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by Sue Grafton

  My quest for law and order began in the first grade when I ventured into the cloakroom and surprised a classmate snitching a chocolate bar from my Howdy Doody lunch box. The teacher appeared at that very moment and caught the child with my candy in hand. I anticipated due process, but the sniveling little shit burst into tears, claiming I’d stolen it from her. She received no punishment at all while I was reprimanded for leaving my seat without raising my hand and asking to be excused. My teacher turned a deaf ear to my howls of protest. From that singular event, my notion of fair play was set, and, in sum, it is this: the righteous are struck down while the sticky-fingered escape. I’ve labored all my life to see that justice plays out the other way around.

  That particular Monday morning, I was paying my bills, feeling oh-so virtuous, as why would I not? I’d written and signed all the pertinent checks and felt only slightly anxious about the drain on my funds. I’d addressed and sealed the return envelopes. As I licked and placed stamps, I was humming with satisfaction and looking forward to lunch. When the phone rang, I lifted the handset and anchored it against my shoulder, saying, “Millhone Investigations.”

  “Hi, Kinsey. This is Ruthie. Did I catch you at an okay time?”

  “Sure. What’s going on?”

  “Well, I’m fit to be tied. I swear, about the time I think I’m through the worst of it, something else comes up. Today I got this official-looking letter from the IRS. Pete’s being audited, of all things. I’m supposed to call to set up an appointment.”

  “Can’t you tell them he’s dead?”

  “I could, but that’s probably what triggered the audit in the first place.”

  Ruthie Wolinsky had been widowed some seven months before, in August of 1988, when her husband was shot to death in what looked like a robbery gone wrong. I’d made Pete Wolinsky’s acquaintance ten years prior. Like me, he was a private detective, who’d worked for an agency called Byrd-Shine Investigations. I’d apprenticed with Ben Byrd and Morley Shine when I was racking up the hours I needed for licensing. Pete was a contemporary of theirs. Both of my bosses swore he was once a top-notch detective, but at the point where our paths intersected, he’d fallen on hard times. By then, he was a man so morally bent, I marveled he managed to find work anywhere. While I disliked him, I was then twenty-seven years old and newly employed and didn’t feel it was my place to make my thoughts known. Besides which, no one asked and I doubt they’d have listened if I’d volunteered my views.

  I’d thought the world of the two seasoned detectives, and I still conducted business in the time-honored ways they’d taught me. Unfortunately, Ben and Morley had quarreled bitterly and the partnership had been dissolved. They went their separate ways, setting up independent agencies. I was already out on my own by then and never heard the details of their falling-out. Whatever the dispute, it had nothing to do with me, so I shrugged it off. Now both were deceased and I assumed the past was dead and buried along with them. As for Ruthie, over the years I’d seen her from time to time, but we didn’t become friends until shortly after Pete was killed.

  I pondered the historical context while she went on to describe the latest crisis, saying, “Sorry to bother you with this, but let me read you what it says. They’re asking for ‘Schedule C gross receipts. Year-end papers and reports, including worksheets reconciling books and records for the tax years 1986 and 1987.’” She continued in a singsong voice. “‘In addition, please provide any and all business records, files, expenses, and receipts for the period 1975 through 1978.’”

  “Are you kidding me? That goes back fifteen years. I thought after seven you could throw that crap out.”

  “I guess not, at least according to this. Our accountant retired last year, and I’m having a devil of a time getting through to the fellow who took over for him. I was hoping when you and Dietz went through Pete’s boxes, you might have come across our old tax returns.”

  Robert Dietz was the Nevada private investigator whose help I’d enlisted during the period just after Pete was killed. Much more to the story, of course, but I made a point of putting it out of my mind. “I don’t think so. I can’t swear to it, but the whole point was tracking down his accounts, so anything with a dollar sign attached we shoved in plastic bags, which we handed over to you.”

  “Too bad,” she said. “I’ve searched those bags twice and there’s zilch.”

  “You want me to try again? It’s always possible we missed a box.”

  “That’s just it. I don’t have them. All those cartons are gone.”

  “Where?”

  “The dump. A junk dealer taped a flier to my door. He must have been cruising the area, scaring up work. The notice said for fifty bucks in cash, he’d clean out my garage and haul the mess away. I jumped at the chance. I’ve wanted to park my car under cover for years, but there was never any room. Now I’m looking at an audit and what am I supposed to do? I’m just sick about this.”

  “I don’t know what to suggest. I can double-check, but if we’d come across tax returns, we’d have set them aside. I did keep one box, but those are confidential files from the old Byrd-Shine days. I have no idea how they ended up in Pete’s hands.”

  “Oh, wait a minute. The IRS does list Byrd-Shine in the document request, now you mention it. Hold on.”

  I heard papers rattling, and then she said, “I can’t find the reference now, but it’s in here somewhere. You don’t need to bother Dietz, but could you check the box you have? I don’t need much; I’m guessing a few old bank statements would suffice. If I can hand over anything, it would be a show of good faith, which is about all I have to offer.”

  “I’ll inventory the contents as soon as possible.”

  “No big hurry. I’m driving up to Lompoc this coming weekend to celebrate my birthday with a friend—”

  “I didn’t know it was your birthday. Happy birthday!”

  “Thanks. We’re not doing much . . . just hanging out . . . but I haven’t seen her since Pete died and I thought it’d be nice to get away.”

  “Absolutely. When do you get back?”

  “Sunday afternoon, which gives you some wiggle room. Even if I called the IRS today, I doubt I’d get in right away. They must have a waiting list a mile long,” she said. “Oh. And while you’re at it, keep this in mind: Pete had a habit of tucking stray documents between the pages of other files. Sometimes he’d hide money, too, so don’t toss out any hundred-dollar bills.”

  “I remember the wad of cash he buried in the bag of birdseed.”

  “That was something, wasn’t it? He claimed the system was designed to fool the bad guys. He could remember where he’d put all the bits and pieces, but he wouldn’t explain his strategy. Anyway, I’m sorry to trouble you with this. I know it’s a pain.”

  “Not a big deal. Fifteen or twenty minutes tops.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “In the meantime, you better talk to a tax expert.”

  “Ha! I can’t afford one.”

  “Better that than getting hosed.”

  “Good point. My neighbor’s an attorney. I’ll ask him who he knows.”

  We chatted briefly of other matters and then we hung up. Once again, I found myself brooding about Pete Wolinsky, which I was doing more often than I care to admit. In the wake of his death, it became clear how irresponsible he’d been, leaving Ruthie with little more than a mess on her hands. His business files, such as they were, had been relegated to countless dusty and dilapidated cardboard boxes, stacked ten deep and eight high in their two-car garage, filling the interior to capacity. In addition, there were piles of unpaid bills, dunning notices, threats of lawsuits, and no life insurance. Pete had carried a policy that would have netted her a handsome sum, but he’d let the premiums lapse. Even so, she adored him, and who was I to judge?

  To be fair about it, I suppose you could call him a good-heart
ed soul, as long as you included an asterisk referring to the small print below. As a perfect example, Pete had told Ruthie he was taking her on a cruise on the Danube for their fortieth wedding anniversary coming up the following year. He’d intended to surprise her, but he couldn’t help revealing the plan in advance. The real surprise came after his death, when she found out he was paying for the trip with money he’d extorted in a blackmail scheme. She asked for the deposit back and used the refund to satisfy some of his creditors, and that was that. In the meantime, she wasn’t hurting for income. Ruthie was a private-duty nurse, and her services were much in demand. From the schedule I’d seen taped to her refrigerator door, she worked numerous shifts and could probably name her price regardless of the going rate.

  As for the banker’s box, I’d put a big black X on the lid and shoved it under the desk in my studio apartment, so the task would have to wait until I got home. I’d been meaning to inspect the contents in any event. If, as I anticipated, the old files were inactive or closed, I’d send them to a shredding company and be done with it.

  I’d no more than hung up when the phone rang again. I reached for the handset, saying, “Millhone Investigations.”

  There was a pause, and a woman said, “Hello?”

  I said, “Hello?”

  “Oh, sorry. I was expecting a machine. May I speak to Ms. Millhone?”

  Her tone was refined, and even through the phone line I could smell money on her breath. “This is she,” I said.

  “My name is Hallie Bettancourt. Vera Hess suggested I get in touch with you about a personal matter.”

  “That was nice of her. She had an office next door to mine at California Fidelity Insurance, where I worked once upon a time,” I said. “I take it you’re a friend of hers?”

  “Well, no. We met at a party a few weeks ago. We were having drinks on the patio, and when I mentioned the issue, she thought you might help.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Would you give me your name again? I’m afraid it went right over my head.”

  I could hear the smile in her voice. “Bettancourt. First name, Hallie. I do that myself. In one ear and out the other.”

  “Amen,” I said. “Why don’t you give me a quick summary of the problem?”

  She hesitated. “The situation’s awkward, and I’d prefer not to discuss it by phone. I think when I explain, you’ll understand.”

  “That’s entirely up to you,” I said. “We can set up an appointment and you can talk about it then. What’s your schedule look like this week?”

  She laughed uncomfortably. “That’s just it. I’m under a time constraint. I leave town tomorrow morning and won’t be back until June. If there’s any way we could meet tonight, I’d be grateful.”

  “I can probably manage that. Where and what time?”

  “Here at my home at eight o’clock, if that’s all right with you. From what I’m told, it’s not a big job. To be honest about it, I contacted another agency last week and they turned me down, which was embarrassing. The gentleman I spoke with was nice about it, but he made it clear the work wouldn’t warrant the size of their fees. He didn’t come right out and say so, but the implication was that they had much bigger fish to fry. I guess I’ve been gun-shy about reaching out again, which is why I put it off.”

  “Understood,” I said. “We’ll talk this evening and see where we stand. If I can’t help, I may know someone who can.”

  “Thank you. You have no idea how relieved I am.”

  I made a note of the address on Sky View, along with her instructions, and told her I’d be there at 8:00. I was guessing her problem was matrimonial, which turned out to be true, but not quite as I imagined it. Once I hung up, I checked my city map and located the street, which was no bigger than a thread of pale blue surrounded by blank space. I folded the map and stuck it in my shoulder bag.

  At 5:00, I locked the office and headed for home, feeling pleased about life. As my appointment wasn’t for three hours, I had time for a bite to eat, supping on milk of tomato soup and a gooey grilled cheese sandwich, which I held in a fold of paper towel that neatly soaked up the excess butter. While I ate, I read three chapters of a Donald Westlake paperback. In hindsight, I marvel at how clueless I was about the shit storm to come. What I ask myself even now is whether I should have picked up the truth any faster than I did, which was not nearly fast enough.

  2

  Approaching Hallie Bettancourt’s property that night, I realized I’d caught glimpses of the house from the freeway on numerous occasions; it was perched on a ridge that ran between the town and the outer reaches of the Los Padres National Forest. By day, sun reflected off the glass exterior, winking like an SOS. At night, the glow was a bright spot, as vivid as Venus against the pale light of surrounding stars. From a distance, it was one of those aeries that seemed impossible to reach, isolated from its neighbors at an elevation sufficient to encourage nosebleeds. The access roads weren’t obvious, and without Hallie’s instructions, I’m not sure I’d have found my way.

  She’d indicated the easiest route was to follow 192 East as far as Winding Canyon Road and then start the ascent. I did as she suggested, taking the narrow two-lane road that snaked up the hill with more switchbacks than straightaways. A mile and a half farther on, I spotted the house number blasted into the surface of a massive sandstone boulder. There was a mailbox nearby, which also touted the address, but the house itself wasn’t visible from the road. The driveway angled upward through a thicket of oaks, a precipitous approach that ran on for another quarter of a mile.

  When I neared the crest of the hill, the house loomed above me like an apparition. If an alien spacecraft had landed, I imagined it would have had the same nearly menacing presence. Against the shadowy landscape, the stark structure blazed with light, the contemporary style oddly suited to the rugged terrain. The front jutted forward like the prow of a ship and appeared to hang out over the canyon; a sailboat made of glass. Vegetation broke in waves, churning among the concrete pilings, and the wind blew with a high whine.

  A parking pad had been hacked out of the stony ground. I pulled in, nosing my Honda up against a stone retaining wall. I got out and locked the car. As I walked, I triggered a series of motion-activated landscape lights that illuminated the path in front of me. I climbed the steep stone steps to the door, careful where I placed my feet lest I topple into the chaparral that stretched out on either side.

  From the front porch, as I faced the glass-fronted door, I had an unobstructed view straight through the house to the dark beyond. The Pacific was visible two miles away, where moonlight cast a gray sheen on the water like a thin layer of ice. The ribbon of Highway 101 wound between the shoreline and the town, and a lacework of house lights was draped across the intervening hills. Large patches of darkness attested to the rural character of the area. There were no neighbors close by, and the simplest of daily needs (such as wine and toilet paper) would require a lengthy drive into town.

  I rang the bell and saw Hallie appear on the wraparound deck on the far side of the house. She entered the dining room by way of a sliding glass door, a caftan of butter yellow silk billowing around her as she crossed the room. She had a tangled mass of reddish brown hair and a face photographers must have loved. While she wasn’t technically beautiful, she was striking. Fine-boned, high forehead. Her complexion was flawless and her narrow nose was prominent, with a bump at the bridge that lent her profile an exotic cast. Her ears were pierced, and a little waterfall of diamonds dangled on either side of her face. The caftan had wide sleeves and intricate embroidery along the cuffs. Only a woman who’s genuinely slim can afford a garment so voluminous. Pointed yellow velvet slippers peeked from beneath her hem. I placed her in her midforties.

  She opened the door and extended her hand. “Hello, Kinsey. I’m Hallie. Thanks for making the drive. I apologize for the imposition.”

  “Nice
to meet you,” I said. “This is quite a place.”

  She flushed with pleasure, saying, “Isn’t it?”

  She led the way and I followed as she moved through the house toward the deck. Much of the interior was shrouded in darkness, the furniture covered with tarps in preparation for her departure. When I glanced to my left, I could see that doors leading off the hallway were closed. On the wide stretch of wood flooring, I could see islands of lush-looking Oriental carpeting. Lamps glowed here and there, lighting up decorative vignettes of tasteful objects, artfully arranged.

  To our right, a two-story wood-and-glass living room took up one whole end of the house. It, too, was blanketed in shadow, but a spill of light from the dining room reflected clean lines against the generous expanses of exterior glass. Bare white walls formed a gallery for numerous paintings in heavy gold frames. I’m not a connoisseur of art, but they appeared to be museum-quality works: landscapes and still-life images in oil. These were not artists I could identify on sight, but the colors were rich and deep, and my impression was that a lot of money had been spent for the collection.

  Over her shoulder, Hallie said, “I hope you won’t be cold if we sit outside. I’ve been enjoying the view. My husband left this morning for the house in Malibu while I close up here.”

  “Must be nice to split your time that way,” I said. Personally, I split mine between my eight-hundred-square-foot apartment and an office half that size.

  We went out onto the deck. Exterior lights had been extinguished, and in the lee of the house, the air seemed hushed. I could smell bay laurel, eucalyptus, and night-blooming jasmine. On a narrow terrace below, a bright turquoise infinity pool glowed like a landing strip. An open bottle of Chardonnay sat on a small wooden table flanked by two canvas director’s chairs. She’d brought out two stemmed glasses, and I saw that hers was half full. She took the closest chair and I settled in its mate.