R is for Ricochet

"Lucinda, Beck manipulated you. Don't you see that?"

"Hardly. He's a lovely man. After what she did to him, I'd have told him even if he hadn't asked."

"Do you have any idea what you've done? A man was kidnapped because of you."

She laughed, tucking her purse under one arm as she picked up the overnight case. "No one was kidnapped" she said, as though the notion were absurd. "Really. You're just like her, creating drama where there is none. Everything's a crisis. Everything's the end of the world. It's never anything she's done. She's always the victim, always expecting someone else to pick up after her. Well, this time she'll have to take responsibility. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get over to the hospital and leave these items for Nord."

She opened the door and snapped it shut behind her. In the face of her conviction, I hadn't managed to challenge her view or express even the first shred of protest. There was an element of truth in what she'd said, but it wasn't the whole truth.

"Miss Millhone?"

I turned to find Freddy standing in the hall behind me. "Did you hear her? The woman's horrible," I said.

"Now that she's gone, I wanted to let you know. Reba was here. She arrived shortly before Miss Cu

"Where'd she go?"

"I don't know. She came by cab and she was only home long enough to pick up her car and a change of clothes. She said she'd go over to the hospital to see her father, but she'd time it to avoid crossing paths with Miss Cu

"Serves Lucinda right. How serious is his condition?"

"The doctor says he'll be fine. He was dehydrated and his electrolytes were out of balance. I believe he's suffering from anemia as well. The doctor intends to keep him for a couple of days."

"Well, good. That's one less thing to worry about, especially if the staff can keep Lucinda at bay. Did Reba say anything at all about where she'd be?"

"Staying with a friend."

"She doesn't have a friend. Here in town?"

"I believe so. This was a fellow, someone she met after she got home."

I thought about that briefly. "Maybe someone from AA… though now that I say that, it seems unlikely. I can't see her at a meeting this late in the game. What about reaching her? Did she leave a number?"

Freddy shook her head. "She said she'd call by the house at nine, but she was concerned Mr. Beckwith would find her again."

"I'll bet. Lucinda's been dishing out the information right and left," I said. "Look, if you hear from her, tell her it's important we talk. Did she leave a suitcase by any chance?"

"No, but she did have one with her. She put it in the trunk of her car before she left."

"Well, let's hope she calls in." I glanced at my watch. "I'll be at my office for the next couple of hours and then I'll head home."

My office always feels odd at night, its flaws and shabbiness exaggerated by the artificial light. As I sat at my desk, all I saw through the window was dinginess reflected back at me, the dust and ancient rain streaks barring any view of the street. On weekends this part of downtown Santa Teresa is dead after 6:00 P.M., city buildings closed for the night, the courthouse and public library dark. The bungalow I occupied was the middle unit of three; identical stucco structures that, at some point, represented modest housing. Since I'd moved in, the bungalows on both sides of mine had remained vacant, which afforded me the quiet I preferred, at the same time creating an unsettling sense of isolation.

I sorted through the mound of mail the carrier had shoved through my slot. Much junk, a few bills, which I sat down and paid. I was restless, eager to get home, but felt I should stay, in the hopes that Reba would call. I did some filing. I straightened out my pencil drawer. It was make-work but gave me something useful to do. I kept glancing at the phone, willing it to ring, so when someone rapped on my side window, I nearly leaped out of my skin.

Reba was outside, concealed in the shadowy space between my bungalow and its twin next door. She'd traded her shorts for jeans and her white T-shirt looked like the one she'd been wearing when she left CIW. I unlocked the window and raised the sash. "What are you doing?"

"You have access to those garages out back?"

"Sure, the one for this unit. I've never used it, but the landlord did give me the keys."

"Grab 'em and let's go. I gotta get my car off the street. I've had those goons on my tail ever since I left the house."

"The ones we saw in L.A.?"

"Yeah, only one of 'em now has a black eye, like he walked into a door."

"Oh, dear. Wonder if I did that with my widdle chair," I said. "How'd you get away?"

"Fortunately, I know this town a lot better than they do. I led 'em around for a while, then sped up, doused my lights, turned down a little side road, and then behind a hedge. The minute I saw their car pass, I doubled back and came here."

"Where have you been all this time?"

She seemed agitated. "Don't ask. I've been busy as a little bee. Get a move on. I'm cold."

"I'll meet you out back."

I closed the window and locked it. In my bottom desk drawer I lifted aside the phone book and picked up two silver keys hooked together on a paper clip. I picked up my bag and found my trusty pen-light, checking the strength of the batteries as I moved down the hallway and out the rear door. A short patch of stubby grass separated the bungalows from the row of three garages along the alley. Reba'd parked her car in the shadow of a pyracantha bush that had probably scratched the shit out of the paint on the right-hand side. I could see her at the wheel, smoking a cigarette while she waited for me.

There was a light fixture with a forty-watt bulb attached to the wood beam above the middle garage, which was the one assigned to me. The bulb yielded just enough light to see by if your eyes were good. I fumbled with the padlock and finally popped it open. I unhooked it from the hasp and hauled up the overhead door with a labored groaning of wood and rusty hinges. I flashed my penlight across the walls and floor, which were bare, smelling of motor oil and soot. There were cobwebs everywhere.

Reba flipped her cigarette out the window and started her car. I stood back as she pulled into the garage. She got out, locked her car door, and came around to the rear. She popped the trunk lid and hauled out a suitcase of a size appropriate for an airplane carry-on, though you'd have to maneuver it to get it in the overhead bin. The bag had an extendable handle and a set of wheels. She seemed preoccupied, caught up in a mood I couldn't read.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Fine."

"Just for the yucks, are you going to tell me what's in there?"

"Want to see?"

"I do."

She collapsed the handle and laid the suitcase flat, unzipped the top portion and flipped it open.

I found myself looking at a metal box, maybe fifteen inches high, eighteen inches long, and eight inches deep. "What the hell is that?"

"You're joking. You don't know?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't ask, Reeb. I'd exclaim with joy and surprise."

"It's a computer. Marty took his with him when he left. He also stopped by the bank and picked up all the floppy disks from the safe-deposit box. You're looking at Beck's business records – the second set of books. Hook it up to a keyboard and monitor, you've got access to everything: bank accounts, deposits, shell companies, payoffs, every dime he laundered for Salustio."

"You're turning it over to the feds, right?"