by Sue Grafton
He spotted the sack. “That your overnight case?”
I held up the brown bag. “It’s part of a matching set. I have another forty-nine just like it in my kitchen drawer.”
“Nice skirt.”
“Thanks to Reba. I wasn’t going to buy it, but she insisted.”
“Good deal.” He waited until I’d fastened my seat belt and then he pulled away.
I said, “I can’t believe we’re doing this. Don’t you ever sleep?”
“I promised you a house tour. Last time, all you saw was the bedroom ceiling.”
I held up a finger. “I have a question.”
“What’s that?”
“Is this how you ended up married so fast? You meet old What’s-Her-Face and spend every night with her for the first three weeks. Week four, she moves in. Week five, you’re engaged, and by week six, you’re married and off on your honeymoon. Is that the way it went?”
“Not quite, but close. Why, does that bother you?”
“Well, no. I just wondered how much time I had to get the invitations out.”
Cheney conducted a tour, starting with the downstairs rooms. The house was more than a hundred years old and reflected a way of life long past. Most of the original mahogany fireplaces, doors, window trim, and baseboards were still intact. Tall, narrow windows, high ceilings, transoms above the doors to aid the circulation of air. There were five working fireplaces on the first floor and four more in the bedrooms upstairs. The parlor (a concept that has since gone the way of the dodo bird) continued into the morning room, which in turn opened onto a gracious screened-in porch. In the adjacent laundry room, the old double tubs existed side-by-side with a wood-fueled stove for heating water.
Cheney was in the process of redoing the living room where the hardwood floor was covered in canvas drop cloths. Wallpaper had been steamed off and lay in discouraged-looking clumps. The plaster had been patched and the windowpanes had been taped in preparation for painting. He’d taken off one of the doors, which he’d laid across two sawhorses and covered with canvas to provide a surface for any tools not in use. The brass hardware—doorknobs, lock plates, window latches, and pulls—were jumbled into cardboard boxes in one corner of the room.
“How long have you had the house?”
“Little over a year.”
Additional drop cloths extended through a set of glass-paned pocket doors into the dining room, which was in marginally better shape. Here the ladder, paint cans, brushes, rollers, paint trays, and liners—not to mention the smell—attested to his having primed and painted, though he hadn’t yet replaced the fixtures or the incidental hardware, which littered every sill.
“This the dining room?”
“Right, though the couple who owned the place were using it as a bedroom for her aged mother. They converted the butler’s pantry into a makeshift bathroom, so the first thing I did was tear out the toilet, shower, and sink and restore the built-in china cupboards and silverware drawers.”
Through the bay of dining room windows, I found myself looking into Neil and Vera’s kitchen next door. Cheney’s driveway and theirs ran parallel with a modest strip of grass separating the two. I could see Vera standing at the sink, rinsing dishes before she put them in the machine. Neil was perched on a stool at the counter with his back to me, the two chatting as she worked. No sign of the children so they must have been in bed. I seldom witnessed even the briefest moments of a marriage in progress. Occasionally I’d be struck by the sight of one of those couples in restaurants who spend the meal not looking at each other and not exchanging a word. Now that’s a scary proposition: all the minor day-to-day frictions with none of the companionship.
Cheney put his arms around me from behind and laid his face against my hair, following my gaze. “One of the few happy couples I know.”
“Or so it would appear.”
He kissed my ear. “Don’t be a cynic.”
“I am a cynic. So are you.”
“Yes, but we both have a streak of optimism way down deep.”
“Speak for yourself,” I said. “Where’s the kitchen?”
“Through here.”
The previous owners had done extensive remodeling in the kitchen, which was now a streamlined vision of granite counters, stainless-steel appliances, and high-tech lighting. Far from detracting from the overall Victorian feel of the house, there was a wonderful sense of hope and efficiency at work. I was exploring a walk-in pantry the size of my loft when the telephone rang. Cheney caught the call and his end of it was brief. He replaced the handset on the wall-mounted phone. “That was Jonah. There’s been a shoot-out in a parking garage on Floresta. One of my hookers got caught in the crossfire. I said I’d drop you at your place and meet him at the scene.”
“Sure thing,” I said, thinking, Great…now that Jonah knows we’re an item, the entire STPD will be informed by midday tomorrow. Men are worse gossips than women when it comes right down to it.
I crawled into bed at midnight and found myself tossing and turning, possibly because of the lengthy nap I’d taken in the afternoon. I don’t remember the moment when I sank into a leaden sleep, but vaguely, I became aware of a pounding on my door. I opened my eyes and checked the clock. 8:02. Who the heck was it? Oh, shit. Reba was down there.
I pushed the covers back and swung my feet out on the floor, yelling, “Just a minute!”…like she could actually hear me. I dry-washed my face, pressing my fingers into my eyes until light sparks appeared on the inside of my lids. I went downstairs and let her in, saying, “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I overslept. I’ll be with you in a sec.”
I left her to make herself at home while I went upstairs, though in the interest of good manners, I leaned over the loft rail and called down to her. “You can put on a pot of coffee if you can figure out how.”
“Don’t worry about it. We can stop off at McDonald’s.”
“You got a deal.”
I did an abbreviated bathroom tour and then pulled on jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes. I retrieved my wallet and car keys from the brown-paper bag and in six minutes flat, I was ready to go out the door.
We ordered from the take-out window and then sat in the parking lot with two enormous coffees and four Egg McMuffins with extra packets of salt. Like me, Reba ate like she was competing for the land speed record. “They don’t call this fast food for nuttin’,” she remarked, her mouth full. There were a scant few minutes when we sank into quiet, focused on our food.
Having finished, we bundled up our trash and shoved it in the bag, which Reba pitched into the container on the sidewalk nearby. She said, “Two points. Hot damn.”
While I sipped my coffee, she reached over to the rear seat and picked up three rolled cylinders of architectural plans, bound with a rubber band. She slipped the band on her wrist for safekeeping, then unfurled the first oversize sheet, which she spread across the dashboard. The paper itself was a whitish blue, with the two-dimensional rooms laid out in blue ink. The legend along the bottom read: THE BECKWITH BUILDING, 3-25-81.
Reba said, “These are the old blue-line drawings. I’m hoping they’ll tell us what Beck’s hiding and where he’s hiding it.”
“Where’d you get these?”
“We had multiples at the office—everything from framing plans to plumbing plans, heating and air conditioning, fixture requirements, you name it. Every time the architect made changes, he’d print out a new set of drawings for all the principals. Beck told me to toss ’em.”
“And you had the foresight to hang on to them? I’m impressed.”
“I wouldn’t call it foresight. I just love the information. It’s like looking at X-rays—all those cracks and bone spurs where you least expect them. Here, take a look at these and we’ll compare notes. I realized last night we were going about this all wrong.”
She passed me the second batch of drawings on sheets of paper that must have measured eighteen inches by twenty-four. I wrestled the first sheet into a reasonably f
lat position and studied the particulars. As nearly as I could tell, this had something to do with the service entrance and electrical rooms, showing the location of the meter, the transformer vault, the switchgear, electrical closets, and individual circuits. The wiring diagrams were made up of circles and wavy lines, showing the relationship of outlets to controls.
The next sheet was more interesting. It looked like a cutaway of one corner of the building from the rooftop down. According to the legend at the bottom of the page, every eighth of an inch represented one linear foot. The architect had labeled every aspect of the drawing in that freehand block lettering students must be taught the very first day at architectural school. Reba glanced over, saying, “What they’re using there for stablization is a rigid core that runs down the center of the building—a structural tower that contains the restrooms, stairs, and elevators. I remember them talking about diagonal bracing and shear panels, whatever that means.”
I could see the concrete columns, the location of precast concrete spandrel panels, the slab on grade and concrete pile foundation, which was backed up by a steel-stud and drywall assembly. I was hoping to spot the correlation between the lines on the page and the spaces I’d seen. The detailed drawing of the rooftop, for instance, did show the mechanicals of the elevator equipment in roughly the same position as the fakey-looking gardener’s cottage. Reba put a finger on the page. “I don’t like it. That other drawing shows the elevators on the far side, not this. So which is it?”
“Maybe we should take another look,” I said. “I don’t get how anybody figures this shit out. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
Reba unfurled another floor plan, this one dated August of ’81. We studied a couple of the drawings next to one another. Having seen the offices firsthand, I had a fair idea what I was looking at, with certain notable exceptions. Where the employee break room was located in reality, the floor plan indicated a conference room, which had been moved closer to reception. “How many sets do you have?”
“Tons, but these seemed the most relevant. From March to August, there’s not that much difference. It’s the changes that show up in October that looked interesting to me.” She wrestled a fourth sheet open and placed it atop the third. Much crackling of paper as the two of us examined the specifics of employee restrooms, wheelchair clearances, metal decks, and rigid insulation—the whole of Beck’s fifteen-office suite visible in one sweep.
“Are we looking for anything in particular?” I asked.
She pointed to an oblong area on my sheet adjacent to fire stairs and the elevator envelopes. “See that? The location of the elevators shifted from there to there,” she said, moving her finger from my drawing to hers.
“Break room moved, too, but so what?”
“Well, look at it. I mean, I understand they made changes, but there’s space unaccounted for. Here it’s called storage, but in this drawing, the space is still there with no reference to it at all.”
“I still don’t see the significance.”
“I just think it’s odd. I’m telling you, there was a room there on one of the early floor plans. I asked Beck what it was and he blew me off, like I didn’t need to know. On the initial blue-line drawings, the architect labeled it a gun vault, which is totally ridiculous. Beck’s a pussy about firearms. He doesn’t even own one gun, let alone a collection of the damn things. At the time, I figured maybe it was a panic room or whatever you call them…”
“A safe room?”
“Like that. Something he didn’t want anyone else to know about. Later I wondered if he intended to use it as a love nest, a hidey-hole where he could take his lady friends. I mean, what could be better? In the same building but out of the public eye. Think how easy it’d be to get a little ass on the side.”
“Maybe the architect vetoed the idea.”
“Nobody vetoes him. He knows exactly what he wants and he gets it.” She laid a finger on an unmarked area just off reception. “Couldn’t there be space behind this wall?”
I went back in my mind and pictured the gallery of paintings and the trompe l’oeil effect created by the diminishing sizes of objects as the eye traced them down the hall. I looked back at the floor plan. “I don’t think so. If there’s a room there, how the heck do you get in? There aren’t any doors in that wall that I remember.”
“My recollection, too. Because I counted off five offices and Onni’s was in the middle. After Jude’s office—you know the one with all the black-and-white photographs?”
“Right, right.”
“Yeah, well, the gallery picked up from there and that wall had to be a good twenty-five feet long.”
“What about that room where they kept office supplies?”
“That’s right there. I went around this part twice and there weren’t any doors there either, so if it’s a room, it’s been sealed.”
“Maybe it’s something to do with the building infrastructure. All the nuts-and-bolts stuff. Don’t you have plans any later than this?”
Reba shook her head. “I was in prison by then.”
We were both silent for a moment. Then I said, “Too bad we don’t have plans for the offices below his. You’re just assuming that’s a room, but it could be a mechanical chase or something that goes all the way down.”
She curled the plans together and made a cylinder of them, replacing the rubber band. She tossed them into the backseat and turned the key in the ignition. “Only one way to find out.”
Reba drove around the block, slowly circling Passages Shopping Plaza, peering across me through the passenger-side window as she scanned the exterior. On the south side of the mall she pulled over to the curb, her attention taken up by an entrance marked “Deliveries.” A steep ramp led down into the shadows and out of sight.
“Hang on. I gotta see this,” she said. She killed the engine and got out on her side of the car while I got out on mine. We walked down the ramp, which descended two levels to what must have been a subbasement. At the foot of the ramp was a portcullis secured with a big handsome padlock. Through the grillwork, we could see ten parking spaces, a blank double door at the end of a cul-de-sac, and a single metal door to the right. I said, “You think this is the only way in?”
“Can’t be. When merchandise is delivered, there has to be some way to distribute goods to the individual stores.”
We retraced our steps, huffing and puffing slightly as we made the climb. When we reached the sidewalk, she backed up a few steps, her gaze tracking the length of the building. At street level, along this aspect of the fortresslike structure, there were no shop windows and no access to retail establishments. “Second ramp just like this down the block,” she remarked. “Oh, wait a minute. I got it. Let’s just see if I’m correct.”
I looked at her. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
“If I’m right, of course. If I’m wrong, you don’t need to know.”
“You’re very tedious.”
She smiled, unfazed.
We returned to the car. She started the engine and glanced over her left shoulder to check for oncoming cars. She pulled out and continued her circuit of the mall, passing the twin of the entrance we’d just seen. She turned right at the corner and headed north on Chapel.
At Passages there was no charge for parking on weekends, probably to encourage spending. The gate to the underground parking lot was up. Reba turned in and eased her car down the ramp. At the bottom she hung a right and drove the length of the garage, parking in a space near the darkened glass doors that marked the lower-level entrance to Macy’s. The store at this hour was still closed and wouldn’t open until 10:00.
Reba pointed. Ten car lengths to our right there was a nondescript door marked “Service. No Admittance.” Beyond that, the ramp for second-, third-, and fourth-level parking spiraled up and out of sight.
“Won’t that be locked?” I asked, feeling that queasy sense of excitement at the notion of going where we weren’t supposed to be.
/> “For sure. I told you I did some reconnoitering before, but I couldn’t get in. Now I have these.” She held up the chunky ring of keys she’d snitched from Onni’s desk. She sorted through the keys one by one, smiling at the sight. “My, oh my. I’m sorry for every mean thing I ever said about the girl. Catch this.”
Onni, Little Miss Compulsive, had labeled every key with a strip of neatly embossed tape: OFFICE, BECK’S, CNFRCE ROOM, SRVICE COR, WRHSE, S.ELE., S.DEPOSIT MID-CITY, S.DEPOSIT, ST SV’GS & LO. Reba pinched the two safe-deposit keys together and jangled the rest. “Bet these contain a shitload of information. Safe-deposit box is where Beck keeps his second set of books.”
“A second set? That’s not smart.”
“Not real books. The information’s all on disks. He’s over there every couple of days, dropping off the updates. What’s he going to do? He’s a businessman. Even if what he’s doing is illegal, he still has to keep records. You think he doesn’t have to provide a full accounting to Salustio?”
“Sure, but it still seems risky.”
“Beck adores taking risks. He’s addicted to the rush.”
“I can relate to that.”
Reba continued to finger the safe-deposit keys. “Wonder if there’s any way to get into these boxes…”
“Reba…”
“I didn’t say I’d do it. He changed banks the minute I went to prison, so I wouldn’t be a signatory in any event. It’s probably Marty now.”
“Swear you’re going to put those back.”
“I told you I would. As soon as I’ve made dupes.”
“Goddamn it, Reba. Are you totally out of your mind?”