Four Sue Grafton Novels

by Sue Grafton

  “I’ve got a question for you,” I said, when we’d dispensed with the chitchat. “How familiar are you with the registered sex offenders in town?”

  “I know most of them by name. We all do. Lot of them are required to come in for drug testing. They also call in changes of address or changes in employment. Who in particular?”

  “I’m looking for a fellow named Melvin Downs.”

  There was a pause and I could almost hear her shaking her head. “Nope. Don’t think so. The name doesn’t sound familiar. Where’d he do his time?”

  “I have no idea, but I’m guessing he was in prison on a child molest. He has a crude tattoo that looks like prison vintage—a lipstick-red mouth in the web between the thumb and index finger on his right hand. I’m told he’s an amateur ventriloquist and I’m wondering if he trots out his talent in seducing young kids.”

  “I can check with the other POs and see if they know him. What’s the context?”

  “You know an attorney named Lowell Effinger?”

  “Sure, I know Lowell.”

  “He wants to depose Downs as a witness in a personal-injury suit. Downs is a hard man to find, but I finally ran him to ground. He seemed cooperative at first, but then he turned around and bolted so fast it made me wonder if he was in the system somewhere.”

  “I don’t think here, but he might be a fugitive from another state. These guys want out from under, all they have to do is hit the road without telling us. We’ve got ten to fifteen unaccounted for at any given time. And that’s just locally. Statewide, the numbers are mind-boggling.”

  “Jeez, all those sex offenders on the loose?”

  “Sorry to say. Give me your number again and I’ll get back to you if I learn anything.”

  I thanked her and returned the handset to the cradle. My suspicions hadn’t been confirmed, but she hadn’t shot me down. Altogether, I was feeling a flicker of encouragement.

  As a consequence, early Thursday afternoon, I drove up Capillo Hill again and sat in the parking lot of the organic foods market, looking out at the intersection where I’d seen Downs two days before. Since his work schedule seemed consistently Tuesdays and Thursdays, I hoped I had a decent chance of spotting him. I was bored to tears with the hunt, but I’d brought a paperback novel and a thermos of hot coffee. There was a ladies’ room available at the gas station two doors down. What more did a girl require? I read for a while, periodically glancing through the windshield to scan the area.

  I paid a visit to the service station, and as I came out of the ladies’ room I could see activity across the street. A van pulled in at the curb in front of the laundromat. Idly, I watched as two men got out and went in. I was already sitting behind the wheel of my car again when they emerged minutes later, toting cardboard boxes, which they stowed in the rear of the van. There was lettering on the side panel, but I couldn’t read what it said. I reached into the backseat and snatched up the binoculars I keep close at hand. I adjusted the focus until the lettering became sharp.

  Starting Over Christian Charities, Inc.

  Your trash is our cash.

  We accept gently used clothing, furniture, small appliances and office equipment.

  Tues & Thurs, 9:00 A.M. to 2:00 P.M.

  Apparently the two men were picking up donations. From a laundromat? How weird was that? It was the phrase “small appliances” that caught my attention. Also, the days and times of operation. This was the perfect position for someone like Downs with a penchant for tinkering and a talent as a fix-it man. I pictured him with nonfunctioning vacuum cleaners, hair dryers, and electric fans, salvaging items that would otherwise go into the trash. A Christian charity might also be sympathetic to his prison history.

  I tossed my book aside, got out of my car, and locked it behind me. I made a beeline for the crosswalks in the middle of the block. When I reached the storefront, I bypassed the big plate-glass windows and cut between two buildings to the alley in the rear. I’d driven the alley twice, making a study of pedestrians while navigating the lane and a half, barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Once I’d had to stop at that spot when a woman in front of me with a carload of kids slowed to make the turn into her garage.

  Now that I knew what I was looking for, the payoff was quick. Above the back door of the laundromat, there was the same sign I’d seen on the side of the van. This was a drop-off location for Starting Over, an organization that must have rented the two back rooms to accept and sort donations. The rear parking had slots enough for three cars with additional space for a lidded bin that was kept available for hours when the center was closed. The rolling bin had been placed across the opening between the laundromat and the jewelry store next door. I could see the back end of the vehicle that was parked in the gap. It was one I knew well: an old milk truck outfitted as a camper, originally offered for sale “as is” at $1,999.99. The dealer who sold it had operated the lot right around the corner from the residence hotel where Downs had lived. I might have actually witnessed the transaction the day I saw the salesman in conversation with a white-haired man in sunglasses and a porkpie hat. I hadn’t met Melvin at that point so I wouldn’t have understood the significance. By the time I’d caught up with him, he was prepared to flee. I took out my notebook and jotted down the license number of the milk truck.

  The rear door of the shop stood ajar. I approached with care and peered around the corner. Melvin had his back to me, folding children’s clothing into tidy piles that he placed in a cardboard box. Now that I knew where he was, I’d report his location to Lowell Effinger. He’d schedule a date for the deposition and issue a subpoena requiring Downs to appear. I made a note of the address and the contact number printed on the bin and then returned to my car and drove back to my office, where I put in a call to the attorney’s office and told his secretary where Downs could be served.

  “You’ll handle the service?”

  I said, “That’s not a good idea. He knows me on sight, which means I’d be coming in the front door and he’d be flying out the back.”

  “But this is your baby. You should have the satisfaction,” she said. “I’ll let you know when everything’s set up, which shouldn’t take long. By the way, Gladys told Herr Buckwald there was talk of a missing witness and now she’s all over us for his name and address.” I was amused by her fake German accent, which exactly captured Hetty Buckwald’s nature.

  “Good luck,” I said. “Call me when you’re done.”

  “I’m on it, kid.”

  Driving home that afternoon, I became aware of the tension in my neck. I was wary of Solana and hoping to avoid running into her again. She had to be aware I had her in my sights and I didn’t think she’d appreciate the interference. As it turned out, our paths didn’t cross until Saturday night. So I was worrying before it was absolutely necessary.

  I’d been to see a movie and it was close to eleven when I got home. I parked half a block down the street in the only space I could find at that hour. I got out and locked the car. The street was dark and empty. A skittish wind blew, sending a tumble of leaves across my feet like an undulating wave of mice escaping from a cat. The moon was intermittently visible, obscured and then exposed by the erratic movement of the trees. I thought I was the only one out, but as I approached Henry’s gate, I caught sight of Solana standing in the shadows. I secured my shoulder bag and shoved my hands in the pockets of my parka.

  She stepped forward when I was abreast of her, blocking my path.

  I said, “Get away from me.”

  “You put me in hot water with the county. A bad move on your part.”

  “Who’s Cristina Tasinato?”

  “You know who she is. Mr. Vronsky’s conservator of record. She says you paid a visit to her attorney. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

  “Bad language is unbecoming. I gave you more credit than that.”

  “Or maybe you didn’t give me credit enough.”


  Solana stared at me. “You were in my house. You picked up Mr. Vronksy’s pill bottles to see what medications he’s on. You set the bottles down not quite in the same place so I could tell they’d been moved. I pay attention to such things. You must have thought you were immune from discovery, but you’re not. You took his bankbooks as well.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, but I wondered if she could hear my heart careen off my chest wall like a handball.

  “You’ve made a serious mistake. People who try getting the best of me are always wrong. They learn the meaning of the word ‘regret,’ but by then it’s too late.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Of course not. I’m offering advice. Leave Mr. Vronsky alone.”

  “Who’s the big goon you have living in the house?”

  “There’s no one living in the house except the two of us. You’re a suspicious young woman. Some would call you paranoid.”

  “Is he the orderly you hired?”

  “There’s an orderly who comes in, if it’s any business of yours. You’re upset. I can understand your hostility. You’re strong willed, used to doing as you please and having everything your way. We’re very much alike, both of us willing to play to the death.”

  She put a hand on my arm and I shook it away. “Cut the melodrama. You can eat shit and die for all I care.”

  “Now it’s you threatening me.”

  “You better believe it,” I said.

  The gate squeaked as I opened it and the sound of the latch catching punctuated the end of the exchange. She was still standing on the walk as I rounded the corner of the studio and let myself into my darkened apartment. I locked the door and shucked my jacket, tossing it on the kitchen counter as I passed. The lights were still off as I moved into the downstairs bathroom and stepped into the shower to check the street outside. By the time I peered out the window, she was gone.

  29

  As I was letting myself into the office Monday morning I heard my phone ring. A bulky package was leaning against the door, left by a courier service. I tucked it under my arm and unlocked the door in haste, stepping over a pile of mail that had been shoved through the slot. I paused to snatch up the lot of it and scampered into the inner office, tossing the mail on my desk while I made a grab for the phone. I caught it on ring five and found Mary Bellflower on the line, sounding remarkably cheerful. “Did you get the documents Lowell Effinger messengered over to you? He sent me the same batch.”

  “Must be the package that was left at my door. I just now walked in and haven’t had a chance to open it. What is it?”

  “The transcript of the deposition he took from the accident expert earlier this week. Call me as soon as you’ve read it.”

  “Sure thing. You sound happy.”

  “I’m curious at any rate. This is good stuff,” she said.

  I shrugged off my jacket and tossed my shoulder bag on the floor beside my desk. Before I opened the packet, I walked down the short hall to my kitchenette and set up a pot of coffee. I’d forgotten to bring in a carton of milk so I was forced to use two flat packets of fake stuff once the coffee had finished dripping into the carafe. I returned to my desk and opened the manila mailer. Then I leaned back in my swivel chair and put my feet on the edge of the desk with the transcript opened on my lap, coffee cup to my right.

  Tilford Brannigan was a biomechanical expert who doubled, in this case, as the accident reconstructionist, wearing two hats at once. The document was neatly typed. The pages were stapled together at the top left corner. Each eight-by-eleven page had been reduced in size and formatted to fit four to the sheet.

  The first page listed correspondence, marked “Plaintiff’s Exhibits #6-A Through 6-H,” and went on down the numbered lines. Included was Brannigan’s curriculum vitae, Gladys Frederickson’s medical summaries, Request for Production of Documents, Plaintiff Response to the Defendant Request for Production of Documents, Supplemental Request for Production of Documents. Dr. Goldfarb’s medical files had been subpoenaed, as had the files of a Dr. Spaulding. There were numerous depositions, summary/medical records marked Plaintiff’s Exhibit #16, along with the police report. Various photographs of the damaged cars and the accident site had been entered as exhibits. I quickly flipped to the last page, just to get a feel for what I was in for. Brannigan’s testimony started on page 6 and continued to page 133. The proceedings had begun at 4:30 P.M. and concluded at 7:15.

  A deposition is, by nature, a less formal proceeding than an appearance in court since it occurs in a lawyer’s office instead of a courtroom. Testimony is given under oath. Both plaintiff’s and defendant’s attorneys and a court reporter are in attendance, but there’s no judge.

  Hetty Buckwald was there representing the Fredricksons, and Lowell Effinger was on hand in Lisa Ray’s behalf, though neither the plaintiffs nor the defendant were present. Years before, I’d looked up Ms. Buckwald’s bona fides, convinced her law degree was from Harvard or Yale. Instead, she’d graduated from one of those Los Angeles law schools that self-promotes by way of big splashy ads pasted on freeway billboards.

  I cruised through the repetitious early pages, where Ms. Buckwald worked to suggest that Brannigan was inexperienced and ill qualified, neither of which was true. Lowell Effinger objected at intervals, mostly intoning, “Misstates the prior testimony” or “Asked and answered” in a voice that, even on paper, sounded bored and annoyed. Effinger had tagged certain pages to make sure I didn’t miss the import. The gist of it was that, despite Ms. Buckwald’s persistently snide and wearing questions that cast aspersions on him wherever possible, Tilford Brannigan was steadfast in his insistence that Gladys Fredrickson’s injuries were inconsistent with the dynamics of the collision. There followed fourteen pages of testimony in which Ms. Buckwald picked away at him, trying to get him to yield on whatever minor point she was pursuing. Brannigan held up well, patient and unperturbed. His responses were mild, sometimes amusing, which must have infuriated Ms. Buckwald, who relied on friction and animosity to rattle a witness. If he conceded the smallest detail, she leaped on the admission as though it were a major triumph, completely undermining testimony he’d given before. I wasn’t sure whom she was trying to impress.

  As soon as I’d read the file, I called Mary Bellflower, who said, “So what did you think?”

  “I’m not sure. We know Gladys was injured. We have three inches of medical reports: X-ray results, treatment protocols, ultrasound, MRIs, X-rays. She might fake whiplash or a lower-back pain, but a cracked pelvis and two cracked ribs? Please.”

  “Brannigan didn’t say she wasn’t injured. He’s saying the injuries weren’t sustained in the accident. By the time Millard ran into Lisa Ray pulling out of the parking lot, she was already hurt. Brannigan didn’t say so flat out, but that’s his guess.”

  “What, like Millard beat the crap out of her or something like that?”

  “That’s what we need to find out.”

  “But her injuries were fresh, right? I mean, this wasn’t anything that’d happened weeks before.”

  “Right. It could have happened prior to their getting in the van. Maybe he was taking her to the emergency room and he saw his chance.”

  “Not to be dense about it, but why would he do that?”

  “He had liability insurance, but no collision coverage. They’d dropped their home-owner’s policy because they couldn’t afford the premiums. No catastrophic medical, no long-term disability. They were totally exposed.”

  “So he deliberately rammed into Lisa Ray’s car? That’s risky, isn’t it? What if Lisa had been killed? For that matter, what if his wife had been killed?”

  “He wouldn’t have been any worse off. Might have been better for him actually. He could have sued for wrongful death or negligent homicide, half a dozen things. The point was to blame someone else and collect the dough instead of having to pay it out. He’d been badly injured himself and a jury awarded him $6
80,000. They’ve probably pissed it all away.”

  “Jesus, that’s cold. What kind of guy is he?”

  “Try desperate. Hetty Buckwald went after Brannigan tooth and nail and couldn’t get him to back down. Lowell said it was all he could do not to bust out laughing. He thinks this is big. Huge. We just have to figure out what it means.”

  “I’ll go up there again. Maybe the neighbors know something we don’t.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  I returned to the Fredricksons’ neighborhood and started with the two neighbors directly across the street. Their knowledge, if any, probably wouldn’t come to much, but at least I could rule them out. At the first house, the middle-aged woman who answered the door was pleasant but professed to know nothing about the Fredricksons. When I explained the situation, she said she’d moved in six months before and preferred to keep her distance from her neighbors. “That way, if I have a problem with any one of them, I can complain without worrying about someone’s feelings being hurt,” she said. “I tend to my affairs and expect them to tend to theirs.”

  “Well, I can see your point. I’ve had good luck with my neighbors until recently.”

  “When neighbors turn on you, there’s nothing worse. Your home is supposed to be a refuge, not a fortified encampment in a war zone.”

  Amen, I thought. I gave her my card and asked her to call me if she heard anything. “Don’t count on it,” she said, as she closed the door.

  I went down her walkway and up the walk leading to the house next door. This time the occupant was a man in his late twenties, thin face, glasses, underslung jaw with a tiny goatee meant to give definition to his weak chin. He wore loose jeans and a T-shirt with horizontal stripes of the sort a mother would select.