by Sue Grafton
I closed the window and locked it. In my bottom desk drawer I lifted aside the phone book and picked up two silver keys hooked together on a paper clip. I picked up my bag and found my trusty penlight, checking the strength of the batteries as I moved down the hallway and out the rear door. A short patch of stubby grass separated the bungalows from the row of three garages along the alley. Reba’d parked her car in the shadow of a pyracantha bush that had probably scratched the shit out of the paint on the right-hand side. I could see her at the wheel, smoking a cigarette while she waited for me.
There was a light fixture with a forty-watt bulb attached to the wood beam above the middle garage, which was the one assigned to me. The bulb yielded just enough light to see by if your eyes were good. I fumbled with the padlock and finally popped it open. I unhooked it from the hasp and hauled up the overhead door with a labored groaning of wood and rusty hinges. I flashed my penlight across the walls and floor, which were bare, smelling of motor oil and soot. There were cobwebs everywhere.
Reba flipped her cigarette out the window and started her car. I stood back as she pulled into the garage. She got out, locked her car door, and came around to the rear. She popped the trunk lid and hauled out a suitcase of a size appropriate for an airplane carry-on, though you’d have to maneuver it to get it in the overhead bin. The bag had an extendable handle and a set of wheels. She seemed preoccupied, caught up in a mood I couldn’t read.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Fine.”
“Just for the yucks, are you going to tell me what’s in there?”
“Want to see?”
“I do.”
She collapsed the handle and laid the suitcase flat, unzipped the top portion and flipped it open.
I found myself looking at a metal box, maybe fifteen inches high, eighteen inches long, and eight inches deep. “What the hell is that?”
“You’re joking. You don’t know?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t ask, Reeb. I’d exclaim with joy and surprise.”
“It’s a computer. Marty took his with him when he left. He also stopped by the bank and picked up all the floppy disks from the safe-deposit box. You’re looking at Beck’s business records—the second set of books. Hook it up to a keyboard and monitor, you’ve got access to everything: bank accounts, deposits, shell companies, payoffs, every dime he laundered for Salustio.”
“You’re turning it over to the feds, right?”
“Probably. As soon as I’m done…though you know how cranky they get about stolen property.”
“But you can’t even think about keeping this. That’s why those guys went after Marty, to get it back. Isn’t it?”
“Exactly. So let’s put a call through to Beck and offer him a trade. We get Marty, he gets this.”
“I thought you just said you’d turn it over to the feds?”
“You weren’t listening. I said ‘probably.’ I’m not sure their crappy investigation is worth Marty’s life.”
“You can’t handle this yourself. Negotiate with Beck? Are you out of your mind? You have to tell Vince. Bring in the cops or the FBI.”
“No way. This is my only chance to get even with that son of a bitch.”
“Oh, I get it. This isn’t about Marty. It’s about you and Beck.”
“Of course it’s about Marty, but it’s also about settling the score. It’s like a test. Let’s see what Beck’s made of. I don’t think it’s such a bad deal—Marty in exchange for this. The fact the feds want it is what makes it so valuable.”
“There are more important things in life than revenge,” I said.
“Well, that’s bullshit. Name one,” she said. “Besides, I’m not talking about revenge. I’m talking about getting even. Those are two different things.”
“No, they’re not.”
“Yes, they are. Revenge is you hurt me and I grind you underfoot until you wish you were dead. Getting even restores the balance in the Universe. You kill him, I kill you. Now we’re even. What else is capital punishment about? Getting even is just what it sounds like. Tit for tat. You hurt me, I hurt you back. We’re square again and all’s right with the world.”
“Why not get even by turning him over to the IRS?”
“That’s business. This is personal, between him and me.”
“I don’t get what you want.”
“I want him to say he’s sorry for what he did to me. I gave up two years of my life for him. Now I have something he wants so let him beg for it.”
“That’s asinine. So he pulls a long face and says sorry. What difference will that make? You know what he’s like. You can’t ever do business with a guy like him. You’ll get screwed.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. Reba, would you listen to me? He’ll work you over the first chance he gets.”
Her face was set. “Why don’t you go get your car and bring it around? I’ll wait for you here.”
I shut my mouth and closed my eyes. Why argue the point when her mind was made up? “You want help with this garage door?”
“I can handle it.”
I returned to the office. I locked the back door behind me, then moved down the hall turning off lights as I went. I grabbed my shoulder bag and went out the front door, pausing long enough to lock up. I stood for a moment, scanning the darkened street. All the cars in range belonged to neighbors, vehicles I’d seen before and could identify on sight. I let myself into my car and fired up the engine. I drove around the corner and nosed my VW into the alleyway.
Reba had closed and padlocked the garage. She opened the passenger-side door, put the suitcase in the backseat, and got in. I reached over into the rear and grabbed my denim jacket. “Here. Put this on before you catch cold.”
“Thanks.” She shrugged into the jacket and locked her seat belt in place.
“Where to?”
“The nearest public phone.”
“Why not my office, as long as we’re here?”
“I don’t want you tied into this in any way.”
“Tied into what?”
“Just find a phone,” she said.
31
Reba wanted me to make the call to Beck. We found a phone booth outside a supermarket. The store was a bright island, icy fluorescent lights reflected in the shiny paint finish of the dozen or so cars in the parking lot out front. This was the store where I did my weekly shopping, and I longed for nothing so much as to buy milk and eggs and then wend my way home.
Reba put a handful of coins and a slip of paper with Beck’s home and office numbers on the metal shelf under the phone. “Try his home phone first. If Tracy answers, maybe she’ll think he has a girlfriend,” she said.
“He does. Her name is Onni.”
“She probably knows about her. I’m talking someone new. Might as well bug the shit out of her while we can.”
“That’s not nice. I thought women were supposed to be nice.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it if I were you.”
I picked up the handset. “So what am I supposed to say to him?”
“Tell him to meet us at the East Beach parking lot in fifteen minutes. As soon as he hands Marty over, he gets his computer.”
I held the handset against my chest. “Please don’t do this. I’m begging you. What’s to prevent him from snatching the damn thing? You don’t even have a gun.”
“Of course I don’t have a gun. I’m a convicted felon. I can’t carry,” she said, as though offended by the very idea.
“What if Beck has one?”
“He doesn’t even own a gun. Besides, we’ll be right out in plain sight. Anyone driving along Cabana Boulevard can see us. Here, give me that.”
She grabbed the handset and put it against my ear, picked up some coins, and dropped them in the slot. In addition to the dial tone, I could have sworn I heard the buzz of electricity running through my frame. My heart rate was picking up and my insides felt like a fuse box with all the lines shortin
g out. She punched in Beck’s home number just to hurry things along. At the first ring, Reba leaned her head against mine and tilted the handset so she could listen in. I said, “This feels like high school. I hate this.”
“Would you shut up?” she hissed.
After three rings, he picked up. “Yes.”
My mouth was dry. “Beck, this is Kinsey.”
“God damn you! Where’s Reba? The fuckin’ bitch. I want what’s mine and she better make it quick.”
Reba grabbed the handset, all sweetness and light now that she had him by the balls. “Hey, baby. How’s by you? I’m right here.”
Whatever Beck’s reply, it must have been tart because she laughed with delight. “Oh my, now. You don’t have to be crude. I was thinking we should get together and have a chat.”
I waited, staring off across the parking lot, while she spelled out the proposal and the nature of the trade. Then they argued about the rendezvous, tussling to see which of them was going to come out on top. The East Beach bathhouse, at the corner of Cabana and Milagro, was where I did the turnaround on my morning runs. Even at night, the area is exposed and well lighted, the Santa Teresa Inn just across the street from the entrance to the parking lot. There’s a small separate lot at the far end of the building, but she’d opted for the more public of the two. This showed a grain of common sense unusual for her. She insisted on meeting in fifteen minutes while he swore he couldn’t be there any sooner than half an hour. To this, she finally agreed. Score one for him. I was uneasy. I figured the more time she gave him, the more likely he was to round up some help. This must have occurred to her as well. “And Beck, one more thing. You bring anyone but Marty and you’ll eat it, big time. Yeah, well, same to you, you little shit!” She slammed down the phone and then shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. “God, I hate him. What a hairball.”
I picked up the handset and reached for some coins. “I’m calling Cheney.”
She took the handset and returned it to the cradle. “I don’t want Cheney. I don’t want anyone but us.”
“I can’t do this. You and Beck can play all the games you want, but I’m out of it,” I said.
“Okay. Fine. Take a hike. Drop me at my car and you’re off the hook,” she said. She turned and walked off.
I’d hoped to jolt her into getting help, but she was having none of it. I blinked, staring at the pavement. What were my choices? Do it her way or risk…what? That she’d die or get hurt? Because Marty’d stolen the computer, she’d assumed Beck was the one who’d ordered the snatch, but what if he hadn’t? It might have been Salustio Castillo, who had just as much to lose. Beck might be bluffing. He might not have a clue where Marty was being held, and then what? All he had to do was grab the suitcase and what could she do? If it came right down to it, what could I do? Nothing. At the same time, she knew I wouldn’t leave her. There was too much at stake.
Reluctantly, I followed. The car doors were locked and she waited, gaze averted, while I let myself in and tossed my bag on the backseat. I slid under the wheel, leaned over, and opened the door on her side. Reba got in and we sat there. I had my hands on the steering wheel, stalling while I racked my brain for some alternative. “There has to be a better way to do this.”
“Great. Spell it out. I’m all yours,” she said.
I didn’t have an answer. The meeting was scheduled for 11:00 P.M., in roughly twenty-five minutes. Technically we had time enough to drive to my place, where I could pick up my gun. I nearly banged my head on the steering wheel. What was I thinking? A gun was out of the question. I wasn’t going to shoot anyone. Over a computer? How absurd.
On the other hand…shit…on the other hand…if Marty’s home phone was tapped, the FBI must have a tap on Beck’s telephone lines as well. One of their agents must have heard Beck and Reba wrangling, so maybe they’d taken note and the cavalry was already on the way.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Reba check her watch, saying, “Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Time’s a-wasting.”
“So where’s Marty all this time?”
“He didn’t say. I’m assuming somewhere close.”
I shook my head in frustration. “I don’t believe I’m doing this.” I turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the space. “Let’s at least take a minute to scope out the area, or have you done that?”
“Not really. Why bother? I figure you’re the expert.”
The drive seemed to take forever. I cut over to the freeway, thinking to speed our progress. Big mistake. Traffic was heavy, taillights stacked up, as two lanes of cars amassed in the wake of an accident in one of the northbound lanes. I could see lights flashing where the CHP and the emergency vehicles had converged on the scene. There wasn’t actually an obstruction on our side of the road, but we were at a dead stop, anyway, while people paused to gawk.
By the time we reached the off-ramp at Cabana, we had less than a minute to spare. I confess I sped the final mile and a half, hoping a cop would spot us and make a traffic stop. No such luck. The ocean was to our right, separated from the road by the beach, a bike path, and a wide strip of grass that was dotted with palm trees. On our left, we passed a string of motels and restaurants. The sidewalk was populated with tourists, which was oddly comforting somehow.
At Milagro, I turned into the designated parking lot. There were no cars in evidence, which meant (perhaps) that if Beck was bringing goons, at least they hadn’t arrived before us. Reba told me to make a U-turn at the far end of the lot and circle back to the entrance. I did as instructed and then backed into a parking space, my car facing the street in case we needed to make a hasty retreat. We got out of the car. She flipped her seat forward and removed the suitcase. She popped the handle, extending it, and then rolled the case to the front of the car. “Might as well let him know we mean business,” she said.
Behind us, the waves were drumming on the sand, gathering momentum before they battered the shore and then rolled back again. The water was intensely black with a fine sheen of white where moonlight caught the peaks of each wave. A damp breeze buffeted my hair and pushed against the legs of my jeans. I turned and scanned the beach behind us, hopping from foot to foot to keep warm. So far, to all appearances, we were alone.
Reba leaned on the front fender, lit a cigarette, and smoked. Ten minutes passed. She checked her watch. “What’s this about? Does he want the friggin’ thing or not?”
Across the street, hotel guests pulled in at the entrance to the Santa Teresa Inn. There were two valet parkers and a smattering of pedestrians. In the restaurant on the second floor, tables were arranged along the big curved front window. Diners were visible, though as dark as it was now, I doubted they could see us. A black-and-white patrol car approached and turned right, speeding up Milagro. I could feel my hopes flare and fade.
“I think we should get out of here. I don’t like this,” I said.
She looked at her watch again. “Not yet. If he doesn’t show by 11:30, we’ll bail.”
At 11:19 two cars crawled into view and turned into the lot. Reba dropped her cigarette and stepped on it. “That’s Marty’s car in front. The second one’s Beck.”
“Is that Marty at the wheel?”
“I can’t tell. It looks like him.”
“Well, great then. No sweat. Get it over with,” I said.
Reba crossed her arms, whether from cold or tension, I couldn’t be sure. Once in the lot, Marty’s car turned left, circled as we had, and made a slow return. He stopped his car thirty feet away and sat, engine idling, while Beck pulled up fifteen feet closer to us. The two sets of headlights formed a line of harsh spots. I raised a hand and shaded my eyes. I could see Beck at the wheel of his car, but I wasn’t at all convinced the second driver was Marty.
A minute passed.
Reba shifted restlessly. “What’s he doing?”
“Reba, let’s go. There’s something off about this.”
Beck got out of the car. He stood by the open door, his a
ttention fixed on the rolling bag. He wore a dark raincoat, open along its length, sides flapping in the wind. “Is that it?”
“No, Beck, it’s not. I’ve decided to leave town.”
“Bring it over here and let’s have a look.”
“Tell Marty to get out so we can see it’s him.”
Beck called over his shoulder. “Hey, Marty? Give Reeb a wave. She thinks you’re someone else.”
The driver in Marty’s car waved to us and blinked his headlights, then revved his engine like a stock car driver at the start of a race. I touched Reba’s arm, warbling, “Run…”
I took off, breaking left, as Marty’s car pitched forward, tires chirping, the vehicle gathering speed as it bore down on us. Reba grabbed the handle of the rolling bag and scrambled after me. The suitcase teetered on the uneven surface of the parking lot and then toppled to one side. She headed for the street, dragging it after her. I could hear it scraping along the pavement, as awkward as an anchor if she hoped to escape. I yelled, “Dump that!”
The driver in Marty’s car slammed on his brakes and turned the wheel so his rear end swung around, missing my car by inches. Two men jumped out, the driver and a second man who suddenly appeared from the back where he’d been concealed.
Beck stood with his hands in his coat pockets, watching with detachment as Reba abandoned the suitcase and took off at a dead run. The two men were fast. She’d gone no distance at all when one tackled her from behind and the two of them went down.
I reversed myself and headed in her direction. I had no plan. I didn’t give a shit about the suitcase, but I wasn’t going to leave Reba on her own. She was struggling, kicking at the guy who’d tackled her. He punched her in the face. Her head jerked and banged against the ground. I reached him as he raised his fist to punch her again. I hooked my arms around his right arm and hung on for dear life. Someone grabbed me from behind. He pinned my arms against my sides, lifted me off the ground, and then swung me away from his pal. I craned my neck for sight of Reba, who’d rolled over on her side. I watched as she pulled herself up on her hands and knees. She seemed dazed, blood pouring out of her mouth and nose. The guy who’d punched her turned to me. He lifted my feet and the two hauled me over to Marty’s car. I arched my back, trying to free myself, but the guy simply tightened his grip and there was nothing I could do.
