R Is for Ricochet

carrier had shoved through my slot. Much junk, a few bills, which I sat down and paid. I was restless, eager to get home, but felt I should stay, in the hopes that Reba would call. I did some filing. I straightened out my pencil drawer. It was make-work but gave me something useful to do. I kept glancing at the phone, willing it to ring, so when someone rapped on my side window, I nearly leaped out of my skin.
    Reba was outside, concealed in the shadowy space between my bungalow and its twin next door. She'd traded her shorts for jeans and her white T-shirt looked like the one she'd been wearing when she left CIW. I unlocked the window and raised the sash. "What are you
doing?"
    "You have access to those garages out back?"
    "Sure, the one for this unit. I've never used it, but the landlord did give me the keys."
    "Grab 'em and let's go. I gotta get my car off the street. I've had those goons on my tail ever since I left the house."
    "The ones we saw in L.A.?"
    "Yeah, only one of 'em now has a black eye, like he walked into a door."
    "Oh, dear. Wonder if I did that with my widdle chair," I said. "How'd you get away?"
    "Fortunately, I know this town a lot better than they do. I led 'em around for a while, then sped up, doused my lights, turned down a little side road, and then behind a hedge. The minute I saw their car pass, I doubled back and came here."
    "Where have you been all this time?"
    She seemed agitated. "Don't ask. I've been busy as a little bee. Get a move on. I'm cold."
    "I'll meet you out back."
    I closed the window and locked it. In my bottom desk drawer I lifted aside the phone book and picked up two silver keys hooked together on a paper clip. I picked up my bag and found my trusty pen-light, checking the strength of the batteries as I moved down the hallway and out the rear door. A short patch of stubby grass separated the bungalows from the row of three garages along the alley. Reba'd parked her car in the shadow of a pyracantha bush that had probably scratched the shit out of the paint on the right-hand side. I could see her at the wheel, smoking a cigarette while she waited for me.
    There was a light fixture with a forty-watt bulb attached to the wood beam above the middle garage, which was the one assigned to me. The bulb yielded just enough light to see by if your eyes were good. I fumbled with the padlock and finally popped it open. I unhooked it from the hasp and hauled up the overhead door with a labored groaning of wood and rusty hinges. I flashed my penlight across the walls and floor, which were bare, smelling of motor oil and soot. There were cobwebs everywhere.
    Reba flipped her cigarette out the window and started her car. I stood back as she pulled into the garage. She got out, locked her car door, and came around to the rear. She popped the trunk lid and hauled out a suitcase of a size appropriate for an airplane carry-on, though you'd have to maneuver it to get it in the overhead bin. The bag had an extendable handle and a set of wheels. She seemed preoccupied, caught up in a mood I couldn't read.
    "You okay?" I asked.
    "Fine."
    "Just for the yucks, are you going to tell me what's in there?"
    "Want to see?"
    "I do."
    She collapsed the handle and laid the suitcase flat, unzipped the top portion and flipped it open.
    I found myself looking at a metal box, maybe fifteen inches high, eighteen inches long, and eight inches deep. "What the hell is that?"
    "You're joking. You don't know?"
    "If I knew, I wouldn't ask, Reeb. I'd exclaim with joy and surprise."
    "It's a computer. Marty took his with him when he left. He also stopped by the bank and picked up all the floppy disks from the safe-deposit box. You're looking at Beck's business records – the second set of books. Hook it up to a keyboard and monitor, you've got access to everything: bank accounts, deposits, shell companies, payoffs, every dime he laundered for Salustio."
    "You're turning it over to the feds, right?"
    "Probably. As soon as I'm done… though you know how cranky they get about stolen property."
    "But you can't even think about keeping this. That's why those guys went after Marty, to get it back. Isn't it?"
    "Exactly. So let's put a call through to Beck and offer him a trade. We get Marty, he gets this."
    "I thought you just said you'd turn it over to the feds?"
    "You weren't listening. I said 'probably.' I'm not sure their crappy investigation
is
worth Marty's life."
    "You can't handle this yourself. Negotiate with