Y Is for Yesterday

by Sue Grafton

  Killer lunged at the fence in a frenzy. I’d never seen him in this state. Even on our first meeting when he was holding Henry and Pearl as virtual hostages, his aggression hadn’t been this pronounced. There was no point in calling him down. He ran parallel to the shrubbery along the property line, throwing his body at the barrier that separated him from the object of his hostility. I thought about Ned Lowe. How could I not think of Ned? In moments of alarm, in moments when I was on high alert, during times when my interior radar picked up danger of any kind, Ned Lowe was always at the core.

  The dog’s wrath subsided, leaving him in an agitated state. He circled the yard, his nose close to the ground, making a high whining sound. Occasionally, he barked for effect. I sat down on my step and waited for his circuit to bring him in close. I held out a hand, babbling nonsense, while he trotted back and forth. He was still fulminating and incensed, but he’d probably already lost track of what had set him off. Heart still banging, I fetched a flashlight. I approached the fence, sweeping the wide band of harsh light from side to side. I didn’t venture out into the alley and I didn’t turn my back on the dark, but I was confident Killer would attack anyone who tried to cause me harm. Satisfied that all was well, I returned to my front door.

  I didn’t want to leave him alone in the yard, so I invited him in. Gingerly, he stepped over the threshold. This was apparently the most mystifying event in his entire life. He sat at attention, holding his big shaggy head still as he studied the interior. He could probably smell Ed the cat, but surely he was accustomed to him by now. With some uncertainty, he wagged his tail, after which he allowed me to pet and praise him. I filled a bowl with water and marveled at what a mess he made while he was drinking his fill. Afterward, he moved to the door.

  He checked to make sure he had my attention, and then he whined softly and scratched at the wood. It was possible he needed to go out and pee on one of Henry’s trees, but it seemed more likely he was worried about his dolly. I let him out and he trotted here and there until he found her. He picked her up carefully in his teeth and toted her inside. He deposited her on my living room floor and proceeded to lick her from head to toe. Before I locked up for the night, I left a note on Henry’s back door and a second note pinned to the tent, advising them that Killer and his baby had been invited for a sleepover that night. It was the best rest I’d had in recent memory.

  35

  Friday, October 6, 1989

  Friday morning, while I ate my Cheerios, my phone rang. I crossed to the desk and picked up the handset.

  In response to my greeting, there was silence.

  Ordinarily, calls at this hour involve a lot of heavy breathing on the other end and my usual response is to activate a tinnitus-inducing air horn and then hang up. In this case, I waited, my senses sharpening. “This is Kinsey.”

  “You left me a message.”

  A woman’s voice, and I thought it safe to assume this was Ned Lowe’s ex-wife Celeste, though I was feeling so protective of her that I redacted her name from my mental directory.

  “I did, and thanks for returning my call.”

  “What happened to Phyllis?”

  “Ned pounded the shit out of her trying to track you down. He failed, but he hasn’t given up.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s in the hospital and the care she’s receiving is excellent. Her doctor seems optimistic.”

  “Thank god for that. Ned’s still on the loose?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You know I stole the keepsakes that tie him to those poor girls he killed, which is why I’m being so paranoid. I won’t feel safe until the package is in the hands of the police.”

  “I’m with you on that. How do you want to go about it?”

  “I can’t risk putting his souvenirs in the mail. Too many things can go wrong. These may well be the only tangible items that connect him to those killings.”

  “What about entrusting the package to the closest law enforcement agency in your area—”

  “No, no,” she cut in. “Documents get lost. Evdence disappears. Some detective ends up with the package on her desk and sticks it in her bottom drawer because she doesn’t know what else to do with it. I can’t take that chance.”

  “You’ve given this more thought than I have, so you tell me.”

  “I’m willing to fly to Santa Teresa. I’ve checked and there are flights available on four different airlines, connecting by way of five different hubs. Once I set up the reservation, I’ll call with the details and you can pick me up at the airport. I want you waiting outside where I can see you.”

  “I can do that. And then what?”

  “You’ll drive me to the police station and I’ll deliver the package to the officer who’s been working the case. Lieutenant Phillips?”

  “That’s right. He’ll be thrilled.”

  “Let’s hope so. Afterward, you can return me to the airport and walk me to my gate. Once I’m through security, I should be fine.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow, if you’re available.”

  “I’ll make myself available. You’re talking about Saturday,” I said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you remember what I look like?”

  “I do. What about you? Will you recognize me?” she asked.

  “Unless you’ve altered your appearance.”

  “I’m the same.”

  “Me, too. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  “I’ll call as soon as I have the tickets in hand.”

  • • •

  I hadn’t leveled with her about how Ned had picked up Phyllis’s new address and I was happy she hadn’t asked. If pressed, I’d have felt honor-bound to lay out the whole creepy account of his camping under my office, with access to every call I made. I’d done what I could to tighten security since then, well aware of how relentless he was in the pursuit of his goal. He wanted his trinkets, and if he was thwarted, he’d go after one of us instead. Better me than her. I still had a score to settle with him in any event.

  When I reached the office, I put a call through to Cheney at the Santa Teresa Police Department. When he picked up and identified himself, I said, “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “I was just about to call you and ask the same thing. You want to pop over to my spacious cubicle?”

  “Why don’t we meet somewhere in between?”

  “The sunken garden at the courthouse?”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you there.”

  The walk took roughly six minutes. Coming from my office, my route had me passing the police station and I half expected Cheney to join me as I crossed Santa Teresa Street at the light. The courthouse takes up an entire city block, with the sunken garden tucked away in the lee of the main structure, which boasts a tower that once housed the county jail. The architectural style of the original courthouse was Greek Revival, but that building was severely damaged in an earthquake in 1925. Construction of the current courthouse, built in the Spanish Colonial Revival style, was started in 1926 and completed in 1929, two months before the stock market crashed. The thick white walls, red-tile roof, deeply recessed windows, and wrought-iron grilles are typical of many Santa Teresa buildings of that era. Charles Willard Moore, a prominent architect, called it the “grandest Spanish Colonial Revival structure ever built.”

  I settled on the wide stone steps, which were chilly in the shade of the two-story building behind me. The drought had browned out most of the sweeping lawns, but the palms, while stressed, seemed to be holding up well. From the right, I watched Cheney cross the grass, his head bent, his hands in his pockets. He looked up and when he saw me, he smiled and lifted a hand. I tried seeing him as I would if I hadn’t known him for so many years. Height, five foot eleven, medium build with curly brown hair. I wondered if Anna’s report was
true, that he was learning to finish projects. It seemed odd that the disconnect between his intentions and their manifest completion had bothered me so much. During our romantic entanglement, I remembered being irritated by rooms half-painted, perpetual drop cloths down so long they resembled wall-to-wall carpeting. It annoyed me that door and window hardware was always missing, the floors littered with electric drills and nail guns. Now I couldn’t imagine reacting at all, which said more about me than it did about him. I was a neatnik and a control freak, traits that others don’t find restful as a rule.

  He settled on the step beside me and we exchanged pleasantries.

  “You have news for me?” he asked.

  “More like an update.”

  I laid out the circumstances under which I’d picked up Celeste’s alias and her out-of-state phone number. I was forced to loop back in time and include a quick summary of my original call to Phyllis, Ned’s eavesdropping, and the beating he’d administered in his attempt to get his hands on Celeste’s contact information.

  “You’ve talked to her?”

  “I left her a message and she returned my call this morning. She’s prepared to deliver Ned’s souvenirs. Her plan is to fly in tomorrow. I’ve agreed to pick her up at the airport and drive her to the station. Once she’s handed over the package, I’ll take her back to the airport and put her on a plane.”

  “All of this to avoid Ned?”

  “Absolutely. The man’s a maniac. Both of us credit him with supernatural powers. Somehow he’s managed to drop off the radar again. I don’t know how he does it.”

  “He’ll surface at some point. He can’t run forever, and how many places can he hide? If you’re lucky, his suppurating wound will throw him into sepsis and he’ll die before sundown.”

  “This is giving me a stomachache,” I said. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “I’ll get to that,” he said. “First, I think we should talk about Anna’s situation. I know you were convinced the two of us were having an affair.”

  “I was not.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “You don’t owe me any explanations,” I said.

  “Just let me say this. I felt bad about the deception, but it was the only thing we could think to do until we knew where things stood.”

  “Fine. I understand. Not to worry.”

  “Come on. It bothered you. I could see the looks you were giving us.”

  “I wasn’t giving you looks,” I said.

  He smiled. “Are you being defensive or indignant?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Big one. Defensive is I’m dead right and you’re denying it out of embarrassment. Indignant is I’m dead right and you’re pissed that I saw right through you.”

  “Indignant then, or maybe both.”

  “I can make it up to you. I have information. This will probably appear in the paper anyway, but keep it to yourself. Burgess is a bit of a hardass.”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  “One of the evidence techs came across a handgun up at Yellowweed. It was in the scrub off the beaten path, so it looks like the shooter tossed it.”

  “Thinking it wouldn’t come to light?”

  “Not sure. It’s an Astra Constable.”

  “The one that killed Sloan?”

  “No doubt in my mind. We’ll know for sure when ballistics have been run. Probably killed Fritz McCabe as well.”

  “That gun’s been missing for years.”

  “Right. Seems pointed that it would magically reappear, just when we’re beginning our investigation.”

  “It’s good news, though, isn’t it? To finally have the murder weapon?”

  “Theoretically,” he said. “Three possible explanations. The shooter dropped it, tossed it, or planted it.”

  “What if someone else had the gun and dumped it?”

  “Make that four possibilities.”

  “You think it’s Austin.”

  “I’m not ruling him out, but I don’t get it. If he’s the extortionist, why kill the golden goose? I don’t like the timing and I don’t like the convenience of the Astra dropping in our laps.”

  “I thought the gun was registered to Austin’s dad. Have you talked to him?”

  “Burgess is doing that. He’ll claim ignorance.”

  “Well, you know he didn’t go up there and shoot anyone,” I said.

  “What bugs me is the motivation. You’re the one who said it wasn’t robbery.”

  “Not if Fritz was happy to hand over the money. His pal Stringer is convinced he knew the guy. I wondered if it might be someone he knew at CYA.”

  “That’s worth looking into.”

  “You said ‘if’ this was the extortionist. Who else might it be?”

  “If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be sitting here.” He held up a finger. “One more item of note. ME found traces of a white powder on Fritz’s clothing. No idea what it is yet, but they’re working on it.”

  “Powder as in cocaine?”

  “No point in guessing. The lab report should get back to us sometime today.”

  • • •

  My office phone rang as I was unlocking the door. I was in my usual panic about entering the alarm code in the twenty seconds allotted, which is ample unless you feel you’re working against the clock. I successfully achieved entry and reached my desk on the fourth ring. I picked up the handset in haste and identified myself.

  “Kinsey, this is Erroll.”

  I said, “Oh lord. Is everything okay?”

  “Sure, sure. I’m sorry to scare you. Phyllis is doing fine. She tires easily and she has a long way to go yet, but she’s in good shape compared to where she was. Thing is, she wants to see you. She’s been asking for the past two days and made me promise I’d call. Any chance you can get down here?”

  “I’ve got time this afternoon. Any idea what’s bothering her?”

  “All she says is she wants to talk to you.”

  • • •

  For much of the drive to Perdido, I let my mind go blank. The day was typical of California: clear blue skies, temperatures in the seventies, a light breeze that scuffed at the surf, kicking up a spray as fine as dust. The five off-shore islands were clear enough to count the ridges on the range of hills: Anacapa, Santa Barbara, San Miguel, Santa Rosa, and Santa Cruz make up the Channel Islands National Park, which offers hiking, camping, snorkeling, kayaking, and bird-watching—all activities that had so little appeal, I’d cut my wrists first. San Miguel, in particular, has thirty-mile-an-hour winds that render the place especially hostile—or so I’ve heard, never having made the trip. None of the islands provide water, goods, services, public phones, indoor toilets, or overnight accommodations. Visitors are expected to bring all their own food and supplies. Why is that fun?

  The twenty-six miles sped by while I entertained myself with foul thoughts. I was reassured by the uniformed woman posted outside Phyllis’s hospital room, but nothing prepared me for the sight of her. She seemed shrunken. Her dark hair was wispy and unkempt, which a hospital stay would do for anyone. Her veins could have been applied with pale blue transfer tissue on arms that were painfully thin. She had an IV line in her right arm and her left in a cast. Her left eye was still so swollen she looked like the prize fighter who’d just lost in the ring. I could see the bony substructure of her badly bruised left cheek, which might never be smooth again.

  The nurse cautioned me to keep my visit brief.

  I pulled a chair close to the bed and held Phyllis’s hand, which was as cold and as light as snow. “What’s going on, babe?”

  Her voice was raspy from disuse and the wired jaw caused her to speak through clenched teeth. “I told Ned. When he beat me.”

  “Told him what?”

  “Sent you Cele
ste’s name and location. Thought I was lying . . .”

  “Ah. Which is why he came back to the condo to search the remaining boxes.”

  She nodded as best she could. “Worried sick,” she murmured.

  “I am, too. Turns out he set up housekeeping under my office and jerry-rigged the phone so he could listen to my calls. That’s how he picked up your address. It never occurred to me he’d found a way to breach my safeguards. Happily, I managed to fire several shots at him, nicking him at least once if his shrieks were at all indicative.”

  “He wants Celeste.”

  “I’m aware of that. I’ve already talked to her and we have a plan in place. She’s flying in from an unknown location. As soon as she has reservations, she’ll let me know what time her flight gets in. I’ll meet her and then take her to the police station, where she’ll hand-deliver the evidence to Lieutenant Phillips, who’s in charge of the case.” After that, I’ll take her back to the airport and send her on her way.”

  “Dangerous.”

  “I understand your concern, but I don’t see how he could get wind of it. She’s being extremely cautious.”

  “No, no. Tell her don’t come.”

  “That may not be possible, but I’ll do what I can.”

  • • •

  On the return drive to Santa Teresa, I wondered if there was really any way to effect a change of plans. I had no idea where Celeste was coming from or where she’d pick up her connecting flight. My only hope was to catch her before she left. The minute I got home, I went straight to the phone. My message light was blinking and I pressed Play with dread. One sentence: “Arrive 1:15 on agreed date.”

  I retrieved the fold of paper from between my boobs and punched in her number. The line rang and rang and rang. This time there wasn’t any reassuring beep to indicate that I could leave a message. I let the line ring fifteen more times and then I hung up. So much for warning her off or canceling her trip to Santa Teresa. I could feel my stomach churn. Phyllis’s anxiety was contagious, but I couldn’t see where the plan could go wrong. Wherever Ned was holed up, I didn’t see how he could intercept either one of us. We’d just have to keep moving forward and hope for the best. As plans go, “hoping for the best” is not a good one.