U Is for Undertow

by Sue Grafton

  How naive he’d been about the act of shooting a man to death. In his most recent thriller, he’d described a character’s shooting of a vagrant. The killing was random—no motive, no weapon left at the scene, and nothing that tied the killer to his victim. The fictional police investigation had gone nowhere and it should have been written off as the perfect crime. Naturally, a mistake was made, a minor matter. In the end, the killer wasn’t caught, but he endured a nasty fate of the sort only a novelist could cook up. Jon realized now how completely he’d misunderstood the act of taking another man’s life. It was simple, of no consequence. The only surprise had been the sound Michael Sutton made when he realized what was going on. Jon would have to struggle to erase the quick cry.

  He tucked the gun in his waistband, poured another scotch, and carried it with him to the garage, where he climbed the steps to his studio. He had a few things to pack yet. Other than that, he was ready to rock and roll. Over the past two years, he’d gradually moved all his money to an offshore account, starting with the ten grand his father had left him. Lionel had unwittingly bequeathed him more than he intended. During the confusion in the days following his father’s fatal heart attack, Jon had had the foresight to remove Lionel’s passport from the jumble in his desk drawer. Mona never even noticed it was gone. He’d held on to it until it was due to expire and then filled out an application for renewal, which he’d submitted with two small photographs of himself. He’d donned his father’s glasses so the resemblance was close enough. Jon took a certain satisfaction in appropriating his father’s identity.

  As a boy, he’d worshiped his dad, proud that he was a college professor. Many times he’d sat in on his father’s classes and marveled at how knowledgeable he was. Students were enraptured, laughing at his droll observations, scribbling down his witticisms, as well as the dense bits of information embedded in his lectures. His father had written two books published by a well-known university press. At cocktail parties, when Jon was a kid, he’d linger on the periphery of those gathered, listening to his dad tell anecdotes about famous literary figures.

  After Jon’s mother died and Lionel and Mona married, his father’s output had leveled off. He’d written two more books, which hadn’t sold well, and a third he’d been forced to publish himself. For years he was still sought after on the lecture circuit, and he was paid well for his appearances, but Jon had heard the same talk, with the same wry pauses to allow for the polite laughter at the mildly amusing jokes. By the time Lionel died, Jon saw him as shrunken and weak. Mona had sucked the light right out of him.

  Meticulously, he went back over his preparations. He had almost a hundred thousand dollars, in hundreds, packed in two body wallets that scarcely showed under his sport coat. For two thousand dollars he’d bought an airline ticket, one-way, first class, to Caracas, Venezuela. Once there he’d purchase another ID—driver’s license, passport, and birth certificate—and retire both the Jon Corso and Lionel Corso identities. After he found a place to settle, he’d write his next book and submit it to a New York literary agent, under a fictitious name. He knew whom he’d approach, a woman who’d turned him down when he was desperate for an agent early in his career. She’d jump at the chance to take on a Jon Corso-style writer, having forfeited a fortune by rejecting the original.

  He shrugged into a windbreaker and slid the gun in his right pocket. How nice that an item he’d stolen from a neighbor twenty-one years before had now set him free. By the time the police put it all together, if they ever managed it, he’d be long gone and, he hoped, impossible to trace. He folded and packed his favorite sport coat, his raincoat, and six shirts just back from the cleaner’s. He went into the bathroom, added a few toiletries to his Dopp kit, and tucked it in the suitcase as well. His second bag was already closed and waiting downstairs near the front door. He sat down at his desk and called Walker at work.

  As soon as Walker picked up, Jon said, “Michael Sutton just called. He wants to meet.”

  “Meet with us? Why?”

  “How do I know? Maybe he wants to make a deal. We pay up and he keeps his mouth shut.”

  “A shakedown?”

  Jon kept his tone matter-of-fact. “Now that he knows where you work, it doesn’t seem out of the question.”

  “Shit. I told you he was trouble.”

  “We don’t know that. Maybe we can come to an agreement.”

  “A deal? How long would that last? We give him money now, it’s only a matter of time before he comes around for more.”

  “True, but you’re talking about turning yourself in anyway so I can’t see what difference it makes. By the time he comes back with his hand out, you’ll be in jail.”

  “I told you I was thinking about turning myself in. I haven’t done anything about it.”

  “Oh, sorry. You seemed pretty sure of yourself when we last spoke.”

  “Because I couldn’t see an alternative.”

  Jon said, “The way I look at it, a payoff now might buy us a couple of months, during which you might change your mind. I should probably point out that your confession will lose its impact if he gets to the cops before you do.”

  “So why talk to him at all?”

  “I’d like to hear what he has in mind.”

  Walker was quiet for a moment, mulling over the idea. “Where does he want to meet?”

  “He mentioned the coffee shop down the street from the bank. I guess he thinks he’ll be safe out in public.”

  “Suppose he comes wired? Then anything we discuss, we’re both screwed. I thought the whole point was to find a way I could go to the cops without jeopardizing you.”

  “That was before this came up.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t either, Walker. We turn him down, he’ll go to the police for sure.”

  “You told me he didn’t have anything on us. We were just two guys burying a dog. Didn’t you say that?”

  “Suppose he has an ace up his sleeve? That’s what worries me. I don’t like surprises. We’re better off knowing what it is.”

  “Shit.”

  “I don’t see a way around it,” Jon went on. “I mean, maybe the guy’s harmless, in which case, lucky us.”

  “I don’t think we should be seen together. These days, every other business has security cameras. We don’t want that on film, the three of us huddled together in a coffee shop. It won’t look good.”

  “I can always call him back and suggest someplace else if you can think of one.”

  “What about Passion Peak? We’re the only ones who go up there. If you’re worried about a wire, all you have to do is pat him down.”

  “You were the one worried about a wire, but it’s not a bad idea, a quick body search. If he’s clean, he won’t object.”

  “When does he want to meet?”

  “Well, that’s just it. He says soon. He sounds a bit anxious for my taste so the sooner the better. Would you have a problem cutting out of there for an hour?”

  “Probably not. I’d have to reschedule a couple of things.”

  “Why don’t you do that? I’ll call Michael and tell him I’m swinging by to get you and then we’ll meet.”

  “Does he know about the park?”

  “If not, I’ll give him directions. You cool with this?”

  “I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right. I mean, how’d he get your name? I’m the one he saw.”

  “That’s something we’ll have to ask him. Clearly, he knows more than we thought.”

  “I don’t know about this.”

  “Fine. Say the word and I’ll tell him it’s a no-go.”

  “We should probably hear him out.”

  “Agreed. That’s my point. If there’s a problem about the place, I’ll call you back. See you shortly.”

  I walked back to the office in a state of suspended animation. Sutton’s death seemed incomprehensible. For the moment, I didn’t feel sorrow, I felt dismay. He’d gone off to meet som
eone and ended up dead. Unbelievable. Walker McNally couldn’t have done it. I’d seen him at the bank at 10:00. He had a morning full of meetings. It was 11:30 now. I didn’t see how he could have slipped away, driven up to Seashore, shot Sutton, and scurried back again. I assumed his license had been yanked because of his accident and he surely wouldn’t have hired a taxi or bummed a ride. Of course, killers probably aren’t that fussy about obeying traffic laws.

  At the same time, if I was correct about Jon Corso and Walker being in cahoots, Jon could have been the shooter. He lived near the back entrance to the Ravine. Seashore Park wasn’t far from his house, three miles at best. He could have driven to the park, killed Sutton, and returned home, and who would be the wiser? I opened my Thomas Guide and checked his house number, tempted to cruise by and see if he was there. I had no intention of knocking on his door, but it wouldn’t hurt to look.

  I went out to the Mustang and fired up the engine, plotting my route as I pulled away from the curb. The shortest path was to cut the two blocks over to Capillo and drive up the hill to the intersection where Capillo and Palisade crossed. I’d spent quite a bit of time in that area on a case I’d worked earlier in the year. If I turned left on Palisade and drove a mile, I’d be at Seashore; a right turn would take me past Little Pony Road, and then up another hill and into Horton Ravine.

  Traffic was slowed by road construction and it took longer than I’d anticipated before I reached Horton Ravine and passed between the stone pillars. My Grabber Blue 1970 Mustang was conspicuous under ordinary circumstances, even more so in this upscale neighborhood where most vehicles (except those of the hired help) were late-model luxury cars.

  As I passed Corso’s house I was startled to see him emerge from the front door, a suitcase in each hand. The car sitting in his driveway was a sleek black Jaguar. I resisted the urge to stare, directing my attention instead to the road ahead. At the next corner I turned right and drove as far as the first estate entrance, where I did a quick turn and crept back toward Ocean. Jon had gone back for a briefcase. On the porch he took a moment to lock up and then returned to the car, where he arranged his bags. When he slid under the wheel, I was close enough to hear the faint slamming of his car door and the engine begin humming. He pulled out of the drive and headed right, toward Harley’s Beach, back along Palisade. I gave him a twenty-second head start and pulled out after him.

  When he reached the intersection of Capillo and Palisade, I thought he’d turn right, but he continued on past City College, neatly avoiding Seashore Park. He caught the southbound freeway and I tucked in behind him, easing off the gas to allow another car between us. By the time he reached the Old Coast Road off-ramp, there were two cars between us and I felt I was sufficiently protected to avoid notice. He made a sedate left-hand turn and came up on the far side of the underpass. He had to be heading for the bank. I couldn’t guess his purpose unless Walker emerged with suitcases in hand, in which case I’d assume both were preparing to flee. Corso pulled into the bank parking lot and I drove by, making a mental note of his license plate:

  THRILLR

  I made a quick turn onto Center Road, reversed in a motel parking lot, and cut back, passing the bank again just as Walker ducked into the car. Corso pulled out of the lot. I kept him in sight as he crossed the intersection and eased from Old Coast Road onto the freeway, driving north. I wondered what they were up to. Did Walker know Michael Sutton was dead? Was that the arrangement they’d made? Corso would strike while Walker established an ironclad alibi? What about the risk to Jon, whose car had been spotted at the scene? It seemed clear Walker wasn’t leaving town, at least in the next half-hour, so perhaps the purpose of the meeting was to bring Walker up to speed before Jon disappeared on his own.

  It all seemed so pointless. If Henry was right about the burial of the marked bills, I didn’t see how either one of them could feel endangered. The only trump out against them was the shaky report of a six-year-old boy, who’d seen nothing incriminating. If word of my queries had leaked back to Walker, he might have wondered about my interest, but it hardly merited radical action. Shooting Michael Sutton was a miscalculation, overkill, as it were. Perhaps they didn’t realize Sutton had no credibility and was therefore harmless.

  My current course was set and I was stuck with it. If I hadn’t decided to cruise by Corso’s house, I wouldn’t be tailing the two of them now, engaging in all this endless speculation about why they were together and where they intended to go. Guess I’d find out. Ahead of me, Jon took the off-ramp at Little Pony Road and turned left. At the top of the rise, he was caught by a red light. I was three cars behind. If he’d spotted me, he gave no indication. His driving was circumspect as he turned left through the intersection and drove toward the beach.

  Were they looking for a private spot? That was the only thing I could figure, given their route. Why did they need privacy at all when they could have chatted by phone? Surely they didn’t imagine the lines were tapped. How paranoid would that be? I saw the Jaguar slow and turn left again into an unmarked side road I knew from times past. They were heading for Passion Peak, the pocket park that had been closed for two years, after a wildfire swept through it.

  Here’s what occurred to me: What if Jon was doing a quick mop-up campaign, eliminating anyone who posed a threat to him? He was set for an imminent departure, destination unknown. Now that Sutton was out of the way, was Walker next?

  I pulled over to the shoulder of the road and got out, leaving my car running while I moved cautiously to the turnoff. A mass of bougain - villea obscured the entrance to the park. I lifted on my toes and peered. There was no sign of the Jaguar. The chain that had been strung across the road was now down, trailing from the post on the left. I returned to my car and waited. The road up to the parking area was barely two lanes wide, with sufficient turns to slow any vehicle winding up the hill. I couldn’t afford to round a bend and find myself smack up against Jon’s bumper. If the two intended to spend time up there, I had to give them the ten minutes it would take to park at the midpoint and climb the rest of the way to the top. If Jon intended to pop Walker in the head, I was the only one even remotely aware of it. I took advantage of the wait to open the trunk of my car and remove the Heckler & Koch from my locked briefcase.

  Walker climbed the hill a few steps behind Jon. He’d wakened early, finding himself at peace for the first time in weeks. He felt good. He had energy and optimism. He’d suddenly turned a corner. He had no idea why or when the shift had occurred. When he’d opened his eyes that morning at the Pelican Motel, a sight that should have been depressing was actually all right. He’d have preferred to be home with his wife and kids, but for now, he could do this. It dawned on him that being clean and sober felt better than the best moment of being drunk. He didn’t want to live as he had, from happy hour to happy hour, drink to drink, from one hangover to the next. It was as if a heavy set of chains had fallen away. His demons had loosened their hold and he was light as air. The battle wasn’t over. Come 5:00, he’d probably still have the urge to drink. But he knew now all he had to do was what he’d been doing for the past ten days. Just not drink. Just not succumb. Just think of something else until the urge went away. Being clean and sober for ten days hadn’t killed him. The alcohol had been killing him. The absence of alcohol was to be celebrated—and not with a drink or a cigarette or a pill or anything else that might come between him and his own soul. If he could attribute the sense of well-being to anything, it was his decision to turn himself in. In his conversation with Jon, he’d implied that he was still on the fence, but it wasn’t true, He wondered if this was the euphoria experienced by someone bent on suicide. Turning himself in would be the end of life as he knew it, and that was okay with him. He’d brave it, all of it—the shame, the humiliation, the public castigation. That was the deal he’d made twenty-one years earlier. There was no escaping his fate, and he accepted that now. Drinking created the illusion he’d gotten away with something, but he cou
ldn’t obliterate the burden in his soul. Owning up would do it, taking responsibility.

  At the crest of the hill he paused to absorb the view. Southern California was at its best in April. Wildflowers had sprung up in the meadow and the long grass rustled in the wind. It was quiet up here, even against the faint noise of traffic that rose from the town below. Jon moved over to a table, where he stood, arms crossed, his hip resting against the edge. In early March, a storm had blown in with hard rain and high winds that had downed trees and torn off branches that now littered the area. Walker bent and picked up a stick. He flung it like a boomerang, though it whipped off without returning.

  “I guess we better talk while we can,” Jon said.

  Walker sat on a picnic bench, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together loosely. “I was thinking about it on the way over. This business with Sutton won’t work. I don’t want to be on the hook to him, you know? Waiting around for his next appearance. Fuck that. The whole point in coming clean is we don’t have to sweat this stuff. It’s over and done.”

  “For you. We still have the problem of how I come out of it unscathed.”

  “We already went through this—”

  “I know we did. I was hoping you’d come up with a solution. So far, I haven’t heard one. Get me out of the line of fire. That’s all I ask.”

  “I’m still racking my brain.” Walker looked at his watch. “What time did you tell him? Shouldn’t he be here by now?”

  “I told him half an hour.”

  “Well, where is the little shit? You called me at noon.”