Y Is for Yesterday

by Sue Grafton

  I rang her call button and waited. When there was no response, I checked my watch. It was 5:10. I rang a second time with still no answer. I pushed out the door into the garden courtyard and looked up to my left. There were lights visible on the second and third floors of her apartment. I wasn’t certain how the rooms were laid out, but it made sense to imagine public spaces—living room, dining room, kitchen, and balcony—on the second floor, with the third floor reserved for the master suite, guest bedrooms, and perhaps an office or study. A quick visual survey of neighboring units showed exterior balconies on both the second and third floors, which supported my supposition.

  I returned to the elevator and pressed her call button again. It was possible she’d forgotten our date or perhaps something had come up and she’d tried telephoning after I’d already left my studio for the drive down. Or she could be picking up last-minute items at the grocery store. Or she could be “away from her desk,” which is to say, in the bathroom. Or what? There must have been half a dozen other reasons she might not be picking up the call. Even so, I didn’t like it.

  I rang the button for E. Price. After a brief pause, a man said, “Yes?”

  “Hi. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I was supposed to meet Phyllis here for drinks at five, but she doesn’t seem to be answering.”

  “Her guest is already here.”

  “I’m her guest.”

  “Then who buzzed me half an hour ago?”

  “Not me,” I said.

  “Oh. Well, that’s odd because I ran into her as she was getting back from the grocery store and she told me she was expecting company.”

  “What made you think I was already here?”

  “My mistake. I assumed Kinsey was a man’s name so when you, or I should say, when a guy rang a while ago, I thought her guest was early so I buzzed him on up.”

  “How do you know it was a guy?”

  “Because I talked to him. I asked what he wanted and he said something about her call bell being on the fritz, which is why I sent the elevator.”

  I could feel the cold, like Freon, seep from the core of me through my rib cage. “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know. I was in the middle of a phone call so I just left the handset on the kitchen counter while I sent the car down. I knew Phyllis was home so I figured she’d answer her door when the guy got up here.”

  “What’s your first name?”

  “What?”

  “What does the E stand for, Mr. Price?”

  “Erroll.”

  “Well, Erroll, I think you should activate the elevator and let me up there. Either that or go knock on Phyllis’s door yourself and see if she’s okay.”

  “You think we have a problem?”

  “I think we have a big problem.”

  An instant later the elevator doors slid shut and the elevator moved up.

  23

  Saturday, September 23, 1989

  Erroll Price was waiting for me as I emerged from the elevator. The foyer on the second floor was a duplicate of the lobby below. Strong lighting, mirrored walls, fake plants, and the few pieces of furniture were meant to divert attention from the fact that there were no exterior doors or windows. This rendered the space claustrophobic, all the more so because Erroll was such a commanding presence. He was oversize: tall, big-boned, heavy set, and muscular, in a pair of faded red sweatpants and a white T-shirt. He was barefoot. His skin was the color of fudge frosting and his black hair was a glistening halo of ringlets.

  “I brought a key to her place,” he said. “The deal is if she’s out of town, I take care of her plants, bring in the mail, and stuff like that. She does the same for me. I already knocked and rang her doorbell while you were on your way up.”

  “Let’s try one more time.”

  The door was splintered. Nonetheless, I knocked and rang the doorbell simultaneously, which netted us no response. I stepped back as Erroll pushed open the door, calling, “Phyllis? You home?”

  He peered in and then held out an arm instinctively to block my forward motion. I peered past him and saw Phyllis lying facedown on the carpeting in the living room.

  “Oh no,” I said.

  I crossed the room and knelt beside her, wincing at the sight of her external injuries. Her left eye was blackened and swollen shut; probably her right eye as well though it was hidden by her position on the floor. Her nose was broken, her left cheek battered and puffy, and her jaw was askew. Blood oozed from her nose and mouth and saturated the carpeting under her. Her left arm was caught beneath her torso and might have been broken, judging from the oddity of the angle.

  Erroll leaned down and pressed two fingers against her neck, checking for a pulse. “Phyllis, can you hear me? This is Erroll. The guy’s gone. You’re safe. We’ll take care of you.”

  He rose to his feet and went into the kitchen to the phone mounted on the wall.

  He dialed 9-1-1. I could hear him talk to the dispatcher, telling her the situation, the address, and the nature of the injuries.

  I remained kneeling beside her. I leaned close and listened to her stertorous breathing. She made a sound in her throat, a cross between a moan and a mewing. I patted her free hand, murmuring nonsense I hoped she would hear and find comforting. I would have turned her over on her back, but I was afraid of moving her.

  I picked up the scent of something scorched and I looked up. Smoke poured from the wall oven, threatening to trigger the smoke alarm. I moved swiftly into the kitchen, turned off the oven, and activated the vent fan above the stovetop. A half-sheet pan in the lighted interior bore blackened canapés that were impossible to identify. I found a hot pad and removed the sheet pan to the granite counter. Then I unlocked and opened the glass-paned door to the balcony to let in fresh air. On the counter, there was a cutting board with radishes, carrots, baby turnips, and celery hearts ready to be trimmed. A bottle of Chardonnay sat in a wine cooler. She’d taken out wineglasses that she’d washed and left upside down in the dish drainer. There was something painful about the sight of these homey activities undertaken with such innocence.

  Erroll finished his conversation with the 9-1-1 dispatcher and returned to my side.

  “I don’t know what she was baking, but it’s a charred mess now,” I said.

  “Cheddar cheese crackers. She makes them all the time for company. The guy must have rung the bell shortly after she put ’em in the oven. Usually takes twenty minutes.”

  “Which means he barely made it out of here before we showed up. How did he get away?”

  “He must have gone down the back stairs.”

  “Which go where?”

  “Two-car garage. He could have let himself out and headed for a side street.”

  I let my gaze travel up the stairs to the second floor. “What if he’s still on the premises?”

  “Wait here.”

  He approached the stairs in giant strides and took the steps two at a time. At the third-floor landing, he looked in both directions and then moved to his left. To me, the place had an empty feel, but I didn’t think we should make assumptions. I followed Erroll’s progress by way of the series of thumps on the ceiling as he moved from room to room, opening and closing doors. When he finally came downstairs again, he carried a quilt. “He trashed the place, but otherwise no sign of him.”

  He shook out the quilt and laid it over Phyllis, saying, “Hold on, baby. We’re going to get you some help here real quick.”

  Erroll appeared at my side. “I alerted the gate guard and he’ll direct the cops and the ambulance, but I should be out front to flag them down. You okay here alone?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He squeezed my shoulder and departed, leaving the apartment door open. I heard the elevator doors close and then it was quiet. I picked up the sound of a grandfather clock. I looked behind me and spotted it on t
he far wall. The wood was a beautifully burnished mahogany. The round clock face was topped by a moon dial, both trimmed in brass and chrome. There were three cylindrical brass weights and a flat brass pendulum as big around as a dinner plate. There was something comforting in the hollow click of the mechanism as the pendulum swung back and forth.

  I focused on surroundings I’d expected to see under far different circumstances. The living room was a big open space, with a formal dining room off to the left. A white marble-topped counter separated the living room from the kitchen, which had a row of windows along the back wall. On the balcony, I saw patio furniture that had been arranged with a view to the ocean, currently beyond my visual range. She’d chosen atypical wall colors, a mauve and eucalyptus green, with slate-blue drapes and wall-to-wall carpeting. In theory, this was more interesting than the usual white walls, but the dark-toned carpeting and heavy drapes had affected the nature of the light coming in. Instead of eye-pleasing, the hues came across as gloomy. She’d introduced a number of oversize palms with wide, thick leaves that dominated the space. Floor-length cloths on the tables made the room feel stuffy. She didn’t seem to favor empty wall space or bare surfaces. Two mirrored walls, instead of creating an illusion of more space, simply doubled, in reflection, the already crowded feel of the rooms.

  I looked down at her. She’d mentioned being overweight when she’d met Ned, so her petite size was unexpected, as was the dark auburn hair she wore in a French twist that had come undone in the battle she’d waged. I was convinced he’d done this, though I had no proof. I’d have been willing to bet he’d timed his attack with an eye to my arrival, but how he’d managed to track her down and how he could have known the day and time of our get-together was a mystery. I don’t believe in coincidence. Somehow my phone conversation with her had resulted in an information leak. I’d spoken to her two days earlier, which was when we’d agreed to meet. Since then, I hadn’t discussed the drinks date with anyone, so I assumed she’d mentioned it.

  Her theory was that Ned was on the hunt for the treasure trove of souvenirs he’d removed from his young female victims. If he harbored the notion that she had the trinkets in her possession, he might have tried reaching her at her old address and discovered that she’d moved. He could have traced her to her current location through utility connections in her name or by way of a former neighbor, who might have passed along her new address with the best of intentions. Erroll had made the final hurdle easy for him by sending the elevator down when he should have checked with Phyllis first.

  The burglar chain had been snapped off the front door, suggesting Ned had caught her off guard, kicking hard enough to splinter the hollow-core wood door. On the wall to the left of the door, a table had been toppled and an ornamental plate had bounced on the thick carpet, where it lay still intact. It looked like she’d made it as far as the stairs before he’d grabbed her from behind and hauled her backward. I could see the tracks her heels had left where he’d dragged her across the floor. At some point, he’d dealt her a blow severe enough to drop her, but there was no sign of a weapon. Had to be a blunt object of some kind. The soundproofing in the units must have been far more effective than I imagined because if Erroll had heard them, he’d have come across the hall to find out what was going on.

  In the dining room, I spotted an elegant leather handbag that had been emptied on the floor: her wallet, a makeup pouch, a pill bottle, hairbrush. Ned was probably looking for her house keys, which would have included the key to the elevator. My arrival must have cut short the rampage, forcing him to flee down the back stairs. Who knew how long he’d been gone before I rang her call bell that first time? Or maybe it was my buzzing that told him it was time to leave.

  I could hear the high, thin wail of two sirens, which diminished and finally shut down abruptly as the vehicles pulled up outside. Moments later, I heard the low wind of the ascending elevator and then the doors opened. Erroll led the way into the apartment, followed by a uniformed officer and three paramedics bearing a collapsible gurney. They needed space to work effectively, so I held out a hand to Erroll, who pulled me to my feet. The medics were already checking her vital signs, assessing her injuries in preparation for moving her.

  I turned aside, unable to watch as one of them started an IV line.

  “I want to take a look at the third floor,” I said and headed for the stairs. I thought Erroll might follow, but his attention was fixed on Phyllis. The paramedics conducted a murmured conversation as they applied first aid measures.

  When I reached the top of the stairs, I turned to the right. I looked into the master bedroom and bath, both of which were untouched. Retracing my steps, I peered into one of guest rooms, where she’d stacked the moving cartons she hadn’t yet unpacked. Ned had done the job for her, slashing at the packing tape, then dumping out the contents, which he’d flung in all directions. He’d managed to rip open ten of thirteen cardboard U-Haul boxes, tossing books, files, and office supplies. The scene looked chaotic, but I could see a certain systematic order to the disarray. He’d dispatched her first, knocking her out cold so that he could proceed without interruption. Three boxes remained sealed, which meant he’d been forced to abandon the task. He’d made two attempts to search my premises for his trinkets: first at my office, where he’d failed to gain entry, and the second time when he’d come to my studio and found Pearl and Lucky on hand. He must have changed the focus of his hunt from me to Phyllis. I crossed the hall and did a quick eyeball search of the second guest room, which she’d set up as her in-home office. Ned hadn’t gotten this far because the room was untouched.

  When I returned to the second floor, Erroll was in conversation with the uniformed patrol officer who’d responded to the 9-1-1 call. The officer was taking notes, but paused while the paramedics lifted Phyllis onto the gurney and immobilized her with straps. Erroll accompanied them as they maneuvered the gurney into the hall. A third paramedic, this one female, carried the IV bag, keeping pace as they eased into the elevator. The officer and I remained in the living room while Erroll stepped into the elevator and keyed in its downward journey.

  The officer introduced himself as Pat Espinoza. He was in his thirties, clean-cut, physically fit, and he carried himself with confidence. They should have posted his photograph on a billboard promoting employment with the Perdido Police Department because he was just exactly the sort you’d want showing up at a crime scene while you were still trying to get your head together.

  Erroll had filled him in on the basics while I supplied the back story. He told me a detective was on his way and asked if I’d stand by, which I was happy to do. What seemed odd to me later was that I couldn’t reconstruct the sequence of events and conversations with any continuity. I remembered most of it, but there were gaps that I had to write off as having been gobbled up piecemeal by emotions I was trying to repress.

  I realized Erroll had returned but I wasn’t sure how long he’d been back. He stood rigid against the wall, his head back, eyes closed. I heard voices in the foyer and then a tap at the door, which stood open. He roused himself as a plainclothes detective appeared. He was in his sixties, with fly-away gray hair, rimless bifocals, unruly eyebrows, and a salt-and-pepper mustache.

  Erroll moved away from the wall. “Erroll Price,” he said.

  “Detective Crawford Altman. Perdido Police Department.”

  The two shook hands as Erroll said, “That’s my place across the hall. This is Kinsey Millhone, a friend of Phyllis’s. She’s a private investigator from Santa Teresa.”

  The detective turned his attention to me and we shook hands. At close range, I could see all the lines in his face, including a six-inch silver scar that distorted the lid on his left eye. He looked more like a mad scientist than any detective I’d ever seen.

  “Why don’t you have a seat? We’ll chat as soon as I’ve talked to Mr. Price.”

  “Sure thing,” I said.
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br />   I wandered into the kitchen, too restless and hyped up to sit down. Through the bank of kitchen windows, I could see the waterfront a block away. The sun wouldn’t actually set for another hour and the cloudless blue sky was a contradiction to the events that had transpired. The one-story houses on the block between the condominium complex and the waterfront did nothing to obscure the view. The masts from the boats moored in the harbor swayed and tilted gently as a motorboat putted along behind them. Since this was a Saturday, there were tourists on the boardwalk and I counted the businesses that filled the wedge I could see: a fish-and-chips place, a T-shirt shop, a small art gallery that probably sold nautical scenes by local painters.

  I turned around and looked past the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. Erroll and Detective Altman were still talking. I’d done a quick survey of the third floor, but I hadn’t seen the back stairs. There were two doors to my left. The first opened into a spacious combination pantry and laundry room. I moved to the second door and used my shirt hem to open it, thinking Ned might have laid a hand on the knob. I found myself looking at the interior stairway that led down to the ground floor. I followed the stairs down, keeping my hands to myself. If Ned had left prints anywhere, I didn’t want to smudge them and I certainly didn’t want to add mine to the mix. At the bottom, there was a door with an automatic lock, which had been wedged open with a car jack. On the floor, miscellaneous pieces of sterling-silver flatware and been dropped and abandoned. The two-car garage was empty. The car jack was a nice touch, implying a burglary in progress with the intruder making sure he could load the car and then get back into the apartment for whatever additional items he might steal. This was Ned being subtle.