by Sue Grafton
Sutton blinked twice. “That’s a possibility I hadn’t thought of. I’ve kept in touch with the other two Michaels, Boorman and Trautwein, but that’s the extent of it. I didn’t like anybody else in my kindergarten class and they didn’t like me.”
“It doesn’t matter if you liked them or not. We’re trying to identify the boy.”
“I don’t remember anyone else.”
“It should be easy enough to come up with a list. You must have had class photos. You could go back to the school library and check the ’67 yearbook.”
“I don’t want to go back to Climp. I hate the idea.”
“It’s just a suggestion. So far, we’re brainstorming,” I said. “Tell me about the two guys. How old would you say?”
“I’m not sure. Older than my brothers, who were ten and twelve at the time, but not as old as my dad.”
“Did they see you?”
“Not then. I decided to spy on them, but where they ended up was too far away and I couldn’t see what they were doing. I sneaked up on them, crawling through the bushes and crouching behind a big oak. It was hot and they were sweating so they’d taken off their shirts. I guess I wasn’t as quiet as I thought because one of them spotted me and they both jumped. They stopped what they were doing and asked what I wanted.”
“You actually talked to them?”
“Oh, sure. Absolutely. We had this whole conversation. I thought they were pirates and I was all excited about meeting them.”
“Pirates?”
“My mother was reading me Peter Pan at bedtime, and I loved the illustrations. The pirates wore bandanas tied around their heads, which is what the two guys had done.”
“Beards? Earrings? Eye patches?”
That netted me a smile, but not much of one. He shook his head. “It was the bandanas that reminded me of pirates. I told them I knew that because of Peter Pan.”
“What’d you talk about?”
“First, I asked ’em if they were pirates for real and they told me they were. The one guy talked more than the other and when I asked what they were doing, he said they were digging for buried treasure . . .”
As Sutton spoke, I could see him regressing to the little boy he’d been, earnest and easily impressed. He leaned forward in his chair. “I asked if the treasure was gold doubloons, but they said they didn’t know because they hadn’t found it yet. I asked to see the treasure map and they said they couldn’t show me because they were sworn to secrecy. I’d seen the bundle on the ground, over by this tree, and when I asked about it, the first guy said it was a bedroll in case they got tired. I offered to help dig, but he told me the job was only for grown-ups and little kids weren’t allowed. And then the other one spoke up and asked where I lived. I told them I lived in a white house, but not on this street, that I was visiting. The first guy asked what my name was. I told him and the other one spoke up again and said he thought he heard someone calling me so I better go, which is what I did. The whole exchange couldn’t have taken more than three minutes.”
“I don’t suppose either of them mentioned their names?”
“No. I probably should have asked, but it didn’t occur to me.”
“Your recall impresses me. Much of my life at that age is a total blank.”
“I hadn’t thought about the incident for years, but once the memory was triggered, I was right there again. Just like, boom.”
I reran the story in my mind, trying to digest the whole of it. “Tell me again why you think there’s a connection to Mary Claire. That still seems like a stretch.”
“I don’t know what else to say. Intuition, I guess.”
“What about the kidnapping. How did that go down? I remember the broad strokes, but not the particulars.”
“The whole thing was horrible. Those poor people. The ransom note said not to contact the police or the FBI, but Mr. Fitzhugh did it anyway. He thought it was the only way to save her, but he was wrong.”
“The first contact was the note?”
Sutton nodded. “Later they phoned and said he had one day to get the money together or else. Mr. Fitzhugh had already called the police and they were the ones who contacted the FBI. The special agent in charge convinced him they’d have a better chance of nabbing the guys if he and his wife appeared to cooperate, so they advised him to do as he was told . . .”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars, wasn’t it? Somehow the number sticks in my head.”
“Exactly. The kidnappers wanted it in small bills, packed in a gym bag. They called again and told him where he was supposed to leave the money. He stalled. They must have thought there was a trap on the line because they cut the call short.”
“So he dropped off the ransom money and the kidnappers didn’t show.”
“Right. After a day passed, it was clear the FBI had bungled it. They still thought they had a chance, but Mr. Fitzhugh said to hell with them and took matters into his own hands. He notified the newspapers and the radio and TV stations. After the story broke, Mary Claire was all anybody talked about—my parents and everyone else.”
“What day was it by then?”
“Sunday. Like I said before, she was kidnapped on Wednesday and I saw them on Friday. The paper didn’t carry the story until Sunday.”
“Why didn’t you speak up?”
“I did. I’d already done that. When my mother came to get me, I told her about the pirates. I felt guilty. Like I’d done something wrong.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know how to pin it down. I believed what they said about digging for treasure. When you’re six, things like that make perfect sense, but on some level I was anxious and I wanted reassurance. Instead, Mom got mad. She said I wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers and she made me promise I’d never do it again. When we got home, she sent me straight to my room. On Sunday we heard the news about Mary Claire.”
“And your mother didn’t see the relevance?”
“I guess not. She never mentioned it and I was too scared to bring it up again. She’d already punished me once. I kept my mouth shut so she wouldn’t punish me again.”
“But it worried you.”
“For a while, sure. After that, I put the incident out of my mind. Then I saw Mary Claire’s name and it all came back.”
“Did you ever see either guy again?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe one of them. I’m not sure.”
“And where would that have been?”
“I don’t remember. I might have made a mistake.”
I picked up a pencil and made a mark on the yellow pad lying on my desk. “When you explained this to Cheney, what was his re sponse?”
His shoulder went up in a half-shrug. “He said he’d check the old case notes, but he couldn’t do much more because the information I’d given him was too vague. That’s when he mentioned you.”
“Sounds like he was passing the buck.”
“Actually, what he said was you were like a little terrier when it came to flushing out rats.”
“Sucking up,” I said. Mentally, I was rolling my eyes because Cheney wasn’t far off the mark. I liked picking at problems and this was a doozy. “What about the house itself? Think you’d recognize it if you saw it again?”
“I doubt it. Right after I read the article, I drove around the old neighborhood, and even the areas I knew well had changed. Trees were gone, shrubs were overgrown, new houses had gone up. Of course, I didn’t cover the whole of Horton Ravine, but I’m not sure it would have made any difference since I don’t have a clear image. I think I’d recognize the place in the woods. The house is a blur.”
“So twenty-one years later, you’re clueless and hoping I can figure out where you were.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You want me to find an unmarked grave, basically a hole.”
“Can you do it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried before.”
I studied him, chasing the idea around to see where it might g
o. “It’s an interesting proposition. I’ll give you that.”
I rocked in my swivel chair, listening to the squeak, while I sifted through the story, wondering what I’d missed. There was something more going on, but I couldn’t imagine what. Finally, I said, “What’s your stake in the situation? I know it bothers you, but why to this extent?”
“I don’t know. I mean, the article talked about how the kidnapping ruined Mrs. Fitzhugh’s life. She and her husband divorced and he ended up leaving town. She still has no idea what happened to her little girl. She doesn’t even know for sure she’s dead. If I can help, it seems like the right thing to do.”
“It’s going to cost you,” I said.
“I figured as much.”
“What sort of work do you do?”
“Nothing right now. I lost my job so I’m on unemployment.”
“What was the job?”
“I sold advertising for KSPL.”
KSPL was the local AM station I sometimes tuned in on my car radio when I was tooling around town. “How long were you there?”
“About a year, maybe a little less.”
“What’s it mean when you say you ‘lost’ your job? Were you laid off, downsized, fired, what?”
He hesitated. “The last one.”
“Fired.”
He nodded.
I waited and when it was clear he had no intention of continuing, I gave him a nudge. “Uh, Sutton, I’d consider it a courtesy if you’d be a bit more forthcoming. Would you care to fill me in?”
He rubbed his palms on his pants. “I said I had a BA from Stanford, but it wasn’t really true. I was enrolled and attended classes for a couple of years, but I didn’t graduate.”
“So you lied on the application?”
“Look, I know I made a mistake . . .”
“That would cover it,” I said.
“But I can’t do anything about it now. What’s done is done and I just have to move on.”
I’d heard a host of criminals make the same remark, like boosting cars, robbing banks, and killing folks could be brushed aside, a minor stumble on the path of life. “Have you given any thought to how you’re going to pay me out of your unemployment benefits? We’re talking about five hundred bucks a day, plus expenses. Assuming I agree to help, which I haven’t.”
“I have some money set aside. I thought I’d write a check for one day’s work and we’d see how it goes from there.”
“A check?”
A flush tinted his cheeks. “I guess that’s not such a hot idea.”
“You got that right. What’s plan B?”
“If you’re going to be here for a while, I could make a quick run to the bank and bring you cash.”
I considered the notion. The prime item on my Thursday To Do list was to make a bank deposit and pay bills. I had two reports to write and a few calls to make, but I could shift those to Friday. The job itself might end in folly, but at least when he mentioned “the right thing to do,” he didn’t turn around and ask me to work for free. I wasn’t convinced he was right about what he’d seen, but Cheney must have considered the story credible or he wouldn’t have sent him over to me.
“Okay. One day, but that’s it. And only if you pay me cash in advance. I’ll be here until five o’clock. That should give you plenty of time.”
“Great. That’s great.”
“I don’t know how great it is, but it’s the best I can do. When you get back, if I happen to be out, you can stick the money through the mail slot. In the meantime, give me a contact number so I’ll know how to reach you.”
I handed him my yellow pad and watched while he scribbled down his address and telephone number. In return I handed him my business card with my office number and address.
He said, “I really appreciate this. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t agreed.”
“I’ll probably regret it, but what the hell? It’s only one day,” I said. If I’d been listening closely, I’d have caught the sound of the gods having a great big old tee-hee at my expense.
I said, “You’re sure you don’t want to make the trip up to Climp? It would save you a few bucks.”
“I don’t want to. They probably wouldn’t talk to me in any event.”
“I see.” I studied him. “You want to tell me what’s going on here? You can’t talk to your siblings and now you can’t talk to your prep school pals?”
“I already told you I didn’t have pals. It has more to do with the administration.”
“How come?”
“There were some difficulties. I had a problem.”
“Like what, you were expelled?” I love stories about flunking and expulsions. With my history of screwups, those are like fairy tales.
“It’s not something I want to get into. It has nothing to do with this.” A stubborn note had crept into his voice. “You go up there. They’ll let you see yearbooks as easily as me.”
“I doubt it. Educational institutions hate handing over information about their students. Especially with the words ‘private investigator’ thrown into the mix.”
“Don’t tell ’em you’re a PI. Think of something else.”
“I didn’t even attend Climping Academy so why would I want to see a yearbook? It makes no sense.”
He shook his head. “I won’t do it. I have my reasons.”
“Which you’re not about to share.”
“Right.”
“Okay, fine. It’s no skin off my nose. If that’s how you want to spend your five hundred bucks, I can live with it. I love driving through Horton Ravine.”
I got up, and as we shook hands again, I realized what was bothering me. “One more question.”
“What’s that?”
“The article came out two weeks ago. Why’d you wait so long before you went to the police?”
He hesitated. “I was nervous. All I have is a hunch. I didn’t want the police to write me off as a crank.”
“Nuh-uh. That’s not all of it. What else?”
He was silent for a moment, color rising in his cheeks again. “What if the guys find out I remembered them? I might have been the only witness and I told them my name. If they’re the ones who killed Mary Claire, why wouldn’t they kill me?”
2
While Sutton and I were chatting, the mail had been delivered. Walking him to the door, I paused to collect the scattering of envelopes the postman had pushed through the slot. Once he’d gone off to the bank, I moved into my office, sorting and separating the stack as I sat down at my desk. Junk, bill, another bill, junk, junk, bill. I came to a square vellum envelope with my name and address written in calligraphy: Ms. Kinsey Millhone, with lots of down strokes and flourishes, very lah-di-dah. The postmark was Lompoc, California, and the return address was printed in the center of the back flap. Even without the sender’s name in evidence, I knew it was a Kinsey family member, one of numerous kin whose existence I’d first learned about four years before. Until that strange turn of events, I’d prided myself on my loner status. There was a benefit to my being an orphan in the world, explaining as it did (at least to my way of thinking) my difficulties in forming close bonds with others of my species.
Looking at the envelope, I could guess what was coming up—a christening, a wedding, or a cocktail party—some formal affair heralded by expensive embossing on heavy card stock. Whatever the occasion, I was either being informed of, or invited to, an event I didn’t give a rat’s ass about. At times, I’m a sentimental little thing, but this wasn’t one. I tossed the envelope on my desk, then thought better of it, and threw it in the wastebasket, which was already brimming with trash.
I picked up the phone and punched in the number for Cheney Phillips at the STPD. When he picked up, I said, “Guess who?”
“Hey, Kinsey. What’s up?”
“I just had a chat with Michael Sutton and thought I better touch base with you before I did anything else. What’s the deal with him?”
; “Beats me. That story sounded just screwy enough to be true. What was your impression?”
“I’m not sure. I’m willing to believe he saw two guys digging a hole. What I’m skeptical about is the relevance to Mary Claire Fitzhugh. He says the dates line up because he went back and checked his recollections against the articles in the paper, but that doesn’t prove anything. Even if the two events happened at the same time, that doesn’t mean they’re related.”
“Agreed, but his recollections were so specific he pretty much talked me into it.”
“Me, too. At least in part,” I said. “Did you have a chance to look at the old files?”
“Can’t be done. I talked to the chief and he says the case notes are sealed. Once the FBI stepped in, they put everything under lock and key.”
“Even after all this time? It’s been twenty years.”
“Twenty-one to be precise, and the answer is, definitely. You know how it goes. The case is federal and the file’s still active. If the details are leaked then any clown off his meds can walk into the department and claim responsibility.”
I caught a familiar racket out on the street. “Hang on a sec.”
I put my hand over the mouthpiece and listened, picking up the hydraulic grinding, wheeze, and hiss of a garbage truck approaching from down the block. Shit! Garbage day. The week before, I’d forgotten to take out my trash and my wastebaskets were maxed out.
“I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
“Vaya con Dios.”
I hung up in haste and headed down the hall to the kitchenette, where I grabbed a plastic bag from a carton under the sink. I did a quick round of the wastebaskets—kitchen, bathroom, and office—shaking trash into the plastic bag until it sagged from the weight. I scurried out the back door, tossed the bag in my trash bin, and rolled it down the walkway on one side of the bungalow. By the time I reached the street, the garbage truck was idling at the curb and I just managed to catch the guy before he hopped back on. He paused long enough to add my contribution to the day’s haul. As the truck pulled away, I blew him a kiss and was rewarded with a wave.
I returned to my desk, congratulating myself on a job well done. Nothing makes a room look messier than a wastebasket full of trash. As I settled in my swivel chair, I glanced down and spotted the vellum envelope, which had apparently missed the plastic bag and now lay on the floor. I leaned over, picked it up, and stared at it. What was going on? Instead of happily winging its way to the county dump, the damn thing was back. I’m not superstitious by nature, but the envelope, coupled with Michael Sutton’s reference to his family estrangement, had set an old train of thought in motion.