Three Complete Novels: A Is for Alibi / B Is for Burglar / C Is for Corpse

by Sue Grafton

  I took a moment to close and lock the back door, and then waited on the front porch while the paramedics went about their business. This was a job where they spent much of their time on their knees. Through the open door I could hear the comforting murmur of questions and Gus’s tremulous replies. I didn’t want to be present when the time came to move him. One more of his yelps and they’d be tending to me.

  Henry joined me a moment later and the two of us retreated to the street. Neighbors were scattered along the sidewalk, attentive in the wake of this undefined emergency. Henry chatted with Moza Lowenstein, who lived two houses down. Since Gus’s injuries weren’t life-threatening, we could talk among ourselves without any sense of disrespect. It took an additional fifteen minutes before Gus was loaded into the back of the ambulance. By then, he was on an IV line.

  Henry consulted with the driver, a hefty dark-haired man in his thirties, who told us they were taking Gus to the emergency room at Santa Teresa Hospital, referred to fondly by most of us as “St. Terry’s.”

  Henry said he’d follow in his car. “Are you coming?”

  “I can’t. I have to go on to work. Will you call me later?”

  “Of course. I’ll give you a buzz as soon as I know what’s going on.”

  I waited until the ambulance departed and Henry had backed out of his drive before I got in my car.

  On the way into town, I stopped off at an attorney’s office and picked up an Order to Show Cause notifying a noncustodial spouse that a modification of child support was being sought. The ex-husband was a Robert Vest, whom I was already fondly thinking of as “Bob.” Our Bob was a freelance tax consultant working from his home in Colgate. I checked my watch, and since it was only a few minutes after ten, I headed to his place in hopes of catching him at his desk.

  I found his house and passed at a slightly slower speed than normal, then circled back and parked on the opposite side of the street. Both the driveway and the carport were empty. I put the papers in my bag, crossed, and climbed his front steps to the porch. The morning newspaper lay on the mat, suggesting that Bobby wasn’t yet up. Might have had a late night. I knocked and waited. Two minutes passed. I knocked again, more emphatically. Still no response. I edged to my right and took a quick peep in the window. I could see past his dining room table and into the darkened kitchen beyond. The place had that glum air of emptiness. I returned to my car, made a note of the date and time of the attempt, and went on to the office.

  3

  SOLANA

  Six weeks after the Other left her job, she gave notice herself. This was a graduation day of sorts. It was time to say good-bye to her work as a lowly nurse’s aide and advance her career as a newly credentialed LVN. Though no one else knew it, there was now a new Solana Rojas in the world, living a parallel life in the same community. Some people saw Santa Teresa as a small town, but Solana knew she could go about her business without much risk of running into her namesake. She’d done it before with surprising ease.

  She’d acquired two new credit cards in Solana Rojas’s name, substituting her own street address. To her way of thinking, her use of the Other’s license and credit wasn’t fraudulent. She wouldn’t dream of charging merchandise that she didn’t intend to pay for. Far from it. She took care of her bills the minute they came in. She might not cover the entire outstanding balance, but she was prompt about writing her newly printed checks and mailing them off. She couldn’t afford to be in arrears, because she knew if an account was turned over to a collection agency, her duplicity might come to light. This would never do. There must be no black marks against the Other’s name.

  The only tiny snag she could see was that the Other’s cursive was distinct and her signature impossible to duplicate. Solana had tried, but she couldn’t master the slapdash way of it. She worried that some overzealous store clerk would compare her signature to the miniature signature reproduced on the Other’s license. To avoid questions arising, she carried a wrist brace in her purse and strapped it around her right wrist before she shopped. This allowed her to claim carpal tunnel syndrome, which netted her sympathy instead of suspicion at her clumsy approximation of the Other’s signature.

  Even then, there’d been a close call at a department store downtown. As a treat, she was buying brand-new sheets, a new spread, and two down pillows, which she’d taken to the counter in the linen department. The saleswoman had rung up the items, and when she glanced at the name on the credit card, she looked up with surprise. “I can’t believe this. I just waited on a Solana Rojas less than ten minutes ago.”

  Solana smiled and waved aside the coincidence. “That happens all the time. There are three of us in town with the same first and last names. Everybody gets us mixed up.”

  “I can imagine,” the saleswoman said. “It must be irksome.”

  “It’s really no big deal, though it’s comical sometimes.”

  The saleswoman glanced at the credit card, her tone of voice pleasant. “May I see some ID?”

  “Absolutely,” Solana said. She opened her handbag and made a show of rooting through the contents. She realized in a flash that she didn’t dare show the woman the stolen driver’s license when the Other had just been there. By now, the Other would have a duplicate license in her possession. If she’d used it for identification purposes, the saleswoman would be looking at the same one twice.

  She stopped searching through the bag, her tone perplexed. “For heaven’s sake. My wallet’s gone. I can’t think where I could have left it.”

  “Did you do any other shopping before you came here?”

  “You know what? I did. I remember now I took out my wallet and put it on the counter when I was buying a pair of shoes. I was sure I picked it up again because I took out my credit card, but I must have left it behind.”

  The saleswoman reached for the phone. “I’ll be happy to check with the shoe department. They’re probably holding it.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t here. It was in a store down the street. Well, no matter. Why don’t you set these aside and I’ll pick them up and pay for them as soon as I have my wallet back.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll have your purchases right here.”

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”

  She left the store, abandoning the bedding, which she ended up buying at a shopping mall miles from downtown. The encounter frightened her more than she cared to admit. She gave the matter a great deal of thought in the days that followed and finally decided there was too much at stake to take chances. She went down to the hall of records and got a duplicate of the Other’s birth certificate. Then she went to the DMV and applied for a driver’s license under the name Solana Rojas, using her own Colgate address. She reasoned that there was surely more than one Solana Rojas in the world, just as there was more than one John Smith. She told the clerk her husband had died and she’d just learned to drive. She had to take a written exam and go through the motions of a driving test with an officious fellow sitting next to her, but she’d passed both with ease. She’d signed the forms and had her photo taken, and in return, she was given a temporary license until the permanent one could be processed in Sacramento and sent to her by mail.

  That done, she had another perhaps more practical matter to address. She had money, but she didn’t want to use it to support herself. She kept a secret stash in case she wanted to disappear—which she knew she would at some point—but she needed a regular income. After all, she had her son, Tiny, to provide for. A job was essential. To that end, she’d been combing the classifieds day after day for weeks without luck. There were more jobs for machinists, house cleaners, and day laborers than there were for health care professionals, and she resented the implications. She’d worked hard to get where she was, and now it appeared that there was no demand for her services.

  Two families were advertising for live-in child care. One specified experience with infants and toddlers, and the other made mention of a preschool-age child. In both instances, the
ads said Mom was working outside the home. What kind of person opened her door to anyone who was bright enough to read? Women these days had no sense. They behaved as though mothering was beneath them, a trivial job that could be meted out to any stranger walking in off the street. Didn’t it occur to them that a pedophile could check the paper in the morning and have himself ensconced with his latest victim by the end of the day? All the attention paid to references and background checks was meaningless. These women were desperate and would snap up anyone who was polite and looked halfway presentable. If Solana were willing to settle for long hours and bad pay, she’d apply for those positions herself. As it was, she’d set her sights on something better.

  She had Tiny to consider. The two of them had shared the same humble apartment for close to ten years. He was the object of much discussion among her siblings, who saw him as spoiled, irresponsible, and manipulative. The boy’s given name was Tomasso. In the wake of his thirteen-pound-six-ounce arrival, she’d suffered an infection in her female parts, which had cured her of both the desire for other children and the ability to bear them. He was a beautiful infant, but the pediatrician who examined him at birth said he was defective. She couldn’t remember the term for it now, but she’d ignored the doctor’s somber words. Despite her son’s size, his cry was feeble and mewing. He was listless, with poor reflexes and very little muscle control. He had difficulty sucking and swallowing, which created feeding problems. The doctor told her the boy would be better off in an institution, where he could be cared for by those accustomed to children like him. She was having none of it. The child needed her. He was the light and joy of her life, and if he had problems, she’d find a way to deal with them.

  Before he was a week old, one of her brothers had tagged him with the nickname “Tiny,” and he’d been known by that name since. She thought of him fondly as “Tonto,” which seemed fitting. Like the Tonto in old Western movies, he was her tagalong, a loyal and faithful side-kick. He was thirty-five years old now, with a flat nose, deep-set eyes, and a smooth baby face. He wore his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, exposing ears set low on his head. He wasn’t an easy child, but she’d devoted her life to him.

  By the time he was in the special-education equivalent of sixth grade, he weighed 180 pounds and had a doctor’s standing order excusing him from PE. He was hyperactive and aggressive, given to temper tantrums and destructiveness when thwarted. He’d done poorly through grade school and junior high because he suffered a learning disorder that made reading difficult. More than one school counselor suggested he was mildly retarded, but Solana scoffed. If he had trouble concentrating in class, why blame him? It was the teacher’s fault for not doing her job better. It was true he had a speech problem, but she had no trouble understanding him. He’d been held back twice—in the fourth grade and again in the eighth—and finally dropped out in his sophomore year of high school the day he turned eighteen. His interests were limited, and this, coupled with his size, precluded his holding a regular job, or any kind of job at all. He was strong and useful, but he really wasn’t cut out for much in the way of work. She was his sole support and that suited them both.

  She turned the page and checked the “Help Wanted.” She missed the ad at first glance, but something made her scan the entries again. There it was, near the top, a ten-line ad for a part-time private-duty nurse for an elderly female dementia patient who needed skilled care. “Dependable, reliable, own transportation,” the ad read. Not a word about honest. There was an address and phone number listed. She’d see what information she could solicit before she actually went out for an interview. She liked having the opportunity to evaluate the situation in advance so she could decide if it was worth her while.

  She picked up the phone and dialed the number.

  4

  At 10:45 I had an appointment to discuss a case that was actually my prime concern. The week before, I’d had a call from an attorney named Lowell Effinger, who was representing the defendant in a personal-injury suit filed as the result of a two-car accident seven months earlier. The previous May, on the Thursday before the Memorial Day weekend, his client, Lisa Ray, driving her white 1973 Dodge Dart, had been making a left-hand turn out of one of the City College parking lots when she was struck by an oncoming van. Lisa Ray’s vehicle was badly damaged. Police and paramedics were called. Lisa suffered a bump to the head. The paramedics examined her and suggested a trip to the ER at St. Terry’s. Though shaken and upset, she declined medical assistance. Apparently, she couldn’t bear the idea of waiting hours, just to be sent home with a set of cautions and a prescription for a mild pain reliever. They told her what to watch for in terms of a possible concussion and advised her to see her own physician if needed.

  The driver of the van, Millard Fredrickson, was rattled but essentially unhurt. His wife, Gladys, sustained the bulk of the injuries, and she insisted on being taken to St. Terry’s, where the findings of the ER physician indicated a concussion, severe contusions, and soft-tissue injuries to her neck and lower back. An MRI revealed torn ligaments in her right leg, and subsequent X-rays showed a cracked pelvis and two cracked ribs. She was treated and referred to an orthopedist for follow-up.

  That same day, Lisa had notified her insurance agent, who passed on the information to the adjuster at California Fidelity Insurance, with whom (coincidentally) I’d once shared office space. On Friday, the day after the accident, the adjuster, Mary Bellflower, had contacted Lisa and taken her statement. According to the police report, Lisa was at fault since she was responsible for making the left turn safely. Mary went out to the accident site and took photographs. She also photographed the damage to both vehicles, then told Lisa to go ahead and get estimates for the repair work. She thought the car was beyond help, but she wanted the figures for her records.

  Four months later, the Fredricksons filed suit. I’d seen a copy of the complaint, which contained sufficient whereases and wherefores to scare the pants off your average citizen. Plaintiff was said to be “injured in her health, strength, and activity, sustaining serious and permanent physical injury to her body, shock and emotional injuries to her person, which have caused and will continue to cause Plaintiff great emotional distress and mental and physical pain and suffering, subsequently resulting in loss of consortium…(and so on and so forth). Plaintiff is seeking damages including but not limited to, past and future medical expenses, lost wages, and any and all incidental expenses and compensatory damages as permitted by law.”

  Plaintiff’s attorney, Hetty Buckwald, seemed to think a million dollars, with that comforting trail of zeros, would be sufficient to soothe and assuage her client’s many agonies. I’d seen Hetty a couple of times in court when I was there on other matters, and I generally came away hoping I’d never have occasion to come up against her. She was short and chunky, a woman in her late fifties with an aggressive manner and no sense of humor. I couldn’t imagine what had left her with such a chip on her shoulder. She treated opposing attorneys like scum and the poor defendant like someone who ate babies for sport.

  Ordinarily, CFI would have assigned one of its attorneys to defend such a suit, but Lisa Ray was convinced she’d do better with a lawyer of her own. She was adamant about not settling and she’d asked Lowell Effinger to represent her, sensing perhaps that CFI might roll over and play dead. Police report to the contrary, Lisa Ray swore she wasn’t at fault. She claimed Millard Fredrickson was speeding and that Gladys wasn’t wearing her seat belt, which was, in itself, a violation of California traffic law.

  The file I’d picked up from Lowell Effinger contained copies of numerous documents: Defendant’s Request for Production of Documents, Supplemental Request for Production of Documents, medical records from the hospital emergency room, and reports from the various medical personnel who’d treated Gladys Fredrickson. There were also copies of the depositions taken from Gladys Fredrickson; her husband, Millard; and the defendant, Lisa Ray. I did a quick study of the police report and leaf
ed through the transcripts of Interrogatories. I took my time over the photographs and the sketch of the site, which showed the relative positions of the two vehicles, before and after the collision. At issue, from my perspective, was a witness to the accident, whose comments at the time suggested he supported Lisa Ray’s account of the event. I told Effinger I’d look into it and then turned around and set up the midmorning meeting with Mary Bellflower.

  Before I walked through the California Fidelity Insurance offices, I donned my mental and emotional blinders. I’d worked here once upon a time and my relationship with the company had not ended well. The arrangement was one whereby I was given office space in exchange for investigating arson and wrongful-death claims. Mary Bellflower was a recent hire in those days, a newly married twenty-four-year-old with a fresh, pretty face and a sharp mind. Now she had four years’ experience under her belt and she was a pleasure to deal with. I checked her desktop as I sat down, looking for framed photos of her husband, Peter, and any small tykes she might have given birth to in the interim. None were in evidence and I wondered what kind of luck she’d had with her baby plans. I thought it best not to inquire so I got on with the business at hand.

  “So what’s the deal here?” I’d asked. “Is Gladys Fredrickson for real?”