Four Sue Grafton Novels

by Sue Grafton

  The walls were lined with black-and-white photographs, taken in the forties, to judge by the ladies’ hairstyles and clothing. Each photo featured the same balding middle-aged man, perhaps the eponymous Dale. He had his arm slung around various minor sports figures—baseball players, professional wrestlers, and Roller Derby queens—their signatures scrawled across the bottom of the pictures.

  At the far end of the room, a concession-sized machine produced a steady spill of popcorn that the bartender scooped into paper cups and set out for general consumption. At intervals along the bar, there were collections of assorted popcorn seasonings: garlic salt, lemon pepper, Cajun spices, curry powder, and Parmesan cheese in a green cardboard container. The popcorn wasn’t sufficient to keep patrons sober, but it gave them something to fiddle with between the downing of drinks. As we were taking our seats, a peevish argument flared up, the topic being politics, about which no one present seemed to have the faintest clue.

  “So where is he?” I said, looking around the room.

  “What’s your hurry? He’ll be here in a bit.”

  “I thought we were having dinner. I didn’t know they served food in here.”

  “Well, they do. Seven-way chili.” She started ticking off the choices on her fingers. “Macaroni, chopped onions, cheese, oyster crackers, sour cream, or cilantro in any combination.”

  “That’s only six.”

  “You can have it plain.”

  “Oh.”

  The next 45 selection came into play and Jerry Vale launched into his version of “It’s All in the Game”: “Many a tear has to fall…” I refused to think about Cheney lest I jinx the relationship.

  A waitress appeared. Reba asked for iced tea and I ordered a beer. I’d have ordered iced tea myself, but only to demonstrate a virtue I didn’t actually possess. In the face of her sobriety, I was acutely conscious of every sip I took. I was also worried the minute I turned my head, she’d snatch up my beer and suck half of it down.

  As there was nothing else on the menu, we ordered seven-way chili, electing all six options. The chili arrived hot, spicy, and rich. The recipe, I noticed, was printed on our paper place mats. I was tempted to snitch mine, but the note at the bottom said “Serves 40,” which seemed excessive for someone who usually eats alone standing over the sink. “You never finished telling me about Passages and Beck’s participation,” I said.

  “Glad you asked. I didn’t think you’d pursue the subject.”

  “Here I am,” I said. “Care to fill me in?”

  She paused to light a cigarette. “It’s simple enough. A developer in Dallas bought the land in 1969 and submitted all the plans. He thought it’d be a cakewalk. The guy was so optimistic, he was already putting up signs: ‘Passages Shopping Plaza. Coming in the fall of 1973.’ The city planners had a ball, running him ragged with all the codes and requirements. He revised the plans sixteen times, but nothing ever seemed to suit. Twelve years later, when the developer still hadn’t managed to get approval, he put the word out on the street and someone introduced him to Beck. That was 1981. The project was finished in ’85, a speedy three years after construction began.”

  I waited for the rest.

  “I can tell by the look on your face you’re not getting it,” she said.

  “Just tell me, okay? Guessing slows us down and makes me cranky.”

  “Well, think about it. How do you think Beck got all those approvals and permits? Because he’s nice?”

  I stared, feeling dense.

  Reba rubbed her thumb against her fingers in the universal gesture denoting money changing hands.

  “Payoffs?”

  “Exactly. That’s where the money went—the three hundred and fifty thou I was accused of snitching. I delivered most of it myself, though I didn’t realize what it was until later. All I knew was he had me driving to hell and gone with these bulky manila envelopes. Granted, some of it was earmarked for the boys in Sacramento—Beck is forever greasing palms on behalf of pending legislation—but most was for local guys who had the power to say no. Once they pocketed the dough, they were more than happy to be of help.”

  “But that’s political money laundering.”

  “Wow, you are quick,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Isn’t that why you’re setting up this meeting with the feds, to get the goods on him?”

  “I wasn’t sure how far you meant to go.”

  “Right to the bitter end.”

  “But when we first talked, didn’t you say he was depositing the money offshore so he could hide it from his wife?”

  “That’s the story he gave me. I didn’t figure out what he was really doing until the audit came up. I’m sure he’s still funneling cash out of the country as fast as he can, but at least I get it now; his efforts were never meant to benefit me.”

  “I’m sorry. I know that’s tough on you.”

  “Tough, but true,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact.

  At 9:00, just about on the dot, Marty Blumberg appeared. Reba had been watching for him, and she gave him a big wave and motioned him over the minute he walked in. He paused at the bar to light a cigarette. The bartender was already setting up his usual drink, whiskey so dark it looked like Coke. Glass in hand, he ambled over to our table. He was probably in his fifties, a good-looking guy once upon a time. Now he was overweight by a good hundred pounds, his wardrobe lagging one size behind. His trouser pockets bulged open like a set of ears and the buttons on his shirt were straining against his bulk. He was baby-faced and florid, with sorrowful-looking blue eyes, a pug nose, and a full head of dark frizzy hair. He seemed genuinely glad to see her. Reba invited him to join us, hooking a thumb in my direction by way of introduction. “This is Kinsey Millhone. Marty Blumberg,” she said.

  I said, “Hi, Marty. Nice to meet you,” and the two of us shook hands.

  Marty gave Reba a quick visual appraisal. “You’re none the worse for wear. When’d you get back?”

  “Monday. Kinsey drove down and brought me back. The whole experience was an education…in what, I don’t know.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “I hear you’re in the new offices. Nice to be so close. Dale’s was always your favorite.”

  Marty smiled. “I’ve only been coming in the past fourteen years. I could be part owner with all the money I’ve spent.”

  Reba took out a cigarette and Marty picked up her Dunhill and extended a light. Reba tucked a strand of hair behind one ear as she bent to the flame, her hand resting casually on his. She inhaled, her eyes closing briefly. Smoking was like prayer, something you approached with reverence. “Beck says the offices are awesome.”

  “Pretty slick,” he said.

  “Coming from you, that’s high praise. How about a tour? Beck said he’d show me around, but he’s in Panama.”

  “A tour? Sure, why not? Give me a call and we’ll set it up.”

  “How about tonight? As long as we’re down here, it would be a hoot.”

  He hesitated. “I could do that, I guess. I need to pick up my briefcase anyway and clean off my desk.”

  “You’re cleaning your desk on a Friday night? That’s devotion.”

  “Beck’s new dictum—no files or papers on any of the surfaces overnight. Place looks like a showroom. I’m mostly playing catch-up, taking care of stuff I’ve let slide. I’ll probably work tomorrow, too.”

  “The guy’s a workaholic,” she said to me as an aside and then turned back to him. “Kinsey’s a PI…a pri-vate de-tec-tive,” she said, separating each syllable for emphasis. She turned to me. “You have a business card on you?”

  “Let me look,” I said. I fumbled in my shoulder bag until I found my wallet, where I kept a stash of cards. Reba had her hand out so I passed one to her and she handed it on to Marty, who studied it, pretending it mattered when he couldn’t have cared less.

  He tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Guess I better watch my backside.”

  Reba smiled. “That is so so true. Y
ou have no idea.”

  He shook a cigarette from the pack, placing it directly between his lips. Smoking didn’t seem like a good idea as he was already wheezing.

  Reba said, “Allow me,” as she picked up her Dunhill, flicked it, and offered him a light.

  “Such service.”

  “You bet. Tit for tat,” she said. She propped her chin on one hand. “Aren’t you curious what she’s doing here?”

  Marty looked from Reba to me. “A drug bust?”

  “Don’t be dumb,” she said, giving him a smack on the arm. She leaned forward flirtatiously and murmured, “She’s part of a task force—federal and local dicks—looking into Beck’s finances. All very hush-hush. Promise you won’t tell.” She put a finger to her lips and I could feel myself blanch. I couldn’t believe she’d laid it out like that, without a word to me. Not that I’d have agreed. I checked his reaction.

  His smile was tentative as he waited for the punch line. “No, seriously.”

  “Seriously,” she said. I could see she enjoyed doling it out to him bit by bit.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “What’s to get? I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Why tell me?”

  “Fair warning. I like you. You’re right in the line of fire.”

  He must have been one of those men who operated with his body thermostat cranked up into the red zone because his face now bore a sheen of perspiration. Without seeming to be aware of it, he took the flap of his tie and blotted the beads of sweat from his cheek. “What do you mean, I’m right in the line of fire? How do you figure that?”

  “Well, A: You know what he’s been up to, and B: Beck won’t go down for this any more than he’d accept blame for the missing three hundred and fifty thou.”

  “I thought you volunteered.”

  “Stupnagel that I am, I made it easy for him. I’d like to think you’re smarter than me, but maybe not.”

  “He can’t do anything to me. I’m covered.”

  “You really think so? All he has to do is point. You’ve got your fingerprints on everything. You’re the one who set up the accounts. Same with the offshore banks and the IBC.”

  “Exactly. I’ve got leverage on him. I’m the last guy on earth he ought to fuck with.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, with skepticism. “You’ve been with him a long time…”

  “Ten years.”

  “Right. Which means you know a lot more than I do.”

  “So?”

  “So if he stuck it to me, he can stick it to you as well. Believe me, the trap’s there. You just can’t see it at this point any more than I saw what he was doing to me until it was too late.”

  “I got no beef with Beck. The guy takes good care of me. Ten years, you know how much money I’ve managed to sock away? I could retire anytime I want, walk out tomorrow and still be living like a king.”

  “It may feel cushy, but it’s a trap all the same.”

  Marty was shaking his head. “No. Uhn-uhn. I’m not buying it.”

  “What if they lean on you?”

  “They, who?”

  “The feds. What do you think I just got done telling you. The FBI, IRS, what’s the other one?” she asked me, snapping her fingers impatiently.

  “Department of Justice,” I said.

  She turned to me and frowned. “I thought you mentioned a couple more.”

  I cleared my throat. “Customs and Treasury. And the DEA.”

  “See?” she said to him as though that explained that.

  “Why lean on me? Based on what?”

  “Based on all the shit they’ve picked up so far.”

  “From who?”

  “You think they don’t have agents in place?”

  He laughed, albeit uneasily. “What ‘agents’? That’s bull.”

  “Sorry. I misspoke myself. I said ‘agents’ in the plural. There’s really only one.”

  “Who?”

  “See if you can guess. Here, I’ll give you a hint. Who in the company has gotten close to Beck in the last umpty-many months? Hmmm.” She put a finger against her cheek, deep in mock thought. “Starts with O.”

  “Onni?”

  “There you go,” she said. “Talk about a break. I get sent to prison and that gives her the chance to slide right in.”

  “She works for the feds?”

  Reba nodded. “Oh yeah, for years, and trust me, Little Miss Onni wants his ass on a plate.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Marty, this is her golden opportunity. You know how it is with women in these shit government jobs. Sure, they get hired. The guys let ’em do all the grunt work, but forget about promotion. There’s no upward mobility without a coup of some kind. She doesn’t pull this off, she’ll be stuck where she is.”

  “Doesn’t sound right. Are you sure? This makes no sense at all. The girl’s dumb as a post.”

  “That’s the impression she gives, but she’s wily as they come. I’m telling you, she’s good. You watch. This lady can write her own ticket, provided she nails Beck first. I mean, look at it this way. Does anybody in the company suspect? You sure as shit didn’t and Beck doesn’t have a clue. If he knew what was going on, he’d be out the door like a shot. Wouldn’t he?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “You better believe it,” she said. “Meanwhile, there she is with a finger in every pie, access to everything. What a sweet deal for her.”

  Marty seemed to be getting annoyed, though I noticed two blotches on the front of his shirt where the sweat was soaking through. “Look, Reb. I know you’re pissed at him and I don’t blame you—”

  “Sure, I’m pissed at him, but I’m not pissed at you, which is why I’m here. I’m trusting you to keep your mouth shut. I haven’t breathed a word of this to anyone else. She’s after his balls. She’s so gung-ho she’s willing to screw the guy to get the drop on him.”

  Marty was silent. I could hear him breathing as though he’d just finished running six blocks. “You can’t just make claims—”

  “I know. You’re a man of common sense and you’re hard to convince, which is why I brought these.” She slid the black-and-white photos from the envelope and passed them over to him.

  Marty leafed through them. “Jesus.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “What’s he thinking?”

  “He’s not thinking. He’s got his brain between his legs. Really, you hadn’t guessed he was screwing her? You knew he was doing me.”

  “Yeah, but you made no secret you had the hots for him. This, I don’t know. Shouldn’t somebody tell him what’s going on?”

  Reba raised her brows and gave him the big eyes. “You want to do that? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

  “Poor guy.”

  “‘Poor guy,’ my butt. Are you kidding? If he was willing to work me over, why not you? Thing is, the stakes are bigger this time. You tell him about Onni, the only effect is giving him more time to cover his tracks.”

  Marty held up his glass and rattled the ice. The bartender caught the gesture and began to make him another drink. “Onni. I can’t believe it. Beck must have walked right into it.”

  “Of course. Minute she makes her move, he’ll turn right around and lay it off on you. He’ll claim you acted on your own. He never authorized you to do anything. You took it on yourself.”

  “But it’s his signature. Loan aps, incorporation papers—”

  “Marty, get serious. He’ll say he’s never had a head for the financial end of things. That’s how I was able to get away with the money I stole. Gosh. Guess he should have wised up, but some guys never learn. You told him to sign so he signed. He trusted you and this is what he gets for it. Shamey-shame on him. Meanwhile, you’re under federal indictment.”

  Marty shook his head. “I don’t know. This is freaking me out.” The bartender brought his drink. Marty took out his wallet and extracted two twenties. “Keep that,” he said. As the bartender lef
t, he was well on his way to draining his glass.

  During the brief interchange between the two, Reba shot me a look. It’s your show, I thought, before she glanced away.

  She patted Marty’s arm, her tone brisk. “Anyway, ponder the implications. That’s really all I ask. Even if you decide I’m making it up, it wouldn’t hurt to cover your ass. Once the subpoenas are issued and all the warrants are in place, you’ll be shit out of luck. In the meantime, if you’re on your way upstairs, how about the two of us tagging along?”

  19

  I’d passed the entrance to Beck’s office building half a dozen times without ever taking in the sight. The façade was thickly overgrown with ivy, integrated seamlessly into the architectural conceit of an ancient Spanish town. Flowering trees had been planted along the front. To the left of the entrance were side-by-side stairs and escalators, giving access to the additional parking structure at the corner of the mall. A high-end luggage shop occupied a portion of the ground floor, presumably paying Beck a big whack of high-end rent.

  We pushed through glass doors that swung closed soundlessly as we entered. Windows stretched upward the full four stories to a slanting glass roof. The interior atrium was oblong, done in a mottled rosy granite, floors and walls forming a hard canvas on which natural and artificial light played according to the time of day. High on the wall, there was a clock with long brass minute and hour hands and six-inch-diameter brass dots representing the hours. A curtain of dark green ivy and philodendron hung from a miniature oasis above the clock.