R Is for Ricochet

by Sue Grafton

  "And she didn't mention anything to him?"

  "He says not."

  "I better talk to him myself. This is worrisome."

  "I understand your concern, but he's resting right now. He's been working with is respiratory therapist and he's exhausted. I'd prefer not to disturb him. Why don't you come back later this afternoon? He should be up and about by four."

  "I can't do that. This meeting is urgent, and if she's not going to make it, I need to know right now."

  Her gaze dropped from mine and I could almost see her calculate the extent of her authority. "I'll see if he's awake and if he's up to it. You'd have to keep it brief."

  "Fine."

  She reached behind and opened the door, gesturing me inside. I noticed she put a foot out to prevent the cat from coming in. Rags was offended, shooting her a look. I stepped into the foyer, waiting for directions.

  "This way."

  She crossed toward the stairs and I followed in her wake. As she climbed the stairs, one hand trailing along the banister, she delivered a comment over her shoulder to me. "I'm not sure what Reba's told you, but the two of us have never really gotten along."

  "I wasn't aware of that. I'm sorry to hear."

  "I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding. She was under the impression I had designs on her father, which couldn't be further from the truth. I don't deny I'm protective. I'm also outspoken when it comes to her behavior. Nord seems to think if he's `supportive' and gives her everything she wants, eventually she'll straighten out. He's never understood what good parenting is about. Children have to take responsibility for what they've done. Only my opinion... not that anybody's asked."

  I let that one slide. I knew little of their history and didn't feel a response would be appropriate.

  We traversed the wide landing, moving down a carpeted corridor with bedrooms on both sides. The door to the master bedroom was closed. Lucinda tapped softly, then opened the door and looked in on him. "Kinsey's here about Reba. May is how her in?"

  I didn't hear his response, but she stepped aside, allowing me to enter. "Five minutes," she said firmly.

  24

  Nord Lafferty lay propped up against a pile of pillows, his oxygen tank close by. His frail white hands trembled on the crocheted coverlet. I knew his fingers would be icy to the touch, as though his energy and warmth were retreating from his extremities to his core. It wouldn't be long until the last bright spark would be snuffed out. I moved to the side of his bed. He turned to look at me and a smile brought color to his face. "Just the person I was thinking of."

  "And here I am. Are you feeling up to this? Lucinda says you had a session with the respiratory therapist. She doesn't want me wearing you out."

  "No, no. I've rested a bit and I'm fine. I'm sorry to have to waste so much time in bed, but some days I'm not capable of anything else. I trust you received my check."

  "I did. The bonus wasn't necessary, but I appreciate the thought."

  "You deserve every penny. Reba enjoys her time with you and I'm grateful for that."

  "Lucinda tells me she's been gone since dinnertime last night. Do you happen to know where?"

  He shook his head. "She sat with me through supper and helped me into the library afterwards. I heard her making a call. A cab arrived thirty minutes later. She said not to worry, gave me a kiss, and that was the last time we spoke."

  "She has a meeting at one o'clock today and then a second meeting at four. I can't imagine her a no-show. She knows how critical this is."

  "She made no mention of it. I take it she hasn't been in touch with you."

  "We talked briefly yesterday. She said she'd get back to me, but then she never called."

  "She did have a visitor. Fellow she used to work with."

  "Marty Blumberg?"

  "That's him. He came up to the house and the two had their heads together for quite some time. She went out afterwards."

  "Lucinda mentioned she was out late the night before."

  "She didn't arrive home until two-thirty in the morning. I was still awake when she finally pulled in the drive. I saw the headlights flash across the ceiling and I knew she was safe. Old habits die hard. The months she was in prison - those were the only nights I didn't lie awake waiting for her. I imagine I'll die with an eye on the clock, frightened something's happened."

  "Why'd she call a cab? Is something wrong with her car?"

  He hesitated. "My guess is she was leaving town and didn't want her car sitting in a parking lot somewhere."

  "But where would she go?"

  Helplessly, Nord shook his head.

  "Did she take any luggage?"

  "I asked Freddy myself and she says she did. Mercifully, Lucinda'd left by then, or I'd never hear the end of it. She knows something's happened, but so far I've kept her in the dark. Lucinda's relentless, so do be careful, or she'll wheedle it out of you."

  "I gathered as much. Which cab company?"

  "Freddy might remember if you want to talk to her."

  "I'll do that."

  A soft tap at the door and Lucinda appeared, holding up two fingers. "Two more minutes," she said, with a smile to indicate her good intent.

  Nord said, "Fine," but I saw a flash of irritation cross his face. As soon as she closed the door, he said, "Lock that. And lock the door to the connecting bath while you're about it."

  I gave him a momentary look and then crossed to the door and turned the thumb lock. A large white-tiled bathroom opened off to the right, apparently joining his bedroom with the one next to it. I locked the far bathroom door, leaving the near one ajar, and then returned to my seat.

  He pulled himself up against the pillows. "Thank you. I suppose she means well, but there are times when she takes too much on herself. To date, I haven't appointed her my guardian. As for Reba, what do you propose?"

  "I'm not really sure. I need to find her as soon as possible."

  "Is she in trouble?"

  "I'd say so. Shall I fill you in?"

  "It's best I don't know. Whatever it is, I trust you to take care of it and bill me afterwards."

  "I'll do what I can. Couple of government agencies are interested in talking to her about Beck's financial dealings. This is going to get sticky and my position's precarious as it is. When it comes to the feds, I don't want to end up on the wrong side of the fence. If I'm working for you, no privilege attaches to our relationship in any event, so hiring me won't serve as protection for either of us."

  "I understand completely. I wouldn't ask you to compromise yourself in the eyes of the law. That said, I'd be grateful for any help you can give her."

  "Is her car still here?"

  He nodded. "It's parked in the garage, which is unlocked as far as I know. You're welcome to take a look."

  There was a tapping at the door and the handle turned. Lucinda rattled the knob impatiently, her voice muffled. "Nord, what's wrong? Are you in there?"

  He gestured toward the door. I crossed and unlocked it. Lucinda turned the knob abruptly and pushed her way in, almost banging me in the face. She stared at me, apparently assuming I'd locked the door on my own. "What's this about?"

  Nord strained to raise his voice. "I told her to lock it. I didn't want any further interruptions."

  Her body language shifted from suspicion to injury. "You might have mentioned it. If you and Miss Millhone have private business to discuss, I wouldn't dream of interfering."

  "Thank you, Lucinda. We appreciate that."

  "Perhaps I've overstepped my bounds." Her tone was frosty, the content designed to generate apologies or reassurances.

  Nord offered neither. He lifted a hand, almost a gesture of dismissal. "She'd like to see Reba's room."

  "What for?"

  Nord turned to me. "Down the hall to your right - "

  Lucinda cut in. "I'll be happy to show her. We don't want her wandering around on her own."

  I glanced at Nord. "I'll get back to you," I said.

  I
followed Lucinda down the hall, noting her stiff posture and her refusal to look at me. when we reached Reba's room, she opened the door and then stood in my path forcing me to squeeze by her. Her eyes trailed after me. "I hope you're satisfied. You think you're so helpful, but you're killing him," she said.

  I locked eyes with her, but she was far more practiced than I at delivering the withering glance. I waited. Her smile was set, and I knew she was the sort who'd find ways to get even. Lucinda, the bitch indeed. She stepped into the hall. I shut the door and locked it, knowing she'd get the point.

  I turned and leaned against the door, making a visual survey, taking in the whole of the room before starting my search. The bed was made, a few personal mementos neatly arranged on the bedside table: a framed photo of her father, a book, a scratch pad, and a pen. No clutter. No clothing on the floor. Nothing under the bed. A phone, but no personal address book. I went through the desk drawers, uncovering items that must have been there for years: school papers, exam books, unopened boxes of stationery, which were probably gifts - certainly not her taste, unless she favored kitty-cat cards with cute sayings on the front. No personal correspondence. Dresser drawers were neat.

  I checked the closet, where several empty hangers suggested the number of garments missing - six by my count. Among the articles she'd left behind were a navy blue blazer and a leather bomber jacket, askew on its hanger. I had no way of knowing what she'd packed. I wasn't even sure the size or the number of suitcases she owned. I sorted through idly, thinking back to the clothes I'd see her in. I didn't spot her boots or either of the sweaters I remembered - the one red cotton, the other dark blue with a cowl neck. She'd worn both within the first few days of being home, which meant they might well be her favorites, garments she'd want with her on the road.

  I went into the bathroom, which was close to barren: tawny marble floor tile and countertop, spotless mirrors, and the smell of soap. The medicine cabinet had been emptied of items. No deodorant, cologne, or toothpaste. No prescription drugs. I could see a whitish spot on the marble counter where her toothbrush had lain. The hamper had been stuffed with blue jeans, T-shirts, and underwear; a bath towel, still faintly damp, crowded in on top. The shower pan was dry. Nothing n the trash.

  I went back to the closet and studied the clothes. I took the bomber jacket off its hanger and checked the pockets. I found some loose change and a slip from a generic order pad that showed she'd paid for a cheeseburger, chili fries, and a Coke. No date and the restaurant wasn't mentioned by name. I slipped the receipt into my jeans pocket and returned the jacket to its hanger. I let myself out of the room and retraced my steps. As I passed Nord's room, I paused and leaned my head close to the door. I could hear the murmur of voices, primarily Lucinda's, and she sounded aggrieved. Any further conversation with him would have to wait. I went downstairs and found my way to the back part of the house.

  The housekeeper was sitting at the kitchen table. She'd spread newspapers across the surface, on which she'd laid twelve place settings of sterling silver, two silver water pitchers, and a series of silver beakers. Some of the more ornate pieces had been sprayed with an aerosol polish that was drying to a strange shade of pink. The cloth she used on the flatware was black from the tarnish she'd removed. Her gray hair was wispy, curled and back-combed into a dandelion-like aureole with patches of scalp showing through.

  I said, "Hi, Freddy. I've been chatting with Mr. Lafferty. He says you saw Reba last night before she left."

  "Going out the door," she said, addressing her remark to the spoon.

  "She took a suitcase?

  "Two - a black canvas overnight case and a hard-sided gray suitcase on wheels. She was wearing jeans and boots and a leather hat, but no jacket."

  "Did you have a conversation?"

  "She put a finger to her lips, like this was our little secret. I was having none of that. I've worked for Mr. Lafferty forty-six years. We don't keep secrets from one another. I went straight into the library and spoke to him, but before I managed to get him up from his chair, she was gone."

  "Did she say anything about her intentions? Any talk of a trip?"

  Freddy shook her head. "There were calls going back and forth, but she was quick to catch the phone so I never heard who it was. I couldn't even tell if the caller was a man or woman."

  "You know it's a parole violation if she leaves the state," I said. "She could be sent back to prison."

  "Miss Millhone, as fond as I am of her, I wouldn't withhold information or cover for her in any way. She's breaking her father's heart and the shame's on her."

  "Well, if it makes any difference, I know she adores him, which doesn't change anything, of course." I took out a card with my home number scribbled on the back. "If you should hear from her, would you call me?"

  She took my card and slipped it into her apron pocket. "I hope you find her. He doesn't have much time."

  "I know," I said. "He told me her car's still parked in the garage."

  "Use this back door. It's closer than going out the front. There's a set of keys on the hook," she said, indicating the service porch and mud room visible through the open doorway behind her.

  "Thanks." I snagged the keys and then took a diagonal path across a large brick apron, approaching what must have been the original carriage house, converted now to a four-car garage. Rags appeared from around the corner of the house. Clearly, his job was to oversee arrivals, departures, and all activities involving the property. Above the garage, I could see a stretch of dormer windows with curtains drawn across the glass, which suggested servants' quarters or an apartment, possibly Freddy's. One garage was empty, the retractable door standing open. I used it as ingress and quickly spotted Reba's BMW parked against the far wall. I felt obliged to explain myself to Rags as he followed in my tracks. I got in on the driver's side and slid under the wheel. I put the key in the ignition and checked the gas gauge. The arrow jumped to the top, indicating a full tank of gas.

  I leaned over and popped the door to the glove compartment and then spent a few minutes sorting through the accumulation of gasoline receipts, outdated registration slips, and an owner's manual. In the side pocket to my left, I found another handful of gasoline receipts. Most were dated three to four months before Reba went to prison. The single exception was a receipt dated July 27, 1987 - Monday. She'd bought gas at a Chevron station on Main Street in Perdido, twenty miles to the south. I added the receipt to the other one in my pocket. I checked under the front seats, the backseat, the floorboards, and the trunk, but found nothing else of interest. I left the garage and returned the keys to the hook in the mud room, then collected my car. Last I saw of Rags, he was sitting on the porch, calmly grooming himself.

  I returned to the 101 and made a speedy round-trip to my apartment, stopping off long enough to pick up the photograph of Reba her father had given me. I folded it and eased it into my shoulder bag before I headed for Perdido. The four-lane highway follows the coastal contours with the foothills on one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other. The concrete seawall all but disappears in places, and waves crack up along the rocks in an impressive display of power. Surfers park their cars on the berm and tote their surfboards down to the beach, looking as sleek as seals in their form-fitting black wetsuits. I counted eight of them in the water, straddling their boards, faces turned toward the waves as they waited for the surf to mount the next assault on the shore.

  To my left, the steeply rising foothills were bare of trees and thick with chaparral. Paddle-shaped cactus had taken over large patches of eroding soil. The lush green, encouraged by the winter rains, had given way to spring wildflowers, and then died back to this tinderbox of vegetation, ripe for the autumn fires. The railroad tracks ran sometimes on the mountain side of the road and sometimes crossed under the highway and tracked the surf.

  On the outskirts of Perdido, I took the first off-ramp and proceeded toward town on Main, checking addresses along the way. I spotted the Chevron station on
a narrow spit of land that bordered the Perdido Avenue off-ramp. I pulled in and parked on the side of the station nearest the restrooms. A uniformed attendant was standing at the rear of a station wagon, topping off the tank. He spotted me, eyes lingering briefly before returning to his task. I waited until the customer had signed the credit card slip and the wagon had pulled away before I crossed to the pumps. I pulled out the photograph of Reba, intending to inquire if he'd worked on Monday and if so, if he remembered her. As I approached, however, something else occurred to me. I said, "Hi. I need directions. I'm looking for a poker parlor called the Double Down."

  He turned and pointed. "Two blocks down on the right. If you get to r the stoplight, you've gone too far."