Four Sue Grafton Novels

  “I’m looking for a woman named Cristina Tasinato.”

  His expression showed nothing, but he did peer around the door with mock curiosity, scanning the reception area as though Ms. Tasinato might be playing hide-and-seek in the nearly empty room. “Can’t help.”

  “Name doesn’t ring a bell?”

  “What sort of work do you do, Ms. Millhone?”

  “I’m a private investigator. I have some questions for Ms. Tasinato. I was hoping you could put me in touch.”

  “You know better than that.”

  “But she’s a client of yours, yes?”

  “Ask someone else. We have nothing to discuss.”

  “Her name appears with yours on a document I saw at the courthouse just now. She was appointed conservator for a man named Gus Vronsky. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

  “Nice meeting you, Ms. Millhone. You can let yourself out.”

  Witty rejoinders in short supply, I said, “I appreciate your time.”

  He closed the door abruptly, leaving me on my own. I waited a beat, but his lovely receptionist didn’t reappear. I couldn’t believe she was passing up the opportunity to lord it over me. On the pristine glass desktop, line one on the telephone console lit up—Altinova, no doubt, putting a call in to Cristina Tasinato. The desktop was otherwise bare so I couldn’t even see a way to snoop. I let myself out as instructed and took the stairs down, not willing to risk the elevator, which was little more than a rickety box hanging by a string.

  I retrieved my car from the public parking garage, circled the block, and headed up Capillo Hill, in my eternal search for Melvin Downs. Having suffered the indignity of Altinova’s rebuff, I needed the soothing effects of routine work. Where Capillo crossed Palisade, I took a left and continued on Palisade until I saw the campus of Santa Teresa City College coming up on my right. The bench at the bus stop was empty. I cruised down the long hill that curved away from the campus. At the bottom there was a small nest of businesses: minimart, liquor depot, and a cluster of motels. If Melvin Downs did maintenance or custodial work, it was hard to believe he was employed only two days a week. Those were full-time jobs, 7:00 A.M. to 3:00 P.M., or hours along those lines. Besides which, the hill itself was long and steep, which meant he’d have had to trudge up that half mile at the end of his workday. Why do that when there was a bus stop half a block in the other direction, closer to the beach?

  Back up the hill I went. This time I drove past the college and down as far as the two strip malls at the intersection of Capillo and Palisade. Here my choices were many and varied. On my left there was a large drugstore and, behind it, an independent market that handled local organic produce and other natural foodstuffs. Perhaps Melvin unloaded crates or bagged groceries, or maybe he’d been hired to keep the aisles swept and mopped. I parked in the drugstore lot and went in. I did a walk-through, scanning each aisle as I passed. There was no sign of him. This was Tuesday and if he still worked in the neighborhood, he’d be finishing up in an hour or two. I went out the front exit.

  Still on foot, I crossed the street. Walking the length of the mall to my right, I passed two mom-and-pop restaurants, one serving Mexican fare and one leaning more toward the breakfast and lunch trade. I glanced through the window at a shoe repair shop, cased the laundromat, a jewelry store, and the pet-grooming establishment next door. The last small business was a discount shoe store, trumpeting a GOING-OUT-OF-BUSINESS SALE! EVERYTHING REDUCED 30 TO 40 PERCENT. The store was bereft of customers so even the liquidation sale was a dud. I retraced my steps.

  At the corner, I waited for the light to change and crossed Capillo to the shops and specialty businesses lined up in a row on the far side of the intersection. I wandered through a craft mart, a drugstore, and a gift-and-card shop, all without success. I returned to my car and sat there wondering if I was completely off base. I’d been encouraged by Vernon Waibel’s assertion that Melvin was still in town, but I had no real reason to believe it. It made me happy thinking I could run him to ground through sheer tenacity, a trait I’ve been blessed with since birth. More to the point, if he’d fled into the world at large, I had no idea how to find him. Better to believe he was still in range.

  I started my car and backed out of the slot. I took a right turn onto Capillo and then a left at the light. This put me back on Palisade, moving past a residential neighborhood of small wood-and-stucco homes built in the 1940s. On my right, a road snaked up the hill to houses of a loftier nature with spectacular ocean views. I slowed at a set of crosswalks. A crossing guard watched with care as a string of children made their way from the near corner to the one on the other side. They walked in twos, holding hands, while a teacher and a teacher’s assistant hurried them along.

  When the guard nodded that traffic could proceed, I followed the slope of the hill down to the beachside park below. I did a slow circle of the parking lot, taking in the smattering of people I could see. I came out of the lot and turned right again, climbing the hill to the more populated section of Palisade I’d cruised before. How much gas was I willing to burn in the hope he was here?

  I drove back to City College and parked in range of the bus stop on the same side of the street. For a while I sat, directing my attention to the campus across the way, the child care center on the near corner, and the block of apartments built into the side of the hill. After thirty unproductive minutes, I started the car again and took a left on Palisade. I’d make one last pass before I gave it up for the day. I reached the end of the imaginary territory I’d assigned to my quarry. At the beach park, I made the turn-around and drove back up the hill to the main intersection. I was stopped for a red light when I spotted him a hundred yards away.

  Recognition is a complex phenomenon, a nearly instantaneous correlation of memory and perception, where the variables are almost impossible to replicate. What do we note in one another on sight? Age, race, gender, emotion, mood, the angle and rotation of the head; size, body type, posture. Later, it’s difficult to pinpoint the visual data that triggers the “click.” I was once at a departure gate in Chicago’s O’Hare Airport when I caught sight of a man in profile striding through the terminal in a jostling crowd of pedestrians. It was a split-second image, like a stop-action photograph, before the passengers shifted, blocking him from view. The man I’d seen was an officer I’d trained with as a rookie on the force. I barked out his name and he whipped around, as amazed as I was to spot a known face in unfamiliar surroundings.

  I’d talked to Melvin once, but seeing his walk and the set of his shoulders created a response. I yelped in surprise, my gaze flicking to the stoplight. Still red. When I looked back, he was gone. I blinked, my gaze moving rapidly from one side of the street to the other. He couldn’t have gotten far. The second the light changed and I saw a break in the oncoming traffic, I made a left-hand turn and slid into the alleyway that ran behind the stores. No sign of him. I knew I was right. I’d seen the white hair and the cracked brown bomber jacket in my peripheral vision.

  I circled back to the main intersection and began a grid search, mentally dividing the block into smaller sections that I could survey in slow motion. Back and forth I went. I didn’t think he’d seen me because he’d been facing the opposite direction, a man on a mission, shutting out all else. At least I’d narrowed the hunt. I continued at a crawl, the drivers behind me merrily beeping their horns in encouragement. I was talking to myself by then, saying, Shit, shit, shit. Come on, Downs, show your face again just once.

  After twenty minutes I gave up. I couldn’t believe he’d vanished. I could have parked my car and done another foot search, but the idea didn’t seem productive. I’d return on Thursday and do a proper door-to-door canvass of the area. In the meantime, I figured I might as well go home.

  Once in my neighborhood, I parked half a block down, locked my car, and headed for Henry’s back door. I could see him through the glass, settling in his rocker with his Black Jack over ice on the table next to him. I knock
ed. He got up and opened the door with a smile. “Kinsey. Come on in, sweetie. How are you?”

  I said, “Fine,” and then burst into tears. He shouldn’t have called me “sweetie” because that’s all it took.

  I’ll skip over the blubbering I did and the halting hiccuping account of the day’s disasters, starting with Melvin Downs, the blunders Nancy Sullivan had made, what I’d learned at the courthouse about the money charged against Gus’s bank accounts, and my visit to the lawyer’s office, with the whole sorry mess coming back to Melvin at the end. I didn’t claim it was the worst day of my adult life. I’ve been divorced twice and some of that drama was in a league of its own.

  But on a professional level, this was low.

  I unburdened myself, telling him what I said, what he said, what she said, how I felt, what I wish I’d said, what I thought then and later and in between. Every time I reached the end of my recital, I’d remember some new detail and swing back to incorporate it. “What gets me is everything Solana said was exactly what I’d said when I called the county, except she turned it around. I couldn’t deny the disgusting state his house was in so most of what she told Nancy Sullivan was true. His anemia, bruises—all of it. How could I argue? While I was using the facts as evidence of abuse, Solana was using the same information to justify the court’s taking charge of his affairs. It just seems so wrong…”

  I paused to blow my nose, adding the tissue to the pile of soggy ones I’d tossed in the trash. “I mean, who are these people? A lawyer and a professional conservator? I can’t get over it. While I was at the courthouse, I went into the library and pulled Deering’s California Probate Code. It’s all laid out, powers and duties—blah, blah, blah. As nearly as I can tell, there’s no licensing process and no agency that oversees or regulates their actions. I’m sure there are conscientious conservators somewhere, but these two have fallen on Gus like vampires.”

  Two tissues later, my lips feeling fat from all the tears I’d shed, I said, “I have to give Solana credit—she was clever to invent the business of a quarrel between us. Her claim that I’d threatened her made my call to the agency look like spite on my part.”

  Henry shrugged. “She’s a sociopath. She plays by a different set of rules. Well, one rule. She does what serves her.”

  “I’ll have to change my strategy. To what, I don’t know.”

  “There is one bright note.”

  “Oh, great. I could use one,” I said.

  “As long as there’s money in his accounts, Gus is worth more to them alive than dead.”

  “At the rate they’re going, it won’t take long.”

  “Be smart. Don’t let her suck you into doing anything illegal—aside from the stuff you’ve already done.”

  28

  Leaving for work Wednesday morning, I spotted Solana and Gus on the sidewalk in front of the house. I hadn’t seen him outside for weeks and I had to admit, he was looking good with a jaunty knit cap pulled down over his ears. He was in his wheelchair, bundled into heavy-duty sweats that draped at the shoulder and hung from his knees. She’d tucked a blanket over his lap. They must have just come back from an outing. She’d turned the wheelchair around so she could maneuver it up the front steps.

  I crossed the grass. “Can I help you with that?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” she said. Once she’d hauled him up the last step, I put a hand on his chair and leaned closer.

  “Hey, Gus. How are you?”

  Solana shifted into the space between us, trying to cut off my access. I held up a palm to bar her, which darkened her mood.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Giving Gus the chance to talk to me if you don’t object.”

  “He doesn’t want to talk to you and neither do I. Please get off this property.”

  I noticed his hearing aids were gone and it occurred to me it was a neat way of putting him out of commission. How could he interact if he couldn’t hear a thing. I put my lips near his ear. “Can I do anything for you?”

  The look he sent me was sorrowful. His mouth trembled and he moaned like a woman in the early stages of labor, before she understands how bad it really gets. He peered at Solana, who stood with her hands folded. In her sturdy brown shoes and bulky brown coat, she looked like a prison matron. “Go ahead, Mr. Vronsky. Say anything you like.”

  He put a finger behind his ear and shook his head, feigning deafness though I knew he’d heard me.

  I raised my voice. “Would you like to come next door to Henry’s for a cup of tea? He’d love to see you.”

  Solana said, “He’s had his tea.”

  Gus said, “I can’t walk anymore. I’m all wobbly.”

  Solana caught my eye. “You’re not welcome here. You’re upsetting him.”

  I ignored her, dropping down on my haunches to make eye contact with him. Even seated, his spine was so curved he had to turn his head sideways to return my gaze. I smiled at him in what I hoped was an encouraging manner, hard to pull off with Solana hovering over me. “We haven’t seen you in ages. Henry’s probably got some nice homemade sweet rolls. I can take you over in your chair and have you back in a jiffy. Does that sound like something you’d enjoy?”

  “I’m not feeling well.”

  “I know that, Gus. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  He shook his head, his gnarled hands stroking each other in his lap.

  “You know we’re concerned about you. All of us.”

  “I thank you for that and for everything.”

  “As long as you’re okay.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not okay. I’m old.”

  I spent a quiet morning at the office, tidying my desk and paying some bills. I took care of simple jobs: tossing, filing, taking out the trash. I was still brooding about Gus, but I knew there was no point in going over the same ground again. I had to focus on something else. Like Melvin Downs. Something about the man bothered me, above and beyond the issue of tracking him down, which I was certain I could do.

  Once my desktop was orderly, I spent an hour transcribing my interview with Gladys Fredrickson, tracking back and forth through the tape recording. Amazing how background noise interferes with audibility: the rattle of paper, the dog barking, her wheezing breath as she spoke. It would take more than one session to get the interview typed up, but it gave me something to do.

  When I wearied of that, I opened the pencil drawer and took out a pack of index cards. In the same drawer, I spotted the toy I’d salvaged from the back of the closet in Melvin Downs’s room. I squeezed the two sticks together, watching while a double-jointed wooden clown did a series of maneuvers on the high bar: back giant, clear hip to handstand, three-quarter giant. I had no way of knowing if the toy belonged to him or to the tenant who’d occupied the room before he arrived. I set the toy aside and picked up the stack of index cards.

  Card by card, one line each, I jotted down what I knew of him, which didn’t amount to much. He most likely worked in the area adjacent to City College, where he caught the bus. He was fond of movie classics that seemed, in the main, to be sentimental yarns about young boys, baby animals, and loss. He was estranged from his daughter, who refused to let him see his grandsons for reasons unknown. He’d been in prison, which might have had a bearing on his daughter’s disenfranchising him. He had an imaginary friend named Tía that he created using a lipstick-red mouth tattooed in the U formed between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. Two black dots inked on the knuckle became the hand-puppet’s eyes.

  What else?

  Melvin was mechanically inclined, with a fix-it mentality that allowed him to repair miscellaneous items, including a malfunctioning TV set. Whatever his day job, he was paid in cash. He finished work and sat waiting for a bus on Tuesdays and Thursdays by midafternoon. He was polite to strangers but had no close friends. He’d saved enough money to buy a truck. He’d been in town the past five years, ostensibly to be near the very grandsons he was for
bidden to see. His room at the hotel was grim, unless of course he’d taken countless doilies, needlepointed pillows, and other decorative items with him when he left. When he’d seen the flyer I’d distributed, his response was to panic, pack his possessions, and disappear.

  When I ran out of facts I shuffled the cards and arranged them randomly to see if enlightenment would ensue. I spread them out on the desk and leaned my head on my hand, thinking, Which of these facts doesn’t belong?

  I could think of one possibility. I pulled two cards forward and stared at them. How did the mechanical clown and Melvin’s imaginary friend, Tía, fit into the larger scheme of things? Nothing else I’d learned about him suggested a playful nature. Indeed, there was something furtive in his reluctance to display the lipstick tattoo. So maybe the toys weren’t intended for his amusement. Maybe Tía and the toy clown were meant to amuse someone else. Like who? Kids, any number of whom I’d seen at the nearby elementary school and the child care center near the bus stop he frequented.

  Was he a pedophile?

  I knew child molesters often kept games and videos on hand, befriending children over a period of time until a bond was formed. Physical contact was gradually introduced. In the wake of affection and trust came the fondling and fumbling, until touching and secrets were the intoxicating spice of their “special” relationship. If he was a sex offender, it would explain his fright that he’d been spotted within one thousand yards of a school, a playground, or a day care center. It would also explain his daughter’s refusal to let him see his grandsons.

  I picked up the phone and called the county probation department. I asked to speak to a parole officer named Priscilla Holloway. I expected to have to leave a message, but she picked up on her end and I identified myself. Her voice was surprisingly light, given what I remembered of her physical stature. She was a big-boned redhead, the sort who’d played rough sports in high school and still had softball and soccer trophies displayed in her bedroom at home. I’d met her the previous July when I was babysitting a young renegade named Reba Lafferty, who’d been paroled from the California Institute for Women.