L is for LAWLESS

by Sue Grafton

  “I guess I’ll do that,” she said. “Thanks. Have a good day.”

  “You too.” I studied Laura’s backside as she moved toward the elevators. She wore a white cotton turtleneck under a dark green corduroy jumper that may or may not have been designed for maternity wear. The hemline was longer in the back than it was in the front. She tugged at the garment, which was bunching up around the middle. She wore her red high-top tennis shoes, and her tights today were dark green. If my suspicions were correct and she was the victim of spousal abuse, it might explain her tendency to keep herself covered up. I slid my hand into my pocket, where her five-dollar tip was still neatly folded from the night before. That bill was the only flicker of recognition I’d netted in my guise as a char. I wished she hadn’t seemed so friendly. I suddenly felt like a dog for what I was about to do.

  She rounded the corner. I set the towels aside and took out the key. There was a pause. I felt like I was waiting for a starter gun to go off. I heard the indicator ping as the elevator reached the floor, then the muffled sound of doors sliding shut again. I was already moving toward the door to 1236. I shoved the key in the lock, turned it, opened the door, and tagged the knob with the laminated Maid in Room sign, just in case she came back without warning. 10:18. I did a quick check to verify that both the room and the bathroom were empty as expected. I flipped the light on in the dressing area.

  Since last night, additional toiletries had been unpacked and arranged around the sink. I moved to the closet and opened the door. The duffel was right where I’d seen it before, with her handbag tucked beside it. I hauled the duffel out of the closet and propped it up on the counter. I did a superficial examination, making sure the bag wasn’t booby-trapped in some way. The duffel was made of heavy-duty beige canvas, probably waterproof, with dark leather handles and a pocket on one side for magazines. There was a flap-closure compartment on each end of the bag, where smaller items could be tucked. I unzipped the main compartment and sorted through the contents at breakneck speed. Socks, flannel pajamas, clean underwear, panty hose. I checked the compartment on either end, but both were empty. Nothing in the outside pocket. Maybe she’d removed the cash and put it someplace else. I checked the time: 10:19. I probably still had a good three minutes to go.

  I put the duffel back and picked up her handbag, riffling through the contents. Her wallet held a Kentucky driver’s license, assorted credit cards, miscellaneous identification, and maybe a hundred bucks in cash. I put the handbag back beside the duffel. How much cash could we be talking about, and how much space could it occupy? Standing up on tiptoe, I checked the closet shelf, which was bare to the touch. I felt inside her raincoat pockets, then slipped a hand into the pockets of the denim dress she’d worn, now hanging beside the raincoat. I tried the cabinet under the sink, but all it contained was the water pipes and a shut-off valve. I did a quick survey of the shower surround and the toilet tank. I went into the main room, where I slid open drawer after drawer. All were empty. Nothing in the TV cabinet. Nothing in the bed table.

  The phone rang suddenly. Once. Then silence.

  My heart started banging. Laura Huckaby was on her way up. I was flat out of time. I moved to the desk and pulled out the pencil drawer, peering to see if there was something taped under it. I got down on my hands and knees and peered under the beds, then pulled the spread back and raised the edge of the mattress on the nearest of the two. Nope. I tried the other bed, extending my arm between the mattress and the box springs. I hauled myself up and smoothed the covers back in place. I searched the duffel again, rooting through the jumble of clothing, wondering what I’d overlooked. Maybe there was a second zippered compartment inside the first. Oh, to hell with it. I grabbed up the duffel and headed to the door. I snagged the Maid in Room sign and pulled the door shut behind me. I heard the elevator indicator ping and then the sound of the doors sliding open. Hastily I shoved the duffel under a pile of clean sheets and began to push the cart down the hall.

  Laura Huckaby passed me, walking rapidly. She had a room key in hand, so at least her trip down hadn’t been a total waste. This time she didn’t even look in my direction. She let herself into her room and shut the door with a bang. I shoved the cart into the alcove at the end of the hall, pulled out the duffel, and scurried toward the fire exit. I pushed my way into the stairwell and started down at a run, skipping every other step. If Laura Huckaby was at all suspicious, it wouldn’t take her long to spot the subtle disarray. I pictured her heading straight to the closet, cursing her stupidity when she saw the duffel was missing. She’d have to know she’d been had. Whether she’d set up a stink or not would depend on how much nerve she had. If she’d been carrying a large amount of legitimate cash, why not take advantage of the hotel safe? Unless the booty itself was what Ray Rawson had lied about.

  I reached the eighth floor and pushed the door open, heading for 815. I pulled up short. A man in a business suit was standing in the hall outside my room. He turned when he caught sight of me. I caught a glimpse of the name tag pinned to his suit. The duffel suddenly seemed enormous and quite conspicuous. Why would a maid be toting a canvas bag of this sort? I moved automatically toward the utility alcove. My chest felt hot and I was starting to hyperventilate. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as he knocked on my door again. Casually, he checked the corridor in both directions, then took out a pass key and let himself into my room. Oh, God, now what?

  I put the duffel on a shelf in the linen room and put a stack of clean sheets on top of it. The sheets tumbled to the floor and the duffel toppled with them. I gathered up the duffel and shoved it temporarily into an enormous laundry bag meant for dirty linen. I got down on my knees and began to refold sheets. I had to do something while I waited for the guy to get out of my room. I peered around the door. No sign of him, so I had to assume he was still in my room, nosing through my belongings. My shoulder bag was in the closet, and I didn’t want him searching it, but I really didn’t have a way to stop him, short of setting fire to the place. I heard the door to the fire exit open and close. Please, please, please, God, don’t let it be one of the real maids, I thought. Someone stepped into view. I looked up. Well, my prayers had been answered. It wasn’t the maid, it was the security guard.

  I felt a flash of fear move up my frame, heat bringing color to my face. He was in his mid-forties, short hair, glasses, cleanshaven, overweight. In my opinion, he should have been doing situps for the gut he sported. He stood there watching me fold a pillowcase. I smiled blankly. I felt like an actress in a play suffering acute stage fright. All the spit left my mouth and seeped out the other end.

  “May I ask what you’re doing?”

  “Ah. I was just straightening these sheets. Mrs. Spitz told me to check the linen supply up here.” I struggled to my feet. Even in my guise as a lowly chambermaid, I didn’t want him to tower over me.

  He stared at me carefully. The look in his eyes was flat, and his tone was a mix of authority and judgment. “Can I have your name?”

  “Yes.” I realized I’d better give him one. “Katy. I’m new. I’m in training. Eileen and Bernadette are actually working this shift. I’m supposed to help, but I dropped these sheets.” I tried to smile again, but my expression came closer to a simper.

  He studied me with calculation, apparently weighing the truth value of the statement I’d made. His gaze flicked down to my uniform. “Where’s your name tag, Katy?”

  I put my hand across my heart like the Pledge of Allegiance. I couldn’t think of a response. “I lost it. I’m supposed to get another one.”

  “Mind if I verify that with Mrs. Spitz?”

  “Sure, no problem. Go right ahead.”

  “What’s your last name?” He’d already taken out his walkie-talkie and his thumb was moving toward the button.

  “Beatty, like in Warren Beatty,” I said without thinking. I realized belatedly my name was now Katy Beatty. I plowed right on. “If you came up to find the manager, he’s in 815. The
woman he’s looking for is on her way downstairs,” I said. I pointed in the direction of 815. My hand was shaking badly, but he didn’t seem to notice. He’d turned to glance down the corridor behind him.

  “Mr. Denton is up here?”

  “Yes. At least, I think that’s him. I got the impression he was looking for that woman, but she just left.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  He lowered the walkie-talkie. “How long ago was this?”

  “Five minutes. I was just getting off the elevator when she got on.”

  He paused, staring at me as he reached back and secured his walkie-talkie on his belt. His gaze dropped to my feet and then came up again. “The shoes aren’t regulation.”

  I looked down at my feet. “Really? Nobody ever said anything to me.”

  “If Mrs. Spitz sees those, you’re going to get written up.”

  My whole face was aflame. “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”

  He moved down the corridor. I stood there transfixed, longing to flee, reluctant to move for fear of calling attention to myself. He tapped on my door. A moment passed and the door was opened a crack. The security officer conferred with the guy in my room. Then the guy in the suit came out and pulled my door shut behind him. The two men moved quickly down the hall toward the elevators. I waited until I heard the elevator ping and then I retrieved the duffel from its hiding place. The elevator doors were barely closed when I double-timed down the hall, let myself into my room, and slid the chain into place. How long would it take before they figured out that Kinsey Millhone and the nonregulation maid without name tag were one and the same?

  I reached down and flipped my shoes off. I pulled the red tunic over my head, unzipped the uniform skirt, and stepped out of it. I leaned against the wall while I pulled on my crew socks. I grabbed my jeans and stepped into them, hopping off-balance as I pulled them up. I tugged my turtleneck over my head, shoved my feet back in my shoes, and left the laces flopping loose. I opened the closet door. My handbag was still on the floor where I’d left it, but a glance was all it took to verify that the guy in the suit had been rooting around in it. Shit heel. I yanked the blazer off the hanger and shrugged myself into it. I did a quick survey of the room to make sure I hadn’t left anything behind. I remembered the five-dollar tip in my uniform pocket and retrieved that. I picked up the duffel and started to let myself out. I went back, snatched the red uniform off the floor, and made a ball of it, shoving it into the zippered compartment of the duffel bag. If they searched again, why give them the satisfaction of finding it? I pulled the door shut behind me, then half walked, half trotted toward the fire stairs.

  I went down eight flights of steps. When I reached the door to the lobby, I opened it a crack and looked out. A small group of businessmen seemed to be having an impromptu meeting in one of the conversational groupings. Papers had been spread out on the table. I peered around to the left. There was a couple conferring with the concierge, who seemed to be holding a map of the area. There was no sign of Mr. Denton or the security guard. No sign of Ray Rawson, either, for that matter. He’d said he’d meet me by the house phone, which I could plainly see across the lobby. The area was deserted, but too exposed for my taste.

  I looked to my right. There was a bank of pay telephones about five feet away and, beyond that, the “Lords” and “Damsels.” Across from me to the left was the entrance to the coffee shop. I left the relative safety of the stairwell and eased down the corridor and into the ladies’ room. Two of the five stall doors were closed, but when I checked under the partitions, there were no feet in evidence. I locked myself in the handicapped stall, perched on the toilet seat, and tied my shoes. Then I emptied the duffel, shaking the contents out onto the floor.

  First I checked the bag itself, peering into every pocket and crevice, sticking my fingers down into every corner. I’d thought I might find some kind of hidden compartment, but there didn’t seem to be anything of the sort. I manipulated every seam, every brad, and every joining. I inspected each item of clothing I’d dumped out on the floor, folding and repacking the stolen uniform, a pair of cotton pajamas, two pairs of tights, Tshirts, tampons, two bras, and countless pairs of undies and socks. There was absolutely nothing there.

  I could feel my anxiety begin to mount. I’d followed this pointless piece of luggage across three states, operating on the assumption that it contained something worth pursuing. Now it looked like all I was ending up with was a pile of secondhand lingerie. What was I to tell Chester? He was going to be furious when I told him I’d flown all the way to Dallas for this. The man didn’t have the money to send me barreling across the country on the track of cotton panties. I’d broken the law. I was flirting with jail. I’d risked both my license and my livelihood. I began shoving items back into the zippered compartment. Happily, the panties looked like they’d fit, and I could use a clean pair. I hesitated. Nah, probably not a good idea. If I were arrested for theft, it might be better if I weren’t wearing the evidence on my butt.

  I emerged from the stall, trying to look nonchalant instead of like some big-time fugitive underwear bounty hunter. I couldn’t bring myself to abandon the duffel. Basically, I was still clinging to the notion that it represented some rare and priceless artifact instead of my ticket to the joint. I glanced left across the lobby toward the house phone, but there was still no sign of Ray. I planted myself at one of the public telephones. I fumbled in my blazer pocket, emptying the contents in my search for change. On the metal shelf I laid out the movie receipt, the ballpoint, my five-dollar tip, two quarters, and the paper clip. I dropped one of the quarters in the coin slot and then put a call through to Chester in California, charging it to my telephone credit card. I got my quarter back and placed it with the first, idly rearranging the items for the calming effect. I didn’t think Chester would be happy. I was hoping he’d be out, but the man himself picked up on the third ring. “‘Lo.’”

  “Hello, Chester? This is Kinsey.”

  “Can you speak up? I can’t hear you. Who is this?”

  I cupped a hand across the mouthpiece, turning my body away so I wouldn’t be shouting my name across the lobby. “It’s me. Kinsey,” I hissed. “I got the duffel, but there’s nothing of significance in it.”

  Dead silence. “You’re kidding.”

  “Uh, no, actually I’m not. Either the goods were moved or there wasn’t anything stolen in the first place.”

  “Of course they stole something! They ripped the friggin’ kickplate off the kitchen cabinet. Pappy probably hid cash.”

  “Did you ever see any cash?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”

  “That’s pure speculation. Maybe the guy busted in and didn’t find anything. The duffel might have been empty.” I began to rearrange the items on the shelf, placing one of the quarters over Lincoln’s face on the five-dollar bill. On the quarter, George Washington looked naked, while on the bill, Lincoln was all dressed up in his Sunday suit. They must have caught George in the sauna with his hair pulled back.

  Chester, sounding cranky, said, “I don’t get this. Why call me just to lay out a line of horseshit like this?”

  “I thought you should get an update. It only seemed fair.”

  “Fair? You think it’s fair I spent all that money flying you to Dallas for nothing? I expected results.”

  “Wait a minute. So far you haven’t spent a dime. I’ve spent the money. You’re supposed to pay me back.” I uncapped my ballpoint pen and gave Lincoln a mustache, which made his nose look smaller. I’d never paid attention to what a hooter he had.

  “Pay you back for what? Air and sunshine? Forget it.”

  “Come on. We made a decision that turned out to be wrong.”

  “Then why should I pay? I’m not going to pay for your incompetence.”

  “Chester, believe me, I’m earning my keep. I could get my license yanked for half the things I’ve done. I
’m not even allowed to do business in this state.” I put the two quarters over opposite corners of the five-dollar bill to anchor it.

  “That’s your problem, not mine. I wouldn’t have agreed if I’d known you were off on some wild goose chase.”

  “Well, neither would I. That’s the chance we took. You knew as much as I did going in,” I said. To amuse myself, I wrote a bad word on the front of the five-dollar bill. It was the only way I could think of to keep from screaming at him.

  “To hell with it. You’re fired!” I heard him say, “Goddamn it!” to himself just as he banged the phone down in my ear.

  I made a face at the dead receiver and then rolled my eyes. I hauled up the phone book and started looking up the reservation number for American Airlines. It was embarrassing to admit this had all been for nothing, but I couldn’t see what good it would do to stay in Dallas. I’d made a mistake. I’d known at the outset my actions were impulsive. I’d been operating on the best information I had, and if my judgment turned out to be misguided, there was nothing I could do about it now. I noticed I was busy defending myself, but I really couldn’t help it in the wake of Chester’s disgruntlement. Who could blame the man?

  I picked up the five and held it closer, looking at the fine details. Paper currency has a baroque assortment of shaded names and numbers, lacy scrollwork, and official seals. Now that was weird. Since when was Henry Morgenthau secretary of the treasury? And who was this guy Julian, whose eensy-teensy signature was so impossible to read? Just to the right of Lincoln’s portrait, it said “Series 1934 A.” I dug in my handbag and pulled out my wallet, checking the few bills I carried. The only other five I had in my possession was a series 1981 Buchanan-Regan. The one-dollar bills were 1981 Buchanan-Regans and 1981-A Ortega-Regan with a couple of brand-new 1985 Ortega-Bakers thrown in. A twenty and a ten seemed to be the same vintage. If I wasn’t mistaken, it meant the five-dollar tip Laura Huckaby had given me was a bill dating back to 1934. Didn’t that indicate she was busy spending money from a cache of old bills? Surely she didn’t simply happen to have a bill like that in her possession.