by Sue Grafton
The outer office serves as a library/reception area. I have a bookcase, an upright cupboard with cubbyholes, and a secondhand armoire that holds my office supplies. There’s also room for extra chairs in case more clients flock in. This has never actually happened, but I’m prepared for it nonetheless. The inner office is where I have my desk, my swivel chair, two guest chairs, file cabinets, and assorted office machines.
Halfway down the hall, there’s a tiny bathroom that I recently painted a deep chocolate brown on the theory that a tiny room will always look like a tiny room even if you paint it white, so you might as well pick a color you like. At the end of that same short corridor, I have a kitchenette that harbors a sink, a small refrigerator, a microwave, a coffeemaker, a Sparkletts water dispenser, and a door that opens to the outside.
I arrived at 8:00, and while I waited for a fresh pot of coffee to brew, I placed a call to the Santa Teresa County Probation Offices and asked to speak to Priscilla Holloway, a parole agent I’d met while babysitting a female ex-con with a wealthy dad, who’d paid me handsomely to shepherd her about.
When the line was picked up, she said, “Holloway.”
“Hi, Priscilla. Kinsey Millhone. I’m hoping you remember me . . .”
“Reba Lafferty’s friend.”
“Right. You have a minute?”
“Only if you make it quick. I have a client coming in for his monthly ass-kicking, so I gotta get myself in the proper frame of mind. What can I do for you?”
“I need a phone number for the U.S. probation office, Central California district. I’m trying to track down an inmate just coming off a ten-year stint in Lompoc.”
“Any agent in particular?”
“No clue. That’s what I’m hoping to find out.”
“Hang on. I have the number somewhere.”
She clunked the receiver on the desk. I could hear her sliding open a drawer and then rustling paper. After a short period, she came back and said, “The parole officer I last dealt with was a guy named Derrick Spanner, but this was three years ago, so who knows if he’s still there. This is his direct line in Los Angeles. Area code 2-1-3 . . .”
She gave me the number and I dutifully made a note. I thanked her, but she was gone before the words were even out of my mouth.
I depressed the plunger and then punched in the number. The line rang three times before an answering machine picked up. The outgoing message confirmed that I’d reached Derrick Spanner, so I identified myself by name, pausing to spell it before I said, “I’m calling from Santa Teresa, trying to contact a parolee named Christian Satterfield. I understand he was released from USP Lompoc a few months ago. I’m not sure who’s overseeing his parole, but Chris is a former neighbor and he left some personal items in my care. I’ve since moved and I’d appreciate your giving him my new number. He can call when he has a chance. Thanks so much.”
I repeated my name and rattled off my office phone, without pausing to think. The minute the number was out of my mouth, I regretted the choice. If the information was passed along to Satterfield, he wouldn’t have the slightest idea who I was, and if he dialed the number I’d given, the first thing he’d hear was me saying “Millhone Investigations.” This was not good. For a fellow just out of prison, the notion of an investigation, private or otherwise, would be worrisome. He’d think I was up to something, which I was.
I hung up, thought a minute, and then crossed to my file cabinets, where I opened a drawer and picked my way through the folders until I found the instruction manual for my answering machine. Once I figured out how to change the outgoing message, I recorded one of those generic responses that covers a multitude of sins.
“The party you’ve reached in the 805 area code is currently unavailable. Please leave your name and number at the sound of the tone and someone will get back to you as soon as possible.”
Once that was done, I thought, Now what?
Hallie Bettancourt hadn’t paid me to sit around waiting for the phone to ring. She hired me to do something else, which was to find her jailbird of a son. Who knew when Derrick Spanner would get around to checking his messages or if he’d actually pass along my name and phone number to Christian Satterfield? Even if Satterfield got the message, I had no confidence he’d call. There had to be another way to get to him.
I opened the bottom desk drawer and pulled out the telephone book—that hoary source of information so easy to overlook. There were twelve listings under “Satterfield” with home addresses that ranged from Santa Teresa proper to Colgate on the north end of town and Montebello to the south. A few were designated with single initials and phone numbers, but no addresses, which was useless for my purposes. I set the matter aside while I went about other business. Tax time was coming up, and I had receipts to sort in preparation for delivery to my accountant.
By the time I reached home that afternoon, it was 5:15 and the light was fading. Now that we were in March, the days were getting longer, but the chill in the air suggested winter wasn’t ready to concede to spring. I found a parking place half a block away and hoofed it to my apartment, pausing to pull the mail out of the box before I let myself through the squeaky gate. I angled right, rounded the side of the studio, and moved into the backyard. Henry’s lawn was brown, and half his shrubbery had died.
There was a wheelbarrow and spade in the grassy area beyond Henry’s flagstone patio, but no sign of him. New to the scene was the recently excavated fifteen-foot half circle that now encompassed two fruit trees at the edge of his dead lawn. He’d mounded the bed with fifty pounds of bark mulch, judging from the empty bags he’d left nearby. I also spotted a hose dangling from his bathroom window, and that stopped me momentarily. What the heck was that about? Probably a water-saving scheme of some sort.
I shrugged to myself and continued to my front door, keys at the ready. As I let myself in, I caught a flash of white out of the corner of my eye. Henry’s cat, Ed, shot out of the bushes and across the yard in time to streak into my apartment ahead of me. He’d invented this game himself, timing his run to catch me unawares. Inevitably, I forgot to check his whereabouts before I opened the door and he’d slip through the gap to victory. Sometimes I didn’t even see him make his move and only discovered him after the fact, when he announced his win. He was a chatty little thing. Once inside, he usually slowed to a stop so he could sniff the shag carpet in case a mouse had left him a scented love note. Neither Henry nor I had been aware of vermin on the property until Ed came to live with us. Now he made regular patrols and left rodent remains on both our doormats as proof of his superior hunting skills.
Henry had acquired the cat six months earlier, when his brother William carted him from Michigan to California. Their older sister, Nell, who’d be turning one hundred years old on December 31, had adopted the nameless cat as a stray. Soon afterward, she’d tripped over him, taking a nasty spill that left her with a broken hip. William and Rosie had flown from Santa Teresa to Flint to assist with her care. When another brother, Lewis, threatened to have the cat exterminated, William had taken it upon himself to pass the beast along to Henry without permission or prior warning. This was not a good plan. Henry had been vehemently opposed to keeping the cat, until the vet informed him that Ed was a Japanese Bobtail, a rare and ancient breed known for their intelligence, their talkativeness, and their affinity for human companionship. Henry had promptly named him Ed and now the two were inseparable—except for those occasions when the cat came to visit me.
Henry and I had agreed that Ed would be strictly an indoor cat. The street we lived on wasn’t subject to speeding cars, but there was sufficient traffic to be hazardous. There was also the issue of the occasional dog running loose, and while we felt Ed could defend himself, he was too precious to risk. Ed, of course, had other ideas, and we’d no sooner confine him to Henry’s house than he’d find a way out. We were still trying to determine how he managed. It was
embarrassing that he outwitted us so easily.
I dropped my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool, tossed the mail on my desk, and turned on a lamp in my living room. There were no messages on my answering machine. Ed had leaped up on the counter, where he was now reclining, watching me with interest, his devotion largely inspired by the fact that I plied him with treats. I stepped into the kitchen and took out his bag of crunchy party mix. I opened the package and tilted a selection into my palm. He chose a few kibbles shaped like chickens, leaving the fish and mice for another occasion.
I put his treats away and then picked him up and carried him under one arm as I pushed the thumb lock of the patio door to the open position, went out, and pulled the door shut behind me. Ed’s purring was an audible rumble in the vicinity of my ribs as I crossed the patio. I knocked on Henry’s door. I heard a muffled command, which I assumed was encouragement to let myself in. I peered through the glass and spotted him lying on the floor, stretched out on his back. I could see shorts, long bare feet, and a portion of his sweatshirt, while his head and shoulders were positioned halfway into the cabinet under the kitchen sink.
I opened the door and stuck my head in. “Is everything okay?”
“Plumbing issue.” He exhibited a wrench, which he waved in my direction before he went back to work. He’d placed a five-gallon plastic bucket on the floor to one side, along with an assortment of cleansers, liquid dishwashing soap, window spray, sponges, and rusty S.O.S pads he usually kept out of sight.
I set Ed down on all fours and closed the door behind me. “You have a leak?”
“I have a plan,” he said. He put the wrench down and inched his way carefully from under the counter, holding a J-shaped ninety-degree fitting made of PVC. “Sink trap.”
“I can see that.”
He struggled to his feet, shaking his head at his own creakiness. Henry is eighty-nine years old and in phenomenal shape for a man his age (or any other age, now that I think of it). He’s tall and lean, with thick snow white hair and eyes the color of bluebells. He held up the trap and tilted it, emptying the contents into the plastic bucket. “Water creates a seal that prevents sewer gas from passing from the pipes back into the room.”
“I thought the trap was to catch stuff in case you dropped a pricy diamond ring down the drain.”
“It does that as well.” He moved the bucket into position under the sink, which I could see now was filled with soapy water. “Watch this.”
He pulled the plug and the sink full of water drained noisily into the bucket below. “What you’re looking at is Step One in my new water conservation system. I can dump this bucket full of gray water in the toilet to make it flush. I can also use wastewater to irrigate my lawn.”
“Which is why you have a hose hanging out the bathroom window, yes?”
“You got it. I’ll keep the tub stoppered while I shower and then siphon the water out the window into my shrubs. Think of all the city water I can save. I probably waste a gallon every time I run the tap, waiting for the water to get hot. Last week, I ordered a book on gray water use, and we’ll see what more we can do.”
“Sounds good. Is that a new flower bed?”
He looked at me blankly.
“I saw the empty mulch bags.”
“Oh! No, no. The mulch bed is there for purification purposes. You can’t store gray water for more than twenty-four hours because of the bacteria content, so any runoff has to pass through healthy topsoil.”
“News to me.”
“And to me as well. My big shock was the water bill, which jumped sky-high. I called the water department and the woman checked the meter readings, which she swore were accurate. She says landscape irrigation is the prime culprit. Household use is minimal by comparison. The more lawn I can eliminate, the better off I’ll be. For the moment, the water department is asking us to voluntarily reduce our usage by twenty percent. I’m hoping to get ahead of the game.”
“Well, I’m being careful.”
“I know that and I appreciate your efforts. We still have to tighten our belts. If the city restricts us further, I want to be prepared.”
“You can count on me.”
He clapped his hands together once. “Let me change clothes and we can have supper up at Rosie’s. With all this going on, I haven’t had a chance to shop today, let alone cook,” he said. “Almost forgot to tell you. We have new neighbors.”
“Since when?”
“January first, from what I hear. Shallenbargers, on the driveway side. Joseph and Edna.”
“Good news. I knew the house was on the market, but I didn’t know it sold. I’m sure the Adelsons are thrilled,” I said. “What’s the story? Are they young, old?”
“No one eighty-five and under is old. They’re retired. I just met them this morning. She and Joseph were in the backyard, planting flowers on their little doggie’s grave.”
“What happened to him?”
“Her. Old age. She died shortly after they arrived. I guess they’d been expecting it because they seemed to be bearing up okay. Joseph’s in a wheelchair, so he doesn’t get around so well. His walker’s a bit of a struggle, too, when he’s crossing the grass.”
“At least they’re quiet. I had no idea anyone was living there.”
“She says now they’re settled, they plan to spruce up the place, which it could sorely use. Their backyard used to look worse than mine. It’s already looking better than it did.”
He retreated down the hall on his way to his room, calling over his shoulder, “Help yourself to wine. I’ll be right there.”
“I can wait,” I said.
4
We ambled the half block to Rosie’s through the gathering dark. Streetlights had come on, forming shapeless yellow patches on the sidewalk. Once there, Henry opened the door and ushered me in ahead of him. The tavern’s atmosphere was subdued, much as it had been before the place was taken over by the local sports enthusiasts whose various league trophies still lined the shelf Rosie had had installed above the bar. The 1988 football season had been capped by Super Bowl XXIII on Sunday, January 22, when the 49ers defeated the Bengals by a score of 20–16. For reasons unknown, this had triggered an exodus. One week the sports rowdies were in evidence; the next, they were gone. In one of those inexplicable migrations of restaurant patrons, they’d abandoned Rosie’s as mysteriously as they had appeared. Almost at once, police department personnel drifted in to fill the ecological niche.
Until recently, the favored hangout among cops had been the Caliente Café, or CC’s, as it was known. Then on New Year’s Day, a kitchen fire had broken out, and by the time the fire engines arrived a scant seven minutes later, the entire back side of the restaurant was engulfed in flames and the better part of the structure was reduced to charcoal briquettes. There was some suggestion the devastating fire wasn’t entirely accidental, but whatever the facts, the doors and windows had been boarded over and there was no talk of reopening.
Rosie’s was off the beaten path and less than a mile away, which made it the natural successor for those dispossessed of their watering hole. Rosie’s wasn’t a popular spot. The décor, if one could call it such, was too tacky to attract a sophisticated crowd, and the ambience too staid to appeal to the young. Now police officers and civilian employees stopped in after work and plainclothes detectives from the criminal investigations division had begun to frequent the place, attracted by its anonymity. The cheap prices also exerted an appeal. Absent were the chief of police, assistant chiefs, and others in upper management, which was just as well.
In hopes of engendering loyalty, Rosie had purchased a popcorn machine. Napkin-lined baskets of freshly popped corn were now stationed down the length of the bar with shakers of Parmesan cheese and garlic salt. The smell of hot oil and burnt kernels formed a pungent counterpoint to the scent of Hungarian spices that saturated the air.
&n
bsp; It was early yet and neighborhood regulars would soon trickle in, augmented by off-duty police as the evening wore on. For the time being, the television screen was blank and all of the overhead lights were on, illuminating the dispirited collection of mix-and-match furnishings Rosie had assembled from garage sales over the years. The secondhand chairs had wood or chrome frames with padded vinyl plastic seats, and the Formica-topped tables were only made level through the tricky use of shims. The wooden booths that lined the right-hand wall were darkly varnished, with surfaces perpetually sticky to the touch.
William was behind the bar, polishing stemware. Rosie was perched on a bar stool, consulting a collection of cookbooks that were open in front of her. There was only one other customer, and he sat four stools away from her, his back turned while he read the newspaper and sipped a glass of beer.
As Henry and I took our seats, I glanced over and realized the lone man at the bar was Cheney Phillips, who worked in the homicide unit at the Santa Teresa Police Department. Cheney was roughly my age, with a dark mop of unruly curls as soft as a poodle’s coat. Brown-eyed, clean-shaven. Two years before, we’d had what I suppose could be called a “romance,” though I feel compelled to put the term in quotes. While the initial sparks had never taken hold, I didn’t think either of us had ruled out the possibility. Now even the most casual encounter sometimes triggered intimate images that made my cheeks color with embarrassment.
I pushed away from the table, saying to Henry, “I’ll be right back.”
“You want white wine, yes?” he asked.
“I do. Thanks.”
As usual, Cheney was nattily dressed: gray slacks, navy blazer, under which he wore a white dress shirt with an expensive-looking silk tie in shades of gray.
