Sue Grafton - T Is For Trespass

When I reached the hotel I took the porch steps two at a time and went in the front door. The foyer and downstairs hall were empty so I took myself to Juanita Von’s office first floor rear. I found her shifting the past year’s files and financial records from the cabinet’s drawers to a banker’s box.

“I just did that,” I said. “How are you?”

“Tired. It’s a pain, but it has to be done and I do enjoy the feeling of satisfaction afterwards. You may be in luck this time. I saw Mr. Downs come in a while ago, though he could have gone out without my noticing if he used the front stairs. He’s a hard one to catch.”

“You know what? I really think I’ve earned the right to talk to him even if it is upstairs. This is my third trip over here and if I miss him this time, you’ll have to explain yourself to the attorney who’s handling this case.”

She considered my request, taking her time about it so it wouldn’t appear she was moved by the threat. “I suppose just this once. Hold on a second and I’ll walk you up.”

“I can manage it,” I said. Secretly, I was longing for the opportunity to snoop. She was having none of it, perhaps imagining I ran a drop-in hooker service for down-at-heel old men.

Before she left the office she paused to wash her hands and locked up her desk against the possibility of thieves. I followed her out of the office and toward the front door, responding politely as she pointed out features along the way. She began to climb the stairs, pulling herself along by the handrail. I stayed two steps behind her, listening to her labored breathing as we reached the second floor.

“This sitting area on the landing is where the tenants gather of an evening. I provide the color television set and I ask them to be considerate about what they watch. Can’t have one individual making all the choices for the group.”

The landing was large enough to accommodate two couches, a wide-armed upholstered chair, and three smaller wooden chairs, all with padded seats. I pictured a bunch of old guys with their feet on the coffee table, commenting on sports and cop shows. We turned to the right into a short corridor at the end of which she showed me a big glass-enclosed sunporch and a laundry room. We went down two steps to a hallway that extended along the length of the house. All the room doors were closed, but each had a small brass slot with a card in it, printed with the name of the occupant. I watched the brass numbers climb from 1 to 8, which meant that Melvin Downs’s room was probably at the rear of the building, near the top of the back stairs.

We rounded the corner and started up the next flight. It felt like it took six minutes getting from the first floor to the third, but eventually we reached the top. I sincerely hoped she didn’t intend to hang around to supervise my conversation with Downs. She accompanied me to his room and had me step to one side while she knocked on his door. She stood politely, with her hands crossed in front of her, giving him time to assemble himself and answer the door.

“Must have gone out again,” she remarked, as though I wasn’t bright enough to figure that out myself. She tilted her head. “Hold on a minute. That might be him now.”

Belatedly, I caught the sound of someone coming up the back stairs. A white-haired man appeared, carrying two empty cardboard wine boxes, one tucked inside the other. He had a long face and pointed elfin ears. Age had eroded channels in his face, and there were deep creases worn into each side of his mouth.

Juanita Von brightened. “There you are. I told Miss Millhone it might be you coming up the stairs. You have a visitor.”

He was wearing the rumored black wing tip shoes and the brown leather bomber jacket I’d heard about before. I felt myself smiling and realized until now, I hadn’t been convinced that he existed at all. I held my hand out. “How are you, Mr. Downs? I’m Kinsey Millhone. I’m delighted to catch up with you.”

His handshake was firm and his manner friendly, underlaid with an element of puzzlement. “I’m not sure I know what this is about.”

Mrs. Von stirred, saying, “I’ll get back to my work and leave the two of you to talk. With respect to the house rules, I don’t allow young ladies to visit in the tenants’ rooms with the doors shut. If you’ll be more than ten minutes, you can have your conversation in the parlor, which is more appropriate than standing in the hall.”

I said, “Thanks.”

“No trouble,” she said. “Long as I’m up here, I’ll look in on Mr. Bowie. He’s been under the weather.”

“Fine,” I said. “I know my way out.”

She moved down the stairs and I turned my attention to Downs. “Would you prefer to talk in the parlor?”

“The bus driver on my route told me someone had come around asking questions about me.”

“That’s all he said? Well, I’m sorry if I took you by surprise. I told him he could fill you in.”

“I saw a flyer that said something about a car crash, but I’ve never been in one.”

I took a few minutes to go through my oft-repeated tale about the accident, the lawsuit, and the questions we had about what he’d seen at the time.

He stared at me. “How did you manage to locate me? I don’t know anyone in town.”

“That was a stroke of luck. I distributed flyers in the neighborhood where the collision occurred. That must have been one of the ones you saw. I included a brief description, and a woman called me saying she’d seen you at the bus stop across from City College. I called MTA, got the route number, and then chatted with the bus driver. He was the one who gave me your name and address.”

“You go to this much trouble for something that happened seven months ago? That can’t be true. Why now, after all this time?”

“The lawsuit wasn’t filed until recently,” I said. “Is this upsetting you? Because that wasn’t my intention. I just want to ask a few questions about the accident so we can figure out what went on and who was at fault. That’s all this is about.”

He seemed to pull himself together and shift gears. “I don’t have anything to say. It’s been months.”

“Maybe I can help refresh your memory.”

“I’m sorry, but I have something I need to take care of. Maybe another day.”

“This won’t take long. Just a few quick questions and I’ll be out of your hair. Please.”

After a pause, he said, “All right, but I don’t remember much. It didn’t seem important, even at the time.”

“I understand,” I said. “If you’ll recollect, this was the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend.”

“Sounds about right.”

“You were on your way home from work?”

He hesitated. “What difference does that make?”

“I’m just trying to get a feel for the sequence of events.”

“After work, then. That’s right. I was waiting for my bus and when I looked up I saw a young woman in a white car pull forward, preparing to turn left out of the City College parking lot.”

He came to a stop, as though calculating his responses so he could offer the least information possible without being obvious.

“And the other car?”

“The van was coming from the direction of Capillo Hill.”

“Heading east,” I said. I was trying to encourage a response without too much prompting. I didn’t want him simply feeding back the information I fed him.

“The driver was signaling a right-hand turn and I saw him slow.”

He stopped. I shut my mouth and stood there, creating one of those conversational vacuums that usually goads the other guy to speak. I watched him avidly, willing him to proceed.

“Before the girl in the first car completed the turn, the driver in the van accelerated and rammed right into her.”