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Authors: Sue Grafton
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smarting from the fact she’d never bothered to make contact.
Walking the property with Arne Johanson, I’d dreaded the idea of entering the house, and I’d been hoping to avoid it when I realized Stacey’s breathing had become labored and much of the color had drained from his face. I laid a hand on his arm and called, “Con?”
Dolan turned and looked back. Stacey shook his head, making one of those gestures meant to assure us we needn’t worry about him. Johanson had forged on ahead and he was still chattering about the ranch when Dolan caught up with him. “Mr. Johanson? Sorry to cut this short, but I’ve got a meeting coming up in town and we have to get back.”
“This won’t take long. You don’t want to miss the house.”
“Maybe another day. We’ll take a rain check.”
“Well. I guess that’s that then. Whatever you say.”
Within minutes, he’d delivered us to Dolan’s car and we were back on the highway. The drive home had been low-key, with Stacey slumped on the backseat, the red knit cap pulled down to shield his eyes.
“Are you all right, Stace?” I asked.
“Walking wore me out. It’s my damn back again. I’ll be better in a bit.” In the absence of animation, his face looked old.
Dolan readjusted the rearview mirror, keeping one eye on Stacey and one on the road. “I told you not to come.”
“Did not. You said the fresh air’d be good. Said I ought to take advantage while I was up to it.”
I said, “You warm enough?”
“Quit worrying.”
I turned my attention to Lieutenant Dolan. “What’s next?”
Stacey answered before he could. “We’ll meet at my place tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock suit?”
“Fine with me,” I said.
Dolan said, “Sounds good.”
We dropped Stacey first. He lived close to downtown Santa Teresa, five blocks from my office, in a small pink stucco rental house perched above a pink cinder-block wall. Dolan had me wait in the car while he retrieved Stacey’s gun from the trunk and then followed him up the six stairs to the walkway that skirted the place. I could see how tightly Stacey had to grip the railing in order to pull himself up. The two disappeared, moving toward the rear. Dolan was gone for ten minutes, and when he returned to the car, he seemed withdrawn. Neither of us said a word during the drive to my apartment. I spent the remainder of Thursday afternoon taking care of personal errands.
Having finished my jog, I walked the block between the beach and my place. When I reached my front door, I picked up the morning paper as I let myself in. I tossed the Dispatch on the kitchen counter and started a pot of coffee. As soon as it began to trickle through the filter, I went up the spiral stairs to take my shower and get dressed.
I was halfway through my bowl of Cheerios, sitting at the counter, when the telephone rang. I dislike interruptions at breakfast, and I was tempted to wait and let the answering machine pick up. Instead, I leaned over and grabbed the handset from the wall-mounted phone. “Hello?”
“Hello, Kinsey. This is Tasha, up in Lompoc. How’re you?”
I felt my eyes close. This was one of my cousins, Tasha Howard, the only member of the family I’d ever dealt with at any length. She’s an estate attorney with offices in Lompoc and San Francisco.
I’d met her sister, Liza, a couple of years before, and during our one and only conversation discovered hitherto unplumbed depths of disaffection in my otherwise placid frame. My reaction was probably only a side effect of the fact that Liza was telling me things I didn’t want to hear. For one thing, she told me, in the giddiest manner possible, that my mother was regarded as an idol among her living nieces and nephews. While this was meant as flattery, I felt it dehumanized the woman whom I’d never really known. I resented their prior claim, just as I resented the fact that my pet name for our aunt Virginia, that being “Aunt Gin,” was a term already in
Walking the property with Arne Johanson, I’d dreaded the idea of entering the house, and I’d been hoping to avoid it when I realized Stacey’s breathing had become labored and much of the color had drained from his face. I laid a hand on his arm and called, “Con?”
Dolan turned and looked back. Stacey shook his head, making one of those gestures meant to assure us we needn’t worry about him. Johanson had forged on ahead and he was still chattering about the ranch when Dolan caught up with him. “Mr. Johanson? Sorry to cut this short, but I’ve got a meeting coming up in town and we have to get back.”
“This won’t take long. You don’t want to miss the house.”
“Maybe another day. We’ll take a rain check.”
“Well. I guess that’s that then. Whatever you say.”
Within minutes, he’d delivered us to Dolan’s car and we were back on the highway. The drive home had been low-key, with Stacey slumped on the backseat, the red knit cap pulled down to shield his eyes.
“Are you all right, Stace?” I asked.
“Walking wore me out. It’s my damn back again. I’ll be better in a bit.” In the absence of animation, his face looked old.
Dolan readjusted the rearview mirror, keeping one eye on Stacey and one on the road. “I told you not to come.”
“Did not. You said the fresh air’d be good. Said I ought to take advantage while I was up to it.”
I said, “You warm enough?”
“Quit worrying.”
I turned my attention to Lieutenant Dolan. “What’s next?”
Stacey answered before he could. “We’ll meet at my place tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock suit?”
“Fine with me,” I said.
Dolan said, “Sounds good.”
We dropped Stacey first. He lived close to downtown Santa Teresa, five blocks from my office, in a small pink stucco rental house perched above a pink cinder-block wall. Dolan had me wait in the car while he retrieved Stacey’s gun from the trunk and then followed him up the six stairs to the walkway that skirted the place. I could see how tightly Stacey had to grip the railing in order to pull himself up. The two disappeared, moving toward the rear. Dolan was gone for ten minutes, and when he returned to the car, he seemed withdrawn. Neither of us said a word during the drive to my apartment. I spent the remainder of Thursday afternoon taking care of personal errands.
Having finished my jog, I walked the block between the beach and my place. When I reached my front door, I picked up the morning paper as I let myself in. I tossed the Dispatch on the kitchen counter and started a pot of coffee. As soon as it began to trickle through the filter, I went up the spiral stairs to take my shower and get dressed.
I was halfway through my bowl of Cheerios, sitting at the counter, when the telephone rang. I dislike interruptions at breakfast, and I was tempted to wait and let the answering machine pick up. Instead, I leaned over and grabbed the handset from the wall-mounted phone. “Hello?”
“Hello, Kinsey. This is Tasha, up in Lompoc. How’re you?”
I felt my eyes close. This was one of my cousins, Tasha Howard, the only member of the family I’d ever dealt with at any length. She’s an estate attorney with offices in Lompoc and San Francisco.
I’d met her sister, Liza, a couple of years before, and during our one and only conversation discovered hitherto unplumbed depths of disaffection in my otherwise placid frame. My reaction was probably only a side effect of the fact that Liza was telling me things I didn’t want to hear. For one thing, she told me, in the giddiest manner possible, that my mother was regarded as an idol among her living nieces and nephews. While this was meant as flattery, I felt it dehumanized the woman whom I’d never really known. I resented their prior claim, just as I resented the fact that my pet name for our aunt Virginia, that being “Aunt Gin,” was a term already in
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