by Sue Grafton
Dolan was shaking his head.
“What’s wrong with that?” Dolan sat back in the booth. “No one exists in a vacuum. She must’ve had family and friends. She worked, went to school. She did some damn thing. Somebody must have wondered. Essentially, this girl dropped off the face of the earth and you’re telling me no one noticed? There’s something off about that.”
I said, “But, Dolan, think of all the kids who disappeared in those days. There must be dozens unaccounted for. Families probably still fantasize they’ll show up one day.”
Stacey said, “Why don’t we forget that angle and come at it from the other direction?”
“Which is what?” I asked.
“What we talked about before, assume Frankie killed her and see if we can find a way to make it stick.”
“Based on what? Make that leap and we could end up spinning our wheels,” I said.
“We’re doing that anyway. The exercise is only pointless if it turns out we’re wrong. What do you say, Con?”
“I’m with you on that one. We’d be no worse off. I’ve always thought Frankie had a hand in it.”
Stacey turned to me. I said, “You’re the boss.”
“My thought exactly. Let me show you what I got.”
He opened a manila folder and removed two connected sheets of computer paper with perforated edges. I peered at the pale print. There, in abbreviated form, was Frankie Miracle’s criminal history, starting with his first arrest in Venice, California, in January of 1964. Stacey picked up the paper and began to rattle off the long string of his offenses. “I love this guy. Look at this. 1964. Kid’s twenty-one years old, arrested for drunkenness and resisting arrest. Fined twenty-five bucks and put on a year’s probation. Well, okay. No problem. His first contact with the law…”
“That we know of,” Dolan said.
Stacey smiled. “That’s right. But boys will be boys. They’re not going to execute the lad for public drunkenness. In May that same year, he was arrested for burglary and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Probably screwed a thirteen-year-old. That’d be about his speed. Put on probation. In February of ‘65, he was arrested for another burglary. He pleaded guilty; sentence was six months in jail and probation. Judge is really cracking down on him,” he said, tongue in cheek. “June 1965. Burglary again. This time, his probation’s revoked and he’s sentenced to state prison, six months to fifteen years; released after serving ten months. December 1965. Drunk and disorderly, assault, and marijuana possession. Admitted for psychiatric evaluation and treatment of drug and alcohol dependency.” Stacey snorted derisively. “The guy’s a creep. We all know that. April 1966-burglary and escape. November 1966-robbery, kidnapping, attempted rape. This time they threw in assault and possession of a dangerous weapon. March 1967-another burglary. Oh, and here’s a good one. I can’t believe this guy’s back on the street. In January 1968, Frankie abducted a woman from a supermarket parking lot. He was later arrested on charges of kidnap, assault, robbery, oral copulation, sodomy, and attempted murder. You better believe she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since she ran into him. January 1969-attempted kidnap, statutory rape, contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Now we’re getting down to business. In March 1969, he was picked up on charges of armed robbery, assault, and attempted murder. Case dismissed. Cops probably beat a confession out of him, and the public defender had the whole thing thrown out. Sometime in June, he met a sixteen-year-old girl named Iona Mathis. He was married to her briefly-six months I think. About as long as some of his jail time, as it turns out. Which brings us to Venice, California, late July, when Frankie killed Cathy Lee Pearse.” Stacey shook his head. “God bless the courts. If they’d done their job right, they could have saved her life.”
I said, “How’d he manage to get away with all that shit?” .“Easy,” Dolan said. He stubbed out one cigarette and fired up the next. “He knew how to work the system. Every time he was charged with multiple crimes, he’d plead guilty to one in exchange for the others being dropped. You haven’t met Frankie. He can be as charming as all get out. He had judges and prosecutors bending over backwards, trying to give him a chance to straighten up and fly right.” Stacey returned the report to the manila folder. “Lot of times he was sentenced to state prison under the old indeterminate sentence system. Other times he was released on automatic parole. Longest he ever went between crimes was this period between March of ‘67 and November of ‘68.” Dolan said, “Bet you a dollar he just didn’t get caught. He hasn’t gone that long between crimes since he started out.”
“Probably right about that. If you look at the pattern, you can see the stakes go up. Violence escalates. The stretch between crimes starts getting shorter and shorter until he killed Cathy Lee. For that one, he only served seventeen years on a life sentence so he’s still lucking out. If I were her parents, I’d be pissed as hell.” I said.
“What else do we have?” Dolan pulled a battered notebook from his jacket pocket and began to leaf through the pages. He clicked his ballpoint pen. “Frankie’s cellmates. Turns out there were twelve altogether, but half the last known addresses are incorrect. We got two in state prison and one serving time in a federal prison camp in Yankton, South Dakota. I know the whereabouts of three for sure: Lorenzo Rickman, Pudgie Clifton, and John Luchek.”
Stacey said, “Scratch Luchek. He was killed in a two-car accident in 1975. Drunk hit him head on.”
“Right. That’s the information I have.” Dolan drew a line through the name. “Rickman’s out on parole. Word has it he’s been a real good boy of late, working as an auto mechanic at a place out in Colgate. I got the name here somewhere. Stacey’ll stop by Monday to have a chat with him. Which leaves Clifton, who’s currently at the tail end of ninety days on a misdemeanor possession. I picked up mug shots on all these guys in case you need something to refresh people’s memories. I mixed in some unrelated photos so we can’t be accused of biasing the witnesses – assuming we find a few.”
“Let’s be optimistic. It doesn’t cost anything,” Stacey said.
Dolan passed one pack of photos to me and one to Stacey, who said, “We’ll let Kinsey talk to Pudgie. He’s the type who’d respond to her: feminine wiles.”
“Like I got some.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself.”
Dolan said, “That leaves Frankie.”
“You and I can draw straws, but let’s hold off on that until we contact the other two.” Stacey winced and then stood up abruptly, saying, “Shit! Hang, on a sec.”
Dolan said, “What’s wrong?”
Stacey groaned, then sucked in air through his teeth, his face tense. “Damn back’s seizing up. Jeez, that hurts. Pain’s shooting all the way down my leg.”
“What’s the doctor say?”
“How do I know? This ain’t Death at my door. I told you – I pulled a muscle. I can’t call the oncologist for every little thing.” He leaned’ sideways, stretching. After a moment, he stood upright, taking a long, slow, deep breath.
“Better?”
“Much. Sorry to interrupt. Damn thing caught me by surprise.”
“Would you quit the self-diagnosis and call the guy?”
“The doctor’s a woman, you sexist prick. You ought to give some serious thought to the assumptions you make.”
“Quit the bullshitting, Stace. This is all a big smokescreen. You keep acting like you’ve only had the back pain for the past two days when you’ve complained of it for weeks. You should have had the docs take a look while you were in the hospital.”
“It wasn’t hurting me then.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You know what? This is called ‘denial.’ This is you trying to minimize a problem that could be damn serious. Hell, give me the gal’s name and I’ll call her myself.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Then you call.”
“I will. I was going to do that.”
“Now.”
“Con, cut it
out! It’s past five. She’s probably left for the day.”
“Then call the service, leave CC’s number, and have her paged. We can wait. You don’t call her, I will. I’m sick of hearing you bellyache.”
“You don’t even know her name.”
“I’ll find out.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Quit arguing. Maybe she’ll give you some Valium to help you sleep at night.”
Stacey shook his head. “I hate making a fool of myself because of you.” Despite his grumbling and protests, he did go off to find a phone.
Dolan and I sat without looking at each other. I didn’t like the sound of it any more than he did. Finally, I said, “Are the two of you okay? You seem testy.”
“We’re fine. He’s just pissing me off. It’s not about his back. The man’s depressed. He thinks the cancer’s spread and that’s why he doesn’t want to get it checked.”
“I missed that, I guess. He seemed fine as far as I could tell. I mean, aside from his back.”
“That’s because he puts on an act for your benefit. You should’ve heard him before you showed. The shit’s wearing him down. H he’d had a gun on him, he’d have blown his brains out. He’s that close.” Dolan held up his thumb and index finger a quarter of an inch apart.
“You’re not serious.”
“I am. He wasn’t even going to do the chemo until I talked him into it. As far as he’s concerned, this is the end of the line so why play it out? Get the damn thing over with is his attitude.”
“But suppose the cancer’s moved into his bones?”
“Now, damn it, don’t you start. Don’t be so negative.”
“I’m just saying I can understand where he’s coming from.”
“Well, keep your opinion to yourself.”
“My opinion’s not relevant. He can do anything he wants. It’s his life.” “Wrong. He could use a pep talk. He needs someone to make him realize how selfish it is.”
“To kill himself? How so?”
“People who commit suicide are the ultimate narcissists. What makes him think everything revolves around him? I’m in this, too.
Thirty years down the drain and all because he’s a cowardly damn chickenshit and won’t see this through.”
“But what if he’s terminal? I don’t understand what you want.”
“I want him to think about someone else for a change.”
“If you don’t get to think about yourself when you’re dying, when do you?” I said.
Stacey reappeared moments later and we dropped the conversation.
He declined to sit, remaining by the table with his fists pressed into the small of his back.
Dolan fired up another cigarette, pausing to cough into his fist.
“What’d she say?”
Stacey waved the cigarette smoke away from his face. “She’ll see me first thing tomorrow morning; maybe take an X-ray or do a CT scan.”
“What’s the matter with her? Did you tell her how bad it is? She should see you right now and find out what the hell’s going on.”
“Goddammit. Quit nagging. This isn’t an emergency so layoff that stuff. Anyway, I’m tired and it’s time to go home. I can’t be sitting here drinking all night like some I could name.”
“Sit down. You haven’t had dinner yet. You have to eat. It’s my treat.”
“I got food at my place. You two stay. I can get a cab.”
“I’ll take you,” I said. “My car’s right outside.”
“You don’t have to do that. I can manage on my own.”
“Really, I don’t mind. I need to get home myself.”
I reached for my shoulder bag and took out the keys. Stacey was already moving toward the door as I slid out of the booth.
Dolan stubbed out his cigarette. “I’ll take care of it.”
In the end, we left at the same time; Stacey in Dolan’s car and me in mine. I watched Dolan turn off, heading toward the freeway. I took a right on Cabana Boulevard and followed the road as it wound along the beach. It was not quite dark, but a fog was rolling in off the ocean, enveloping the shore. I parked in Henry’s driveway. He’d be home tomorrow in the late afternoon. I let myself into his place where I did a quick tour, making sure all was in order. No broken water pipes, no power outages, and no sign of disturbances. For a moment, I stood in his kitchen, drinking in the lingering scent of yeast and cinnamon – Henry’s home-baked sweetrolls. Surely, I could survive one more day.
I was home minutes later, safely tucked away for the night. 5:56 on a Friday evening and I had no plans. I made an olive-and-pimento-cheese sandwich on whole-wheat bread, which I cut into quarters. I poured myself a glass of wine and settled on the couch where I took up the Jane Doe file and started back at page one. Sometimes you work because there’s nothing else to do.
Chapter 8
*
At 1:35 that morning, I was awoken from a sound sleep: Dolan on the phone, calling from the ER at St. Terry’s. “Stacey’s back got worse after I dropped him off. He called me at midnight and asked me to bring him in. They took one look at him and rounded up the doc on call. I’m waiting to hear what the fellow has to say.”
“You want me to come over?”
“Hang on a second.” He put a hand over the mouthpiece and conducted a muffled conversation with someone else, then returned to the line. “I’ll call you back in a bit. Soon as I find out what’s going on.” I replaced the handset, now wide awake. If Dolan intended to phone again, there was really no point in going back to sleep. I flipped on the light and fumbled for my running shoes. Given my new efficiency measures, I was fully suited up in sweats and crew socks. I needed only brush my teeth and run wet hands through my mop and I was ready to go.
I parked on a side street across from the hospital emergency entrance. I love the town at that hour. Traffic is sparse, the streets are empty, most businesses are shut down. The temperature had dropped into the forties and the lights in the emergency room looked inviting. Apparently, the usual weekend traumafest hadn’t gotten under way as yet, because the front desk was deserted and all was quiet. I found Dolan reading a magazine in the reception area. He rose when he saw me.
Without even thinking, I gave his cheek a buss. “How’s he doing?”
“They’re in the process of admitting him. I could have saved you a trip. I tried calling you back, but I guess you’d already left by then.”
“Don’t worry about it. I was up anyway. What now? Will they let you see him again?”
“They gave him something for the pain and he’s out of it. He probably won’t know the difference, but I’ll feel better if I do. After that, I thought I’d make a run over to his place and pick up some of his things. Toothbrush and comb, stuff like that.”
“Why don’t I find us a cup of coffee? There’s bound to be a vending machine on the premises somewhere.”
We sat together for half an hour, sipping treacherous-smelling lukewarm coffee from thick paper cups with handles like flat-folded butterfly wings. He said, “What were you doing home? I was all set to leave a message. I figured you’d be out on a date.”
“People don’t date anymore; at least I don’t,” I said.
“Why not? What’s wrong with it? How else are you going to meet someone?”
“I don’t want to meet anyone. I’m fine, thanks so much. What about you? You’re single. Are you dating these days?”
“I’m too old.”
“Me, too,” I said, peering over at him. “How long ago did your wife die?”
“Ten months today.” He was silent for a moment. “I’ll tell you what’s been hard. She bugged me for years to go on a cruise. I hated the whole idea. Tahiti. Alaska. She’d bring me color brochures full of these pictures of happy couples, all of’ em thirty years old, standing on the deck, holding champagne flutes. Sunset. Romance. Inside’d be a picture of this mountain of food you could stuff yourself with twenty-four hours a day. Just the sight of it’s enough
to make your ulcers perforate. I hate being cooped up, and I was worried I’d be stranded with a bunch of fools. Does that sound unreasonable?”
“You think it was a cruise she wanted or just a trip someplace?” Dolan turned and gave me a look. “I never thought to ask.”
I got back to my place at 2:45 A.M. and then slept restlessly until 10:00. The Santa Teresa County Jail is housed in a 25,000 square-foot building, two-stories, 120 beds, designed to be staffed by only two corrections officers, one of whom monitors the state-of-the-art security panel with its bank of television screens.
Still feeling half-dead from lack of sleep, I pulled the VW into one of the slots out front and went through the main entrance doors, where I picked up a copy of the visitation request form. I filled in my name and gave it to the clerk at the counter, then hung out in the lobby area while the word went down to Pudgie that he had a visitor. I could picture his puzzlement, as I was reasonably certain he’d never heard of me. Curiosity (or boredom) must have gotten the better of him because the clerk returned and said he’d agreed to see me. She gave me the booth number where I could meet him.
Ten of us entered the elevator: two lone women and three mothers with assorted small kids. I pressed DOWN, wondering if I looked like the sort of person who’d have a boyfriend in jail. The elevator descended by inches while we all secretly worried about getting stuck. Once the doors opened on the floor below, we spilled into a room that was probably twenty feet by twenty. Molded beige and gray plastic armchairs, chunky and square, were arranged in a double row down the middle of the room, with additional seats around the perimeter. The floor was a glossy beige vinyl tile. The walls were cinder block, painted a matte two-tone beige. A posted sign read KEEP FEET OFF WALL, though there was nothing to suggest how one might accomplish violating such a… well, feat. In the visitors room, eight stationary stools, with a handset at each place, were lined up on either side of a large glass-enclosed aisle. I sat down and placed my shoulder bag at my feet. I rested my elbows on the counter, feeling as if I were seated at the lunch counter of an old five-and-dime.