R Is for Ricochet

by Sue Grafton

  William chimed in. "Fabulous idea. Don't go rushing off. Take a little time for yourself."

  I felt my head swivel. William was beaming like a mother at a dance recital.

  I said, "Uh, Henry? Could I see you for a minute? I've got a problem at my place."

  "What sort of problem?"

  "It's just something I have to show you. It won't take long."

  "I'll look into it later. Can't it wait?"

  "Really not," I said, hoping to signal him with my tone.

  He seemed resigned or annoyed, I couldn't tell which. He turned to Mattie. "You won't mind if I slip out for a minute?"

  "Not at all. I can tidy up the kitchen while you're gone."

  "That's not necessary," Henry said. "I'll take care of the dishes as soon as I get back."

  "Take your time," Lewis said, airily. "We'll get the place all shipshape and then take a walk on the beach. Mattie needs some fresh air. Place is like an oven in here."

  Henry turned a bleak eye on Lewis. "If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to clean the kitchen myself."

  Lewis made a face. "Oh, loosen up, for Pete's sake. You're like a little old lady. We're not going to mess with your precious things. I promise we'll keep all the spices in alphabetical order. Go on. Get out of here. We're fine."

  Henry's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. I tucked my arm into his and steered him toward the door. I could tell he was tom between wanting to defend himself and wanting to escape the torment. I didn't think Mattie was being mean. Her affection for both brothers was doubtless genuine. She simply wasn't tuned into the rivalry between the two.

  The screen door banged shut behind us and we crossed the yard. As soon as I let him into my apartment, I could see Henry scrutinize the premises, his expression sour, looking for the problem he was there to fix. "I hope it's not the plumbing. I'm not in the mood to crawl under the house."

  "There isn't any problem. I had to get you out of there. You need to chill out. You can't let Lewis get under your skin like that."

  He gave me a stony look. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  I couldn't tell if he was actually that obtuse or feigning ignorance to avoid addressing the point. "Yes, you do. Lewis is flirting, but he flirts with every woman he sees. It doesn't mean anything. You've got twice his charm and twice his good looks. Besides, you're the one she came to see. You can't let him swoop in like that and sweep her off her feet."

  "Swoop and sweep?"

  "You know what I mean. She's taking the path of least resistance. That doesn't mean she likes him any better than you."

  "I wouldn't be so sure. Mattie couldn't set aside time for me. Let him propose an outing and suddenly she's got all day."

  "But you could have proposed something just as easily."

  "I did. I suggested breakfast."

  "And she agreed. The only thing I don't understand is how Lewis and William ended up over there as well."

  "A remarkable coincidence. The two were taking their morning constitutional and just 'happened' to be passing as she pulled into the drive. They stopped for a chat and naturally, she invited them to join us. Now she intends to spend the rest of the day with him."

  "She never said that. What's the matter with you? So Lewis came up with a plan. Big deal. Think of a better one and stand your ground."

  "It's not up to me. It's Mattie's call. Lewis is being pushy and competitive, vying for her attention. The way he's acting, he might as well be eight."

  "Well, that's true," I said. "He is competitive with you."

  "Precisely. And it's revolting-grown men scrapping over her like dogs with a bone. No gentleman should impose himself when it's a lady's right to choose."

  "Mattie isn't choosing. She's being nice."

  "Fine. She can be as nice as she pleases. Far be it from me to interfere."

  "Oh, come on, Henry. Don't be like that."

  "But that's how I am. That's exactly how I am."

  "Stubborn and proud."

  "I can't change my nature. I refuse."

  "So don't change your nature. Change your attitude."

  "I won't. If she's so easily swayed by his flirtation, as you so aptly refer to it, then perhaps I've misjudged her. I assumed she was a woman of integrity and common sense. He's vain and superficial and if she finds that appealing, then so be it."

  "Would you get off your high horse? You're only taking that position to avoid a fight. You think if you go head-to-head with him, you'll lose out, but that's just not true."

  "You have no idea what I think."

  "Okay. You're right. I shouldn't speak for you. Why don't you tell me how it feels."

  "It doesn't 'feel' like anything. This is all beside the point. Mattie has her preferences and I have mine."

  "Preferences ?"

  "That's right. I prefer to be accepted for myself. I prefer not to dictate the behavior of others or have them dictate to me."

  "What's that got to do with Lewis?"

  "She thinks he's entertaining. I do not. In addition, I find his sudden appearance highly suspect."

  "Really," I said. I was reluctant to communicate my own suspicions about William unless Henry voiced them first.

  Henry went on. "I believe she spoke to Lewis on the phone and he flew out in response.

  "Where'd you get that?"

  "He didn't seem the least bit surprised at finding her here, which means he knew in advance. And how could he have known unless she told him herself?"

  "He could have heard from someone else."

  "Who?"

  "Rosie."

  "Rosie doesn't chat with Lewis. Why would she talk to him? She barely talks to me."

  "William, then. He could have mentioned it in passing."

  "I see you're determined to protect her."

  "All I'm doing is injecting a note of reality. No one's plotting behind your back. Well, Lewis, maybe, but not Mattie. You know better."

  "You're implying I'm paranoid, but this is not my imagination. Mattie's intention was to come for breakfast and then drive straight home. Lewis suggested something off the top of his head and now she's delaying her return. Yes or no?"

  "No."

  "Yes."

  "Let's not argue. I don't think there's anything afoot, but you do, so let's drop the subject. My only point... well, I don't even know what my only point is. My only point is don't give up on her. And that's all I'm going to say."

  "Good. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my kitchen and my little-old-lady ways."

  I went to the office and locked myself in. Truly, it was more restful to ponder crime than human beings in love. Here I was trying to talk Henry into the very thing I was trying to talk Reba out of, and neither one would listen. Then again, why would they? I've bungled every relationship I've ever been in so it's not like my advice is worth much.

  I opened the window in hopes of creating a little cross-ventilation.

  The thermometer outside on the window frame read 74 degrees. It felt hotter than that to me. I sat down, put my feet up on the desk, and rocked back in my swivel chair. I studied my surroundings with a sense of discontent. The windows were so dingy I could hardly see out. Grime on the windowsill. Dust on my fake plant. My desk was covered with junk and the trash can was filled to capacity. I still had boxes I hadn't unpacked since I moved in and that was five months ago. What a slattern I was.

  I got up and went into my tiny kitchen, where I scrounged under the sink for a bucket, a sponge, and a quart of virulent yellow liquid that resembled toxic waste. I spent the morning scrubbing surfaces, vacuuming, dusting, shining, polishing, unpacking, and putting things away. By noon, while I was hot, tired, and sweaty, my mood had improved. But not for long.

  There was a knock on the door. I opened it to find a courier standing on my doorstep with an envelope in hand. I signed for it and opened it, pulling out a check from Nord for $1,250 in response to the invoice I'd sent him the day before. The handwritten note that
accompanied the payment indicated the $250 bonus was for a job well done.

  I wasn't so sure. Psychologically, the bonus put me in his debt and triggered another round of peeps from my conscience, which I'd thought to pacify with all the cleaning I'd done. I was right back in the thick of my debate. Should I tell Reba what was going on or should I not? More important, should I bring her father into the loop? His single admonition - to which I'd agreed - was to keep him informed of any backsliding on her part. This hadn't happened yet (as far as I knew), but if I told her about Beck and Onni, what would she do? She was going to crash and bum. And if I didn't tell her and she somehow got wind of it - which was not out of the question in a town this size - much crashing and burning would ensue anyway. She'd begged me not to tell her father about Beck, but Reba wasn't the one who was paying my bills. Witness this check.

  I tried to think of an overriding principle that might apply - some moral code that would guide my decision. I couldn't think of one. Then I wondered if I had morals or principles of any kind, and that made me feel worse.

  The phone rang. I picked it up and said, "What," rather more rudely than I'd intended.

  Cheney laughed. "You sound stressed."

  "Well, I am. Do you have any idea the bind you've put me in?"

  "I'm sorry. I know it's tough. Would it help if we talked?"

  "What's to talk about? Betraying that poor girl? Giving her the news about his screwing around?"

  "I told you he's a bad man."

  "But isn't it just as bad to go after her like that?"

  "You have any other suggestions? Because we're open to just about anything. God knows, we don't want to pullout the big guns unless we have to. The girl's freaky enough."

  "That's for sure. I notice you're using the term 'we,' so I assume you've thrown in your lot with the IRS."

  "This is a law-enforcement issue. I'm a cop."

  "Well, I'm not."

  "Would you at least have a chat with my IRS pal?"

  "So he can pile his bullshit on top of yours? That's a happy proposition. I feel like I'm going under as it is."

  "Look, I'm just around the comer. You want to have lunch? He's on his way up from L.A. and said he'd join us. No hard sell. I promise. Just listen to him."

  "To what end?"

  "You know a place called Jay's? Hot pastrami sandwiches and the best martinis in town."

  "I don't want to drink at lunch."

  "Me neither, but we can eat together, yes?"

  I said, "Hang on. There's someone at my door. I'm going to put you on hold. I'll be back in a second."

  "Good deal. I'll wait."

  I pushed the Hold button and laid the receiver on my desk. I got up and paced from the inner office to the outer one. What was wrong with me? Because I did want to see him. And it didn't have anything to do with Reba Lafferty. That subject was just a cover for another form of confusion I was wrestling with. I went into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror, noting that I looked like shit. This was ridiculous, I went back to the phone and pushed Hold, activating the line. "Give me ten minutes and I'll meet you there."

  "Don't be silly. I can swing by. No point in taking two cars when we can make do with one. It's better for the environment."

  "Oh, please."

  I locked up the office and waited for him out on the street. There was no point worrying about my grubby jeans or my ratty tennis shoes. My hands smelled like bleach and my turtleneck was stretched out of shape. I needed a complete makeover, but I didn't think I could manage one in the next three to four minutes. Oh, to hell with it. This was business. What difference did it make if I were fresh as a daisy, wearing heels and panty hose? The more immediate problem was Cheney's IRS contact. I was already experiencing a low-level dread at the idea of meeting him. No hard sell, my ass. The man would grind me underfoot,

  Cheney came around the comer in a sporty little red Mercedes convertible. He pulled in at the curb, leaned over, and opened the passenger-side door. I slid in. "I thought you drove a Mazda," I said, sounding faintly accusative.

  "I left that at home. I also have a six-year-old Ford pickup that I use for surveillance. I took delivery on this baby in Los Angeles last week."

  "Slick."

  He turned right at the corner and headed across town. I liked his driving style. No speeding, no showing off, and no reckless moves. Out of the corner of my eye, I noted the matte finish on his red silk windbreaker - nothing shiny or vulgar - white dress shirt, the chinos, snappy Italian shoes that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Even in an open car, his aftershave smelled like spices, the scent of tiny blossoms on some night-blooming shrub. This was pitiful. I wanted to lean over and sniff deeply at the side of his face. He glanced at me, smiling, as though he knew what was going on in my head. This was not a good sign.

  11

  Santa Teresa has never been noted for its club scene or its wild nightlife. Most restaurants close soon after the last of the dinner orders have been plated and served. The bars are open until 2:00 A.M., but most don't provide dance floors or live music. Jay's Cocktail lounge, downtown, is one of the few spots to offer both. In addition, from 11:30 A.M. until 2:00 P.M., lunch is served to a limited clientele who prefer the privacy and quiet for low-key business meetings and discreet liaisons. The walls are padded in gray suede, with a thick gray carpet underfoot that makes you feel you're walking across a mattress. Even by day, the place is so dark, you have to pause at the entrance until your eyes adjust. The booths are commodious, padded in black leather, and any ambient noise is dampened to a hush. Cheney gave his name to the hostess - Phillips, party of three.

  He'd made reservations in advance.

  I said, "God, you're cocky. What made you so sure I'd say yes?"

  "I've never known you to turn down food, especially if someone else , pays. Must feel like mothering."

  "Well it is isn't it?"

  "By the way, Vince called to say he's running late. He said to go ahead and order." We spent the first part of the meal dealing with matters unrelated to Reba Lafferty. We sipped iced tea and picked at our sandwiches, unusual for me where food is concerned. I'm accustomed to eating fast and moaning aloud, but Cheney seemed to enjoy taking his sweet time. We chatted about his career and mine, the police department budget cuts, and the effects thereof. We knew a few cops in common, one being Jonah Robb, the married man I "dated" during one of his frequent separations from his wife, Camilla.

  I said, "How's Jonah doing these days? Is the marriage off again or on?" I rattled the last of the ice cubes in my empty glass and, as if on cue, the busboy appeared to replenish my supply.

  Cheney said, "Off, from what I hear. They had a kid. I should say, Camilla did. According to the scuttlebutt, the boy wasn't his."

  "Yeah, but he's crazy about that baby all the same," I said. "I ran into him a couple of months ago and he was busting his buttons he was so proud of the kid."

  "What about the two daughters? No telling what effect this is having on them."

  "Camilla doesn't seem to care. I wish they'd just get back together and be done with it. How many times have they split?"

  Cheney shook his head.

  I studied him. "What about you? How's married life these days?"

  "That's over."

  "Over?"

  "You know the word 'over'? As in done with."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. When did this transpire?"

  "Middle of May. Embarrassing to admit, but we were only married five weeks, which is one week less than we'd known each other before we eloped."

  "Where is she now?"

  "She's moved back to L.A."

  "That was quick."

  "Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Better to get it over with."

  "Did you learn anything?"

  "I doubt it. I was tired of feeling dead. Work we do, we take chances in the real world but not so much in here," he said, tapping on his chest. "What's love about if not risk?"

  I studied m
y plate, which was littered with potato chip crumbs. I licked my index finger and captured a cluster that I laid on my tongue. "You're beyond my area of competence. These days, I seem to be surrounded by people who've got it wrong, Reba Lafferty being one."

  He leaned forward, elbows on the table, holding his glass by the rim. "So let's talk about her."

  "What's to talk about? She's fragile. It doesn't seem right to put the I squeeze on her."

  A flicker of irritation crossed his face. "Fragile, my ass. She's the one who elected to get involved with him. Turns out, he's a sleazebag in more ways than one. She should know what's going on."