by Sue Grafton
I leaned forward. "Why didn't you tell me you were doing that? I could have said the same thing."
"I blurted out the first thing that occurred to me. You were quick about it, too. Soup and noodles. That's safe. How can you go wrong?"
My gaze strayed toward the kitchen. Mere seconds had passed, and Rosie was already using her backside to push her way through the swinging kitchen doors into the dining room, bearing a wide tray that held a shallow bowl of steaming soup.
I said, "Oh, geez. Here she comes. I hate service this quick. It's like eating in a Chinese restaurant. You're in and out on the street again twenty minutes later."
She crossed the room, setting the tray on the adjoining table, then placing the bowl in front of me. She tucked her hands under her apron and looked at me. "How you like?"
"I haven't tried it yet." I fanned some of the steam toward my face, trying to define the odor. Burnt hair? Dog hide? "Gee, this smells great. What is it?"
She peered at my bowl, identifying some of the diced ingredients. "Is parsnip, ongion, carrot, kohlrabi –"
"I love vegetable soup!" I said, with perhaps more enthusiasm than I'd ordinarily express. I tipped my spoon down into the depths, bringing up a rich cargo of root vegetables.
She was still peering. "Is also head, neck, lungs, and liver of one lamb."
The spoon was already in the air by then, soup sailing toward my mouth as though of its own accord. As the spoon reached my lips, I caught a glimpse of porous gray chunks, probably minced lobe of lung, along with some floaters of something I was too fearful to ask about. I puckered my lips and made a slurping sound, sucking up the broth while deftly avoiding the little knots of offal. I made insincere Mmm noises.
"I come right beck with noodles."
"Take your time."
As soon as she left, I put my spoon down, craning to check all four comers of the room. "I wonder if I have time to scoot to the toilet and put this back where it belongs. She doesn't even have planters where , I can dump the stuff."
Henry leaned closer to the bowl. "Is that a nostril? Oh no, sorry. It's probably just a little cross-section of heart valve. Head's up. Here she comes again."
Rosie was returning to the table with a dinner-sized plate in hand. I made a big display of stirring my soup and wiping my mouth with a napkin as she set the noodles in front of me. I patted my chest as though overwhelmed, which I was. "This is filling. Really rich."
I stole an apprehensive look at the dish as she placed it on the table beside my soup bowl, experiencing a flash of relief. "What's that, manicotti?"
"Is call palacsinta tészta. Like what you call crepes."
"Hungarian crepes. Well, that sounds wonderful. I can do that."
"I fill with calf's brains scrembled with egg. Very dainty. You'll see. I can teach you to make."
"Okay then, I'll just chow down," I said. She stood by the table, as though prepared to monitor my every bite. I leaned to one side, focusing my gaze on the far side of the room. "I think William's calling you. It looks like he needs help."
Rosie crossed to the bar where she and William engaged in a baffled conversation. Meanwhile, I'd grabbed up my shoulder bag and I was rooting through the contents. Earlier that day, I'd spotted an out-dated grocery list done on a sheet of yellow legal paper. I kept one eye on Rosie while I folded the note paper into a cone, pointed at the bottom with a wide mouth at the top. I turned the pointed bottom up to form a seal. I forked up crepes in rapid succession, ignoring the gnarly bits that fell back on the plate. I folded the top down, wrapped the cone in a paper napkin, and shoved the bundle in my purse. By the time Rosie glanced in my direction, I was bent over my plate, making fake chewing motions while trying to look entranced. Another couple entered the bar and her attention was distracted. I put a twenty on the table near Henry's plate. "Tell her I was called away on an emergency."
Henry pointed to my soup, most of which was still in the bowl. "I'll I have her put that in a jar and bring it over to you later tonight. I know how you hate to see food go to waste."
Chapter 10
* * *
I was home earlier than I'd intended, concerned that calf brain would leak out of the makeshift container and contaminate the interior of my shoulder bag. As I passed Henry's garbage can, I removed the bundle from my purse and dumped it. I lifted my head, alerted by the dim j ringing of a phone somewhere. I banged down the lid and hurried to my front door, unlocking it in haste. Three rings. Four. I slung my bag on a kitchen chair and snatched up the receiver. My answering machine had already kicked in and I was forced to override my own voice, singing, "It's me. I'm here. Don't go away. I'm answering."
"Kinsey?"
The caller was male and he spoke against the dull murmur of background conversations. I put a hand against one ear. "Who's this?"
"Pudgie."
"Well, hi. This is a surprise. I didn't think I'd hear from you. What's up?"
"You said call if I thought of something, but you have to promise you won't let this get back to him."
I found myself straining to hear. "Back to who?"
"Frankie. You ever meet him?"
"Not yet."
"He's a crazy man. You can't tell it right off because he's good at faking it... like he's normal and all, but believe me, you don't want to mess with him."
"I didn't realize you knew him."
"I don't, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out the guy's a freak."
"Is that why you called, to say how nuts he is?"
"Nuhn-uhn. I'll get to that, but lemme ask you something first. Suppose someone tells him I called you?"
"Come on. I can't control that. Besides, who's going to tell? I can promise not a word of this will come from me."
"You swear?"
"Of course." I could hear him cup a hand over the mouthpiece, lips so close to the phone I thought he'd slobber in my ear. "He talked about stabbing some chick to death."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Pudgie. That's why he went to prison. For killing Cathy Lee Pearse."
"Not her. Another one. This was after he killed her."
"I'm listening."
"He's bragging about what happens to any bitch tries to cross him. He said he picked up this chick in a bar. She had some dope on her and the two of them got loose. They go out to the parking lot to play grab ass, but she turns all sour on him and starts giving him a hard time, which pisses him off. When she refuses to put out, he offs her and sticks her in the trunk of Cathy Lee's car. He drives around with her two days, but he's worried she'll start to stink, so he dumps her when he gets to Lompoc."
"Where'd he pick her up?"
"What bar? Don't know. He never said. He didn't mention the town, either. I'd guess Santa Teresa. It had to've been before he hit Lompoc because that's where he got caught."
"What about the dump site? Did he say where that was?"
"Some place outside town where she wouldn't be found. I guess they managed to nail him on Cathy Lee, but nobody knew about the other one, so he was free and clear on that."
"What made you suddenly remember? This doesn't sound like something that would slip your mind."
"It didn't 'slip my mind,'" he said, offended. "You're the one came to me. I never offered to snitch. I didn't 'suddenly' do anything. I remembered the minute his name came up."
"Why didn't you tell me then?"
"We'd only just met. How'd I know I could trust you? I had to think about that."
"What made you decide to tell me?"
"I probably should've kept my mouth shut if it comes right down to it. Frankie's a bad-ass. Word leaks out and my sorry butt is fried. He's not a guy you fuck with and expect to live."
"Fair enough," I said. "Did he say anything else?"
"Not that I remember offhand. Time, I didn't pay much attention. Jail, everybody brags about stuff like that. It's mostly bullshit, so I didn't attach anything to it. I mean, I did, but then that's the last I ever heard of it. Now you're saying s
ome girl's body was dumped and right away I think about him."
"You're sure about this."
"No, I'm not sure. He might've made the whole thing up. How the hell should I know? You said call and I did."
I thought about it briefly. This could be a hustle, though for the life of me, I couldn't see what Pudgie was getting out of it. "That's not much to go on."
"Well, I can't help you there."
"How'd he kill her?"
"Knife, I guess. Said he stabbed her, wrapped her up, and stuck her in the trunk. Soon as he got to Lompoc, he pitched her off the side of the road and hightailed it out of there. By the time the cops picked him up he figured he was safe. All they cared about was nailing him for Cathy Lee."
"Did he know the girl?"
"I doubt it. He didn't talk like he did."
"Because I'm curious about his motive."
"You gotta be kidding. Frankie doesn't need a motive. She could've looked at him funny or called him a pencil dick. If she knew he was on the run, she might've threatened to turn him in."
"Interesting," I said. "I'll have to give this some thought. Where are you calling from?"
"A place I hang out in Creosote. My sis drove up from the desert and brought me back to her house."
"Is there any way I can reach you if I need to get in touch?" He gave me a number with an area code.
I said, "Thanks. This could be a big help."
"Where's Frankie now?"
"I'm not sure. We've heard he's in town."
"You mean the fucker's out?"
"Sure, he's been paroled."
"You never said that. Oh, shit. You have to swear you won't tell him where you heard this. And don't ask me to testify in court because I won't."
"Pudgie, you couldn't testify in court. This is all hearsay. You didn't see him do anything so quit worrying. I'll tell the two cops I'm working with, but that's the end of it."
"I hope I haven't made a mistake."
"Relax. You're fine."
"You buy me those cigarettes?"
"No, but I owe you a bunch."
Dolan picked me up at the office Tuesday morning at 10:00. I'd managed my usual 6:00 A.M. run, after which I'd showered and dressed. I had coffee and a quick bowl of cereal, making it into the office by 8:35. By the time I heard Dolan's car horn, I'd finished catching upon all the odds and ends on my desk. Dolan had the good grace to toss his cigarette out the window as soon as I got in. Stacey's biopsy had been scheduled for 7:45, but neither of us wanted to talk about that. After I'd wrenched open the car door on the passenger side and hauled it shut again, I told Dolan about Pudgie's call.
He said, "Don't know what to make of it. What do you think?"
"I'd love to believe him, but I'm not sure how credible he is for a jailhouse snitch. He did seem to have a couple of the details right."
"Like what?"
"Well, he knew she'd been stabbed and he knew she'd been wrapped in something at the time she was dumped."
"It's possible he took a flyer, guessing at the fine points to make himself seem important."
"To me? Why would he care?"
"Because he's flirting with you. Gave him an excuse to call."
"Is that it? Well, I'm thrilled."
"Point is, what he says is useless. It's all air and sunshine."
"And hearsay as well."
"Right."
The next stop was Frankie's to see what we could shake loose from him. Dolan had talked to Frankie's parole officer, Dench Smallwood, who'd given him the address.
On our way across town, Dolan told me he'd gone through the murder book again. Early reports had made reference to three stolen vehicles, one of which was the red 1967 Chevrolet in which Frankie'd been stopped. Melvin Galloway had been asked to follow up on the other two, but gauging from the paperwork, it was impossible to tell what he'd actually done. Miracle was a fugitive and his arrest was a feather in Galloway's cap. Given his reputation for laziness, the routine aspects of the investigation probably didn't have much appeal. It was possible he'd simply claimed he'd handled the query when he'd let the matter slide. The red convertible C. K. Vogel had seen turned out to be a 1966 Ford Mustang, owned by a man named Gant in Mesquite, Arizona, just across the California line. Stacey had asked Joe Mandel to run the VIN and license plate to see where the vehicle was now. If Mandel could determine the current whereabouts, it might be worthwhile to track it down and take a look.
The room Frankie rented was located in the rear of a frame house on Guardia Street. We picked our way down the drive, avoiding a cornucopia of spilled garbage from an overturned can. Surrounding orange and red hibiscus shrubs had grown so tall that the narrow wooden porch was cold with shade. Dolan knocked on the door while I stood to one side, as though worried I'd be fired on through the lathe-and-plaster wall. Dolan waited a decent interval and knocked again. We were on the verge of departing when Frankie opened the door. At forty-four, he was baby-faced and clean-shaven. He wore a T-shirt and loose shorts, with a sleep mask pushed up on the top of his head. His feet were bare. He said, "What."
"Mr. Miracle?"
"That's right."
Dolan moved his windbreaker aside, exposing the badge on his belt. "Lieutenant Dolan, Santa Teresa Police Department. This is Kinsey Millhone."
"Okay." Frankie had mild brown wavy hair and brown eyes. His gaze was direct and tainted with annoyance. I was surprised to see he had no visible tattoos. He'd been in prison for the past seventeen years and I expected him to look as though he'd been rolling naked and wet across the Sunday funnies. He wasn't overweight by any means, but he looked soft, which was another surprise. I picture prison inmates all bulked up from lifting weights. His eyes caught mine. "I suit you okay?"
I declined a response. Dolan said, "You have a late night? You seem cross."
"I work nights, if it's any of your business."
"Doing what?"
"Janitorial. The Granger Building on the graveyard shift. I'd give you my boss's name, but you already have that."
Dolan smiled slightly. "Matter of fact I do. Your parole officer gave it to me when I talked to him."
"What's this about?"
"May we come in?"
Frankie glanced back across his shoulder. "Sure, why not?" He stepped away from the door and we crossed the threshold. His entire living quarters consisted of one room with a linoleum floor, a hot plate, an ancient refrigerator, an iron bedstead, and little else. In lieu of a closet, he had a rack made of cast iron pipe on which he'd draped his clothes, both dirty and clean. I could see a cramped bathroom through a door that opened off the rear wall. In addition to an ashtray full of butts, there was a tumble of paperback books on the floor by his bed, a mix of mystery and science fiction. The room smelled of ripe sheets and stale cigarette smoke. I'd have killed myself if I were forced to live in a place like this. On the other hand, Frankie was used to prison, so this was probably an improvement.
There was no place to sit so the two of us stood while Frankie crawled back in bed and pulled the sheet across his lap. The ensuing conversation seemed bizarre, like a visit with Stacey in his hospital room. I'd never seen anyone other than the chronically ill opt to be interviewed prone. It suggested a wary sort of self-confidence. He straightened the sheet and folded the top over once. "You can skip the small talk. I'm working again tonight and I need my sleep."
"We'd like to ask you about the time you spent in Lompoc before you got picked up."
"What about it?"
"How you got there, what you were doing before your arrest?"
"Don't remember. I was stoned. I had shit for brains back then."
"When the officers pulled you over, you were six miles from the spot where a young girl's body was found."
"Wonderful. And where was that?"
"Near Grayson Quarry. You know the place?"
"Everybody knows Grayson. It's been there for years."
"It seems like quite a coincidence."
"That
I was six miles away? Bullshit. I have family in the area. My dad's lived in the same house forty-four years. I was on my way to visit."
"After killing Cathy Lee."
"I hope you aren't here coughing up that old hair ball. I'll tell you one thing, they never should have nailed me for murder one. That was strictly self-defense. She came at me with a pair of scissors – not that I need to justify myself to you."
"Why'd you run? Hardly the actions of an innocent man."
"I never said I was innocent. I said – oh hell, why should I tell you? I was in a panic, if you want to know the truth. You do meth, you don't think straight. Temper runs hot and you think everybody's after you."
"No need to be defensive," Dolan said.
"Please forgive me. I beseech you. People wake me up, I get cranky sometimes."
Dolan smiled. "You get cranky, you fly off the handle, is that it?"
"You know what? I've done my time. Not a mark on my record in seventeen years. Credit for time served, good behavior, the whole shootin' match. Now I'm out, I'm clean, and I'm gainfully employed so you can go fuck yourself. No offense."
"Prison did you some good."
"Yes, it did. See that? Rehabilitation works. I'm living proof. Went from bad to good and now I'm free as a bird."
"Not quite. You're still on parole."
"You think I don't know that? All the fuckin' rules they lay down? Tell you something, you won't catch me in violation. I'm way too smart. I'm willing to play fair because I don't intend to go back in. And I mean, ever."
"You know the problem with you, Frankie?"
"What's that, Lieutenant? I'm sure you'll spell it out in great detail."
"You may be righteous today, but back then you didn't know enough to keep your big mouth shut."
"Come on. What is this?"
"I told you. We have an unsolved homicide with circumstances similar to Cathy Lee's."
"Yeah, well, I can't help you there. I don't know jack about that. You want anything else, you can talk to my attorney."
"And who's that?"
"Haven't hired one yet, but I'll let you know. Where's this horseshit coming from, or is that classified?"
