H is for HOMICIDE

by Sue Grafton

  Kip buzzed at yet another locked door, and after a brief wait another female jail officer emerged from the women’s side. Bibianna and I had our pictures taken in the kind of booth you see in Woolworth’s, a sorry strip of poses appearing moments later in the outside slot. In mine, I looked like a suspect in a teen porno ring, the kind of woman who’d lure the young girls with glib promises of modeling gigs. We moved into the women’s booking area, where we approached a row of holding cells. I went into the first and Bibianna the second. The officer with me did a quick pat-down and then removed the handcuffs.

  “Lean up against the wall,” she said. Her tone wasn’t unfriendly, but it was devoid of real warmth. And why not? I was just one more in an endless stream of jailbirds as far as she knew.

  I faced the wall, arms straight out in front of me, leaning my weight on my hands, which were spaced about four feet apart. She did a second, more thorough, pat-down, making sure I didn’t have any tiny lethal weapons concealed in my hair. She allowed me to take a seat on a bench along the wall while the proper papers were assembled at the counter to my right. When the booking officer was ready, I emptied my pockets, passing my phony driver’s license, my keys, my watch, my belt, and my scruffy shoes through the window slot. There was something pathetic about the sight of my personal possessions, which were not only meager, but cheap as well. We began to go through the catechism that accompanies the loss of freedom. Personal data. Medical.

  Employment. I said I was out of work, claiming “waitress” as my occupation. We went through the litany of facility and arrest data. I was being charged with assault, a misdemeanor, and battery on a police officer, which is a felony with a five-thousand-dollar bail attached. I assumed Bibianna was being booked on similar charges. I was offered the chance to post bail, but I declined, operating on the premise that Bibianna would do likewise. All I needed was to be stuck in jail while she found a way to get herself bailed out. I kept waiting for the booking officer to realize that my driver’s license was a fake, but she didn’t seem to notice. My few pieces of personal property were itemized and placed in a clear plastic boiling pouch, like a Seal-A-Meal. The whole procedure took about fifteen minutes and left me feeling unsettled. Oddly enough, I didn’t feel humiliated so much as I felt misunderstood. I wanted to assert myself, wanted to assure them that I wasn’t what I appeared to be, that I was really a decent, law-abiding citizen… on their team, in effect.

  The booking officer completed her process. “You want to make any calls, there’s a pay phone in the next cell.”

  “I can’t think who I’d call anyway,” I said, absurdly grateful that everyone was so polite. What had I expected, curses and abuse?

  Padding along in my sock feet, I was taken down the corridor to the ID bureau to be fingerprinted. A second set of photographs were taken, front and profile this time. At this rate, I could put together a little album for Mother’s Day. It was 2:13 A.M. by the time I was escorted to the drunk tank, a cell maybe fifteen by fifteen feet. A skinny white woman, with her back turned, slept on a mattress in the far comer of the room. There were no outside windows. The entire front wall was barred, with a lidless commode tucked into an alcove on the right. I’ve seen cells where the toilet seats are removed as well. I had to guess we were being trusted not to try to hang ourselves with this one. The floor was beige vinyl tile, the walls painted cinder block. There was a built-in bench running the width of the room with some one-inch mattresses rolled up and arranged haphazardly against the wall. I snagged one for myself and spread it out on the floor.

  Bibianna arrived moments later, along with two other prisoners, a black woman and a weeping white girl in formal dress.

  “Hey, Hannah,” Bibianna said. “Old home week. This is Nettie.” She turned to the second woman. “What’s your name, babycakes?”

  “Heather.”

  Bibianna said, “Heather, this is Hannah.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I murmured dutifully. I didn’t have a clue about jailhouse etiquette. The skinny woman in the far corner stirred restlessly in her sleep.

  Bibianna pulled a mattress off the bench and dragged it over toward me. “Nettie and me did a little county time about a month ago, right?” No response.

  Nettie, the black woman, looked to be in her late thirties. She was tall, with broad shoulders and breasts the size of torpedoes. Her hair was big and brushed over to the right, where the bulk of it stuck out stiffly as if blown by a hard wind. The black strands had a gray cast from all the split ends. She wore blue jeans, an oversize white T-shirt, and white crew socks. Bibianna arranged her mattress beside mine and took a seat, watching Nettie with respect. “She was charged with ‘attempt to inflict bodily injury’ and ‘assault with a deadly weapon.’ She attacked a wino with an uprooted palm tree. I guess it was a little one, but can you believe that?”

  The other inmate, the white girl, was scarcely more than twenty, wearing an ankle-length organza dress and a corsage on one wrist. She was crying so hard it was impossible to figure out what her story was. She sank in a huddle and buried her face in her hands. She and Nettie both reeked of booze. The black woman paced restlessly, staring at Heather, who kept wiping her nose on the hem of her dress. Finally, Nettie stopped pacing and nudged her with a foot.

  “What’s the matter with you, blubbering away like that? Hush up a minute and tell me what’s wrong here.”

  The girl lifted a tear-streaked face, blotchy with embarrassment. Her nose was pink, her makeup smeared, her fine, pale hair coming loose from a complicated arrangement on top that looked like it had been done professionally. There were little sprigs of baby’s breath tucked here and there like pale dried twigs. She paused to lick at a tear trickling toward her chin and then told a garbled tale of her boyfriend, a fight, being left penniless on the side of the freeway, too drunk to stand, picked up by a CHP cruiser and arrested on the spot. This was her twenty-first birthday and she was spending it in the county jail. She’d barfed on her dress, which she’d had on layaway for six months at Lerner’s. Her daddy was on the city council and she didn’t dare call home. By the time she got to this point, she burst into tears again.

  The skinny woman on the mattress made a muffled response. “B.F.D. Big fuckin’ deal.”

  Nettie, offended, turned on the woman, whom she apparently knew. She fired a dark look at the huddled form. “Mind your own business, bitch.” She patted Heather awkwardly, unaccustomed to mothering but identifying with her plight. “Poor sweet baby. That’s all right. That’s just fine. Now don’t you be upset. Everything’s going to be all right…”

  I stretched out on my side, my head propped up on my hand. Bibianna had her back against the wall, her arms crossed for warmth. “What a crock of shit. People out there killing each other and they arrest someone like her. I don’t get it. Call her old man and have him come get her out of here. He’s going to call anyway once he figures out she’s not home.”

  “How come you’re so down on the police?” I asked.

  Bibianna ran a hand through her hair, giving it a toss. “They killed my pop. My mom’s Anglo. He was Latino. They met in high school and she was crazy about him. She gets knocked up and they got married, but it worked out okay.”

  “Why’d the cops kill him?”

  “It was just something dumb. He was in a little market and lifted something minor ��� a package of meat and some chewing gum. The store manager caught him and they got into a tussle. Some off-duty cop pulled his gun out and fired. All for a pack of ground beef and some Chiclets for me. What a waste. My mother never got over it. God, it was awful to watch. She married some guy six months later and he turned out to be a real shit, knockin’ her around. Talk about bad karma ��� the cops killed him, too. She’d kick him out. He’d disappear and then show up again, all contrite. Move in, take her money, beat the crap out of us. He’s drunk half the time, doing ‘ludes and coke, anything else he could get his hands on, I guess. If he wasn’t pawing at her, he was pawing at
me. I cut him once, right across the face ��� nearly took his eye out. One night, he got caught breaking into an apartment building two doors away from us. He barricaded himself in the place with a twelve-gauge. The cops swarmed all over the neighborhood. Television crews. SWAT teams and tear gas. Cops shot him down like a dog. I was eight. It’s like how many times I gotta go through this, you know?”

  “Sounds like they did you a service on that one,” I said.

  Her smile was bitter, but she made no response.

  “Your mother still alive?”

  “Down in Los Angeles,” Bibianna said. “What about you? You got family somewhere?”

  “Not anymore. I’ve been on my own for years. I thought you were going to do my numbers,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah. What’s your birthday?”

  The date I was using on the fake ID was a match for mine. “May fifth,” I said, and gave her the year.

  “And me without a pencil. Hey, Nettie? You got something to write with?”

  Nettie shook her head. “Not unless you count Chap-Stick.”

  Bibianna shrugged. “What the hell. Look here.” She licked her finger and drew a big tic-tac-toe grid on the floor. She wrote the number 5 in the center and raised it to the third power. The lights in the cell were dim, but the floor was so grimy I could read the spit graph without squinting. She said, “This is great. See that? Five is the number of change and movement. You got three of them. That’s hot. You know, travel and like that. Growth. You’re the kind of person has to be out there doing things, moving. The zero out here means you don’t have any limits. You can do anything. Like whatever you tried, you’d be good at, you know? But it can scatter you. Especially with all these fives here. Makes it tough to pick the thing you want to do. You’d need to have the kind of job that would never be the same. Know what I mean? You have to be in the middle of the action…”

  She looked at me for confirmation.

  “Weird,” I said, for lack of anything better.

  Nettie shot us a look. She had one arm around Heather, who had leaned against her for warmth. “We’re trying to get some sleep here. Could you keep it down?”

  “Sorry,” Bibianna said. She abandoned the reading and stretched out on the mattress, making herself comfortable. The gridwork she’d drawn seemed to glow in the half-light. The bulb in the cell remained bright, but we were reasonably warm. There was the sense of ongoing activity in the corridors beyond: a phone ringing, footsteps, the murmuring of voices, a cell door clanging shut. At intervals, the smell of cigarette smoke seemed to drift through the vents. Somewhere on the floor below us were the dormitory rooms that housed the fifty to sixty women doing county time in any given period. I could feel myself begin to drift. At least we were out of the rain and the bad guys couldn’t get us. Unless “they” were somebody locked in the cell with us. Now, there was a thought.

  “One good thing,” Bibianna murmured drowsily.

  “What’s that?”

  “They didn’t find that joint…”

  “You are one lucky chick.”

  After that, there was quiet except for the occasional rustling of clothes as one of us turned on the mattress. The skinny white woman began to snore softly. I lay entertaining warm thoughts about Bibianna, realizing that from here on out, I’d remember her as the person I first got jailed with, a form of female bonding not commonly recognized. I’d have felt a lot better if Jimmy Tate had come to our rescue, but I really wasn’t sure what he could have done to help. Right now, he was probably sitting in a cell over on the men’s side in roughly the same fix. Crazy Jimmy Tate and Bibianna Diaz, what a pair they made…

  Chapter 10

  *

  The next thing I knew, there was a jingling of keys. My eyes popped open. One of the female jail officers was unlocking the door. She was short and solid, built like she spent a lot of time at the gym. The other four women in the cell were still asleep. The jail officer pointed at me. Bleary-eyed, I propped myself up on one elbow, pushing the hair out of my face. I pointed at myself ��� did she want me? Impatiently, she motioned me over to the door. I curled forward, rising to my feet as quietly as I could. There was no way to judge what time it was or how long I’d been asleep. I felt groggy and disoriented. Without a word, she opened the door and I passed through. I followed her down the corridor in my sock feet, wishing with all my heart that I could brush my teeth.

  I once dated a cop who had an eight-by-eleven-foot desk built for himself, boasting that the surface was the same size as the two-man cells in Folsom prison. The room I was ushered into was about that size, furnished with a plain wood table, three straight-backed wooden chairs, and a bulb covered with a milky globe. I would have bet money there was recording equipment in there somewhere. I peered under the table. No sign of a wire. I sat down on one of the chairs, wondering how best to comport myself. I knew I was a mess. My hair felt matted, probably sticking straight up in places. I was sure my mascara and eyeliner now circled my eyes in that raccoon effect women so admire in themselves. The trampy outfit I’d concocted was not only wrinkled, but still felt faintly damp. Ah, well. At least if I were subjected to police brutality, I wouldn’t mind bleeding on myself.

  The door opened and Lieutenant Dolan appeared in company with another (I was guessing) plainclothes detective. I felt a spurt of fear for the first time since this ghastly ordeal had begun. Dolan was the last man I wanted to have as a witness to my current state. I could feel a blush of embarrassment rise up my neck to my face. Dolan’s companion was in his sixties, with a thick shock of silver hair brushed away from a square face, deep-set eyes, and a mouth that pulled down at the corners. He was taller than Dolan and in much better shape, substantially built with wide shoulders and heavy-looking thighs. He wore a three-piece suit in a muted glen plaid with a denim blue shirt and a wide maroon tie with a floral pattern more fitting for a couch cover. He wore a gold ring on his right hand, a watch with a heavy gold band on his left. He made no particular attempt to be polite. If he had an opinion of me, nothing registered on his face. Together, the two men seemed to fill the room.

  Dolan leaned out into the hall and said something to someone, then closed the door and pulled a chair up, straddling it. The other man sat down at the same time and crossed his legs at the knee with a slight adjustment of his trousers. He held his big hands loosely in his lap and made no eye contact.

  Dolan seemed positively perky by comparison. “I’m having some coffee brought in. You look like you could use some.”

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “One of the deputies recognized you when you were booked in and called me,” he said.

  “Who’s this?” I asked with a glance at the other man. I didn’t think he should have the advantage of anonymity. He clearly knew who I was and enough about me to adopt an attitude of disinterest.

  “Lieutenant Santos,” Dolan said. Santos made no move. What was this, my week to meet hostile men?

  I got up and leaned across the table with my hand held out. “Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

  His reaction was slow and I wondered briefly just how rude he intended to be. We shook hands and his eyes met mine just long enough to register a stony neutrality. I had thought at first he disliked me, but I was forced to amend that assessment. He didn’t have an opinion of me at all. I might be useful to him. He hadn’t decided yet.

  There was a rap at the door. Dolan leaned over and opened it. One of the deputies passed him a tray with three Styrofoam cups of coffee, a carton of milk, and a few loose packets of sugar. Dolan thanked him and closed the door again. He set the tray on the table and passed a cup to me. Santos reached forward and took his. I poured some milk in mine and added two packs of sugar, hoping to jump-start myself for the questions coming up. The coffee wasn’t hot, but the flavor was exquisite, as soft and sweet as caramel.

  “What happened to Jimmy Tate?” I asked.

  “Right now, he’s looking at homic
ide, murder two. A good attorney might get it knocked down to voluntary manslaughter, but I wouldn’t count on it, given his history,” Dolan said. “You want to fill us in on the shooting?”

  “Sure,” I said glibly, knowing I’d have to stretch the truth a bit. “California Fidelity asked me to investigate Bibianna Diaz for possible fraud in a claim she filed. I’ve been trying to get close enough to pick up concrete evidence, but so far all I’ve netted are some fashion tips. The dead man’s name is Chago. He’s the brother of Raymond Something-or-other, who’s an old flame of Bibianna’s. I gather Raymond sent Chago and his wife, Dawna, up here to abduct Bibianna for reasons unknown. I can’t get Bibianna to tell me what’s going on, but they’re clearly pissed…”

  Santos spoke up. “She and Raymond Maldonado were supposed to get married. She backed out. He doesn’t take kindly to that sort of thing.”

  “I believe it,” I said. “He apparently gave Chago instructions to ‘smoke’ her if she didn’t cooperate.”

  Santos shifted in his chair, his voice flat. “That’s all bluff. Raymond wants her back.”

  I looked from one to the other. “If you already know all this stuff, why ask me?”

  Both men ignored me. I could see there wasn’t going to be any point in getting crabby about the situation.

  Dolan consulted a small spiral-bound notebook, leafing back a page. “What’s the story on Jimmy Tate? How’d he get involved?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I gather he and Bibianna have been embroiled in some kind of heavy-duty sexual relationship for the past couple of months. It seems to be serious ��� for the moment, at any rate.” I went on, detailing the day’s work, filling in as much as I knew about the dead man, which wasn’t much, and about Jimmy Tate, which was considerable. As fond as I was of Tate, I couldn’t see any reason to shield him from police scrutiny when it came to the shooting. There were other witnesses at the scene, and for all I knew, Dolan had already talked to them.