by Sue Grafton
“Fine, but you’re the one who has to call Fritz and tell him we can’t help.”
“Why me?”
“Because I told him you’d have the final word.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“Shit, Iris. Be inventive. You’re a genius when it comes to ad-libbing.”
Grudgingly she picked up the handset. “You’re just saying that because you want to get laid.”
“Pretty much,” he said.
27
Monday, October 2, 1989
The week following the fire was a quiet one and I assumed life had returned to normal. Since Lauren McCabe had fired me, I no longer had to worry about Fritz and the extortion threat. I should have known it was simply the lull before the storm. In that lovely interval, I found myself reviewing the sequence of events—my discovery that Ned was camping under my office, my confrontation with him, and the shots I’d fired while he was splashing gasoline against the bungalow with an eye to seeing the structure engulfed in flames. Henry had picked up my aborted message mere moments after the line went dead. He’d put in an immediate call to the fire and police departments. I hadn’t had time to tell him where I was, but he claimed if I wasn’t home, I was always at the office, so that’s where he sent the cavalry, riding to my rescue. By the time the Mounties arrived, I had put the fire out myself, using the fire extinguisher I retrieved from under the sink in my kitchenette. I’d had it for years and it was gratifying to have the chance to test its efficiency. Worked like a charm. A cursory inspection of the framing on the bungalow suggested that good-sized splinters had been torn off when the three bullets ripped into the wood and I was hoping they were currently embedded in the flesh of Ned Lowe’s thigh. With luck, there was more injury to him than there was to me. The gasoline hadn’t had a chance to saturate the stucco siding and Ned hadn’t spilled enough of it to do much more than superficial damage. Nonetheless, I spent the following four days dealing with my landlord’s insurance company. The claims adjustor was having trouble understanding how this series of mishaps had come to pass.
The crime scene techs had been alerted and they got busy collecting evidence: Ned’s hiking boots, sleeping bag, and backpack frame, which would doubtless be impregnated with his DNA. Now, not only were there outstanding warrants for multiple murder charges, he was wanted for grand theft auto, arson, trespassing, criminal mischief, and animal cruelty. Ed wasn’t hurt, but he was traumatized by the experience and didn’t leave Henry’s house again for a week.
While the fire hadn’t spread, my office smelled like smoke, charred wood, and the heavy dousing of water the fire department had lavished on the bungalow to knock down any smoldering remains of the original blaze.
At that point, my paranoia had leapt into the red zone. I spent twenty minutes daily on my hands and knees crawling around on my office floor, looking for listening devices. Since the alarm system prevented Ned’s getting in, he’d have been limited to spike mikes and voice-activated tape recorders. I did a cursory search for eavesdropping equipment above waist level, but found none. True to form, I typed up a report of the incident on the theory that the necessity might arise for further review. I calmed myself with the knowledge that no real harm had been generated. Ed was safe. I was safe and for once being unemployed, instead of being worrisome, was a profound relief. I sat down in my swivel chair and entertained happy thoughts. When I heard the knock on my office door, I was tempted to ignore it. A quick look at my appointment calendar showed that it was Monday, October 2, and I wasn’t expecting anyone. I would have ignored my visitor, pretending I wasn’t in, but anyone standing at the office door had a clear view through the window to the desk where I was sitting.
Lauren McCabe.
I went to the door, disarmed the periphery, unlocked the door, and let her in. If she noticed the lingering odor of burnt bungalow, she made no mention of it. It was then that I realized how totally self-absorbed she was. Why this came as a surprise I do not know. I assumed she’d come to argue about the money I’d refunded and I was prepared, in the spirit of forgiveness, to put the twenty-five hundred dollars back in my own account. I returned to my swivel chair. She sat down in one of the two guest chairs across the desk. She placed her leather handbag on the chair next to her.
She didn’t look good. Technically, she was properly put together as befitted someone of her means. She wore a white tunic with a heavy silver belt, gray wool slacks, and black patent-leather flats that made her feet look huge. Maybe tall women are better served by high heels. Her complexion was blotchy and her lipstick was eaten away in the middle, leaving a strange outline of stark red around her mouth. Her gray hair, while still neatly framing her face, had lost its luster.
“I’m assuming you received my note,” I said. I felt it was a generous move on my part to introduce the subject of her having fired me, thus saving her the awkwardness of raising the issue herself.
Her look was blank. “What note?”
“The note I sent you, along with a check reimbursing you for the twenty-five-hundred-dollar advance you paid me.”
“I haven’t checked the mail in days. I’ve been too upset about Fritz.”
I said, “Ah.”
That felt like a setback. In truth, once I’d recovered from the insult, I was glad to be shed of the job, which had felt iffy from the outset. The only reason I hadn’t been dismayed at the sight of her standing at my office door was that I knew she had no further power over me.
Meanwhile, she frowned in bafflement, saying, “Why would you return the advance?”
“Because you fired me. In my note, I confirmed the severing of our professional relationship as of September twenty-third.”
Her now-blotchy complexion was suffused with pink and while her tone was calm, there was a stubborn undercurrent. “I think you misunderstood my intent. I may have disagreed with some of the steps you took, but there’s no need to return the advance when the job is ongoing.”
“Uh, not ongoing. That’s the point. In effect, I fired you back.”
“That was precipitous and completely unnecessary. I think you could at least have had the courtesy to sit down and discuss the matter with me before you took so radical a step.”
It was finally occurring to me that she was here for some other purpose altogether. “You’re upset about something else.”
“Fritz is gone.”
“As of when?”
“I’m not sure. We only realized he was missing a short while ago and then it was by a fluke.”
“What fluke?”
“I had five checks sitting on my desk, already endorsed and ready to be deposited. I know they were there Thursday afternoon because I was making calls and I remember seeing them. This morning, they were gone. I asked Hollis and he had no idea where they’d disappeared to. In fact, he thought I’d gone to the bank and I assumed he had.”
“You’re talking about this past Thursday, the twenty-eighth?”
She nodded.
“When did you last see Fritz?”
“Well, that’s just it. He’s been spending weekends with friends. Since his release from CYA, he’s been very testy about my asking where he’s going or where he’s been so I make a point of not inquiring. When I noticed his bed hadn’t been slept in the past three nights, I paid no attention. I went over to the bank this morning and talked to one of the tellers. It seems Fritz showed up with a deposit slip, putting seventy-eight thousand in our savings account and taking back twenty-five thousand in cash.”
“The bank will do that?”
“Ours did. The total on the five checks was a hundred and three thousand dollars, so his taking a portion in cash wasn’t unusual.”
“What if the checks hadn’t cleared?”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference. We keep over five hundred thousand in that account.”
I said,
“Wow. How much interest do you earn on savings like that? One percent?”
“Hollis likes to keep some of our assets liquid.”
Half a million in liquid assets seemed like a lot to me, but I didn’t want to stop and argue the folly, which was off-topic.
Meanwhile, she was saying, “Ordinarily, the bank would have put a hold on the money for a few days, but the teller knew the twenty-five was covered because she looked it up. We’ve been customers for twenty years and we’ve never had a problem. The teller knows me, knows Hollis, and knows Fritz. There didn’t appear to be anything irregular.”
“Wasn’t a signature required for the twenty-five in cash?”
“My signature was already on the deposit slip. He forged it.”
“He must have done a damn fine job of it.”
She stiffened slightly, but let the comment go.
“When did he make the deposit?” I asked.
“Friday morning. He made a point of taking the cash in twenties and hundreds.”
“Do you remember seeing him after that?”
She shook her head. “Neither of us do.”
“What about clothes or personal possessions? Did he pack a bag?”
“We keep luggage in a storage area on the ground floor. I haven’t had a chance to check. His closet is always crammed, so there’s really no way to tell if he took anything or not. The bank teller remembers he had a backpack. Maybe red or black, she wasn’t sure.”
“Well, a close guess at any rate. Does he have a valid California driver’s license?”
“He hasn’t had time to apply for one. His expired when he was incarcerated.”
“What about a vehicle? Are yours accounted for?”
“We have two and, yes, both are in the underground garage. He must have gone on foot.”
“Unless someone picked him up.”
“True.”
I was on the verge of stating the two obvious possibilities: either Fritz had generated the blackmail scheme and had finally taken the payout into his own hands, or the extortionist had communicated instructions about how the money was to be delivered and Fritz had acquired the cash and handed it over to the blackmailer, thinking that would put an end to it.
“You have a theory?” I asked.
“I know he was feeling desperate. Hollis and I should have been more supportive. I can see that now.”
In my view, their “support” was what had gotten him in trouble in the first place, but I didn’t think she’d want to hear that. “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
She shook her head in the negative.
“No close relatives?”
“Not in the area and none who’d take him in without talking to us first.”
“What about friends? You said he’s been spending weekends with friends. Have you contacted them?”
“I don’t know who they are. He never mentioned anyone by name.”
“He didn’t leave a contact number in case you needed him?”
“I know it sounds ridiculous, but we were so relieved to think he still had friends we didn’t press him for the particulars.”
“Does he have an address book?”
“I found one that predated his time at CYA. Most of the names and phone numbers are out of date.”
“How many did you call?”
“Five or six. I drew a line through those if you’d like to see.”
She retrieved her handbag from the chair next to her and opened it. She reached in and pulled out a 4-by-6-inch address book with a Led Zeppelin album cover on the front. The black-and-white image showed a rigid airship shaped like a cigar, with the back end in flames. “The ones I tried were disconnects or had been reassigned,” she said as she passed the address book across the desk to me.
Fritz’s handwritten entries were done in a clumsy fashion, with smudges and cross-outs that made them barely legible. In a quick flip-through, the only name I recognized was Iris Lehmann’s and I didn’t believe her number would have been the same. I placed the address book on the desk in front of me. “What’s your current thinking? Will you file a missing person’s report?”
“I don’t think he’s missing. He’s simply gone. I’m hoping you can track him down.”
“But I’m no longer an employee.”
“I thought we went over that. You misunderstood.”
“Not to argue the point, but I don’t see how you could have been any clearer. You said I was fired and I took you at your word.”
“Well, then I suppose I should apologize.”
“That would be a start,” I said. I waited, thinking she would offer an apology, but she seemed to believe the mere mention was as good as a deed well done. I put a hand behind my ear, indicating that I was waiting to hear from her.
“I hope you can appreciate the bind you’re putting me in if you refuse to help,” she said. “Under the circumstances, I can’t hire anyone else without confiding the topic of the extortionist to yet another outside party.”
“Then you better hope Fritz comes home on his own.”
She seemed flustered. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What did you expect?”
“I thought you’d be willing to help.”
“And I thought you’d be offering an apology, so I guess neither one of us is getting what we want. Would you like to try again?”
Lauren cleared her throat. “I’m sorry you misunderstood.”
“You can’t be sorry for my behavior or mental state. You can only be sorry for your own.”
She was quiet for a moment, as though trying to translate the concept into her native tongue, which apparently wasn’t English. “I’m sorry I butted in. I won’t do that again. I’d appreciate it if you’d agree to help.”
“First, let’s see if you really have a problem. If he’s been spending weekends with friends, that might be the simplest explanation. Call me tomorrow morning if he hasn’t showed up by then.”
“And the missing money?”
“Let’s handle one thing at a time.”
• • •
I was not much in the mood to get beat up in my women’s self-defense class, but I made myself go anyway. It’s all too easy to let these things slide. If I missed one class, I might as well kiss off the rest. At three thirty, I made a quick trip home, where I changed into my workout clothes and picked up my gym bag. By four, I was seated cross-legged on one of the floor mats with my fellow students, listening to our instructor’s introductory remarks.
On the subject of self-defense weapons, we were advised that in most states it’s legal to carry Mace as long as the container is 2.5 ounces or less.
She said, “It’s important to remember that criminals don’t operate by such a tidy set of rules. Actually, it would be hard to imagine a rapist complaining to the police about your failure to comply.”
This netted her a laugh. She went on to remind us that we should recognize and avoid dangerous situations, bypassing dark and deserted areas, walking with others, parking near streetlights, moving with purpose and confidence. This wisdom had been drilled into me before. It was all common sense, but it was amazing to me how often we overlook the obvious. The problem is that it’s almost impossible to live in a state of constant vigilance. The sustained spike in blood pressure alone would condemn you to an early grave. So what were we meant to absorb? An awareness of the perils unique to womanhood: rape and physical assault at the hands of strangers and acquaintances alike. The majority of rapes are perpetrated by men we know, a sad cause for reflection when embarking on the dating scene. I counted myself wise to confine my love life to cops and other law enforcement worthies to whom I could at least recite the relevant penal code.
Having paid big bucks for the class, we were gifted with a pinch light and whistle attached to a
key ring so we could summon assistance if set upon by thugs. The whistle was tiny and emitted a high-pitched shriek in a range doubtless only heard by dogs, but it was better than trusting ourselves to yell for help. Early on, we’d practiced screaming in an exercise designed to attune us to someone approaching from behind. One of us would walk and a faux-assailant would come up from the rear, closing the distance with stealth. The minute you became aware of your potential attacker, you were supposed to turn suddenly and scream at the top of your lungs. I did a fair job of it, but most of the others could barely manage a squeak. One woman said she was worried about hurting the guy’s feelings if she misunderstood his intent.
We spent the remainder of the hour in a series of exercises—simulated kicks and punches, which were designed to tax and strengthen our hard-worked muscles. As had been true the week before, I was quickly drenched in sweat and panting for breath. The last thirty minutes, we engaged in combat with the well-padded opponents hired to acquaint us with the rapid response necessary when attacking and being attacked. At the end of the class, I showered under blissfully hot water, feeling energized and buoyed by the exertion. I knew that within thirty minutes, my body parts would begin seizing up to the point where I could barely lift my arms. I drove home, hoping I still had ibuprofen on hand.
Back in my neighborhood, I found one of those miracle parking spots that so seldom come my way. I was only four doors from home when I locked my car and hit the sidewalk. Up ahead, I heard the gate squeak and looked up to see Pearl in her wheelchair, trying to get through the opening, with her one wheel catching against the fence support. She was banging at it with one of her crutches as though it had attacked her and she was having to fend it off. I’d never seen her in such a snit. Once she lurched free, she came barreling down the walk toward me. Her arms were moving fast and her wheelchair tilted slightly at a crack in the sidewalk where a tree root was pushing up. I thought she’d topple over and lie there with her wheels spinning ineffectually. Instead, she nearly plowed into me.
