R Is for Ricochet

by Sue Grafton

  Before I hit the road, I'd make a stop at the auto club and get a proper series of strip maps. I really didn't need them, but I like the white spiral binding and that arrow penned in orange that marches up the page. Makes me feel like I'm getting my money's worth for the cost of my annual membership. I moved on, making a mental list of clothing and toiletries I'd need to pack. I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up with a smile, anticipating Cheney.

  Beck slid into the booth across from me. "You seem happy to see me."

  "I thought you were someone else." I took in the sight of him: chinos, dress shirt, with a windbreaker over it.

  He laughed, thinking I was making a joke. Casually I closed the atlas and laid it on the seat beside me, then leaned to the right as though scanning the entrance. "Reba's not with you?"

  "Not at all. That's why I stopped in. I'm trying to track her down." His eyes strayed to the atlas. "Are you taking a trip?"

  "Just indulging in fantasy. I've got too much work piled up to go anywhere."

  "Oh, that's right. You're a private detective. What are you working on?"

  I knew he couldn't care less about my caseload unless it involved him. I figured he was fishing, wondering if I was part of the government conspiracy to reel him in. I said, "The usual. A skip-trace, a couple of employee background checks for the Bank of Santa Teresa. Stuff like that." I droned on for a bit, making it up as I went along. I could see his eyes glaze over and I hoped sincerely that I was boring him to death.

  I looked up in time to see Rosie appear through the swinging kitchen doors. Her eyes lighted on Beck like a terrier spotting a rat. She made a beeline for the booth, barely able to suppress her happiness. Beck collected himself and rose to his feet. He extended a hand to her, then leaned forward and bussed her on the cheek. "Rosie, you look beautiful. You've had your hair done."

  "I did myself. Is home permanent," she said. As far as I could see, her hair looked the way it always did - badly dyed, badly cut.

  She dropped her gaze modestly. "I'm remember what you want. Scotch. Double wit ice and water back. The twenty-fours year, not the twelve."

  "Very good. No wonder your customers are loyal."

  I thought she'd see through the flattery, but she lapped it up, nearly dropping a little curtsy before she scurried off to get his drink. He sat down again, watching her departure with a fond smile as though he really gave a shit. His gaze drifted back to mine. He was a cold, cold man. The missing twenty-five thousand had put him on red alert. He was out hunting to see who his enemies were.

  I crossed my arms and leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. There was something restful about being in the company of someone I disliked so much. I didn't have to worry about impressing him, which allowed me to focus on the game at hand. "How was Panama City?"

  "Fine. Good. The problems started as soon as I came home. A little birdie tells me you and Reba got into trouble while I was gone."

  "Me? Well, dang. What'd I do now?"

  "You don't know what I'm referring to?"

  "We went shopping at the mall if that counts for anything."

  "The pow-wow with Marty. What was that about?"

  I blinked at him twice as though drawing a blank and then allowed the light to dawn. "Friday night? We ran into him at the mall. Once the stores closed down, we stopped in at Dale's and ordered a couple of bowls of that chili guaranteed to give you the runs. Geez, Louise. Have you ever eaten that crap? Completely gross - "

  "Enough already. Just get on with it."

  "Sorry. So anyway, about that time Marty came in. He was happy to see Reba. She introduced us and we chatted for a bit. End of story."

  He seemed to watch me from a distance, not yet satisfied. "What'd you chat about?"

  "Nothing in particular. I meet the guy. I'm nice. That's all it amounted to. Why do you care?"

  "You didn't talk about me?"

  "You? Not at all. Your name never came up."

  "Then what?"

  "What do you mean, 'Then what'?"

  "Where'd you go from there?"

  I shrugged. "The office. Marty was bragging about the new digs and said he'd show us around, so we ended up doing a quick tour. He said you'd be pissed if you heard. Is that what this is about?"

  "I don't believe you've finished. Isn't there something else?"

  "Well, let's see now. Oh. Now this is earth shattering. I left my purse on the roof and we had to pop back the next day and go in search of it. What a pain in the ass that was."

  Rosie approached with Beck's scotch on a tray. We dropped the topic of conversation and smiled at her blandly while she set down a ceremonial doily and put his drink on it. Beck murmured his thanks without engaging her in further conversation.

  She hesitated, hoping for another round of fawning and compliments, but he was intent on me. I was wishing she'd sit down and talk to us the rest of the night. Instead she flicked me a look, suspicious that this was romance a-brewing. Little did she know I was sitting there frantically assessing the situation, trying to guess how much Beck knew and how he'd acquired the information. If he'd seen security tapes, I had to make sure I accounted for all our comings and goings. I was aware my being a wiseass was getting on his nerves, but I couldn't help myself. Rosie manufactured a bit of small talk and then departed. I looked at Beck, waiting for his next move.

  He picked up his scotch and took a sip, watching me over the rim of his glass. "Clever. You explain it all so nicely, but somehow I'd swear you're lying through your pearly whites."

  "My reputation must precede me. I'm good at lying," I said.

  He set his drink on the table, making a circular pattern with the moisture from the bottom of the glass. "So where is she?"

  "Reba? Beats me. We're not joined at the hip."

  "Really. You've been with her constantly and now suddenly you have no idea? She must have said something."

  "Beck, I think you've gotten the wrong impression. We're not friends. Her father paid me to go get her. That's the kind of pal I am. I took her to the parole office and the DMV. She was lonesome. We had dinner - "

  "Don't forget Bubbles."

  "Big deal. We went to Bubbles. I was feeling sorry for her. She doesn't have any friends, except Onni, who treats her like a piece of shit."

  He thought about that briefly and shifted gears. "What's she told you about me?"

  I tried to make the big eyes like Reba did when she was feigning innocence. "About you? Well, gosh now. She told me you screwed her brains out in the car the other night. She was going to give me all the nitty-gritty details about the size of your dick, but I begged off. No offense, but I don't find you nearly as fascinating as she does. Except for the current conversation. What are you fishing for?"

  "Nothing. Maybe I misjudged you."

  "Well, I doubt that, but so what? Sounds like you're the one in trouble and projecting it on us." I might have pushed the line too far because I wasn't that crazy about the look he turned on me.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because you're laying out all this bullshit and I don't have a clue what you want. You've peppered me with questions from the minute you sat down."

  He was dead silent for about fifteen seconds - a long time in the middle of a conversation of this type. Then he said, "I believe she stole money from me when she was in the office that night."

  "Ah. Got it. That's a serious accusation."

  "Yes, it is."

  "Why not turn the matter over to the cops?"

  "I can't prove she did it."

  I shook my head. "Doesn't sound right to me. I was with her when we toured the office and she never touched a thing. Me neither, for that matter. I hope you don't think I'm involved, because I swear I'm not."

  "It's not you I'm worried about. It's her."

  "You're worried?"

  "I think she's in trouble. I'd hate to see her hurt."

  "Why didn't you just say so up front?"

  "You're right. I'm sorry. I w
ent about this all wrong and I apologize. Truce ?"

  "We don't need a truce. I'm worried about her, too. She's back to smoking a pack a day and god knows what else. This morning, she was talking about booze and poker parlors. Scared the crap out of me."

  "I didn't realize you'd seen her."

  "Oh sure. I thought I mentioned that."

  "You didn't, but that's good. I haven't heard a word from her since I got back. She's usually on the phone first thing, tugging at my sleeve. You know Reeb. She tends to cling."

  "I'll say. Look, she talked about us having lunch tomorrow. Why don't I tell her to give you a call?"

  He smiled tentatively, wanting to believe me. At the same time, I could sense his scrutiny, testing my comments for any false notes. Happily, since I'm a thoroughly accomplished liar, I could pass a polygraph, disavowing murder with blood still dripping from my fingers. He reached out and tapped my hand, something I'd seen him do with her. I wondered what the gesture meant, a sort of tag... you're it. "I hope I wasn't out of line. You're a good egg," he said.

  "Thanks. You are, too." I reached out and tapped his hand in return.

  He pushed up from the booth. "Better to let you go. I've taken up enough of your time as it is. Sorry if I was rude. I didn't mean to grill you."

  "Hey, I understand. Stay and have another drink if you like."

  "Nah, I gotta hit the road. Just tell Reba I'm looking for her."

  "What's your schedule like tomorrow? Are you at the office all day?"

  "You bet. I'll be waiting for her call."

  Good luck, I thought. I watched him crossing the room, trying to see him as I had at first. I'd thought he was sexy and good-looking, but those qualities had vanished. Now I saw him for what he was, a guy accustomed to having his own way. The world centered on him and others were simply there to service his whims. I wondered if he were capable of killing. Possible, I thought. Maybe not with his own hands, but he could have it done. Belatedly, a warm drop of sweat trickled down the middle of my back. I allowed myself a deep breath, and by the time Cheney showed up, I was feeling calm again and slightly bemused.

  He slid in next to me and pushed a folded slip of paper in my direction. "Don't say I never did you one. Address is a rental. Misty's been in residence the past thirteen months."

  "Thanks." I glanced at the address and put the paper into my pocket.

  He said, "What's the smile about? You're looking pleased with yourself."

  "How long have I known you? A couple of years, right?"

  "More or less. You haven't really known me until this past week."

  "Know what I realized? I've never lied to you."

  "I should hope not."

  "I'm serious. I'm a natural-born liar, but so far I haven't lied to you. That puts you in a category all by yourself... well, except for Henry. I can't remember ever lying to him. About anything important."

  "Good news. I love the part where you say 'so far.' You're the only person I know who could say something like that and think it was a compliment."

  Rosie reappeared and when she caught sight of Cheney, she shot me a quizzical look. She seldom saw me with one man, let alone two on the same night. Cheney ordered a beer. Once she was gone, I rested my chin on my fist so I could look at him. His face was smooth and there was the faintest web of lines at the outer corners of his eyes. Dark suede sport coat the color of coffee grounds. Beige shirt, brown silk tie hanging slightly askew. I reached out and straightened it. He caught my hand and kissed my index finger.

  I smiled. "Have you ever dated an older woman?"

  "Talking about yourself? I got news for you, kiddo. I'm older than you."

  "You are not."

  "I'm thirty-nine. April 1948." He took out his wallet, flipped it open, removed his driver's license, and held it up.

  "Get serious. You were born in 1948?"

  "How old did you think I was?"

  "Somebody told me you were thirty-four."

  "Lies. All lies. You can't believe a word you hear on the street." He put his license in his wallet, which he flipped shut and returned to his hip pocket.

  "In that case, your body's even better than I thought. Tell me the day and month again. I wasn't paying attention."

  "April 28. I'm a Taurus, like you. That's why we get along so well."

  "Is that true?"

  "Sure. Look at us. We're Earth signs, the Bull. We're the Boy Scouts of the Zodiac. Determined, practical, reliable, fair-minded, stable - in other words, boring as hell. On the downside, we're jealous, possessive, opinionated, and self-righteous - so what's not to like? We hate change. We hate interruptions. We hate being rushed."

  "You really believe all that stuff?"

  "No, but you have to admit there's a certain ring of truth to it." Rosie returned to the table with Cheney's beer. I could tell she was tempted to loiter, hoping to catch a snippet of conversation. Both of us sank into silence until she left again.

  Then I said, "Beck was here."

  "You're changing the subject. I'd rather talk about us."

  "Premature."

  "Then why don't we talk about you?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "For instance, I like it that you don't wear makeup."

  "I've worn it twice. That first day at lunch and then again the other night."

  "I know. That's how I figured I could get you between the sheets."

  "Cheney, we need to talk about Reba. I leave for Reno first thing tomorrow morning. We have to be operating off the same page."

  His expression sobered to some extent, and I could see him shift into business mode. "Okay, but don't be dragging it out. We have better things to do."

  "Business first."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  We spent the next ten minutes talking about Reba and Beck - what he'd said, what I'd said, and what, if anything, it meant. Cheney intended to call Priscilla Holloway in the morning and bring her up to speed. He thought the straightforward approach was preferable to taking the risk that she'd find out anyway. He'd refer her to Vince Turner and let the two of them work out their arrangements. If Holloway wanted Reba picked up, then all the better for him. Vince would be thrilled to have her under lock and key.

  Finally, Cheney said, "Can we go now? All this talk about criminals is turning me on."

  26

  The drive from Santa Teresa to Reno took nine hours, including two potty stops and a fifteen-minute lunch break. The first seven hours got me as far as Sacramento, where Highway 80 intersects the 5 and be- gins its slow climb toward the Donner Summit, 7,240 feet above sea level. Smoke from a series of brush fires in the Tahoe National Forest had saturated the air with a pale brown haze that followed me across the Nevada state line. I reached the Reno city limits at suppertime and cruised through town just to get a feel for the place.

  Most of the buildings were two and three stories tall, dwarfed by the occasional chunky hotel. Aside from the casinos, businesses seemed to be devoted to making cash readily available. The working theme was cheap food and pawnshops, with the word "GUNS" writ large on two out of every seven signs.

  I chose an unprepossessing two-story motel in the heart of town, its prime attraction being that it sat on a lot adjacent to a McDonald's. I checked ill, found my second-floor room, and put my duffel bag on the bed. Before I left again, I picked up the Reno phone book I found in my bed-table drawer. I went downstairs, left the phone book in my car, I and then proceeded to McDonald's, where I sat in a window seat and treated myself to a couple of QPs with Cheese.

  According to the strip maps I'd picked up at the auto club, Carson City - the last known domicile of the erstwhile Robert Dietz - was only thirty miles away. Because of Cheney, I thought about Dietz without bitterness, but without much interest. While I munched fries doused in ketchup, I opened the Reno city map and looked for the street where Misty Raine was supposedly living these days. Wasn't far away and I thought my next order of business was to pay a visit to the place.

&
nbsp; I dumped my trash and returned to my car. With the map propped against the steering wheel, I sketched out my course. The route took me through spartan neighborhoods of pines, chain-link fences, and ranch houses faced in stucco or brick. Even at seven in the evening, the light was good. The air was hot and dry and smelled of pine pitch and charred oak from the California fires. I knew the temperatures would drop as soon as the sun went down. The lawns I passed were parched, the grasses scorched to a soft yellow-brown. The trees, on the other hand, were surprisingly green, dense healthy foliage a relief in the relentless washed-out beige of the surrounding landscape. Maybe the whole of it was designed to keep all the gamblers indoors where gaudy colors dazzled the eye, the air temperature was constant, and lights were ablaze twenty-four hours a day.