Y Is for Yesterday

by Sue Grafton

  I was home by seven, grateful for the heads-up about the dinner special. I topped off my evening with a hot hard-boiled egg sandwich with way too much mayonnaise and way too much salt. Of special note was the fact that I was able to return to my Elmore Leonard while I ate, which made it a double treat. Though I was unaware of it at the time, this was a lull before the gathering storm, if you fancy such talk.

  3

  Saturday, September 16, 1989

  The McCabes’ address on State was marked by a decorative Spanish tile with a stylized number 1319 embedded in a stucco wall of a building adjacent to the Axminster Theater. A wooden door, painted turquoise, opened onto a stairway lined with the same decorative tiles. Halfway up, the stairway was broken by a landing, which eased the climb to the second story. At street level, the row of buildings boasted the local Christian Science Reading Room, a store selling high-end home furnishings, two restaurants, a florist, and a Pendleton’s shop.

  When I reached the top of the stairs, I knocked at a second, interior door, which was opened moments later by a housekeeper who was on her way out. In her left hand, she carried her purse and a big brown paper bag. In her right, a lightweight vacuum cleaner. I worried she’d make a misstep and take a tumble.

  “You need help?”

  “No, I’m good. This is lighter than it looks,” she said, indicating the vacuum cleaner. She called back over her shoulder, “You have a visitor, Mrs. McCabe.”

  “Thanks, Valerie. I’ll be right there.”

  “See you Tuesday.”

  The housekeeper continued down the stairs. Lauren appeared in the doorway wearing embroidered flats, trim slacks in navy blue wool, and a teal silk blouse with long sleeves. She was probably in her early fifties, but she carried the years well, possibly with cosmetic assistance though I saw no overt evidence of surgical tampering.

  I’d never seen a woman decked out in so many diamonds: rings, earrings, a necklace, and a jumble of bracelets. Her hair was straight, a shiny unapologetic gray that she wore in a short bob that framed her face. She was blue-eyed, tanned, and attractive without being beautiful. The air around her was scented with lily of the valley cologne, like a faint whiff of spring.

  “You must be Kinsey. I’m Lauren McCabe,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “Nice meeting you,” I said. As we shook hands, I registered the strength of the cool, narrow fingers she offered me.

  “Please come in.”

  She stepped aside so I could pass into the apartment ahead of her. A small foyer opened into the living room, where the ceilings were high and light poured in through a series of French doors that opened onto a second-floor loggia. The interior walls were white, the furniture upholstered in neutral tones. In lieu of color, there were textures—wool, velvet, corduroy, cashmere, and silk. A black baby grand piano was dwarfed by the proportions of the room, which was grounded in polished red tiles covered by a muted, palace-sized Oriental rug. Sheers billowed with a passing breeze that made the place seem chilly. She closed two of the French doors, muting the street sounds outside. I felt a moment, not of envy, but appreciation. Living here, you’d be in walking distance of the whole of downtown: retail shopping, hotels, restaurants, movie theaters, even medical and dental offices.

  I said, “This place is amazing. Is yours the only unit up here?”

  She smiled. “We have it all to ourselves. We had a house in Horton Ravine, but that was sold eight years ago to cover legal bills.” Her tone was casual and the reference came with ease. She didn’t spell out the circumstances, probably assuming I would know. “I made some coffee if you’re interested.”

  “I’d like that,” I said.

  She’d already laid out a coffee service: cups, saucers, cream and sugar, cloth napkins, a plate of biscotti, and a large Thermos of hot coffee. It was clear we’d make our way through the niceties before we got to the subject of my visit. I was curious but in no particular hurry to hear what she had to say. I enjoyed the sense of well-being, trying to imagine a life in which this was the norm. After a pleasant interval, she eased into the subject at hand.

  “Hollis won’t be home until six, which I thought would give us ample time to chat.”

  “What sort of work does your husband do?”

  “He’s a tax attorney who manages investments for clients at the bank. Very successful, I might add, if it doesn’t sound like bragging. I’ve never had to work.”

  “And where’s Fritz?”

  “He’s bunking in with friends for the weekend.”

  “I read about his release. Must be nice to have him back.”

  “It is, though it’s generated a problem that’s caught us off guard.”

  “Which is why you contacted Lonnie.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “We had hoped he’d help, but he suggested your services instead.”

  “So this isn’t a legal matter?”

  “It is and it isn’t. It’s complicated.”

  I was wondering why Lonnie Kingman had steered away from the job. In my experience, attorneys relish diving into thorny legal issues, expounding on the depths of your troubles, which they’re quick to assure you are worse than you first thought. “Can you tell me what you’re dealing with?”

  She leaned over and picked up a package that she’d placed on the nearest end table.

  “This arrived a week ago,” she said. She held out a manila envelope with a bubble-lined interior meant to protect its contents. Originally, the envelope had been stapled shut with an extra width of clear tape added to secure the opening. The package now gaped open and I could feel the contours of a book or a box of some kind.

  “May I?” I asked, not wanting to presume.

  “Of course. You might need a brief introduction before you understand what you’re looking at.”

  What I removed from the padded mailer was a VHS tape with a label that read “A Day in the Life of . . . 1979.” I felt a rush of adrenaline. I held it up, waiting for an explanation though I knew what it was. This had to be the aforementioned sex footage taken ten years before.

  “This came in the same envelope,” she said. She handed me a computer-generated note; all caps. “TWENTY-FIVE GRAND IN CASH OR THIS GOES TO THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY. NO COPS AND NO FBI. BE READY WITH THE MONEY IN SMALL BILLS. I’LL LEAVE A PHONE MESSAGE WITH INSTRUCTIONS.”

  “This is the only communication you’ve received?”

  “So far. Hollis went to RadioShack and bought three recording devices to attach to the phones, anticipating a call.”

  I was on the verge of admitting what little Jonah had told me about the tape, but why interject? I was curious about her version and didn’t see a reason to make it easy on her. “Why is this worth anything?”

  For the first time, she colored, her cheeks taking on a faint tint of pink. “You know about Sloan Stevens?”

  “The girl who was shot to death.”

  “Tragically, yes. A week or so before, Fritz and Troy and another friend launched a home movie project, absurdly pleased with themselves. I asked about the contents more than once, but they were secretive, all guffaws and self-congratulations. One afternoon, I came across the tape in Fritz’s room and I couldn’t help myself. Fritz was off at his tennis lesson and it seemed like the perfect opportunity to take a peek. I pictured a melodrama—werewolves or vampires or a shoot-’em-up of some kind.

  “When I played the tape, I was horrified. You’ll see it for yourself, of course, but I’m warning you. It’s despicable. The boys subject some poor drunken girl to sexual abuse. I can’t tell you how revolted I was.”

  “Did you confront him?”

  “I didn’t have the chance. I left the tape in his machine where I’d found it. I felt it was imperative to talk to Hollis first so we could decide what to do. I thought Fritz should be held accountable, but in what fashion I didn’t know. Sloan arrived
at the house, asking to speak to him, but I told her it wasn’t a good time because something had come up. She didn’t argue the point. I told her I was on my way to the club to pick him up. She said she’d talk to him at school. End of the matter as far as I knew. When I pulled out of the garage, she was on the street with her dog, Butch, and I assumed she was walking home since she was headed in that direction. Now I suspect she waited until I turned the corner before she wheeled around and came back.”

  “She stole it?”

  “Let’s put it this way. When Fritz and I got home, the tape was gone. He had a fit, convinced I’d taken it. I played dumb and swore up and down I didn’t know what he was talking about.”

  “Isn’t it possible someone else took it?”

  “I suppose so, but she was the obvious culprit since she showed up just before I left the house.”

  “Who else was in that group of friends?”

  “Poppy Earl, for one. She and Sloan were best friends until Iris Lehmann came along; she’s the young girl in the tape being victimized. The truth of the matter is I don’t see how anyone but Sloan had time to get in the house and out in the short time I was gone.”

  “Wasn’t the house locked?”

  “Locked, but easily entered. We had an open-door policy with Fritz’s friends and all of them knew where the key was kept.”

  “That was trusting of you.”

  “We wanted them to feel at home, that this was a refuge where they were free to hang out.”

  “Where was the key?”

  “On a hook in the garage, which I’d left open when I went out.”

  “What did you tell Hollis?”

  “Well, I described what I’d seen, but without the tape, his only option was to take my word for it. He thought I was exaggerating, when if anything, I was toning it down.”

  “So what was the upshot?”

  “Nothing. The tape was gone and that was the last I heard of it until now. Meantime, Sloan was killed and the boys were arrested. Except for Austin, of course, and no one knows where he is.”

  “He’s the kid who came up with the idea of shunning her?”

  “That’s correct. He was also behind the events that culminated in the shooting. Sloan was apparently using the tape as leverage, forcing him to back off.”

  I looked at the note again. “Twenty-five thousand seems like an odd demand. You’d think a blackmailer would ask for more.”

  “Hollis’s theory is he didn’t want to hit us up for huge sums of money right off the bat. He thinks the twenty-five grand is a down payment, which is one more reason not to shell it out. Anyway, I should probably let you see it before we go on. The video player’s in the library.”

  I got up and followed as she led the way down the hall. We passed a spacious dining room and I caught a glimpse of the state-of-the-art kitchen through an open door on the far wall. The library was on a smaller scale, intimate when compared to the public rooms. The walls were lined with dark walnut and the floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with a mix of books and art objects, tastefully arranged. There was the requisite antique desk and on one wall an entertainment center, which housed not only the TV but various pieces of electronic equipment, among them a VCR machine. A comfortable array of chairs was oriented toward the television screen. I could picture Lauren and her husband watching the nightly news with their evening cocktails.

  Lauren popped the tape in the VCR and picked up the remote control, pressing Play and then Pause in rapid succession. As soon as she determined the tape was ready, she handed me the remote. “You’ll think it’s going on forever, but it’s only four minutes. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re done. At the time, Iris was a freshman at Climping Academy and in trouble constantly. You should also be aware that Poppy and Troy were girlfriend-boyfriend until Poppy found out he and Iris had been intimate. The word ‘intimate’ really shouldn’t apply when they behaved badly in front of witnesses while being taped.”

  “I understand your point.”

  She hesitated. “To be honest, when I saw the tape ten years ago, I was perfectly willing to let Fritz suffer the consequences. Then Sloan was killed and he went to prison for his part in her death. Now that he’s free, my attitude has changed. I’m still angry about what he did, but I’m ambivalent about punishment. He’s paid enough and I don’t see what good it would do if he were sent back.”

  As soon as she disappeared down the hall, I pressed Play. Even assuming the tape had serious implications, I was unprepared for the contents, which were alternately vulgar and violent. The opening was benign: two adolescent boys fresh from a swim, drinking beer and smoking dope. The scene appeared to have been filmed in a basement recreation room with a bar, bar stools, and a pool table that came into play partway through the tape. I assumed the younger of the two was Fritz McCabe. The more mature-looking kid, who had a head of dark red hair in a buzz cut, I assumed was Troy Rademaker.

  A very young girl appeared, wrapped in a towel and her hair wet, chugging down a beer. Fritz passed her the joint and then poured her a large glass of gin from a bottle on the bar. There was horseplay, and at one point, the scene jumped forward in time. When the tape picked up, the girl was sprawled on the sofa, inebriated and slurring her words. She appealed to “Austin,” who was out of camera range, begging him for a kiss. There was a quick cutaway to the infamous Austin Brown, incongruously outfitted in a sport coat and tie. He was seated in an upholstered chair, legs flung over the arm as he leafed through a magazine, apparently indifferent to the scene being played out in front of him. I hit Pause and studied him. He had a face I’d have associated with nobility if I’d known anyone noble: lean and honed and arrogant. I knew I’d been influenced by Jonah’s account of him, but I felt myself recoiling all the same. I could easily imagine his lording it over his pals, his detachment marking him as superior.

  The girl said, “Pretty please?”

  He appeared to be bored. “No way. I’m the director, not a bit player. I’m the guy in charge.”

  “The auteur,” Troy interjected.

  “Right. The mastermind,” Austin said with a glance at her. “Besides, you look like you’re doing well enough on your own.”

  Her reply came from off camera. “Party pooper. You’re no fun.”

  The view jumped to Fritz and Troy, now naked and aroused, engaged in an ongoing sexual assault on the same girl, who was by then inert and unresponsive, drunk or stoned or both. I couldn’t help but notice that the redheaded boy had pubic hair to match. I don’t apologize for the observation as I’m trained in such matters; a paid professional. The boys’ antics were painful to watch because I could see that it must have seemed like a game to them. They were having a good time being studs, too self-involved to be aware of the significance of their actions, which were clearly criminal. Both would be held accountable by law if the tape reached the DA’s office. The extortionist’s threat put the McCabes in an untenable position. If they paid the twenty-five-thousand-dollar demand, they risked being on the hook for life. If they went to the police in hopes of bypassing the blackmailer, then Fritz and his friend Troy would end up charged with rape, sexual assault, and god knows what else. As nearly as I remembered, aggravated rape has no statute of limitations.

  I was assuming Iris was unaware of what had been done to her or, at any rate, had never filed a complaint. If she’d taken legal action back then, the criminal or civil suit would have been decided and the threat neutralized. I could picture the boys boasting of their sexual conquest, probably blaming Iris for being promiscuous and therefore deserving of their treatment. In their minds, it must have seemed like a prank, something to boost their manly prowess in the eyes of their pals. I’d heard of similar situations, where still photographs of a sexual assault had been circulated among the perpetrators’ friends. What possessed anyone to record such vile behavior was beyond me.

  I b
ecame aware of Lauren, who’d entered the room behind me, watching the last fifteen seconds of the tape. I showed no emotional reaction. As horrific as the tape was, it would be unprofessional to express repulsion or disapproval. Medical personnel follow the same code of conduct, not responding with shrieks of horror and disgust when symptoms of your sexually transmitted disease first surface during your pelvic examination.

  I said, “I take it the older boy is Troy Rademaker.”

  “Yes. He ended up driving the vehicle the night Sloan was killed.”

  “You have any idea whether he’s received a similar demand?”

  “I don’t think he has money, so there wouldn’t be much point.”

  “What about the camera operator?”

  “I believe it was Bayard Montgomery, another friend of Fritz’s. Hollis was working for Bayard’s father at the time. Tigg Montgomery died a year later.”

  “When all of this was still going on?”

  “During the boys’ trial, but before sentencing. He was spared much of it since he was so sick.”

  “Cancer?”

  “Some rare form. I don’t know the particulars,” she said. “In point of fact, Bayard was never charged. Tigg made a deal with the DA’s office—immunity in exchange for his son’s testimony, which was damaging.”

  I folded that information into the mix while she went on. “Hollis and I watched the tape after it showed up in the mail and it was clear the extortionist was counting on our feeling sufficiently protective of Fritz to pay up. Frankly, I have no idea what to do except to see if we can track down the person who sent it to us.”

  “Any idea who that is?” I asked. “I know the question seems obvious, but I wondered if a possibility crossed your mind when this first came up.”

  “It had to be someone close to Sloan. She was killed a week or so after the theft, so if she took the tape—and I have little doubt she did—then it was probably in her keeping when she died.”