by Sue Grafton
“You have a date?”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
He smiled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Could you give Dixie my thanks? I know it’s rude not to do it personally, but I’d thought I’d slip out without making a fuss. Sometimes one person leaves and it starts an exodus.”
“Sure thing.”
“I appreciate the invitation. This was fun.”
“We’ll have to try it again. What’s your schedule like next week?”
“My schedule?”
“I thought we’d have lunch, just the two of us,” he said.
“Ah. I don’t remember offhand. I’ll check when I hit the office and call you on Monday.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Inwardly, I found myself backing away. Ordinarily, I don’t imagine men are coming on to me, but his tone was flirtatious, which didn’t sit well with me. I became especially chirpy as I made my retreat. Eric seemed amused by my discomfiture.
I was letting myself into my apartment some fifteen minutes later when I heard the last of a message being left on my machine. Jonah. I dropped my bag on the floor and snatched at the phone, but by then he’d hung up. I pressed the PLAY button and heard the rerun of his brief communication.
“Kinsey. Jonah here. It looks like we found your boy. Give me a call, and I’ll fill you in on the nitty-gritty details. Not a very nice guy, but you probably know that already. I’m at home.”
I looked up his home number and dialed with impatience, listening to ring after ring. “Come on, come on … .”
“Hello?”
Oh, shit. Camilla.
I said, “Could I speak to Lieutenant Robb? I’m returning his call.”
“And who’s this?”
“Kinsey Millhone.”
Dead silence.
Then she said, “He’s busy at the moment. Is this something I can help you with?”
“Not really. He has some information for me. Could I speak to him, please?”
“Just a minute,” she said, not entirely happy about the situation. I heard a clunk as she placed the handset on the tabletop, then the tapping of her heels as she walked away. After that, I was treated to all the quaint, domestic sounds of the Robbs’ Saturday night as they hung around the house. I could hear the television set in a distant room. Closer to the phone, one of his girls, probably Courtney, the older one, played chopsticks on an out-of-tune piano, never quite finishing her portion of the musical duet. I listened to countless repetitions of the first fifteen to twenty notes. The other daughter, whose name I forget, would chime in at the wrong spot, which caused the first girl to protest and start over again. The second child kept saying, “Stop it!” which the first girl declined to do. In the meantime, I could hear Camilla’s comments to Jonah, who apparently hadn’t been told there was a call for him. I could hear the sound of water running, the clattering of plates. I knew she was doing it deliberately, forcing me to eavesdrop on the small homely drama being played out for my benefit.
I whistled into the mouthpiece. I said “HELLO!” about six times, to no avail. I knew if I hung up, all I’d get was a busy signal when I tried calling back. Clump, clump, clump. I heard advancing footsteps on the hardwood floor. I yelled “HEY!” Clump, clump, clump. The footsteps receded. Another round of chopsticks was played. Shrieks from the girls. Chitchat between husband and wife. Camilla’s seductive laughter as she teased Jonah about something. Once more I cursed myself for never learning how to do the piercing whistle you make when you put two fingers between your teeth. I’d pay six hundred dollars if someone could teach me that. Think of the taxis you could summon, the waiters you could signal across a crowded room. Clump, clump, clump. Someone approached the phone, and I heard Jonah remark with annoyance, “Hey, who left this off? I’m expecting a call.”
I yelled “JONAH!” but not quickly enough to prevent his replacing the handset in the cradle. I redialed the number, but the line was busy. Camilla’d probably picked up another phone in haste, just to make certain I couldn’t get through. I waited a minute and tried again. Still busy. On my fourth attempt, I heard the phone ring, only to have Camilla pick up again. This time she didn’t even bother to say hello. I heard her breathe in my ear.
I said, “Camilla, if you don’t put Jonah on the phone, I’m going to get in my car and drive over there right this minute.”
She sang out, “Jonah? For you.”
Four seconds later he said, “Hello?”
“Hi, Jonah. It’s Kinsey. I just got home and picked up your message. What’s going on?”
“Listen, you’re going to love this. Bobbi Deems pulled your biker over last night when she saw he had a taillight out. Kid’s name is Carlin Duffy, and it turns out he’s driving with an expired Kentucky driver’s license and expired registration. Bobbi cited him for both and impounded the bike.”
“Where in Kentucky?”
“Louisville, she said. You want him, he’ll be in court in thirty days.”
“What about before then? Does he have a local address?”
“More or less. He claims he’s living in a maintenance shed at that nursery off the 101 at the Peterson exit. Apparently, he works there part-time in exchange for rent, a claim the owner confirms. Meanwhile, Bobbi ran a background check on this crud, who’s got a criminal history as long as your arm: arrests and convictions going back to 1980.”
“For what?”
“Mostly nickel-and-dime stuff. He never killed anyone.”
“I’m so relieved,” I said.
“Let’s see what we got here: wanton endangerment, criminal recklessness, theft, receiving stolen property, criminal mischief, trying to flee a halfway house where he was serving a ninety-day sentence for giving a false name to a police officer. The guy’s not too bright, but he’s consistent.”
“Any outstanding warrants?”
“Nada. For the moment, he’s clean.”
“Too bad. It’d have been nice to have him picked up so I could talk to him.”
“You’ll definitely want to do that. Here’s the best part. You ready? You want to know who his brother is? You’ll never guess.”
“I give up.”
“Benny Quintero.”
I could feel myself squint. “You’re kidding me.”
“It’s true.”
“How’d you figure that one out?”
“I didn’t. Bobbi did. Apparently, Benny’s name was listed as the owner on the bike registration, so Bobbi put Duffy through his paces. She’d forgotten the story, but she remembered Benny’s name. Duffy claims they’re half brothers. His mom was originally married to Benny’s dad, who died in World War Two. Ten years later, she moved to Kentucky, where she married Duffy’s dad. He was born the next year, fifteen-year age gap between the two boys. Carlin was thirteen when Benny came out to California and got himself killed.”
“Is that why he’s here?”
“You’d have to ask him. I’m thinking it’s a good bet, unless you happen to believe in coincidence.”
“I don’t.”
“Nor do I.”
“So where is he now?”
“Well, he can’t be far off if he’s hoofing it.”
“He could have stolen a car.”
“Always possible, I guess, though outside his area of expertise. Anyway, if you decide to go looking for him, take someone along. I don’t like the idea of your seeing him alone.”
“You want to go?”
“Sure, I’d love it. Wait a second.” He put a hand across the mouthpiece. Camilla must have been hovering nearby, listening to every word, because she squelched the idea before he even had the chance to ask. He removed his hand from the mouthpiece, addressing me again. “I’m tied up tonight, but how’s Monday. Does that work?”
“Sounds ducky.”
“You’ll call me?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll see you then,” he said.
As soon a
s he clicked off, I grabbed my handbag and walked out the door. I wasn’t going to wait until Monday. How ridiculous. Duffy could be long gone; I couldn’t take the risk. I stopped for gas on the way out. The nursery was maybe ten minutes away, but the needle on my gas gauge was now pointing at E, and I wasn’t sure how much driving I’d have to do catching up with him.
It was twenty of nine when I finally pulled into the parking lot at the nursery. The sign out front indicated the place was open until 9 P.M. on weekends. The property must have occupied some ten to fifteen acres, the land sandwiched between the highway on one side and the side street into which I’d turned. The gardening center was immediately in front of me, a low white glass-and-frame building that accommodated numerous bedding, landscape, and house plants, seeds, gardening books, bulbs, herbs, pottery, and gifts, for “that special someone with a talent for growing.”
To the right, behind the chain-link enclosure, I could see an array of fountains and statuary for sale, ceramic, plastic, and redwood planters, along with big plastic bags of fertilizers, mulches, garden chemicals, and soil amendments. To the left, I could see a series of greenhouses, like opaque glass barracks, and, beyond them, row after row of trees, a shaggy forest of shadows stretching back toward the freeway.
Now that the sun was fully down, the lingering light had shifted to a charred black, permeated by the smell of sod. The area along the side street was well lighted, but the far reaches of the nursery were shrouded in darkness. I scrounged around in the backseat and found a medium-weight denim jacket that I hoped would offer warmth against the chill night air. I locked the car and went into the gardening center with its harsh fluorescent lights shining down on banks of seed packs and gaudy indoor blooms.
The girl at the counter wore a forest-green smock with the name Himes embroidered across the pocket. As I closed the door, she gave the air a surreptitious fanning. She was in her teens, with dry blond hair and heavy pancake makeup over bumpy cheeks and chin. The air smelled of a recently extinguished clove cigarette.
“Hi. I’m looking for Carlin. Is he here?”
“Who?”
“Carlin Duffy, the guy with the bike who’s living in the shed.”
“Oh, Duffy. He’s not here. The cops took his bike and locked it in the impound lot. He said it’s going to cost a bundle to get it out.”
“Bummer.”
“He was really pissed. What a bunch of pigs.”
“The worst. You two are friends?”
She shrugged. “My mom doesn’t like him. He’s a bum, she says, but I don’t see why it’s his fault if he’s new in town.”
“How long’s he been here?”
“Maybe five or six months. He came like right before Christmas, sometime right around in there. Mr. Himes caught this other guy, Marcel? Do you know him?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Marcel stole a bunch of these plants and sold ’em on the street? Mr. Himes fired his sorry butt as soon as he found out.”
“And Duffy got his job shortly afterward?”
“Well, yeah. Mr. Himes had no idea Marcel was cheating him until Duffy bought a dieffenbachia off him and brought it in,” she said. “I mean, Duffy’s smart. He figured it’s a scam right off. He only paid Marcel I guess a buck or two and there’s our tag … like for $12.99 … pasted on the side.”
“What about Marcel? I bet he swore up and down he didn’t do it, right?”
“Right. What a dork. He acted all crushed and upset, like he’s completely innocent. Oh, sure. He said he’d sue, but I don’t see how he could.”
“His word against Duffy’s, and who’s going to believe him. Is Marcel black, perchance?”
She nodded. “You know how they are,” she said, rolling her eyes. For the first time, she assessed me. “How do you know Duffy?”
“Through his brother, Ben.”
“Duffy has a brother? Well, that’s weird,” she said. “He told me his family’s dead and gone.”
“His brother’s been dead for years.”
“Oh. Too bad.”
“What time will he be back?”
“Probably not until ten.”
“Well, shoot,” I said.
“Did he say he’d meet you here?”
“Nah. I saw him at the Tonk last night and then lost track of him.”
“He’s probably there tonight,” she said helpfully. “You want to use the phone? You could have him paged. He’s pals with the owner. I think his name is Tim.”
“Really? I know Tim,” I said. “Maybe I’ll pop over there, since it isn’t far. Meantime, if he comes in? Tell him I was here. I’d like to speak to him.”
“About what?”
“About what?” I repeated.
“In case he asks,” she said.
“It’s sort of a surprise.”
20
I cruised through the parking lot across from the Honky-Tonk and miraculously found a space about six slots down. It was not quite nine, and the Saturday-night boozers were just beginning to roll in. The Tonk wouldn’t start jumping until ten o’clock when the band arrived. I crossed the street, pausing while a red-and-white panel truck idled near the garbage bins. No sign of the driver, but the logo on the side read PLAS-STOCK. I could see that second-floor lights were on in the building. Shifting shadows suggested someone moving around up there.
I continued on across the street, approaching the bar from the rear. Idly, I tried the back door, but it was locked. I guess it would be hard to insist on a cover charge out front if wily patrons could go around the back and get in for free. I moved to the front entrance. The bouncer remembered me from the night before so he waved off my ID and stamped the back of my hand. This was the third night in a row I’d checked into the place, and I was feeling like a regular. During the period when Mickey and I were married, we were here four nights out of seven, which didn’t seem odd at the time. He hung out with other cops, and that’s what they did after work in those days. I was with Mickey so I did what he did as a matter of course. The Honky-Tonk was family, providing a social context for those of us without any other close ties. Looking back, I realize what an enormous waste of time it was, but maybe that was our way of avoiding each other, bypassing the real work of marriage, which is intimacy. I’m still lousy at being close, having so little practice in the past umpteen years.
I found a stool at the bar and ordered a beer. I sat with my back to the mirrored wall of glittering liquor bottles, one elbow on the bar, a foot swinging in time to whatever anonymous music played. I spotted Thea at just about the same time she spotted me. She held my gaze for a moment, her features drawn and tense. Gone was the leather vest that had exposed her long bare arms. In its place she wore a white turtleneck and tight jeans. Her belt was silver, the buckle shaped like a lock with a heart-shaped keyhole in the center. Preoccupied, she took an order from a table of four and then crossed to the bar, where she chatted with Charlie briefly before she moved toward me.
“Hello, Thea,” I said. Close up, I realized she was pissed as hell. “Are you mad about something?”
“You can bet your sweet ass. Why didn’t you tell me about Mickey? You knew he’d been shot and you never said a word.”
“How’d you hear?”
“Scottie’s father told us. You talked to me at least twice so you could have mentioned it.”
“Thea, I wasn’t going to walk in here cold and make that announcement. I didn’t even know you were friends until you asked about his jacket. By then, I figured there was something more going on.”
She shot an uneasy glance at a table near the poolroom door where Scottie was sitting, facing two men who had their backs to us. He’d apparently been watching us across the room. As if on cue, he excused himself to his companions and got out of his chair, then ambled in our direction with a beer bottle in his hand. I couldn’t help but notice the change in his appearance. His mustache was neatly trimmed, and he’d shaved his goatee. He was also better dressed—nothing fancy, bu
t attractive—cowboy boots, jeans, and a blue denim work shirt with the sleeves buttoned at the wrist. I thought he’d cut his hair, but as he drew near I could see he’d simply pulled it back and secured it in a rubber band.
Thea murmured, “Please don’t say anything. He’d kill me if he knew.”
“What time are you off? Can we meet and talk then?”
“Where?”
“What about that twenty-four-hour coffee shop over by the freeway?”
“Two A.M., but I can’t promise—”
By then, Scottie’d reached us and we abandoned the exchange. His smile was pleasant, his tone mild. “Hi. How are you? I understand you’re a friend of my dad’s. I’m Scott Shackelford.” He held out his right hand and we shook. I saw no indication that he was stoned or drunk.
“Nice meeting you,” I said. “Tim told me who you were, but I didn’t have the chance to introduce myself.”
He put his left arm around Thea’s neck in a companionable half nelson, holding the beer bottle just in front of her. The gesture was both casual and possessive. “I see you know Thea. How’re you doin’, babe,” he said. He kissed her affectionately on the cheek.
Thea’s eyes were on me as she murmured something noncommittal. She was clearly not all that crazy about the choke hold.
He turned back to me, his tone now tinged with concern. “We heard about Mickey. That’s a hell of a thing. How’s he doing?”
“He’s fair. I called down there this afternoon, and the nurse said he’s the same.”
Scott shook his head. “I feel bad for the guy. I didn’t know him well, but he used to come in here—what? Every couple of weeks?”
“About that,” Thea said, woodenly.
“Anyway, it’s been months.”
“I heard he sold his car, so maybe he couldn’t drive up as often,” I said. I was trying think up a graceful excuse to extract myself. I’d only come here to find Duffy, and he was nowhere to be seen.
Scottie went on. “By the way, Tim said if you came in, he wants to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Beats me.”