by Sue Grafton
I said, “Cordia, really—”
“Go on up to the apartment and be done with it,” she snapped.
Belmira’s misery was palpable, but she didn’t dare defy Cordia. Nor did I, for that matter. I tucked the key in my pocket and let myself out. Before the door closed behind me, I could hear Bel protesting her loss.
I unlocked Mickey’s front door and let myself in. His drapes were still closed, blocking the light except for a narrow gap between panels where the late-afternoon sun cut like a laser, warming the interior. The air was dense with dust motes and carried the moldy scent of unoccupied space. I stood for a moment, taking in the scene. With no one to clean the place, many surfaces were still smudged with fingerprint powder. If someone had been in the apartment the night before, there were no obvious signs. I skipped the rubber gloves this time and did a quick walk-through. On the surface, it was just as I’d seen it last. I paused in the bedroom door. A small gauzy piece of cloth trailed out from under the bed. I got down on my hands and knees, lifted the bottom of the spread, and peeked under the bed. Someone had systemically removed the fabric covering the bottom of the box spring, and it lay on the carpet like a skin shed by a snake. I knelt by the bed and lifted one corner of the mattress. I could see a line where the fabric had been scored by something sharp. I lifted the bulk of the mattress, turning it over with the sheets still in place. The underside had been gutted, slit the entire length at ten-inch intervals. Stuffing boiled out, cotton tufts protruding where the thickness had been searched. There was something both sly and savage in the evisceration. I did what I could to restore the bed to a state of tidiness.
I checked the closet. Mickey’s clothing had been slit in a similar fashion: seams and pockets slashed, linings ripped open, though the garments had been left hanging, apparently undisturbed. To the casual observer, nothing would appear amiss. The damage probably wouldn’t have been discovered until Mickey returned or his belongings were moved to storage. I went back to the living room, noticing for the first time that the cushions on the couch appeared to be out of alignment. I turned them over and saw they’d been sliced open as well. Along the back of the couch, the fabric had been picked open at the seam. The damage would be apparent the first time the couch was moved, but, again, the vandalism wasn’t evident on cursory inspection.
I checked both of the heavy upholstered chairs, getting down on the floor so I could squint at the underside. I lifted the chairs one at a time, tilting each forward to inspect the frames. On the bottom of the second chair, there was a rectangular cut in the padding. I removed the wedge of foam rubber. In the hole there was a gray metal box, six inches by twelve, like the one Duffy’d described. The lock had been badly damaged and yielded easily to pressure. Gingerly, I opened the lid. Empty. I sat back on my heels and said, “Mickey, you ass.”
What a dumb hiding place! Given his ingenuity and paranoia, he could have done better than this. Of course, I’d searched the place twice and hadn’t found the damn thing on either occasion, but somebody had. I was sick with disappointment, though there was clearly no remedy. I hadn’t even heard about the lockbox until Saturday night. At the time, it hadn’t occurred to me to drop everything and hit the road right then. Maybe if I had, I might have beat “somebody” to the punch.
Ah, well. It couldn’t be helped. I’d simply have to do without. I could find a picture of Duncan Oaks in his high school yearbook, but I would have liked the dog tags and the press pass Duffy’d mentioned to me. There was something about an authentic document that served as a talisman, a totem object imbued with the power of the original owner. Probably superstition on my part, but I regretted the loss.
I returned the box to its niche, tilted the chair back into its upright position, and let myself out the front door, locking it behind me. I went down the steps and knocked on Cordia’s door. She opened it a crack and I gave her the key. She took it without comment and closed the door again. Clearly, I wasn’t being encouraged to spend the night with them.
I crept out to the alley, got in my car, and drove to the airport. I found a nearby motel, offering shuttle service every hour on the hour. I ate an unremarkable dinner in the nondescript restaurant attached to one end of the building. I was in bed by nine and slept until five-forty-five, when I rose, showered, threw on the same clothes, left my VW in the motel parking lot, and took the shuttle to LAX, where I caught my 7 A.M. plane. The minute the nonsmoking sign was turned off, all the passengers in the rear set their cigarettes on fire.
It was in the Tulsa airport, while I was waiting between planes, that I made a discovery that cheered me up no end. I had an hour to kill so I’d stretched out in a chair, my legs extended into the aisle in front of me. The position, while awkward, at least permitted a catnap, though later I’d probably require hundreds of dollars’ worth of chiropractic adjustment. In the meantime, I was using Mickey’s leather jacket as a pillow, trying to ease the strain on my neck. I turned over on my side, not easy to do while sitting upright. As I did so, I felt something lumpy against my face—metal zipper tab, button?—I didn’t know what it was, except that it added an unacceptable level of discomfort. I sat up and checked the portion of the jacket that was under my cheek. There was nothing I could see, but by pinching the leather I could feel an object in the lining. I flattened the jacket on my lap, squinting at the seam where I could see an alteration in the stitching. I opened my shoulder bag and took out my nail scissors (the same ones I utilize for the occasional emergency haircut). I picked a few stitches loose and then used my fingers to widen the opening. Out slid Duncan Oaks’s dog tags, the black-and-white snapshot, and the press card. Actually, the hiding place made perfect sense. Mickey’d probably worn this very jacket when he made the trip himself.
The dog tags bore Duncan Oaks’s name and date of birth. Even all these years later, the chain was crusty with rust or blood. The snapshot was exactly as Duffy had described it. I set those items aside and studied the press card issued by the Department of Defense. The printing around the border said: LOSS OF THIS CARD MUST BE REPORTED AT ONCE. PROPERTY OF U.S. GOVERNMENT. Under the line that read noncombatant’s certificate of identity was Duncan Oaks’s name, and on the left was his picture. Dark-haired, unsmiling, he looked very young, which of course he was. The date of issue was 10 Sept. ’65. Four years out of high school, he was no more than twenty-three years old. I studied his face. Somehow he seemed familiar, though I couldn’t think why. I flipped the card over. On the back, he’d pasted a strip on which he’d written, In case of emergency, please notify Porter Yount, managing editor, Louisville Tribune.
24
My plane arrived in Louisville, Kentucky, at 5:20 P.M., at a gate so remote it appeared to be abandoned or under quarantine. I’d been in Louisville once before, about six months back, when a cross-country romp had ended in a cemetery, with my being the recipient of an undeserved crack on the head. In that case, as with this, I was out a substantial chunk of change, with little hope of recouping my financial losses.
As I passed through the terminal, I paused at a public phone booth and checked the local directory on the off chance I’d find Porter Yount listed. I figured the name was unusual and there couldn’t be that many in the greater Louisville area. The high school librarian had told me the Tribune had been swallowed up by a syndicate some twenty years before. I imagined Yount old and retired, if he were alive at all. For once my luck held and I spotted the address and phone number of a Porter Yount, whom I assumed was the man I was looking for. According to the phone book, he lived in the 1500 block of Third Street. I made a note of the address and continued to the baggage claim level, where I forked over my credit card and picked up the keys to the rental car. The woman at Frugal gave me a sheet map and traced out my route: taking the Watterson Expressway east, then picking up I-65 North into the downtown area.
I found my car in the designated slot and took a moment to get my bearings. The parking lot was shiny with puddles from a recent shower. Given the
low probability of rain any given day in California, I drank in the scent. Even the air felt different: balmy and humid with the late-afternoon temperatures in the low 70s. Despite Santa Teresa’s proximity to the Pacific Ocean, the climate is desertlike. Here, a moist spring breeze touched at newly unfurled leaves, and I could see pink and white azaleas bordering the grass. I shrugged out of Mickey’s jacket and locked it in the trunk along with my duffel.
I decided to leave the issue of a motel until after I’d talked to Yount. It was close to the dinner hour, and chances were good that I’d find him at home. Following instructions, I took one of the downtown off-ramps, cutting over to Third, where I took a right and crossed Broadway. I drove slowly along Third, scanning house numbers. I finally spotted my destination and pulled in at a bare stretch of curb a few doors away. The tree-lined street, with its three-story houses of dark red brick, must have been lovely in the early days of the century. Now, some of the structures were run-down, and encroaching businesses had begun to mar the nature of the area. The general population was doubtless abandoning the once-stately downtown for the featureless suburbs.
Yount’s residence was two and a half stories of red brick faced with pale fieldstone. A wide porch ran along the front of the building. Three wide bay windows were stacked one to a floor. An air conditioner extended from an attic window. The street was lined with similar houses, built close to one another, yards and alleyways behind. In front, between the sidewalk and the street, a border of grass was planted with maples and oaks that must have been there for eighty to a hundred years.
I climbed three steps, proceeded along a short cracked walkway, and climbed an additional six steps to the glass door with its tiny foyer visible within. Yount’s residence had apparently once been a single-family dwelling, now broken into five units, judging from the names posted on the mailboxes. Each apartment had a bell, connected to the intercom located near the entrance. I rang Yount’s apartment, waiting two minutes before I rang again. When it became clear he wasn’t answering, I tried a neighbor’s bell instead. After a moment, the intercom crackled to life and an old woman clicked in, saying “Yes?”
I said, “I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Porter Yount.”
“Speak up.”
“Porter Yount in apartment three.”
“What’s the time?”
I glanced at my watch. “Six-fifteen.”
“He’ll be down yonder on the corner. The Buttercup Tavern.”
“Thanks.”
I returned to the sidewalk, where I peered up and down the street. Though I didn’t see a sign, I spotted what looked like a corner tavern half a block down. I left my car where it was and walked the short distance through the mild spring air.
The Buttercup was dark, cloudy with cigarette smoke, and smelling of bourbon. The local news was being broadcast at low volume on a color TV set mounted in one corner of the room. The dark was further punctuated by neon signs in a series of advertisements for Rolling Rock, Fehr’s, and Stroh’s Beer. The tavern was paneled in highly varnished wood with red leather stools along the length of the bar. Most of the occupants at that hour seemed to be isolated individuals, all men, all smoking, separated from each other by as many empty stools as space allowed. Without exception, each turned to stare at me as I came in.
I paused just inside the door and said, “I’m looking for Porter Yount.”
A fellow at the far end of the bar raised his hand.
Judging from the swiveling heads, my arrival was the most interesting event since the Ohio River flooded in 1937. When I reached Yount, I held my hand out, saying, “I’m Kinsey Millhone.”
“Nice meeting you,” he said.
We shook hands and I perched on the stool next to his.
I said, “How are you?”
“Not bad. Thanks for asking.” Porter Yount was heavyset, raspyvoiced, a man in his eighties. He was almost entirely bald, but his brows were still dark, an unruly tangle above eyes that were a startling green. At the moment, he was bleary-eyed with bourbon and his breath smelled like fruitcake. I could see the bartender drift in our direction. He paused in front of us.
Yount lit a fresh cigarette and glanced in my direction. He was having trouble with his focus. His mouth seemed to work, but his eyeballs were rolling like two green olives in an empty relish dish. “What’ll you have?”
“How about a Fehr’s?”
“You don’t want Fehr’s,” he said. And to the bartender, “Lady wants a shot of Early Times with a water back.”
“The beer’s fine,” I corrected.
The bartender reached into a cooler for the beer, which he opened and placed on the bar in front of me.
Yount said peevishly, “Give the lady a glass. Where’s your manners?”
The bartender set a glass on the bar and Yount spoke to him again. “Who’s cooking tonight?”
“Patsy. Want to see a menu?”
“Did I say that? This lady and I could use some privacy.”
“Oh, sure.” The bartender moved to the other end of the bar, accustomed to Yount’s manner.
Yount shook his head with exasperation and his gaze slid in my direction. His head was round as a ball, sitting on the heft of his shoulders with scarcely any neck between. His shirt was a dark polyester, probably selected for stain concealment and ease of laundering. A pair of dark suspenders kept his pants hiked high above his waist. He wore dark socks and sandals, with an inch of shinbone showing. “Outfit okay? If I’d knowed you was coming, I’d’ve wore my Sunday best,” he said, deliberately fracturing his grammar.
I had to laugh. “Sorry. I tend to look carefully at just about everything.”
“You a journalist?”
I shook my head. “A private investigator. I’m trying to get a line on Duncan Oaks. You remember him?”
“Of course. You’re the second detective to come in here asking after him this month.”
“You talked to Mickey Magruder?”
“That’s the one,” he said.
“I thought as much.”
“Why’d he send you? He didn’t take me at my word?”
“We didn’t talk. He was shot last week and he’s been in a coma ever since.”
“Sorry to hear that. I liked him. He’s smart. First fella I met who could match me drink for drink.”
“He’s talented that way. At any rate, I’m doing what I can to follow up his investigation. It’s tough, since I don’t really know what he’d accomplished. I hope this won’t turn out to be a waste of your time.”
“Drinking’s a waste of time, not talking to pretty ladies. What’s the sudden interest in Oaks?”
“His name’s cropped up in connection with another matter … something in California, which is where I’m from. I know he once worked for the Tribune. Your name was on his press pass, so I thought I’d talk to you.”
“Fool’s errand if I ever heard one. He’s been dead twenty years.”
“So I heard. I’m sorry for the repetition, but if you tell me what you told Mickey, maybe we can figure out if he’s relevant.”
Yount took a swallow of whiskey and tapped the ash off his cigarette. “He’s a ‘war correspondent’—pretty fancy title for a paper like the Trib. I don’t think even the Courier-Journal had a correspondent back then. This was in the early sixties.”
“Did you hire him yourself?”
“Oh, sure. He’s a local boy, a blueblood, high society: good looks, ambition, an ego big as your head. More charisma than character.” His elbow slid off the bar, and he caught himself with a jerk that we both ignored. Mentally, he seemed sharp. It was his body that tended to slip out of gear.
“Meaning what?”
“Not to speak ill of the dead, but I suspect he’d peaked out. You must know people like that yourself. High school’s the glory days; after that, nothing much. It’s not like he did poorly, but he never did as well. He’s a fellow cut corners, never really earned his stripes, so to speak.”
“Where’d he go to college?”
“He didn’t. Duncan wasn’t school-smart. He’s a bright kid, made good grades, but he never cared much for academics. He had drive and aspirations. He figured he’d learn more in the real world so he nixed the idea.”
“Was he right about that?”
“Hard to say. Kid loved to hustle. Talked me into paying him seventy-five dollars a week—which, frankly, we didn’t have. Even in those days, his salary was a pittance, but he didn’t care.”
“Because he came from money?”
“That’s right. Revel Oaks, his daddy, made a fortune in the sin trades, whiskey and tobacco. That and real estate speculation. Duncan grew up in an atmosphere of privilege. Hell, his daddy would’ve given him anything he wanted: travel, the best schools, place in the family business. Duncan had other fish to fry.”
“For instance?”
He waved his cigarette in the air. “Like I said, he wangled his way into a job with the Trib, mostly on the basis of his daddy’s influence.”
“And what did he want?”
“Adventure, recognition. Duncan was addicted to living on the edge. Craved the limelight, craved risk. He wanted to go to Vietnam and report on the war. Nothing would do until he got his way.”
“But why not enlist? If you’re craving life on the edge, why not the infantry? That’s about as close to the edge as you can get.”
“Military wouldn’t touch him. Had a heart murmur sounded like water pouring through a sluice. That’s when he came to us. Wasn’t any way the Trib could afford his ticket to Saigon. Didn’t matter to him. He paid his own way. As long as he had access, he’s happy as a clam. In those days, we’re talking Neil Sheehan, David Halberstam, Mal Browne, Homer Bigart. Duncan pictured his byline in papers all across the country. He did a series of local interviews with newlyweds, army wives left behind when their husbands went off to war. The idea was to follow up, talk to the husbands, and see the fighting from their perspective.”