"R" is for Ricochet (23 page)

“I hope you don't mind me calling you at home. Something weird's come up and I'd be curious what you think.”

“Sure.” I picked up traffic noises in the background and pictured him calling from a pay phone.

“You want the long version or the short?”

“Long stories are always better.”

“Right,” he said. “So here's how this goes.” I could hear that momentary lull as he inhaled and released a mouthful of smoke. “I get home from work today and my housekeeper's wringing her hands. She's upset about something, but won't say what. I press because I can tell she needs to unburden herself. She says, don't get mad. I say, fine. She tells me she arrived at the house at nine, like always, and she sees this phone company truck parked in the drive and a couple of guys on the porch. She goes ahead and lets herself in the back and then answers the front door. This one guy says the phone company's received a number of calls complaining the service is out and they're going through the neighborhood checking all the lines. They want to know is my phone working, so she asks 'em to wait, tries the line, and sure enough it's dead. Well, she's paranoid—comes from watching way too many cop shows on TV—so she asks 'em to show some ID. Both have these pinch-on plastic picture dealies that say California Bell. Huerta writes down their names and employee numbers. Second guy has a clipboard and he shows her the work order, typed up as neat as you please. She figures it's legit so she lets 'em in. You with me so far?”

“Yes, but I don't like the sound of it.”

“Me neither,” he said. “She's telling me this shit and I can feel the rocks piling up in my gut. The guys are in my study fifteen, twenty minutes, and then they come out and tell her everything's hunky-dory. She asks what it was and they say the roof rats must've chewed through the outside wires, but now all's well. Afterwards, she's thinking none of this makes sense and she's worried she did wrong. I act like no big deal and tell her I'll handle it from here. So what I'm thinking is somebody's either bugged my house or put a tap on my phone.”

“Or both,” I supplied.

“Shit, yes. Why else would I be calling from a fuckin' minimart parking lot? I feel like an idiot, but I can't take the chance. My phone's tapped; I don't want whoever's doing it to realize I figured it out. That way I can feed 'em any bullshit I want. You think it's the feds?” I could hear him take another puff on his cigarette.

“I have no clue, but I think you're right to worry.”

“How can they do that? I mean, assuming they planted a bug, or, like, a listening device, wouldn't that be illegal?”

“Without a court order, sure.”

“Trouble is, if it's not them, it might be someone a whole lot worse.”

“Like who?” I was thinking Salustio Castillo, but wanted to hear him say it.

“Never mind who. Either way, I don't like it. Friday night, when Reba laid out that shit about Beck, I figured she was yanking my chain. More I think about it, the more I'm thinkin' maybe she was telling the truth. Beck always made a point of keeping me in the thick of it. Like she says, could be he's setting me up.”

“Who else is in on it?”

“On what?”

“The money laundering.”

“Who says anyone? I never said that.”

“Oh come on, Marty. You can't launder that much money without help.”

“I'm not a snitch,” he said, his tone indignant.

“But other people are involved, right?”

“I don't know, maybe. A few, but you're never going to get me to name names.”

“Fair enough. So what's in it for you?”

“Same as everyone else. We're paid to keep our mouths shut. We help Beck now and he'll see that we're set up for life.”

“Life in a federal pen. That'll be a treat,” I said.

Marty ignored that, saying, “Truth is, I got plenty and I'd skedaddle right now if I could figure out how. If Customs is in on the deal, I can't leave the country without getting my ass nailed. They flag my name in the computer, minute I check in for my flight, boom, I'm done for.”

“I'm telling you, you better throw in your lot with the guys who count. Beck isn't looking after you. He's got himself to protect.”

“Yeah, I'm getting that. I mean, sure he may need us, but how far is he willing to go? Beck's about Beck. Comes right down to it, he'd throw us to the wolves.”

“Probably so.” I nearly confided the rumor I'd heard, that Beck was on the move and likely to disappear within the next few days, but the likelihood hadn't been confirmed and the information wasn't mine to pass on. “Of course, it's always possible the phone company story is on the up and up…”

“Nuh-uhn. Don't think so.”

“Well, I'm sorry I can't help.”

“What about Reba? I've been trying to reach her all day.”

“Probably at the house. She had a meeting with her parole officer earlier so you might try her again.”

“You talk to her, tell her to give me a call. This is making my stomach hurt. I'm anxious as hell.”

“Look, let me talk to a friend of mine and see what I can find out.”

“I'd appreciate that. You call back, you be careful what you say. Meantime, you hear from Reba, tell her the two of us gotta talk. I don't like workin' with a noose around my neck.”

“Hang in there,” I said, and then winced at my choice of words.

Once he disconnected, I dialed both Cheney's home and work numbers and left messages. I tried his pager, punching in my home number in hopes he'd call back. Marty was moving into panic mode, which made him as unpredictable as Reba, though more vulnerable.

 

I spent the evening stretched out on the couch, book propped in front of me pretending to read while I waited for Cheney's call. I wondered where he was and whether he was still pissed off at me. I needed to talk to him about Marty, but more than that, I craved the physical contact. My body was remembering his with a low-level yearning disruptive to concentration. Before he arrived on the scene, I'd lived in a dead zone—not exactly buzzing with joy, but certainly not discontent. Now I felt like a pup just coming into heat.

One of the problems with being celibate is that once sexual feelings resurface, they're almost impossible to repress. I found myself remembering what had happened between us and fantasizing about what might come next. Cheney had a laziness about him, a natural tempo half the speed of mine. I was beginning to see that operating in high gear was a means of protecting myself. Living at an accelerated pace allowed me to feel only half as much because there wasn't time to feel more. I made love the same way I ate—eager to satisfy the immediate hunger without acknowledging the deeper desire, which was to feel connected at the core. Avoiding the truth was easier if I was on the run. With quick sex, as with fast food, there was no savoring the moment. There was only the headlong rush to be done with it and move on.

At 10:00, when the phone rang, I knew it was him. I turned my head, listening until the machine began recording the sound of his voice. I reached over and picked up, saying, “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself. You called.”

“Hours ago. I thought you were ignoring me. Are you still mad?”

“About what?”

“Good.”

“How about you? Are you pissed off?”

“Not my nature,” I said. “Not with you at any rate. Listen, we need to talk about Marty. Where are you?”

“Rosie's. Come join me.”

“You trust me to walk half a block by myself? It's pitchy dark outside.”

“I was going to meet you halfway.”

“Why don't you go the whole distance and meet me here.”

“We can do that later. For now, I think we should sit and stare into each other's eyes while I put a hand up your skirt.”

“Give me five minutes. I'll step out of my underwear.”

“Make it three. I've missed you.”

“I've missed you, too.”

By the time I locked the door behind me and reached the front gate, he was waiting on the other side of Henry's wrought-iron fence. The sidewalk on his side was one step lower than the walk on mine, which made me feel tall. The night air was chill and the dark settled over us like a veil. I slid my arms around his neck. He tilted his head and ran his mouth down along my throat and across my collarbone. The fence pales were cold, blunt-tipped spears that pressed against my ribs. He rubbed his hands up and down my arms. “You're cold. You should have a jacket on.”

“Don't need one. I have you.”

“That you do,” he said, smiling. He eased a hand between the fence pales, ran his fingers under my skirt and up between my legs. I heard him catch his breath and then he made a sound low in his throat.

“Told you.”

“I thought it was a metaphor.”

“What do either of us know about metaphors?” I said, laying my face against his hair.

“I know this.”

My turn to hum. “We should go to Rosie's,” I whispered.

“We should go in and lie down before impaling ourselves on this fence.”

At midnight we made grilled cheese sandwiches—the only instance in life when Velveeta isn't such a terrible idea. I found myself sidetracked by the crust, which was crisp, fully saturated with butter. Still munching, I said, “Hate to ask, but what'd Vince say when you told him about Reba and me?”

“He stuck his fingers in his ears and hummed. Actually, he loved the information about the counting room. Said he'd put a note in the file and attribute the tip to an anonymous call. He's scheduling the meeting with Reba for Thursday.”

“Can't he make it any sooner than that? He's the one telling us Beck's about to take off. Reba's worried she'll run into him.”

“I can mention it to Vince, but I wouldn't hold out much hope. That's the downside of an operation like this, it's unwieldy as hell. All she has to do is lay low.”

“You give her the news. I'm not allowed to talk to her.”

“That's right. Because I'm looking after you.”

“What about Marty? He's the one you ought to be worried about. He's really feeling the squeeze, convinced his phone's tapped or he's got a bug planted in his house.”

“Could well be. Tell him to give us a call and we can talk about a deal.”

“He's not ready for that. He's still looking for a way out of the bind he's in.”

“What do these guys think? They're so smart they're never going to get caught?”

“They haven't been caught so far.”

Tuesday morning passed in a great big boring blur. Given the egocentric nature of the world, I imagined that since nothing in particular was happening to me, there was nothing in particular happening to anyone else. In truth, events were transpiring that I would hear about only when it was too late to alter either cause or effect. My phone rang at 11:00—Cheney asking me to sit tight for the next half-hour as there was something he wanted me to hear. “You have a tape recorder?” he asked.

“An old one, but it takes a regular-size cassette.”

“That'll do.”

Fifteen minutes later he walked in the door. While I was waiting for him, I searched through my closet until I found the tape recorder. I opened a fresh package of AA batteries and by the time Cheney arrived, the tape recorder was set up and ready to go. “What is it?”

He slipped the cassette in the machine. “Something the FBI picked up this morning. Some of it sounds garbled, but the techs have taken it as far as they can.” He pressed the Play button, triggering a generalized hissing and the ringing of a phone. A man on the other end picked up without identifying himself. “Yes?”

The calling party said, “Problem.”

The minute I heard the voice, I shot a look at Cheney. “Beck?”

He pressed the Pause button. “The guy he's talking to is Salustio Castillo. This was the first call he placed when he got to the office.” He pressed Play again.

On the tape, Castillo was saying, “What?”

“When I took delivery on that shipment, the inventory was off.”

Silence. Hissing. “Impossible. ‘Off' meaning what?”

“Short.”

“By how much?”

“A pack.”

“Large or small?”

“Large. We're talking twenty-five.”

Salustio was silent. “I supervised the count myself. What about the invoices?”

“Not a match. I checked three times and the numbers don't tally.”

Salustio said, “I told you I wanted someone supervising your end—”

“This wasn't on my end.”

“Or so you say.”

Silence from Beck. “You know I wouldn't do this.”

“Do I? You've argued for a bigger cut of the action, which I can't…there's no way I can justify from my end. Now you say…missing, all I have is your word.”

“You think I'd lie?”

“Let's call it inventory shrinkage. It's been known to happen. From my perspective, you're adequately compensated…don't see it that way. So maybe you siphon off a percentage of the goods and that satisfies your need for a pay increase. What better cover than claiming I shorted you?”

“I never said that.”

“Then what?”

“I said the total's off. Might be the…mistake…”

“Yours. Not mine.”

“…”

“Fix it.”

Silence. There was a stretch of pure hissing on the tape.

Tightly Beck said, “Tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it.”

“Make up the shortfall out of your end, which is where the loss occurred. My total's correct and I want full payment deposited to my account. In the meantime, not to worry. I know you're good for it. Pleasure doing business,” Salustio said, and clicked off.

Beck said, “Fuck!” as he banged down the phone.

Cheney turned off the tape.

I thought the conversation was interesting, but I wasn't clear why he wanted me to hear it. I was on the verge of making a comment when Cheney said, “A tightly packed bundle of hundred-dollar bills is one inch thick,” he said. “That's twenty-five thousand dollars. I know because I asked the Treasury boys. Beck's been back a day. If a currency delivery came in while he was gone, it makes sense he'd double-check the totals first thing.”

“Okay,” I said. And then I shut my mouth because I could hear the penny drop. He knew Reba and I had ventured into the counting room on Saturday when the currency was being unwrapped and run through the machines. All either of us had to do was clip a pack of hundreds and who'd be the wiser? Beck didn't know we'd been there and all Salustio cared about was having the right total credited to his account. “You think she took it?”

“Sure. Vince was apoplectic. I thought he'd pop a vein. Beck doesn't know she was up there, but he'll rip the place apart looking for that dough. Once he pulls the security tapes, he's got her. You, too, for that matter.”

“She has to be nuts. Why take the risk?”

“Because Beck can't report the loss. He calls the cops and he'll generate the kind of scrutiny he can't afford. Not when he's on the verge of skipping out.”

I could feel myself flush, overtaken by alternating surges of denial and guilt. I suddenly understood what she'd been doing in the counting room for those few beats after I'd entered the elevator. I'd felt anxious, impatient to be gone while she'd been smitten with the sight of all that cash. Meanwhile, I was preoccupied, intent on checking the corridor to make sure we were in the clear. It wouldn't have taken any time—two seconds?—to stuff a packet of cash down her shirt or in her jacket pocket. I'd been thinking “nerves of steel,” amazed at her nonchalance while I was wetting my drawers. Then, of course, there was her exuberance with Willard once we got downstairs. She'd flirted and I'd assumed she was hyper because we'd discovered Beck's counting room. Must have been the feel of all that money next to her skin. Crazy. Reba wiping down her fingerprints. Cheney verbally boxing my ears when I'd confessed our misdeeds. And I'd defended her. Shit! My palms were damp and I rubbed them against my jeans. “What now?”

“Vince wants her in as soon as possible. The meeting with the IRS and Customs has been moved up to tomorrow afternoon at four in the FBI offices. Vince wants to talk to her first, like at one o'clock, and see if he can iron this out. Otherwise, the shit's really going to hit the fan.”

“Can't he help her?”

“Sure, if she's willing to put herself in his hands.”

“Fat chance. She's never even met the man.”

“Why don't you talk to her?”

“If you think it'd do any good. I've been ducking her for days, but I can give it a try.”

“Do that. Worst-case scenario, he'll put her in a safe house until he can figure out what's what.”

Cheney checked his watch, popped the Eject button on the tape recorder, and removed the tape. “I gotta get this back. You have Vince's number?”

“You better give it to me again.”

He snagged a pen and a scratch pad and made a note, tearing off the top sheet, which he handed to me. “Let me know what she says. If you can't reach me, you can talk directly to him.”

“Will do.”

After he left, I sat at my desk, trying to figure out what to say to Reba. There was really no point in pussyfooting around. She'd dug herself a hole and the sooner she climbed out of it, the better off she'd be. As long as Beck got the money back, he might not inquire too closely how it had disappeared. I picked up the handset and punched in the number for the Lafferty estate. I went through a preliminary round of conversation with the housekeeper, Freddy, who told me Reba was still in bed. “Shall I wake her?”

“I think you better.”

“One moment. I'll put you on hold and have her take the call in her room.”

“Great. Thanks.”

I pictured Freddy in her crepe-soled shoes, padding down the hall and up the stairs, holding on to the rail. The silence went on for a bit, but I imagined her knocking on Reba's door and then a groggy interval before she picked up, which was sure enough how she sounded when she came on the line. “'Lo?”

“Hi, Reeb. It's Kinsey. I'm sorry to wake you.”

“That's okay. I should probably be getting up anyway. What d'you want?”

“I need to ask you about something and you have to swear to tell the truth.”

“Sure.” She was already sounding more alert, so I thought she had a fair idea what was coming.

“Remember when we were together Saturday morning on that little voyage of discovery?”

Silence.

“Did you lift a packet of hundred-dollar bills?”

Silence.

“Never mind admitting it. The point is, Beck knows.”

“So what? Serves him right. It's like I told him at Bubbles, he owes me, big time.”

“Only one tiny problem. The money wasn't his. It was Salustio's.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Shit. Are you sure? I thought it was Beck's, like he was packing it to take with him when he left.”

“Nuhn-uhn. He was verifying Salustio's total before making a deposit to his account. Now he's twenty-five grand short.”

I could hear her lighting a cigarette. I said, “What made you think you could get away with it?”

“It was a
whim
, like an impulse. Haven't you ever done anything like that? Spur of the moment. I just did it, that's all.”

“Well, you better put it back before Beck figures it out.”

“How'm I supposed to do that?”

“How would I know? Stick it in an envelope and leave it at Willard's desk. He can pass it on to Marty or take it up himself—”

“But why do I have to do anything? Beck can't prove it, can he? I mean, how can he prove it when I didn't leave fingerprints?”

“For one thing, he's got security tapes that show you going in and out of the building. Beyond that, he doesn't have to prove a thing. All he has to do is tell Salustio and you're screwed.”

“He wouldn't do that to me, would he? I mean, I know he's a shit, but he wouldn't tell Salustio. You think?”

“Of course he would! Salustio expects him to cough up the missing twenty-five grand.”

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

“Look, Reeb. I'll say this again. Vince Turner can probably help if you'll turn around and help him.”

“What good does that do me with Salustio?”

“Maybe Vince can put you somewhere safe until it's all ironed out.”

“Oh, man. This is bad. You think I should call Beck?”

“You'd be smarter to keep away from him and talk to Vince instead. He wants to see you anyway before you meet with the feds.”

“What feds? I don't have a meeting with the feds. The guy dropped the ball.”

“He did not. The meeting's been changed to tomorrow afternoon at four. I'll pick you up at twelve-thirty and you can spend a couple of hours with him first.”

“About bloody time.”

“I told you it would take time.”

“Yeah, well, it's too late
now
.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, I gotta think how to handle this. I'll call you back.” The line went dead.

So much for my powers of persuasion.

That night, Cheney was busy with softball practice, so I was on my own. I had dinner at Rosie's, after which I retired to my apartment and spent the evening with a book.

Twelve-fifteen on Wednesday, I headed south on the 101, relieved to be in motion again. Once I delivered Reba to Vince's office, he could take charge of her and I'd be off the hook. The drive up Bella Sera was exactly as it had been on prior occasions, right down to the scent of bay laurel and the smell of dry grass. It had been thirteen days since I'd taken this route on my way to meet Nord Lafferty, wondering what he could possibly want with me. Escort his daughter home from prison. How complicated was that? In the days since we'd returned, her life had slowly come unraveled. The crazy part was that I liked her. Despite the differences between us, I responded to her out of the outrageous elements in my own nature. Watching her operate was like seeing a distorted version of myself, only larger than life and much more dangerous.

When I reached the property, the gates were standing open. As I rounded the bend in the drive, I saw the same Lincoln Continental and Mercedes sedan. Now a third vehicle sat beside the other two—this one a Jaguar convertible, a handsome dark green with a caramel interior that looked good enough to eat. I parked, leaving my car unlocked as I moved up the walk to the house. Reba's massive long-haired orange cat, Rags, sauntered out to greet me, looking at me with startling blue eyes. I extended my hand and he sniffed at my fingers. He allowed me to scratch his head, nudging me repeatedly to keep the action afloat.

I rang the bell and waited while he circled my legs, leaving long orange hairs on the legs of my jeans. From inside, I heard the muffled tap of high heels on hard marble tile. The door was opened by a woman I immediately pegged as the legendary Lucinda. She appeared to be in her midforties, thanks to the work of a first-rate plastic surgeon. I knew this because her neck and hands were fifteen years older than her face. Her hair was short, streaked with varying shades of blond as though bleached by the sun. She was slim and beautifully dressed in a designer outfit I recognized, though I'd forgotten the name. The two-piece black knit was banded in white and the jacket had brass buttons running down the front. The knee-length skirt revealed a knotty set of calves. “Yes?”

“I'm Kinsey Millhone. Could you tell Reba I'm here?”

She studied me carefully with eyes as dark as tar. “She's not home. Is this something I can help you with?”

“Ah, no. Don't think so. I'll just wait for her.”

“You must be the private investigator Nord's spoken of. I'm Lucinda Cunningham. I'm a friend of the family,” she said, extending her hand.

“Nice meeting you,” I said, shaking hands with her. “Did Reba say when she'd be home?”

“I'm afraid not. It might help if you told me what this was about.”

Pushy woman, I thought. “She has a meeting this afternoon. I told her I'd give her a lift.”

Her smile was not entirely warm, but she stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door shut behind her. “I don't mean to pry, but this…um…appointment, is it important?”