R Is for Ricochet

by Sue Grafton

  Reba had closed and padlocked the garage. She opened the passenger-side door, put the suitcase in the backseat, and got in. I reached over into the rear and grabbed my denim jacket. "Here. Put this on before you catch cold."

  "Thanks." She shrugged into the jacket and locked her seat belt in place.

  "Where to?"

  "The nearest public phone."

  "Why not my office, as long as we're here?"

  "I don't want you tied into this in any way."

  "Tied into what?"

  "Just find a phone," she said.

  31

  Reba wanted me to make the call to Beck. We found a phone booth outside a supermarket. The store was a bright island, icy fluorescent lights reflected in the shiny paint finish of the dozen or so cars in the parking lot out front. This was the store where I did my weekly shopping, and I longed for nothing so much as to buy milk and eggs and then wend my way home.

  Reba put a handful of coins and a slip of paper with Beck's home and office numbers on the metal shelf under the phone. "Try his home phone first. If Tracy answers, maybe she'll think he has a girlfriend," she said.

  "He does. Her name is Onni."

  "She probably knows about her. I'm talking someone new. Might as well bug the shit out of her while we can."

  "That's not nice. I thought women were supposed to be nice."

  "I wouldn't bet on it if I were you."

  I picked up the handset. "So what am I supposed to say to him?"

  "Tell him to meet us at the East Beach parking lot in fifteen minutes. As soon as he hands Marty over, he gets his computer."

  I held the handset against my chest. "Please don't do this. I'm begging you. What's to prevent him from snatching the damn thing? You don't even have a gun."

  "Of course I don't have a gun. I'm a convicted felon. I can't carry," she said, as though offended by the very idea.

  "What if Beck has one?"

  "He doesn't even own a gun. Besides, we'll be right out in plain sight. Anyone driving along Cabana Boulevard can see us. Here, give me that."

  She grabbed the handset and put it against my ear, picked up some coins, and dropped them in the slot. In addition to the dial tone, I could have sworn I heard the buzz of electricity running through my frame. My heart rate was picking up and my insides felt like a fuse box with all the lines shorting out. She punched in Beck's home number just to hurry things along. At the first ring, Reba leaned her head against mine and tilted the handset so she could listen in. I said, "This feels like high school. I hate this."

  "Would you shut up?" she hissed.

  After three rings, he picked up. "Yes."

  My mouth was dry. "Beck, this is Kinsey."

  "God damn you! Where's Reba? The fuckin' bitch. I want what's mine and she better make it quick."

  Reba grabbed the handset, all sweetness and light now that she had him by the balls. "Hey, baby. How's by you? I'm right here."

  Whatever Beck's reply, it must have been tart because she laughed with delight. "Oh my, now. You don't have to be crude. I was thinking we should get together and have a chat."

  I waited, staring off across the parking lot, while she spelled out the proposal and the nature of the trade. Then they argued about the rendezvous, tussling to see which of them was going to come out on top. The East Beach bathhouse, at the corner of Cabana and Milagro, was where I did the turnaround on my morning runs. Even at night, the area is exposed and well lighted, the Santa Teresa Inn just across the street from the entrance to the parking lot. There's a small separate lot at the far end of the building, but she'd opted for the more public of the two. This showed a grain of common sense unusual for her. She insisted on meeting in fifteen minutes while he swore he couldn't be there any sooner than half an hour. To this, she finally agreed. Score one for him. I was uneasy. I figured the more time she gave him, the more likely he was to round up some help. This must have occurred to her as well. "And Beck, one more thing. You bring anyone but Marty and you'll eat it, big time. Yeah, well, same to you, you little shit!" She slammed down the phone and then shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. "God, I hate him. What a hairball."

  I picked up the handset and reached for some coins. "I'm calling Cheney."

  She took the handset and returned it to the cradle. "I don't want Cheney. I don't want anyone but us."

  "I can't do this. You and Beck can play all the games you want, but I'm out of it," I said.

  "Okay. Fine. Take a hike. Drop me at my car and you're off the hook," she said. She turned and walked off.

  I'd hoped to jolt her into getting help, but she was having none of it. I blinked, staring at the pavement. What were my choices? Do it her way or risk... what? That she'd die or get hurt? Because Marty'd stolen the computer, she'd assumed Beck was the one who'd ordered the snatch, but what if he hadn't? It might have been Salustio Castillo, who had just as much to lose. Beck might be bluffing. He might not have a clue where Marty was being held, and then what? All he had to do was grab the suitcase and what could she do? If it came right down to it, what could I do? Nothing. At the same time, she knew I wouldn't leave her. There was too much at stake.

  Reluctantly, I followed. The car doors were locked and she waited, gaze averted, while I let myself in and tossed my bag on the backseat. I slid under the wheel, leaned over, and opened the door on her side. Reba got in and we sat there. I had my hands on the steering wheel, stalling while I racked my brain for some alternative. "There has to be a better way to do this."

  "Great. Spell it out. I'm all yours," she said.

  I didn't have an answer. The meeting was scheduled for 11:00 P.M., in roughly twenty-five minutes. Technically we had time enough to drive to my place, where I could pick up my gun. I nearly banged my head on the steering wheel. What was I thinking? A gun was out of the question. I wasn't going to shoot anyone. Over a computer? How absurd.

  On the other hand... shit... on the other hand... if Marty's home phone was tapped, the FBI must have a tap on Beck's telephone lines as well. One of their agents must have heard Beck and Reba wrangling, so maybe they'd taken note and the cavalry was already on the way.

  Out of the comer of my eye, I saw Reba check her watch, saying, "Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Time's a-wasting."

  "So where's Marty all this time?"

  "He didn't say. I'm assuming somewhere close."

  I shook my head in frustration. "I don't believe I'm doing this." I turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the space. "Let's at least take a minute to scope out the area, or have you done that?"

  "Not really. Why bother? I figure you're the expert."

  The drive seemed to take forever. I cut over to the freeway, thinking to speed our progress. Big mistake. Traffic was heavy, taillights stacked up, as two lanes of cars amassed in the wake of an accident in one of the northbound lanes. I could see lights flashing where the CHP and the emergency vehicles had converged on the scene. There wasn't actually an obstruction on our side of the road, but we were at a dead stop, anyway, while people paused to gawk.

  By the time we reached the off-ramp at Cabana, we had less than a minute to spare. I confess I sped the final mile and a half, hoping a cop would spot us and make a traffic stop. No such luck. The ocean was to our right, separated from the road by the beach, a bike path, and a wide strip of grass that was dotted with palm trees. On our left, we passed a string of motels and restaurants. The sidewalk was populated with tourists, which was oddly comforting somehow.

  At Milagro, I turned into the designated parking lot. There were no cars in evidence, which meant (perhaps) that if Beck was bringing goons, at least they hadn't arrived before us. Reba told me to make a U-turn at the far end of the lot and circle back to the entrance. I did as instructed and then backed into a parking space, my car facing the street in case we needed to make a hasty retreat. We got out of the car. She flipped her seat forward and removed the suitcase. She popped the handle, extending it, and then rolled the case to the front of th
e car. "Might as well let him know we mean business," she said.

  Behind us, the waves were drumming on the sand, gathering momentum before they battered the shore and then rolled back again. The water was intensely black with a fine sheen of white where moonlight caught the peaks of each wave. A damp breeze buffeted my hair and pushed against the legs of my jeans. I turned and scanned the beach behind us, hopping from foot to foot to keep warm. So far, to all appearances, we were alone.

  Reba leaned on the front fender, lit a cigarette, and smoked. Ten minutes passed. She checked her watch. "What's this about? Does he want the friggin' thing or not?"

  Across the street, hotel guests pulled in at the entrance to the Santa Teresa Inn. There were two valet parkers and a smattering of pedestrians. In the restaurant on the second floor, tables were arranged along the big curved front window. Diners were visible, though as dark as it was now, I doubted they could see us. A black-and-white patrol car approached and turned right, speeding up Milagro. I could feel my hopes flare and fade.

  "I think we should get out of here. I don't like this," I said.

  She looked at her watch again. "Not yet. He doesn't show by 11:30, we'll bail."

  At 11:19 two cars crawled into view and turned into the lot. Reba dropped her cigarette and stepped on it. "That's Marty's car in front. The second one's Beck."

  "Is that Marty at the wheel?"

  "I can't tell. It looks like him."

  "Well, great then. No sweat. Get it over with," I said.

  Reba crossed her arms, whether from cold or tension, I couldn't be sure. Once in the lot, Marty's car turned left, circled as we had, and made a slow return. He stopped his car thirty feet away and sat, engine idling, while Beck pulled up fifteen feet closer to us. The two sets of headlights formed a line of harsh spots. I raised a hand and shaded my eyes. I could see Beck at the wheel of his car, but I wasn't at all convinced the second driver was Marty. A minute passed.

  Reba shifted restlessly. "What's he doing?"

  "Reba, let's go. There's something off about this."

  Beck got out of the car. He stood by the open door, his attention fixed on the rolling bag. He wore a dark raincoat, open along its length, sides flapping in the wind. "Is that it?"

  "No, Beck, it's not. I've decided to leave town."

  "Bring it over here and let's have a look."

  "Tell Marty to get out so we can see it's him."

  Beck called over his shoulder. "Hey, Marty? Give Reeb a wave. She thinks you're someone else."

  The driver in Marty's car waved to us and blinked his headlights, then revved his engine like a stock car driver at the start of a race. I touched Reba's arm, warbling, "Run..."

  I took off, breaking left, as Marty's car pitched forward, tires chirping, the vehicle gathering speed as it bore down on us. Reba grabbed the handle of the rolling bag and scrambled after me. The suitcase teetered on the uneven surface of the parking lot and then toppled to one side. She headed for the street, dragging it after her. I could hear it scraping along the pavement, as awkward as an anchor if she hoped to escape. I yelled, "Dump that!"

  The driver in Marty's car slammed on his brakes and turned the wheel so his rear end swung around, missing my car by inches. Two men jumped out, the driver and a second man who suddenly appeared from the back where he'd been concealed.

  Beck stood with his hands in his coat pockets, watching with detachment as Reba abandoned the suitcase and took off at a dead run. The two men were fast. She'd gone no distance at all when one tackled her from behind and the two of them went down.

  I reversed myself and headed in her direction. I had no plan. I didn't give a shit about the suitcase, but I wasn't going to leave Reba on her own. She was struggling, kicking at the guy who'd tackled her. He punched her in the face. Her head jerked and banged against the ground. I reached him as he raised his fist to punch her again. I hooked my arms around his right arm and hung on for dear life. Some- one grabbed me from behind. He pinned my arms against my sides, lifted me off the ground, and then swung me away from his pal. I craned my neck for sight of Reba, who'd rolled over on her side. I watched as she pulled herself up on her hands and knees. She seemed dazed, blood pouring out of her mouth and nose. The guy who'd punched her turned to me. He lifted my feet and the two hauled me over to Marty's car. I arched my back, trying to free myself, but the guy simply tightened his grip and there was nothing I could do.

  Beck crossed to Marty's car and opened one of the rear doors. The guy in whose arms I was locked fell into the backseat and dragged me in on top of him. He flipped me so that I was pinned under him, my face mashed against the upholstery. His weight was so crushing, I couldn't draw a breath. I thought my ribs would collapse, crushing my lungs in the process. I tried a groan, but all I could manage was a huffing sound, barely audible.

  "Get the fuck off her," someone snapped.

  The guy dug an elbow in my back as he lifted himself off me. At the same time, he took my right wrist and wrenched my arm up behind me while he shoved my head toward the floor. I was staring at the floor mats, my nose six inches away. Someone folded my legs in and slammed the door. Half a second later, I heard Beck's car door slam. He started his engine while the driver of Marty's car slid under the wheel, shut the door, and started the car. He pulled away sedately. We slowed at the exit to the parking lot. No squealing of brakes. No calling attention to ourselves in any way. As far as I knew, Reba was still out there on the asphalt, trying to stanch the blood gushing from her nose. I'd caught a glimpse of my backseat companion, who had a white gauze patch taped across his left eye. Two harsh red and purple bruises ran along his cheek like streaks of paint. The chair leg must have come close to taking that eye out, which is probably why he'd so relished mauling me. I focused on the drive. I assumed we were forming a two-car motorcade. I thought about the kidnappings I'd seen in movies, how the heroine later identified the final destination by the sound of the tires crossing railroad tracks or the bleat of a foghorn in the distance. Most of what I heard was my companion's labored breathing. Neither of the two guys was in as good a shape as they appeared. Or perhaps, more flattering to us, Reba and I had put up more of a fight than they'd expected.

  We turned left onto Cabana Boulevard and proceeded at an easy pace for less than a minute before we slowed to a stop. I was guessing this was the light at the intersection of State and Cabana. The driver turned on the radio and music filled the car, a male vocalist singing, "I want your sex..."

  My new best friend said, "Turn that shit off."

  The driver said, "I like George Michael." But the radio did go off.

  "Roll your window down and see what Beck wants."

  I could picture Beck's car in the lane next to ours, him making that rolling gesture, leaning across the front seat of his car to converse. Annoyed, our driver said, "Okay; okay. Got it. I'm doing that!" And to the fellow in the backseat, "He has the key card, so we're supposed to follow. How many times he tell us that?"

  Faintly, in the distance, I heard sirens approaching. The wailing grew louder, the sound splitting in two. Two cop cars, oh please.

  I tried turning my head, hoping for a glimpse of something out the window, but all that netted me was a searing jerk to my arm. The sirens were almost on top of us. I caught the strobe of lights from two patrol cars that passed in rapid succession. The sirens trailed down Cabana Boulevard, volume diminishing until it faded altogether. So much for help being on the way. We turned right on what I was guessing was Castle. When we slowed to a second stop, I imagined the light at Montebello Street. We started up again, proceeding at maybe ten miles an hour. I caught the hollow sound of the road as it went under the freeway. We came up the incline on the other side, which would put us on Granizo. Left on Chapel. We had to be going to Beck's office, which was only a couple of blocks away. I knew the stores along the mall would be closed and the office buildings locked. The "card" the driver had referred to probably triggered the mechanical barrier to the underg
round garage. Sure enough, I felt us slow and then turn right, easing down a ramp. At this hour, the garage would be empty. We drove the length of the cavernous space and pulled into a spot. Beck must have parked just ahead of us because I heard his car door slam before our driver had a chance to shut his engine down.

  I was hauled unceremoniously from the backseat and set on my feet. I'd hoped to catch Beck's eye, establish a connection, thinking I had a better chance of charming him than the goons on each side of me. He avoided my eyes, his face set. We waited while he opened his trunk and extracted the rolling bag. The sides were scraped gray, embedded with the beach sand accumulated from its being dragged across the pavement. The handle had snapped. Beck flipped the suitcase and knelt beside it. He unzipped the compartment and pulled open the flap.