Sue Grafton - U Is For Undertow

“Deborah Unruh says Greg and Shelly smoked grass constantly. She knows there were at least two dopers who hung out with them. She never actually saw them, but someone supplied the weed and Walker was a dealer, or so I heard.”

“So were half the kids in town. What about Greg and Shelly? Could they corroborate? Last I heard, they took off and haven’t been heard from since.”

“Both are dead. Tuesday, I talked to Shelly’s son and he says Greg died of an overdose in Canada and his mother died of AIDS,” I said. “It’s possible Shawn could identify the pair. He was just a kid at the time, but he’s a smart guy and a face is a face.”

“It doesn’t make a whit of difference if Walker sold dope to Shawn’s parents.”

“But Michael Sutton identified Walker as one of the two guys he saw digging. What if he picked Jon Corso out of a lineup-”

“A lineup?” he said.

“Okay, not a lineup, but there’s gotta be a way. I can’t drop Corso’s name on him out of a clear blue sky. Sutton’s easily influenced, and I’d be corrupting his testimony if it ever comes to that.”

“You better hope it doesn’t. He’s the worst possible eyewitness. Even if he points a finger, it doesn’t get you anywhere.”

“What if he and Shawn both identify the two?”

“As what? You’re grasping at straws. Two kids loiter at a friend’s house. Big deal. How do you get from them to the guys who kidnapped two little girls? Where’s the link? As far as I can see, there’s nothing that ties either one of them to the crime.”

“The Fitzhughs and the Unruhs were all members of the Horton Ravine Country Club. If the Corsos or McNallys belonged, they might have crossed paths there.”

“Thin and too iffy.”

“What about the fingerprint on the ransom note?”

“Give it up. We’ve never had a hit on that in twenty-one years.”

“Maybe the last time you ran it, Walker hadn’t been picked up on his first DUI. He’s in the system now. I don’t know that Corso has a criminal history, but he might have been printed in the past few years. It’s worth a try.”

“Maybe.” Cheney looked at his watch. “I’ll get somebody on it when I can, but it’ll take time. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“What hopes?” I said.

His phone rang and he picked up the handset. “Lieutenant Phillips.”

I could hear someone talking. Cheney shot me a quick look and then said, “Let me call you back. I have someone here.” He hung up. “You’ll have to excuse me.”

“Sure. You want me to leave?”

“That’s not necessary. Sit tight.”

He left the cubicle and went into the one next door. He placed the call and though he was in earshot, I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Damn. I had to content myself with a survey of his office. The guy was disappointingly neat at work. At his house there was always stuff lying around, most of it connected to the various home projects he launched but never seemed to finish. Nosy as I am, I’d never dream of snooping through his desk. For all I knew, there were teeny-tiny little cameras hidden everywhere and I’d be caught in the act. I’ll admit that during our brief romance, I familiarized myself with all the drawers and closets at his place.

I folded my map of the bridle trails and tucked it into the Thomas Guide. I was so bored I was about to start cleaning out my purse when I heard him winding down his end of the conversation. I looked at the door in anticipation of his return.

A moment later he appeared, his expression oddly unreadable. “Michael Sutton’s dead.”

“What?”

“He was shot sitting in his car in the lot at Seashore Park.”

I was speechless, staring at him with disbelief.

Cheney went on, probably hoping to soften the impact. “The officer at the scene says a woman walking her dog heard the shot and saw a black sports car pull out of the lot. She only caught a flash, and apparently she doesn’t know a Corvette from a Sherman tank. The ‘black’ she’s pretty sure about unless the car was dark blue. I shouldn’t be telling you this much, but you’re a good friend and I trust you to keep your mouth shut.”

I sat there, unable to absorb the news.

He put a hand on my arm and squeezed. “We’re heading out to the scene and I don’t want you there. We can talk about it later when I know more.”

Jon pulled his car into the driveway, removed the handgun from under the seat, and got out. He walked around the main house to the back door, gun carried loosely at his side. He let himself in. The liquor supply was kept in the butler’s pantry between the kitchen and the dining room. He set the gun on the counter, opened the cabinet, and took out a bottle of Cutty Sark. He found a highball glass and poured himself a stiff drink that he downed neat. He put the glass on the counter and held out his hands. He’d expected to be shaking, but his hands were steady. His heartbeat was slightly elevated, but otherwise he felt fine.

How naive he’d been about the act of shooting a man to death. In his most recent thriller, he’d described a character’s shooting of a vagrant. The killing was random-no motive, no weapon left at the scene, and nothing that tied the killer to his victim. The fictional police investigation had gone nowhere and it should have been written off as the perfect crime. Naturally, a mistake was made, a minor matter. In the end, the killer wasn’t caught, but he endured a nasty fate of the sort only a novelist could cook up. Jon realized now how completely he’d misunderstood the act of taking another man’s life. It was simple, of no consequence. The only surprise had been the sound Michael Sutton made when he realized what was going on. Jon would have to struggle to erase the quick cry.

He tucked the gun in his waistband, poured another scotch, and carried it with him to the garage, where he climbed the steps to his studio. He had a few things to pack yet. Other than that, he was ready to rock and roll. Over the past two years, he’d gradually moved all his money to an offshore account, starting with the ten grand his father had left him. Lionel had unwittingly bequeathed him more than he intended. During the confusion in the days following his father’s fatal heart attack, Jon had had the foresight to remove Lionel’s passport from the jumble in his desk drawer. Mona never even noticed it was gone. He’d held on to it until it was due to expire and then filled out an application for renewal, which he’d submitted with two small photographs of himself. He’d donned his father’s glasses so the resemblance was close enough. Jon took a certain satisfaction in appropriating his father’s identity.

As a boy, he’d worshiped his dad, proud that he was a college professor. Many times he’d sat in on his father’s classes and marveled at how knowledgeable he was. Students were enraptured, laughing at his droll observations, scribbling down his witticisms, as well as the dense bits of information embedded in his lectures. His father had written two books published by a well-known university press. At cocktail parties, when Jon was a kid, he’d linger on the periphery of those gathered, listening to his dad tell anecdotes about famous literary figures.

After Jon’s mother died and Lionel and Mona married, his father’s output had leveled off. He’d written two more books, which hadn’t sold well, and a third he’d been forced to publish himself. For years he was still sought after on the lecture circuit, and he was paid well for his appearances, but Jon had heard the same talk, with the same wry pauses to allow for the polite laughter at the mildly amusing jokes. By the time Lionel died, Jon saw him as shrunken and weak. Mona had sucked the light right out of him.