L Is for Lawless (12 page)

He moved down the corridor. I stood there transfixed, longing to flee, reluctant to move for fear of calling attention to myself. He tapped on my door. A moment passed and the door was opened a crack. The security officer conferred with the guy in my room. Then the guy in the suit came out and pulled my door shut behind him. The two men moved quickly down the hall toward the elevators. I waited until I heard the elevator
ping
and then I retrieved the duffel from its hiding place. The elevator doors were barely closed when I double-timed down the hall, let myself into my room, and slid the chain into place. How long would it take before they figured out that Kinsey Millhone and the nonregulation maid without name tag were one and the same?

I reached down and flipped my shoes off. I pulled the red tunic over my head, unzipped the uniform skirt, and stepped out of it. I leaned against the wall while I pulled on my crew socks. I grabbed my jeans and stepped into them, hopping off-balance as I pulled them up. I tugged my turtleneck over my head, shoved my feet back in my shoes, and left the laces flopping loose. I opened the closet door. My handbag was still on the floor where I'd left it, but a glance was all it took to verify that the guy in the suit had been rooting around in it. Shit heel. I yanked the blazer off the hanger and shrugged myself into it. I did a quick survey of the room to make sure I hadn't left anything behind. I remembered the five-dollar tip in my uniform pocket and retrieved that. I picked up the duffel and started to let myself out. I went back, snatched the red uniform off the floor, and made a ball of it, shoving it into the zippered compartment of the duffel bag. If they searched again, why give them the satisfaction of finding it? I pulled the door shut behind me, then half walked, half trotted toward the fire stairs.

I went down eight flights of steps. When I reached the door to the lobby, I opened it a crack and looked out. A small group of businessmen seemed to be having an impromptu meeting in one of the conversational groupings. Papers had been spread out on the table. I peered around to the left. There was a couple conferring with the concierge, who seemed to be holding a map of the area. There was no sign of Mr. Denton or the security guard. No sign of Ray Rawson, either, for that matter. He'd said he'd meet me by the house phone, which I could plainly see across the lobby. The area was deserted, but too exposed for my taste.

I looked to my right. There was a bank of pay telephones about five feet away and, beyond that, the "Lords" and "Damsels." Across from me to the left was the entrance to the coffee shop. I left the relative safety of the stairwell and eased down the corridor and into the ladies' room. Two of the five stall doors were closed, but when I checked under the partitions, there were no feet in evidence. I locked myself in the handicapped stall, perched on the toilet seat, and tied my shoes. Then I emptied the duffel, shaking the contents out onto the floor.

First I checked the bag itself, peering into every pocket and crevice, sticking my fingers down into every corner. I'd thought I might find some kind of hidden compartment, but there didn't seem to be anything of the sort. I manipulated every seam, every brad, and every joining. I inspected each item of clothing I'd dumped out on the floor, folding and repacking the stolen uniform, a pair of cotton pajamas, two pairs of tights, T-shirts, tampons, two bras, and countless pairs of undies and socks. There was absolutely nothing there.

I could feel my anxiety begin to mount. I'd followed this pointless piece of luggage across three states, operating on the assumption that it contained something worth pursuing. Now it looked like all I was ending up with was a pile of secondhand lingerie. What was I to tell Chester? He was going to be furious when I told him I'd flown all the way to Dallas for
this.
The man didn't have the money to send me barreling across the country on the track of cotton panties. I'd broken the law. I was flirting with jail. I'd risked both my license and my livelihood. I began shoving items back into the zippered compartment. Happily, the panties looked like they'd fit, and I could use a clean pair. I hesitated. Nah, probably not a good idea. If I were arrested for theft, it might be better if I weren't wearing the evidence on my butt.

I emerged from the stall, trying to look nonchalant instead of like some big-time fugitive underwear bounty hunter. I couldn't bring myself to abandon the duffel. Basically, I was still clinging to the notion that it represented some rare and priceless artifact instead of my ticket to the joint. I glanced left across the lobby toward the house phone, but there was still no sign of Ray. I planted myself at one of the public telephones. I fumbled in my blazer pocket, emptying the contents in my search for change. On the metal shelf I laid out the movie receipt, the ballpoint, my five-dollar tip, two quarters, and the paper clip. I dropped one of the quarters in the coin slot and then put a call through to Chester in California, charging it to my telephone credit card. I got my quarter back and placed it with the first, idly rearranging the items for the calming effect. I didn't think Chester would be happy. I was hoping he'd be out, but the man himself picked up on the third ring. "'Lo.'"

"Hello, Chester? This is Kinsey."

"Can you speak up? I can't hear you. Who is this?"

I cupped a hand across the mouthpiece, turning my body away so I wouldn't be shouting my name across the lobby. "It's me. Kinsey," I hissed. "I got the duffel, but there's nothing of significance in it."

Dead silence. "You're kidding."

"Uh, no, actually I'm not. Either the goods were moved or there wasn't anything stolen in the first place."

"Of course they stole
something!
They ripped the friggin' kickplate off the kitchen cabinet. Pappy probably hid cash."

"Did you ever
see
any cash?"

"No, but that doesn't mean it wasn't there."

"That's pure speculation. Maybe the guy busted in and didn't find anything. The duffel might have been empty." I began to rearrange the items on the shelf, placing one of the quarters over Lincoln's face on the five-dollar bill. On the quarter, George Washington looked naked, while on the bill, Lincoln was all dressed up in his Sunday suit. They must have caught George in the sauna with his hair pulled back.

Chester, sounding cranky, said, "I don't get this. Why call me just to lay out a line of horseshit like this?"

"I thought you should get an update. It only seemed fair."

"Fair? You think it's fair I spent all that money flying you to Dallas for nothing? I expected results."

"Wait a minute. So far you haven't spent a dime.
I've
spent the money. You're supposed to pay me back." I uncapped my ballpoint pen and gave Lincoln a mustache, which made his nose look smaller. I'd never paid attention to what a hooter he had.

"Pay you back for what? Air and sunshine? Forget it."

"Come on. We made a decision that turned out to be wrong."

"Then why should I pay? I'm not going to pay for your incompetence."

"Chester, believe me, I'm earning my keep. I could get my license yanked for half the things I've done. I'm not even allowed to do business in this state." I put the two quarters over opposite corners of the five-dollar bill to anchor it.

"That's your problem, not mine. I wouldn't have agreed if I'd known you were off on some wild goose chase."

"Well, neither would I. That's the chance we took. You knew as much as I did going in," I said. To amuse myself, I wrote a bad word on the front of the five-dollar bill. It was the only way I could think of to keep from screaming at him.

"To hell with it. You're fired!" I heard him say, "Goddamn it!" to himself just as he banged the phone down in my ear.

I made a face at the dead receiver and then rolled my eyes. I hauled up the phone book and started looking up the reservation number for American Airlines. It was embarrassing to admit this had all been for nothing, but I couldn't see what good it would do to stay in Dallas. I'd made a mistake. I'd known at the outset my actions were impulsive. I'd been operating on the best information I had, and if my judgment turned out to be misguided, there was nothing I could do about it now. I noticed I was busy defending myself, but I really couldn't help it in the wake of Chester's disgruntlement. Who could blame the man?

I picked up the five and held it closer, looking at the fine details. Paper currency has a baroque assortment of shaded names and numbers, lacy scrollwork, and official seals. Now
that
was weird. Since when was Henry Morgenthau secretary of the treasury? And who was this guy Julian, whose eensy-teensy signature was so impossible to read? Just to the right of Lincoln's portrait, it said "Series 1934 A." I dug in my handbag and pulled out my wallet, checking the few bills I carried. The only other five I had in my possession was a series 1981 Buchanan-Regan. The one-dollar bills were 1981 Buchanan-Regans and 1981-A Ortega-Regan with a couple of brand-new 1985 Ortega-Bakers thrown in. A twenty and a ten seemed to be the same vintage. If I wasn't mistaken, it meant the five-dollar tip Laura Huckaby had given me was a bill dating back to 1934. Didn't that indicate she was busy spending money from a cache of old bills? Surely she didn't simply happen to have a bill like that in her possession.

I put the phone book down, abandoning the notion of getting back on a plane. Maybe all was not lost. I picked up the duffel and moved forward, scanning the expanse of lobby within view. The five businessmen leaned toward each other, passing the pages of some report between them. As usual, in such a group, one fellow seemed to command the attention of the others. Behind me the door opened abruptly, and before I could turn around, I was snagged by the elbow and pulled into the stairwell.

Chapter 11

"Where the hell have you been?"

I turned, astonished. It was Ray, his badly bruised face about six inches from mine. He'd removed the tape from his nose, but it still looked like his nostrils were packed with cotton. His skin smelled medicinal, the sort of aftershave you'd sport in an emergency room, composed of equal parts rubbing alcohol, adhesive tape, and suturing material. He still clutched me with his injured hand, his splinted fingers held stiffly.

"Where have I been? Where have
you
been?" Our voices seemed to ricochet up the stairwell like a flock of shrieking birds. Both of us glanced upward and lowered our tones to rasping whispers. Ray urged me into the cul-de-sac formed by the final flight of steps where it dead-ended at the wall.

"Christ, those guys are on to you," he hissed. "Some yo-yo with a walkie-talkie's been giving me the third degree. I'm waiting by the house phone and he asks if I'd mind 'stepping into the office.' What was I supposed to do? He knows who you are and he wants to know what you're doing here."

"Why'd he ask you?"

"He'd been checking around. The waitress must have told him she'd seen us together. I wasn't hard to spot. With a mug like this? I told him you were a private investigator working undercover on a case I wasn't at liberty to discuss."

"Who did he think you were, a cop?"

"I told him I was part of a witness protection program, being moved to another state. I had to talk like this was all very hush-hush, life-or-death stuff."

"They couldn't have believed you. How'd you get away?"

"They don't give a shit who I am. They just want me out of here. I said I'd go up to the room and get my things. They escorted me to the elevator, and as soon as they left, I turned around and came down. Is that the duffel? Give it here."

I jerked it out of his reach. "Listen, you piker. Do you swear on a stack of Bibles you've told me the truth? This is cash we're looking for, not drugs or diamonds or stolen documents, right?"

"It's money. I swear. You didn't find it?"

"I didn't find a thing. How much are we talking about?"

"Eight thousand dollars, maybe a little less by now."

"That's
all?"

"Come on. It's a lot when you don't have a dime, which I don't."

"Somehow I got the impression it was more," I said.

Our voices had started to reverberate again. He put a finger to his lips.

"Where'd the money come from?" I whispered hoarsely.

"I'll tell you later. Let's see if we can find a way out of here."

"There's a service corridor below this one, but you can't access it from here," I said.

"What about the floor above?"

"I don't think so." He started up the steps, but I grabbed his arm. "Wait a minute. Slow down. We need a plan."

"We need the cash," he corrected, "before hotel security catches up with us again. Maybe this Huckaby woman left the money with the manager."

"She couldn't. I was standing in the same line when she checked in. She didn't deposit any valuables. I'd have seen her do that."

"Then where is it? She's not going to let the money out of her sight. If we figure out where she's got it, you can snag it and run."

"Oh,
I
can? That's nice. What about you?"

"I'm speaking figuratively," he said.

"Well, the cash isn't in her room because I've searched."

"Then she must have it with her."

"She does
not.
I told you that. Ah!" I heard the sound an idea makes when your brain ignites, a tiny implosion, like spontaneous combustion at the base of your skull. "Wait a minute. I got it. I think I know where it is. Come with me."

I knocked on Laura Huckaby's door. There was a pause. She was probably checking through the spy hole to see who it was. Ray was standing against the wall to the left of the door, with a look of suffering on his face. "I know how Gilbert got my release date," he said dully. "I didn't want to tell you unless I had to."

"Hush," I said under my breath. I couldn't figure out what his problem was, aside from the obvious. He'd been curiously reluctant to come up here with me, suggesting all kinds of reasons I should do it myself. I'd been adamant. For one thing, if we were caught, we could act like we were just leaving. For another, now that Chester was pissed off, I didn't want to take sole responsibility. As before, Laura opened the door a crack, leaving the chain in place.

I held up the duffel. "Hi, it's me. I'm off duty. I found this in the hall."

"Is that mine?"

"I think so. Wasn't this sitting in your closet last night?"

"How'd it get out there?"

"Beats me. I spotted it in passing and thought I'd knock," I said. "It is yours, isn't it?"

She studied it briefly. "Just a minute. I'll check." She left the door ajar, still secured by the chain, while she moved into the dressing area and opened the closet door. Ray and I exchanged a look. I knew she wasn't going to find her duffel, but I waited dutifully, playing out the charade. She returned to the door, her expression perplexed. "I guess it is mine." It was clear she didn't want to trust me, but what could she do? From her point of view, she'd been subjected to inexplicable occurrences. A lost key, a missing package, now the wandering duffel.

"I can leave it out here. You want me to do that?"

"No, that's all right." She closed the door and slipped the chain off its track. She opened the door again just wide enough for the duffel, holding her hand out as if to take it from me. I put a hand around the edge of the door, effectively preventing her from closing it.

She seemed startled by the gesture and said, "Hey!" irritably.

I hoped my smile was reassuring. "Mind if I come in? We need to talk." I pushed the door inward.

"Get away," she said, pushing back.

We grappled with the door, but Ray had moved into the picture by then, and after a mute struggle on her part, she relinquished control. She'd begun to realize that something was dreadfully wrong.

"I'm Kinsey Millhone," I said as we stepped into the room. "This is my friend Ray."

She backed up a step, taking in Ray's bruised and swollen face. "What
is
this?"

"We called a meeting about the money," I said. "Just between you, me, and him."

She pivoted, moving rapidly toward the bed table, where she snatched up the receiver. Ray intercepted her and banged down the button before she could press "0."

"Take it easy. We just want to talk to you," he said. He removed the receiver from her hand and dropped it in the cradle.

"Who are you? What is this, some kind of shakedown?"

"Not at all," I said. "We followed you from California. Your friend Gilbert stole some money, and Ray, here, wants it back."

Her eyes fixed on me and then jumped to him, comprehension dawning. "You're Ray Rawson."

"That's right."

She raised a hand rapidly as if to slap him in the face. Ray blocked the move and caught the blow on his arm. He grabbed her wrist with his good hand. "Don't do that," he said.

"Get your fuckin' hands off me!"

"Just give us the money and we'll leave you alone."

"It isn't yours. It belongs to Gilbert."

Ray shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Money belongs to me and a guy named Johnny Lee. Johnny died four months ago, so I'm passing his share along to his son and grandson. Gilbert tried to rip us off."

"You goddamn shit. That's not true! The money's his and you know it. You're the one who blew the whistle. His brother died because of you."

"That's bullshit. Is that what he said?"

"Well, yes. He told me it was some kind of sting and it was all set up. You tipped off the cops and Donnie was killed in the shoot-out," she said.

"Wait a minute, gang. What's going on?" I said.

Ray seemed unruffled, ignoring me altogether in his focus on her. "He lied to you, baby. Gilbert sold you a bill of goods. He probably had to do that to get you to participate, right? Because if you knew the truth, you wouldn't help. I hope."

"You asshole. He told me you'd try to do this, twist the truth until it suited your purposes."

"You want the truth? I'll tell you. You want to hear what went down?"

She put her hands to her ears, as if to shut him out. "I don't have to hear it from you. Gilbert told me what happened."

I raised my hand. "Would one of you stop and tell me what this is about? Do you two know each other?"

"Not exactly," Ray said. He turned to look at her, and the two of them locked eyes. Ray's gaze flicked back to mine. "This is my daughter. I haven't seen her in years."

She flung herself at him, banging with her fists on his chest. "You are such a fuck," she said, and promptly burst into tears.

I looked from one to the other. My mouth did not really fall open, but that's what it felt like.

Ray gathered her into his arms. "I know, baby, I know," he murmured, patting at her. "I feel so bad about everything."

It probably took another five or six minutes for Laura's tears to taper off. Her face was mashed against his shoulder, her bulky belly making the embrace seem awkward. Ray rested his battered cheek against her tangled hair, most of which had come loose now, hanging down in dark auburn clumps. Ray was nearly humming with unhappiness at the sound of her misery, which she managed to express with a childlike lack of inhibition. Neither was accustomed to the physical contact, and my suspicion was that the fleeting connection by no means represented resolution. If their estrangement was lifelong, it would take more than a Hallmark moment to set it right. In the meantime, I blocked any thought of my cousin Tasha and my estrangement from Grand.

I went to the window and looked out at the barren stretch of Texas countryside. I felt about as arid. Here, as in California, the liberal application of imported water was the only means by which the land was being reclaimed from the desert. At least I understood now why he hadn't wanted to come up here. He must have dreaded the moment when the two of them would meet, especially once he understood how Gilbert Hays had used her. Why is it that life's most touching moments are so often the most depressing?

Behind me, finally, the weeping seemed to be diminishing. There was some murmuring between them that I politely tuned out. When I turned back, the two were seated side by side on one of the double beds. Laura's tears had streaked through the many layers of makeup, bringing ancient bruises to
the surface. It was clear she'd recently suffered a black eye. Her jaw was tinted a drab green, washing out to yellow around the edges, colors repeated in the riper bruises of her father's face. Odd to think the same man had beaten both. He studied her face, and the effect wasn't lost on him. A look of pain filled his eyes. "He do that to you? Because if he did, I'll kill him, I swear to God."

"It wasn't like that," she said.

"It wasn't like that.
Bullshit."

Her eyes flooded again. I moved into the dressing area and grabbed some tissues from the dispenser. When I returned to the bed, Ray took the wad and passed them over to her. She blew her nose and then looked at me with resentment. "You're not really the maid," she said resentfully. "You didn't even do the sheet corners right."

"I'm a private investigator."

"I knew this hotel wouldn't have turn-down service. I should have trusted my instincts."

"Ain't
that
the truth," I said. I sat down on the other bed. "Now would one of you fill me in?"

Ray turned to me with an expectant look. "Wait a minute. What's the deal?"

"The deal?"

"I don't know where the money is. I thought it was up here someplace."

"Ah, the money. Why don't you ask her?"

"Me? I don't have it. What are you talking about?"

"Yes, you do." I reached over to Laura's belly and knocked on the mound. The thudding noise was not what you'd expect of warm maternal flesh. She smacked my hand away, incensed. "Stop that!"

Ray stared. "It's in her stomach? Like, up her butt?"

"Not quite. The belly's phony."