Sue Grafton - U Is For Undertow

“None taken.”

I arrived at the office at 8:00, hoping to get a jump on the day. As I unlocked the door I could smell scorched coffee and realized with a flash of annoyance that I’d forgotten to turn off the coffeemaker when I’d left Wednesday afternoon. I scurried down the corridor to the kitchenette and flipped off the machine. I removed the carafe from the unit and set it on a folded towel to cool. The glass bottom had a ring of black sludge that would probably never come off.

I hauled out my trusty Smith-Corona, popped off the hard cover, and placed it on my desk. I spread out my index cards and typed a report for Sutton’s file, covering what I’d done to this point. I included Henry’s speculation about the sequence of events, which added a little ray of sunshine. When I finished I put the report in his file. I put a rubber band around the cards, dropped them in the same file, and closed the drawer. I’d gone as far as I could go and I needed a break. Over the weekend I’d reshuffle the facts and hope to spot something I’d missed. In the meantime, it was a perfect April morning, clear and sunny, still cool but with the promise of a warming trend. Surely, that boded well.

I stashed the typewriter under the desk again and caught sight of the light on my answering machine, which was blinking merrily. I swiveled once in my chair and pressed Play.

I could hear background noise.

“Kinsey? This is Michael Sutton. I gotta talk to you as soon as possible. After I left you, I went to get Madaline at her AA meeting and saw the same guy I spotted at the dig. He has two black eyes and his face is banged up, which is why I noticed him in the first place. We followed him to that Montebello Bank and Trust at Monarch and Old Coast Road. I’m calling from the gas station across the street. We’ve waited half an hour and he hasn’t come out so maybe he works there. Thing is, Madaline’s antsy to get home so I was hoping you could spell me while I run her back to the house. I guess not, huh. Anyway, when you get the message, could you call? If I’m not home, I’ll be here unless the bank closes in the meantime. Gotta go. Thanks.”

I wasn’t sure when the call had come in because the date and time function on my answering machine has been horsed up for months, claiming it’s perpetually noon on January 1. He must have called sometime after I’d talked to Joanne Fitzhugh because I left the same time she did and I’d run errands until it was reasonable to go home. I picked through the papers on my desk until I found the yellow legal pad where he’d jotted his contact information. I called his home number and counted fifteen rings before I hung up. I couldn’t see the point in driving to his house if no one was answering the phone. On the other hand, there was an undertone of panic in his voice I didn’t dare ignore.

I locked the office, fired up the Mustang, and drove the twelve blocks to Hermosa Street in a matter of minutes. I pulled into his drive, slammed the car door behind me, and scooted up his porch steps. I knocked, then crossed to the front window and peered in. Lights were off in the living room and there were no signs of life in the areas beyond. I pulled out my notebook and scribbled a hasty message, indicating the time I’d been there and asking him to call. I jotted down both my home and office numbers, then stuck the note between the front door and the screen. I stood indecisively, looking out at the street. As though by magic, Madaline walked into view, Goldie Hawn ahead of her, tugging at the leash. I waited.

As she turned up the walk, she said, “Where’s Michael?”

My, my. The little lady seemed cross and out of sorts. I said, “I have no idea. That’s what I came to ask you.”

“He left the house this morning to go meet some guy. He didn’t say a word about what time he’d be back.”

“He didn’t mention the guy’s name?”

“Nuh-uh. He was in a rush and all goofy. He said maybe now people would believe he was telling the truth.”

I pondered the implications, knowing it would be a waste of time to press her further. Madaline would be no help. She was too wrapped up in herself. I said, “I left a note for him stuck in the door. If you see him before I do, tell him I stopped by.”

“Oh great. Now I’m stranded. He’s got the car and I have to be someplace.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really,” she said. “I have a job interview downtown. It’s, like, completely critical to be there on time. Michael promised me a ride and now what?”

“Guess you’ll have to walk.”

“In heels? By the time I get there, I’ll be all sweaty and out of breath.”

I looked at my watch. “When’s your appointment?”

“Ten-thirty.”

“So start now and walk slowly. You have plenty of time.”

“Fuck you.”

Smiling, I returned to my car and backed out of the drive. I was still hoping to catch Sutton on his way back to the house. No such luck. I drove one block up and three blocks over, picking up the southbound freeway on-ramp. If his meeting was over, he might have returned to his one-man surveillance at the bank. I was taking the chance I’d spot his car in the vicinity. I got off the 101 at Old Coast Road and cruised past Montebello Bank and Trust, searching for Sutton’s turquoise MG. No sign of him in the bank parking lot or the service station across the street. Twice I drove the length of the main drag without results. Finally, I pulled into the narrow parking strip in front of the bank, taking up the vigil myself.

I got out of my car and went to the double-glass doors. I pushed and found the door locked, then realized the place wouldn’t open until ten, forty-five minutes hence. I locked my car and walked to a coffee shop I’d passed two blocks down. I paused at the entrance beside a row of coin-operated vending machines. I plunked a quarter in one and pulled out the local newspaper. I bought a big container of coffee and doused it liberally with milk. If the coffee didn’t cause my bladder to swell to twice its normal size, I could make it last until the bank opened. I reconsidered and added sugar in case the coffee turned out to be lunch as well.

I walked back to the bank, cup in hand, and sat in the parking lot. I read the paper, keeping an eye open for Michael Sutton or any of the various and sundry bank officers who should be arriving for work. The paper didn’t offer much in the way of news, only column after column of items pulled off the wire, most of which I’d read the day before in the L.A. Times. I skipped the funnies but pored over the obituaries. The people who’d died in the last few days were in their eighties and nineties. I made a mental note of the names in case William had overlooked a hot one in his search for a funeral to attend.

At 9:54 a petite, dark-haired woman approached the bank, dressed smartly in a suit, panty hose, and heels. She looked like a sympathetic person, and I wished I was in the market for a loan so I could borrow money from her. She unlocked the glass door and punched in the code for the alarm system on a panel to the right. She disappeared from sight. Five minutes later a second woman crossed the lot, passing my car before she went into the bank. If Michael was right and the guy was a bank employee, surely he’d be showing up soon.

As though on cue, I heard heels tapping on the pavement behind me and turned to watch a balding, heavyset fellow lumber past my car. He walked like a man who hurt. He glanced at me idly and I registered a bouquet of fading bruises on his right cheek, purple, yellow, and green-quite the dashing assortment. I hadn’t caught a full-on view of his face so I couldn’t make a judgment about his sporting black eyes. Seemed reasonable to assume that whatever door he’d walked into would have rendered sufficient damage for blackened eyes along with the puffy cheek. I waited until he’d gone in and then folded the paper and put the lid on my coffee cup, which I stashed on the passenger-side floor.