by Sue Grafton
She waited, looking up at us.
Willard handed Beck the handset from the phone on his desk. He pressed a button and we could hear the wall phone ring in the service corridor. Reba picked up, her gaze fixed on the camera.
Beck said, “Hey, baby. How’s by you?” Mocking her earlier greeting.
“Knock it off, Beck. You want this or not?”
“Show me first.”
She dropped the handset and it banged against the wall, bouncing on its spiral cord. Beck jerked his head back, murmuring “Shit.” Below, Reba leaned over and opened the duffel bag. The computer was clearly visible.
“And the floppy disks?”
She opened a side pocket and extracted a handful of disks, probably twenty by the look. She held them toward the camera, holding them face forward so he could read the sequence of dates he’d probably written himself. “Okay. Good enough,” he said.
She slipped them back inside and zipped the duffel shut. “Happy now, you asshole?”
“I am. Thanks for asking. Come on up to the lobby and behave yourself. I’ve got Kinsey right here in case you want to get cute about this.”
Reba flipped him the bird. Attagirl, I thought. That would show him.
I glanced at Willard. “You just going to stand there?”
No response. Maybe Willard had died and no one had remembered to mention it. I wanted to wave a hand in front of his eyes to see if he would blink.
The service elevator reached the lobby level and the doors slid open. Reba stepped forward, struggling with the weight of the duffel. Beck, gun in hand, watched her for any hint of rebellion or treachery. She set the duffel on the floor in front of him.
He motioned with the gun. “Open it.”
“Oh, geez. You think it’s booby-trapped?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
She leaned down and unzipped the duffel, exposing the computer for the second time. Without his having to ask, she took out the floppy disks and handed them to him.
“Now step back.”
She backed up about ten feet, her hands in the air. “So worried,” she remarked.
Beck passed the gun to Willard. “Keep an eye on both.”
He knelt and freed the computer case from the duffel. He reached in his coat pocket and took out a small Phillips-head screwdriver, which he used to loosen the screws that held the housing in place. He tossed the screws aside and then took off the back panel. I couldn’t figure out what he was up to.
The inner workings of the computer were now exposed. I don’t own a computer and I’d never seen the inside of one. What a complex assortment of multicolored connectors, wires, circuits, transistors, or whatever they were called, lots of weensy things at any rate. Willard held the gun steady, barrel pointing first at Reba and then at me, but almost idly I thought. Beck opened his briefcase and took out a glass beaker with a glass stopper wedged in the top. He opened it and dolloped a clear liquid across the circuits like salad dressing. It must have been acid because a hissing went up and the smell of chemical burning filled the air. Insulated wires dissolved, small parts curling as though alive, shriveling and shrinking as the caustic liquid made contact. He took out a second beaker and poured acid over the floppy disks, spreading them out so as not to miss any. Holes appeared instantly, and a sizzling smoke developed as the disks disintegrated.
Reba said, “You won’t remember all that stuff.”
“Don’t worry about it. I have dupes in Panama.”
“Well, goody for you.” Her voice sounded odd.
I glanced at her. Her mouth had begun to tremble and tears glistened in her eyes as she watched. Hoarsely, she said, “I really loved you. I did. You were everything to me.”
I found myself staring at her with interest. Why did I think she was faking?
“Geez, Reeb, you never learn, do you. What’s it going to take to get it through that thick head of yours? You’re just like a kid. Someone tells you there’s a Santa Claus and you believe.”
“But you said I could trust you. You said you loved me and you’d take care of me. You said that.”
“I know, but I lied.”
“About everything?”
“Pretty much,” he said, ruefully.
I caught a glimpse of motion on one of the monitors. In the underground garage, two Santa Teresa black-and-whites were coming down the ramp. Two unmarked cars followed.
Meanwhile, Beck was intent on his task. He took the screwdriver and jammed it into the workings of the computer, twisting metal parts, snapping wires, careful to avoid any direct contact between the acid and his hands. He had his back to the big plate-glass windows so he didn’t see Cheney step out of the shadows with his gun drawn. Vince Turner appeared along with four agents in FBI vests.
Too late to salvage the data, but I was grateful nonetheless.
Reba caught sight of them. I saw her gaze flick to the window and back to Beck. “Oh, poor Beck. You are so screwed,” she said.
He stood up and reached for his briefcase. He looked at her, his expression pleasant. “Really? How do you figure that?”
Reba was silent for a beat, a slow smile lighting her battered face. “The minute I got back to town, I put in a call to a man who works for the IRS. I spilled the beans, spelled it all out—names, numbers, dates—everything he needed to get his warrants. He had to call the judge at home, but he was happy to be of help.”
Facetiously, Beck said, “Oh, Jesus, Reba, get a grip. I’ve known for months they were on to me. This is the only thing I was really worried about and now it’s taken care of. How much incriminating data you think they’ll salvage from this mess?”
“Probably none.”
“That’s right. Thank you very much.”
Beck saw Reba’s attention shift. He looked over his shoulder and spotted Cheney, Vince Turner, and assorted cops and federal agents lined up on the walk. His smile might have faltered, but he didn’t seem concerned. He signaled to Willard to let them in. Willard set the gun on the floor, raised his hands to show he had no weapons, and used his jumble of keys to unlock the doors.
Reba wasn’t finished. “Only one problem.”
Beck turned back to her. “Which is?”
“That’s not Marty’s.”
Beck laughed. “You’re full of crap.”
Reba shook her head. “Nope. Not so. The feds didn’t like the fact the computer had been stolen so I swapped it back.”
“How’d you get into the building?”
“He let me in,” she said, indicating Willard.
“Give it up, baby. The man works for me.”
“Maybe so but I’m the one who’s been screwing his brains out. We’re just like this.” She raised her left hand and made a circle with the thumb and index finger. She stuck her right index finger in the hole and pumped it like a piston. Beck winced at the crudity, but Reba laughed.
I shot a quick look at Willard, who dropped his gaze with appropriate modesty. Cops and FBI agents were crowding into the lobby. Cheney picked up Beck’s gun and flicked the safety before he handed it to Vince.
Reba was saying, “After Willie let me in, I took Marty’s computer up to your office. I disconnected your computer, pulled it out, and put Marty’s in its place. Then I put your computer under Marty’s desk. That one’s Onni’s. Nothing much on it but personal correspondence and a bunch of stupid computer games. I can’t believe you paid her so well when all she did was waste time.”
Beck still wasn’t buying it. He shook his head, sliding his tongue across his front teeth while trying to suppress a smile. She might as well have been telling him she’d been abducted by aliens for use in sexual experiments.
She said, “Want to know what else I did? I’m tellin’ you, Beck, I’ve been a busy little girl. After I swapped computers, I drove over to Salustio’s and paid him the twenty-five grand I stole. Marty gave me the cash in exchange for documents he never got to use. Truth is, Salustio didn’t give a damn where the mo
ney came from. Problem is, I pay him and he’s still pissed at me. So I figure to compensate him for the inconvenience, I’d warn him about the raid. That gave him just enough time to get his money out of here. So now all’s forgiven. He and I are square. You’re the one who’s left standing out in the cold.”
Beck’s expression was opaque. He was never going to give her the satisfaction of ceding the win, but she knew it was hers.
Epilogue
That wasn’t the end of it, of course.
Beck was indicted on charges of murder, assault with a deadly weapon, kidnapping, money laundering, income tax evasion, conspiracy to defraud the United States government, tampering with evidence, obstruction of justice, failure to report currency transactions, and corruption of public officials. At first, Beck was undismayed. After all, he knew he had enough money stashed away to support an army of attorneys for as long as it took. There was just that one small matter Reba had neglected to mention. This was something I guessed at, but couldn’t persuade her to confirm. Before she swapped the two computers, she’d tapped into Beck’s accounts, consolidated all his funds, and moved the money out of the country, probably to another of Salustio’s numbered accounts. I’m sure she’d thought of some way to repay him for holding the money until she could lay claim to it.
The feds suspected this as well because the cranky little shits refused to cut her a deal. Reba was returned to CIW on the first sheriff ’s bus. I don’t worry about her. In prison, she has good friends, she’s fond of the staff, and she knows her only choice is to behave herself. In the meantime, her father’s doing fine. He’s not going to die as long as Reba needs him.
As for Cheney and me, that’s still up in the air, but I’m feeling the teeny-tiniest bit optimistic. I’m about due, don’t you think?
So here’s what I’ve learned. In the passing drama of life, I’m usually the heroine, but occasionally I’m simply a minor character in someone else’s play.
Respectfully submitted,
Kinsey Millhone
S IS FOR SILENCE
SUE GRAFTON
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
S IS FOR SILENCE
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2002 by Sue Grafton.
All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 1-4295-0296-7
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BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
For my granddaughter, Addison,
with a heart full of love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of the following people: Steven Humphrey; Ben Holt, Ben Holt Equipment; Ken Seymour, www.1953chevrolet.com; John Mackall, Counselor-at-Law, Seed Mackall LLP; Greg Boller, Deputy District Attorney, Santa Barbara County District Attorney’s Office; John Lindren, D&H Equipment; Bill Turner, Detective Sergeant (retired), Santa Barbara County Sheriff ’s Department; G. David Dyne, M.D.; T. J. Dwire, Title Officer, Lawyers Title Company; Emily Craig, Forensic Anthropologist, Kentucky State Medical Examiner’s Office; John White, KellyCo Metal Detector Superstore; Dale Kreiter, Library Technician, and the Staff of the Santa Maria Public Library; Leslie Twine; Florence Michel; C. L. Burk; and Don Gastiger.
Thank you, Hairl Wilson, for the use of your first name, and Bob Ziegler, for the use of your name in its entirety.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
This is a work of fiction. All the characters are conjured out of whole cloth, which is to say, the persons inhabiting this novel are figments of my imagination and have no real-life counterparts. Anyone who knows the city of Santa Maria and the surrounding countryside will not only recognize the setting for this book but will also note the many liberties I’ve taken with geography. There is no abandoned two-story Tudor residence in the center of that flat, agricultural landscape. The towns of Serena Station, Cromwell, Barker, Freeman, Tullis, Arnaud, and Silas are invented. Some of the roads exist, but as I’ve recently appointed myself Acting Chair and sole member of the Santa Teresa County Regional Transportation Planning Agency, I’ve relocated, rerouted, and renamed these roads according to the dictates of the story. Please do not write me those notes telling me I got it wrong, because I didn’t.
Contents
1 LIZA
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
5 KATHY
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
9 CHET
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
12 JAKE
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
15 TOM
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
18 CHET
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
21 JAKE
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
24 TOM
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
27 LIZA
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
30 KATHY
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
EPILOGUE
1
LIZA
Saturday, July 4, 1953
When Liza Mellincamp thinks about the last time she ever saw Violet Sullivan, what comes most vividly to mind is the color of Violet’s Japanese silk kimono, a shade of blue that Liza later learned was called “cerulean,” a word that wasn’t even in her vocabulary when she was fourteen years old. A dragon was embroidered in satin-stitch across the back, its strange dog-shaped face and arched body picked out in lime green and orange. Flames twisted from the dragon’s mouth in curling ribbons of bloodred.
That last night, she’d arrived at the Sullivans’ house at 6:00. Violet was going out at 6:15 and, as usual, she wasn’t dressed and hadn’t done her hair. The front door was open, and as Liza approached, Baby, Violet’s three-month-old buff-colored Pomera
nian, started yapping in a shrill little doggie voice while she pawed at the screen, punching holes here and there. She had tiny black eyes and a black button nose and a small pink bow affixed to her forehead with stickum of some kind. Someone had given Violet the dog less than a month before, and she’d developed a fierce attachment to it, carrying the dog around in a big straw tote. Liza disliked Baby, and twice when Violet left the dog behind, Liza put her in the coat closet so she wouldn’t have to listen to her bark. She’d gotten the idea from Foley, who disliked the dog even more than she did.
Liza knocked on the door frame, a sound barely audible above the dog’s yap-yap-yap. Violet called out, “Come on in. I’m in the bedroom!”
Liza opened the screen door, pushed the dog aside with her foot, and walked through the living room to the bedroom Violet and Foley shared. Liza knew for a fact that Foley often ended up sleeping on the couch, especially when he’d been drinking, which he did almost every day, and even more especially after he’d busted Violet in the chops and she’d stopped speaking to him for two days or however long it was. Foley hated it when she gave him the silent treatment, but by then he’d be sorry he’d slugged her and he wouldn’t have the nerve to protest. He told anyone who would listen that she brought it on herself. Anything bad that happened to Foley was someone else’s fault.