Sue Grafton - K Is For Killer

Serena put a hand to her chest in surprise. "She had that kind of money? That's incredible."

"She actually had quite a bit more, but this is the only money that seems to be missing."

"I can tell I'm in the wrong business. Wait till Roger hears this."

"You didn't see any sign of it the day you found the body? Might have been a cashier's check."

"Not me. Ask her landlord. I didn't even go in."

"And he did?"

"Well, it was only for a minute, but I'm sure he did."

"He told me once he caught the smell, he turned right around and went back to his place and called the cops."

"That's true, but then while we were waiting for the police to show up, he opened the door and went in."

"To do what?"

Serena shook her head. "I don't know. I guess I thought he wanted to see what it was. I'd forgotten all about it till you brought it up."

When I got back to my apartment, Danielle was standing on my doorstep in a shallow pool of light. Her long legs were bare, capped by the shortest pink miniskirt on record. She wore black high heels, a black tank top, and a varsity letter jacket with a big black F across the back. Her hair was so long that it extended below the bottom of the jacket in the back. She smiled when she caught sight of me crossing the yard. "Oh, hey. I thought you were gone. I came to get my dime. The IRS says I'm short on my estimated income tax."

"Aren't you cold? It's really freezing out here."

"You must never have lived in the East. It's probably fifty degrees. With this jacket I got on, I'm as warm as toast."

"What's the F stand for?"

"What do you think?" she said drolly.

I smiled as I unlocked the door and flipped the lights on. She followed me in, pausing at the threshold to assess the premises. Her eyes looked enormous, the green offset by dark liner, her lashes headed with mascara. Under all the makeup she had a smooth, baby face: snub nose, sulky mouth. She strolled the perimeter of my living room, tottering on her high heels as she peered at all the bookshelves. She picked up the framed photograph of Robert Dietz. "Well, he's cute. Who's this?"

"A friend."

She lifted her brows and gave me a look that suggested she knew what kind of friend he was. She put the picture down again and shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. I hung my own jacket across the back of a director's chair. She sat down on my sofa and rubbed a hand across the surface of the fabric as if to test the weight. Tonight her fingernails were long and perfect, painted a vivid fire-engine red. She crossed one long, bare leg across the other and swung a foot while she completed her survey. "This is not bad. They got any other units as good as this?"

"This is the only rental. My landlord's eighty-five."

"I don't discriminate. I like old guys," she said. "Maybe I could give him a discount."

"I'll pass the word along in case he's interested. What are you doing here?"

She got up and moved over to the kitchen, where she opened my cabinets to check the contents. "I was bored. I don't go in to work until eleven. It's a problem sometimes what to do before. Mr. Dickhead's in a bad mood, so I'm avoiding him."

"What's his problem?"

"Oh, who knows? He's probably raggin' it," she said. She flapped a hand in the air, dismissing his ill temper. She pulled a couple of teabags out of her jacket pocket and dangled them in the air. "You want some peppermint tea? I got some bags if you boil the water. It's good for digestion."

"I'm not worried about digestion. I haven't had dinner yet."

"Me neither. Sometimes all I have is tea if Lester's taken my money. He doesn't want me getting fat."

"What a pal," I said.

She shrugged, unconcerned. "I look after myself. I'm into megavitamins and high colonies and like that."

"There's a treat," I said. I filled the kettle with hot water and put it on the stove. I flipped the burner on.

"Laugh all you want. I bet I'm healthier than you."

"That wouldn't take much, the way I eat," I said. "Speaking of which, you want dinner? I don't cook, but I can have a pizza delivered. I have to go out in a bit, but you're welcome to join me."

"I wouldn't mind some pizza," she said. "If you just do the veggies, without all the sausage and pepperoni, it's not even bad for you. Try that place around the corner. I bonk the owner sometimes. He gives me a big discount because I chew his bone."

"I'll mention that when I call the order in," I said.

"Here, I'll do it. Where's the phone?"

I pointed to the phone on the table beside the answering machine. We both noticed the blinking light.

"You got a message," she said. She reached down automatically and pressed the replay button before I had a chance to protest. It seemed as rude for her to listen as to open my mail. A mechanical computer voice announced that I had one message. Beep.

"Oh, hi, Kinsey. This is Roger. I just wanted to touch base and see how things were going. Anyway, you don't have to call back, but if you have any more questions, you can reach me at home. Bye. Oh, I guess I better give you the number." He recited his home phone and then hung up with a click.

"Lorna's boss," she said. "You know him?"

"Sure. Do you?"

She wrinkled her nose. "I met him once." She picked up the phone and punched in a number she seemed to know by heart. She turned and looked at me while the phone rang on the other end. "I'm going to have 'em leave the cheese off. It cuts the fat," she murmured.

I left her to the negotiations while I made us each a cup of tea. The night I'd met her, she'd seemed wary, or maybe that was just her working persona. Tonight she seemed relaxed, nearly buoyant. Her mood was probably drug-induced, but there was actually something charming about her ingenuousness. She had a natural goodwill that animated every gesture. I heard her conducting business with the kind of poise that must come from "bonking" guys from every walk of life. She put a hand over the mouthpiece. "What's the address here? I forgot."

I gave her the number, which she recited into the telephone. I could have taken her to Rosie's with me, but I didn't trust Rosie to be polite. With William gone, I was worried she might revert to her former misanthropy.

Danielle hung up the phone and took off her jacket, which she folded neatly and put on one end of the sofa. She came over to the counter, clutching her oversize shoulder bag. Somehow she seemed as graceful as a colt, all arms and long legs and bony shoulders.

I passed her a mug of tea. "I have a question for you."

"Hold on. Let me say something first. I hope this is not too personal. I wouldn't want you to take offense."

"I really hate sentences that start that way," I said.

"Me too, but this is for your own good."

"Go ahead. You're going to say it anyway."

She hesitated, and the face she made conveyed exaggerated reluctance. "Promise you won't get mad?"

"Just say it. I can't stand the suspense. I have bad breath."

"That haircut of yours is really gross."

"Oh, thanks."

"You don't have to get sarcastic. I can help. Honestly. I was working on my license as a cosmetologist when I first connected up with Lester…"

"Mr. Dickhead," I supplied.

"Yeah, him. Anyway, I'm a great cutter. I did Lorna's hair all the time. Give me a pair of scissors and I can turn you into a vision. I'm not fooling."

"All I have is nail scissors. Maybe after dinner."

"Come on. We got fifteen minutes until the pizza gets here. And look at this." She opened up her shoulder bag and let me peek. "Ta-da." Inside she had a brush, a little hair dryer, and a pair of shears. She placed the hair dryer on the counter and clacked the scissors like a pair of castanets.

"You came over here with that stuff?"