Sue Grafton Novel Collection

by Sue Grafton

  “That’s the only reason I’d go back, assuming I do.”

  “I don’t care about your motive—just getting you there.”

  I went back to the motel, where I spent one of the most wickedly enjoyable days I’ve experienced in some time. I finished one paperback novel and started the next. I napped. At 2:30 I bypassed McDonald’s and ate at a rival fast-food place. Afterward, I would have taken a walk, but I really didn’t care what was out there. Reno is probably a very keen town, but the day was hotter than blue blazes, and my room, while glum, was at least habitable. I slipped my shoes off and read some more. At supper time, I called Cheney and brought him up to speed.

  I went to bed at 10:00 and got up at 6:00 the next morning, showered, dressed, and packed my bag. When I got down to my car, I found Reba perched on her suitcase with her duffel at her feet. She had on the same red shorts and tank top she’d been wearing the morning before. Bare legs. Flip-flops.

  I said, “This is a surprise. I didn’t think I’d see you.”

  “Yeah, well, I surprised myself. I’ll go with you on one condition.”

  “There aren’t any conditions, Reba. You go or you don’t. I’m not going to bargain with you.”

  “Oh, come on. Hear me out. It’s no big deal.”

  “Okay, what.”

  “I need to make a stop in Beverly Hills.”

  “I don’t want to make a detour. Why Beverly Hills?”

  “I have to drop something off at the Neptune Hotel.”

  “The one on Sunset?”

  “That’s right. I swear it won’t take any time at all. Will you just do me this one tiny thing. Please, please, please?”

  I swallowed my irritation, thankful she’d agreed to come at all. I unlocked the car door on the passenger side, flipped the seat forward, and tossed my duffel in the rear. As Reba added her two bags, I noted that the duffel bore a United Airlines tag and a small green sticker showing the bag had cleared security. I’d been right about the fact she’d flown to Reno.

  “We might as well have a decent breakfast before we take off. My treat,” she said.

  We had the McDonald’s to ourselves. We gorged on the usual, though even as I ate, I swore off junk food for life, or at least until lunch. A couple of guys came in after us and then the place began to fill up with people on their way to work. By the time we visited the ladies’ room and got into the car, it was 7:05. I gassed up at the nearest Chevron station and we headed out of town. “If you smoke in my car, I will kill you,” I said.

  “Blow it out your butt.”

  Reba was in charge of the map, directing me to the 395, which cut straight south to Los Angeles. Somehow I knew the detour would be a pain in the ass, but I was so relieved to have her with me, I decided not to make a fuss. Maybe she’d experienced a change of heart and she was ready to take responsibility for herself. Skittish as she was, I figured the best thing I could do was to keep my observations and opinions to myself.

  Conversation was in short supply. The problem in dealing with people who are out of control is that the choices are so few—two being the actual number if you want to know the truth: (1) You can play counselor, thinking that perhaps no one (save yourself ) has ever offered the rare tidbit of wisdom that will finally cause the light to dawn. Or (2) You can play persecutor, thinking that a strong dose of reality (also delivered by you) will shame or cajole the person into turning her life around. In both instances, you’ll be wrong, but the temptation is so strong to take one role or the other that you’ll have to bite your tongue bloody to keep from jumping in with all the lectures and the finger wagging. I kept my mouth shut, though it required an effort on my part. She was mercifully quiet, perhaps sensing my struggle to mind my own business.

  28

  On the road, Reba fiddled with the radio until she found a station that didn’t sound like it was broadcasting from Mars. We listened to country-western tunes while I played bumper tag with the same three cars: a pickup with a camper shell, an RV, and a couple of college students in a U-Haul truck. One would pass me and then the next and then I’d pass one of them, a form of vehicular leapfrog that had us hopping over one another at irregular intervals. At the back of my mind, I wondered if we were being followed, but I couldn’t imagine how Beck or Salustio could manage to get a bead on us.

  Where the 395 and Highway 14 intersected, the kids in the U-Haul went straight while we stayed on Highway 14, angling south and west. Eventually we connected to the San Diego Freeway and drove south. By then the RV had disappeared and I saw no sign of the pickup with the camper shell. Nervous-making nonetheless.

  It was close to 3:00 when I got off the freeway at Sunset Boulevard, took a left, and followed the road east again through Bel Air and into Beverly Hills. Reba played navigator, tracking street addresses though it really wasn’t necessary. A few blocks beyond Doheny, the Hotel Neptune loomed into view, an Art Deco wonder that vaguely mimicked the Empire State Building, its shoulders narrowing to a point. I’d read an article about the place in a copy of Los Angeles Magazine. The property had recently been expanded to encompass a large parcel of land on each side, which allowed the creation of a sweeping entrance and additional guest parking. A name change and the multimillion-dollar renovation had propelled the old hotel into prominence again. Now it was the hot new destination for rock stars, actors, and wide-eyed tourists hoping to be considered hip.

  I pulled into the sweeping semicircular drive, taking my place sixth in line behind two stretch limousines, a Rolls, a Mercedes, and a Bentley. This was clearly check-in time. A car-park valet and two to three uniformed bellhops hovered around each vehicle, assisting the guests as they emerged, unloading bag after bag from open trunks onto rolling brass luggage carts. A doorman in livery and white gloves whistled up a taxicab that cut around me on the left and pulled up in front. Two hotel guests dressed like tramps ducked into the cab and I watched it pull away.

  Reba said, “This is nuts. Why don’t I just run in?”

  “Forget it. I don’t want you out of my sight.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “What do you think, I’m going to duck out the back and leave you here by yourself?”

  As that was exactly what I thought, I didn’t bother to reply. When our turn came, I handed the keys to the parking valet while Reba dazzled him with a smile and pressed a folded bill against his palm. “Hey, how’re you? We’ll be back in two minutes.”

  “We’ll have it ready for you.”

  “Thanks.” She moved on into the hotel, boobs jiggling, her slim legs flashing in her red shorts. The guy was so busy ogling her, he nearly dropped the car keys.

  The interior of the hotel was a pastiche of dark green marble and mirrors, wall sconces, torchères, and potted palms. The carpet was done in shades of green and blue, stylized waves, which were part of the nautical motif. Not surprisingly, the Roman god Neptune was depicted in a series of massive gilt-and-stucco bas-relief panels, driving his chariot across the waters, shaking his trident to bring down floods, saving a damsel from a satyr. Artificial light glowed from a five-tiered fountain of glass. The chairs were blond wood, the occasional tables lacquered in black. A wide marble staircase curved up to the mezzanine, where I could see black pedestals set in green fluted niches, each bearing an urn filled with fresh flowers.

  The lobby walls were curved, with banquettes covered in a fabric that mimicked undulating sea grasses. Swing tunes playing at almost subliminal levels. Two lines had formed in front of the marble-sheathed reception desk—guests checking in, picking up messages, conversing with the staff.

  Reba paused to get her bearings and then said, “Wait here.”

  I took a seat in a curved-back chair, one of four arranged around an etched-glass coffee table. In the center was a crystal bowl in which gardenias floated. I watched as she crossed to the concierge, a middle-aged man in a tuxedo. His desk was a sinuous curve of inlaid woods, banded in chrome and topped with a green glass counter, subtly lighte
d from below. She removed a manila mailing pouch from her purse, wrote something on the front, and handed it to him. After a brief conversation, he placed the manila envelope on a credenza against the wall behind his desk. She asked him a question. He consulted his files and extracted a white envelope, which he handed to her. She put it in her purse and then crossed to the house phone and picked up the handset. She had a conversation with someone and then returned. “We’re meeting in the cocktail lounge.”

  “Oh, happy day. Can I join you?”

  “Don’t be a smartass. Of course.”

  The cocktail lounge was located on the far side of the lobby, across from the elevators. The bar itself was a streamlined curve, sheathed in glass panels that were etched with coral reefs, sea creatures, and goddesses in various states of undress. The space was large and dark, the indirect lighting augmented by a votive candle in the center of each table. The place was almost empty, but I was guessing that within the hour the bar would start filling up with hotel guests, starlets, hookers, and local business types.

  Reba snagged a table close to the door. It was only 3:10, but knowing Reba, she’d be ready for a drink. A cocktail waitress wearing a snug gold satin vest, matching shorts, and gold mesh hose, delivered an order of drinks to a nearby table and then approached ours.

  Reba said, “We’re expecting someone else.”

  “You want to order now or wait?”

  “Now is fine.”

  The waitress looked to me.

  “I’ll have coffee,” I said, already focused on the drive ahead. This was Saturday so at least we wouldn’t have to deal with rush-hour traffic, but it would still be a hard couple of hours, given the seven and a half we’d done.

  “And for you?”

  “Vodka martini with three olives and a double whiskey for my friend.”

  The waitress moved toward the bar.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “You know drinking’s a parole violation. If Holloway finds out, she’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks.”

  “Oh, please. It’s not like I’m doing drugs.”

  “But you’re doing everything else. Don’t you want to hang on to your freedom?”

  “Hey, you know what? I was free when I was in. I didn’t drink or smoke or do drugs or screw around with any dumb-ass guys. You know what I did? I picked up computer skills. I learned to upholster a chair, which I’ll bet you sure as shit can’t do. I read books and made the kind of friends who’d give their lives for me. I didn’t know how happy I was till I got out in this kiss-ass world. I don’t give a shit about Holloway. She can do anything she wants.”

  “Okay by me. It’s your lookout,” I said.

  Reba’s sullen gaze was fixed on the bank of elevators directly across from us. Above each elevator there was an old-fashioned half-moon of brass, with a moving brass arrow indicating the progress of the elevators going up or coming down. I watched as the last elevator in line paused at the eighth floor and then worked its way down. The doors slid open and Marty Blumberg emerged. Reba waved and he headed in our direction. When he reached our table, she tilted her head so he could kiss her cheek. “You’re lookin’ good,” he said.

  “Thanks. So are you.”

  Marty pulled out a chair with a glance at me. “Nice seeing you again,” he said. His attention shifted back to her. “Everything okay?”

  “We’re cool. I left something for you at the desk. Thanks for this,” she said, patting her bag.

  He reached into the pocket of his sport coat and took out a claim check that he slid across the table.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Surprise. A little something extra,” he said.

  Reba glanced at the claim check and slipped it in her purse. “I hope it’s something good.”

  “I think you’ll like it,” he said. “What’s your timetable? Can you hang out long enough to have dinner with me?”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Reba surprised me by wrinkling her nose, saying, “Nah, better not. Kinsey’s anxious to get home. Maybe some other time.”

  “God willing and the creek don’t rise.”

  Marty took out a cigarette pack and placed it on the table. Without asking, Reba helped herself to one, which she stuck between her teeth, giving it a waggle to request a light. Marty picked up a packet of hotel matches, struck one, held the flame to her cigarette, and then fired up one for himself.

  The waitress returned with our order, placing the bill at Marty’s elbow. Reba took a sip of her martini and closed her eyes, savoring the vodka with such reverence that I could almost taste it myself. The two of them launched into an inconsequential conversation. I was peripherally included, but it was all low-key chat, a series of drifting subjects that didn’t signify much of anything as far as I could tell. I drank two cups of coffee while they tossed down their drinks and ordered a second round. Neither showed the slightest sign of inebriation. Marty’s face was more flushed than I’d seen it, but he was in control of himself. Eventually their cigarette smoke began to get on my nerves. I excused myself and retired to the ladies’ room, where I wasted as much time as I dared before returning to the table. I sat down again and sneaked a look at my watch. We’d been in the hotel bar forty-five minutes and I was ready to hit the road.

  Reba leaned forward and put a hand on Marty’s arm. “We probably ought to get going. I’ll make a quick trip to the loo and meet the two of you out there.” She tipped her glass and sucked down the rest of her drink, chomping on the olive as she moved toward the ladies’ room.

  I watched Marty calculate a tip and sign the drinks off to Room 817. “How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “Couple of days.”

  “I take it you won’t be driving back with us.”

  “Don’t think so,” he said, amused.

  I didn’t see the humor myself, but whatever he and Reba’d cooked up between them had left him feeling smug.

  “What happened with your phone? Was the line tapped or not?”

  “Don’t know. I decided not to hang around and find out.”

  He pocketed his copy of the receipt and then got up, holding my chair politely. The two of us moved toward the elevators and stood together saying nothing while we waited for Reba. Across the lobby, I saw her emerge from the ladies’ room. Marty’s gaze followed mine. I saw his focus shift to the left. Two men in chinos and sport coats were crossing the lobby with purposeful strides. I thought they were heading for the cocktail lounge. I turned and looked behind me, half-expecting to see what was generating such urgency. Marty took a step to one side to get out of their path. One man caught the doors to the nearest elevator before they slid shut. He stepped in and extended his hand again as though to hold the door for his friend. The second man bumped up against Marty, who said, “Hey, watch it!”

  The man gripped Marty’s arm, his forward motion forcing Marty to walk in lockstep into the waiting elevator. Marty flailed and struggled to free himself. He might have succeeded, but one of the two men knocked his feet out from under him. Marty went down on his back, flinging his arms across his face to ward off the savage kick he could see coming at him. The shoe made contact with a wet, thick sound that opened a split in his cheek. The other man pressed the button. In that moment before the doors slid shut, Marty’s gaze caught mine.

  I said, “Marty?”

  The doors closed and the floor indicator moved up.

  Two other people in the lobby turned to see what was wrong, but by then everything appeared to be normal. The entire sequence took no more than fifteen seconds.

  Reba reached my side, her eyes enormous, the color draining out of her cheeks. “We gotta get out of here.”

  I banged on the Up button, transfixed by the sight of the arrow as it inched toward the eighth floor and came to a halt. Fear was bathing my internal organs with sufficient acid to eat through my chest wall. Two elevators down, the doors slid open. I grabbed her arm and turned her toward the lobby. “Go get hotel securit
y and tell ’em we need help.”

  She pulled at my fingers and then lifted her elbow and swung upward to break my grip. “Bullshit. Get off me. Marty’s on his own.”

  I didn’t have time to argue. I pushed her as though I could propel her all the way to the front desk, and then I got on the waiting elevator and pushed the button for 8. I had no faith whatever that she’d do as I said. My heart thumped as adrenaline pushed through my system like a drug rush. I needed a game plan, but I didn’t know what I was facing. As the elevator climbed, I searched my shoulder bag, though I already knew there was nothing in it in the way of weapons. No gun, no penknife, no pepper spray.

  The elevator doors slid open on 8. I stepped into the hall and trotted to the T intersection where the long and short corridors met. I spotted the sign indicating which grouping of room numbers were located on the left and which were on the right, but I could barely make sense of it. I was talking to myself, a litany of cuss words and instructions. I heard a muffled shout of pain, someone banging into a wall somewhere to my left. I race-walked in that direction, scanning room numbers as I went. The hall had a claustrophobic feel to it, Nile green paint, a low ceiling that consisted of four thick cutaway layers stair-stepped back from a central panel of dull artificial light. Every twenty feet there were fluted niches of the sort I’d seen when looking up from the lobby toward the mezzanine. In each niche, there were two black lacquered wooden chairs arranged on each side of a round, glass-topped table set with an urn of fresh flowers. I picked up a chair and held it in front of me, searching for 817 at a pace that reminded me of dreams I’d had: I couldn’t make my body move. I walked but I didn’t seem to get anywhere.

  The door to Marty’s room was ajar. I kicked it inward, but the two guys were already on their way out, dragging Marty between them. I was saying Pick-one-pick-one-pick-one to myself, so I chose the guy on my right and thrust hard, hitting him bang-on in the face with the legs of the chair. I made contact, jamming hard. The sound he made was savage but the blow didn’t seem to do any harm. He grabbed the chair, wrenching it out of my hands. I saw his fist coming at me, low and fast, smacking into my solar plexus with a paralyzing punch that put me down on my butt. The sour taste of regurgitated coffee rose in my throat in a blinding burst of nausea. I couldn’t catch my breath and for a terrifying few minutes I thought I’d suffocate where I sat. I looked up in time to see the chair coming down at me. I felt the bang and registered the jolt, but no pain. I was gone.