Sue Grafton - H is for Homicide

I opened the toilet tank. There were plastic packets taped along the sides of the tank… probably heroin or cocaine. Now there's a concept. If the cops ever raided the place, they'd sure be fooled by that. One of the pouches was jammed up against the ball cock machine. I pushed it aside and rattled the lever. The tank began to fill. Finally, the toilet flushed with gallumphing sounds – a triumph of personal ingenuity and low-grade plumbing skills. My Dick Tracy secret code was safely washed out to sea.

The shower water was tepid to begin with, but I managed to lather myself with a tiny bar of soap that said "Ramada Inn." I shampooed my hair and was just rinsing it when the hot water ran out. I finished in haste. The only towel in the bathroom was thin, stiff, and dingy from use. I patted myself dry with my tank top and got dressed.

When I emerged from the bathroom, dirty clothes in hand, the apartment was quiet. I peered into the living room. Luis had apparently gone home. Raymond and Bibianna were nowhere in sight. The door to the master bedroom was closed, and I could hear voices raised heatedly in Spanish. I leaned my head close, but I really couldn't understand a word of it. I returned to the living room. Perro had been secured to the couch again, and he was chewing happily on the leather portion of the chain leash mat restrained him. The minute he saw me, he rose to his feet, the hair standing up along his back in a ridge. He lowered his head and began to hum down in his chest. To reach the front door, I'd have to pass within inches of him. Skip that, I thought.

The telephone, a touch tone, had been sitting on the coffee table. Now there was no sign of it. I scanned the room without result. Apparently, Raymond had unplugged the instrument at the jack and had taken it into the bedroom with him. That wasn't very trusting. I backed up, turning left into a short hallway. The other bedroom contained a dilapidated brown couch and a bare mattress with a couple of pillows minus the cases.

I went to the window overlooking the street. I flipped open the locking mechanism and pushed at the aluminum-framed sliding window, which I managed to hump back in its track with a minimum of squeaks. It's not that I was looking for an immediate avenue of escape. I just like to know where I am and what's possible in the event of an emergency. I leaned close and angled my head so I could see in all directions.

To my right, the face of the building was shabby and plain, a sheer drop of some twenty-plus feet to bare sidewalk. No balconies, no wood trim, and no trees within range. From what I could see, this was a neighborhood of tacquertas and strip joints, auto body shops and pool halls, all of it as torn and deserted as a war zone. I checked to my left and was heartened to see a zigzagging metal stairway. At least in a pinch, I'd have access to the world at large.

I surveyed the room behind me, so exhausted I could hardly stand. I opted for the lumpy couch, which was slightly too short to stretch out on fully. The cushions smelled of dust and stale cigarette smoke. I pulled my knees up and crossed my arms, hugging them in against me for solace. I didn't care what was happening, I had to get some sleep.

When I woke, I could tell from the slant of light in the room that it was close to four o'clock. The days had already begun to seem truncated, the premature darkness signaling the sudden onset of winter. At this point, annually, all the furnaces are turned on. The new cord of oak is delivered and stacked. This is the season when Californians, by agreement, begin to bring out their woolens, complaining loudly of the cold when it's only fifty degrees out – as close to freezing temperatures as we're likely to get.

The apartment was still quiet. I got up and tiptoed out to the living room. Perro was snoring, but I figured it was just a ruse. He was hoping I'd try to sneak past him so he could leap up and tear my ass off. I edged to my left, into the dining area, which formed a straight line with the galley-style kitchenette. I'd popped in there briefly when I helped myself to a beer, but I hadn't been able to check for exits. I was hoping for a back door, but the kitchen was a dead end and there didn't appear to be any other way out.

I glanced over at the kitchen table, which was still covered with stacks of papers. I picked up a sheaf and sorted through. What ho! Well, at least now I knew what had made the guy so cross. These vicious-looking batos locos had been licking their pencil points, trying to fill out insurance forms for a series of bogus injuries they couldn't even spell right. "Wiplash" and "bruces" and "panes in my looer and uper bake." One had written: "Were drivin north wen this car hit us from behine and nockt us into a telepone phole. I bump my hed on the winsheld, suffrin bruces. Ever sins the acident, I hadve wiplash and panes in my nek. Also, bad hedakes, dobull vishun and shootin panes in my bake."

The attending physician on most forms was a Dr. A. Vasquez, with a chiropractor named Fredrick Howard running a close second in popularity. Now that I looked closely, I realized that all the "victims" had given identical accounts of their "accidents." What Tomas had been doing was copying out the same information on form after form. Properly briefed or not, my investigative instincts began to stir and I could feel my excitement mount. This was part of what Dolan and Santos were looking for, grand theft in progress with the names of the players spelled out nice and neat. There was no sign of a file cabinet, from what I'd seen so far, but Raymond had to keep all the paperwork somewhere. I chose a completed claim form at random, folded it quickly, and shoved it down my blouse front, patting it into place. I left the remaining papers as I'd found them and returned to the spare room, crackling faintly as I walked. When I reached the doorway, I spotted Raymond standing near the window, going through the pouch of personal possessions I'd brought with me from the jail.

"Help yourself. All I got on me is ten bucks," I said from the doorway.

If he was embarrassed to be caught, he gave no indication of it. There was a brief pause while he went through a series of tics we both ignored. "Who's Hannah Moore?"

"Excuse me?"

"Hannah Moore's not your real name."

"It isn't? Well, that's news to me." I tried for a tone somewhere between facetious and perplexed.

"This driver's license is a fake." He tossed the license on the floor and turned his attention to the other items in the.

"If it's any of your business, my license was suspended about a month ago," I said snappishly. "A friend of mine put this one together for me. You have a problem with that?" I crossed the room and snatched it from the floor, plucking the plastic pouch from him in the same agitated movement.

"I don't have a problem," he said. He seemed amused by my display of temper. "How'd you get your license yanked?"

"I was picked up on a DUI. Two of ' em since June. "

I could see him digest the information, undecided at this point whether he believed me or not. "What happens if you get stopped by a cop and he runs the fake?"

"I'll end up in jail again. What difference does it make?"

"So what's your real name?"

"What's yours?"

"Where's your car at?"

"Out of commission. I need some work done on the tranny, but I don't have the bucks."

We locked eyes. His were large and darker than I remembered. He needed a shave, his jaw shadowed by a day's growth of beard. He'd changed into casual slacks and a short-sleeved silk shirt in a teal shade that made his eyes look very warm. His taste in clothing was sure classier than his taste in household furnishings. I had to guess he was making money, especially if what Santos said was true. Raymond's neck jerked, after which he turned his head and yelled something with his hand against his mouth as if coughing.