Sue Grafton - I is for Innocent

When I got to the office, I left my car out on the street with my shoulder bag tucked down against the driver's seat out of sight. There was little or no traffic and all the nearby office buildings were locked down for the night. I moved through the darkened arch along the driveway that led back to the little twelve-car parking lot. I didn't see Lonnie's Mercedes, but there was a section of pavement washed with the light from his offices above. Well, great. He was back. I couldn't stop and explain what was going on, but it probably wouldn't be hard to talk him into going with me. Despite his professional demeanor, Lonnie's a brawler at heart. He'd love the idea of sneaking through the bushes in the dark.

I used my keychain flashlight against the pitch-black stairwell. When I reached the third-floor corridor, I could see where Lonnie'd turned the lights on in the reception area. I bypassed the front entrance and used the unmarked door that opened closer to my office. I glanced to my right toward Lonnie's office, located one door down from mine.

"Hey, Lonnie? Don't disappear on me. I need some help. I'll be there in a second and tell you what's going on."

I didn't bother to wait for a reply. I opened my office door and flipped the light switch. My office space had once functioned as the employees' lounge/kitchen, with my current closet serving as a pantry of sorts. There were five cartons still stacked against the back wall, clearly stuff I hadn't needed in the new place so far. I couldn't even remember what was in those boxes. I've heard the theory that if you still haven't unpacked a carton two years after a move, you simply call the Salvation Army and have the damn thing hauled away. I'd cleverly marked each box "Office Stuff." I pulled one out and ripped off the wide brown sealing tape. I peeled the flaps back. This box contained all my income tax files. I tried the next box and hit pay dirt. Oh, yea. The Heckler amp; Koch was sitting right on top, still in the box, the Winchester Silvertips in two boxes just under it.

I sat down on the floor and took the gun out. I grabbed a box of ammo and opened it, pulling out the little white Styrofoam base. I began to push cartridges into the magazine. Once we'd arrived at the gun shop, Dietz and I had had yet another fractious argument about which model I should buy: the P7, which held nine rounds, or the P9S, which held ten. Guess which one cost more? I was in a bitchy mood anyway, feeling stubborn and uncooperative. The P7 was already priced at more than eleven hundred bucks. I'd also griped about the P9S, which I felt was too much gun for me. What I meant, of course, was expensive, which Dietz guessed right away.

I'd said, "Goddamn it. I get to win sometimes."

"You win more often than you should," he'd said. I wished now he'd won a lot more arguments, especially the one about my going off to Germany with him…

The lights in my office went out abruptly and I was left in the pitch-black dark. I had no exterior windows so I couldn't see a thing. Had Lonnie left without saying a word? Maybe he hadn't heard me come in, I thought. I slid the magazine into the gun and slapped it home with my palm. Navigating in the dark is like escaping from a burning building – you stay low. I tucked the gun in my waistband and crawled to the doorway with no dignity whatsoever. It beat bumping into the furniture, but it wasn't going to look good if the lights popped back on. My office door was standing open and I peered out into the hallway. All the lights in the office were out. What the hell had he done, stuck a fork in the outlet? The whole place had been plunged into blackness. I said, "Lonnie?"

Silence. How could he have disappeared so fast?

I could have sworn I heard a faint sound from the vicinity of Lonnie's office. I didn't think I was alone. I listened. The office was so quiet the silence seemed dense, thick with subsounds. Even in the dark, I found myself closing my eyes, hoping somehow to hear better with my visual sense shut down. I sat back on my haunches, crouched in my doorway across from the point where Ida Ruth and a secretary named Jill had their desks.

Who was in the office with me? And where? Having called out twice now in clear bell-like tones, we all knew where I was. I eased back down on all fours and started belly-crawling the ten feet across the corridor toward the space between the two secretaries' desks.

Somebody fired at me. The report was so loud I levitated like a cat, in one of those miraculous moves where all four limbs seem to leave the ground at once. Adrenaline blew through me in a sudden spurt. I wasn't aware that I had shrieked until the sound was out. My heart banged in my throat and my hands tingled from the rush. I must have leaped the distance because I found myself exactly where I wanted to be, in a crouch, my right shoulder resting against Ida Ruth's desk drawers. I put a hand across my mouth to still my breathing. I listened. The shooter seemed to be firing from the vantage point of Lonnie's office, effectively cutting me off from the reception area, where the front entrance was located. The obvious maneuver here was to back my way down the wide corridor, which was now to my left. The unmarked door, leading to the main hall, was about fifteen feet away. Once there, I could crouch beside it, try the knob to make sure the door was still open, count to three, and then VOOM… go right through. Good plan. Okay. All I had to do was get there. The problem was that I was afraid to risk the distance without cover of some kind. Where was Ida Ruth's rolling chair? That might do…

I put a tentative hand out, groping my way along the floor in search of the chair. I found myself touching a face. I jerked my hand back, emitting a sound at the back of my throat as I sucked in my breath. Someone was lying on the floor next to me. I half expected a hand to shoot out and grab me, but there was no move in my direction. I reached out again and made contact. Flesh. Slack mouth. I felt the features. Smooth skin, strong chin. Male. The guy was too thin to be Lonnie and I didn't believe it was John Ives or the other attorney, Martin Cheltenham. It almost had to be Curtis, but what the hell was he doing here? He was still warm, but his cheek was sticky with blood. I put my hand on his throat. No pulse. I placed a hand on his chest, which was dead still. His shirt was wet in front. He must have made the call from the office. He was probably shot shortly afterward in preparation for my arrival. Somebody knew me better than I thought… well enough to know where I kept my gun, at any rate… well enough to know I'd never show up at a meeting without coming down here first.

I felt behind me in the dark again, encountering one of the sturdy casters on Ida Ruth's rolling chair. I blinked in the dark as another possibility occurred to me. If I could find an open phone line, I could dial 911 and let it ring through to the dispatcher. Even if I never said a word, the address would come up on the police station computer and they'd send someone to investigate. I hoped.

I came up on my knees, peering over the top of the nearest desk. Now that my eyes were adjusting, I could distinguish greater and lesser degrees of dark: the charcoal upright of a doorway, the block form of a file cabinet. I moved my hand across the surface of the desk with incredible care, not wanting to bump into anything or knock anything over. I found the telephone. I lifted the entire instrument. I cleared the edge of the desk and lowered it to the floor. I angled the receiver upward slightly, slipping an index finger onto the cutoff button. I put the receiver against my ear and let the button come up. Nothing. No dial tone. No light coming on.

I peered up over the desk again and scanned the dark. There was no movement, no shadowy silhouette framed in Lonnie's doorway.