by Sue Grafton
“I want you to see his house.”
“What do I care? At this hour? It’s dark.”
“It won’t take long. It’s just about a mile down West Glen.”
“It’s your car so you can do as you please, but don’t put yourself out on my account.”
I couldn’t get a fix on her mood. At first I’d thought she was flirting with Beck purely to infuriate Onni. I was anticipating the rehash, the two of us comparing notes about Onni’s reaction, especially when she walked out in such a huff. By that point in the evening, however, Beck was really pouring on the charm and she’d fallen under his spell. I found it unnerving how deftly he’d drawn her back into orbit, exerting the same invisible pull as the earth on the moon. Just when I thought we’d won her over to our side, Beck had taken her back.
We turned right on West Glen. Beck was now out of sight, several curves in the road between our car and his. Even if he noticed our headlights behind him, he probably wouldn’t give the matter much thought. We reached the straightaway and caught sight of him about a quarter mile ahead. His brake lights came on as he slowed and made a right-hand turn. His car disappeared from view. Reba sped up, closing the distance, and then she slowed as well. She peered across me and out the passenger-side window as we passed a gated estate. I caught a glimpse of a massive stone mansion in a fairyland of lights.
Fifty yards beyond the entrance to his property, she pulled onto the berm. She killed the lights, shut the engine down, and got out of the car. Before she eased the door shut, she said, “You coming or not?”
“Sure. Eleven o’clock at night, I could use a walk.” I emerged from the car on my side. She’d made a point of not slamming her door and I certainly knew better than to slam my own. If we were on a search-and-seizure mission of some kind, there was no point in alerting him to our presence. I joined her as she backtracked along the darkened road. Having spent half an hour in a smoke-filled bar, we must have smelled like two cigarette butts out for a breath of fresh air. This section of Montebello was dark, no streetlights, no sidewalks, and no passing cars. We were accompanied by the chirring of crickets and the scent of eucalyptus trees. She halted at the entrance to Beck’s driveway.
Through iron gates, I was treated to the full panoramic view. The ivy-covered stone façade looked as stately as a monastery, mansard roof, half-timbered, a long bank of mullioned windows aglow along the front. I was guessing three to four acres with a tennis court visible on one side and a swimming pool on the other. Reba moved to the right of the gate and eased herself between the hedge and the stone pillar, where a gap permitted passage despite the solid look of the shrubs. I followed, pushing through a turnstile of branches that nearly tore off my shirt. She proceeded with an air of calm familiarity as she veered off across the lawn. I gathered she’d made the walk many times before. She seemed confident about the absence of motion-detecting floodlights and attack-trained dogs. I was worried the automatic sprinkling system (complete with toe-busting sprayer heads) would suddenly spark to life and drench us in a downpour of artificial rain.
Closer to the house, a porte cochere spanned the driveway and served as a covered walkway, sheltering residents and guests as they moved to and from their cars. Reba skirted the entrance and took up a position between two squared-off clipped shrubs on the far side. The boxwoods had been shaped to form an alcove about the size of a phone booth, easily big enough to allow the two of us to huddle. A wide slat of shadow shielded us from view.
We waited in silence. I love nighttime surveillance as long as my bladder isn’t screaming for relief. Who wants to have to squat in the bushes where the high beams of any passing car can flash across the globes of your pearly hind-end? Add to that the likelihood of peeing on your own shoes and the notion of “penis envy” isn’t tough to comprehend.
A set of headlights appeared at the bottom of the drive and a mechanical hum announced the slow parting of the wrought iron gates. A black stretch limousine swung into view and proceeded slowly up the drive, approaching the house with all the gravity of the lead car in a funeral procession. The driver pulled under the porte cochere and triggered the trunk lid, which seemed to pop up of its own accord.
As if on cue, the porch light went on and the front door was opened. I could hear Beck talking to someone over his shoulder as he carried out three large bags and set them on the porch. With the engine still idling, the driver got out in his tuxedo and chauffeur’s cap and moved around to the rear where Beck waited with the luggage. The driver hefted the suitcases into the trunk one by one. He shut the trunk and then opened the rear limo door. Beck paused, looking toward the house as his wife stepped out onto the porch. She stopped, apparently to check the thumb lock before she pulled the door shut behind her. “Is that everything?”
“We’re good. Bags are in the trunk.”
She crossed to the limo and ducked into the backseat. Beck followed her in. The driver closed the limo door and then returned to the driver’s seat and resumed his place at the wheel, shutting the car door. I could hear a slight pop as he released the emergency brake and then the limo glided down the drive toward the road. The lighted rear license plate read: ST LIMO-1, designating car number one of the Santa Teresa Limousine Service. The gates swung open, the limo disappeared, and the gates eased shut again.
Beside me, Reba flicked her Dunhill, the flame warming her face briefly as she took the first long drag from a fresh cigarette. She put the pack and lighter in her pocket and blew out a stream of smoke. Her eyes were remarkably large and dark, and her lips curved upward in a cynical smile. “Lying sack of shit. You know when I figured it out? Did you see the little hitch in his walk when he first caught sight of me? That said it all. I was the last person in the world he wanted to see.”
“At least you managed to queer it for Onni. She was really pissed at him.”
“I hope so. Anyway, let’s get out of here before a sheriff ’s deputy decides to cruise by. Beck always notifies ’em when he’s leaving town. They’re quite attentive to him.”
“Are you okay?”
“I feel great. How long will it take to set up the meeting with the feds?”
When I let myself into my apartment at 11:25, the light was blinking on the answering machine, a tiny red beacon in the dark. I flipped on the overhead light. I set my shoulder bag on the countertop and dumped my shopping bags on the floor. I crossed to the desk and stood there, staring at the blink, blink, blink as though it might be a message in Morse code. Either it was Cheney or it was not. The fact of the matter had already been entered into evidence so I might as well find out. If he hadn’t called, that didn’t necessarily mean anything. And if he had called, it didn’t necessarily mean anything, either. The problem in the early stages of any relationship is that you don’t know where you stand and you don’t know how to interpret the other person’s behavior.
So okay. All I had to do was push the button and I’d know.
I sat down. If he hadn’t called, I sure didn’t want to be the one to call him, though I was panting to tell him what had transpired between Beck and Reba. I could touch base with him for that purpose. In fact, I’d have to call him soon so he could set up the meeting between Reba and Vince. But aside from business—on a personal level—he’d have to make the first move. He looked like the kind of guy women called all the time—too cute and too sexy to have to expend much effort himself. I didn’t want to place myself in the same category with his other women, whoever they were. How was it, though, that after only one day I was feeling insecure? Ruefully, I remembered my cockiness of the night before.
I pushed the button and listened to the brief high-pitched squeal as the tape rewound. Beep. “Kinsey, this is Cheney. It’s ten-fifteen and I just got off work. Give me a buzz when you get in. I’ll be up.” He left his number. Click.
I checked the clock. Over an hour ago. I made a note of his home number, then suffered a fit of indecision. He said to call, so I’d call. Nothing tricky about that…unless he was al
ready in bed and asleep. I hate waking people up. Before I felt any more squirrelly, I punched in the number.
He picked up on the first ring.
I said, “If you’re asleep I swear I’m going to slit my wrists with a butter knife.”
He laughed. “Not at all, babe. I’m a night owl. How about you?”
“Not me. I’m an early bird. I usually get up at six for my run. How come you were working so late? I thought you got off at five.”
“We spent the day cooped up in a van over on Castle, taking videos of johns going in and out of a hot new whorehouse. Heavy weekend trade coming up. We’ll do a sweep as soon as we have enough little fishies in the net.”
“Nothing like sitting all day to wear you down.”
“I’m trashed. How about you?”
“I’m pretty trashed myself,” I said. “Though I did have a productive evening. You won’t believe where I’ve been.”
“Answer can’t be Rosie’s. Too easy.”
“I was out with Reba. First we went clothes shopping and then we went to Bubbles where we ran into Beck and Onni. I won’t plague you with the details—”
“Hey, come on. Don’t be like that. I love the details.”
“I’ll tell you next time I see you. At the moment, I’m too bushed to go into a blow-by-blow. The upshot is Reba’s ready to do business.”
“She’s agreed to talk to Vince?”
“That’s what she told me half an hour ago.”
“What brought this on? I know she was waffling, but this falls into the too-good-to-be-true category, don’t you think?”
“No, I’m trusting her on this. Mostly because I was right there watching when the whole thing went down. Beck laid on a bunch of BS, three or four lies in a row, and Reba nailed him on all counts. I mean, not to his face. He was stringing her along and stringing her along. I think she could have dealt with that—she’s probably used to his messing with her head. The kicker was, she realized he was taking Tracy to Panama when he’d implied he was going alone.”
“How’d she find out?”
I hesitated. “We did some independent research.”
“I don’t want to hear this.”
“I thought not. Bottom line is she’ll meet with the feds as soon as you can set it up.”
“Shit, that’s great. I’ll let Vince know as soon as I can track him down. Might take a couple of days. He’s hard to reach on weekends.”
“The sooner the better. We don’t want her changing her mind,” I said.
“While we’re on the subject, Vince checked on that FBI guy who went to Reba’s with the photos. Turns out he’d been transferred from another office and wanted to show how good he was at taking the initiative. He got his ears boxed but good.”
“Glad to hear that,” I said.
“So what are you doing at the moment? Are you down for the count?”
“Meaning what, am I in bed? No, I’m up.”
“Meaning, I don’t want to keep you on the phone if you’re about to hit the sack.”
“Not a bit of it. I just walked in the door. I was worried I wouldn’t catch you before you went to bed yourself.”
There was a moment of quiet.
I said, “Hello?”
“I’m here. I was wondering how you’d feel about company.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
I thought about exhaustion, both his and mine. “Good. I’d feel good—assuming it’s yourself we’re discussing and not someone else.”
“Give me ten minutes.”
“Make it fifteen. That’ll give me time to change.”
I took the spiral stairs two at a time, whipped off my clothes, jammed everything in the hamper, showered, shaved my legs, washed my hair, flossed and brushed my teeth, all in the space of eight minutes, which gave me plenty of time to pull on clean sweats (minus underwear) and change the sheets. Downstairs again, I was in the process of refolding sections of the newspaper when I heard his tap at the door.
I tossed the Dispatch in the wastebasket and let him in. His hair was curly and damp and he smelled like soap. He was holding a pizza box that smelled heavenly. He closed the door behind him. “I never ate dinner. The guy just delivered this. You hungry?”
“Of course. You want to take it up with us?”
He smiled, shaking his head fondly. “Always in a hurry. We have time.”
At 1:00 A.M., he gave me the promised haircut, me sitting on a stool in the loft bathroom with a towel draped across my shoulders, Cheney with a second towel wrapped around his waist.
I said, “Most of the time I do this myself with a pair of nail scissors.”
“So I see.” He worked with ease and concentration, taking off very little hair, but somehow making the whole of it fall together in tidy layers.
I watched his reflection in the mirror. So serious. “Where’d you learn to cut hair?”
“I have an uncle who does this for a living. Salon on Melrose, ‘Hair Cutter to the Stars.’ Four hundred bucks a pop. I figured if I washed out of police academy I could do this instead. I’m not sure which option was more horrifying to my parents, my becoming a cop or a guy who does women’s hair. They’re otherwise decent folks, barring the inherent snobbery.”
“Last time I had a really good cut, you know who did it?”
“Danielle Rivers. I remember that.” Cheney’s attention had shifted to the nape of my neck, where he was busy snipping away, trying to even out the line.
Danielle Rivers was a seventeen-year-old hooker he’d introduced me to. He’d recently been transferred to vice, part of the regular rotation system at the police department, while I’d been hired to track down the killer of Lorna Kepler, a beautiful young woman who was caught up in porno films and sex for hire. He’d put me together with Danielle because she and the victim had been cohorts.
I said, “Danielle was appalled when she heard how little I earned—half of what she made. You should have heard her riff on investment strategies, all of which she picked up from Lorna. I wish I’d taken her advice. Maybe I’d be rich.”
“Easy come, easy go.”
“Remember the sandwiches you bought in the hospital cafeteria the night she was admitted?”
He smiled. “Man, those were bad. Ham and cheese from a vending machine.”
“But you added all the stuff that made them edible.”
He gave me a hand mirror and kissed me on the top of the head, saying, “All done.”
I turned, holding the mirror so I could check the cut in the back. “Oh, wow. It looks good. Thanks.” I glanced down at his towel, the two ends of which had parted in front. “I like your friend. Must be showtime and he’s popped his head out to check the audience.”
Cheney glanced down. “Why don’t we go in the other room and see if we can catch his act?”
Eventually we slept, curled together like cats.
17
Friday morning, we dragged ourselves out of bed at 10:00. We showered and dressed, and then walked over to Cabana Boulevard, where we had breakfast at a little beachside café. Cheney didn’t have to go to work until later in the day, having been scheduled for another shift in the surveillance van. Back from breakfast, we stood and chatted at the curb until we ran out of things to say. We parted company at noon. He had errands to run and I was ready to be alone. I watched until his little red Mercedes disappeared from sight and then I followed the walkway around to the backyard.
Henry was kneeling in one of his flower beds, where nutgrass was popping up. He was barefoot, wearing cutoffs and a tank top, his flip-flops lying on the lawn nearby. Eliminating nutgrass requires patience. The weed multiplies by way of threadlike roots and tiny black rhizomes that spread underground, so simply yanking the stems free does nothing to the plant’s underlying structure, which goes on merrily reproducing. The small pile of weeds Henry had successfully uprooted resembled nothing so much as a cluster of spiders with frail legs and bodies the size of blacken
ed match heads.
“You need help?”
“No, but you can keep me company if you like. There’s something satisfying about going after these things. Ugly-looking little buggers, aren’t they?”
“Disgusting. I thought you got rid of all the nutgrass this spring.”
“Ongoing process. You never really win.” He sat back on his heels briefly, then shifted so he could tackle the next section.
I kicked off my tennis shoes and settled in the grass, letting the sunshine wash across my legs. Henry’s dark mood had lifted, and while he was still subdued, he seemed almost himself again.
“I see you had company last night,” he remarked, without looking at me.
I laughed, feeling the blush begin to mount in my cheeks. “That was Cheney Phillips. STPD. He’s a friend of Lieutenant Dolan’s,” I said, as though that were relevant.
“Nice?”
“Very. We’ve known each other for years.”
“I thought it must be something of the sort. I’ve never known you to be impulsive.”
“Actually, I am. It just sometimes takes me a while to work up to it.”
There was a companionable quiet, broken only by the sound of Henry’s trowel chunking in the ground.
Finally, I said, “Is Lewis still in town?”
“He flies home tomorrow. I feel better about him, in case you’re wondering. I don’t want to see him just yet, but we’ll work it out in due course.”
“What about Mattie?”
“Oh, that’s probably for the best. I never expected the relationship to turn into anything serious.”
“But it might have.”
“‘Might’ doesn’t count for much. I generally find it wiser to deal with what is than with what might have been. Having made it to the ripe old age of eighty-seven without a long-term romance, there’s no reason to suppose I’m even capable of such a thing.”
“Couldn’t you at least call?”
“I could, though I’m not sure what that would accomplish. She made her feelings clear. I have nothing else to offer and nothing much to add.”