by Sue Grafton
Once at the party, I regained my composure and managed to conduct myself (for the most part) without embarrassment or disgrace. The “little weekend retreat” turned out to be a sprawling six-bedroom estate, decorated with a confident blend of the avant-garde and the minimalist: unadorned white walls, wide, bare, gleaming expanses of polished hardwood floor. The few pieces of furniture were draped with white canvas, like those in a palatial summer residence being closed up for the season. Aside from a dazzling crystal chandelier, all the dining room contained was a plant, a mirror, and a bentwood chair covered with an antique paisley shawl. Très chic. They’d probably paid thousands for some interior designer to come in and haul all the knickknacks away.
As the party picked up momentum, the noise level rose, people spilling out onto all the terraces. Six young men, in black pants and pleated white shirts, circulated with silver platters of tasty hot and cold morsels. The champagne was exquisite, the supply apparently endless so that I was fairly giddy by the time Jack took me by the arm and eased me out of the living room. “Karen wants to see you upstairs,” he murmured.
“Great,” I said. I’d hardly laid eyes on her except as a glittering wraith along the party’s perimeters. I hadn’t seen Kevin at all, but I’d overheard someone say he was off scouting locations for the show coming up. Jack and I drifted up the spiral stairs together, me hoping that in my half-inebriated state, I wouldn’t pitch over the railing and land with a splat. As I reached the landing, I looked down and was startled to see my friend Vera in the foyer below. She caught sight of me and did a double take, apparently surprised to see me in such elegant surroundings, especially dressed to the teeth. We exchanged a quick wave.
The nearly darkened master suite was carpeted to a hush, but again, it was nearly empty. The room was probably fifty feet by thirty, furnished dead-center with a king-sized bed, a wicker hamper, two ficus trees, and a silver lamp with a twenty-five-watt bulb on a long, curving neck.
As Jack ushered me into the master bathroom, where the meeting was to take place, he flicked me an apologetic look. “I hope this doesn’t seem too odd.”
“Not at all,” I said, politely—like a lot of my business meetings take place in the WC.
Candles flickered from every surface. Sound was dampened by thick white carpeting and a profusion of plants. Karen Waterston sat on the middle riser of three wide, beige marble steps leading up to the Jacuzzi. Beside her, chocolate brown bath towels were rolled and stacked like a cord of firewood. She was wearing a halter-style dress of white chiffon, which emphasized the dark, even tan of her slender shoulders and arms. Her hair was silver-blond, coiled around her head in a twist of satin ropes. She was probably forty-two, but her face had been cosmetically backdated to the age of twenty-five, a process that would require ever more surgical ingenuity as the years went by. Jack introduced us and we shook hands. Hers were ice cold and I could have sworn she wasn’t happy to have me there.
Jack pulled out a wicker stool and sat down with his back to Karen’s makeup table, his eyes never leaving her face. My guess was that being an ex–high school sweetheart of hers was as much a part of his identity as being a former basketball champ. I leaned a hip against the marble counter. There was a silver-framed photograph of Kevin McCall propped up beside me, the mirror reflecting endless reproductions of his perfect profile. To all appearances, he’d been allowed to retain the face he was born with, but the uniform darkness of his hair, with its picturesque dusting of silver at the temples, suggested that nature was being tampered with, at least superficially. Still, it was hard to imagine that either he or Karen had a problem more pressing than an occasional loose dental cap.
“I appreciate your coming, Miss Millhone. It means a lot to us under the circumstances.” Her voice was throaty and low, with the merest hint of tremolo. Even by candlelight, I could see the tension in her face. “I wasn’t in favor of bringing anyone else into this, but Jack insisted. Has he explained the situation?” She glanced from me to Jack, who said, “I told her you preferred to do that yourself.”
She seemed to hug herself for warmth and her mouth suddenly looked pinched. Tears welled in her eyes and she placed two fingers on the bridge of her nose as if to quell their flow. “You’ll have to forgive me . . .”
I didn’t think she’d be able to continue, but she managed to collect herself.
“Kevin’s been kidnapped. . . .” Her voice cracked with emotion and she lifted her dark eyes to mine. I’d never seen such a depth of pain and suffering.
At first, I didn’t even know what to say to her. “When was this?”
“Last night. We’re very private people. We’ve never let anyone get remotely close to us. . . .” She broke off again.
“Take your time,” I said.
Jack moved over to the stair and sat down beside her, putting an arm protectively around her shoulders. The smile she offered him was wan and she couldn’t sustain it.
He handed her his handkerchief and I waited while she blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes. “Sorry. I’m just so frightened. This is horrible.”
“I hope you’ve called the police,” I said.
“She doesn’t want to take the risk,” Jack said.
Karen shook her head. “They said they’d kill him if I called in the police.”
“Who said?”
“The bastards who snatched him. I was given this note. Here. You can see for yourself. It’s too much like the Bender case to take any chances.” She extracted a piece of paper from the folds of her long dress and held it out to me.
I took the note by one corner so I wouldn’t smudge any prints, probably a useless precaution. If this was truly like the Bender case, there wouldn’t be any prints to smudge. The paper was plain, the printing in ball-point pen and done with a ruler.
FIVE HUNDRED THOU IN SMALL BILLS BUYS YOUR HUSBAND BACK. GO TO THE COPS OR THE FEDS AND HE’S DEAD MEAT FOR SURE. WE’LL CALL SOON WITH INSTRUCTIONS. KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT OR YOU’LL REGRET IT. THAT’S A PROMISE, BABY CAKES.
She was right. Both the format and the use of language bore an uncanny similarity to the note delivered to a woman named Corey Bender, whose husband had been a kidnapped about a year ago. Dan Bender was the CEO of a local manufacturing company, a man who’d made millions with a line of auto parts called Fender-Benders. In that situation, the kidnappers had asked for five hundred thousand dollars in tens and twenties. Mrs. Bender had contacted both the police and the FBI, who had stage-managed the whole transaction, arranging for a suitcase full of blank paper to be dropped according to the kidnappers’ elaborate telephone instructions. The drop site had been staked out, everyone assuring Mrs. Bender that nothing could possibly go wrong. The drop went as planned except the suitcase was never picked up and Dan Bender was never seen alive again. His body—or what was left of it—washed up on the Santa Teresa beach two months later.
“Tell me what happened,” I said.
She got up and began to pace, describing in halting detail the circumstances of Kevin McCall’s abduction. The couple had been working on a four-day shooting schedule at the studio down in Hollywood. They’d been picked up from the set by limousine at seven P.M. on Thursday and had been driven straight to Santa Teresa, arriving for the long weekend at nine o’clock that night. The housekeeper usually fixed supper for them and left it in the oven, departing shortly before they were due home. At the end of a week of shooting, the couple preferred all the solitude they could get.
Nothing seemed amiss when they arrived at the house. Both interior and exterior lights were on as usual. Karen emerged from the limo with Kevin right behind her. She chatted briefly with the driver and then waved good-bye while Kevin unlocked the front door and disarmed the alarm system. The limo driver had already turned out of the gate when two men in ski masks stepped out of the shadows armed with automatics. Neither Karen nor Kevin had much opportunity to react. A dark sedan pulled into the driveway and Kevin was hustled into the backseat at gunpoint. Not a wor
d was said. The note was thrust into Karen’s hand as the gunmen left. She raced after the sedan as it sped away, but no license plates were visible. She had no real hope of catching up and no clear idea what she meant to do anyway. In a panic, she returned to the house and locked herself in. Once the shock wore off, she called Jack Chamberlain, their local banker, a former high school classmate—the only person in Santa Teresa she felt she could trust. Her first thought was to cancel tonight’s party altogether, but Jack suggested she proceed.
“I thought it would look more natural,” he filled in. “Especially if she’s being watched.”
“They did call with instructions?” I asked.
Again she nodded, her face pale. “They want the money by midnight tomorrow or that’s the last I’ll see of him.”
“Can you raise five hundred thousand on such short notice?”
“Not without help,” she said, and turned a pleading look to Jack.
He was shaking his head and I gathered this was a subject they’d already discussed at length. “The bank doesn’t keep large reservoirs of cash on hand,” he said to me. “There’s no way I’d have access to a sum like that, particularly on a weekend. The best I can do is bleed the cash from all the branch ATMS—”
“Surely you can do better than that,” she said. “You’re a bank vice president.”
He turned to her, with a faintly defensive air, trying to persuade her the failing wasn’t his. “I might be able to put together the full amount by Monday, but even then, you’d have to fill out an application and go through the loan committee—”
She said, “Oh, for God’s sake, Jack. Don’t give me that bureaucratic bullshit when Kevin’s life is at stake! There has to be a way.”
“Karen, be reasonable—”
“Forget it. This is hopeless. I’m sorry I ever brought you into this. . . .”
I watched them bicker for a moment and then broke in. “All right, wait a minute. Hold on. Let’s back off the money question, for the time being.”
“Back off?” she said.
“Look. Let’s assume there’s a way to get the ransom money. Now what?”
Her brow was furrowed and she seemed to have trouble concentrating on the question at hand. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Fill me in on the rest of it. I need to know what happened last night after you got in touch with Jack.”
“Oh. I see, yes. He came over to the house and we sat here for hours, waiting for the phone to ring. The kidnappers—one of them—finally called at two A.M.”
“You didn’t recognize the voice?”
“Not at all.”
“Did the guy seem to know Jack was with you?”
“He didn’t mention it, but he swore they were watching the house and he said the phone was tapped.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it, but it’s probably smart to proceed as though it’s true. It’s possible they didn’t have the house staked out last night, but they may have put a man on it since. Hard to know. Did they tell you how to deliver the cash once you got it?”
“That part was simple. I’m to pack the money in a big canvas duffel. At eleven-thirty tomorrow night, they want me to leave the house on my bicycle with the duffel in the basket.”
“On a bike? That’s a new one.”
“Kev and I often bike together on weekends, which they seemed aware of. As a matter of fact, they seemed to know quite a lot. It was very creepy.”
Jack spoke up. “They must have cased the place to begin with. They knew the whole routine, from what she’s told me.”
“Stands to reason,” I remarked. And then to her, “Go on.”
“They told me to wear my yellow jumpsuit—I guess so they can identify me—and that’s all there was.”
“They didn’t tell you which way to ride?”
“I asked about that and they told me I could head in any direction I wanted. They said they’d follow at a distance and intercept when it suited them. Obviously, they want to make sure I’m unaccompanied.”
“Then what?”
“When they blink the car lights, I’m to toss the canvas duffel to the side of the road and ride on. They’ll release Kevin as soon as the money’s been picked up and counted.”
“Shoot. It rules out any fudging if they count the money first. Did they let you talk to Kevin?”
“Briefly. He sounded fine. Worried about me . . .”
“And you’re sure it was him.”
“Positive. I’m so scared. . . .”
The whole time we’d been talking, my mind was racing ahead. She had to call the cops. There was no doubt in my mind she was a fool to tackle this without the experts, but she was dead set against it. I said, “Karen, you can’t handle something like this without the cops. You’d be crazy to try to manage on your own.”
She was adamant.
Jack and I took turns arguing the point and I could see his frustration surface. “For God’s sake, you’ve got to listen to us. You’re way out of your element. If these guys are the same ones who kidnapped Dan Bender, you’re putting Kevin’s life at risk. They’re absolutely ruthless.”
“Jack, I’m not the one putting Kevin’s life at risk. You are. That’s exactly what you’re doing when you propose calling the police.”
“How are you going to get the money?” he said, exasperated.
“Goddamn it, how do I know? You’re the banker. You tell me.”
“Karen, I am telling you. There’s no way to do this. You’re making a big mistake.”
“Corey Bender was the one who made a mistake,” she snapped.
We were getting nowhere. Time was short and the pressures were mounting every minute. If Jack and I didn’t come up with some plan, Kevin McCall was going to end up dead. If the cash could be assembled, the obvious move was to have me take Karen’s place during the actual delivery, which would at least eliminate the possibility of her being picked up as well. Oddly enough, I thought I had an inkling how to get the bucks, though it might well take me the better part of the next day.
“All right,” I said, breaking in for the umpteenth time. “We can argue this all night and it’s not going to get us anyplace. Suppose I find a way to get the money, will you at least consent to my taking your place for the drop?”
She studied me for a moment. “That’s awfully risky, isn’t it? What if they realize the substitution?”
“How could they? They’ll be following in a car. In the dark and at a distance, I can easily pass for you. A wig and a jumpsuit and who’d know the difference?”
She hesitated. “I do have a wig, but why not just do what they say? I don’t like the idea of disobeying their instructions.”
“Because these guys are way too dangerous for you to deal with yourself. Suppose you deliver the money as specified. What’s to prevent their picking you up and making Kevin pay additional ransom for your return?”
I could see her debate the point. Her uneasiness was obvious, but she finally agreed. “I don’t understand what you intend to do about the ransom. If Jack can’t manage to get the money, how can you?”
“I know a guy who has access to a large sum of cash. I can’t promise anything, but I can always ask.”
Karen’s gaze came to rest on my face with puzzlement.
“Look,” I said in response to her unspoken question, “I’ll explain if I get it. And if not, you have to promise me you’ll call the police.”
Jack prodded. “It’s your only chance.”
She was silent for a moment and then spoke slowly. “All right. Maybe so. We’ll do it your way. What other choice do I have?”
Before we left, we made arrangements for her to leave a wig, the yellow jumpsuit, and the bicycle on the service porch the next night. I’d return to the house on foot sometime after dark, leaving my car parked a few discreet blocks away. At eleven-thirty, as instructed, I’d pedal down the drive with the canvas duffel and ride around until the kidnappers caught up with me. While I was gone, Jack could
swing by and pick Karen up in his car. I wanted her off the premises in the event anything went wrong. If I was snatched and the kidnappers realized they had the wrong person, at least they couldn’t storm back to the house and get her. We went over the details until we were all in accord. In the end, she seemed satisfied with the plan and so did Jack. I was the only one with any lingering doubts. I thought she was a fool, but I kept that to myself. . . .
I hit the road the next morning early and headed north on Highway 101. Visiting hours at the Federal Correctional Institution at Lompoc run from eight to four on Saturdays. The drive took about an hour with a brief stop at a supermarket in Buellton, where I picked up an assortment of picnic supplies. By ten, I was seated at one of the four sheltered picnic tables with my friend Harry Hovey. If Harry was surprised to see me, he didn’t complain. “It’s not like my social calendar’s all that full,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Let’s eat first,” I said. “Then I got something I need to talk to you about.”
I’d brought cold chicken and potato salad, assorted cheeses, fruit, and cookies—anything I could grab that didn’t look like institutional fare. Personally, I wasn’t hungry, but it was gratifying to watch Harry chow down with such enthusiasm. He was not looking well. He was a man in his fifties, maybe five-five, heavyset, with thinning gray hair and glasses cloudy with fingerprints. He didn’t take good care of himself under the best of circumstances, and the stress of prison living had aged him ten years. His color was bad. He was smoking way too much. He’d lost weight in a manner that looked neither healthful nor flattering.
“How’re you doing?” I asked. “You look tired.”
“I’m okay, I guess. I been better in my day, but what the hell,” he said. He’d paused in the middle of his meal for a cigarette. He seemed distracted, his attention flicking from the other tables to the playground equipment, where a noisy batch of kids were twirling round and round on the swings. It was November and the sun was shining, but the air was chilly and the grass was dead.
