"R" is for Ricochet (20 page)

We went down to the lower-level parking garage. At the foot of the stairs, Marty said, “I'm parked over here. Where're you guys?”

“That way,” I said, pointing in the opposite direction.

Reba shoved her hands in her jacket pockets and watched him walk toward his car. “Hey, Marty?”

He paused and looked back.

“Think about what I said. You don't act soon, Beck's gonna have your nuts in a vise.”

Marty nearly spoke, and then seemed to change his mind. He shook his head, his expression withdrawn, and turned on his heel.

She watched until he was out of sight and then the two of us walked the length of the garage.

“I didn't like the look of those cleaning guys,” she said.

“Would you give it a rest?”

“I'm going on record. There's something bogus about them.”

“Thanks for telling me. I'll put a note in the file.”

When we reached the VW, I unlocked the door on my side, slid behind the wheel, and then leaned over and unlocked the passenger-side door for her. She got in and pulled the door shut, but when I went to insert the key in the ignition, she put her hand out. “Hang on a minute.”

“Why?”

“Because we're not done yet. Soon as Marty pulls out, we can have another go.”

“You can't go back up there. How're you going to pull that off?”

“We can tell Willie you left your shoulder bag upstairs and you have to have it back.”

“Reba! You gotta quit this. You're going to screw up the government's case.”

“It's the government that screws up. Look at the state we're in. The country's a mess.”

“That's not the point. You can't violate the law.”

“Listen to you, Miss Prissy Ass. What law?”

“Shall we start with breaking and entering?”

“That wasn't breaking and entering. We went up with Marty. He let us in of his own free will.”

“And then you stole the keys.”

“I didn't
steal
them. I borrowed them. I intend to put 'em back.”

“It doesn't matter. I'm telling you, I'm through with this,” I said. I turned the key in the ignition, shifted gears, and backed out of the space.

“Don't you want your bag?”

“Not now. I'm taking you home.”

“Tomorrow morning, then, and I swear that'll be the end of it, okay? I'll pick you up at eight.”

“Why so early? It's Saturday. The mall doesn't open until ten.”

“We'll be long gone by then.”

“Having done what?”

“You'll see.”

“Uhn-uhn. No way. You can count me out.”

“You don't come with me, I'll do it on my own. No telling what kind of trouble I'll get into.”

I would have closed my eyes in despair, but I was already pulling up the exit ramp and didn't want to crash in my haste to get us out of there.

I turned right on Chapel. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Reba pull something from her jacket pocket, saying, “Well, this is cool.”

“What.”

“Looks like I stole something after all. Naughty me.”

“You didn't.”

“Yes, I did. These are Beck's. I found 'em in his desk in that Mickey Mouse secret drawer. Must be planning to skip town, the little so-and-so.” She was holding up a passport, a driver's license, and assorted documents.

Abruptly I pulled over to the curb, greatly annoying the driver of the car behind me, who leaned on his horn and made a rude hand gesture. “Give me those,” I said, grabbing for them.

She held the documents out of my reach. “Hang on. This is the real deal here. A passport, birth certificate, driver's license, credit cards. ‘Garrison Randell' with Beck's photograph. Must have cost a mint.”

“Reba, what do you think's going to happen when he realizes that stuff's gone?”

“How's he going to know?”

“How about he looks in his drawer the minute he gets back? That's his means of escape. He probably checks the docs twice a day.”

“You're right,” she said. “On the other hand, why would he suspect me?”

“He doesn't have to suspect you. All he has to do is figure out who's been in. Once he gets a bead on Marty, it's over. Marty's not going to risk his neck on your account. You'll end up back in the clink.”

She thought about that. “Well, okay. I'll put 'em back in his desk when I return Onni's keys.”

“Thank you,” I said, but I knew I couldn't take her at her word.

 

I dropped her at her place and rolled into my apartment at 11:15. The red message light was blinking on my answering machine. Cheney, I thought. There was something erotic in the very idea, and like one of Pavlov's dogs, I nearly whimpered in response. I pressed the button and heard his voice. Eight words. “Hey, babe. Call me when you get in.”

I punched in his number and when he picked up, I said, “Hey yourself. Did I wake you?”

“I don't mind. Where you been?”

“Out with Reba. I have tons to report.”

“Good. Come on over and spend the night,” he said. “I'll make you French toast in the morning if you're good.”

“Can't. She's picking me up here at eight.”

“How come?”

“Long story. I'll tell you when I see you.”

“So how about I come get you and take you home in the morning in time to meet her?”

“Cheney, I can handle the drive. You're only two miles away.”

“I know, but I don't want you rattling around the streets at this hour. The world's a dangerous place.”

I laughed. “Is that how it's going to be? You're all protective and I'm docile as a lamb.”

“You have a better idea?”

“No.”

“Great. I'll pick you up in ten,” he said.

I waited for him outside, sitting on the curb, wearing a black turtleneck T-shirt and one of my new skirts. This was the third night in a row I'd be seeing him. Like a winning streak at the craps table, the roll was bound to come to an end. I couldn't decide if I was being cynical or sensible in acknowledging the fact. I knew how the night was going to go. In the first moments of seeing him, I'd feel neutral—glad to be in his company, but not irresistibly drawn to him. We'd chat about nothing in particular and gradually, I'd become aware of him: the smell of his skin, his face in profile, the shape of his hands as he gripped the steering wheel. He'd sense my attention and turn to look at me. The minute we made eye contact, that low distant humming would start up again, vibrating through my body like the first rumbles of an earthquake.

Curiously, I didn't feel I was in danger with him. Having blundered so often in relationships with men, I tended to be cautious, remote, keeping my options open in case things didn't work out. Inevitably, things turned sour, which only served to reinforce my wariness. In retrospect, I could see that Dietz played the game exactly the way I did, which meant I was also safe with him, but for all the wrong reasons: safe because he was always off somewhere, safe because he probably wasn't capable of coming through for me, and safe, most of all, because his detachment was a mirror of my own.

I heard Cheney's car long before he turned the corner from Bay onto Albanil. His headlights flashed into view and I got to my feet, silently cursing the loss of my shoulder bag. I'd been forced to pack—if you want to call it that—a few things in a paper sack, like a kid's brown-bag lunch: clean underwear, a toothbrush, my wallet, and keys. Cheney was driving with the top down again, but when I got in the car I realized the heater was turned on full blast, which meant that half of me would be warm.

He spotted the sack. “That your overnight case?”

I held up the brown bag. “It's part of a matching set. I have another forty-nine just like it in my kitchen drawer.”

“Nice skirt.”

“Thanks to Reba. I wasn't going to buy it, but she insisted.”

“Good deal.” He waited until I'd fastened my seat belt and then he pulled away.

I said, “I can't believe we're doing this. Don't you ever sleep?”

“I promised you a house tour. Last time, all you saw was the bedroom ceiling.”

I held up a finger. “I have a question.”

“What's that?”

“Is this how you ended up married so fast? You meet old What's-Her-Face and spend every night with her for the first three weeks. Week four, she moves in. Week five, you're engaged, and by week six, you're married and off on your honeymoon. Is that the way it went?”

“Not quite, but close. Why, does that bother you?”

“Well, no. I just wondered how much time I had to get the invitations out.”

 

Cheney conducted a tour, starting with the downstairs rooms. The house was more than a hundred years old and reflected a way of life long past. Most of the original mahogany fireplaces, doors, window trim, and baseboards were still intact. Tall, narrow windows, high ceilings, transoms above the doors to aid the circulation of air. There were five working fireplaces on the first floor and four more in the bedrooms upstairs. The parlor (a concept that has since gone the way of the dodo bird) continued into the morning room, which in turn opened onto a gracious screened-in porch. In the adjacent laundry room, the old double tubs existed side-by-side with a wood-fueled stove for heating water.

Cheney was in the process of redoing the living room where the hardwood floor was covered in canvas drop cloths. Wallpaper had been steamed off and lay in discouraged-looking clumps. The plaster had been patched and the windowpanes had been taped in preparation for painting. He'd taken off one of the doors, which he'd laid across two sawhorses and covered with canvas to provide a surface for any tools not in use. The brass hardware—doorknobs, lock plates, window latches, and pulls—were jumbled into cardboard boxes in one corner of the room.

“How long have you had the house?”

“Little over a year.”

Additional drop cloths extended through a set of glass-paned pocket doors into the dining room, which was in marginally better shape. Here the ladder, paint cans, brushes, rollers, paint trays, and liners—not to mention the smell—attested to his having primed and painted, though he hadn't yet replaced the fixtures or the incidental hardware, which littered every sill.

“This the dining room?”

“Right, though the couple who owned the place were using it as a bedroom for her aged mother. They converted the butler's pantry into a makeshift bathroom, so the first thing I did was tear out the toilet, shower, and sink and restore the built-in china cupboards and silverware drawers.”

Through the bay of dining room windows, I found myself looking into Neil and Vera's kitchen next door. Cheney's driveway and theirs ran parallel with a modest strip of grass separating the two. I could see Vera standing at the sink, rinsing dishes before she put them in the machine. Neil was perched on a stool at the counter with his back to me, the two chatting as she worked. No sign of the children so they must have been in bed. I seldom witnessed even the briefest moments of a marriage in progress. Occasionally I'd be struck by the sight of one of those couples in restaurants who spend the meal not looking at each other and not exchanging a word. Now that's a scary proposition: all the minor day-to-day frictions with none of the companionship.

Cheney put his arms around me from behind and laid his face against my hair, following my gaze. “One of the few happy couples I know.”

“Or so it would appear.”

He kissed my ear. “Don't be a cynic.”

“I
am
a cynic. So are you.”

“Yes, but we both have a streak of optimism way down deep.”

“Speak for yourself,” I said. “Where's the kitchen?”

“Through here.”

The previous owners had done extensive remodeling in the kitchen, which was now a streamlined vision of granite counters, stainless-steel appliances, and high-tech lighting. Far from detracting from the overall Victorian feel of the house, there was a wonderful sense of hope and efficiency at work. I was exploring a walk-in pantry the size of my loft when the telephone rang. Cheney caught the call and his end of it was brief. He replaced the handset on the wall-mounted phone. “That was Jonah. There's been a shoot-out in a parking garage on Floresta. One of my hookers got caught in the crossfire. I said I'd drop you at your place and meet him at the scene.”

“Sure thing,” I said, thinking,
Great…now that Jonah knows we're an item, the entire STPD will be informed by midday tomorrow.
Men are worse gossips than women when it comes right down to it.

 

I crawled into bed at midnight and found myself tossing and turning, possibly because of the lengthy nap I'd taken in the afternoon. I don't remember the moment when I sank into a leaden sleep, but vaguely, I became aware of a pounding on my door. I opened my eyes and checked the clock. 8:02. Who the heck was it? Oh, shit. Reba was down there.

I pushed the covers back and swung my feet out on the floor, yelling, “Just a minute!”…like she could actually hear me. I dry-washed my face, pressing my fingers into my eyes until light sparks appeared on the inside of my lids. I went downstairs and let her in, saying, “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I overslept. I'll be with you in a sec.”

I left her to make herself at home while I went upstairs, though in the interest of good manners, I leaned over the loft rail and called down to her. “You can put on a pot of coffee if you can figure out how.”

“Don't worry about it. We can stop off at McDonald's.”

“You got a deal.”

I did an abbreviated bathroom tour and then pulled on jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes. I retrieved my wallet and car keys from the brown-paper bag and in six minutes flat, I was ready to go out the door.

 

We ordered from the take-out window and then sat in the parking lot with two enormous coffees and four Egg Mc-Muffins with extra packets of salt. Like me, Reba ate like she was competing for the land speed record. “They don't call this fast food for nuttin',” she remarked, her mouth full. There were a scant few minutes when we sank into quiet, focused on our food.

Having finished, we bundled up our trash and shoved it in the bag, which Reba pitched into the container on the sidewalk nearby. She said, “Two points. Hot damn.”

While I sipped my coffee, she reached over to the rear seat and picked up three rolled cylinders of architectural plans, bound with a rubber band. She slipped the band on her wrist for safekeeping, then unfurled the first oversize sheet, which she spread across the dashboard. The paper itself was a whitish blue, with the two-dimensional rooms laid out in blue ink. The legend along the bottom read:
THE BECKWITH BUILDING
, 3-25-81.

Reba said, “These are the old blue-line drawings. I'm hoping they'll tell us what Beck's hiding and where he's hiding it.”

“Where'd you get these?”

“We had multiples at the office—everything from framing plans to plumbing plans, heating and air conditioning, fixture requirements, you name it. Every time the architect made changes, he'd print out a new set of drawings for all the principals. Beck told me to toss 'em.”

“And you had the foresight to hang on to them? I'm impressed.”

“I wouldn't call it foresight. I just love the information. It's like looking at X-rays—all those cracks and bone spurs where you least expect them. Here, take a look at these and we'll compare notes. I realized last night we were going about this all wrong.”

She passed me the second batch of drawings on sheets of paper that must have measured eighteen inches by twenty-four. I wrestled the first sheet into a reasonably flat position and studied the particulars. As nearly as I could tell, this had something to do with the service entrance and electrical rooms, showing the location of the meter, the transformer vault, the switchgear, electrical closets, and individual circuits. The wiring diagrams were made up of circles and wavy lines, showing the relationship of outlets to controls.

The next sheet was more interesting. It looked like a cutaway of one corner of the building from the rooftop down. According to the legend at the bottom of the page, every eighth of an inch represented one linear foot. The architect had labeled every aspect of the drawing in that freehand block lettering students must be taught the very first day at architectural school. Reba glanced over, saying, “What they're using there for stablization is a rigid core that runs down the center of the building—a structural tower that contains the restrooms, stairs, and elevators. I remember them talking about diagonal bracing and shear panels, whatever that means.”

I could see the concrete columns, the location of precast concrete spandrel panels, the slab on grade and concrete pile foundation, which was backed up by a steel-stud and drywall assembly. I was hoping to spot the correlation between the lines on the page and the spaces I'd seen. The detailed drawing of the rooftop, for instance, did show the mechanicals of the elevator equipment in roughly the same position as the fakey-looking gardener's cottage. Reba put a finger on the page. “I don't like it. That other drawing shows the elevators on the far side, not this. So which is it?”

“Maybe we should take another look,” I said. “I don't get how anybody figures this shit out. I wouldn't know where to begin.”

Reba unfurled another floor plan, this one dated August of '81. We studied a couple of the drawings next to one another. Having seen the offices firsthand, I had a fair idea what I was looking at, with certain notable exceptions. Where the employee break room was located in reality, the floor plan indicated a conference room, which had been moved closer to reception. “How many sets do you have?”

“Tons, but these seemed the most relevant. From March to August, there's not that much difference. It's the changes that show up in October that looked interesting to me.” She wrestled a fourth sheet open and placed it atop the third. Much crackling of paper as the two of us examined the specifics of employee restrooms, wheelchair clearances, metal decks, and rigid insulation—the whole of Beck's fifteen-office suite visible in one sweep.

“Are we looking for anything in particular?” I asked.

She pointed to an oblong area on my sheet adjacent to fire stairs and the elevator envelopes. “See that? The location of the elevators shifted from there to there,” she said, moving her finger from my drawing to hers.

“Break room moved, too, but so what?”

“Well, look at it. I mean, I understand they made changes, but there's space unaccounted for. Here it's called storage, but in this drawing, the space is still there with no reference to it at all.”

“I still don't see the significance.”

“I just think it's odd. I'm telling you, there was a room there on one of the early floor plans. I asked Beck what it was and he blew me off, like I didn't need to know. On the initial blue-line drawings, the architect labeled it a gun vault, which is totally ridiculous. Beck's a pussy about firearms. He doesn't even own one gun, let alone a collection of the damn things. At the time, I figured maybe it was a panic room or whatever you call them…”

“A safe room?”

“Like that. Something he didn't want anyone else to know about. Later I wondered if he intended to use it as a love nest, a hidey-hole where he could take his lady friends. I mean, what could be better? In the same building but out of the public eye. Think how easy it'd be to get a little ass on the side.”

“Maybe the architect vetoed the idea.”

“Nobody vetoes him. He knows exactly what he wants and he gets it.” She laid a finger on an unmarked area just off reception. “Couldn't there be space behind this wall?”