by Sue Grafton
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I went about this all wrong and I apologize. Truce?”
“We don’t need a truce. I’m worried about her, too. She’s back to smoking a pack a day and god knows what else. This morning, she was talking about booze and poker parlors. Scared the crap out of me.”
“I didn’t realize you’d seen her.”
“Oh sure. I thought I mentioned that.”
“You didn’t, but that’s good. I haven’t heard a word from her since I got back. She’s usually on the phone first thing, tugging at my sleeve. You know Reeb. She tends to cling.”
“I’ll say. Look, she talked about us having lunch tomorrow. Why don’t I tell her to give you a call?”
He smiled tentatively, wanting to believe me. At the same time, I could sense his scrutiny, testing my comments for any false notes. Happily, since I’m a thoroughly accomplished liar, I could pass a polygraph, disavowing murder with blood still dripping from my fingers. He reached out and tapped my hand, something I’d seen him do with her. I wondered what the gesture meant, a sort of tag…you’re it. “I hope I wasn’t out of line. You’re a good egg,” he said.
“Thanks. You are, too.” I reached out and tapped his hand in return.
He pushed up from the booth. “Better to let you go. I’ve taken up enough of your time as it is. Sorry if I was rude. I didn’t mean to grill you.”
“Hey, I understand. Stay and have another drink if you like.”
“Nah, I gotta hit the road. Just tell Reba I’m looking for her.”
“What’s your schedule like tomorrow? Are you at the office all day?”
“You bet. I’ll be waiting for her call.”
Good luck, I thought. I watched him crossing the room, trying to see him as I had at first. I’d thought he was sexy and good-looking, but those qualities had vanished. Now I saw him for what he was, a guy accustomed to having his own way. The world centered on him and others were simply there to service his whims. I wondered if he were capable of killing. Possible, I thought. Maybe not with his own hands, but he could have it done. Belatedly, a warm drop of sweat trickled down the middle of my back. I allowed myself a deep breath, and by the time Cheney showed up, I was feeling calm again and slightly bemused.
He slid in next to me and pushed a folded slip of paper in my direction. “Don’t say I never did you one. Address is a rental. Misty’s been in residence the past thirteen months.”
“Thanks.” I glanced at the address and put the paper into my pocket.
He said, “What’s the smile about? You’re looking pleased with yourself.”
“How long have I known you? A couple of years, right?”
“More or less. You haven’t really known me until this past week.”
“Know what I realized? I’ve never lied to you.”
“I should hope not.”
“I’m serious. I’m a natural-born liar, but so far I haven’t lied to you. That puts you in a category all by yourself…well, except for Henry. I can’t remember ever lying to him. About anything important.”
“Good news. I love the part where you say ‘so far.’ You’re the only person I know who could say something like that and think it was a compliment.”
Rosie reappeared and when she caught sight of Cheney, she shot me a quizzical look. She seldom saw me with one man, let alone two on the same night. Cheney ordered a beer. Once she was gone, I rested my chin on my fist so I could look at him. His face was smooth and there was the faintest web of lines at the outer corners of his eyes. Dark suede sport coat the color of coffee grounds. Beige shirt, brown silk tie hanging slightly askew. I reached out and straightened it. He caught my hand and kissed my index finger.
I smiled. “Have you ever dated an older woman?”
“Talking about yourself? I got news for you, kiddo. I’m older than you.”
“You are not.”
“I’m thirty-nine. April 1948.” He took out his wallet, flipped it open, removed his driver’s license, and held it up.
“Get serious. You were born in 1948?”
“How old did you think I was?”
“Somebody told me you were thirty-four.”
“Lies. All lies. You can’t believe a word you hear on the street.” He put his license in his wallet, which he flipped shut and returned to his hip pocket.
“In that case, your body’s even better than I thought. Tell me the day and month again. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“April 28. I’m a Taurus, like you. That’s why we get along so well.”
“Is that true?”
“Sure. Look at us. We’re Earth signs, the Bull. We’re the Boy Scouts of the Zodiac. Determined, practical, reliable, fair-minded, stable—in other words, boring as hell. On the downside, we’re jealous, possessive, opinionated, and self-righteous—so what’s not to like? We hate change. We hate interruptions. We hate being rushed.”
“You really believe all that stuff?”
“No, but you have to admit there’s a certain ring of truth to it.”
Rosie returned to the table with Cheney’s beer. I could tell she was tempted to loiter, hoping to catch a snippet of conversation. Both of us sank into silence until she left again.
Then I said, “Beck was here.”
“You’re changing the subject. I’d rather talk about us.”
“Premature.”
“Then why don’t we talk about you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“For instance, I like it that you don’t wear makeup.”
“I’ve worn it twice. That first day at lunch and then again the other night.”
“I know. That’s how I figured I could get you between the sheets.”
“Cheney, we need to talk about Reba. I leave for Reno first thing tomorrow morning. We have to be operating off the same page.”
His expression sobered to some extent, and I could see him shift into business mode. “Okay, but don’t be dragging it out. We have better things to do.”
“Business first.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We spent the next ten minutes talking about Reba and Beck—what he’d said, what I’d said, and what, if anything, it meant. Cheney intended to call Priscilla Holloway in the morning and bring her up to speed. He thought the straightforward approach was preferable to taking the risk that she’d find out anyway. He’d refer her to Vince Turner and let the two of them work out their arrangements. If Holloway wanted Reba picked up, then all the better for him. Vince would be thrilled to have her under lock and key.
Finally, Cheney said, “Can we go now? All this talk about criminals is turning me on.”
26
The drive from Santa Teresa to Reno took nine hours, including two potty stops and a fifteen-minute lunch break. The first seven hours got me as far as Sacramento, where Highway 80 intersects the 5 and begins its slow climb toward the Donner Summit, 7,240 feet above sea level. Smoke from a series of brush fires in the Tahoe National Forest had saturated the air with a pale brown haze that followed me across the Nevada state line. I reached the Reno city limits at suppertime and cruised through town just to get a feel for the place.
Most of the buildings were two and three stories tall, dwarfed by the occasional chunky hotel. Aside from the casinos, businesses seemed to be devoted to making cash readily available. The working theme was cheap food and pawnshops, with the word “GUNS” writ large on two out of every seven signs.
I chose an unprepossessing two-story motel in the heart of town, its prime attraction being that it sat on a lot adjacent to a McDonald’s. I checked in, found my second-floor room, and put my duffel bag on the bed. Before I left again, I picked up the Reno phone book I found in my bed-table drawer. I went downstairs, left the phone book in my car, and then proceeded to McDonald’s, where I sat in a window seat and treated myself to a couple of QPs with Cheese.
According to the strip maps I’d picked up at the auto club, Carson City—the last known domicile of t
he erstwhile Robert Dietz—was only thirty miles away. Because of Cheney, I thought about Dietz without bitterness, but without much interest. While I munched fries doused in ketchup, I opened the Reno city map and looked for the street where Misty Raine was supposedly living these days. Wasn’t far away and I thought my next order of business was to pay a visit to the place.
I dumped my trash and returned to my car. With the map propped against the steering wheel, I sketched out my course. The route took me through spartan neighborhoods of pines, chain-link fences, and ranch houses faced in stucco or brick. Even at seven in the evening, the light was good. The air was hot and dry and smelled of pine pitch and charred oak from the California fires. I knew the temperatures would drop as soon as the sun went down. The lawns I passed were parched, the grasses scorched to a soft yellow-brown. The trees, on the other hand, were surprisingly green, dense healthy foliage a relief in the relentless washed-out beige of the surrounding landscape. Maybe the whole of it was designed to keep all the gamblers indoors where gaudy colors dazzled the eye, the air temperature was constant, and lights were ablaze twenty-four hours a day.
I spotted the house I was looking for—a one-story yellow wood-frame bungalow with three stingy windows across the front. The trim was brown and the door to the single-car garage was decorated with three vertical rows of triangles, yellow paint on brown. Shaggy evergreens marked the corners of the house, and the flower beds along the drive were filled with desiccated plant stalks. I parked on the far side of the street about four houses down with a clear view of the drive. When sitting surveillance, there’s always a concern that a neighbor will call the cops to complain about a suspicious vehicle parked out front. To create a diversion, I removed two orange plastic construction cones from the well of my car and then went around to the rear, where I opened the engine compartment. I set up the cones nearby, signaling engine trouble in case anyone got curious.
I stood near the car and scanned the surrounding houses. I saw no one. I crossed the street to Misty’s front door and rang the bell. Three minutes passed and then I knocked. No response. I leaned my head against the door. Silence. I walked down the drive and scrutinized the padlocked garage, which was connected to the house by a short enclosed breezeway. Both garage windows were locked and the glass had been painted over. I headed around the front of the house. A wooden fence on the far side opened into a backyard that was depressingly bare. No sign of pets, no children’s toys, no lawn furniture, and no barbecue. The windows that overlooked the patio were dark. I cupped my hands to the glass and found myself staring at a home office equipped with the usual desk and swivel chair, a computer, phone, and copier. No sign of Misty or Reba. I was disappointed, having persuaded myself that Reba was staying with her. Now what?
I returned to the car and settled in to wait, amusing myself by browsing the yellow pages of the borrowed phone book. Bored with that, I picked up the first one of three paperbacks I’d brought for this purpose. It was comforting that most of the nearby houses remained dark, suggestive of occupants at work. At 8:10, I saw a Ford Fairlane slow on approach and ease into Misty’s drive. In the fading daylight, primer paint on the driver’s side of the car glowed as though luminescent. A woman emerged, wearing a white halter, tight jeans, and high heels without hose. She reached into the backseat for two cumbersome plastic grocery bags, crossed to the front door, and let herself in. I could see interior lights go on as she moved through the house. This had to be the very Misty Raine that I was looking for.
So far no one had questioned my presence on the block. I got out, retrieved the orange plastic cones, and returned them to my car—this by way of being prepared for whatever might come next. I resumed my reading with the help of a penlight I dug out of my bag. At intervals I glanced up, but the house remained quiet and nobody entered or left. At 9:40, prison-strength exterior spots came on, flooding the driveway with harsh white light. Misty emerged from the house, leaving lights on behind her as she got in her tank-size Ford and backed out of the drive. I waited fifteen seconds, fired up the VW, and followed.
Once we reached the first intersection, there was sufficient traffic to provide cover, though I didn’t think she had any reason to suspect she was being tailed. She drove sedately, refraining from any abrupt or tricky moves that would indicate a concern about the thirteen-year-old pale blue VW traveling three car lengths behind.
We proceeded into town. She took a right on East 4th and after half a block turned into a small city parking lot that sat between an Asian restaurant and a minimarket with a marquee that read: GROCERIES * BEER * SLOTS. I slowed and pulled over to the curb. I left the engine running while I spread out my Reno map and studied the layout. I don’t know why I went to such trouble to disguise my purposes. Misty didn’t seem to be aware of me and certainly no one else in Reno cared if I was lost. I watched her enter the minimarket and took advantage of her absence to pull into the same lot. I parked as close to the entrance as I could manage. Each space was numbered in paint, and a board posted on the brick wall of the market indicated that fees were paid on the honor system. Dutifully, I searched out the requisite window and inserted the number of dollar bills I thought would cover my stay. I was so engrossed in this display of municipal virtue that I didn’t spot Misty until she was halfway across the street, munching a candy bar. She had a carton of cigarettes under one arm.
Her destination lay dead ahead, an adult-entertainment establishment called the Flesh Emporium. Under the double row of lightbulbs spelling out the name of the place, a blinking neon sign flashed: GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS…NUDE, LEWD, AND CRUDE. And in smaller letters: TATTOOS AND PIERCING DONE WHILE YOU WAIT. And smaller still: BOOKS, VIDEOS, LIVE REVUES. The bouncer waved her in. I waited a decent interval and then crossed the street. There was a twenty-dollar cover charge that it grieved me to pay, but I ponied up the cash. I made a note to myself to add it to my expense account in a manner that didn’t suggest play-for-pay sex.
Inside the entrance, a modest-size casino was hazy with cigarette smoke, the air aglow with the ambient light from a hundred slot machines lined up back-to-back. In passing, I picked up the soft, goofy flute-and-bell music that accompanies play. The acoustical-tile ceiling was low, dotted with can lights, cameras, smoke alarms, and sprinkler heads. Scarcely anyone was seated at the slots, but farther in, beyond the blackjack tables, I could see a darkened bar with a wide apron built along one side. On three hotly lighted platforms nude dancers undulated, strutted, and otherwise exhibited body parts. Nothing they did seemed particularly lewd or crude. I found a table toward the rear, feeling ill at ease. Most of the customers were men. All were drinking and most paid little or no attention to the breasts and buttocks on parade in front of them.
There was no sign of Misty, but a waitress named Joy arrived at my table and placed a cocktail napkin in front of me. Sequined pasties the size of dinner mints chastely shielded her nipples from public scrutiny, and she wore a glittering fig leaf over what my aunt Gin would call her “privates.” I ordered a bottle of Bass ale, theorizing there was no way the management could water it down. When Joy returned with my beer and a basket of tinted yellow popcorn, I paid the fifteen-dollar tab and tipped her an extra five bucks. “I’m looking for Misty. Is she here?”
“She just went to change. She’ll be out in a bit. You’re a friend of hers?”
“Not quite, but close enough,” I said.
“Give me your name and I’ll tell her you’re here.”
“She won’t know me by name. A friend of a friend said I should look her up if I was ever passing through.”
“What’s the friend’s name?”
“Reba Lafferty.”
“Lafferty. I’ll tell her.”
I sipped my beer and picked at the cold, chewy popcorn, glad for the distraction as I didn’t really favor watching nude women shaking their booties at me even from a distance. I’d imagined voluptuous, showgirl-style bodies, but only one of the three had the requisite football-size kn
ockers. I figured the other two were saving up.
As it turned out, Misty hadn’t gone to change clothes so much as to strip off the garments she was wearing when she got to work. Her legs were bare and only a thong and her high heels remained. She was tall and lanky, with pitch-black hair, a prominent collarbone, and long, thin arms. By way of contrast, she had breasts of burdensome dimensions, the kind that give you back problems and require a bra with straps so fierce they create permanent tracks across your shoulder blades like ruts worn in rock. Not that I’ve ever suffered from such a fate, but I’ve heard women complain. I couldn’t imagine choosing to haul those things around. Her eyes were large and green with dark circles underneath that even heavy makeup couldn’t hide. I placed her in her forties though I wasn’t sure quite where.
“Joy says you’re a friend of Reba’s.”
I didn’t know stripper-greeting etiquette, but I stood and shook her hand. “Kinsey Millhone. I’m from Santa Teresa.”
“Same as Reba,” she remarked. “How’s she doing these days?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me.”
“Can’t help you there. I haven’t seen her in years. Are you in town on vacation or what’s the deal?”
“I’m here looking for her.”
One of Misty’s shoulders went up in what passed for a shrug. “Last I heard she’s in prison. California Institution for Women.”
“Not anymore. She was released on the twentieth of this month.”
“No fooling. Well, good for her! I’ll have to drop her a line. The real world’s a shock when you’re not used to it,” she said. “Hope she makes it.”
“The prospects of that are dim. She did well at first, but lately things haven’t been so hot.”
“Sorry to hear that, but why come to me?”
“Just a long shot,” I said.
“Must have been awful long. I’ve worked here a week. I don’t get how you managed to track me down.”
“Process of elimination. Reba told me you worked as an exotic dancer. With a name like yours, it wasn’t difficult.”
