For the umpteenth time, I looked at the snapshot of Reba Lafferty taken before her legal ills and her felony quarantine. If she’d abused alcohol and drugs, the excess didn’t show. Restlessly, I returned the photo to my shoulder bag and fiddled with the tuner on the radio. The morning news was the usual disheartening mixture of murder, political shenanigans, and dire economic predictions. By the time the news anchor cut to the station break, I was ready to cut my own throat.
At 9:00 A.M. I glanced up and caught sight of activity near the vehicle sally port. The gates had been rolled back and an outbound sheriff’s department van now idled while the driver presented his paperwork to the sally port officer. The two of them exchanged pleasantries. I got out of my car. The van pulled through the gate, made a wide right-hand turn, and then slowed to a stop. I could see a number of women onboard, parolees headed for the real world, their faces turned to the window like a row of plants seeking light. The doors to the van hissed open and closed, and then the vehicle moved off.
Reba Lafferty stood on the pavement in prison-issue tennis shoes, blue jeans, and a plain white T-shirt without benefit of a brassiere. All inmates are obliged to surrender their personal clothing on arrival at the prison, but I was surprised her father hadn’t sent her something of her own to wear home. I knew she’d been compelled to purchase the outfit she wore since the articles were considered government property. She’d apparently declined the prison-issue bra, which was probably about as flattering as an orthopedic brace. Inmates are also required to leave prison without anything in hand, except their two hundred bucks in cash. Startled, I saw that she looked exactly like the photo. Given Nord Lafferty’s advanced age, I’d pictured Reba in her fifties. This girl was barely thirty.
Her hair was now cropped short and looked damp from a shower. During her incarceration, the blond had grown out and the natural dark strands were spikey, as though she’d stiffened them with mousse. I expected her to be heavy, but she was trim almost to the point of looking frail. I could see the bony hollows of her collarbones beneath the cheap fabric of her T-shirt. Her complexion was clear but faintly sallow, and her eyes were smudged with dark shadows. There was something sensual about her; a defiance in her posture, a touch of swagger in her walk.
I lifted my hand in greeting and she crossed the road, moving in my direction.
“You here for me?”
“That’s right. I’m Kinsey Millhone,” I said.
“Great. I’m Reba Lafferty. Let’s hit the friggin’ road,” she said as we shook hands.
We walked to the car and for the next hour, that was the extent of our conversation.
I prefer silence to small talk so the lack of chitchat wasn’t awkward. I varied my route, catching Highway 5 south until it intersected the 101. A couple of times I thought of asking her a question, but I didn’t think the ones that came to mind were any of my business. Why’d you steal the money and How’d you screw it up and get caught being foremost.
It was Reba who finally broke the silence. “Pop told you why I was in?”
“He said you took money, but that’s all,” I said. I noticed that I’d bypassed the word ‘embezzlement,’ as though it might be rude to name the crime that resulted in her prison term.
She rested her head against the back of the seat. “He’s a love. He deserves a lot better than me.”
“May I ask how old you are?”
“Thirty-two.”
“No offense, but you look about twelve. How old was your dad when you were born?”
“Fifty-six. My mother was twenty-one. There’s a match made in heaven. No telling what her deal was. She dropped me like a litter of kittens and hit the road.”
“Does she keep in touch?”
“Nope. I saw her once, when I was eight. We spent one day together—well, half a day. She took me to Ludlow Beach and watched me splash in the waves until my lips turned blue. We had lunch at that snack stand, you know the one near High Ridge Road?”
“Know it well.”
“I had a milk shake and ate fried clams, which I haven’t eaten since. I must have been hyper. I remember my stomach was full of butterflies from the minute I woke up, knowing she’d be there. We were on our way to the zoo when I got sick in the car and she ended up taking me home.”
“What’d she want?”
“Who knows? Whatever it was, she hasn’t wanted it since. Pop’s been great, though. I’m lucky in that regard.”
“He feels guilty about you.”
She turned and looked at me. “How come? None of this is his fault.”
“He thinks he neglected you when you were young.”
“Oh. Well, he did, but what’s that got to do with it? He made his choices and I made mine.”
“Yeah, but generally speaking, it’s better to avoid the ones that are going to land you in jail.”
She smiled. “You didn’t know me back then. I was either drunk or stoned and sometimes both.”
“How’d you hold down a job?”
“I saved the drinking for nights and weekends. I smoked dope before and after work. I never did the hard stuff—heroin, crack, or speed. Those can really mess you up bad.”
“Didn’t anyone ever notice you were stoned?”
“My boss.”
“How’d you manage to take the money? Seems like that would necessitate a clear head.”
“Trust me, I was always clear about some things. Have you ever been in jail?”
“I did an overnight once,” I said, making it sound like an outing with my Girl Scout troop.
“For what?”
“Assaulting a cop and resisting arrest.”
She laughed. “Wow. Who’da thunk? You look like a real button-down type. I’ll bet you cross the street with the light and never fudge the numbers on your tax return.”
“Well, true. Is that bad?”
“No, it’s not bad. It’s just boring,” she said. “Don’t you ever want to cut loose? Take a risk and maybe blow yourself through the roof?”
“I like my life as it is.”
“What a drag. I’d go nuts.”
“What makes me nuts is being out of control.”
“So what do you do for laughs?”
“I don’t know…I read a lot and I jog.”
She looked at me, waiting for the punch line. “That’s it? You read a lot and you jog?”
I laughed. “It does sound pathetic when you think of it.”
“Where do you hang out?”
“I don’t do any ‘hanging out’ as such, but if I want dinner or a glass of wine, I usually go to a tavern in my neighborhood called Rosie’s. The owner’s a mama bear, which means I can eat without being hassled by guys on the make.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“Not so’s you’d notice,” I said, slipping into the vernacular. Better not to let her venture too far down that path. I glanced over at her. “If you don’t mind my asking, have you been in trouble before?”
She turned to look out the passenger-side window. “Depends on your point of reference. I went through drug rehab twice. I did six months in county jail on a bad-check charge. By the time I got out, my finances were in the shitter so I declared bankruptcy. Here’s the weird part. Once I filed? I got a ton of credit card offers in the mail and all of them were preapproved. How could I resist? Of course, I ran those up, too. Thirty thousand bucks’ worth before the gates clanged shut.”
“Thirty thousand for what?”
“Oh, you know. The usual. Gambling, drugs. I blew a bunch at the track and then went to Reno where I played the slots. I sat in on some high-stakes poker, but the cards were running cold. Not that I’d quit because of that. I figured I could only lose so many times before the game turned around and started working my way. Unfortunately, I never reached that point. Next thing you know, I was broke and living on the streets. That was 1982. Pop moved me into his house and then he cleaned up my debts. What about your vices? You must have one.”
> “I drink wine and the occasional martini. I used to smoke cigarettes, but then I gave that up.”
“Hey, me, too. I quit a year ago. Talk about tough.”
“The worst,” I said. “What made you quit?”
“Just to prove I could,” she said. “What about other stuff? You ever do coke?”
“Nope.”
“Ludes, Vicodan, Percocet?”
I turned and stared at her.
“I’m just asking,” she said.
“I smoked dope in high school, but then I straightened up my act.”
She flopped her head to one side and said, “Snore.”
I laughed. “Why snore?”
“You live like a nun. Where’s the friggin’ joy?”
“I have joy. I have a lot of joy.”
“Oh, don’t be so defensive. I wasn’t judging you.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Well, okay, maybe a little bit. I’m mostly curious.”
“About what?”
“How you make it in this world if you give up living on the edge.”
“Maybe you’ll find out.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that, but one can always hope.”
As we approached Santa Teresa, a drifting fog had curled across the landscape, wispy and pale. I drove along the beach, palms standing out darkly against the soft white of the Pacific. Reba’d been staring at the ocean since it came into view south of Perdido. As we passed the Perdido Avenue off-ramp, she turned her head, watching it recede into the mist. “You ever hear of the Double Down?”
“What’s that?”
“Perdido’s only poker parlor—scene of my downfall. Had some great times there, but that’s over and done with. Or so I hope.”
The highway angled inland and she watched the ebb and flow of citrus groves on either side of the road. Houses and businesses began to accumulate until the town itself appeared—two- and three-story white stucco buildings with red tile roofs, palm trees, evergreens, the architecture defined by the Spanish influence.
“What’d you miss most?” I asked.
“My cat. Long-haired orange tabby I’ve had since he was six weeks old. He looked like a little powder puff. He’s seventeen now and a great old guy.”
As I took the Milagro off-ramp, I glanced at my watch. It was 12:36. “Are you hungry? We have time for lunch if you want to eat before you meet your PO.”
“That’d be great. I’ve been hungry since we hit the road.”
“You should have spoken up. You have a preference?”
“McDonald’s. I’d kill for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese.”
“Me, too.”
Over lunch, I said, “Twenty-two months. What’d you do with your time?”
“I learned computer programming. That’s a hoot and a half. Also, I memorized prison stats,” she said.
“Sounds like fun.”
She began dunking her fries in a lake of ketchup, eating them like worms. “Well, it was. I spent a lot of time in the library reading all the studies they’ve done on female inmates. Used to be, I’d pick up an article like that and it had nothing to do with me. Now it’s all relevant. Like in 1976? There were eleven thousand women in state and federal prisons. Last year, the number jumped to twenty-six thousand and you want to know why? Women’s Liberation. Judges used to take pity on women, especially those with little kids. Now it’s equal-opportunity incarceration. Thank you, Gloria Steinem. Only something like three percent of convicted felons do any prison time anyway. And here’s something else. Five years ago half the killers released from prison had served less than six years. Can you believe that? Murder someone and you’re back on the street after six in the can. Most parole violations, you end up doing a bullet, which is a lot if you look at it proportionately. I flunk one drug test and I’m back on the bus.”
“A bullet?”
“A year. I’m telling you, the system’s really screwed. I mean, what do you think parole’s about? You serve your sentence on the street. What kind of punishment is that? You have no idea how many vicious guys you got walking around out here.” She smiled. “Anyway, let’s go meet my PO and get it over with.”
5
Parole offices were housed in a low yellow brick building of a style popular during the sixties—lots of glass and aluminum and long horizontal lines. Dark green cedars grew under an overhang that ran the length of the façade. The parking lot was generous and I found a spot without difficulty. I shut down the engine. “Want me to go with you?”
“Might as well,” she said. “Who knows how long I’ll have to wait. I could use the company.”
We crossed the parking lot and hung a right, moving toward the entrance. We pushed through the glass doors and found ourselves facing a long drab hallway lined with offices on both sides. There was no reception area that I could see, though at the far end of the corridor there were a few folding chairs where a smattering of men were seated. As we entered, a big woman with red hair and a fat file in hand peered out of an office and called to one of the guys loitering against the wall. A sorrowful-looking man in his sixties stepped forward, dressed in a shabby sport coat and pants that were none too clean. I’d seen guys like him sleeping in doorways and picking half-smoked cigarette butts out of the sand-filled ashtrays in hotel lobbies.
She glanced over at us, catching sight of Reba. “Are you Reba?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Priscilla Holloway. We spoke on the phone. I’ll be with you in a sec.”
“Great.” Reba watched them depart. “My parole officer.”
“I figured as much.”
Priscilla Holloway was in her forties, strong-featured, big-boned, and tan. Her dark red hair was pulled back in a French braid that extended halfway down her back. Her dark slacks were wrinkled from sitting. Over them she wore a white shirt, hem out, and a zippered red knit jacket that was open down the front, discreet concealment for the firearm she wore holstered at her side. Her build was athletic, and my guess was she played the fast, hard-sweating sports: racquetball, soccer, basketball, and tennis. When I was in grade school a girl her size would have scared the crap out of me, but I learned, in those days, that if I cultivated a friendship, I’d end up with playground protection for life.
Reba and I staked out our claim on a tiny section of the hallway where we variously leaned and slouched, trying to find a comfortable position in which to wait. There was a pay phone mounted on the wall nearby and I could see Reba’s focus sharpen at the sight of it. “You have any change? I need to make a phone call. It’s local.”
I opened my shoulder bag and did a quick search along the bottom, fishing for stray coins. I passed her a handful of change, watching as she moved to the phone and picked up the handset. She dropped in the coins, punched in a number, and then turned her body at an angle so I couldn’t read her lips while she talked. She was on the line for three minutes and when she finally put the handset back in the cradle, she was looking happier and more relaxed than I’d seen her so far.
“Everything okay?”
“Sure. I was touching base with a friend.” She sank down along the wall and took a seat on the floor.
Ten minutes later, Priscilla Holloway appeared, walking her fusty-looking client to the front door. She issued him an admonition and then turned to Reba. “Why don’t you come on back?”
Reba scrambled to her feet. “What about her?”
“She can join us in a bit. We’ve got a couple of things we need to talk about first. I’ll come get you in a minute,” she said to me.
The two moved down the bleak hallway, Reba looking half Holloway’s size. Reconciled to the wait, I leaned against the wall, my shoulder bag on the floor. The glass doors opened and Cheney Phillips came in, passing me on his way down the hall. I saw him tap on Priscilla Holloway’s open door and stick his head in. He chatted briefly with her and then turned, walking in my direction. He still hadn’t recognized me, which gave me a moment to study him.
I’d known Cheney for years, but we hadn’t had occasion to interact until a murder investigation two years before. Over the course of several conversations, he’d told me he’d grown up in circumstances of benign neglect and fixed his sights early on a career in law enforcement. He’d been working undercover vice the last time our paths crossed, but by now his face was probably too well-known for anything covert. He was dressed to the nines, as usual: dark slacks and a pin-stripe sport coat, wide in the shoulders and nipped at the waist. His dress shirt was midnight blue worn with a midnight blue tie with a sheen of lighter blue. His dark hair was curly, his dark gaze revealing a curious mix of cop-think and come-hither. When I heard he’d gotten married, I’d moved his name, in my mental Rolodex, from a prominent place near the front to a category I labeled “expunged without prejudice” near the back of the file.
His gaze connected briefly with mine and when he realized it was me, he stopped in his tracks. “Kinsey. I don’t believe it. I was just thinking about you.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Getting a bead on a parolee. What about you?”
“Babysitting a gal until she gets on her feet.”
“Missionary work.”
“Hardly. I’m getting paid,” I said.
“When I ran into you Saturday I meant to ask why I haven’t seen you at CC’s. Dolan told me the two of you were working a case. I figured you’d be in.”
“I don’t ‘do’ bars at my age except for Rosie’s,” I said. “What about you? Last I heard, you were off in Las Vegas getting married.”
“Geez, word gets around. So what else did you hear?”
“That you met her at CC’s and only knew her six weeks before the two of you ran off.”