L is for LAWLESS

by Sue Grafton

  “So Farley was left to deal with Gilbert? That’s a bad idea. I don’t even know Farley and already I’ll bet he’s not smart enough to outfox Gilbert.”

  “That’s right, doll. Gilbert’s certifiable, especially when he thinks he’s been betrayed,” Ray said to her. “Look at what he did to me. You think that’s the end of it?”

  “What am I supposed to do? It’s done now. It’s over. I took the money and ran. The minute I got here, I counted it. I thought I’d die when I found out how little there was.”

  I said, “Back up a step. When was Farley supposed to join you?”

  “As soon as he could. They called the passport office and the guy swore he’d put them in the mail. Farley knows where I am, and we made arrangements for him to call me from this pay phone down the street.”

  “He never called you at all?”

  “He called me once. This morning. He had to wait ‘til Gilbert went out. When I told him about the eight grand, I could tell he was scared. He said he’d think of something and call me back in an hour.”

  Ray said, “You haven’t heard from him?”

  Laura shook her head.

  I said, “But Gilbert must have known you never got off the plane in Palm Beach. Didn’t his buddy call him right up to say you never showed?”

  “Of course he did, but Gilbert doesn’t have any idea where I am.”

  “Well, this is a very sophisticated plan,” I said. “What about Farley? I’m sure Gilbert won’t suspect him.”

  “You think he’s figured it out?”

  “Of course he has!” Ray said. “He’s waited forty years to get his hands on this dough. Gilbert’s a psychopath. He’s so paranoid he’s almost psychic. You’re an amateur. You think he can’t see right through you?”

  “But Dallas is huge. He’ll never find me,” she said. “I paid the hotel in cash and I’m using an alias.”

  “Farley knows where you are.”

  “Well, sure, but I can trust him,” she said.

  Ray closed his eyes. “You better hit the road.”

  “But where would I go?”

  “Who cares? Just get out of here.”

  “What about Farley? He won’t know where I’ve gone.”

  “That’s the point,” I said. “I agree with Ray. You can’t worry about him. You have to put as much distance as possible between you and Gilbert.”

  “Well, I’m not going to do it. I told Farley I’d be here and I’m staying,” she said.

  I said, “Oh, boy.”

  “Gilbert isn’t Superman. He doesn’t have X-ray vision or anything like that.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said. I searched through my handbag until I found my airline ticket. I started opening drawers in the bed table, looking for a telephone book. “Well, gang. I don’t know how you’re going to resolve this little conflict, but I’m getting out of here.”

  “You’re leaving us?” Ray said, startled. “What about Chester?”

  “He fired me,” I said. I found the Yellow Pages in a separate book that probably weighed ten pounds. I lugged it out of the drawer and hauled it onto my lap, leafing through to the section marked “Airlines.”

  “Look, whatever you and Laura work out, that’s between the two of you. I came to help recover the cash you’re so busy giving away. I’m history. It makes no sense for me to stay here. If Chester doesn’t like it, he can take it up with you. He’s already so frosted he probably won’t pay my bill, which means I’m out of luck. I might as well go home. At least take charge of the situation to that extent.” I found the number for American and put my finger on the place while I picked up the receiver.

  “But you can’t just abandon us,” Ray said.

  “I wouldn’t call it that,” I said.

  “What would you call it?”

  “Ray, we’re not joined at the hip. I came here on impulse, so I thought I’d go home the same way.” I tucked the phone in the crook of my neck and punched in the number for American Airlines. As soon as the number answered, I was put on terminal hold while a mechanical voice assured me my business was valued beyond rubies. “Anyway, the money’s stolen,” I went on conversationally, “which is just one more reason I don’t want to be involved in this.”

  “It’s been forty years since we cleaned out that vault,” Ray protested. “The bank’s out of business. Place went belly up back in 1949. Most customers are dead, so even if I wanted to play straight, who would I return the money to? The state of Kentucky? To what end? I spent my life in jail for that dough, and I earned every cent.”

  “It’s still a crime,” I said politely, not wanting to seem quarrelsome.

  “What about the statute of limitations? Who’s going to point a finger after all this time? Besides, I been tried once and I paid for my sins.”

  “Take it up with an attorney. You could be right. Just in case you’re not, I think I’ll steer clear,” I said.

  Laura was getting impatient. She apparently had no interest in our debate about jurisprudence. She leaned closer to me, hissing, “I wish you’d get off the phone. What if Farley’s trying to get through?”

  I held a hand up like a traffic cop. The American Airlines ticket agent had just come on the line and introduced himself. I said, “Oh, hi, Brad. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I have an open-ended, round-trip ticket from Santa Teresa, California, to Palm Beach, Florida, and I’d like to book the return. I’m in Dallas now, so I just need the Dallas-Santa Teresa leg.”

  “And what day would this be for?”

  “As soon as possible. Today, if you can do it.” While agent Brad and I conducted business, Ray and Laura seemed to be negotiating some sort of father-daughter truce, a financial cease-fire of sorts. Apparently, she was allowing him to gift her with the hotly contended eight grand. Dimly, I was aware that he was telling her he had to go down to his room on the tenth floor and pick up his bags. He wanted permission to leave his bags in her room until he could figure out where to go from here.

  Meanwhile she began to pace, becoming more agitated as the agent and I tried to work out my itinerary. There were some alternate routes that would get me home by way of San Francisco or Los Angeles, using short hops for the final leg.

  Since this was Sunday, both direct flights were completely full, and his only suggestion was that I get myself on standby and hope for the best. He went ahead and wait-listed me on two flights, one nonstop, the other with a layover. The next flight was scheduled for departure at 2:22. I checked my watch. It was just past 12:30, and with the hotel shuttle or a taxi, I could probably get over to the airport in the next thirty-five to forty minutes.

  Laura had crossed back to the bed table, where she stuck her face close to mine and mouthed, “Hang up.” She sat down on the other bed and began to unlace her high-top tennis shoes.

  I gave her a simpering smile as I began to wind up the conversation, reconfirming my notes about the flights in question. As I replaced the receiver in the cradle, I realized Ray was still in the room. “I thought you were going down to get your bags,” I said.

  “I was afraid if I left you’d be gone when I got back.”

  “That’s a good bet. What’s your inclination? Are you going to fly back to California?”

  “Nah, I don’t think so. I think I’ll hang out with Laura until she hears from Farley. As soon as her situation’s settled, I’ll take off for Louisville. I got a rental car downstairs. Meantime, if I lay low the management will never know I’m here.”

  “What about Chester? I hate to spoil all the fun, but half of the money belongs to him, you know.”

  “Says who?”

  “You did. You said you were going to turn it over to him.”

  “I got news for you. He’s screwed. I never really meant to cut him in on the deal.”

  “Ah. I guess I should have known that, right?”

  “You’re the one who pointed out how much I lie,” he said.

  “So I have to be the one to break the news to him? Tha
nks a lot, Ray. That sucks. What am I supposed to say?”

  “You’ll think of something. Plead ignorance. Make it up.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “The guy’s a butt, anyway. I bet you never get reimbursed.”

  I said, “Your confidence in him is touching.”

  Laura was still sulking, so we skipped the tender fare-thee-wells. I grabbed my shoulder bag, hoisted it, and backed out of the room. Then I headed for the fire stairs and made my way down twelve floors to the lobby.

  I took a taxi to the airport. I could have waited for the shuttle, which was free of charge, but the truth was I didn’t want to risk running into management. So far, I’d successfully outmaneuvered the hotel authorities, and I was just as happy leaving Texas without some kind of scrape with the law. I checked my wallet in the cab. Since I was on my way home, I figured I had sufficient cash for the journey… which is to say, plus or minus thirty-five bucks. I’d spent a little on incidentals, but in the main, I’d managed on the few resources I’d had. I’d still have to hassle with short-term parking fees when I got home – seven bucks a day for the two or three days I’d been gone – but in a pinch, I could call Henry and have him bring me the necessary cash. I hadn’t formally checked out of my room, but the desk clerk had taken an impression of my credit card when I’d checked in, and I was sure the charges would appear on the next statement I received. Hotels aren’t exactly dumb about these things.

  The cab dropped me off at the departure gates for American Airlines. I went into the terminal and crossed the lobby, checking the monitor for the departing flight numbers I’d been given. The first was scheduled to take off at 2:22, the second not until 6:10. The later flight wasn’t even listed yet, but I found the gate number for the 2:22 departure. At least traveling without luggage simplified procedures to some extent. I bypassed the ticket counter and joined the line of passengers waiting to clear security. My handbag sailed through X-ray, but when I passed through the metal detector, there was a telltale shriek. I patted my pockets, which were empty of metal except for the paper clip and random change I’d used for the pay phone. I backed up, dropped the items in a plastic dish. I tried again. The shrieking seemed to rise to an accusatory pitch. I could tell the security sorceress was about to dowse my body with her divining rod when I remembered the key I’d stitched into my shoulder pad. “Hang on a minute. I got it.” To the annoyance of those behind me, I backed up again, peeled off my blazer, and laid it on the moving belt. This time, I made it through. I half expected to be quizzed about the key stitched into the shoulder seam, but no one said a word. Those people probably saw things much stranger any given day of the week. I collected my shoulder bag and the blazer and headed for the gate.

  I pulled my ticket from my handbag and presented it to the gate agent, explaining my situation. The flight was completely booked and she didn’t seem that optimistic about my getting a seat. I sat in the waiting area while other passengers checked in. Apparently, several of us were angling for the same flight, which I suspected was already desperately oversold. I eyed the competition, some of whom looked like those quarrelsome types who raise hell when anything goes wrong. I might have tried it myself if I’d thought it would do any good. As far as I can tell, there are only so many seats. The plane is either flightworthy or it’s not. Between mechanical matters and air traffic control, you either fly or you don’t. I’ve never heard of an airline yet that proceeded on the basis of noisy passenger complaints, so why bitch and moan?

  I pulled out my paperback romance novel and began to read. As flight time approached, the passengers were boarded in orderly rows, from the rear to the front, with the privileged taking precedence. Finally, six names were called from the standby list and none of them were mine. Oh, well. The gate agent sent me an apologetic smile, but there was nothing to be done. She swore she’d put me at the head of the list for the next flight out.

  In the meantime, I had close to four hours to kill. From what I gathered, the flight crews made two daily loops from Dallas to Santa Teresa, in and out of the same gate, seven days a week. All I had to do was find a way to occupy my time and then present myself back here before the boarding process began again. With luck, I’d get a seat and be homeward bound. Without luck, I’d be stuck in Dallas until two o’clock Monday afternoon.

  I walked a mile in the terminal corridor, just to stretch my legs. I took advantage of the ladies’ room, where I was very ladylike. As I emerged and turned right, I passed the airport equivalent of an outdoor cafe, tables separated from the terminal corridor by a low wrought-iron fence and fake plants. The small bar offered the usual wines, beers, and exotic mixed drinks while, under glass, assorted fresh seafoods were packed on a mound of crushed ice. I hadn’t eaten lunch, so I ordered a beer and a plate of fresh shrimp, which came with cocktail sauce, oyster crackers, and lemon wedges. I peeled and sauced my shrimp, doing a little people watching to amuse myself while I ate. When I finished, I wandered back to the gate.

  I took a seat by the window. I read my book, intermittently watching airplanes land and take off. Occasionally I nodded off, but the seats weren’t really built for any serious sleep. By hook or by crook, I managed to carve the four hours down to slightly more than one. Toward the end of the time allotted, I made a trip to the newsstand and picked up the local paper. I returned to the gate at five, just as the flight from Santa Teresa was arriving. I checked with one of the gate agents and made sure my name was on the standby list.

  Most seats in the waiting area were now full, so I leaned against a column and scanned the paper. The jetway door had been opened and the first-class passengers began to file out, looking ever so much fresher than the travelers behind them. The coach passengers came next, eyes straying across the crowd to find the people who’d come to meet them. Many joyous reunions. Grandmothers swept little children into their arms. A soldier hugged his sweetheart. Husbands and wives exchanged obligatory busses. Two teenagers with a cluster of helium balloons began to squeal at the sight of a sheepish-looking young guy coming down the jetway. Altogether, it was a very pleasant way to spend a few minutes, and I found myself happily distracted from the grim array of the day’s news in the paper. I was just in the process of turning to the funnies when the last smattering of passengers straggled off the plane. It was the Stetson that caught my attention. I averted my gaze, glancing up only fleetingly as Gilbert walked by.

  Chapter 13

  *

  I glanced at my watch. My plane probably wouldn’t board for another twenty to thirty minutes. The cleaning crew would have to sweep through, collecting discarded newspapers, wadded tissues, earphones, and forgotten items. I laid my paper aside and followed Gilbert, whose Stetson, pale blue denim jacket, and cowboy boots made him easy to keep an eye on. He had to be much closer to Ray’s age than I’d realized on first glance. I’d pegged him in his late fifties, but he was probably sixty-two, sixty-three, somewhere in there. I couldn’t figure out what Laura had seen in him in the first place, unless she was, quite literally, looking for a father. Whatever the appeal, the sexual chemistry must have been intertwined with his brutality. Too many women mistake a man’s hostility for wit and his silence for depth.

  He pushed through revolving doors to the same baggage claim area I’d entered early Saturday. The area was crowded and afforded me natural cover. While Gilbert waited for the bags, I scanned the area for a pay phone. There were probably some around the corner, but I didn’t want to let him out of my sight. I moved over to the hotel directory and found the number for the Desert Castle. The telephone system linked all the hotels that serviced the airport but did not admit of outside calls beyond that. I pulled a pen and paper from my bag as the line was ringing. “Desert Castle,” a woman said, picking up on the other end.

  “Hi, I’m over at the airport. Can you give me the hotel operator?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m not tied in to the hotel switchboard. This is a separate facility.”

  “Well, can y
ou give me the phone number over there?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You want reservations, sales, or catering?”

  “Just give me the main number.”

  She recited the number, which I dutifully noted. I’d find a pay phone as soon as opportunity allowed.

  Behind me, a bell finally sounded, mimicking a burglar alarm. The overlapping metal segments of the carousel gave a lurch and began to move in a counterclockwise direction. Two suitcases came around the bend, then a third and a fourth as the conveyor brought them up from below. The waiting passengers crowded forward, angling for position as the bags tumbled down the incline and began their slow journey on the circular metal track.

  While Gilbert watched for his luggage, I retrieved the two quarters from my blazer pocket, playing with them nervously while I waited to see what he would do. He retrieved a soft-sided suitcase from the carousel and pushed through the crowd, moving toward the corridor. I turned away long before he passed, aware that any sudden movement might attract his attention. Approaching the escalator, he stepped to one side and squatted while he unzipped his suitcase and removed a sizable handgun, to which he affixed a silencer. Several people glanced down and saw what he was doing, but went about their business as though it were no big deal. Clearly, to them, he didn’t look like the sort of fellow who would cut loose in a crowd, mowing down everyone within range of him. He tucked the gun in his belt and pulled his denim jacket over it.

  He adjusted his Stetson, rezipped his suitcase, and proceeded in a leisurely manner to the car rental desk. He must not have had advance reservations because I saw him inquire at Budget and then move to Avis. I spotted a bank of telephones and found the only free instrument among the five. I jammed a quarter in the slot and dialed the number for the Desert Castle. I turned, checking the immediate area, but there was no sign of airport security.