"R" is for Ricochet (7 page)

“Was there an upside?”

“Oh, sure. I'm clean and sober. The drunks and druggies are the ones who end up back in the can. They go out on parole and the next thing you know, they're on the bus again, coming through Reception. Half the time they can't even remember what they did while they were out.”

“How'd you survive?”

“I walked the yard or read books, sometimes as many as five a week. I did tutoring. Some of the girls barely knew how to read. They weren't dumb; they'd just never been taught. I did their hair and looked at pictures of their kids. That was hard, watching them try to maintain contact. The phones were a source of conflict. You wanted to make an afternoon call, you had to get your name on a list first thing in the morning. Then when your turn came, you had twenty minutes max. The big beefy dykes took as long as they liked and if you had objections, tough patooties to you. I was a shrimp compared to most. Five-two, a hundred and four pounds. That's why I learned to be devious. Nothing sweeter than revenge, but you don't want to leave your fingerprints all over the deed. Take my advice: never do anything that points back to you.”

“I'll remember that,” I said.

Rosie returned with a tray bearing Reba's iced tea, the lemon swaddled in cheesecloth, and an order of Krumpli Paprikas for each of us. She set down rye bread, butter, and sour pickles, and disappeared again.

Reba leaned close to her bowl. “Oh. Caraway seeds. For a minute, I thought I saw something move.”

The potato stew was tasty, served in big porcelain bowls flecked with caraway seeds. I was using my last piece of buttered rye bread to sop up the remaining traces of gravy when I saw Reba glance over my left shoulder toward the front of the restaurant, her eyes widening. “Oh my goodness! Look who's here.”

I leaned left, peering around the edge of the booth so I could follow her gaze. The front door had opened and a guy had come in. “You know him?”

“That's Beck,” she said as though that explained everything. She pushed herself out of the booth. “I'll be right back.”

I waited a decent interval and then peered at the two of them standing near the door. The guy was tall, lean, and rangy in jeans and a supple black suede jacket. He had his hands in his jacket pockets and his collar turned up, which didn't look as thuglike as it sounds. His hair was a tawny mix of blond and brown, and his half-smile created a deep crease on either side of his mouth. Beside him, Reba was diminutive, a full head shorter than he, which forced him to lean toward her attentively as the two of them talked. I went back to cleaning my bowl—food, in this instance, taking precedence over idle speculation.

A moment later they appeared and Reba gestured at him. “Alan Beckwith. I used to work for him. This is Kinsey Millhone.”

He held his hand out, his wrist thin, his fingers long and slim. “Nice to meet you. I'm Beck to most.”

I put him in his thirties—fine lines on his face, but no pouches anywhere. “Nice meeting you, too,” I said, shaking hands with him. “Are you joining us?”

“If you don't mind. I don't want to butt in.”

“We're just chatting,” I said. “Have a seat.”

On their side of the booth, Reba slid in first, scooting over to make room for him. He sat down, half-slouching, his long legs outstretched. He was clean shaven, but I could see the shadow of a beard. His eyes were the dark, rich brown of Hershey's Kisses. I picked up the scent of cologne, something spicy and light. I'd seen him before…not here, but somewhere in town, though I couldn't imagine why our paths would have crossed.

He tapped on the back of Reba's hand. “So. How've you been?”

“Fine. It feels great to be home.”

I tuned them out, watching as the two exchanged pleasantries. For people who'd once worked together, both seemed ill at ease, but that might have been because he'd turned her over to the cops, a move that would put a damper on most relationships.

“You look good,” he said.

“Thanks. I could use a decent haircut. I did this myself. What about you? What have you been up to?”

“Not much. Traveling a lot on business. I just got back from Panama last week and I may be heading out again. We're in the new building, part of the mall that was finished last spring. Restaurants and shops. It's really slick.”

“That was in the works when I left and I know what a pain in the ass it was. Congratulations.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Not yet. Must be convenient for you, working right downtown.”

“Dynamite,” he said.

She smiled. “How's the office gang? I hear Onni took my old job. Is she doing okay?”

“She's fine. It took her a while to learn the system, but she's doing great. Everyone else is pretty much the same.”

What did I sense? I tested the air with my little feelers, trying to identify the nature of the tension between them.

Idly, I listened while Beck continued. “I got a new deal in the works. Commercial property up near Merced. I just met with some guys who have capital to invest so we may pull something together. I stopped in here for a good-luck drink before I headed home.” His attention shifted in an effort to include me in the conversation. A smooth move, I thought. He wagged a finger between Reba and me, like a windshield wiper. “How do you two know each other?”

I'd opened my mouth to speak, but Reba got in first. “We don't. We just met this morning when she picked me up and brought me home. I was going nuts, stuck at the house. Pop went to bed early and I was too hyper to sit still. The silence was really creeping me out so I called her.”

His gaze settled on mine. “You live around here?”

“Half a block down. I rent a studio apartment. Matter of fact, that's my landlord over there,” I said, gesturing toward Henry at his table near the front. “The bartender's his older brother William, who's married to Rosie, the gal who owns this place, just to fill you in.”

Beck smiled. “A family affair.” He was one of those guys who understands the power of being totally focused on the person he's talking to. No barely disguised glances at his watch, no surreptitious shift in his gaze to see who's coming in the door. Now he seemed as patient as a cat staring at a crack in a rock where a lizard has disappeared.

“You live in the area?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I'm in Montebello, right where East Glen and Cypress Lane intersect.”

I rested my chin on my hand. “I've seen you someplace.”

“I'm a native, Santa Teresa born and bred. My folks had a place in Horton Ravine, but they've been gone now for years. My dad owned the Clements,” he said, referring to a three-story luxury hotel that folded in the late seventies. Subsequent ownerships had failed as well and the building had been converted to a retirement facility. If I remembered correctly, his father had been involved in numerous businesses around town. Major bucks.

I glanced over to see Rosie moving toward us with an empty tray, her sights fixed on Beck, her approach as direct and unwavering as a heat-seeking missile. When she reached the table, she made a point of directing all her comments to me, a minor eccentricity of hers. She seldom looks a stranger in the eye. Male or female, it doesn't matter to her. Any new acquaintance is treated like an odd appendage of mine. The effect, in this instance, was coquettish, which I thought was unbecoming in a woman her age. “Your friend would like something to drink?”

I said, “Beck?”

“You have single-malt Scotch?”

She fairly wriggled with pleasure, shooting an approving look at him out of the corner of her eye. “Special for him, I hev MaCallum's. Is twenty-four years old. You want neat or wit ice?”

“Ice. A double with a water back. Thanks.”

“Of course.” She cleared the table, loading our dinner plates and silverware onto her tray. “He's want supper, perhaps?”

He smiled. “No, thanks. It smells wonderful, but I just ate. Maybe next time. Are you Rosie?”

“Yes, I em.”

He rose to his feet and offered his hand. “An honor to meet you. Alan Beckwith,” he said. “This is quite a place.”

In lieu of an actual handshake, Rosie allowed him temporary possession of her fingertips. “Next time, I'm fix something special for you. Hungarian like what you've never had until I give.”

“You got a deal. I adore Hungarian cuisine,” he said.

“You hev been to Hungary?”

“Budapest, once, about six years ago…”

Covertly, I watched the interplay between the two of them. Rosie became more girlish as the exchange went on. Beck was too slick for my taste, but I had to give him credit for making the effort. Most people find Rosie difficult, which she is.

As soon as she went off to fetch his drink, Beck turned to Reba. “How's your dad? I saw him a couple months ago and he wasn't looking good.”

“He's not doing well. I really had no idea. I was shocked to see how much weight he's lost. You know he had surgery for a thyroid tumor. Then it turned out he had polyps on his vocal cords so he had to have those removed. He's still shaky on his feet.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. He's always seemed so vigorous.”

“Yeah, well, he's eighty-seven years old. He's bound to slow down at some point.”

Rosie returned, bringing Beck a hefty glass of Scotch over ice with a small carafe of water on the side. She set his drink on a cardboard coaster and handed him a dainty paper cocktail napkin. I noticed she'd found a doily to put on her tray. If the guy had been with me, she'd have been measuring the inseam for his wedding tuxedo.

He picked up his drink and took a measured sip, sending her a smile of approval. “That's perfect. Thanks.”

Rosie departed reluctantly, at a loss for any other service to perform.

Beck turned back to me. “Are you a local as well?”

“Yep.”

“Where'd you go to high school?”

“S.T.”

“Me, too. Maybe that's where we knew each other. What year did you graduate?”

“1967. What about you?”

“A year ahead of you—1966. Odd I don't remember you. I'm usually good about those things.”

I upgraded his age to thirty-eight. “I was a low-waller,” I said, indicating my association with the badass kids who sat on the low wall at the rear of the school property where the hillside sloped down to meet the street behind. We smoked cigarettes and dope and occasionally mixed vodka in our bottles of orangeade. Tame by later standards, but considered wicked in our day.

“Really,” he said. He gave me a brief searching look and then reached for the menu. “How's the food?”

“Not bad. Are you really fond of Hungarian cooking, or were you making that up?”

“Why would I lie about something like that?” He delivered the line lightly, but he could have meant anything—perhaps that he'd never bother to lie about the trivial or mundane in life. “Why do you ask?”

“I'm surprised you haven't been in before.”

“I've seen the place in passing, but frankly, it always looked like such a dive I never had the nerve. I had a meeting with some guys and thought I'd give it a try since I was in the neighborhood. Nicer inside than out, I'll say that.”

My antennae went up with a little whining sound. That was the second time he'd explained how he happened to come in. I picked up my glass and took a sip of bad wine. Really, it tasted like a product you'd use to clean tar off your feet after a day at the beach. Reba was playing with the straw in her iced tea.

Looking from her face to his, I realized what a dunce I'd been. She'd arranged this in advance. Dinner with me was just a cover for her meeting with him, but why the subterfuge? I rearranged myself so I was sitting with my back against the side wall, my feet on the seat, keeping my demeanor casual while I watched the scenario play out. “You're in real estate?” I asked.

He downed half the whiskey remaining in his glass, adding water to the residue. He swirled the glass, rattling his ice cubes. “That's right. I have an investment company. Development, mostly. I do property management on occasion, though not a lot these days. And you?”

“I'm a private investigator.”

He smiled, bemused. “Not bad for someone who started her career loitering behind the school.”

“Hey, the training was good. Hang out with a bunch of budding crooks, you get to know how they think.” I made a display of looking at my watch. “Ah. I don't know about you, Reba, but it's time for me to head out. My car's just half a block down. Give me a minute to go get it and I can drive you home.”

Beck looked at Reba with feigned surprise. “You don't have wheels?”

“I've got a car, but no license. Mine expired.”

“Why don't I give you a lift and save her the drive?”

I said, “I don't mind doing it. I've got my car keys right here.”

“No, no. I'll be happy to take her. No point in your having to go out of your way.”

Reba said, “Really. It'd be easier for him than it would be for you.”

“You're sure?”

Beck said, “Absolutely. It's right on my way.”

“Okay with me. You two stay if you like and I'll take care of the bill. It's my treat,” I said, as I slid out of the booth.

“Thanks. I'll take care of the tip.”

“Nice meeting you.” I shook hands with Beck again and then glanced at Reba. “I'll see you in the morning at nine. You want me to call first?”

“No need. Just come up to the house whenever you like,” she said. “Actually, I ought to be heading home myself. It's been a long day and I'm bushed. You mind?”

“Anything you want.” Beck finished his drink, swallowing the watered-down whiskey that remained in his glass.

I moved over to the bar and paid the bill. Glancing back, I saw that Beck was already on his feet, fishing in his pocket for his money clip. I watched him peel off two bills for the tip, probably fives since he was so eager to impress. They waited for me to join them so we could walk out together. Henry had disappeared by then, but the shank-of-the-evening drinkers were straggling in.

Outside it was dark, the moon not yet visible. The air was clear and still except for the chirping of crickets. Even the sound of the surf seemed diminished. The three of us ambled toward the intersection, chatting about nothing in particular.

“I'm down there,” Beck said, pointing toward the shadowy side street to our right.

“What do you drive?” I asked.

“'87 Mercedes. The sedan. And you?”

“'74 Volkswagen. The bug. See you later.”

I waved and continued walking while the two of them turned off. Fifteen seconds later, I heard the double report of their respective car doors slamming shut. I paused, waiting for the sound of an engine turning over. Nothing. Maybe they'd decided to sit and talk. When I reached my gate I pushed through, listening to the familiar squeaking of its hinges. I followed the walk around to the rear. Once I reached my front door, I hesitated, debating about Reba and Beck. Maybe I was wrong about them. Curiosity got the better of me. I left my shoulder bag on the porch and took off across the grass, crossing Henry's flagstone patio to the chicken-wire fence that ran along the rear property line. I felt my way from post to post, tracing the length until I reached his garage. I stooped and pushed the fencing aside, slipping through the gap where the fittings had come loose.

My heart was thumping merrily and I could feel my gut contract with anticipation. I love these nighttime adventures, easing in silence across darkened backyards. Fortunately, none of the neighborhood mutts caught wind of me, so my passage was completed without a chorus of shrill warning barks. At the mouth of the alley, I veered right, emerging onto the side street. I moved forward, scanning the shapes and sizes of the cars parked on either side. A single streetlight cast only the faintest illumination, but once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I had no trouble identifying Beck's Mercedes. Every other vehicle was a compact, a minivan, or a pickup truck.