Sue Grafton - R is for Ricochet

"Would you shut up?" she hissed.

After three rings, he picked up. "Yes."

My mouth was dry. "Beck, this is Kinsey."

"God damn you! Where's Reba? The fuckin' bitch. I want what's mine and she better make it quick."

Reba grabbed the handset, all sweetness and light now that she had him by the balls. "Hey, baby. How's by you? I'm right here."

Whatever Beck's reply, it must have been tart because she laughed with delight. "Oh my, now. You don't have to be crude. I was thinking we should get together and have a chat."

I waited, staring off across the parking lot, while she spelled out the proposal and the nature of the trade. Then they argued about the rendezvous, tussling to see which of them was going to come out on top.

The East Beach bathhouse, at the corner of Cabana and Milagro, was where I did the turnaround on my morning runs. Even at night, the area is exposed and well lighted, the Santa Teresa Inn just across the street from the entrance to the parking lot. There's a small separate lot at the far end of the building, but she'd opted for the more public of the two. This showed a grain of common sense unusual for her. She insisted on meeting in fifteen minutes while he swore he couldn't be there any sooner than half an hour. To this, she finally agreed. Score one for him. I was uneasy. I figured the more time she gave him, the more likely he was to round up some help. This must have occurred to her as well. "And Beck, one more thing. You bring anyone but Marty and you'll eat it, big time. Yeah, well, same to you, you little shit!" She slammed down the phone and then shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. "God, I hate him. What a hairball."

I picked up the handset and reached for some coins. "I'm calling Cheney."

She took the handset and returned it to the cradle. "I don't want Cheney. I don't want anyone but us."

"I can't do this. You and Beck can play all the games you want, but I'm out of it," I said.

"Okay. Fine. Take a hike. Drop me at my car and you're off the hook," she said. She turned and walked off.

I'd hoped to jolt her into getting help, but she was having none of it. I blinked, staring at the pavement. What were my choices? Do it her way or risk… what? That she'd die or get hurt? Because Marty'd stolen the computer, she'd assumed Beck was the one who'd ordered the snatch, but what if he hadn't? It might have been Salustio Castillo, who had just as much to lose. Beck might be bluffing. He might not have a clue where Marty was being held, and then what? All he had to do was grab the suitcase and what could she do? If it came right down to it, what could I do? Nothing. At the same time, she knew I wouldn't leave her. There was too much at stake.

Reluctantly, I followed. The car doors were locked and she waited, gaze averted, while I let myself in and tossed my bag on the backseat. I slid under the wheel, leaned over, and opened the door on her side. Reba got in and we sat there. I had my hands on the steering wheel, stalling while I racked my brain for some alternative. "There has to be a better way to do this."

"Great. Spell it out. I'm all yours," she said.

I didn't have an answer. The meeting was scheduled for 11:00 P.M., in roughly twenty-five minutes. Technically we had time enough to drive to my place, where I could pick up my gun. I nearly banged my head on the steering wheel. What was I thinking? A gun was out of the question. I wasn't going to shoot anyone. Over a computer? How absurd.

On the other hand… shit… on the other hand… if Marty's home phone was tapped, the FBI must have a tap on Beck's telephone lines as well. One of their agents must have heard Beck and Reba wrangling, so maybe they'd taken note and the cavalry was already on the way.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Reba check her watch, saying, "Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Time's a-wasting."

"So where's Marty all this time?"

"He didn't say. I'm assuming somewhere close."

I shook my head in frustration. "I don't believe I'm doing this." I turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the space. "Let's at least take a minute to scope out the area, or have you done that?"

"Not really. Why bother? I figure you're the expert."

The drive seemed to take forever. I cut over to the freeway, thinking to speed our progress. Big mistake. Traffic was heavy, taillights stacked up, as two lanes of cars amassed in the wake of an accident in one of the northbound lanes. I could see lights flashing where the CHP and the emergency vehicles had converged on the scene. There wasn't actually an obstruction on our side of the road, but we were at a dead stop, anyway, while people paused to gawk.

By the time we reached the off-ramp at Cabana, we had less than a minute to spare. I confess I sped the final mile and a half, hoping a cop would spot us and make a traffic stop. No such luck. The ocean was to our right, separated from the road by the beach, a bike path, and a wide strip of grass that was dotted with palm trees. On our left, we passed a string of motels and restaurants. The sidewalk was populated with tourists, which was oddly comforting somehow.

At Milagro, I turned into the designated parking lot. There were no cars in evidence, which meant (perhaps) that if Beck was bringing goons, at least they hadn't arrived before us. Reba told me to make a U-turn at the far end of the lot and circle back to the entrance. I did as instructed and then backed into a parking space, my car facing the street in case we needed to make a hasty retreat. We got out of the car. She flipped her seat forward and removed the suitcase. She popped the handle, extending it, and then rolled the case to the front of the car. "Might as well let him know we mean business," she said.

Behind us, the waves were drumming on the sand, gathering momentum before they battered the shore and then rolled back again. The water was intensely black with a fine sheen of white where moonlight caught the peaks of each wave. A damp breeze buffeted my hair and pushed against the legs of my jeans. I turned and scanned the beach behind us, hopping from foot to foot to keep warm. So far, to all appearances, we were alone.

Reba leaned on the front fender, lit a cigarette, and smoked. Ten minutes passed. She checked her watch. "What's this about? Does he want the friggin' thing or not?"

Across the street, hotel guests pulled in at the entrance to the Santa Teresa Inn. There were two valet parkers and a smattering of pedestrians. In the restaurant on the second floor, tables were arranged along the big curved front window. Diners were visible, though as dark as it was now, I doubted they could see us. A black-and-white patrol car approached and turned right, speeding up Milagro. I could feel my hopes flare and fade.

"I think we should get out of here. I don't like this," I said.

She looked at her watch again. "Not yet. If he doesn't show by 11:30, we'll bail."

At 11:19 two cars crawled into view and turned into the lot. Reba dropped her cigarette and stepped on it. "That's Marty's car in front. The second one's Reck."

"Is that Marty at the wheel?"

"I can't tell. It looks like him."

"Well, great then. No sweat. Get it over with," I said.

Reba crossed her arms, whether from cold or tension, I couldn't be sure. Once in the lot, Marty's car turned left, circled as we had, and made a slow return. He stopped his car thirty feet away and sat, engine idling, while Reck pulled up fifteen feet closer to us. The two sets of headlights formed a line of harsh spots. I raised a hand and shaded my eyes. I could see Beck at the wheel of his car, but I wasn't at all convinced the second driver was Marty.

A minute passed.

Reba shifted restlessly. "What's he doing?"

"Reba, let's go. There's something off about this."