by Sue Grafton
“Too bad.”
“Too bad is right. What he’s doing here is worse. With the grant he got, he can’t afford to fail.”
“He’s covered his butt by now, don’t you think?”
“Nuhn-uhn. He has no clue I’m onto him. Otherwise, he’d have found a way to get rid of me before now. I mentioned his ripping me off because it’s indicative of his . . .”
Pete missed the word. Distracted, he looked up and caught sight of Willard returning to the apartment. How long had he been gone? Fifteen minutes tops? Not long enough to accomplish anything. Willard gave him the high sign, but Pete was too busy listening to respond.
“Hey, I understand. I’m just tapping on the wall to see if I can find a way in. What about his computer?”
“I have his password, but that’s it so far.”
“His password? Good girl. How’d you find it?”
“It was written on a piece of paper in his desk drawer. How’s that for clever?”
“But if you haven’t actually gone into his database, what makes you so sure he’s cooking?”
“Because I saw the printout before he shredded it.”
“What’s that other term you used?”
“Dry-labbing it. Don’t get sidetracked,” she said.
Pete missed Pensky’s response. He pressed his hand against the ear bud and closed his eyes as though that might improve his hearing. Had he used the word “trial”? Must be clinical trials if they were talking about medical charts.
“Listen, Owen. I’m working ten-hour days. I don’t have a lot of time to play Sherlock Holmes. I can only do so much.”
“What about the incident at Arkansas?”
“No good. Hearsay. The girl who told me says he skirted disaster by going away for a ‘much-needed rest.’ After that he disappeared and reappeared somewhere else. She talked to Dr. Stupak twice, but he wouldn’t pursue the matter for fear it would negatively impact his career.”
“Stupak’s career?”
“Not Stupak’s, Linton’s. These guys are always circling the wagons. Any hint of trouble, they close ranks. Shit. Gotta go. Bye.”
The line went dead though he was still tuned into her end by way of the pen mike. Pete heard a door open and a muffled exchange. Mary Lee said, “Wrong number.”
A few seconds later, the door shut and there was silence. She and Willard must have moved into the living room.
What he’d been listening to wasn’t romance. It appeared Mary Lee and this fellow were in cahoots, but what was the object of the exercise? Linton Reed, obviously, but in what context? Pete swapped out the tapes, inserting a blank on the off chance another call might transpire while he was gone. Once he was back at his desk, he put the recording into his player and listened to it twice. At first, he was annoyed he couldn’t make heads nor tails of it. Clearly, Mary Lee Bryce and Owen Pensky were trying to get the goods on Linton Reed, and if Pete hoped to profit, he needed to know what he was talking about. Faulty information was useless. “Glucotace” was the word he’d missed. He deciphered it on the third go-round and figured it must be a medical condition, maybe a test of some kind. There’d also been mention of cooking numbers, which must be what it sounded like. You cook numbers, you’re slanting the results. That’s why Linton’s getting the big grant put so much at stake. He worried the subject, turning it this way and that. As far as he could tell, there was only one interpretation. Linton Reed had been falsifying data. He wasn’t sure how Mary Lee picked up on it, but she’d known him in the past and apparently, she’d been an early victim of his shady manipulations.
At 5:00, he gave up, locked the office, and headed for home. He was just pulling into his garage when he had a flash. He’d been thinking he couldn’t move forward until he filled in the blanks, and how was he to do that when he didn’t have a clue? What occurred to him was that all he had to do was go over to the medical library at St. Terry’s and have somebody look it up. Linton Reed was vulnerable. Pete had no idea how, but he knew Owen Pensky and Mary Lee Bryce were closing in on him. Judging from their phone chat, the good Dr. Reed hadn’t quite caught on yet. Pete would be doing him a personal service by alerting him to the danger. There might even be a way to head off trouble, which was bound to be worth something to a bright young fellow with a rich wife and his whole life ahead of him.
14
The route from Santa Teresa to Bakersfield isn’t complicated, but there aren’t any shortcuts. I could drive north on the 101 and head east on Highway 58, which meandered a bit but would finally put me out on the 99 a few miles north of Bakersfield. Plan B was to drive south and cut over to Interstate 5 on the 126. It was going to take me two and a half hours either way.
I went south, in part to avoid passing the town of Lompoc, where my Kinsey relatives were entrenched. My grudge against my mother’s side of the family was predicated on the fact that they were only an hour away and never once made contact in the three decades following my parents’ death when I was five. I’d enjoyed feeling righteous and I’d taken great satisfaction in my sense of injury. Unfortunately, the conclusions I’d drawn and the assumptions I’d made were dead wrong. I’d taken the Kinseys to task only to find out there was far more to the story than I’d known, and while I was willing to admit my error, I didn’t like to be reminded of it.
I wasn’t sure why it hadn’t occurred to me to hold my father’s family to the same strict accounting. Where had they been all these years? As it turned out, they’d been in Bakersfield, which seemed curiously remote. Geographically, it was only 150 miles away, but located in an area of the state through which I seldom traveled. Somehow that afforded them a pass in the matter of my resentment. Contributing to the difference in my attitude was the fact that my rage had begun to bore me, and my long whiny tale of woe had become tedious even to my own ears. As much fun as I’d had being irate, the drama had become repetitive. I could probably still wring sympathy from a stranger, but the recital had taken on a certain rote quality that lacked energy and conviction.
I tuned into the moment at hand. The sky was a washed-out blue, contrails like chalk marks beginning and ending for no apparent reason. Sunlight caught the telephone wires and turned them silver, linking them from pole to pole like strands of spider silk. Just shy of the Perdido city limits, I left the 101 and took the 126 east. Now, instead of having the Pacific Ocean to my right, the countryside was awash with orchards and mobile homes.
Along the horizon lay a range of low hills of the sort that hikers would disdain. At intervals, signs announced FRUIT STANDS 100 YARDS! Most were closed for the season. The road was heavily traveled with pickup trucks, dump trucks, panel trucks, and semis. I passed a tree farm that resembled a portable forest of palms. Quonset huts served as nurseries. Fields were covered in opaque plastic like an agricultural frost.
I reached the junction of 126 and Highway 5 and headed north, driving through miles of flat farmland. The snow-capped mountains in the distance seemed so incongruous they might as well have been pasted on. Kern County is about the size of New Jersey, give or take a few square miles. Bakersfield is the county seat, the largest of the inland cities, and the ninth-largest city in the state. Los Angeles is 110 miles to the south; Fresno, 110 miles to the north. This part of the state lies in California’s central valley, blessed by good weather much of the year. Once upon a time, millions of acres of wetlands graced the area, but much of the water was diverted for irrigation purposes, creating a rich agricultural region where cotton and grapes flourish.
I cruised into town at 11:45, taking the off-ramp from Highway 99 onto California Avenue. I was hungry by then and ready to stretch my legs. With the first break in traffic, I pulled over to the curb and studied the map Henry had so graciously provided. Beale Park was in easy range. I took surface streets as far as Oleander Avenue and parked on a stretch between Dracena and Palm. The park itself was probably five acres all told, featuring old trees, large swatches of grass, a playground, and picnic tables. More to
the point, there was a public restroom, which was clean and in perfect working order. I went back to the car and hauled out my picnic basket, which I set on a table in the shade of an oak.
After lunch, I tossed my napkin, crumpled waxed paper, and the apple core into the nearest trash can. I returned to the car and cruised the area until I spotted a one-story Thrifty Lodge that looked about my speed. According to the motel marquee, the rooms were cheap ($24.99 per night) and came with color TV and a free continental breakfast. There were no burglar bars on the windows, which I took as a positive sign. By that time it was 1:15 and I figured I could drop off my bags and do some reconnoitering. I checked in, collected the key, and headed down the outside walk with my duffel in hand.
I unlocked the door and flipped on the light. The interior was dank. On the beige wall-to-wall carpet there was a ghostly foot path from the bed into the bathroom. A small secondary side road ran from the bed as far as the television set. I did a quick circuit. The heating and air-conditioning system, if you want to call it that, was a narrow unit installed just under the windowsill, with seven options in the way of temperature control. Heat: off or on. Cold: off or on. Fan: on, off, or auto. I tried to calculate the number of possible combinations, but it was way beyond my rudimentary math skills. The bathroom was clean enough and the motel had provided me two bars of soap, neatly sealed in paper. One was slightly larger than the other and was intended for the shower. I unwrapped the smaller one, standing at the sink. The chrome fixtures were pitted and the cold-water knob squeaked in protest when I paused to wash my hands. I felt a tap on my head and looked up to find water dripping slowly from a ceiling fixture. I unloaded my toiletries from the duffel—shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste—and lined everything up on the vanity. True to form, there were no other amenities provided, so I was happy I’d brought my own. I tried the wall-mounted dryer and smelled burning hair.
I was getting a bit long in the tooth to stay in places like this. When you’re young and intent on proving how nonmaterialistic you are, a bare-bones motel room is a prize. After all, you say to yourself, I’ll only be here at night and why do I care about the room when I’m sound asleep? At my age, there ought to be more to life than feeling virtuous about how many pennies I was managing to pinch. I could see how the shadowy notion of half a million bucks might alter my perception. Since the money was only nominally mine, I was loath to fritter it away on high-class imaginary digs. What bothered me was the suspicion that when I crawled into bed that night, the sheets would feel moist.
I sat down on the side of the bed and checked the bed table drawer, hauling out a tattered copy of the telephone book. I was hoping to spot Ellen or Anna Dace, even Evelyn, the ex-wife. I went to the D’s and discovered a chunk of pages missing, the very ones I was hoping to consult. I took out my city map and opened it to the full. The address I had for Ethan, which Dace had noted in his will, was on Myrtle Street. I checked the list of street names, found Myrtle, and traced the coordinates from section 13 on the vertical and G on the horizontal. I’d focus on the house numbers once I reached the neighborhood. My guess was that Dace’s two daughters had refused to give their father contact information, which is why he’d mentioned them by name without including phone numbers or home addresses.
I put a call through to Henry, letting him know the name and number of my motel in case he needed to get in touch. All was quiet on the home front, so we chatted briefly and let it go at that.
I retrieved my car and circled back to Truxtun, one of the main arteries through town. I found Myrtle and scanned the house numbers as I crept by at half speed. When I finally spotted the correct address, I pulled over to the curb. The house was dark and there was a For Rent sign on a wooden stake pounded into the lawn. I killed the engine, got out, and walked up the short concrete drive. What had once served as a two-car garage was now walled in and stuccoed over, probably in order to create additional interior space. There was a window built into the center, so I cupped my hands around my eyes and took a peep. Not surprisingly, the room I was looking into was empty.
I knocked at the front door without result. It was locked, so I went around to the rear of the house, where a “spacious back patio” consisted of a six-foot undulating hard-plastic overhang supported by six metal poles. A window on the right was boarded over. I tried the back door and was delighted to discover that it was unlocked. I offered a couple of tentative yoo-hoos. “Hello? Anybody home?”
When I received no reply, I treated myself to a tour of the place. The interior looked like it had been gutted in advance of a demolition. Doorknobs were missing, switch plates had been removed, and the wall-to-wall carpeting had been pulled up, leaving the concrete floors spotted with patches of black mastic. The kitchen cabinets were scuffed and the backsplash at the kitchen sink was some kind of wallboard, scored to look like ceramic tile. There were no lightbulbs in any of the overhead fixtures. Maybe Ethan was the kind of tenant who believed his rent entitled him to anything that wasn’t nailed down, including the toilet seat, which was nowhere in evidence. The laundry room was edged in black mold that crept along the seams like grout. Leaking water had loosened the hinges on the bathroom vanity, and the rust streaking from the faucets looked like the run of mascara on a weeping woman’s face. All the rooms smelled of mildew, animal dander, and pee.
“Any information I can offer you about the place?”
I shrieked and whipped around, clutching my chest to prevent my heart from tearing through my shirt. “Shit!”
I stared at the man who’d shortened my life by years.
He was in his early thirties, with a cresting wave of dark hair cutting across his forehead. His eyes were dark and his eyebrows were thick, while his mustache and beard appeared to be a recent undertaking that, so far, wasn’t a success. He wore an oversize black shirt that hung down over his jeans in a style that was meant to disguise his weight. I put him a good thirty pounds over the line, though it didn’t really look bad on him. I was going to tell him so and decided I’d best not. Men sometimes mistake a compliment for an invitation to become better acquainted.
His smile was apologetic, his teeth white, but cluttered. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I saw you go around the side of the house as I was driving up. I figured you noticed the For Rent sign and wanted to check it out.” He’d smoked a cigarette at some point in the past fifteen minutes.
“Actually, I’m looking for Ethan Dace.”
“Too late. He pulled up stakes a week ago. At least from what the neighbors say.”
“How long did he live here?”
“I don’t know. Eighteen months? Might have been less.”
“I take it he left without giving notice.”
“He also left owing two months’ rent. Are you a bill collector?”
I shook my head. “I’m here on a personal matter. His father died. I figured someone should let him know.”
“Why you?”
“We’re distantly related.”
“How distant?”
“Second cousins, once or twice removed. That’s a guess on my part. I’ve never understood the distinctions.”
“I take it you never met Ethan.”
“I’ve never had the occasion.”
“You’re in for a disappointment. I’m not saying the guy’s a bum, but he’s a lousy tenant. He was a slow pay and sometimes he couldn’t bring himself to pay at all, which I was supposed to tolerate on account of he’s such a talented guy. If I came knocking on his door to collect, he’d pony up, but it always seemed to take him by surprise. I was about to evict him anyway, so he saved me the paperwork. Get a deadbeat in a rental and it’s damn near impossible to get ’em out.”
“You know where he went?”
“Most likely back to his wife. This is the third or fourth time she’s kicked him out. Bugged her no end that he wouldn’t get a job. Able-bodied white male and all he does is sit around and play his guitar. Time to time, he collect
s unemployment, but that doesn’t go on forever. Problem is, with him gone, she’s stuck shelling out a bundle for child care. She’s got one in school and two were enrolled in what they call ‘pre-kindergarten’ to the tune of two hundred bucks a week. Per kid. She’s better off with him on the premises. What the hell else is he doing with his days?”
“Why’d you rent to him if you knew he didn’t have a job?”
“I felt sorry for the guy.”
“What line of work is he in?”
“Musician, which I don’t think of as a ‘line of work.’ It’s more like goofing off, accompanied by a musical instrument. He has this band, Perforated Bowel—or something equally profound. He’s lead singer and doubles on guitar. The other two play keyboard and drums, respectively. They have gigs in town couple of weekends a month. That’s the claim at any rate, for what it’s worth.”
“Is he any good?”
“Don’t know. I never heard him play. He says he’s booked into the Brandywine, but I haven’t checked it out. With him gone, it’s no concern of mine.”
“You know his wife’s name?”
“It’s on his application. Heitzerman, Heidelman. Heidie-something. I can’t remember how it’s spelled and I might have got it wrong. First name’s Mamie. Like in Eisenhower. House is in her name. I called her, hoping she’d be kind enough to pay his back rent. No such luck. Chick’s smarter than I thought.”
“Wonder why she didn’t take his name when they married.”
“She probably didn’t like the family association. I guess you heard what happened to his dad.”
“The business in 1974?”
“Was it that long ago?”
“That’s the year he went to prison.”
“I’d have said, five, six years. You’re talking fourteen.”
