O Is for Outlaw

by Sue Grafton

  “I never had a fling with him, either.”

  “When did Mark leave for Vietnam? I know you married him in June. His orders came through …”

  “July twenty-sixth,” she said, biting off the words.

  “The way I read the situation, Duncan was in Louisville after Mark shipped out. There you were, a young newlywed with a husband off at war. I’m sure you were lonely … needy … .”

  “This is offensive. You’re being extremely insulting, not only to me but to Mark.”

  “Insulting about what?” Mark said from the corridor. He shrugged out of his overcoat and tossed it over the back of a chair. He must have come in through the kitchen. His high forehead and receding hairline gave him an air of innocence, the same look babies have before they learn to bite and talk back. Laddie got up to greet him. I watched the two of them as he bussed her cheek.

  He said, “Hang on a minute while I make a quick call.” He crossed to the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  Laddie said, “What’s going on?”

  Mark raised a finger to indicate the dispatcher had picked up. “Hi, this is Mark Bethel. I’m at Four-forty-eight Savanna Lane. I’ve got a couple of guys parked in a car near the entrance to my gate. Could you have a patrol car cruise by? I really don’t like the looks of them … . Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” He replaced the handset and turned to Laddie and me with a shake of his head. “Probably harmless, a lovers’ tryst, but just on the off chance they’re casing the place …” He rubbed his palms together. “I could use a glass of wine.”

  I tried to picture Detectives Claas and Aldo busted by the local cops on a morals charge.

  Laddie poured Chardonnay in a glass, holding it by the stem so as not to smudge the bowl. The trembling of her hand caused the wine to wobble in the glass. Mark didn’t seem to notice. He took the glass and sat down, giving me his full attention. “I hope I didn’t interrupt.”

  “We were talking about Benny Quintero,” Laddie said. “She’s just back from Louisville, where she did some research.”

  “Benny. Poor guy.”

  I said, “I didn’t realize you were all from the same town.”

  “Well, that’s not strictly true. I was born in Dayton. My family moved to Louisville when I was six. I lived there till I went off to U of K.”

  “And you knew Benny then?”

  “I knew of him, just as he must have known about me from football games.”

  “I didn’t realize you played football.”

  “More or less,” he said ruefully. “I went to Atherton, which was all girls for years. School didn’t go coed until 1954. Even then, we seldom won a game against Manual or Male. Mostly, the players knew each other by reputation. I remember there was a guy named Byck Snell at Eastern … .”

  “So Benny came to California and looked you up,” I said.

  “Right. He must have heard I was a lawyer and somehow got it in his head I could help him with his VA benefits. I mean, it’s like I told him: just because I’m an attorney doesn’t make me an expert. In those days, I knew next to nothing about the Veterans Administration. Now, of course, I’m educating myself on the issues because I can see what a difference I can make—”

  I said, “Sounds like a campaign speech.”

  Mark smiled. “Sorry. At any rate, I couldn’t seem to convince Benny of my ignorance. The whole thing was ludicrous, but I couldn’t get him off it. The guy started stalking me, appeared at the office, appeared at the house. The phone started ringing at all hours of the night. Laddie was getting nervous, and I couldn’t blame her. That’s when I asked Mickey to step in and see what he could do.”

  “Meaning what?”

  I could see him hesitate. “Well, you know, Mickey was a tough guy. I thought he could put the fear of God in him. I’m not saying Mickey meant to hurt him, but he did make threats.”

  “When?”

  “During the incident in the Honky-Tonk parking lot.”

  “You talked to Benny after that?”

  “Sure. He called me and he was furious. I said I’d talk to Mickey. I made a few calls but never managed to track him down, as you well know.”

  “Because he and Dixie were together,” I said, helping him along.

  “So they claimed. Frankly, I’ve always wondered. It seemed pretty damn convenient under the circumstances.”

  “So you’re saying Mickey went back to Benny and beat the shit out of him.”

  “I’m saying it’s possible. Mickey always had a temper. He hated it when some punk got the best of him.”

  “I hardly think Benny got the best of him. Shack says it was a shoving match with no blows exchanged.”

  “Well, that’s true. Actually, I heard the same report from the other witnesses. The point is, Mickey came off looking bad, and for a guy like him that’s worse.”

  “You know, this is the second time you’ve implicated Mickey.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry, but you asked.”

  “Why didn’t you ever mention you knew Benny back in high school?”

  “When did I have the chance? In those days, you barely spoke to me. And since then, believe me, I’ve been acutely aware you’re not a fan of mine. We run into each other in public, you practically duck and hide, you’re so anxious to avoid contact. Anyway, that aside, you weren’t speaking to Mickey either, or he’d have told you the same thing.”

  I felt myself color at his accuracy. And here I thought I was so subtle. “Can I ask one more thing?”

  “What’s that?” Mark took a sip of his drink.

  “After you joined the army, you were sent to Vietnam. Is that correct?”

  “Absolutely. I’m proud of my service record.”

  “I’m sure you are,” I said. “Benny Quintero was there and so was Duncan Oaks.” I went on, giving him a hasty summation of what I’d learned from Porter Yount.

  Mark’s face took on the look of a man who’s trying to pay attention while his mind is somewhere else. I could tell he was thinking hard, composing his response before I’d finished what I was saying. His resulting smile held an element of puzzlement. “You have to understand there were hundreds of guys who fought at Ia Drang. The one/five, the one/seven, the two/seven, the Second Battalion Nineteenth Artillery, the Two-twenty-seventh Assault Helicopter Battalion, the Eighth Engineer Battalion—”

  “Got it,” I said. “There were lots of guys. I got that, but Duncan was a journalist and he went out there specifically to talk to you because of the series he was writing. He must have told you he talked to Laddie. My guess is you’d felt threatened by him for years. He and Laddie were tight. She was poor in those days and never good enough for him, but I’ll bet her classmates would tell me she’d had a crush on him, that she’d have given her eyeteeth for his attention—”

  “That’s absurd. That’s ridiculous,” Laddie interjected.

  Mark made a motion with his hand that told her to hush, the sort of command you teach a dog in obedience training. She closed her mouth, but the significance of the gesture wasn’t lost on her. Mark was clearly annoyed. “Let’s get to the bottom line. What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m suggesting the three of you connected up. You and Benny and Duncan Oaks.”

  Mark was shaking his head. “No. Wrong.”

  I said, “Yes. Right. I have a snapshot of the two of them, and you’re visible in the background.”

  Laddie said, “So what?”

  “I’ll take care of this,” he said to her. And then to me, “Go on. This is fascinating. Clearly, you’ve cooked up some theory and you’re trying to make the pieces fit.”

  “I know how they fit. Duncan interviewed Laddie for the paper after you shipped out. By then, her daddy had money and Duncan couldn’t resist. After all, a conquest is a conquest, however late it comes. The two had a fling and you found out about it. Either she ‘fessed up or he told you himself—”

  Laddie said, “I don’t want to talk about this. It’s over and done. I made a mista
ke, but it was years ago.”

  “Yeah, and I know who paid,” I said caustically.

  “Laddie, for God’s sake, would you shut your mouth!” He turned back to me again, his face dark. “And?”

  “And you killed him. Benny Quintero saw it and that’s why he was hounding you. You set Mickey up. You killed Benny and made sure Mickey took the rap for it.”

  Mark’s tone was light, but it wasn’t sincere. “And you’re saying what, that I shot Mickey too?”

  “Yes.”

  He held his hands out, baffled. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because he’d put it together the same way I have.”

  “Wait a minute, Kinsey. Duncan’s body was never found, so for all you know he’s alive and well. You think you can make a charge like this without evidence?”

  “I have the snapshot. That helps.”

  “Oh, that’s right. The snapshot. What crap. I think I better call your bluff. You have it with you?”

  “I left it with a friend.”

  Mark snapped his fingers. “I forgot about Benny’s brother. What’s his name again? Duffy. Carlin Duffy. Now, there’s a bright guy.”

  I said nothing.

  He went on. “My sources tell me he’s living in a shack at Himes Nursery. With his criminal history, it should be easy enough to put the screws to him.”

  “I thought you weren’t worried.”

  “Call it cleanup,” he said.

  “Really. Now that you’re running for public office, you have to bury your misdeeds, make sure the past won’t rise up and bite you in the butt when you’re least expecting it.”

  He pointed at me. “Bingo.”

  “Did you hate him that much?”

  “Duncan? I’ll tell you what pissed me off about that guy. Not so much that he screwed Laddie the minute my back was turned, but he showed up at Ia Drang, trying to pass himself off as a grunt. I had buddies—good friends, young guys—who died with valor, brave men who believed in what we were doing. I saw them die in agony, maimed and mutilated, limbs gone, gut-shot. Duncan Oaks was a sleaze. He had money and pretensions but not an ounce of decency. He deserved to die, and I was happy to help him out. Speaking of which, I’d like to have his personal effects.”

  “Effects?”

  “Press pass, dog tags.”

  “I can’t help you there. You’d have to talk to Duffy about those things.”

  From the depths of my shoulder bag, there was a small but distinct click as the tape ran out and the recorder shut itself off. Mark’s gaze flicked down and then flicked up to my face. His smile faded, and I heard Laddie’s sharp intake of breath. He held his hand out. “You want to give me that?”

  “Hey, Dad?”

  The three of us turned in unison. The Bethels’ son, Malcolm, was standing in the door to the dining room.

  “What is it?” Mark said, trying not to sound impatient with the kid.

  “Can I take your Mercedes? I’ve got a date.”

  “Of course.”

  Malcolm continued to stand there. “I need the keys.”

  “Well, get a move on. We’re in the middle of a conversation here,” Mark said, waving him into the room.

  Malcolm shot me a look of embarrassment as he entered the room. Impatiently, Mark removed his keys from his pocket, twisting the key from the ring as he separated it from the others. Meanwhile, I was staring at the kid. No wonder the photographs of Duncan Oaks had seemed familiar. I’d seen him … or his incarnation … in Laddie’s son. The same youth, the same dark, distinctly handsome looks. Malcolm, at twenty, was the perfect blend of Duncan at seventeen and Duncan at twenty-three. I turned to Laddie, who must have known the final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.

  She said, “Mark.” He glanced at her, and the two exchanged a quick piece of nonverbal communication.

  “Where’re you off to, Malcolm?” I said, ever the chipper one.

  “I’m taking my girlfriend to a kegger out on campus.”

  “Great. I’m just leaving. I think I’ll follow you out. I got lost coming in. Could you steer me in the right direction?”

  “Sure, no problem. I’ll be happy to,” he said.

  I kept a careful eye on the rear of Mark Bethel’s black Mercedes as Malcolm drove slowly down the driveway ahead of me. In my rearview mirror, I saw another set of headlights come into view. Mark had apparently made a scramble for Laddie’s BMW, a sporty red model perfect for a hit-and-run fatality or a high-speed chase. In front of me, Malcolm had just reached the gates, triggering the automatic mechanism buried in the drive. Slowly, the gates swung open. Out on the road, I spotted two Santa Teresa Sheriff’s Department cars pulled onto the berm, lights flashing. Four deputies were in conversation with Detectives Claas and Aldo, who were just in the process of identifying themselves. Malcolm turned left onto Savanna and I followed in his wake. Detective Aldo caught my eye, but there was no way he could help until the deputies had finished with them. So much for Plan A.

  I checked the rearview mirror. Mark was so close on my tail, I could see the smirk on his face. I hugged the back end of the Mercedes, figuring Mark wouldn’t ram me or shoot as long as Malcolm was close by. Maybe I’d accompany Malcolm and his girlfriend to the kegger out on campus, have a beer, shoot the shit, anything to avoid Mark. We passed a cemetery on the left and slowed at the intersection by the bird refuge. Malcolm tapped his horn and gave a final wave, turning left on Cabana while I turned right and headed for the freeway.

  I took the 101 north, keeping my speed at a steady 60 mph. I could see Mark keeping pace. Traffic was light. Not a cop on the road. I groped through my bag, fumbling among the contents with one hand while I steered with the other. I popped the used tape out, leaned over and opened the glove compartment, tossed the tape in, and closed it. I pulled a fresh cassette from the packet on the passenger seat and inserted it in the tape recorder. I didn’t have my gun. I’m a private investigator, not a vigilante. Most of my work takes place in the public library or the hall of records. Generally speaking, these places aren’t dangerous, and I seldom need a semiautomatic to protect myself.

  Now what? I had, of course, invented the bit about Mark’s being in the snapshot, visible as a backdrop to Duncan and Benny’s reunion. If such a picture existed, it certainly wasn’t in my hands … or Duffy’s, for that matter. I winced. The very notion had put Mark on a tear, thinking we had evidence of their association. Big damn deal. Even if we had such a picture, what would that prove? I should have kept my mouth shut. Poor Duffy didn’t have a clue as to what misery was bearing down on him. The last time I’d seen him he was drunk as a coot, passed out on his cot.

  I took the Peterson off-ramp and turned left at the light. I didn’t bother to speed up or make any tricky moves. Mark didn’t seem to be in any hurry either. He knew where I was going, and if I went somewhere else, he’d go to Himes anyway. I think he liked the idea of this slow-paced pursuit, catching up at his leisure while I was frantically casting about for help. I turned right onto the side street and right again into the nursery parking lot. Mine was the only car. The garden center was closed. The building’s interior was dim except for a light here and there to discourage the odd burglar with a green thumb or an urge for potted plants. The rest of the acreage was blanketed in darkness.

  I parked, locked the car, and headed off on foot. I confess I ran, having given up all pretense of being casual about these things. Glancing back, I could see the headlights of the Beamer as it eased into the lot. I was waiting for the sound of the car door slamming, but Mark had bumped his way across the low concrete barrier and was driving down the wide lanes between the crated trees. I cut back and forth, holding my shoulder bag against me to keep it from jostling as I increased my pace. Idly, I realized the maze of boxed trees had shifted. Lanes I remembered from earlier were gone or rotated on an axis, now shooting off on parallel routes. I wasn’t sure if trees had been added, subtracted, or simply rearranged. Maybe Himes had a landscape pro
ject that required a half-grown arbor.

  I yelled Duffy’s name, hoping to alert him in advance of my arrival, but the sound seemed to be absorbed by the portable forest that surrounded me.

  Mark was still barreling along behind me, but at least the narrow twists and turns were slowing him down. I felt like I was stoned, everything moving at half speed—including me. I reached the maintenance shed, heart thumping, breath ragged. The yellow forklift was now blocking the lane, parked beside the shed with a crated fifteen-foot tree hoisted on the forks. The shed door was open and a pale light spilled out on the path like water.

  “Duffy?” I called.

  The lights were on in his makeshift tent, but there was no sign of him. His shoes were missing and the blanket I’d laid over him was now crumpled on the floor. A cheap saucepan sat on the hot plate filled with a beige sludge that looked like refried beans. A plastic packet of flour tortillas sat, unopened, on the unused burner. The pan still felt warm so maybe he’d stepped out to take a leak. I heard the BMW skid to a halt.

  “Duffy!”

  I checked the top of the orange crate. Duncan Oaks’s press pass, his dog tags, and the snapshot were still lying where I’d left them. Outside, I heard the car door slam, the sound of someone thumping in my direction. I gathered Duncan’s things in haste, looking for a place to hide them before Bethel appeared. Quickly, I considered and discarded the idea of hiding the items in Duffy’s clothes. The shed itself was crude, with little in the way of furniture and no nooks or crannies. In the absence of insulation, I was looking at bare studs, not so much as a toolbox where I could stash the stuff. I shoved the items in my back pocket just as Mark appeared in the doorway, a gun in his hand.

  “Oh, shit,” I said.

  “I’d appreciate your handing me the tape recorder and the tape.”

  “No problem,” I said. I reached in my shoulder bag, took out the tape recorder, and held it out to him. While I watched, he tucked the tape recorder up against his body, pressed the EJECT button with his free hand, and extracted the cassette. He dropped the tape recorder on the dirt floor and crushed it with his foot. Behind him, I caught a flicker of movement. Duffy appeared in the doorway and then eased back out of sight.