by Sue Grafton
Enid flashed me a look. “Exactly. He must have realized he left a shoe print on the carpeting upstairs.”
“Did you see it yourself?”
“No, but Myrna says she saw it when she went in Guy’s room.” She paused, shaking her head. “I don’t want to think he did it.”
“It is hard to believe,” I said. “I mean, in essence, he must have killed Guy, seen the footprint, slipped off his shoes and shoved them in the box on his way out of the house. He was lucky ��� or thought he was.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I just have trouble with the notion. Jack doesn’t strike me as that decisive or quick. Doesn’t that bother you?”
She thought about that briefly and then gave a shrug of dismissal. “A killer would have to depend on luck, I guess. You can’t plan for everything. You’d have to ad-lib.”
“Well, it backfired in this case.”
“If he did it,” she said. She picked up a can and tilted it into the electric opener. She pressed a lever and watched as the can went round and round, rotating blades neatly separating the lid from the can. Kitchens are dangerous, I thought idly as I looked on. What an arsenal ��� knives and fire and all that kitchen twine, skewers, meat pounders, and rolling pins. The average woman must spend a fair portion of her time happily contemplating the tools of her trade: devices that crush, pulverize, grind, and puree; utensils that pierce, slice, dissect, and debone; not to mention the household products that, once ingested, are capable of eradicating human life along with germs.
Her eyes came up to mine. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No, of course not. What makes you ask?”
She glanced toward the corner of the kitchen where I noticed, for the first time, a staircase. “Yesterday I went upstairs to put some linens away. There was a Presence in the hall. I wondered if you believed in them.”
I shook my head in the negative, remembering the chill in the air and the roaring in my ears.
“This one smells of animal, something damp and unclean. It’s very strange,” she said.
Chapter 17
*
I left the Maleks’ shortly after one o’clock. Driving home, I spotted a pay phone at a corner gas station. I pulled in and parked. Outside the service bay, a group of kids from the local, alternative high school had organized a car wash. According to the hand-lettered sign, the price was $5.00 and proceeds were being used to pay for a trip to San Francisco. There was not a customer in sight. Buckets of soapy water waited at the ready and the kids milled around in a manner that suggested they were about to spray one another down with hoses. With luck, I wouldn’t end up in the line of fire.
I looked up Paul Trasatti in the telephone book. There were two numbers listed; one a residence on Hopper Road, the other with no address ��� simply said Paul Trasatti, Rare Books. I found a handful of loose change at the bottom of my handbag and fed coins into the slots. I dialed the business number first, thinking it more likely I’d catch him at his desk. Trasatti answered before the phone on his end had finished ringing the first time.
“Trasatti,” he said, tersely. He sounded like a man who’d been waiting for a call regarding drop-off instructions for the ransom money.
“Mr. Trasatti, my name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator, working with Jack Malek’s attorney. You knew he’d been arrested?”
“I heard about that this morning. I called to talk to Jack and his sister-in-law told me they’d just taken him away. Did she tell you to call?”
“Well, no. Not really. I ���”
“How’d you get my number?”
“I looked you up in the telephone book. I need information and I thought maybe you could help.”
“What kind of information?”
“I’ll be talking to Lonnie Kingman and I know he’ll want to hear about Jack’s activities that night.”
“Why can’t he ask Jack?”
“I’m sure he will,” I said, “but we’re going to need someone who can verify Jack’s claims. Christie says he drove you over to the country club Tuesday evening. Is that true?”
There was a fractional hesitation. “That’s right. He picked me up after dinner. Truth is, I ended up trading places with him, so I was the one driving. He was too tipsy. This is strictly off the record, right?”
“I’m not a journalist, but sure. We can keep it off the record, at least for now,” I said.. “Tipsy, meaning drunk?”
“Let’s just say I was the designated driver in this case.”
I closed my eyes, listening for the subtext, while cars passed back and forth on the street behind me. “Were you seated at the same table?”
“Tables were reserved. We had assigned seats,” he said. He was being as cagey as a politician. What was going on here?
“That’s not what I asked. I’m wondering if you can verify his presence at the pairings’ party.”
A brief, most curious silence ensued. “Can I ask you a question?” he said.
“What’s that?”
“If you’re working for this attorney… what’d you say his name was?”
“Lonnie Kingman.”
“Okay, this Kingman fellow. I know he can’t repeat anything said between him and Jack, but what about you? Does the same thing apply to you?”
“Our conversation isn’t privileged, if that’s. what you want to know. Anything relevant to Jack’s defense, I’ll be reporting to Lonnie. That’s my job. I can be trusted with information. Otherwise, I’d be out of business by now,” I said. “Were you sitting with Jack?”
“See, that’s what the police have been asking me,” he said. His mouth must have been dry because I could practically hear him lick his lips before he spoke. “Jack’s a good friend and I don’t want to get him in any more trouble than he’s in. I’ve done everything I could short of telling lies.”
“You don’t want to lie to the cops,” I said. Maybe the line was tapped and they were checking my attitude.
“Well, no, I wouldn’t. And that’s just it,” he said. “I didn’t come right out and say so, but there was a stretch when Jack was, you know, uhm, off somewhere. What I mean is, I couldn’t say he was right there in my line of sight.”
“Uhn-hun. How long a stretch?”
“Might have been as much as an hour and a half. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but you know, later ��� like when this other business came up ��� I did, wonder about the time frame. I wouldn’t want to be quoted, but just between us.”
“Do you know where he was?”
“I know where he said he was. Out walking the tenth hole.”
“In the dark?”
“That’s not as odd as it sounds. I’ve done the same thing myself. Smokers go outside to have a cigarette sometimes. Most club members know the course by heart so it’s not as if you’re likely to get lost or fall down a hole.”
“But why would he do that in the middle of a pairings’ party?”
“He was upset ��� I’d say real upset ��� when he came to pick me up. That’s another reason I insisted on driving. Jack tends to be careless about things like that.”
“Did he say what upset him?” I waited. “I can keep it to myself,” I said.
“He said him and Guy got into an argument.”
“About what?”
“Probably the money. I’d say the money.”
“You’re talking about the money Guy was due to inherit.”
“That’s right.”
“So Jack was drunk and upset and when the two of you arrived at the club, he disappeared.”
“Uhn-hun.”
“Did you believe him?”
“About taking a walk? More or less. I mean, it makes sense you know, if he was trying to sober up and cool off.”
“And did he seem cooler when he got back?”
For a moment, I thought the line went dead. “Mr. Trasatti?”
“I’m here. See
, the thing is, he didn’t actually get back in time to give me a ride. I had to find someone else.”
“And that’s what you told the police?”
“Well, I had to. I felt bad, but they were real persistent and it’s like you said, I couldn’t lie.”
“Was his car still there?”
“I think so. I couldn’t swear to it. I thought I saw it in the parking lot when I was set to go, but I might have been mistaken.”
“But you’re sure there was no sign of Jack?”
“That’s right. A friend of mine said he saw him take off across the fairway at the first hole. Then this other fellow ended up giving me a ride home.”
“Can I have both those names?” I cocked one shoulder, anchoring the handset against my ear while I fumbled in my bag for a pen and a scrap of paper. I made a note of the names, neither of which rang a bell. “And how did you find out where Jack had been?”
“He called first thing the next morning to apologize and that’s when he explained.”
“He called Wednesday morning?”
“I just said that.”
“I wanted to make sure I understood you correctly. Do you remember what time he called?”
“About eight, I guess.”
“So this was before anyone knew Guy Malek was dead.”
“Must’ve been. I know Jack never mentioned it. You’d think if he knew he’d have spoken up.”
“Is there anything else you remember from your conversation with him?”
“Not that I can think of. I probably got him in enough trouble as it is. I hope you won’t tell him I told you all this.”
“I doubt I’ll have occasion to talk to Jack,” I said. “I appreciate your help. You may hear from Lonnie Kingman or me again on this.” You’re certainly going to end up on the witness stand, I thought.
“I guess it can’t be helped,” he said glumly, as if. reading my mind. He disconnected before I could press him for anything else.
I checked the pile of change I’d laid on the shelf near the coin box. I dropped more coins in the slot and dialed Lonnie’s private line. He picked up on his end without identifying himself.
“This is Kinsey,” I said. “How’d it go?”
“Don’t let me handle any sharps. I might open a vein.”
“You heard about the shoes?”
“Did I ever,” he said. “Lieutenant Robb delivered the happy news with glee.”
“I take it the pattern on the sole matched the print at the scene.”
“Oh, sure. And to make things even better, he says the lab found bits and pieces of Guy Malek’s brain spattered on the instep. I mean, Jesus, how’s Jack going to explain a fleck of brain matter buried in the eyelet of his shoes? This is not like ‘Oh gee fellas, Guy-accidentally-cut-himself-and-must-have-bled-on-me.’ “
“What’d Jack have to say?”
“I haven’t had a chance to ask. Once he invoked, the cops hustled him out to County jail for booking. I’m going out there later and have a long chat with him. He’ll probably tell me the shoes were stolen. Oh yeah, right.”
“What about the murder weapon?”
“They found a baseball bat shoved in with a bunch of sports equipment down at the pool house. Somebody’d made a clumsy attempt to wipe it clean, but traces of blood were still on the hitting area. At least there were no prints, so we can thank God for small favors. What about his alibi? I hope you’re going to tell me a hundred club members had an eye on him at all times.”
“No such luck,” I said. I laid out the sequence of events as Paul Trasatti had reported them.
I could hear Lonnie sigh. “Too bad Jack wasn’t out there screwing somebody’s wife. You have a theory, I’m sure.”
“He could have left the club on foot. There are half a dozen places near the road where he could’ve climbed the fence.”
“And then what?” Lonnie said. “The country club is miles from the Malek estate. How’s he going to get from there to the house again without somebody seeing him?”
“Lonnie, I hate to tell you this, but the man has a Harley-Davidson. He could have hidden his motorcycle earlier. The house might be an hour away on foot, but it’s only ten minutes by car.”
“But so what? Where was Bennet that night? And what about Donovan? He was right there on the premises when the murder occurred.”
“I can talk to Bennet this afternoon.”
“Did anybody see Jack climb the fence? I doubt it. Anybody see the Harley during the period we’re discussing?”
“I can check it out,” I said.
“I know the line the cops are taking. They’re saying Jack’s room adjoined Guy’s. All he had to do was slip from one room to the other, bash his brains out, and slip back again.”
“Not that simple,” I said. “Don’t forget he’s got to hide the shoes at the bottom of the thrift box, wipe the blood off the bat, and return it to the pool house before he hightails it back to the country club.”
“Good point. Is there a guardhouse at the club? Someone might have noted what time he left.”
“I’ll pop over there and check. I can also clock the time it takes to get from there to the house and back.”
“Hold off on that. We’ll get to that eventually. For now, let’s focus on finding someone else to blame.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard. I mean, Jack’s not the only one with access to Guy’s room. Anybody in the house could have entered the same way. The cops have the murder weapon, but from what you’ve said, they don’t have Jack’s fingerprints.”
“Yeah, they can’t find anybody else’s either.”
“So how are they going to prove Jack was wielding the damn thing? Maybe he was framed.”
Lonnie snorted in my ear. “Somebody’d have to take a pair of forceps and fuckin’ tweeze up brain material, then tiptoe into Jack’s room, find the shoes in the closet, and deposit all the little brainy bits.”
“It’s always possible, though, isn’t it?”
“It’s possible Santa Claus came down the chimney and did the deed himself. Stinks. The whole thing stinks.”
“I like the idea about eyewitnesses. So far it doesn’t sound like there’s anyone who can place him at the murder scene.”
“Not so far, no, but I’m sure the cops are out scouring the neighborhood.”
“Well, then we’ll scour some, too.”
“You’re such an optimist,” he said.
I laughed. “Actually, I can’t believe I’m standing here defending him. I don’t even like Jack.”
“We’re not paid to like him. We’re being paid to get him out of this,” Lonnie said.
“I’ll do what I can.”
“I know you will.”
Before I left the service station, I paused long enough to pull up to the pump so I could fill my gas tank. On the hood of my car, the early-morning dew had now combined with the dust from Monday’s Santa Ana winds. My former VW was dingy beige and never showed dirt. With this snappy 1974 model, the streaks were more conspicuous, rivulets of pale blue cutting through a speckled patina of soot. A bird had passed its judgment on the hood as well. I paid for the gas and then turned the key in the ignition, peered over my right shoulder, and backed up into the area where the car wash was being held., The kids began to whistle and clap, and I found myself smiling at their enthusiasm.
I stood to one side while one of them crawled inside with a bottle of window cleaner. Another fired up the Shop-Vac and began to suck grit up off the floor mats. A crew of three were sudsing down the outside, all of them towering over the vehicle. The kid with the Shop-Vac finished cleaning the interior and I watched him approach from the far side of the car with an envelope in hand. He held it out to me. “Have you been looking for this?”
“Where did that come from?”
“I found it beside the passenger seat in front. Looks like it slipped down in the crevice.”
“Thanks.” I took the envelope, half expecting to see the now f
amiliar typeface. Instead, my name was scrawled across the front in ballpoint pen. I waited until the kid had moved away and then I opened the envelope and removed the single sheet of paper. The message was handwritten in black ink; the penmanship distinct, a peculiar blend of cursive and printing. I flicked a glance at the signature. Guy Malek. I could feel ice crystals forming between my shoulder blades.
Monday night. Waiting for you to show.
Hey K…
Sure hope I have the nerve to pass you this note. I guess I must have if you’re reading it. I haven’t asked a girl on a date since I was fifteen years old and that didn’t work out so hot. I got a big zit on my chin and spent the whole evening trying to think up excuses to keep my face turned the other way.
Anyway, here goes.
Once this family mess is settled, would you like to take off for a day and go to Disneyland with me? We could eat snow cones and do Pirates of the Caribbean and then take the boat ride through Small World singing that song you can’t get out of your head for six months afterward. I could use some silliness in my life and so could you.
Think on it and let me know so I can stock up on Clearasil.
Guy Malek
P.S. Just for the record, if anything should happen to me, make sure my share of Dad’s estate goes to jubilee Evangelical Church. I really love those folk.
By the time I finished reading, my eyes had filled with tears. This was like a message from the dead. I stared off across the street, blinking rapidly. I could feel pain in my chest and my facial features were instantly defined by heat as my nasal passages seized up. I wondered if grief had the capacity to suffocate. In conjunction with the sorrow came a rush of pure rage. I sent Guy my thoughts across the Ether. I’m going to find out who killed you and I’m going to find out why. I swear I will do this. I swear it.
“Miss? Your car’s ready.”
I took a deep breath. “Thanks. It looks great.” I gave the kid ten bucks and took off with the radio cranked up full blast.
When I got home, I spotted Robert Dietz’s little red Porsche parked out in front of my apartment. I set my briefcase on the pavement while I stood at the curb and studied it, afraid to believe. He’d told me he was going to be gone two weeks. This was just coming up on one. I circled the car and checked the license plate, which read DIETZ. I picked up my briefcase and let myself in the gate. I rounded the corner and unlocked my door. Dietz’s suitcase was sitting beside the couch. His garment bag was hooked across the top of the bathroom door.
