by Sue Grafton
I wasn’t sure when the call had come in because the date and time function on my answering machine has been horsed up for months, claiming it’s perpetually noon on January 1. He must have called sometime after I’d talked to Joanne Fitzhugh because I left the same time she did and I’d run errands until it was reasonable to go home. I picked through the papers on my desk until I found the yellow legal pad where he’d jotted his contact information. I called his home number and counted fifteen rings before I hung up. I couldn’t see the point in driving to his house if no one was answering the phone. On the other hand, there was an undertone of panic in his voice I didn’t dare ignore.
I locked the office, fired up the Mustang, and drove the twelve blocks to Hermosa Street in a matter of minutes. I pulled into his drive, slammed the car door behind me, and scooted up his porch steps. I knocked, then crossed to the front window and peered in. Lights were off in the living room and there were no signs of life in the areas beyond. I pulled out my notebook and scribbled a hasty message, indicating the time I’d been there and asking him to call. I jotted down both my home and office numbers, then stuck the note between the front door and the screen. I stood indecisively, looking out at the street. As though by magic, Madaline walked into view, Goldie Hawn ahead of her, tugging at the leash. I waited.
As she turned up the walk, she said, “Where’s Michael?”
My, my. The little lady seemed cross and out of sorts. I said, “I have no idea. That’s what I came to ask you.”
“He left the house this morning to go meet some guy. He didn’t say a word about what time he’d be back.”
“He didn’t mention the guy’s name?”
“Nuh-uh. He was in a rush and all goofy. He said maybe now people would believe he was telling the truth.”
I pondered the implications, knowing it would be a waste of time to press her further. Madaline would be no help. She was too wrapped up in herself. I said, “I left a note for him stuck in the door. If you see him before I do, tell him I stopped by.”
“Oh great. Now I’m stranded. He’s got the car and I have to be someplace.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really,” she said. “I have a job interview downtown. It’s, like, completely critical to be there on time. Michael promised me a ride and now what?”
“Guess you’ll have to walk.”
“In heels? By the time I get there, I’ll be all sweaty and out of breath.”
I looked at my watch. “When’s your appointment?”
“Ten-thirty.”
“So start now and walk slowly. You have plenty of time.”
“Fuck you.”
Smiling, I returned to my car and backed out of the drive. I was still hoping to catch Sutton on his way back to the house. No such luck. I drove one block up and three blocks over, picking up the southbound freeway on-ramp. If his meeting was over, he might have returned to his one-man surveillance at the bank. I was taking the chance I’d spot his car in the vicinity. I got off the 101 at Old Coast Road and cruised past Montebello Bank and Trust, searching for Sutton’s turquoise MG. No sign of him in the bank parking lot or the service station across the street. Twice I drove the length of the main drag without results. Finally, I pulled into the narrow parking strip in front of the bank, taking up the vigil myself.
I got out of my car and went to the double-glass doors. I pushed and found the door locked, then realized the place wouldn’t open until ten, forty-five minutes hence. I locked my car and walked to a coffee shop I’d passed two blocks down. I paused at the entrance beside a row of coin-operated vending machines. I plunked a quarter in one and pulled out the local newspaper. I bought a big container of coffee and doused it liberally with milk. If the coffee didn’t cause my bladder to swell to twice its normal size, I could make it last until the bank opened. I reconsidered and added sugar in case the coffee turned out to be lunch as well.
I walked back to the bank, cup in hand, and sat in the parking lot. I read the paper, keeping an eye open for Michael Sutton or any of the various and sundry bank officers who should be arriving for work. The paper didn’t offer much in the way of news, only column after column of items pulled off the wire, most of which I’d read the day before in the L.A. Times. I skipped the funnies but pored over the obituaries. The people who’d died in the last few days were in their eighties and nineties. I made a mental note of the names in case William had overlooked a hot one in his search for a funeral to attend.
At 9:54 a petite, dark-haired woman approached the bank, dressed smartly in a suit, panty hose, and heels. She looked like a sympathetic person, and I wished I was in the market for a loan so I could borrow money from her. She unlocked the glass door and punched in the code for the alarm system on a panel to the right. She disappeared from sight. Five minutes later a second woman crossed the lot, passing my car before she went into the bank. If Michael was right and the guy was a bank employee, surely he’d be showing up soon.
As though on cue, I heard heels tapping on the pavement behind me and turned to watch a balding, heavyset fellow lumber past my car. He walked like a man who hurt. He glanced at me idly and I registered a bouquet of fading bruises on his right cheek, purple, yellow, and green—quite the dashing assortment. I hadn’t caught a full-on view of his face so I couldn’t make a judgment about his sporting black eyes. Seemed reasonable to assume that whatever door he’d walked into would have rendered sufficient damage for blackened eyes along with the puffy cheek. I waited until he’d gone in and then folded the paper and put the lid on my coffee cup, which I stashed on the passenger-side floor.
I went into the bank. There were two half-walls in front of me with a wide aisle between. A corridor opened off each side of the reception area. I counted five doors down one hallway and two down the other. There was no sound, not even bad music being piped in. No employees in sight. Clearly, they were in their cubbyholes, gearing up for the day, unprepared for the early arrival of customers or bank robbers, whichever came first. I was at leisure to case the joint, but it didn’t look like a place that carried cash. I’d have paid a hundred dollars for a ladies’ room.
Finally, the petite, dark-haired woman appeared on my right. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was out here. Can I help you?”
“A man with bruises on his face came in here a few minutes ago and I think he may work here. You have any idea who I’m talking about?”
“Sure. That’s Walker McNally, the VP of New Client Relations. He has meetings all morning, but if you want to talk to him, I can see if he has a minute.”
“No need. He looked familiar, but the name doesn’t ring a bell so I must have mistaken him for someone else.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I did not actually gallop back to the car, but I proceeded with all due speed, heart thumping. I didn’t want Walker McNally to catch sight of me. Not to flatter myself, but I still looked much as I had in high school while he’d been transformed into a middle-aged man. I unlocked the car door, slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled out. I turned the corner onto the side street and parked. Shit. Walker McNally. A critical piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place. Walker had had access to animals galore through his father’s veterinary practice. Our senior year in high school, rumor had it he was dealing dope, which meant he might have supplied weed to Creed and Destiny at the Unruhs’, where they’d parked the bus. That was a stretch, but not beyond possible. If Walker was one of the two pirates, I even had a candidate for his sidekick. He and Jon Corso had been joined at the hip. What a pair. Eighteen years old, arrogant, privileged, stoned, and bored. It didn’t take a leap to imagine them coming up with a scheme to net them some bucks. I couldn’t imagine why either one would be hard up for cash, but maybe their respective parents were parsimonious.
I returned to the office and called Michael’s house again. No answer. Where the heck was he? Madaline had probably already left on
her trek downtown. She’d been on the verge of hitting me up for taxi money or a lift, no doubt hoping to inveigle me into waiting while she showered and did her hair.
It was time to talk to Cheney Phillips and I wanted Michael at my side to fill in his part of the story. Again. Sutton’s word was suspect, but what else did we have?
Not one to remain idle, I hoisted my shoulder bag and went out to my car. I drove to the parking structure adjacent to the public library and wound my way upward to the roof, where I found the only spot left. I reached under the passenger seat and hauled out the Thomas Guide to Santa Teresa and Perdido Counties. I toted it with me while I trotted down three flights of stairs and crossed the access lane between the parking lot and the entrance to the library.
I went to the reference department. My personal table had been rudely preempted by someone other than me so I settled at another table. I dumped my bag in the chair and then crossed to the section where the Polk and Haines directories were shelved. I pulled volumes for 1966 and 1967, then loaded the city directories for the same years on top. I added the current telephone book and carried the stack to the table. I sat down and arranged the references in front of me, keeping them in easy reach while I leafed through the Thomas Guide to the pages devoted to Horton Ravine. I looked up the name Corso in both the Polk and the Haines for 1966 and 1967. There was only one Corso listed, that being Lionel M. on Ocean Way. I made a note of the address and then checked the current telephone book. Lionel Corso was still listed at that address. I was under the impression he’d died. I had a dim recollection of running across his name in the obits, but it was possible his widow, if he had one, still owned the house.
I looked up Walter McNally’s old address in the same two crisscross directories. In 1967 McNally senior had owned a home on Bergstrom Hill, just outside Horton Ravine and connected by a street called Crescent Road, in easy range of the Corsos’ place. Walter must have sold the family home when he moved to Number 17 Juniper Lane in the Valley Oaks Senior Settlement. I pulled out a pencil and made discreet black dots in the Thomas Guide, designating the 1967 addresses for the Kirkendalls on Ramona Road, the Unruhs on Alita Lane, the Fitzhughs on Via Dulcinea, the McNallys on Bergstrom Hill Road, and the Corsos on Ocean. I didn’t care about the Suttons, who’d lived on the western edge of the Ravine. On the day in question, Michael had been dropped off at the Kirkendalls’, whose lot touched the Unruhs’ at the bottom of the hill.
I returned the reference materials to the shelves, and left the library and drove into Horton Ravine to the Home Owner’s Association. There I appealed to the two kind women working in the office, who gave me a dandy map of all the bridle trails through the Ravine. I sat in my car, map open and propped up against the steering wheel, while I studied the warren of trails linking the properties of all the principals. If I affixed the trail map to the wall and used a pushpin for each of the relevant locations, a string running around the lot of them would form a crude circle.
Now all I had to do was persuade Cheney Phillips I was on the right track. I went back to the office and called.
“Lieutenant Phillips.”
“Hey, Cheney. This is Kinsey. Are you tied up at the moment?”
“I’m here at my desk for another twenty minutes. What’s up?”
“You mind if I scoot in? I have something I want to run past you.”
“Can’t wait,” he said.
“See you shortly.”
My office was two blocks from the police department so I walked, maps in tow. Anxiety stirred in my gut. When it came right down to it, I was selling air and sunshine, a theory with nothing concrete to back it up. This put me in the same position Michael Sutton had been in, on the same shaky ground. The pieces fit together, but where was the glue? Michael’s claims had been shot out from under him, and now here I was, reconfiguring the facts without a shred of proof.
I went into the lobby at the station and waited for Cheney to come out and accompany me to his cubicle. He looked especially handsome that day—expensive loafers, dark slacks, and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. On anyone else it would have been standard office attire, but Cheney came from money and I knew what he paid for clothes.
He sat me down and since his time was limited, I had no choice but to launch into my pitch. I wasn’t even halfway through the spiel and I could tell by his expression he wasn’t buying it. He heard me out, but I was losing confidence with every passing breath. Nothing like telling a story with passion and conviction while the guy on the receiving end is so clearly skeptical.
“Interesting,” he said. “I can see where you’re coming from, but what am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know, Cheney. Think about it, I guess. I went to high school with these guys . . .”
He held a hand up. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. What I’m saying is there’s not enough to act on. I can’t bring either one of those guys in for a chat. Based on what? Speculation and guesswork and all of it circumstantial. Is there any reason to think Corso or McNally even knew the Fitzhughs or the Unruhs?”
“Deborah Unruh says Greg and Shelly smoked grass constantly. She knows there were at least two dopers who hung out with them. She never actually saw them, but someone supplied the weed and Walker was a dealer, or so I heard.”
“So were half the kids in town. What about Greg and Shelly? Could they corroborate? Last I heard, they took off and haven’t been heard from since.”
“Both are dead. Tuesday, I talked to Shelly’s son and he says Greg died of an overdose in Canada and his mother died of AIDS,” I said. “It’s possible Shawn could identify the pair. He was just a kid at the time, but he’s a smart guy and a face is a face.”
“It doesn’t make a whit of difference if Walker sold dope to Shawn’s parents.”
“But Michael Sutton identified Walker as one of the two guys he saw digging. What if he picked Jon Corso out of a lineup—”
“A lineup?” he said.
“Okay, not a lineup, but there’s gotta be a way. I can’t drop Corso’s name on him out of a clear blue sky. Sutton’s easily influenced, and I’d be corrupting his testimony if it ever comes to that.”
“You better hope it doesn’t. He’s the worst possible eyewitness. Even if he points a finger, it doesn’t get you anywhere.”
“What if he and Shawn both identify the two?”
“As what? You’re grasping at straws. Two kids loiter at a friend’s house. Big deal. How do you get from them to the guys who kidnapped two little girls? Where’s the link? As far as I can see, there’s nothing that ties either one of them to the crime.”
“The Fitzhughs and the Unruhs were all members of the Horton Ravine Country Club. If the Corsos or McNallys belonged, they might have crossed paths there.”
“Thin and too iffy.”
“What about the fingerprint on the ransom note?”
“Give it up. We’ve never had a hit on that in twenty-one years.”
“Maybe the last time you ran it, Walker hadn’t been picked up on his first DUI. He’s in the system now. I don’t know that Corso has a criminal history, but he might have been printed in the past few years. It’s worth a try.”
“Maybe.” Cheney looked at his watch. “I’ll get somebody on it when I can, but it’ll take time. Don’t get your hopes up.”
“What hopes?” I said.
His phone rang and he picked up the handset. “Lieutenant Phillips.”
I could hear someone talking. Cheney shot me a quick look and then said, “Let me call you back. I have someone here.” He hung up. “You’ll have to excuse me.”
“Sure. You want me to leave?”
“That’s not necessary. Sit tight.”
He left the cubicle and went into the one next door. He placed the call and though he was in earshot, I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Damn. I had to content myself with a survey of his office. The guy was disappointingly neat at work. At his house there was always stuff lying around,
most of it connected to the various home projects he launched but never seemed to finish. Nosy as I am, I’d never dream of snooping through his desk. For all I knew, there were teeny-tiny little cameras hidden everywhere and I’d be caught in the act. I’ll admit that during our brief romance, I familiarized myself with all the drawers and closets at his place.
I folded my map of the bridle trails and tucked it into the Thomas Guide. I was so bored I was about to start cleaning out my purse when I heard him winding down his end of the conversation. I looked at the door in anticipation of his return.
A moment later he appeared, his expression oddly unreadable. “Michael Sutton’s dead.”
“What?”
“He was shot sitting in his car in the lot at Seashore Park.”
I was speechless, staring at him with disbelief.
Cheney went on, probably hoping to soften the impact. “The officer at the scene says a woman walking her dog heard the shot and saw a black sports car pull out of the lot. She only caught a flash, and apparently she doesn’t know a Corvette from a Sherman tank. The ‘black’ she’s pretty sure about unless the car was dark blue. I shouldn’t be telling you this much, but you’re a good friend and I trust you to keep your mouth shut.”
I sat there, unable to absorb the news.
He put a hand on my arm and squeezed. “We’re heading out to the scene and I don’t want you there. We can talk about it later when I know more.”
33
Thursday, April 21, 1988
Jon pulled his car into the driveway, removed the handgun from under the seat, and got out. He walked around the main house to the back door, gun carried loosely at his side. He let himself in. The liquor supply was kept in the butler’s pantry between the kitchen and the dining room. He set the gun on the counter, opened the cabinet, and took out a bottle of Cutty Sark. He found a highball glass and poured himself a stiff drink that he downed neat. He put the glass on the counter and held out his hands. He’d expected to be shaking, but his hands were steady. His heartbeat was slightly elevated, but otherwise he felt fine.