by Sue Grafton
I dialed the number for Pacific Coast Security and listened to the phone ring, trying to figure out what I was going to say, surely not the truth in this case. When the call was picked up, I asked for Personnel. The woman who answered sounded like she was already halfway home for the day. It was close to five by now and she was probably in the process of clearing her desk. “This is Personnel. Mrs. Bird,” she said.
“Oh, hi. This is Mrs. Weston in the billing department at UCLA Medical Center. We’re calling with regard to a patient who’s been admitted to ICU. We understand he’s employed by Pacific Coast Security, and we’re wondering if you can verify his insurance coverage.”
“Certainly,” she said. “The employee’s name?”
“Last name Magruder. That’s M-A-G-R-U-D-E-R. First name, Mickey. You may have him listed as Michael. Middle initial B. Home address 2805 Sepulveda Boulevard; date of birth, sixteen September 1933. Admitted through emergency on May fourteenth. We don’t have a complete social security number, but we’d love to pick that up from you.”
I could hear the woman breathing in my ear. “We heard about that. The poor man. Unfortunately, like I told the detectives, Mr. Magruder no longer works for us. He was terminated as of February twenty-eighth.”
“Terminated as in fired?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake. What for?”
She paused. “I’m not at liberty to discuss that, but it had to do with d-r-i-n-k-i-n-g.”
“That’s too bad. What about his medical insurance? Is there any possibility his coverage was extended?”
“Not according to our records.”
“Well, that’s odd. He had an insurance card in his wallet when he was brought in, and we were under the impression his coverage was current. Is he employed by any other company in the area?”
“I doubt it. We haven’t been asked for references.”
“What about Unemployment. Has he applied for benefits? Because he may qualify for medical under SDI.” Yeah, right, SDI. Like we were all so casual about State Disability Insurance we didn’t even need to spell it out.
“I really can’t answer that. You’d have to check with them.”
“What about money in his pension fund? Did he have automatic debits to his savings out of each paycheck?”
“I don’t see where that’s relevant,” she said. She was beginning to sound uneasy, probably wondering if this was a ruse of some kind.
“You would if you saw the way his bill was mounting up,” I said tartly.
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss it. Especially with the police involved. They made a big point of that. We’re not supposed to talk to anyone about anything when it comes to him.”
“Same here. We’ve been asked to notify Detective Aldo if anyone even asks for his room.”
“Really? They didn’t say anything like that to us. Maybe because he hadn’t worked here for so long.”
“Consider yourself lucky. We’re on red alert. Did you know Mr. Magruder personally?”
“Sure. The company’s not all that big.”
“You must feel terrible.”
“I do. He’s a real sweet guy. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do that to him.”
“Awful,” I said. “What about his social security number? We have the last four digits … 1776 … but the emergency room clerk couldn’t understand what he was saying so she missed the first portion. All I need are the first five digits for our records. The director’s a real stickler.”
She seemed startled. “He was conscious?”
“Oh. Well, I don’t know, now you mention it. He must have been, at least briefly. How else would we have this much?” I sensed her debate. “It’s in his best interest,” I added piously.
“Just a minute.” I heard her clicking her computer keys, and after a moment she read off the first five digits.
I made a note. “Thanks. You’re a doll. I appreciate that.”
There was a pause, and then her curiosity got the better of her. “How’s he doing?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to divulge that information. You’d have to ask the medical staff. I’m sure you can appreciate the confidentiality of these matters, especially here at UCLA.”
“Of course. Absolutely. Well, I hope he’s okay. Tell him Ingrid said hi.”
“I’ll pass the word.”
Once she’d hung up, I opened my desk drawer and took out a fresh pack of lined index cards. Time for clerical work. I began jotting down notes, writing as fast as I could, one item per card, piling them up as I went. I had a lot of catching up to do, days of accumulated questions. I knew some of the answers, but most of the lines I was forced to leave blank. I used to imagine I could hold it all in my head, but memory has a way of pruning and deleting, eliminating anything that doesn’t seem relevant at the moment. Later, it’s the odd unrelated detail that sometimes makes the puzzle parts rearrange themselves like magic. The very act of taking pen to paper somehow gooses the brain into making the leap. It doesn’t always happen in the moment, but without the concrete notation, the data disappear.
I checked my watch. It was 6:05 and I was so cockeyed with weariness my clothes had begun to hurt. I turned the ringer off the phone, went up the spiral stairs, stripped, kicked my shoes off, wrapped myself in a quilt, and slept.
I woke at 9:15 P.M., though it felt like midnight. I sat up in bed, yawning, and tried to get my bearings. I felt weighted with weariness. I pushed the covers aside and went over to the railing. Below, on my desk, I could see the light on my answering machine blinking merrily. Shit. If not for that, I’d have crawled back in bed and slept through till morning.
I pulled a robe on and picked my way down the stairs barefoot. I pressed PLAY and listened to a message from Cordia Hatfield, the manager of Mickey’s building. “Kinsey, I wonder if you could give us a call when you come in. There’s something we think you should be aware of.”
She’d called at 8:45, so I felt it was probably safe to return the call. I dialed the number, and Cordia picked up before I’d even heard the phone ring once. “Hello?”
“Cordia, is that you? This is Kinsey Millhone up in Santa Teresa. The phone didn’t even ring.”
“Well, it did down here. Listen, dear, the reason I called is that detective stopped by shortly after you left. He spent quite a bit of time up Two-H, and when he finished he came right here. He seemed perturbed, and he asked if anyone had gone in. We played dumb. He was quite insistent, but neither of us breathed a word.”
“Ah. Was this the tall dark guy, Detective Aldo?”
“That’s the one. We’re old. What do we know, with all our brain cells gone? We didn’t lie to him exactly, but I’m afraid we did skirt the truth a bit. I told him I was perfectly capable of taking in rent checks and calling the plumber if a toilet backed up, but I don’t go skulking around, spying on the tenants. What they do is their business. Then I showed him my foot and told him, ‘With this bunion, I’m lucky to get around. I can’t be tromping up and down.’ He changed the subject after that.”
“What set him off?”
“He said something was missing, though he wouldn’t say what. He had a boxload of items with him and told me he’d removed the crime tape. ‘For all the good it did,’ is how he put it. He was sour on the subject, I can tell you that.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“You’re entirely welcome. Main reason I called is you’re free to enter the apartment, but it won’t be long. The owners are pressing to get Mr. Magruder out of there. I guess the detective notified the management company, so they know he’s in a coma. They snapped right to it, taking advantage of his condition. Shame on them. Anyway, if you’re interested in renting, you should take a look.”
“I may do that. I’d like that. When would be good?”
“The sooner the better. You’re only two hours away.”
“You’re talking about tonight?”
“I t
hink you’d be smart. The owners have already served him with a three-day pay or quit, so technically the sheriff could have a new lock on the door by tomorrow morning.”
“Can’t we do something to prevent that?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“What if I pay what he owes, plus the next month’s rent? Wouldn’t that cancel the action?”
“I doubt it. Once a tenant starts paying late or doesn’t pay at all, the owners would just as soon clear the place out and get someone else in.”
I thought about the drive, rolling my eyes with dismay. “I wish I’d known this when I was down there earlier.”
“If you’re coming, you best hurry. It’s entirely up to you, of course.”
“Cordia, it’s already close to nine-thirty. If I come down tonight, I’d still have to pack and get gas, which means I probably won’t arrive before midnight.” I didn’t mention I was close to naked.
“That’s not late for us. Bel and I only need four hours sleep, so we’re up till all hours. The advantage in coming now is you’d have all the time you want and not a soul to disturb you.”
“Mickey’s neighbors won’t notice if his lights are on?”
“Nobody pays attention. Most of these folk work so they’re usually in bed by ten. And if it gets too late, you can always spend the night with us. We have the only three-bedroom unit in the building. The guest room is really Dort’s, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind the company. We had quite a little chat about you after you left.”
I let go of my resistance and took a deep breath. “All right. I’ll do it. See you in a bit.”
I changed into my jeans, turtleneck, and tennis shoes, which were light and silent, good for late-night work. At least I’d been inside Mickey’s place and knew what to expect. I still had the key I’d removed from his back door, but I intended to take my pick in case the need arose. Since I had no intention of driving home in the wee hours of the morning, I got out my duffel and threw in the oversized T-shirt I wear as a nightie. I routinely carry a toothbrush, toothpaste, and fresh underwear in the bottom of my shoulder bag. The remainder of the space in the duffel I filled with tools: rubber gloves, my battery-operated pick, drill and drill bits, screwdriver, lightbulbs, pliers, needle-nose pliers, magnifying glass, and dental mirror, along with two flashlights, one standard and one on a long stem that could be angled for viewing those hard-to-reach places Mickey loved so much. I suspected I’d uncovered the majority of his hiding places, but I didn’t want to take the chance, especially since this represented my last opportunity to snoop. I also took a second canvas duffel bag, folded and placed inside the first. I now planned to confiscate Mickey’s contraband and hold it at my place until he could let me know what he wanted done with it.
I stopped at a service station to have my gas tank filled. While the guy cleaned the windshield and checked the oil, I popped into the “refreshment center” and bought myself a big nasty sandwich—cheese and mystery meat—and a large Styrofoam container of coffee that smelled only faintly scorched. I bought a separate carton of milk, poured out some of the black liquid, and refilled the cup to the brim with milk, then added two paper packets of sugar just to make sure my brain would be properly abuzz.
I was on my way by ten past ten, the VW windows rolled down, the engine whining with the effort of maintaining a constant 60 mph. I ate as I drove and somehow avoided spilling coffee down my front. There were a surprising number of cars on the road, interspersed with semis and RVs, all of us traveling at breakneck speeds. The sense of urgency was multiplied by the darkness that encompassed us, headlights and taillights forming ever-shifting patterns. In the stretch between Santa Teresa and Olvidado, the moon sat above the water like an alabaster globe resting on a pyramid of light. Along the shoreline, the waves were like loosely churning pearls tumbling through the surf. The ancient scent of seaweed drifted in the night air like a mist. Seaside communities appeared and disappeared as the miles accumulated. Hillsides, visible in the distance by day, were reduced to pinpoints of light that wound along the slopes.
I crested the Camarillo grade and coasted down the far side into the westernmost perimeter of the San Fernando Valley. There were no stars in sight. The Los Angeles light pollution gave the night sky a ghostly illumination, like an aurora borealis underlaid by smog. I cut south on the 405 as far as National, took the off-ramp and headed east. At Sepulveda, I hung a left and slowed, finally spotting Mickey’s building in the unfamiliar night landscape. I parked out on the street, taking my shoulder bag and duffel. I locked the car behind me and prayed that the chassis, the wheels, and the engine wouldn’t be dismantled and gone by morning.
The lights were on in the Hatfields’ kitchen. I tapped at the door, and Cordia let me in. Bel was sleeping upright in her chair, so Cordia and I had a whispered conversation while she showed me the guest room with its adjoining bath. Dorothy followed like a puppy-cat, making sure she was in the center of any ongoing discussion. I had to pause more than once to rub behind her ears. I tossed my shoulder bag on the bed. Dorothy promptly claimed ownership, using all twenty pounds to squish and flatten the contents. The last I saw, she had settled like a chicken on a nestful of eggs.
12
I went up the front stairs and along the gallery, lighting my way with the larger of my flashlights. The two apartments I passed were shrouded in darkness, the sliding glass windows open into what I was guessing were bedrooms. I continued around the corner, where I let myself into Mickey’s back door, using the key I’d lifted. I debated about leaving the door locked or unlocked and decided to leave it locked. Ordinarily, I’d have opted to leave the door ajar in case I had to make a hasty exit, but I was feeling anxious and didn’t like the possibility of someone coming in on me unheard. I moved through the apartment to the living room. The only light was a thin shaft coming in from the gallery between drapery panels in the dining L. I shone the flashlight beam like a sword, cutting through the shadows. Since I’d been here earlier, the fingerprint technician had been busy with his brushes, leaving powder residue on countless surfaces. I made a quick foray through the dining area and kitchen, then back through the bedroom and bathroom to make sure I was alone.
I returned to the living room and secured the openings between the drapes. I pulled on my rubber gloves. Despite the fact the cops had come and gone, I didn’t want to leave evidence that I’d been in the place. I like to think I’d learned something from my little trip through Ted Rich’s doggie door. I turned on the overhead light, pausing to swap Mickey’s 60-watt bulb for one of the 200-watt bulbs I’d brought with me. Even a cursory glance showed Detective Aldo had been there. Kitchen cabinets stood open. All the mail was missing, and the fishbowl full of matches had been upended on the dining room table. I pictured the police sorting through the collection for clues, carefully making notes about the bars and restaurants Mickey’d frequented. In truth, only about half the matchbooks would be from places he’d been. The rest were packets other people had acquired for him while traveling, a practice left over from his youth, when he’d assembled hundreds of such covers and mounted them in albums. Who knows why kids like to do shit like that?
I got down to work, methodically emptying the miniature safes he’d created behind the electrical plates. The three sets of phony IDs, the credit cards, and the currency went into my duffel. I spent a long time in his kitchen, sorting through containers with a fine-tooth comb, checking in and behind and under drawers. Once again, I removed the five-gallon water bottles from under the sink and unscrewed the back panel. This time I lifted out the handguns from the rack he’d built and put them in my duffel with the IDs.
I went into the bedroom and took the chenille bedspread and sheets off his bed. Tacky little thing that I am, I paused to check for evidence of recent sexual excess but found none. I pulled off the mattress and checked it carefully, looking for evidence that he’d opened a seam and restitched it. Good theory; no deal. I lay on my back and hunched my way under the
bed, where I peeled back the gauzy material that covered the bottom of his box spring. I shone the flashlight across the underside, but no dice. I put the mattress back in place and then remade the bed. This was worse than hotel work, which I’d also done in my day.
I crawled the entire perimeter of wall-to-wall carpeting, pulling up section after section without finding much except a centipede that scared the hell out of me. I tried the bed-table drawer. The diaphragm was gone, as were the bottle of cologne and the tissue paper packet with the enameled heart and gold chain. Well, well, well. His latest inamorata must have heard about the shooting. She was certainly quick to erase the signs of their relationship. She must’ve had a key of her own, letting herself in sometime between my initial visit and this one. Could she be someone in the building? That was a notion worth exploring.
I spent a good thirty minutes in the bathroom, where I lifted the lid to the toilet tank and used my dental mirror and the angled flashlight to check for items concealed behind it. Nothing. I took all the toiletries out of the medicine cabinet and lifted the entire cabinet off the wall brackets to see if he’d hollowed out a space in the wall behind it. Nope. I checked inside the shower rod, checked the cheap-looking vanity for false fronts or concealed panels. I unscrewed the heater vent and tapped along the baseboards listening for hollow spots. I removed the PVC under the bathroom sink. The gold coins were still there. I loaded those in my duffel and replaced the length of pipe. No telling what the next tenant would make of it if the fake plumbing were discovered at some future date. In the hollow core of the toilet paper roll I found a hundred-dollar bill.
