K is for Killer (39 page)

Roger didn't turn. “That you, Delbert?” he said over his shoulder.

“That's me. I brought a friend of yours. A Miss . . . what is it, Kenley?”

“It's Kinsey,” I corrected.

Roger turned. The light glittered in his eyes and bleached all the color from his flesh. “Well. I was expecting you,” he said.

Delbert had his hands on his hips. “You need some help with that?”

“Not really. Why don't you find Paul and give him a hand?”

“Will do.”

Delbert started up the ladder again, leaving us alone. His head disappeared, back, hips, legs, boots. It was very quiet. Roger came down from the ladder he was on, wiping his hands on a rag, while I stood there trying to decide how to go about this. I saw him pick up the jacket and check a pocket in front.

“This is not what you think,” I said. “Listen, Lorna was getting married the weekend she was murdered. Earlier this week a fellow picked me up in a limo with a couple of flunkies in bulging overcoats . . .” I felt my voice trail off.

He had something in his hand about the size of a walkie-talkie: black plastic housing, a couple of buttons on the front. “You know what this is?”

“Looks like a Taser gun.”

“That's right.” He pressed a button, and two tiny probes shot out on electrical wires that carried a hundred and twenty thousand volts. The minute the probes touched me I was down, my whole body numb. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. After a few seconds, my brain started to work. I knew what had happened, I just didn't know what to do about it. Of all the responses I'd imagined him making, this was not on the list. I lay on my back like a stone, trying to find a way to heave oxygen into my lungs. None of my extremities responded to cues. In the meantime, Roger patted me down, coming up with my gun, which he tucked in the pocket of his coveralls.

I was making a sound, but it probably wasn't very loud. He moved to the wall and climbed the ladder. I thought he was going to leave me down there. Instead he flipped the trap door so that it came down on the hole. “Thought we might like a little privacy,” he said as he descended. He found a plastic bucket that had been tossed to one side. He turned it upside down and took a seat not that far from me. He leaned close. Mildly he said, “Fuck with me, I'll smother you with this jacket. Weak as you are, it's not going to leave any marks.”

That's what he did with Lorna, I thought. Shot her with a stun gun, put a pillow across her face. Wouldn't have taken long. I felt like a baby in the early stages of development, moving my limbs randomly in an attempt to turn. Grunting, I managed to roll over on my side. I lay there breathing, looking at the wet pavement from the corner of my eye. My cheek rested on something gritty: anthracite,
sludge, small shells. I collected myself, inching my right arm up under me. I heard the trap door open, and Delbert Squalls called down, “Roger?”

“Yes?”

“Guy up here to see you.”

“Oh, hell,” he breathed. And then to Delbert, “Tell him I'll be right there.”

I rolled an eye at him, unable to speak, and saw a grimace of impatience cross his face. He got his arms under me and hauled me into a sitting position, propping me against the wall. Like a rag doll, I sat with my legs straight out in front of me, feet tilted together, my shoulders slumped. At least I was breathing. Above me, I could hear someone walking around. I wanted to warn him. I wanted to tell him he was making a terrible mistake. While I made grunting noises, Roger was going up the ladder, his feet going
tink, tink, tink,
head and shoulders disappearing. I felt tears fill my eyes. My limbs were deadened from the electrical jolt. I tried moving my arms, but the result was the same ineffectual feeling as discovering your extremities “asleep.” I began to flex one fist, trying to get the blood to circulate. My whole body felt oddly anesthetized. I listened, straining, but heard nothing. I struggled and finally managed to topple sideways, turning over on my hands and knees, where I remained, breathing hard, until I could gain my feet. I don't know how long it took. All was silence above. I reached for the ladder and clung to the closest rung. After a moment, I began my ascent.

By the time I climbed out, there was no sign of anyone in the corridor. I forced myself forward. I'd begun to navigate better, but my arms and legs still felt oddly disconnected. I reached his office, where I peered in the door, leaning on the frame. There was no sign of him. My gun had
been placed neatly in the center of his blotter. I crossed to the desk and picked it up, tucking it into the small of my back again.

I left the office, moving into the reception area. Delbert Squalls was sitting at the desk, leafing through the telephone book, probably ordering pizzas for the night crew. He looked up as I passed.

I said, “Where'd Roger go?”

“Don't tell me he left you down there? Man's got no manners. You just missed him. He took off with that guy in the overcoat. Said he'd be right back. You want to leave him a note?”

“I don't think that's necessary.”

“Oh. Well, suit yourself.” He went back to his search.

“Good night, Delbert.”

“ 'Night. Have a good evening,” he said, reaching for the phone.

I emerged from the building into the chill night air. The wind had picked up again, and the sky, though cloudless, bore the fragrance of a distant rain heading in this direction. There was no moon, and the stars looked as though they'd been blown up against the mountains.

I went down the stairs to the slot where my car was parked. I let myself into the VW and turned the key in the ignition, pulling out onto the road that led back to town. As I crossed the intersection, I thought I caught sight of a limousine slipping into the dark.

R
oger Bonney hasn't been seen since last night. Only a few people understand what really happened to him. I spent a long time in conversation with Lieutenant Dolan and Cheney Phillips and, for once, I told the truth. Given the enormity of what I'd done, I felt I had to accept the responsibility. In the end, after much consideration, they decided no purpose would be served in pursuing the matter. They did go through the motions of a missing persons investigation, but nothing came of it. And so it rests.

Now, in the dead of night, I ponder the part I played in Lorna Kepler's story, in the laying to rest of those ghosts. homicide calls up in us the primitive desire to strike a like blow, an impulse to inflict a pain commensurate with the pain we've been dealt. For the most part, we depend upon judicial processes to settle our grievances. Perhaps we've even created the clumsy strictures of the courts to keep our savageries in check. The problem is that so often the law seems pale in its remedies, leaving us restless and unfulfilled in our craving for satisfaction. And then what?

As for me, the question I'm left with is simple and haunting: Having strayed into the shadows, can I find my way back?

 

 

Respectfully submitted,
Kinsey Millhone

Phenomenal Praise for the Mystery Novels of
#1
New York Times
Bestselling Author

SUE GRAFTON

 

“Exceptionally entertaining . . . an offbeat sense of humor and a feisty sense of justice.”

—San Francisco Chronicle

 

“Millhone is an engaging detective-for-hire . . . P.I. Kinsey Millhone and her creator . . . are arguably the best of [the] distaff invaders of the hitherto sacrosanct turf of gumshoes.”

—Buffalo News

 

“Once a fan reads one of Grafton's alphabetically titled detective novels, he or she will not rest until all the others are found.”

—Los Angeles Herald Examiner

 

“Millhone is a refreshingly strong and resourceful female private eye.”

—Library Journal

 

“Tough but compassionate . . . There is no one better than Kinsey Millhone.”

—Best Sellers

 

“A woman we feel we know, a tough cookie with a soft center, a gregarious loner.”

—Newsweek

 

“Lord, how I like this Kinsey Millhone . . . The best detective fiction I have read in years.”

—The New York Times Book Review

 

“Smart, tough, and thorough . . . Kinsey Millhone is a pleasure.”

—Bloomsbury Review

 

“Kinsey is one of the most persuasive of the new female operatives. . . She's refreshingly free of gender clichés. Grafton, who is a very witty writer, has also given her sleuth a nice sense of humor—and a set of Wonder Woman sheets to prove it.”

—Boston Herald

 

“What grandpa used to call a class act.”

—Stanley Ellin

 

“Smart, sexual, likable and a very modern operator.”

—Dorothy Salisbury Davis

 

“Kinsey's got brains
and
a sense of humor.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

 

 

 

 

THE KINSEY MILLHONE SERIES BY SUE GRAFTON

 

A Is for Alibi

B Is for Burglar

C Is for Corpse

D Is for Deadbeat

E Is for Evidence

F Is for Fugitive

G Is for Gumshoe

H Is for Homicide

I Is for Innocent

J Is for Judgment

K Is for Killer

L Is for Lawless

M Is for Malice

N Is for Noose

O Is for Outlaw

P Is for Peril

Q Is for Quarry

R Is for Ricochet

S Is for Silence

T Is for Trespass

U Is for Undertow

 

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

 

K IS FOR KILLER

 

Copyright © 1994 by Sue Grafton.

 

All rights reserved.

 

For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

 

EAN: 978-0-312-37312-2

 

Printed in the United States of America

 

Published in hardcover by Henry Holt and Company, Inc.

Ballantine Books edition / May 1995

St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / November 2009

 

St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

 

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

 

eISBN 9781429911658