by Sue Grafton
She was in trouble enough as it was. She eyed the phone, torn by indecision. Better to do something. How long was the drive to Yellowweed? Time was running short. She took out a tissue and blew her nose. She dashed tears from her face and picked up the handset. What did it matter if one more person was mad at her? She punched in the number and waited, sniffing quietly to herself. As soon as she heard the man who picked up the line, she began to weep. In a squeaky little girl’s voice, she said, “Daddy? Can you come get me?”
34
Thursday, October 5, 1989
I waited well outside the crime scene tape, leaning against a boulder that had initials and rude remarks scratched onto its face. A wide area had been cordoned off for a systematic search. The deputy who’d arrived first in response to my call was in command until the investigator appeared and assumed responsibility. An hour had passed and it was getting dark. The mobile crime lab was on hand, having labored up to the area on the long, winding two-lane road of gravel and cracked asphalt. The county coroner’s car was parked to one side. Two deputies from the sheriff’s office were present and I caught sight of Cheney Phillips conferring with a plainclothes detective, who was probably his counterpart in the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Office. Meanwhile, the crime scene techs picked and sifted their way through every square inch of the physical surroundings, aware that once the tableau was deconstructed, there would be no way to re-create it.
Those of us not directly engaged in the tagging and bagging of evidence were encouraged to wait on the highway below, where a flat gravel apron provided space enough for four vehicles, mine among them. As chilly as it was, I was happy to return to my Honda, still parked on the berm. I opened the trunk and took out a sweatshirt that I pulled over my turtleneck. I slid into the driver’s seat, fired up the ignition so I could keep the heater running in an attempt to keep warm. I was hungry, but there wasn’t any point in complaining or expecting relief. I found a cherry Life Saver at the bottom of my shoulder bag and called that dinner.
Passing cars slowed so that drivers and passengers could peer out at us, wondering what we were up to. In my rearview mirror, I saw Cheney make his way down the access road and walk along the berm in my direction. When he was close, I got out of the car. “What are you doing here? I thought this was the county sheriff’s turf.”
“I could ask the same thing of you,” he said. “Larry Burgess called me as a courtesy because I took the missing person’s report from Hollis McCabe. He tells me you’re working for the McCabes.”
“That’s correct.”
“Whatever job you started with, this is now a homicide investigation, which takes precedence over any confidentially agreement you might have with them.”
“You’re not going to get any argument from me,” I said. “But could we do this sitting in my car? I’m freezing my ass off out here.”
“By all means.”
Ever the gentleman, he opened my car door on the driver’s side and then walked around to the passenger side and slid in. He said, “Go.”
I took a deep breath and went. It was a relief to lay out the whole long tale, which I proceeded to do. He knew about the tape, but wasn’t aware that it was back in play again after disappearing for ten years.
“When the demand note first arrived in the mail, the McCabes called Lonnie Kingman and he referred them to me,” I said.
“It didn’t occur to you to bring us into it?”
“Of course it did, but the McCabes were adamant.”
Cheney said, “I know public perception would have it otherwise, but we’re trained to handle situations like this. If we’d known what was going on, we might have been able to help.”
“The issue was confidential. I was under no obligation to make their situation known to you. I saw the bind they were in and I understood their desire to keep it quiet. If you’d seen the tape, you’d understand as well.”
“I feel sure we’ll see it now.”
“No doubt,” I said.
I talked him through the chain of events, including the people I’d interviewed and the bits and pieces I’d picked up along the way. For the purposes of simplicity, I omitted a few of the minor characters, including Poppy Earl’s father and stepmother. I’d provide further details when and if the need arose. Cheney was a quick study and I didn’t have to spell out the particulars. He’d taken out a notepad, jotting down the occasional date or reference point.
I went on. “Last Thursday, the extortionist left a message saying he was tired of excuses and wanted his money. He said he’d pick Fritz up at State and Aguilar at noon on Friday. If Fritz didn’t show up with the cash, he was in big trouble, or words to that effect.”
I paused the narrative long enough to explain the fiddle Fritz pulled at the bank. “That’s how he managed to get his hands on the twenty-five thousand. It looks like he met the guy as instructed.”
“Foolish move on his part.”
“Very,” I said. “For what it’s worth, there’s talk that Austin Brown is back.”
“Who told you that?”
“Iris Lehmann and her fiancé came into my office. She said she’d seen him twice the week before. Tuesday night at the Clockworks when she and Joey were playing pool, and again on Friday around noon when she was going to the bank. That sighting, he was driving up State right around the time of the proposed pickup.”
Cheney said, “I’d be interested in hearing it from her. Go on with your story.”
“Anyway, Lauren McCabe came to see me this past Monday because she realized Fritz hadn’t slept in his bed for the previous three nights. By then she knew he’d forged her signature, which she was prepared to overlook. The pickup must have gone as planned and this is where things get bizarre. The way I heard it, the extortionist did an about-face and told Fritz the threat of blackmail was the only way he could think of to get his hands on some cash. The two stopped off at a friend’s place to borrow camping gear. Fritz was in a chatty mood by then and he told his friend he offered to lend the guy the money, which the fellow promised to repay.”
“Who’s the friend who told you this?”
“Fritz’s high school buddy Steve Ringer, commonly referred to as Stringer. He and another classmate have an apartment in a singles complex in Colgate. Iris and Poppy Earl both claim Austin vowed to eliminate anyone who betrayed him, which would be Fritz McCabe in a nutshell. Something changed. I have no idea what. Maybe the cash sweetened the guy’s disposition. Whatever it was, by the time Fritz and his pal stopped off at Stringer’s place, he’d gone from anxiety to good cheer. Fritz said they were coming up to Yellowweed and that’s the last anyone saw of him.”
“What about his companion?”
I shook my head. “He made a point of waiting in the car and Fritz didn’t refer to him by name. I think he must have known him or he wouldn’t have felt comfortable coming up to a place as remote as Yellowweed.”
“I take it Fritz had the cash with him at that point.”
“As far as I know,” I said. “There’s no sign of it now?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I don’t think robbery was the motive, if that’s what you’re thinking. Fritz came up here fully intending to hand over the money.”
“Maybe he changed his mind.”
“Always possible.”
Cheney stared out the window, watching the passing traffic while he thought about what I’d said. “Someone will have to put together a time line.”
“I can tell you one stop Fritz made. Friday morning, he paid a visit to Bayard Montgomery.”
“You got this from him?”
“I did. I was in the process of working my way through witnesses again to see if there was anything I missed. He says Fritz showed up at his place and asked if he’d come with him when the extortionist picked him up downtown. He’d already asked once, but Bayard thought it was
a foolish move and he wanted no part of it.”
Cheney closed the notebook and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat. I had the feeling he wanted to chide me for my part in the whole disaster, but what would be the point?
He shook his head. “I have go to the McCabes’ and tell them. That’s a conversation I don’t want to have. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to deliver the bad news.”
“Fritz has been positively identified?”
“Pending confirmation by one or both of his parents. You want to come?”
“I don’t, but I will.” I didn’t want to deal with the McCabes any more than he did, but someone had to tell them. “When?”
“Now’s as good a time as any. Why don’t I follow you in my car? We’ll drop yours off at your place and take mine.”
• • •
Driving down the pass, I could feel the dread thrumming in my chest like a swarm of bees in a chimney flue. There were probably fifteen of us by now who were aware of Fritz’s fate. His parents weren’t among the numbered, but they would be soon.
Home again, I parked and locked my car, then popped my head into Henry’s kitchen and told him what was going on. There wasn’t much to say about the situation, but I wanted him to know where I was.
Cheney drove us in his spiffy little red Porsche, which for the first time didn’t generate appreciation for his financial status as the son of the moneyed class. His father owned the Bank of X. Phillips, which was only one aspect of the family fortunes. In my mind, he was so closely associated with the Anna Dace/Jonah Robb debacle that I nearly asked him for an update, which would have been irrelevant given the circumstances. I was worried I’d be chided for introducing Anna to Vera, an impulse that had sparked the offer of an open adoption.
We left the car in the parking lot behind the condominium and walked through the covered gallery that led from the Axminster Theater to the street beyond. We passed the box office, which was dark now, and made a left turn. The condominium entrance was three steps away on State Street. Cheney and I went through the gate at street level and trooped up the stairs. I stood back while he knocked. Hollis came to the door in an immaculate three-piece suit. The minute he saw us standing there, he seemed to stiffen. “Lieutenant Phillips. This is unexpected. I take it you have news.”
“Not good news,” Cheney said. “Mind if we come in?”
“Sorry. Please do. I should tell Lauren we have visitors.”
From behind him, Lauren spoke up. “I’m here, Hollis. Who’s this?”
Hollis said, “Lieutenant Phillips. He was the one who took my report about Fritz being gone.”
Cheney introduced himself to Lauren using his first name, which made the encounter seem less formal.
Lauren, in a nightie with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, had already sunk into a chair. She remained seated and the look she pinned on Cheney was haunted before the first sentence passed his lips. From her perspective, as long as she wasn’t told her son was dead, he could be alive and safe.
Cheney said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Fritz was found up at Yellowweed. It looks like he’s been dead for days.”
I noticed Cheney had deleted the detail about the septic tank. Dead is dead and there was no point in mentioning that final indignity.
Hollis had retreated behind the wet bar, where he braced himself as though the glittering array of liquor bottles and crystal glassware could form a force field that would protect him from harm.
Clearly, both he and Lauren were prepared for the worst. His stiff posture and Lauren’s stricken expression signaled that any show of sympathy would be rebuffed. Cheney fleshed out the circumstances without going into the harrowing details. After all, what did it matter that the body was dumped in a septic tank and covered with dirt and leaves? What possible difference could it make that in the days since he’d died, nature had gone to work dismantling his remains?
Hollis said, “You’re positive it’s him?”
“We had his photograph on the missing person’s flier. In his wallet, there were additional pieces of identification. We’ll need one of you to drive out to the morgue at some point and confirm the fact, but there’s really no chance of error.”
Lauren said, “How . . .” She paused and cleared her throat. “How did he die? And please, no sugarcoating.”
“This hasn’t been confirmed by the medical examiner, so it’s not for publication . . .”
“Of course not,” she said.
“It looks like he was shot twice at point-blank range. I doubt he had warning and I’m sure he didn’t suffer any pain. We found his sleeping bag where it had been tossed down the hill. No shell casings and no weapon. That’s as much as we know at this point. We’ll do everything we can to find the person responsible.”
Their reaction to the news was muted and they responded with a conversational acceptance. They didn’t seem surprised. Hollis went through an explanation of what had gone on in the past few weeks. Lauren offered the occasional correction or comment, but neither exhibited distress. Hollis had been stripped of his anger and hostility. Lauren’s hopes had fallen away. Neither one of them could marshal defenses of any kind. Wearily, she covered her face with her hands, but she didn’t weep. He remained on the far side of the room, silent for once. He didn’t resort to pouring himself a drink. I’ll credit him for that.
Hollis said, “His friends will be devastated. They’re young and I’m sorry they have to deal with this. He hadn’t been home a month, barely time to renew those old bonds.”
His words defined the gap between reality and his view of his son. Hollis and Lauren spoke as though Fritz had friends who held him in high regard, which I knew to be untrue. They believed Fritz had been made whole again, that he’d paid for his moral shortcomings and returned to them a wiser man. This was the fiction they lived with, the fable that kept them afloat. I could see how they’d been functioning for years. Fritz was the center of their world. Even the friction between husband and wife had Fritz at its core. His participation in the killing of Sloan Stevens had set the family on a downward spiral and nothing had gone right for them since. Sloan’s death had upended the delicate family balance and toppled their expectations. They’d tried to right themselves. They’d done what they could to integrate their errant son into the world he’d left. In truth, Fritz was already out of control and the threat of blackmail had swept away any chance of regaining their equilibrium. This was what they had come to, this loss. Their money and social status didn’t render them immune.
Even now they didn’t sit together. They didn’t touch. They didn’t even make eye contact. They would deal with the finality of their son’s death in their own way. There was no right or wrong to it. I wasn’t a touchy-feely person myself so I didn’t fault them for their chilliness, which was in keeping with what I knew of them. I didn’t picture them turning to one another for comfort or solace. Fritz’s actions had driven a wedge between them and his death would trigger the final blow. It might take six months or a year, but in the end Lauren and Hollis would sever their ties and struggle forward on divergent paths. I was looking at the end of a marriage, the final flicker as that last wee ember winked and went out.
Hollis asked Cheney a few questions, but his curiosity seemed disconnected from any emotion. The conversation shifted to clerical matters: when the ME would perform the autopsy, how soon the results would be made available. Hollis asked about the procedure for reclaiming the body and Cheney told him he could contact a funeral home and have them take care of the details. Hollis mentioned a memorial service, but he wasn’t discussing it with Lauren. This was his musing about trivia as it occurred to him. She hadn’t moved except to place her cupped hands over her nose and mouth as though recycling her own air was the only hope she had of surviving the suffocating disaster that had erupted in her living room.
The air see
med weighted, as though the forces of gravity had accelerated and we were all anchored to the earth. I thought it was Cheney’s place to break the spell, but he seemed to want to keep himself available. The Santa Teresa police are sensitive to occasions like this when a different skill set is required. Neither Lauren nor Hollis gave any sign of recognition, but I appreciated the reservoir of patience Cheney offered.
Finally, he said, “Is there anyone you want us to call?”
Lauren shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone. Can you, Hollis?”
“My brother, I suppose, but not at this hour. We can address the subject tomorrow when we have a better sense of where we stand.”
Lauren smiled briefly. “I think we should let you go. We appreciate the courtesy of the visit. These can’t be easy calls to make.”
• • •
By the time Cheney dropped me back at Henry’s, I was so exhausted I could barely see. I’ve noticed that my homecomings of late have been marked by the unexpected, but for a change, it was quiet. I let myself in the gate. Henry’s house was dark and the pup tent was zipped tight so I assumed we were all home and safely tucked in for the night. I let myself into the studio and took a quick look at my answering machine. Nothing from Celeste. I stifled my disappointment. It hadn’t even been one full day since I’d called and left my number. For all I knew, she would never contact me, and that was her prerogative.
I locked the door and was on the verge of securing the chain when a horrendous ruckus went up in the backyard. Killer was loose and on some kind of rampage. Apparently, the dog had managed to dig his way out from under the tent. He was still barking savagely as I stuck my head out the door. I reached for the light switch in haste. With one flick, the whole rear portion of the property was bathed in hot light. Henry must have been at Rosie’s because under ordinary circumstances, uproar of this sort would have brought him out his back door like a shot, wielding the baseball bat he brandishes to protect hearth and home. No sign of Pearl either, which meant she was probably at Rosie’s, too.
