by Sue Grafton
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: 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 money 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 cu
t her a deal. Reba was returned to CIW on the first sheriffs 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
The End