E is for EVIDENCE

by Sue Grafton

  I drove out to Colgate with my windows rolled down, parched air whipping through the interior of the VW like a convection oven. The weather forecaster on the car radio seemed as baffled as I was. It felt like August, asphalt shimmering in the heat. January in Santa Teresa is usually our best month. Everything is green, flowers in full bloom, the temperatures in the low seventies, mild and pleasant. The time-and-temp sign on the bank building was showing 89 degrees and it wasn’t yet noon.

  I parked in front of Wood/Warren and went in. Lance came out of his office in a wilted shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  “Do we need to watch what we say once we go in there?” he asked, indicating the office door.

  “I don’t think so. Let’s let ‘em know we’re hot on the trail. Maybe it’ll shake ‘em up.”

  Before we started work, I did a quick check of both interior and exterior office walls on the off-chance that someone had installed a spike mike, a small probe that can be inserted between the studs, or hidden in a hollow door, the door panel itself serving as a diaphragm to transmit sound. Lance’s office was located in the right-front corner of the building. The construction on those two sides was block and fieldstone, which didn’t lend itself to easy installation. Somebody would have had to drill through solid rock. Inside, one office wall was contiguous with the reception area, where the pickup unit would have been difficult to conceal. The fourth wall was clean.

  Company employees watched the two of us incuriously as we moved through the preliminary phases of the search. If anyone was worried about surveillance equipment coming to light, there was no indication of it.

  We went into the office. I examined the telephone first, taking the plate off the bottom, unscrewing the mouth and ear pieces. As far as I could tell, the instrument was clean.

  “I take it it’s not the phone,” Lance said, watching me.

  “Who knows? The bug might be downstream,” I said. “I don’t have any way to find out if somebody’s tapped into the line at the pole. We’ll have to operate on the premise that the bug’s somewhere in the room. It’s just a matter of coming up with it.”

  “What exactly are” we looking for?” Lance asked.

  I shrugged. “Microphone, transmitter. If you’re being spied on by the FBI or the CIA, we probably won’t find anything. I’m assuming those guys are good. On the other hand, if your eavesdropper’s an amateur, the device might be fairly crude.”

  “What’s that thing?”

  “My handy little all-band receiver,” I said. “This should pick up any sound being transmitted by the bug in a feedback loop that’ll result in a high-pitched squeal. We’ll try this first, and if nothing comes to light, we’ll take the office apart item by item.”

  I flipped the receiver on and began to work my way through the popular bugging frequencies, moving around the office like someone dowsing for water. Nothing.

  I tucked the debugger in the outside pocket of my handbag and started searching in earnest, working my way around the periphery of the room, then toward the center in an imaginary grid pattern that covered every square foot.

  Nothing.

  I stood for a moment, perplexed, my eye traveling along the ceiling, down the walls, along the baseboard. Where was the sucker? I felt my attention tugged by the phone jack just to the right of the door. There was no telephone cord coming from it.

  “What’s that?”

  “What? Oh. I had the jack moved when I changed the office around. The telephone used to be over there.”

  I got down on my hands and knees and inspected the jack. It looked okay. I took out my screwdriver and popped off the cover. A small section of the baseboard had been cut away. Tucked into the space was a microcassette recorder about the size of a deck of playing cards.

  “Hello,” I said. The tape gave a half-turn and stopped.

  I moved the microsensor button away from the voice-activated setting and placed the recorder on his desk. Lance sank heavily into his swivel chair. He and I exchanged a long look.

  “Why?” he said, baffled.

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t even think where to start. I don’t have enemies as far as I know.”

  “Apparently you do. And it isn’t just you. Hugh Case is dead and Terry would have been if he’d picked up that package instead of Olive. What do the three of you have in common?”

  “Nothing, I swear. We’re all connected to Wood/Warren, but none of us even do the same kind of work. We make hydrogen furnaces. That’s all we do. And Hugh died two years ago. Why then? If somebody wants control of the company, why kill off the key personnel?”

  “Maybe that’s not the motive. It could be something wholly unrelated to the work. Give it some thought. I’ll talk to Terry and have him do the same. Maybe there’s something you’ve overlooked.”

  “There must be,” he said, his face florid with heat and tension. He pushed at the tape recorder with one finger. “Thanks for this.”

  “Be careful. There could be another one. Maybe this one was planted someplace obvious to distract us from the other.” I picked up my handbag and started toward the door, pausing at the threshold. “Get in touch if you think of anything. And if you hear from Lyda Case, let me know.”

  As I passed through the reception area, I did a detour to the right. This was the office where the engineers had their drafting tables. John Salkowitz glanced up at me from the rough diagram he was working on. “Can I help you?”

  “Is Ava Daugherty here someplace?”

  “She just left. She had some errands to run, but she should be right back.”

  I took out my business card and placed it on her desk. “Have her get in touch with me, if you would.”

  “Will do.”

  I was home again by 3:00, feeling hot and grimy from crawling the perimeter of Lance’s office, peering under things. I let myself into my apartment and tossed my handbag on the couch. A piercing shriek started up and I jumped a foot, grabbing up my bag. I snatched the debugger out of the outside compartment and flipped the switch off. Jesus Christ, I’d scared myself to death! The silence was wonderful. I stood there, heart pounding, enjoying the air conditioning the sudden sweat had generated. I patted myself on the chest and blew out a big breath. I shook my head and moved into the kitchenette. I felt dry, longing for a beer. The apartment was as close and muggy as a sauna. I checked the refrigerator. I didn’t even have a can of Diet Pepsi.

  And then I paused, my head swiveling slowly toward the room behind me. I closed the refrigerator door and moved back to the couch. I picked up the debugger and flipped it on again, sweeping the room. The high-pitched squeal cut through the silence like a burglar alarm.

  I crossed to the corner and stood there, looking down. I hunkered on my heels, running a hand carefully into the sound hole in Daniel’s guitar. The tiny transmitter, no bigger than a matchbox, was affixed to the body of the instrument with tape. A chill started at the base of my spine and raced up my body. Daniel was somehow connected to the case.

  Chapter 21

  *

  It took me nearly two hours to find the voice-activated tape recorder which turned out to be hidden on the sun porch that formerly connected my converted garage apartment to the main house. I wasn’t sure how Daniel had gotten in. Perhaps he’d picked the lock, as I would have in his place. The tape was new, which meant he must have been there fairly recently, pulling out the old tape, inserting this one. I couldn’t even remember what was going on when he had first appeared. It was appalling now to think of all the telephone conversations he must have picked up in the last few days. Even messages coming in on my answering machine would have been recorded and passed on, not to mention the lengthy discussion I’d had with him about the case itself. He’d been so interested, so astute in the questions he asked. I’d felt so gratified by his attention. Looking back, I could see that in his own way he’d tried to warn me. All that talk about what a liar he was. Had every word h
e said to me been false? I sat on my back step, turning the situation over in my mind. Who had put Daniel up to it? Lyda Case perhaps, or maybe Ebony. One or the other of them might have run into Daniel, the amoral, the promiscuous, bored and at loose ends, restless and sick of life. What difference would it make to him who he betrayed? He’d done me in before. One more time couldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. It was staggering to think of all the information that must have been passed down the line, just by listening in, just by assembling my end of telephone conversations. Maybe that’s how Andy Motycka had figured out Darcy and I were onto him. Something had caused him to cut and run. Olive’s death hadn’t hit the papers until the day after he disappeared. Had he known what was going to happen? I had to find Daniel.

  I gathered up his guitar, the transmitter, and the tape recorder, shoving everything in the back seat of the car, and then I started cruising the neighborhood, looking for his Rent-A-Ruin. I live one block from the beach in an area made up of motels and vintage California bungalows. I started at Cabana Boulevard and circled each block, checking the cars at every motel, scanning the restaurant parking lots along the beach. There was no sign of him. He’d probably lied about where he was staying, along with everything else.

  At 5:00, I finally gave up and went home. As usual, I was forced to park several doors away. The intense heat of day was yielding to balminess and it felt like we were in for a warm night ahead. The sun had begun to drop and the combination of January twilight and the summery temperature was disconcerting and set my teeth on edge. I was turning in at my gate when I picked up the smell. Dead dog, I thought. Something fetid and rotten. I looked back at the street, thinking I’d spot some poor flattened creature on the pavement. Instead my attention was caught by the vehicle shrouded by the blue cotton car cover right out in front. I hesitated for a moment and then retraced my steps. The smell was stronger. Saliva began to collect involuntarily on the floor of my mouth. I swallowed, tears welling briefly, a fear reaction of mine. Gingerly, I lifted the car cover, pulling it up off the hood so that I could peer in through the windshield.

  I jerked my hand away, making one of those sounds that has no translation in human speech.

  Leaning against the window on the passenger side was the bloated face of Lyda Case, eyes bulging, tongue as fat and round and dark as a parakeet’s, protruding slightly beyond puffy darkened lips. A scarf gaily printed with a surfing motif was nearly buried in the swollen flesh of her neck. I pulled the cover back over the windshield and went straight to my phone where I dialed 911 and reported the body. My voice sounded low and emotionless, but my hands were shaking badly. The sight of Lyda’s face still danced in the air, a vision of death, wed to the smell of putrescence. The dispatcher assured me someone was on the way.

  I went back out to the street. I sat on the curb to wait for the cops, guarding Lyda’s body like some old loyal pooch. I don’t think four minutes had passed before the black-and-white came barreling around the corner. I got up and moved to the street, holding an arm up like a crossing guard.

  The two uniformed police who emerged were familiar, Pettigrew and Gutierrez, male and female. I knew they’d seen worse than Lyda Case… what beat cop hasn’t?… but there was something repellent about the spectacle of this death. It looked like she’d been positioned so as to maximize the horror. The message was for me… mockery and macabre arrogance, an escalation of the terms between this killer and me. I hadn’t taken Olive’s death personally. I’d felt the loss, but I didn’t believe I’d been targeted in any way. My presence there when the bomb went off was purely circumstantial. This was different. This was aimed at me. Someone knew where I lived. Someone had made very special arrangements to get her here.

  The next two hours were filled with police routine, comforting procedures, as formalized as a dance. All of the responsibility belonged to someone else. Lieutenant Dolan appeared. I answered questions. The car turned out to be another rental, Hertz this time instead of Rent-A-Ruin. I’d first seen it this morning, as nearly as I could remember. No, I’d never seen it before. No, I hadn’t seen any strangers in the area. Yes, I knew who she was, but she hadn’t been in touch. No, I had no idea when or why she’d come to town except that she’d told Terry Kohler she had information for him. Dolan had waited with us at the bird refuge so he knew she hadn’t showed up. She was probably already dead by then, her flesh beginning to bake in the toaster oven of the locked car.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the medical examiner do his preliminary examination of the body. The car doors were hanging open, the neighborhood perfumed by the stink of the corpse. By that time it was fully dark and neighbors were giving the crime scene a wide berth, watching from porches all up and down the street. Some were still in work clothes. Many held handkerchiefs to their faces, filtering the smell. The police personnel working directly with the body wore protective masks. Lights had been set up and the fingerprint technicians were going over every inch of the dark-blue car with white powder and brushes. Door handles, windows, dash, steering wheel, steering column, plastic seat covers. Since the rental car was probably cleaned up between uses, there was a good chance that any prints lifted would be significant. Easy to match, at any rate.

  Pettigrew had gone into my apartment to contact the Hertz manager by phone.

  Lyda was zipped into a body bag. The gases that had collected under her skin made her look like she’d suddenly gained fifty pounds, and for a moment, grotesquely, I worried she would burst. I got up abruptly and went inside. I poured myself a glass of wine and chugged it down like water. Officer Pettigrew finished his conversation and hung up the phone.

  “I’m going in to take a shower if no one objects.” I didn’t wait for an answer. I grabbed a plastic garbage bag from the kitchen, closed myself into the bathroom and stripped, dropping every article of clothing, including my shoes, into the bag. I tied it shut and set it outside the bathroom door. I showered. I shampooed my hair. When I was done, I wrapped myself in a towel, searching my face in the mirror for reassurance. I couldn’t shake the images. Lyda’s features seemed to be superimposed on my own, the stench of her competing with the scent of shampoo and soap. Never had my own mortality seemed so immediate. My ego recoiled, incapable of contemplating its own surcease. There’s nothing so astonishing or insulting to a soul as the suggestion that a day might come when it would not “be.” Thus springs religion with comforts I couldn’t accept.

  By 9:00 the neighborhood had cleared again. Several prints, including a partial palm, had been lifted from the car, which had then been towed to the impound lot. The Hertz manager had appeared on the scene and the fingerprint technician had taken a set of his prints, as well as mine, for comparison. The crime-scene investigators would dust and vacuum the car like a crew of charwomen and then they’d begin the painstaking business of analyzing trace evidence.

  In the meantime, I was too restless to stay at home. Any sense of refuge and safety I felt had been obliterated by the angle of Lyda’s face, tilted so she seemed to be watching my gate. I hunched myself into a windbreaker and grabbed my handbag, depositing the sackful of fouled clothes in Henry’s trash can on my way out. I cruised the neighborhood again, looking for Daniel’s car, covering the same restaurant parking lots, the same motels. I still had his guitar in the back seat and I didn’t think he’d skip out of town without retrieving it.

  I hit pay dirt at the Beach View, which in fact only had a view of the backside of the adjacent motel. Daniel’s ratty rented vehicle was parked in front of room 16, ground floor, rear. Parked beside it was a little red Alfa-Romeo convertible. Uneasily I turned to stare at it as I pulled in. I locked my car, pausing to check the glove compartment in the Alfa for the owner registration slip. Not surprisingly, the car belonged to Ashley Wood. My, my, my.

  I knocked on Daniel’s door. I could see that the lights were on, but there was a long wait. I was beginning to think they might have gone off somewhere on foot when the door opened an
d Daniel peered out. He was barefoot and shirtless, but he’d pulled on a pair of faded jeans. He looked slim-hipped and bronzed, his blond hair tousled as if he’d been asleep. His cheeks were flushed and the lines had been eased from around his eyes. He looked ten years younger, the haggard cast to his face magically erased. If he was surprised to see me, he gave no indication of it.

  “Mind if I come in?” I asked.

  He hesitated slightly and then stepped aside. I moved into the room, noting with grim amusement that the bathroom door was shut. The musky smell of sex still hung in the air like ozone after a rainstorm.

  “I have your guitar in my car.”

  “You didn’t have to do that. I told you I’d pick it up.”

  “It’s no problem. I wanted to talk to you again, anyway.” I strolled around the room, noting the roach clip, the darkened stub of a joint in the ashtray. “God, you got right to it, didn’t you?” I remarked.

  His gaze was watchful. He knew me well enough to realize I was in a mean mood. He said, “What’s on your mind? I’m kind of tied up right now.”

  I smiled, wondering if he meant that literally. Bondage had never been part of his sexual repertoire, but who knew how Ash’s taste ran? “I found the transmitter. The tape recorder’s in the car along with the guitar. I thought I might dump it all off the pier, but I’m too nice. I give you credit for balls, Daniel. It took a lot of fuckin’ nerve to come waltzing back in my life and betray me again.”

  His expression altered, but at least he had the decency not to deny anything.

  I moved to the bathroom door and opened it.

  Bass was standing there. Something like pain shot through me, followed by the cessation of all feeling. Even rage was washed away in that moment of recognition. I thought about the last time I’d seen them together… Bass’s twenty-first birthday party at the country club. Daniel’s jazz combo had played for the occasion and I’d been invited, too, since I knew Ash. Two weeks later, Daniel was gone, without so much as a by-your-leave. I was looking at the reason. Who, I wondered, had seduced whom. Daniel was older than Bass by thirteen years, but that wasn’t necessarily relevant. Not that it mattered anyway. Passion had ionized all the air in the room. I felt nearly giddy as I drank it in.