O Is for Outlaw

by Sue Grafton

  Fifteen minutes later, I experienced one of those exhilarating moments of satisfaction when, sure enough, the clerk found the marriage record.

  “Oh, wow. This is great. Isn’t this amazing?” I said.

  The clerk’s look was jaded. “I’m completely stunned.”

  I laughed. “Well, I like being right, especially when I’m flying by the seat of my pants.”

  He leaned on the counter, his chin on his hand, looking on while I took out my cards and jotted down the information embedded in the form. The license was issued on June 3, 1965. Assuming it was good for thirty days, the wedding must have taken place within the month. Darlene LaDestro, age twenty-two and working as a bookkeeper, was the daughter of Harold and Millicent LaDestro and resided at the address listed in the 1961 telephone book. Mark Charles Bethel, age twenty-three, occupation U.S. Army, was the son of Vernon and Shirley Bethel with an address on Trevillian Way. Neither the bride nor the groom had been previously married.

  Idly, the clerk said, “You know who he is, don’t you?”

  I looked up at him with interest. “Who, Mark Bethel?”

  “No, LaDestro.”

  “I don’t know a thing about him. What’s the story?”

  “He was awarded the patent for some kind of widget used on the Mercury space flights.”

  “And that’s how he made his money?”

  “Sure. He’s still famous around here. Self-taught, eccentric. He didn’t even have connections to the aerospace industry. He just worked on his own. I saw a picture of him once, and he looked like a pointy-headed geek. He’d been tinkering all his life without making a dime. In hock up to here, living in a dump. Everybody wrote him off as a nut, and then he comes along and aces out McDonnell-Douglas for the rights to the thing. He died a rich man. I mean, very very rich.”

  “Well, I’ll be darned,” I said. “What was it, the thing he patented?”

  “Some doodad. Who knows? I heard it’s in use to this day. The world is full of guys who design gizmos they never get credit for. LaDestro hired a patent attorney and took the big boys down.”

  “Incredible.”

  “His daughter sure lucked out. I hear she lives in California now on some fancy estate,” he said. He pointed to the license. “You want a copy of that?”

  “How much?”

  “Two dollars for regular, five for certified.”

  “Regular’s fine,” I said.

  I drove from Jefferson to Third, then hung a left on Broadway, driving east until it angled into Bardstown Road. I followed Bardstown Road through an area of town known as the Highlands. Once on Trevillian, I found the house where the Bethels had once lived. The white frame house looked comfortable, not large but well-maintained in a solid middle-class neighborhood, certainly superior to the one where Laddie’d grown up. I parked in front of the house, traversed the long sloping walk, and climbed the stairs to the porch. No one was home, but a simple check of the mailbox revealed that a family named Poynter now occupied the house. This was Donna Reed country: green shutters on the windows, pansies in the flower boxes, a tricycle on the sidewalk, and a dog bone lying in the yard. All the windowpanes sparkled, and the shrubs were crisply trimmed. As I looked on, a lean gray cat picked her way carefully across the newly cut lawn.

  I returned to the car, where I sat and studied my map. Gauging the proximity of schools in the area, I decided Mark probably attended Highland Junior High and then Atherton or St. Xavier, the Catholic high school on Broadway. He might have gone to private school—I wasn’t sure about that—but he struck me as the sort who’d take pride in his public school roots. Now what?

  I leafed through the pages I’d assembled, letting my mind wander. I’d added a number of dots, but I still couldn’t see all the lines connecting them. Duncan Oaks seemed pivotal. I sensed his presence like the hub of an enormous wheel. I could trace the hometown relationship between him and Benny Quintero. Contemporaries, two high school athletes who had played the same positions on opposing football teams, their paths had crossed years later on the bloody soil of Ia Drang. After that, Duncan Oaks had vanished but Quintero had survived, keeping Duncan’s dog tags, his press credentials, and a snapshot. I could also tie Duncan Oaks to Laddie Bethel, born Darlene LaDestro, who’d attended high school with him. And here’s where the machinations became more intricate. Laddie was now married to the attorney who’d represented my ex-husband, a suspect in Benny Quintero’s beating death seven years later. If Duncan Oaks was the hub, maybe Mark Bethel was the axle driving subsequent events.

  I started the car and headed back to my motel. Even without the links, a picture was forming, crude and unfocused, but one that Mickey must have seen as well. The problem was I had no proof a crime had been committed all those years ago, let alone that it had sparked consequences in the here-and-now. It simply stood to reason. Some combination of events had resulted in the killing of Benny Quintero and the shooting of Mickey Magruder. I had to fashion a story that encompassed all the players and made sense of their fates. If life is a play, then there’s a logical explanation, an underlying tale that pulls the whole of it together, however clouded it first appears.

  Before my plane the next morning, I put in a call to Porter Yount, asking if he could lay his hands on the columns Duncan Oaks had written before he went to Vietnam. Much hemming and hawing, but he said he’d see what he could do. I gave him my address and a great big telephone kiss, telling him to take care, I’d be in touch with him.

  The flight home was uneventful, though it took up most of the day: Louisville to Tulsa, Tulsa to Santa Fe, Santa Fe to Los Angeles, where I shuttled to the motel, picked up my VW, and drove the ninety minutes home. Between the actual hours in the air, the wait between planes, and the commute at the end, I arrived in Santa Teresa at 4:30 P.M. I was feeling irritable: tired, hungry, flat-haired, oily-faced. I was also dehydrated from all the nuts I’d eaten in lieu of meals that day. I had to slap myself around some to keep from whining out loud.

  The minute I got home, I sat down at my desk and removed Mark Bethel’s curriculum vitae from the bottom drawer where I’d tucked it Saturday. On the front page, he’d listed his date and place of birth as Dayton, Ohio, August 1, 1942. He’d graduated with a BA from the University of Kentucky in 1965. Under military experience, he listed U.S. Army, modestly omitting mention of his Purple Heart. I’d call Judy in the morning, my palate smeared with peanut butter, pretending to be a journalist so I could pin that down. If Mark had been at Ia Drang, I’d be one step closer to completing the picture, which was almost done.

  I stripped, showered, and shampooed my hair. I brushed my teeth, got dressed again, and trotted down the spiral stairs.

  My first thought was to have a conversation with Carlin Duffy, conveying a condensed version of what I’d learned in Louisville, though at this point I still didn’t know quite what to make of it. I’d restrict myself to the facts, leaving out the speculations and suppositions I was still playing with. The contact was largely a courtesy on my part. He hadn’t hired me. He wasn’t paying me and I didn’t feel I owed him an explanation. I was hoping, however, that he’d have something to contribute, some piece of the puzzle he hadn’t thought to share. More to the point, I remembered Duffy’s rage and frustration the night he’d shown up at Mickey’s. I didn’t relish a repeat performance and this was my way of protecting myself. Duffy’s brother had died, and he had his stake in the matter.

  I headed out to the nursery, where I found a parking slot in front of the gardening center. I prayed Duffy was on the premises instead of at the Honky-Tonk. The bar was open at this hour, but I didn’t dare go back. I thought I’d better keep my distance in case Tim and Scottie realized I was the one who’d blown the whistle on them. It was close to five-thirty, still light out, and I made my way easily along the tree-lined paths. I could see the roofline of the shed at the rear of the lot, and I mentally marked my route. There was no direct passageway, and I angled back and forth between the crated
trees.

  When I reached the shed, I saw a compact yellow forklift parked in the entrance. Several large bags of mulch were stacked on the forks in front. Tall and boxy, the vehicle was an overblown version of the Tonka toys I’d played with when I was six. The phase had been shortlived, tucked somewhere between Legos and the demise of the baby doll I’d flattened with my trike. I moved into the shed, pushing aside the blanket Duffy’d hung to eliminate drafts. He’d passed out, lying shoeless on his cot. His mouth hung open and his snores filled the enclosure with bourbon fumes. He cradled an empty pint of Early Times against his chest. One sock was pulled half off, and his bare heel was exposed. He looked absurdly young for a fellow who’d spent half his life in jail. I thought, shit. I found a blanket and tossed it over him and then placed the dog tags, the press pass, the snapshot, and a note on the crate where he’d see it when he woke. The note said I’d be in touch the next day and fill him in on the trip. I backed out of the shed, leaving him to sleep off his drunken state.

  I walked back to the car, thinking how often I identified with guys like him. As crude as he was with his racist comments, his tortured grammar, and his attitude toward crime, I understood his yearning. How liberating it was when you defied authority, flouted convention, ignoring ordinary standards of moral decency. I knew my own ambivalence. On the one hand, I was a true law-and-order type, prissy in my judgment, outraged at those who violated the doctrines of honesty and fair play. On the other hand, I’d been known to lie through my teeth, eavesdrop, pick locks, or simply break into people’s houses, where I snooped through their possessions and took what suited me. It wasn’t nice, but I savored every single minute of my bad girl behavior. Later, I’d feel guilty, but still I couldn’t resist. I was split down the middle, my good angel sitting on one shoulder, Lucifer perched on the other. Duffy’s struggle was the same, and while he leaned in one direction, I usually leaned in the other, searching for justice in the heart of anarchy. This was the bottom line as far as I was concerned: If the bad guys don’t play by the rules, why should the good guys have to?

  I drove back into town. It was now 5:50 and I was starving, of course, so I made a quick detour. I pulled up to the drive-in window at McDonald’s and asked for a QP with cheese, a large order of fries, and a Coke to go. I was fairly humming with excitement as I waited for my bag of goodies. I’d go back to my apartment, change into my jammies, and curl up on my couch, where I’d watch junk TV while I ate my junk food. While I drove home, the car smelled divine, like a mobile microwave oven. I found a great parking place, locked the car, and let myself in through the squeaking gate. I rounded the corner, all atwitter at the notion of the pleasures to come. I stopped dead.

  Detectives Claas and Aldo were standing on my front porch. This was a replay of our earlier encounter: same guys in their late thirties, the one dark, the other fair, same sport coats. Claas carried the brief case, just as he had before. Gian Aldo chewed gum. He’d had his dark hair trimmed short, but his eyebrows still met like a hedge across the bridge of his nose. I longed to fall on him with a pair of tweezers and pluck him bald.

  I said, “What do you want?”

  Detective Claas seemed amused. Now that was different. “Be nice. We drove all the way up here to have a chat with you.”

  I walked past him with my keys and unlocked the door. Detective Claas wore a hair product that smelled like a high school chemistry experiment. The two followed me in. I dropped my shoulder bag on the floor near my desk, taking a moment to check my answering machine. No messages.

  I held up my McDonald’s bag, the contents getting colder by the minute, as were my hopes. “I gotta eat first. I’m half dead.”

  “Have at it.”

  I crossed to the kitchen, moving around the counter to the refrigerator. I took out a chilled bottle of Chardonnay and sorted through the junk drawer until I found the opener. “You want wine? I’m having some. You might as well join me.”

  The two exchanged a look. It was probably against regulations, but they must have thought I’d be easier to get along with if I were all likkered up.

  “We’d appreciate that. Thanks,” Claas said.

  I handed him the wine bottle and the opener, and he got to work while I set out three glasses and a paper plate. I dumped the fries out of the carton and fetched the ketchup bottle from the cabinet. “Help yourself,” I said.

  Detective Claas poured the wine and we stood there, eating lukewarm french fries with our fingers. They were completely limp by now, and we dropped them in our beaks like a trio of birdies eating albino worms. Ever gracious, I cut the QP into three equal parts and we gulped those down, too. After supper, we walked the six steps into the living room. This time I took the couch and let them settle into my director’s chairs. I noticed Detective Claas kept his briefcase close at hand as he had before. I knew he had a tape recorder in there, and it made me want to lean down and address all my comments into the opening.

  “So now what?” I said, crossing my arms against my chest.

  Detective Aldo smiled. “We have some news we thought you might want to hear firsthand. We picked up a partial print on the Smith and Wesson and matched it to some prints that showed up in Magruder’s place.”

  Claas said, “You remember a gray metal box concealed in the bottom of a chair?”

  I could feel my mouth go dry. “Sure.” No sound. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Sure.”

  “We got a real nice set on the inner rim of the lid, like someone pulled it open with their fingertips.”

  I was going to call his attention to the matter of subject-pronoun agreement, but I held my tongue. Instead, I said, “Who?” Was that an owl I heard?

  Aldo spoke up again, clearly enjoying himself. “Mark Bethel.”

  I stared at him, blinking. “You’re kidding. You gotta be kidding.”

  “He went in there Sunday night and left prints everywhere.”

  “That’s great. I love it. Good for him,” I said.

  “We’re not sure what he was looking for—”

  I held a hand up. “I can tell you that,” I said. I gave them a hasty summary of the work I’d done, including the discovery of Duncan Oaks’s credentials in Mickey’s jacket lining. “I can’t believe he was dumb enough to leave his fingerprints. Has the man lost his mind?”

  “He’s getting desperate,” Claas said. “He probably saw the print dust on all the surfaces and figured we were done.”

  “You dusted again?”

  “Tuesday morning,” Aldo said.

  “But why? What possessed you?”

  “We got a call from Cordia Hatfield. She’d seen lights on Sunday night. You swore it wasn’t you, so she suspected it was him,” Claas said.

  “But how’d he get in?”

  “With the key she’d given him. He’d stopped by last week and introduced himself as Magruder’s attorney. He said he’d be paying Mickey’s bills till he was on his feet, and he was hoping to pick up insurance policies and bank deposit slips. She gave him a key. Of course, he returned it later, but probably not before he’d had a copy made for himself,” Claas said.

  Detective Aldo spoke up. “I don’t think the computer would have caught the match without the fresh set he left. Of course, we wasted a lot of time eliminating yours.”

  I could feel my cheeks heat. “Sorry about that.”

  Aldo wagged his finger, but he didn’t seem all that mad.

  Claas said, “We can also place Bethel in the area at the time of the shooting.”

  “You guys have been busy. How’d you do that?”

  Claas was clearly pleased with himself. “On the thirteenth, Bethel was in Los Angeles for a TV appearance. The taping finished at ten. He checked into the Four Seasons on a late arrival and then went out again, returning in the early hours of the fourteenth. He might have slipped in unnoticed, but as it happened the valet car park was a supporter and recognized his face.”

  “Tell you what else,” Detective Aldo said.
“We got somebody saw them together that night.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, yes. We went through a bunch of matchbooks Magruder kept in a fishbowl. We found seven from a dive on Pico near the Pacific Coast Security offices. A gal at the bar remembered seeing them.” Detective Aldo sat back, the wood and canvas chair creaking perilously under his weight. “What about you? What’d you pick up back east? Your landlord told us you made a trip to Louisville.”

  “That’s right. I just got back today.”

  “Learn anything?”

  “Actually, I did. I’m just piecing this together so I can’t be sure, but here’s what I know. Laddie Bethel went to high school in Louisville with a guy named Duncan Oaks. They were the prom king and queen in ’61, the year they graduated. At some point, Laddie met Mark. They married in the summer of 1965, after he graduated from the University of Kentucky. Mark enlisted in the army right around the time Duncan Oaks was doing a series for the Louisville Tribune. I suspect Mark served in Vietnam, but I haven’t pinned that down—”

  “We can help on that. We haven’t been exactly idle.” Claas reached into his briefcase and removed a manila folder, which he opened, leafing through the contents. “Alpha Company, First Battalion, Fifth Cavalry.”

  “Well, great,” I said. “I don’t have a clue how it ties in, but maybe we’ll figure that out. At any rate, Duncan had an idea for a series and began interviewing the soldiers’ wives. His intention was to talk about the war from their differing perspectives, one off in Vietnam, the other stuck on the home front. I think Duncan and Laddie had a brief affair. Pure conjecture on my part. Within weeks, Duncan Oaks went to Vietnam. He and Mark must have crossed paths. In fact, Duncan probably sought him out for the second half of the interview.”