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by Sue Grafton

  “No. You want to give me a hint?”

  “I could, but I’d prefer not to color your recollection.”

  “What’s to color? I don’t remember anything of the sort.”

  “Take your time.”

  I was getting annoyed. “What kind of bill? Five, ten, a twenty?”

  He jerked his thumb upward.

  “A hundred? I don’t carry hundreds. They’re useless. Too hard to change.”

  I was about to go on when an “uh-oh” popped to mind. I leaned forward and squinted. “Are you talking about the hundred-dollar bill I used to pay for groceries last week?”

  He pointed at me, like he was calling on me in class. “Can you tell me where you were?”

  “At the grocery store obviously; the Alpha Beta market on Old Coast Road in Montebello.” I was only adding the details to show I had nothing to hide. My righteous tone sounded bogus, but that might have had more to do with the look he was giving me.

  “We’re wondering how that particular bill ended up in your hands.”

  “I was hired to do a job and I was paid in cash,” I said. “That bill was phony?”

  “Not quite. Six months ago, the Alpha Beta chain initiated use of a device that counts, sorts, and bands currency. It’s also programmed to spot counterfeits and capture serial numbers. The machine tagged the bill as marked, and the store manager tracked it to the cashier who took it in trade. She doesn’t usually work that shift, so she remembered the transaction.”

  “Suzanne,” I said, supplying her name.

  “What kind of job did you do?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Hired by whom?” he asked, not the least bit perturbed.

  I hesitated. “I’m not sure I should tell you my client’s name. Give me a minute to think about it.”

  “I can do that. When were you hired?”

  “That same night. So you’re telling me that bill was marked?”

  “Not literally marked. We recorded serial numbers on a stack of cash that changed hands two years ago in the course of a felony.”

  “What felony?”

  “I’ll get to that in a bit. I have a few questions first, if you don’t object.”

  “I might object. I don’t know yet. Why don’t you ask and I’ll tell you what I can?”

  He opened his notebook, flipping to a blank page, and clicked the tip of a ballpoint pen into place. “Let’s go back to your client’s name.”

  I went through a hasty internal debate. If I’d been working for an attorney in a civil or criminal matter, the question of confidentiality would have been clear-cut. In my dealings with Hallie Bettancourt, there were no legal issues at stake. The information I’d been hired to find seemed uncomplicated on the face of it. If Hallie paid me with tainted cash, the act might or might not have been intentional. Therefore what? My recollection of the ethical niceties was as follows: No privilege exists between the investigator and a third party, nor does it exist in communications outside the scope of the reason for legal representation.

  So how did that apply to the current circumstance? Was I at liberty to blab her business to this nice plainclothes police detective? Ordinarily, I’m protective of clients, but in this case, I thought a police inquiry took precedence.

  “Hallie Bettancourt,” I said. I paused to spell her name for him and watched him make a note of it before I went on. “Now it’s my turn to ask. We’ll trade off. You ask me and then I’ll ask you.”

  “Fair enough. Go ahead.”

  “You said ‘felony.’ So what was the crime?” I watched him deciding how forthcoming he should be, the same debate he’d gone through moments before.

  Finally, he said, “Nineteen eighty-seven, a painting was stolen from a wealthy Montebello resident. His collection was uninsured and the painting in question was valued at one-point-two million.”

  “Yikes.”

  “That was my reaction. He was in a white-hot sweat to get the painting back and decided to offer a reward. We opposed the plan, but you can only push people so far, and he ended up winning the argument. He posted the reward, and shortly afterward, someone contacted him, claiming to know the painting’s whereabouts.”

  “Which ‘someone’ would be happy to confide as soon as the arrangements were made,” I said. “How much was the reward?”

  “Fifteen grand. The caller was a ‘she’ in this case,” he said. “The woman insisted on the reward being bumped from fifteen to twenty-five grand; five thousand of it in hundred-dollar bills and the rest in smaller denominations.”

  “More like ransom.”

  “Exactly. My turn now, isn’t it?”

  I conceded the point with a careless wave of my hand.

  He checked his notes. “Aside from that Monday, how many times did you meet with your client?”

  “First and only time. She lives up on Sky View in Montebello, off Winding Canyon Road. The old Clipper estate, in case you’re about to ask.” I gave him the house number and watched him make a note. “I can’t believe I missed this whole ransom thing.”

  “It was only in the paper briefly. A reporter got wind of it and ran with the story before we could shut her down. We wanted to keep a lid on it, figuring if word got out we’d have a rash of copycats,” he said. He checked his notes again. “Can you give me Ms. Bettancourt’s phone number?”

  “I didn’t get a local number. There wasn’t any need. When she called the office, I was here and I picked up the phone. After we met, I didn’t have occasion to call her. She was leaving town the next morning, so she gave me a couple of numbers in Malibu. She and her husband have a second home down there. He has an office in Malibu as well.”

  As he was about to ask anyway, I reached into my bag and pulled out my index cards, sorting through until I found the relevant numbers, which I recited while he made notes.

  “And she hired you to do what?”

  “Nuh-uh. My turn. What happened to the reward? Did the woman collect?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. We advised the victim not to pay, but he was adamant. The best we could do was talk him into letting us record the serial numbers on the bills. Long story short, he paid, the painting came back, and that was the end of it until that bill showed up,” he said. “What did she hire you to do?”

  Another quick debate, but I couldn’t see how the job I’d been hired to do was in any way connected to the painting-for-ransom scheme. “She wanted contact information for a kid she put up for adoption thirty-two years ago. The story’s more complicated, but essentially that’s it.”

  “Whose idea was the cash?”

  I thought back to the conversation. “Hers, though I’d have suggested it if she hadn’t brought it up herself. She said she’d be out of town until June. Under the circumstances, I would have been leery about taking a check. Please note I just allowed you an extra question.”

  “You’re sure the bill came from her and not someone else?”

  “Positive. I stopped at the market on the way home. I don’t usually carry hundreds. The money was in an envelope I put in my shoulder bag, and I spent it within the hour. While we’re on the subject, I’ve already done the job and put my report in the mail, if it’s relevant. You think this same woman stole the painting?”

  “Possible,” he said. He squinted at me in delayed disbelief. “You did a job for a hundred bucks?”

  “Oh, sorry. She offered five, but that was too much, given what I’d been asked to do. I suggested two, and that’s what she ended up paying me.”

  “Still sounds like a bargain.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” I hesitated and then said, “Crap. I guess you might as well have the other hundred. You’ll ask for it anyway.”

  I reached into my shoulder bag and removed the envelope from the outer pocket, holding it by one corner. “My
prints are on this, but so are hers. Run ’em and you might get a hit in case she turns out to be a criminal mastermind.”

  He smiled. “I’ll mention that to the techs. Chances are she came by the cash the same way you did, but maybe we can track it back to the source.”

  “Meanwhile, what? I’m out the money?”

  “I’m afraid so. The supermarket lost out, too, if you want to get right down to it. The bill you passed, they turned over to us without recompense. At least you got groceries out of the deal.”

  “I hope they don’t take it out of Suzanne’s pay,” I said.

  “Depends on store policy. I’m guessing not.”

  I thought about his story. “You said this was two years ago. I wonder why the money’s showing up now?”

  “No idea.”

  “But clearly someone’s been sitting on it, right?”

  “Theoretically, yes. Some of it could have been circulated in other parts of the country. We have no way of knowing that.”

  “Bad paper’s a bitch,” I said. “You need anything else?”

  “Nope. What about you? Any questions?”

  “I’d like a receipt for that bill, which I’m assuming will be booked in as evidence.”

  “Oh, right.”

  I watched while he fashioned a receipt, writing down the date and serial number before he passed it across the desk to me. “I hope your client makes good on the loss,” he said.

  “Hey, me too, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Probably smart. In the meantime, this is a sensitive operation, so steer clear if you would.” He stirred and stood up.

  I stood at the same time.

  He said, “We appreciate your cooperation. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  “Not your fault. If I hear from her again, I’ll be happy to let you know.”

  He pointed to the phone number on his business card. “That’s my private line. You need me, leave a message and I’ll get back to you. I’m currently on loan to an FBI/ATF task force. Technically, the PD’s not involved, and they want to keep it that way. You call the department looking for me, they’re going to play dumb.”

  “Got it,” I said. We shook hands again, as though closing a deal. “Thanks for the backstory. You didn’t have to put me in the loop on this.”

  “We’d be grateful for any help.”

  The minute I heard the door close behind him, I opened Hallie’s file again and tried her home phone in Malibu.

  After three rings, I got a message saying the number was not in service. Odd. I tried her husband’s two office numbers with the same result. I could feel the mental punctuation form above my head: a question mark and an exclamation point.

  10

  I leaned back in my swivel chair and put my feet on the desk while I did a quick assessment. Hallie didn’t strike me as a high-end art thief, but what did I know? She’d told me her husband didn’t have a job, so maybe this was his way of generating income—stealing art and trading it back to the rightful owner in exchange for a “reward.” Detective Nash had suggested I leave the matter to law enforcement, but he hadn’t forbidden me to do anything. Not that a clever course of action occurred to me. For now, the situation was irksome, but not pressing. True, I’d done the work and shipped off my report. Also true, groceries aside, I was no longer in possession of the cash I’d been paid. Added to that annoyance was the fact that the phone numbers she’d given me were duds. On the plus side, I knew where she lived, so she’d have a tough time dodging me once she returned in June. Worst-case scenario, I’d wait until then, explain the difficulty, and ask to be reimbursed. If she’d been the inadvertent recipient of marked bills, she’d be as irritated as I was to hear the cash was now evidence in a criminal case. Even if she felt no obligation to make good, I was only out a hundred bucks. I wanted what I was due, but with a shitload of money in the bank, I wasn’t desperate.

  I should have relegated the issue to the back of my brain, but alas, I could not. I picked up the handset and rang Vera at home. Three rings. Four. I was gratified when she finally picked up, though she did seem winded.

  “Hey, Vera. This is Kinsey. Did I catch you on the run?”

  “What makes you ask? The fact that I’m huffing and puffing and gasping for breath?”

  “Pretty much,” I said. “If this is a bad time, I can try you later.”

  “This is fine. To what do I owe this rare contact?”

  “I’ll overlook the snotty remark,” I said. “I need to contact Hallie Bettancourt, but the numbers she gave me in Malibu turned out to be no good.”

  There was a moment of silence. “I don’t know anyone named Hallie.”

  “Sure you do. You met her at a party and gave her my name.”

  “Nope. Don’t think so. When was this?”

  “A couple of weeks ago. I don’t know the date.”

  “I haven’t been to a party in two years.”

  “Okay, maybe not a party, but a social gathering of some sort. You had a conversation with a woman who needed the services of a private investigator.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t be so quick! I haven’t finished yet. She was trying to locate the kid she gave up at birth and you thought I could help. Which I did.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I did a job for a woman named Hallie Bettancourt, who said she met you in passing—”

  “You’ve said that already and I’m still not following. I’m pregnant with twins. Enormous. We’re talking the size of a whale. Seven months. Actually, it’s closer to eight. I don’t drink. I don’t go out, and the only people I talk to are under thirty-six inches tall. Except Neil, of course. I hope I don’t sound bitter or cross.”

  “A tiny bit cross,” I said. “Not to argue the point, but I only took the job because she mentioned you by name. Otherwise, I might have turned her down.” I was fibbing of course. I’d been delighted to be gainfully employed.

  “What’s her name again?”

  “Bettancourt. First name Hallie. Her husband is Geoffrey, last name unknown. This is one of those modern marriages where everybody hangs on to what’s his or hers. They live on the old Clipper estate. Half the year, at any rate. The rest of the time, they’re in Malibu or traveling the world. Tough life.”

  “Uh, Kinsey? The Clipper estate’s empty and has been for years. No one’s lived in that house since the old lady died back in 1963.”

  “Bullshit. I met Hallie up there a week ago.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, Vera.” Slowly, as though to a half-wit, I said, “Here’s how it went, and I will swear to this. She called and set up a meeting to discuss a personal matter. On your say-so, please note. I drove up to the house. We had wine on the deck looking out over the city while she told me a long sad tale about the baby she gave up for adoption thirty-two years ago.”

  “Did you find him?”

  “Yes, I did. He’s a safecracker-turned-bank-robber just out of prison, and I’ve already sent her the information she asked for.”

  “She set you up. She must have talked a good game.”

  “I don’t see how she could have been bullshitting. She told me all kinds of things about the house.”

  “For instance, what?”

  “For instance, her father’s the famous architect who tore down the original Georgian mansion and built the contemporary structure that’s up there now.”

  “Her father?”

  “Halston Bettancourt. At least I think that’s his name.”

  “Wrong again. Her name was Ingrid Merchant. She was a San Francisco architect who was all the rage in the 1930s.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. I did hear the note of uncertainty that had crept i
nto my voice. “Are you sure about that?”

  With exaggerated patience, she said, “I know I’m hormonal. I know my IQ’s dropped a good twenty points, but I’m still the reigning queen of local real estate. That’s what I do for jollies when I’m not giving birth.”

  “I remember that. You scour the Sunday papers and go to all the open houses. Your knowledge is encyclopedic.”

  “That’s right, which is how I know about the Clipper estate. It’s a relic. A white elephant. It’s been on the market so long, it’s a joke. The foundation’s cracked and the wooden joists are riddled with termites. The only thing holding it together is the selling agent’s high hopes. Hallie Bettancourt set you up.”

  “How many children do you have now?”

  “Including the soon-to-be-born twins? Five.”

  “What happened to Peter and Meg?”

  “Those are my first two. They still live with us. Not to accuse you of neglect, but you missed Abigail entirely, and you’re just about to miss Travis and Scott.”

  “Maybe I’ll stop by sometime,” I said weakly.

  She didn’t actually hang up on me. There was some kind of ruckus in the background, and I heard her say, “Oh, shit!” Then the line went dead.

  I stared at the phone. This was bad. Worse than I’d thought. Had Hallie lied to me about everything? It was clear she’d played fast and loose, but what was the point? She’d conned me into doing the legwork in her efforts to locate an ex-con named Christian Satterfield, who might not be related to her at all. He was for real, a convicted bank robber out on parole. I’d seen the article about his crime spree and I’d seen the man himself (at least as far as I could tell in the dark and at a distance). I’d provided Hallie with contact information, neatly keeping her name out of it as requested, but the story about giving a child up for adoption now seemed questionable. I wasn’t even sure the name Hallie Bettancourt was real. Probably not, now that I thought about it.

  There had to be a way to track her down. How could she appear and disappear without leaving a trace?

  I picked up my leather bag by the strap and slung it over my shoulder, fishing in one of the outer pockets for my keys. I locked the office and trotted out to my car. I took the back road through town, skirting the city limits as I hit the 192 and headed east toward the Clipper estate. Now the route looked different, nearly disorienting with its surfeit of visual information. At night, many houses disappeared, fading into the surrounding darkness under the cover of trees. During the daylight hours, the trajectory of the east-west mountain range was brought into high relief.