead of this hokey song-and-dance routine.”

  Dolan shook his head. “I don’t know, Frankie. I figure you had a hard-on for the girl and when she wouldn’t put out, you lost control of yourself.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Frankie made a gesture like he was whacking off.

  “Why don’t you own up to it? You could really help us out.

  Show your heart’s in the right place now that you’ve turned over this new leaf.”

  Frankie smiled, shaking his head in disbelief. “You think I’d be dumb enough to sit here and confess? To what? You got nothing on me. I don’t even know who the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “I’m not here to hassle you.”

  “Good, because I’m trying not to lose my cool. You want a urine sample, I’ll piss in a cup. You want to search the place, have at it. Whatever it is, just be quick about it. Otherwise we’re done. Pull the door shut behind you on your way out.” He slid the mask down over his eyes and turned his back to us.

  “Well, that was unproductive,” I said when the two of us were back in the car again.

  “I wanted you to have a look at him. It’s always best if you know the players firsthand. Besides, it’s good to let him sweat a bit, wondering what we have.”

  “That won’t take long. We don’t have anything, do we?”

  “No, but he doesn’t know that.”

  Dolan was going to go back over to St. Terry’s as soon as he dropped me at the office, but when we pulled onto Caballeria Lane, we caught sight of Stacey sitting on the curb in front of my place, a brown paper bag at his feet. He wore his red knit watch cap, short-sleeve shirt, chinos, and shoes with no socks. His perforated plastic hospital bracelet still encircled his wrist. His arms were bone thin, his skin translucent, like the pale tissue overlay on a wedding invitation. Dolan parked two cars away. While we walked back to Stacey, Dolan took out a pack of cigarettes and his matches and paused to light up. He tossed the match aside and drew deeply, sucking smoke down as though he were using an asthma inhaler. “How’d you get here?”

  Stacey shaded his eyes, looking sideways at him. “Called a cab. They do that. Pay ’em money, those guys’ll take you anyplace you want.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be released until they ran more tests.”

  Stacey waved that notion aside. “Hell with ’em. I got tired of waiting for the doc to pull a thumb out. I packed my things and took a hike. I don’t have time for nonsense. It won’t change anything. Meantime, I got a call from Mandel and he says come on out. He’s pulled the Jane Doe evidence and we can take a look. Speaking of which, what’d our friend Frankie have to say for himself?”

  “Don’t change the subject. How’d the biopsy go?�
��

  “Piece of cake. They’ve stuck me so often, it’s like a bug bite.”

  “How soon do you get the results?”

  Stacey’s hand was so small he managed to ease his bracelet off without breaking it. “Day or so. Who cares? We got work to do. Now give me a hand here. My age, you get down, you can’t get up again. Tell me about Frankie.”

  “He’s completely innocent.”

  “Of course. We should have known.”

  Dolan extended a hand and pulled Stacey to his feet. He seemed to totter fleetingly and then he regained his balance. Dolan and I exchanged one of those looks, which Stacey caught.

  “Quit that. I’m fine. I’m tired is all. I’ve been in bed too long.”

  The Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department is located near Colgate off El Solano Road in the same general vicinity as the county dump. I guess land out there is cheap and there’s room to expand. Behind the building, I could see rows of black-and-whites, county cars, and assorted personal vehicles belonging to the Sheriff’s Department personnel. The one-story structure is a creamy beige and white stucco, with a series of arches across the front. The main jail is just across the road. We parked and went in the front entrance, letting Stacey lead the way. I could tell he missed working. Just the sight of the facility seemed to give him strength.

  To the left, in the tiny lobby, was a counter with a glass partition, probably bulletproof, though it was impossible to tell. The civilian clerk, a woman, looked up when we came in. Stacey said, “We’re here to see Sergeant Detective Joe Mandel.”

  She pushed a clipboard across the counter. “He said he’d be right out.”

  All three of us signed in and she gave us each a visitor’s badge, which we fastened onto our shirts. There were three chairs available, but we elected to stand. Through the locked glass door, I could already see someone approaching from the far end of the corridor. He pushed the door open from his side and let us in. There were the usual introductions and a round of handshakes. From the flicker in his eyes, I could tell he recognized me from our meeting in his kitchen, but if he thought it odd, he never let on. He knew Stacey well, but I gathered he hadn’t seen Dolan for many years. They exchanged pleasantries as he held the door open and let us into the corridor.