L is for LAWLESS

by Sue Grafton

  “No, that’s all right. I can always use a scrub pad. It’ll clean up in a jiffy. You have other things to do.”

  “I don’t mind a bit. I was thinking about a movie, but I’ve lost interest, to tell the truth.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Scout’s honor,” I said.

  “I’d surely appreciate it. We’re low on milk, too. Once the kids have their milk and cookies tonight, there won’t be enough for breakfast. This is really awfully sweet.”

  “Don’t even think about it. I’ll be back shortly. What kind of milk? Low fat?”

  “Half a gallon of skim. I’m trying to wean the kids off fat where I can.”

  I searched through my handbag for the car keys and then eased the strap across my shoulder as I headed out the door. My car was parked about two doors down. I fired up the ignition and pulled away from the curb. At the corner of Albanil and Bay, I turned right, passing Bucky’s place, which had become my new reference point in the neighborhood. I’d probably never pass the house again without turning to look. I peered down the drive toward the garage apartment. Lights were on upstairs, and I saw a shadow move across the front windows.

  I slowed to a stop, peering up at the apartment. I didn’t think any of the Lees were home. The last I’d seen, the three of them were still up at Rosie’s having supper. The lights went out and I saw someone emerge onto the darkened landing.

  Well, this was interesting. I spotted a parking place and pulled in at the curb. I turned the engine off and doused my headlights. I adjusted the rearview mirror so that it was angled on the drive and then slid down in the seat.

  A man moved out of the driveway with a hefty-looking duffel bag in his right hand. He was walking in my direction, his head down, his shoulders hunched. From the dim glow of the street lamp, I could see it wasn’t Bucky, Chester, or Ray. This guy had a full head of dark, curly hair. His clothing was dark, and he must have been wearing rubber-soled shoes because his footsteps made hardly any sound on the pavement as he passed. He set off across the street. I kept him in sight, watching with curiosity as he approached a white Ford Taurus parked at the far curb, facing the opposite direction. He shifted the duffel to his left hand while he took out his car keys and unlocked the door on the driver’s side. Puzzled, I glanced back toward Bucky’s, but the premises were still dark and there were no signs of life.

  The man opened the door and shoved the duffel toward the passenger seat, slid in behind the wheel, and slammed the car door shut. I watched as he checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, smoothed his hair back, and settled a Stetson on his head. I eased out of sight while he started his ignition, flipped the lights on, and took off, his headlights raking my windshield. As soon as he turned the corner, I started my car and pulled away from the curb. I did a quick U-turn, yanked on my headlights, and took the corner maybe six seconds after he had. I caught a glimpse of his taillights as he turned right on Castle. I had to floor it to maintain visual contact. Within minutes he’d turned onto the northbound freeway off-ramp, heading toward Colgate. I eased into the line of traffic two cars behind him and kept my foot firmly pressed to the accelerator.

  Chapter 6

  *

  A one-car surveillance is usually a waste of time, especially at night, where a second set of headlights becomes conspicuous in a subject’s rearview mirror. In this case, whatever this guy was up to, I didn’t think he had any idea I was following. Coming out of Johnny’s garage apartment, he’d seemed neither watchful nor cautious, and I had to believe a tail was the last thing he expected. I hadn’t expected it myself, so I was at least as surprised as he was. He did nothing on the freeway – no tricky lane changes, no sudden exits – to indicate that he was aware of my presence. The Stetson, in silhouette, gave me a nice visual cue against the wash of approaching headlights. He took the off-ramp at upper State Street, and I slid into the lane behind him. While I steered with my left hand, I scrounged around in my handbag for a scrap of paper and a pen. At least I could take his license plate number while I had him in range. The nature of the plate number indicated that the car was a rental, a further clue being the Penny-Car-Rental on the license plate rim. Big duh. I made a note of the number on the back of an old grocery list. Later, I’d find someone to check the rental car records.

  It was 7:17 by the time the white Taurus pulled into the gravel courtyard of the Capri, a ten-unit “motor hotel” off the frontage road. The perimeter of the parking area was delineated by a drooping strand of Christmas tree lights that had been strung from pole to pole. The motel itself was made up of two rows of small frame and clapboard cottages, each with a carport affixed to one side. The darkness had draped the exteriors in sufficient shadow to conceal the flaking paint, warping window screens, and poor construction. Most of the cottages appeared to be empty: windows unlighted, no vehicles in the carports. A pint-size U-Haul truck was parked in front of one unit. The first two cottages on the left were occupied, along with the second unit on the right, which was where the Taurus was now parked.

  The driver locked his vehicle and moved up to the cottage’s small concrete porch, with its light offering forty watts’ worth of illumination. I waited until he’d unlocked the cottage and entered before I eased my VW along the gravel parking lot to a darkened unit across the way. I backed into the carport, doused my headlights, and rolled the window down. The stillness was punctuated by the ticking of my engine as the metal cooled. Also, by a failing green Christmas tree bulb that flickered and buzzed somewhere above my head like a jolly green bee. I sat in the dark, pondering how long I’d be willing to wait before I headed for home.

  Poor Nell must be wondering how far away the supermarket was. I’d promised her a quick trip – fifteen minutes max. I’d now been gone twice that long. I had a squirrelly feeling in the pit of my stomach, a strange emotional concoction of anxiety and excitement. What was in the duffel the guy had taken off the premises? Could be burglars’ tools. I was operating on the assumption that this was the same guy who’d tossed the place before, though I couldn’t imagine what was worth coming back for. Ray Rawson had some suspicions about who the breakin artist might have been, but he’d given no indication why anyone would bother. I wished now I’d pressed him for the information. Meanwhile, it was worth a short wait. If I ran out of patience, I’d make a note of the motel address and use a phone ruse in the morning to find out who was staying there.

  I checked my watch again. It was now 7:32. The fellow had been in there fifteen minutes or so. Was he in for the night? I really couldn’t sit here indefinitely, and I didn’t think it made sense to go prowling around the cottage, trying to peer in the windows. The guy might be traveling with a bad-tempered mutt that would set up a stink. This was the kind of place that would have to accommodate kids and weird pets. How else would they get business except by accident?

  Just about the time I was ready to pack it in, I saw some movement on the cottage porch. The man emerged accompanied by a woman, who now carried the duffel bag. He still wore his hat and he was toting a suitcase, which he stowed in the trunk. She handed him the duffel and he tucked it in with the suitcase. He opened the car door, giving her an assist as she got into the seat on the passenger side. I noticed they didn’t bother with any checkout procedure. Either they were only leaving for a short time or they were decamping without paying. He went around to the driver’s side. I started my engine at the same time he started his, using his noise as a cover for mine. His taillights came on, the two bright red spots overlaid with the white of his backup lights.

  I left my headlights off, waiting until the Taurus backed out and made a right turn into the street. The Taurus took off toward the highway, and I followed at a discreet distance. I wasn’t happy with the arrangement. There wasn’t much other traffic on the road, and if I had to tail the guy for long, I was going to get burned. Fortunately he headed for the northbound freeway on-ramp, and by the time I eased in behind him, there were sufficient
cars on the road to camouflage my presence.

  The driver of the Taurus stayed in the right lane and proceeded for two off-ramps before he finally took the exit designated for the airport and the university. With two bags in the trunk, I didn’t think they were on their way to a UCST night class. The ramp curved up and around to the left, widening into six lanes. A Yellow Cab merged with us from an access road, and I eased back on the accelerator, allowing the taxi to slip in between us. The Taurus stayed in the right lane and turned off at Rockpit, turning right again at the stop sign. I stayed in the slipstream as first the Taurus and then the taxi turned in at the airport.

  I watched as the Taurus moved into the left lane and slowed at the ticket meter for the short-term parking lot. The ticket arm went up like an automated salute. Meanwhile, the taxi kept to the right, pulling up at the curb in the passenger loading zone, where two passengers got out with their luggage. I waited until the Taurus drove into the short-term lot before I eased the VW forward. The ticket dispenser buzzed and a parking ticket emerged from the slot like a tongue. I snagged it and rolled forward into the lot.

  The Taurus had turned into the first aisle on the left and was now parked in the front row, close to the road. I caught a quick glimpse of the couple as they crossed toward the terminal. He carried both the suitcase and the duffel. She was wearing a raincoat pulled around her for warmth. I scanned the spaces available and pulled into the first empty spot. I parked, locked up, and dogtrotted after them. The two were engaged in conversation, and neither seemed aware of my company.

  It was fully dark by now, the terminal building lighted up like one of those miniature cottages you put under the Christmas tree. There were two skycaps at the curb, putting tags on the suitcases of the two travelers the taxi had disgorged. The couple went into the terminal. I noticed they were bypassing the car rental offices. Were they skipping? I doubled my pace, my shoulder bag banging against one hip as I jogged down the short walk to the entrance. The terminal at the Santa Teresa Airport has only six working gates.

  In the left wing, Gates 1, 2, and 3 serviced commuter airlines: the puddle-jumpers doing short runs to and from Los Angeles, San Francisco, San Jose, Fresno, Sacramento, and other points within about a four-hundred-mile radius. In the main lobby, United Airlines was sharing counter space with American. I did a quick visual survey, checking out the passengers seated in various groupings of linked upholstered chairs. The Stetson should have made the guy fairly easy to spot, but there was no sign of the pair.

  Most departing passengers were processed through Gate 5, which was plainly visible across the small lobby. At this hour of the night, air traffic wasn’t heavy and a check of the departures monitor indicated only two outbound flights. One was a United prop jet to Los Angeles, the other an American Airlines flight to Palm Beach with an intervening stop at Dallas/Fort Worth. Dead ahead was Gate 4, which was used as the arrival gate for United’s incoming flights. Arched windows looked out onto a small grassy area, defined by outdoor lights and surrounded by a stucco wall topped with a three-foot rim of protective window glass. I could hear the high-pitched drone of a small plane approaching along the runway. I moved to the double doors and checked the courtyard. There were maybe six or eight people scattered across the area: a woman with a toddler, three college students, an older couple with a dog on a leash. No sign of the couple I was looking for.

  As I passed through the main lobby toward the commuter wing, I spotted the Stetson, black felt with a broad brim and a high soft crown. The guy was in the gift shop, paying for a couple of magazines. I was catching him in profile, but the light was excellent. As if obliging me, he took off his hat and ruffled his hair before he readjusted the angle of the hat on his head. I studied him with care so that I could identify him again if it ever came to that. I put him in his late fifties, with small dark eyes in a lean, hawkish face. He had a bushy salt-and-pepper mustache. What by streetlight had appeared to be dark curly hair I could now see was heavily interwoven with strands of silver. He wore cowboy boots, jeans, and a heavy dark wool jacket. I pegged him at six feet, though the boots might have added inches, maybe 160 to 175 pounds. He tucked the magazines under his arm and crammed the change in his pocket. I backed away from the door as he turned in my direction.

  Behind me was a bank of public telephones. In part as cover and in part out of desperation, I turned to the first phone and hauled up the phone book that was chained to the metal shelf below. I busied myself looking up Bucky’s number while the guy came out of the gift shop behind me. Obliquely, I watched as he crossed the lobby, joining the woman, who was now standing at the ticket counter with her back to me, the duffel at her feet. Where had she come from? Probably the ladies’ room. The line she was standing in was designated for the purchasing of tickets. She’d taken off her raincoat, which was now folded across one arm. The passenger in front of her finished his business and she moved to the counter, placing a big soft-sided suitcase on the weighing apparatus. She reached back with one foot, shifting the duffel forward until it rested against the counter beside her.

  The ticket agent greeted her, and the two exchanged a few words. While the agent tapped on her computer keyboard, the woman reached over and picked up a cardboard identification strip from a container on the counter. She filled in the details and then gave the tag to the ticket agent, who was just in the process of assembling the ticket. The woman laid out a sheaf of bills, which the ticket agent counted and then put away. She secured the woman’s identification to the suitcase, along with a claim tag, and then placed the suitcase on the conveyor belt. The moving bag was spirited through a small opening like a coffin on its way to the flames. The two finished their transaction, and the agent passed the woman’s ticket envelope across the counter to her.

  When the woman turned to her companion, I could see that she was six or seven months pregnant. Was this his daughter? She was much younger than the fellow who accompanied her: early to mid-thirties, gaudy auburn hair piled in a tangled knot on top. Her complexion had the pasty look of too much foundation, overlaid with a shade of powder that made her face seem faintly dirty. Her maternity outfit was one of those oversize pale blue denim dresses with short sleeves and a dropped waist, against which her belly bulged. Under the dress she wore an oversize white T-shirt with long sleeves. She also wore red-and-white-striped tights and high-topped red tennis shoes. The dress itself I’d seen in a gardening catalog, a style favored by former hippies who’d given up dope and communal sex for organic vegetables and all-natural fiber clothes.

  The guy picked up the duffel and the two moved aside as the next passenger in line moved up to the counter. He put the duffel down again and they stood to one side, engaged in desultory conversation. These people were about to get on a plane, and what was I supposed to do? A citizen’s arrest seemed like dicey business at best. I couldn’t even swear that a crime had been committed. On the other hand, what else was this guy doing up in Johnny Lee’s apartment? I’d been a cop just long enough to have a nose for these things. To all appearances, the duffel bag was about to be transported out of state. I had no idea if the pair intended to return to Santa Teresa or were engaged in unlawful flight.

  I turned back to the phone book and flipped through the pages with agitation, talking to myself. Come on, come on. Lawrence. Laymon. I ran a finger down the columns. Leason. Leatherman. Leber. Ah. Fifteen listings under Lee, but only one on Bay. Bucyrus Lee. Bucky’s name was Bucyrus? I found a quarter in my blazer pocket, dropped it in the slot, and dialed the number. The receiver was picked up on the second ring. “Hello, Bucky?”

  “This is Chester. Who’s this?”

  “Kinsey…”

  “Shit. You better get over here. All hell’s broken loose.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “We came home from Rosie’s to find Ray Raw-son crawling down the drive. Face all bloody, hand swoll up the size of a baseball mitt. He’s got two fingers snapped sideways and God knows what else. Somebody
busted in again and ripped into the space under the kitchen cabinet…”

  Over the intercom system, an announcement was being made about an American Airlines flight. “Hang on a second,” I said. I put my hand across the mouthpiece. I’d missed the specifics, but it had to be the boarding call for the flight to Palm Beach. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the guy pick up the duffel, and together he and the pregnant woman moved out of the terminal, turning left toward the American Airlines departure gate. I could feel my heart pound. I turned my attention back to Chester. “Is Rawson okay?”

  “Hey, we got cop cars all over and an ambulance on the way. He don’t look so good. What’s all the racket? I can hardly hear you.”

  “That’s why I called. I’m at the airport,” I said. “I saw a guy coming out of the apartment with a duffel. It looks like he and some woman are about to get on a plane. I tailed him this far, but once we lose track of that bag, it’s only my word against his.”

  “Hang on. I’ll grab Bucky and head out. Just don’t let go of him until we get there.”

  “Chester, the plane’s boarding. Do you know what he took?”

  “I have no idea. I can’t even get in until the place clears out. What about airport security? Can’t they give you a hand?”

  “What airport security? There’s not an officer in sight. I’m here by myself.”

  “Well, for God’s sake, do something.”

  I flashed through the possibilities. “Authorize a ticket and I’ll follow him,” I said.

  “To where?”

  “The plane’s on its way to Palm Beach with a stop in Dallas. Make up your mind because two minutes more and he’s out of here.”

  “Do it. We’ll settle later. Call me when you can.”

  I banged the receiver down and checked the departures monitor again in passing. Beside the posted departure time for American flight 508, the word boarding was blinking merrily. The terminal had emptied of waiting passengers, who were apparently assembling at the gate. I trotted across the lobby to the American Airlines ticket counter. One of the two agents was busy with a passenger, but the other caught my eye. “I can help you over here.”