O Is for Outlaw

by Sue Grafton

  “And?”

  “That’s as far as I can go.”

  Aldo said, “Maybe Mark fragged him. That’s what it sounds like to me.”

  “Fragged?”

  “You know, offed. Eliminated. Kilt him deader than a doornail. I mean, how hard could it be with bullets flying? It’s not like the medics run ballistics tests.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “That’s probably not a bad guess. Especially if Mark found out about the relationship between Duncan and his wife … .”

  “Assuming there was one,” Claas said.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Anyway, go on. Sorry for the interruption.”

  “I start faltering here and have to resort to waving my hands. I mean, I can put some of this together, but I don’t have proof. Benny Quintero was another Louisville boy. I know Duncan and Benny were at Ia Drang together because I saw a picture of the two. According to my information, Duncan Oaks was wounded—by Mark, friendly fire, the NVA—we’re never going to know, so we might as well skip that. In any event, he was loaded on a chopper filled with the wounded and the dead. By the time the chopper landed, he’d disappeared without a trace.”

  Aldo spoke up. “Maybe Mark’s on the chopper and shoves him out the door. The guy falls—what? six to twelve hundred feet, landing in the jungle? Trust me, in two weeks there’s nothing left but bones. From what you say, Oaks wasn’t even in the army, so it’s perfect. Who gives a shit about a fucking journalist?”

  I said, “Right. The point is, I think Benny knew and that’s why he held on to Duncan’s ID. Again, I don’t have proof, but it does make sense. Maybe he thought of a way to turn a profit on the deal.”

  Claas said, “What happened to Benny?”

  “He was wounded by sniper fire and ended up with a metal plate in his head. In 1971, he came out to California; that much we know. Mickey and Benny got in a shoving match. A day later, someone beat Benny senseless and he ended up dead.” I went on to detail Mickey’s history of misbehavior and why he’d looked good for the beating when Internal Affairs stepped in.

  Claas said, “I don’t see the relevance.”

  “Mark was Mickey’s attorney. He’s the one who advised him to leave the department to avoid questioning.”

  “Got it.”

  Aldo leaned forward. “Speaking of which, how’d Bethel end up with your Smith and Wesson? That seems like a trick.”

  “I think Mickey sold it to him. I have a record of a deposit in March for two hundred dollars. Mark told me Mickey called and asked for money. I know Mickey better than that. I know he’d hoarded a stash of gold coins and bills, but that was probably not something he would have dipped into. He sold his car about then and he was probably offloading his other possessions, trying to make ends meet. The minute Mark bought the gun, he must have seen his way clear, because it was on that same trip he made the phone call from Mickey’s apartment to my machine. All he had to do was distract Mickey’s attention, dial the number, and let the tape run on when my machine picked up.”

  “What if you’d been there?”

  “Sorry wrong number, and he tries the call later. He knew Mickey and Duffy were as thick as thieves by then. Whatever his faults, Mickey’s always been a hell of a detective. Mark must have known it was only a matter of time. He had a gun registered to me. He’d established a connection to me on Mickey’s telephone bill. I’d be implicated anyway as soon as the gun registration came to light.”

  Aldo snorted. “Fuckin’ devious.”

  Claas rubbed his hands together, then stretched his arms out in front of him, his fingers laced with the palms turned outward until I heard his knuckles crack. “Well, boys and girls, I’ve enjoyed the bedtime stories. Too bad none of this’ll fly in court.”

  “Oh, yeah. Which brings us to the next step,” Aldo said, chiming in on cue. “Shall I tell her the plan?”

  I said, “I don’t like this. It sounds rehearsed.”

  “Exactly,” Claas said. “So here’s what we thought. Forget Vietnam. We’re never going to get him for whacking Duncan Oaks. No weapons, no witnesses, so we’re out of luck on that score.”

  Aldo said, “Quintero’s another one. I mean, even if you prove it, the best you can hope for is a manslaughter bust, which is strictly bullshit.”

  I said, “Which brings us to Mickey.”

  “And to you,” Claas said. He reached in his briefcase and pulled out the tape recorder. He held it so I could see.

  I said, “I knew that was in there.”

  “But did you know how well it works?” He pressed REWIND and then PLAY, producing a clear, unobstructed recording of the conversation we’d just had. “We figure you can put this in your handbag, trot yourself off to Bethel’s, and maybe help us out.”

  “You have an eavesdropping warrant?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Isn’t that illegal? I thought you needed a court order. Whatever happened to the Fourth Amendment?” This from Kinsey Millhone, upholder of the Constitution.

  “What you’d be doing is called a consent recording. It’s done all the time by informants and undercover cops. As long as you’re only taping comments someone makes to you, the court doesn’t have a problem. Worst-case scenario—assuming what you get is juicy—you use the tape to refresh your own memory when you testify in court.”

  “Now I’m testifying?”

  “If Mickey dies, you do. Right?”

  I could feel my attention shift from Aldo to Claas, who said, “Look at it this way. We’re building a case. We gotta have something concrete for the DA.”

  Aldo leaned forward. “That’s what we’re in business to do, get this cocksucker nailed, if you’ll excuse my Greek.”

  “And Mark won’t guess what I’m up to? He’s not a fool,” I said.

  “He’s Mickey’s attorney. You’re back from Kentucky with a shitload of information and you’re filling him in. How can he resist? He wants to know what you know so he can measure the depth of the hole he’s in. Of course, if he figures you’re on to him, he’ll want to pop you next.”

  “Thanks. That helps. Now I’m really feeling good about all this.”

  “Come on. It’s no sweat. He’s not going to do it in his own living room.”

  Aldo moved to the phone, holding the receiver out. “Give him a call.”

  “Now?”

  “Why not? Tell him you have some stuff you want to talk to him about.”

  “Yeah,” I said cautiously. “And then what?”

  “We haven’t made that part up yet.”

  26

  The Bethels’ estate was on the outer edges of Montebello, perched on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I’d spoken to Laddie on the phone and she’d given me directions to the house on Savanna Lane. Mark was out, but she said he’d be returning shortly. It worried me she hadn’t voiced greater surprise or curiosity about the reason for my call. I’d mentioned the trip to Louisville, that I had something to discuss, preferably with the two of them, though I’d certainly value the opportunity to talk to her alone first. If she was alarmed about such a conversation, she gave no indication.

  At seven on the dot, I pulled in at the gate. Detectives Claas and Aldo had followed me in their car, and they were parked in a grove of eucalyptus trees about a hundred yards off. I had the tape recorder in my bag, but I wasn’t wired for sound so there was no way they could monitor the conversation once I was inside the house. No one (meaning them) seemed to think this would present a problem since I’d be in the Bethels’ home with other people (meaning servants) on the premises. Our plan—if that’s what you want to call it—was for them to hover on the sidelines, falling in behind me when I left the estate. Then we’d go back to my place, listen to the tape, and see if what we’d picked up constituted probable cause. If so, we’d find a judge who could sign a warrant for Mark’s arrest on charges of assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder in the shooting of Mickey Magruder. If not, we’d move to
Plan B, on which we’d never quite agreed. On reflection, even Plan A seemed a bit half-assed, but I was there at the gate and I’d already pressed the button.

  I expected to hear someone on the intercom asking for my name. Instead, there was silence. The gates simply swung open, allowing me entrance. I waved to the “boys” and put the car in gear. The driveway was long, curving off to the left. The land on either side was barren except for the grasses bending under the offshore winds. Occasionally, a tree broke the line of the horizon, a stark silhouette against the milder dark of the sky. I could see the lighted windows of the house, dazzling yellow and white, set in a bulky block of dark stone. I parked out in front on an enormous apron of gravel. I shut off the engine and sat taking in the sight of the house through the driver’s side window.

  The structure was curiously reminiscent of Duncan Oaks’s house in Louisville. Despite the appearance of age, I knew construction had been completed only five years before, which might explain the absence of mature trees. The exterior was stone and stucco. Landscape lights washed the facade with its glaze of dusky pink underlaid with brown. In theory, the style was Mediterranean or Italianate, one of those bastard forms that Californians favor, but the arches above the windows seemed remarkably similar to their Kentucky counterpart. The front door was recessed, sheltered in a portico flanked by fluted columns. Even the balustrade was kindred in design. Was Laddie conscious of what she’d done or had she mimicked Duncan’s house inadvertently? What is it that prompts us to reenact our unresolved issues? We revisit our wounds, constructing the past in hopes that this time we can make the ending turn out right.

  The carriage lights on either side of the door came on. Reluctantly, I reached for my bag. I’d left the zippered compartment open, the tape recorder in easy range of my hand. I emerged from the car, crunched my way across the parking pad, and climbed the low front steps. Laddie opened the door before I had time to ring the bell. “Hello, Kinsey. How nice of you to drive all the way out here. I take it you had no trouble finding the place.”

  “Not at all. It’s beautiful.”

  “We like it,” she said mildly. “Can I take your jacket?”

  “This is fine for now. It’s cold.”

  She closed the door behind me. “Come on into the living room. I’ve got a nice fire burning. Will you have a drink? I’m having wine,” she said. She was already walking toward the living room, her heels clicking smartly against the highly polished marble floors.

  I followed her, saying, “I better not, but thanks. I had wine with dinner and that’s my limit.”

  We stepped down into the living room, with its twelve-foot coffered ceiling. One entire wall of French doors looked onto a patio. The room was surprisingly light, done in shades of cream: the twenty- by twenty-four-foot area rug, the walls, the three plump matching love seats arranged in a U in front of the fireplace. There were touches of black in the throw pillows and lampshades, Boston ferns providing spots of green here and there. Maybe I could snitch some ideas for my spacious abode. The coffee table was a square of three-quarter-inch glass resting on three enormous polished brass spheres. A second wineglass sat near a bottle of Chardonnay in an insulated cooler. Laddie’d made quite a dent for someone drinking alone. I flicked on the tape recorder during the momentary lull as she picked up her wineglass and settled on one of the sofas that flanked the fireplace. The hearth was a glossy black granite that reflected the blaze. Really, I was taking notes—I had to have one of those.

  I sat down opposite her, wondering how to begin. These transitions can be awkward, especially when you’re trying to shift the discussion from niceties to the subject of murder.

  She said, “What were you doing in Louisville? We used to go for the Derby, but it’s been ages.”

  A maid came to the door. “I left Mr. Bethel’s plate in the warming oven. Will there be anything else?”

  “No, dear. That’s fine. We’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the woman said, and then withdrew.

  I said, “Actually, I went to Louisville on a research trip. Do you remember Benny Quintero, the fellow who was killed here a few years ago?”

  “Of course. Mark represented Mickey.”

  “Well, as it happens, Benny was from Louisville. He went to Manual the same time you were at Louisville Male High.”

  Her lips parted in expectation. “What kind of research was this? I can’t imagine.”

  “I keep thinking there’s a connection between Benny Quintero’s death and Mickey’s being shot last week.”

  Laddie’s frown was delicate. “That’s quite a leap.”

  “Not really,” I said, “though it does seem odd. Here the four of you come from the same hometown—”

  “Four?”

  “Sure. You, Mark, Benny, and Duncan Oaks. You remember Duncan,” I said.

  “Of course, but he’s been gone for years.”

  “My point exactly,” I said. Gee, this was going better than I’d thought. “During his stint in Vietnam, Mark was at Ia Drang, right?”

  “You’d have to verify that with him, but I believe so.”

  “Turns out Benny was there too.”

  Laddie blinked. “I’m not following. What does any of this have to do with me?”

  “Let me back up a step. Didn’t Duncan Oaks interview you for the Louisville Tribune?”

  She said, “Kinsey, what is this? I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re skipping back and forth and I’m confused. I really don’t see the relevance.”

  “Just hear me out,” I said. “Duncan was doing a series for the local paper. He interviewed army wives, like you, who’d been left behind—you know, talking about the war from their perspective. His idea was to tell the same story through the eyes of the husbands off fighting in Vietnam.”

  Laddie shook her head, shrugging. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  “At any rate, he did talk to you.”

  She took a sip of wine. “It’s possible. I don’t remember.”

  “Don’t worry about the date. I’ve asked his editor to send a copy of the article. We can pin it down from that. Anyway, Duncan’s editor says he flew to Vietnam in September of ‘65. He ran into Mark and Benny at Ia Drang, which was where Duncan disappeared.” I was doling out pure theory, but I noticed she’d stopped offering much in the way of objections. “Seven years later Benny shows up in Santa Teresa with Duncan Oaks’s ID. The next thing you know, Benny’s been murdered. You see the link?”

  “Benny wasn’t murdered. You’re overstating the situation. As I remember, Benny had a subdural hematoma, and his death was the result of an arterial bleed. Given the nature of his injury, it could have happened any time. Even the coroner’s report said that.”

  “Really? You’re probably right. You have quite a memory for the details,” I said.

  “Mark and I discussed it at the time. I suppose it stuck in my mind.”

  “Mickey’s another link. He went off to Louisville on Thursday, May eighth. He came back on Monday, and in the wee hours of Wednesday morning he was shot, as you know.”

  Laddie’s smile was thin. “Not to sound superior, but you’re committing what’s called a post hoc fallacy. Just because one event follows another doesn’t mean there’s a cause-and-effect relationship.”

  “I see. In other words, just because Benny knew something doesn’t mean he died for it.”

  “Is this what you wanted to discuss with Mark?”

  “In part.”

  “Then let’s leave that. I’m sure it’s more appropriate to wait till he comes in.”

  I said, “Fine. Could we talk about your relationship with Duncan?”

  “I’d hardly call it a relationship. I knew him, of course. We went all through school together.”

  “Were you pals, confidants, boyfriend/girlfriend?”

  “We were friends, that’s all. There was never anything between us, if that’s what you’re getting at.”


  “Actually, it is,” I said. “I thought since you were the king and queen of the senior prom, you might have been sweet on each other.”

  Laddie smiled, her composure restored. This was something she’d thought about; her version of the story was preassembled and prepackaged. “Duncan wasn’t interested in me romantically, nor I in him.”

  “Too bad. He looked cute.”

  “He was cute. He was also extremely narcissistic, which I found obnoxious. There’s nothing worse than a seventeen-year-old kid who thinks he’s hot stuff.”

  “You don’t think he was charismatic?”

  “He thought he was,” she said. “I thought he was conceited—nice, funny, but such a snob.”

  “What about your father?”

  She looked at me askance. “My father? What’s he have to do with this?”

  “This is peripheral and probably none of my business—”

  “None of this is your business,” she said, bridling.

  I smiled to show I hadn’t taken offense. “I was told he was awarded a patent that earned him a lot of money. I gather, before that, he was considered a bit eccentric.”

  “If he was, so what? Make your point.”

  “I’m just thinking his fortune must have changed people’s perception of you. Duncan’s, in particular.”

  She was silent.

  “Yes? No?”

  “I suppose,” she said.

  “You went from being one down to one up where he was concerned. He sounds like the type who enjoyed a conquest—to prove he could do it, if nothing else.”

  “Are you trying to build a case for something?”

  “I’m just trying to get a feel for what kind of guy he was.”

  “A dead one.”

  “Before that. You never had a fling with him?”

  “Oh, please. Don’t be silly. We never had an affair.”

  “Hey, an affair is six weeks or more. A fling can be anything from one night to half a dozen.”