J Is for Judgment

by Sue Grafton

  "How'd he get in? That's what I can't figure out. I had all the locks changed the minute I bought that boat."

  "Maybe he broke in. Or he might have picked the lock," I said. "At any rate, by the time we got here, it was gone."

  He stared at me. "Is that the woman? Renata? What's her last name?"

  "Why?"

  "I'd like to talk to her. She might know more than she's saying."

  "Yeah, she might," I said. I was thinking about the shooting the night before, wondering if Carl could account for his whereabouts. "When did you get back? I heard you were out of town last night, but no one seemed to know where you were."

  "Wouldn't have done much good. I was hard to reach. I had a bunch of meetings up in SLO-town in the afternoon. I was at the Best Western overnight, checked out before eight this morning, and threw my bag in the trunk. I sat in another bunch of meetings today and started home around five."

  "It must have been a shock."

  "Jesus, I'll say. I can't believe it's gone."

  SLO-town was the shorthand for San Luis Obispo, a small college town ninety miles north of us. It sounds like he'd been small college town ninety miles north of us. It sounds like he'd been completely tied up for the last two day or had his alibi all rehearsed. "What will you do now? Do you have a place to stay?"

  "I'll try one of those places unless the tourists beat me to it," he said with a nod toward the motels that lined Cabana Boulevard. "What about you? I take you never caught up with him."

  "Actually, I ran into him at Michael's last night. I was hoping we could talk, but something else came up. We were separated inadvertently, and that's the last saw of him. I heard he was supposed to meet you, as matter of fact."

  "I had to cancel at the last minute when this other business came up."

  "You never saw him at all?"

  "We only chatted by phone."

  "What'd he want? Did he say?"

  "No. Not a word."

  "He told me you had something that belonged him."

  "He said that? Well, that's odd. I wonder what I meant." He gave his watch a glance. "Oh, shit. It's getting late. I better get a move on before all the rooms get snapped up."

  I stepped away from the car. "I'll let you go, then I said. "If you hear anything about the Lord, will you let me know?"

  "Sure thing."

  The car started with a rumble. He backed out of d slot and pulled up beside the kiosk with his ticket extended to the woman in the booth. I went on about my business, moving toward the snack shack with a quick backward glance. He'd adjusted his rearview mirror to keep an eye on me. The last thing I saw of him was his vanity license plate, which read SAILSMN. That was cute. I thought he'd probably done a little sales job on me. He was lying about something. I just wasn't sure what it was.

  Chapter 22

  * * *

  By the time I reached the beachside neighborhood on the periphery of Perdido where all the motels are situated, the ocean was tinted by an eerie gray-green haze. As I watched, an odd refraction of fading sunlight created the fleeting mirage of an island hovering above the sea, mossy and unreachable. There was something otherworldly in its gloom. I've seen something like it in the endless passageway created when two mirrors reflect one another, shadowy rooms curving back out of sight. The moment passed, and the image turned to smoke. The air was hot and still, unusually humid for the California coast. The area residents would have to search their garages tonight, looking for last summer's electric floor fans, wide blades sueded with dust. Sleep would be a restless confection of sweat and tangled sheets without hope of refreshment.

  I parked on a side street just off the main thorough- fare. All the motel lights had come on, creating an artificial daylight: neon greens and blues blinking out competing invitations to passing travelers. There were countless people milling along the sidewalks, all in shorts and tank tops, looking for relief from the heat. The Frostee Freeze would probably set a sales record. Cars cruised in an endless search for parking spaces. There wasn't actually any sand in the streets, but there was the feeling of blown sand, something scrubby and windswept, a scent in the air of salt corrosion and fishing nets. The few funky bars were crowded with college students, bass-heavy music pulsing through the open doorways.

  One thing I needed to keep in mind: Brian Jaffe grew up in this town. His picture had been splashed across the local papers, and he probably wasn't free to spend a lot of time on the streets – too much risk of being recognized. I added free cable TV to my mental list of motel attributes. I didn't think Brian's father would dare leave him in a dive. The bleaker the accommodations, the more likely the kid was to seek amusement elsewhere.

  I started with motels on the main drag and worked my way out into the surrounding neighborhood. I don't know how motel builders get their training, but they all seem to take the same motel-naming class. Every seaside community seems to sport the same assortment. I went in and out of the Tides, the Sun 'N' Surf, the Breakwater, the Reef, the Lagoon, the Schooner, the Beachside, the Blue Sands, the White Sands, the Sandpiper, and the Casa Del Mar. I flashed the photostat of my PI license. I flashed the grainy black-and-white newspaper photograph of Brian Jaffe. I couldn't believe he'd be registered under his own name, so I tried variations: Brian Jefferson, Jeff O'Brian, Brian Huff, Dean Huff, and Wendell's favorite, Stanley Lord. I knew the date Brian had been erroneously released from jail, and I reasoned that he'd checked into a motel the same day. He was a single, and his bill was probably paid in advance. My guess was he kept to himself and hadn't done a lot of coming and going. I was hoping someone could identify him from the picture and my description. Motel managers and desk clerks shook their heads in ignorance. I left a business card with each, extracting weighty promises that they'd get in touch if someone resembling Brian Jaffe checked into their establishments. Oh, sure. Absolutely. I wasn't all the way out the door when they dropped the cards in their respective trash baskets.

  At the Lighthouse-Direct Dial Phones*Color Cable TV*Weekly & Monthly Rates*Heated Pool*Complimentary Morning Coffee – on the twelfth try, I got a nod instead of a negative. The Lighthouse was a three-story oblong of boxy cinder block with a pool in the center. The exterior was painted sky blue and had a thirty-foot stylized image of a lighthouse affixed to the front. The desk clerk was in his seventies, energetic and alert. He was as bald as a doorknob, but he seemed to have all his own teeth. He tapped the clipping with an index finger crooked with arthritis.

  "Oh, yes, he's here. Michael Brendan. Room one ten. I wondered why he looked familiar. An older gentleman signed the register and paid a week in advance. To tell you the truth, I wasn't sure of the relationship."

  "Father and son."

  "That was their claim," the clerk said, still dubious. He scanned the details of the escape and the subsequent killing of the female motorist whose car was stolen. "I remember reading about this. Looks like that young fellow got himself in a peck of trouble and he's not out yet. You want me to call the police?"

  "Make that the county sheriff's department and give me ten minutes with him first. Ask them to use restraint. I don't want this turned into some kind of bloodbath. The kid is eighteen. It's not going to look load if he's gunned down in his pajamas."

  I left the lobby and moved through a passageway to the courtyard. It was fully dark by then, and the lighted swimming pool glowed aquamarine. Reflections from the water shimmered against the building, blots of light in a constantly shifting pattern of white. Brian's room was on the first floor, with sliding glass doors that opened onto a small patio, which in turn opened onto the pool. Patios were separated from each other by low-growing shrubbery. Each was numbered, so finding his wasn't difficult. I caught sight of him through mesh drapes only partially drawn. The sliding doors were closed, and I had to guess the air-conditioning was cranked up to high.

  He was dressed in sweatshirt-gray gym shorts and a tank top. He looked tanned and fit, slouched on the one upholstered chair in the room, feet pr
opped on the bed as he watched television. I went around to the end of the building and entered the corridor, passing a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. On impulse, I tried the knob and found it turning in my hand. I peered in. The room was the equivalent of a huge walk-in closet, with linen shelves along three walls. Sheets, towels, and cotton bedspreads were stacked in neat packets. There were also mops, vacuums, irons, ironing boards, and miscellaneous cleaning supplies. I pulled out an armload of fresh towels and carried them with me.

  I found Brian's room along the inside corridor and knocked, standing at an acute angle to the fish-eye in the door. The sound from the television set was doused. I stared off down the hall, allowing him time to cross to the door. He must have tried peering at me through the lens. A muffled "Yes?"

  "Criada." I called. The word was Spanish for "maid." I learned that the first week of class because so many of the women taking Spanish were hoping to learn to speak to their Hispanic maids. Otherwise the maids did anything they felt like, and the women were reduced to following them around the house, ineffectually trying to demonstrate cleaning techniques the maids pretended not to "get."

  Brian didn't get it, either. He opened the door to the width of the chain, peering through the crack. "What?"

  I held a batch of towels up, concealing my face. "Towelettas," I sang in Spanglish.

  "Oh." He closed the door and slid the chain off the track. He stepped back, leaving the door open between us. I moved into the room. He didn't look at me. He indicated the bathroom to the left, his attention already riveted on the screen again. The show seemed to be an old black-and-white movie: men with high cheekbones and pomaded waves, women with eyebrows plucked to the size of hairline fractures. All the facial expressions were tragic. He crossed back to the set and turned up the sound. I went into his bathroom and checked it out as long as I was there. No visible guns, claw hammers, or machetes. Lots of sun block and hair mousse, a hair brush, a blow dryer, and a safety razor. I didn't think the kid had enough hair on his face to shave it. Maybe he was just practicing, like prepubescent girls with little training bras.

  I set the towels on the counter and went out to the bedroom, where I took a seat on the bed. At first, my presence didn't seem to register. Terminal disease music was swelling, and the lovers stood together with their two perfect faces side by side. His was prettier than hers. When Brian finally saw me, he was cool enough to suppress any surprise. He picked up the remote control and muted the sound again. The scene continued in silence, many animated speeches. I've often wondered if I could learn to read lips that way. The lovers on the screen were speaking directly into each other's faces, which made me worry about bad breath. Her mouth was moving, but Brian's words came out. "How'd you find me?"

  I tapped my temple, trying to divert my gaze from the television set.

  "Where's Dad?"

  "We don't know yet. He may be sailing down the coast to pick you up."

  "I wish he'd get on with it." He leaned back in his chair and .raised his arms, lacing his fingers so his hands were resting across the top of his head. The gesture made his biceps bulge. He propped a foot up on the edge of the bed, kicked his chair back an inch. The tufts of hair in his armpits seemed oddly sexual. I wondered if I was reaching an age where all young boys with hard bodies would seem sexual to me. I wondered if I'd been that age all my life. He reached over and picked up a pair of clean socks, which had been rolled and folded to form a soft wad. He threw the ball of socks against the wall and caught it on the fly when it bounced back at him.

  "You haven't heard from him?"

  "Nope." He flung the wad again and caught it.

  "You said you saw him day before yesterday. Did he say anything to indicate he might be leaving?" I asked.

  "No." He dropped the wad from his right hand, straightening his arm abruptly so that the socks bounced off the anterior aspect of his elbow. He caught it as it popped up, and he let it fall again. He had to watch very carefully so he wouldn't miss. Bounce. Catch. Bounce. Catch.

  "What did he say?" I asked.

  He missed.

  He shot me a look, annoyed at the distraction. "Fuck, I don't know. He's selling me this whole line of horseshit about how there's no justice in the legal system. Then he turns around and tells me we have to turn ourselves in. I go, 'No way, Dad. I'm not going to do it, and there's no way you can make me.' "

  "What'd he say to that?"

  "He didn't say anything." He tossed the sock ball against the wall again and caught it on the fly.

  "You think he might have gone ahead and taken off without you?"

  "Why would he do that if he was going to turn himself in?"

  "Maybe he got scared."

  "So he leaves me to face all this shit by myself?" His look was incredulous.

  "Brian, I hate to say this, but your father isn't exactly famous for sticking it out. He gets nervous and he bolts."

  "He wouldn't leave me," he said sullenly. He tossed the socks in the air, leaned forward, and caught the wad behind his back. I could see the title of the book now: Tricks with Socks: 101 Ways to Amuse Yourself with Underwear: "I think you ought to go ahead and turn yourself in."

  "I will when he gets here."

  "Why don't I believe that? Brian, I hate to sound pompous, but I have a responsibility here. You're wanted by the cops. I don't turn you in, that's called 'aiding and abetting.' I could lose my license."

  He was on his feet in an instant, half lifting me, hauling me off the bed by my shirt, fist cocked back, ready to bust my teeth out. Our faces were suddenly six inches apart. Like the lovers. Anything cute about this kid was gone. Someone else stared down at me, a person within a person. Who could have guessed that this vicious "other" was hidden behind Brian's blue-eyed, California perfection? The voice wasn't even his: a low-pitched gravelly whisper. "Listen, you bitch. I'll tell you about aiding and abetting. You want to take me in? Just try. I'll kill your ass before you can lay a finger on me, you got that?"

  I stilled myself, scarcely daring to breathe. I made my body invisible, beaming myself into hyperspace. He was nearly cross-eyed with rage, and I knew he'd strike out if he were pressed. His chest was heaving, adrenaline pumping hard through his nervous system. He was the one who killed the woman when the four of them escaped. I'd have bet money on that. Give a kid like that a weapon, give him a victim, some subject to vent his rage on, and he'd attack in a white heat. I said, "Okay, okay. Don't hit me. Don't hit."

  I thought the rush of feelings would make him extraordinarily alert. Instead, emotion seemed to slow his senses, dulling his perceptions. He pulled back slightly. He brought my face into focus, frowning. "What?" His manner seemed dazed, as if his hearing had gone out on him.

  My message had finally reached him, through some impossible maze of supercharged neurons. "I just want you safe when your dad comes back."

  "Safe." The very concept seemed alien. He shivered, tension rippling through his body. He released me, backed away, and sank onto the chair, breathing heavily. "God. What's the matter with me? God."

  "You want me to go in with you?" My shirt was permanently pleated across the front where he'd gripped it in his fist.

  He shook his head. "I can call your mother." He bowed his head, running his hand through his hair. "I don't want her. I want him," he said. The voice belonged to the Brian Jaffe I knew. He wiped his face against his sleeve. I thought he was close to tears, but his eyes were dry... empty... the blue as cold as a gel pack. I sat and waited, hoping he would say something more. Gradually his breathing returned to normal and he began to look like himself again.

  "It'll look better in court if you return voluntarily," ventured.

  "Why should I do that? I got a legitimate jail release." The tone was petulant. The other Brian was gone, receding into the dark recesses of his underwater hole like an eel. This Brian was just a kid who thought everything should go his way. On the playground, he was kind of kid who'd cry, "You cheated!" any time he lost a game, but he
would always be the cheater, in truth.

  "Oh, come on, Brian. You know better than that. I don't know who screwed with the computer, but believe me, you're not supposed to be out on the street. You've got murder charges filed against you."

  "I didn't kill anybody." Indignant. By that, he probably meant he didn't mean to kill her when he pointed die gun. And why should he feel guilty afterward when it wasn't his fault? Dumb bitch. She should have kept ~ mouth shut when he asked for the car keys. Had to argue with him. Women all the time argued.

  "Good for you," I said. "In the meantime, the sheriff's on his way over here to pick you up."

  He was astonished at the betrayal, and the look he save me was filled with outrage. "You called the cops? Why'd you do that?"

  "Because I didn't believe you'd turn yourself in."

  "Why should I?"

  "See what I mean? You got an attitude. Like somehow the rules don't apply to you. Well, guess what?"

  "Guess what yourself. I don't have to take any crap from you." He got up from the chair, grabbing his wallet from the top of the TV as he passed. He reached the door and opened it. A sheriff's deputy, a white guy, was standing on the threshold, his hand raised to knock. Brian wheeled and moved rapidly toward the sliding glass door. A second deputy, black, appeared on his patio. Frustrated, Brian flung his wallet to the floor with such force that it bounced like a football. The first deputy reached for him, and Brian wrenched his arm away. "Get the fuck off me!"

  The deputy said, "Son. Now, son. I don't want to have to hurt you."

  Brian was breathing heavily again, backing up, his gaze raking the air from face to face. He was hunched over, and he had his hands out as if to ward off attacking animals. Both deputies were big, made of dense flesh and tough experience, the first in his late forties, the other maybe thirty-five. I wouldn't have wanted to truck with either one of them.

  The second deputy had his hand on his gun, but he hadn't drawn it. These days a confrontation with the law ends in death, pure and simple. The two officers exchanged a look, and my heart began to bang at the specter of sudden violence. The three of us were immobilized, waiting to see what the next move might be. The first deputy went on in a low tone. "It's all right Everything's cool. Let's just keep calm here and everything's going to be fine." Uncertainty flickered in Brian's eyes. His breathing slowed, and he regained his composure. He straightened up. I didn't think it was over, but the tension evaporated. Brian tried a deprecating smile and allowed him- self to be handcuffed without resistance. He avoided my gaze, which suited me just fine. There was something embarrassing about having to watch him submit "Bunch of dumb fucks," he murmured, but the deputies ignored him. Everybody has to save face. No offense that.