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by Sue Grafton

  I was still torn. What in heaven’s name was Pete Wolinsky up to? Probably nothing good. If he was extorting money from the women on the list, then lucky them. He was dead and they wouldn’t have to pay another cent. If he was operating from other motives, then what? It would behoove me to chat with Taryn Sizemore in hopes she had some idea what was going on. I was in information-gathering mode and I’d make a decision when I had a few more facts in hand.

  In the meantime, when it came to “Hallie Bettancourt,” I was concerned that in passing along Christian Satterfield’s contact information, I might have put him in harm’s way. At the very least, I felt I should alert him that he’d been the subject of the inquiry. I locked the office and hoofed it to the Santa Teresa Dispatch, which was six blocks away. I needed the air, and the exercise allowed me to free up my brain. I thought I was correct in estimating Hallie’s social status. She looked like big bucks and she’d carried herself with a classy air that was impossible to fake. How did she know about Christian Satterfield and what did she want from him? Unless she hoped to supplement her income by robbing banks, I couldn’t imagine how locating a parolee would serve her.

  When I reached the Dispatch building, I went into the lobby and took the stairs to the second floor. The newspaper archives were housed in an area dense with file cabinets, the drawers packed with news clippings dating back to the 1800s. The librarian was a woman named Marjorie Hixon, who was in her eighties. Tall and refined, gray-green eyes, high cheekbones, gray hair streaked with white. I’d dealt with her on many occasions and I’d always found her cooperative and down-to-earth.

  “How’re you doing, Marjorie? It’s been a while,” I said.

  “This place is a madhouse and has been for months. Last July, we moved from paper to a newfangled electronic system: words, pictures, and graphics, including maps. Don’t ask me how it’s done. I have no idea. I’m still partial to an old-fashioned card catalog, but that’s beside the point. We used to have drones typing headlines on envelopes as they stuffed stories into them. The files were even cross-indexed, which I thought was fancy enough. Now an extraordinarily patient soul named John Pope ensures new stuff is transcribed from paper into an electronic format. All way over my head.”

  “Hey, mine too. I don’t even own a computer.”

  “I have an old Mac my son-in-law passed along when he bought his new one, but I can’t make heads or tails of it. He says it’s user-friendly, but I’ve got news for him. Time was, I could have mastered the darn thing in a day or two, but now there’s no way. Might be time to retire. I’ll be eighty-eight August nineteenth, and my best years may well be behind me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true. You know more than anyone else around here.”

  “Well, I thank you for the vote of confidence, but I’m not too sure. This is a young man’s game. Reporters and editors these days are all kids in their fifties. Too much ambition and energy for my taste. They cuss, they wear jeans to work, and most can’t spell without help, but they dearly love their jobs, which is more than I can say.”

  “But what would you do if you retired? You’d go nuts.”

  “That’s a worry, now you mention it. I’m not one for needlework, and you can only read so many books before your eyesight fails. Someone suggested volunteer work, but that’s out of the question. I’m accustomed to being paid, and the idea of giving away my time and my skills is an affront. Braver women than I fought decades for equal compensation in the workplace, so why would I undo their accomplishments? Anyway, I doubt you came here to hear me complain. What can I do for you?”

  I wrote the name Christian Satterfield on a slip of paper and pushed it across the counter. “I’d like to see the file on this guy. I have two clippings, but I’m hoping there’s more.”

  She read the name. “Let me see what I can find.”

  Within minutes I was seated at a desk along the side wall with the envelope in front of me. There wasn’t much in it beyond the articles Hallie had passed on to me. The only other item of note was a brief mention of an academic scholarship he’d been awarded on graduating from Santa Teresa High School in 1975. He’d been accepted at UCLA, where he hoped to major in economics. The guy was smart and, if his photograph was representative, good-looking as well. How had he ended up in prison? I’d had classmates—dull-witted, dope-smoking losers—who’d ended up better off than he had.

  I returned the folder to Marjorie. “I have a question. I believe someone came in making a similar request for information about this guy. This would have been a woman in her forties. Tall, thin, masses of red-brown hair, a beaky nose—the sort of face you’d see in a snooty magazine ad.”

  “I’d remember someone of that description. Of course, I was out on vacation over Christmas, and she could have come in then,” she said. “I can ask around, if you like. Someone might remember her. We don’t get much business up here these days. One day soon newspapers will be a thing of the past.”

  “That can’t be true. You think? I mean, people want to know what’s going on in the world. A television broadcast is never going to take the place of hard news.”

  “All I know is there was a time when a newspaper was the heartbeat of the city. Now, not so much. It’s like the lifeblood is draining out.”

  “Well, that’s depressing.”

  “Try looking at it from where I stand,” she said.

  13

  I walked back to the office and retrieved my car. I had time for one more stop before I headed home. I checked my index cards to verify Taryn Sizemore’s address. I cruised up State and turned right onto a side street, approaching a bar and grill called Sneaky Pete’s, which had closed and reopened under a new name some years before. Despite the new moniker, it was still referred to as Sneaky Pete’s. What loomed large in my mind’s eye was the vision of the specialty of the house: a sandwich made with spicy salami and melted pepper jack cheese, topped with a fried egg, the whole of it served on a Kaiser roll that dripped with butter as you ate. I would have pursued that fantasy, but I spotted Taryn Sizemore’s office address directly across the street. I had to make a hasty turn at the next corner and swing back around. It was well after five by then, and many of the area businesses were closed for the day, which made street parking a breeze.

  I locked my car and entered the renovated Victorian structure, which apparently now housed an entire complex of psychologists’ offices. From this, I cleverly deduced that Taryn’s PhD must be in marriage and family therapy, counseling, or social work. She’d probably had years of professional training in how to feign interest in what others had to say. This might work to my advantage until she realized I wasn’t in the market for a shrink.

  Hers was suite 100 on the ground floor. I went in and found myself in a small, comfortably furnished waiting room complete with an apartment-size, chintz-covered love seat and two small easy chairs. The color scheme was a soothing blend of blues and greens, probably designed to calm clients whose emotional tendencies ran to upset and agitation. There were no windows and only one other door, which I assumed opened into her office proper.

  To the right of the door was a glowing red light. I took this to mean she was currently occupied. It was dead quiet. I checked my watch, hoping I hadn’t missed the boat altogether. It was 5:25. It was my understanding that therapists operated on a fifty-minute hour, but I had no idea when the hour began. I sat down, noting that she subscribed to six women’s magazines, all current. I picked up a copy of House & Garden and turned to an article about easy Easter-themed entertaining for eight, then realized I don’t know eight people, let alone eight who’d suffer my cooking even if I invited them.

  After fifteen minutes passed, I got up and tiptoed to the door, listening for sounds from within. No comforting murmur of conversation, no shrieks or sobs. I sat down again. Having arrived without an appointment, I didn’t feel I had the right to bang on the door and complain. It was alway
s possible she’d left for the day, but surely she’d have locked the front door. At ten minutes of six, the light switched abruptly from red to green. No one emerged. There must be a separate outside exit so a loony-tunes patient was never subjected to the indignity of crossing paths with another nut job.

  At six, the door to her office opened and a young woman appeared at a brisk pace. She stopped dead when she caught sight of me. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t know anybody was out here.” She turned and glanced at the room behind her in dismay. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I don’t. I stopped by on the off chance I might catch you before you left for the day. Are you Ms. Sizemore?”

  She held out her hand. “Taryn, yes.”

  “Should I have said ‘Doctor’ Sizemore?”

  “Taryn’s fine. Even with a PhD, I don’t call myself ‘doctor’ anything. It seems pretentious.”

  “Kinsey Millhone,” I said as the two of us shook hands. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  I watched her make a quick decision. “I have to be somewhere at seven, but I can give you until six thirty if that helps.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Come on in.”

  She turned on her heel and I followed her into her office, waiting while she closed the door behind us.

  She was tall and lean, towering over me in black high-heeled boots. She wore a short white knit top over jeans that were belted low on her hips. A strip of bare midriff flashed when she moved. Her pant legs were long enough to break across her instep, which made her slim legs look even longer. I took in the rest of the picture as she crossed to the telephone and activated the message machine. Dark eyes, shoulder-length brown hair arranged in a messy tumble. Big hoop earrings, red lipstick.

  I did a visual survey of my surroundings. This room had the same homey feel as the reception area. Instead of a desk, she had a refectory table, bare except for a low vase filled with drooping pink and yellow roses that had opened to the full. I could see a leather-bound appointment book, a tidy row of ballpoint pens, and color-coded file folders in an upright rack. Bookshelves lined the walls on two sides, with two windows dead ahead and an exterior door that opened onto the side of the building. One arm of the walkway probably circled to the street and the other to a parking area in the rear. If she had file cabinets, I saw no sign of them.

  She offered me a choice of a couch, a sleek chair of leather and chrome, or one of two chairs upholstered in a blue-and-green floral print. I chose one of the two matching chairs, and she elected to settle on the couch with the coffee table between us. I wondered if my selection was psychologically significant, but decided not to fret about the point. Her nails were clipped short and without polish. No wedding ring and no other jewelry except a loose, bracelet-style watch that she adjusted with her free hand. I saw her flick a practiced glance at the watch face, noting the time. She seemed open, waiting for me to set the subject and tone of the conversation.

  I hadn’t thought about how to summarize the story, so I was forced to jump right in. Really, I should mend my careless ways. This was the third time I’d been caught without a story prepared in advance. Oh, what the hell, I thought. “I’m a private detective looking for information. The story’s complicated, and if I stop to spell it out, it’s only going to slow us down. I thought I’d lay out the situation and you can tell me if you need anything clarified before you reply. Assuming you’re willing to answer questions.”

  “Fire away,” she said.

  “Does the name Pete Wolinsky mean anything to you?”

  “Sure. I knew Pete. Not well, but when I heard he was shot to death, I didn’t know what to think. Is that why you’re here?”

  “Not exactly. The police arrested the perpetrator, but the case hasn’t been set for trial. What interests me is peripheral. Was he a patient of yours?”

  “I prefer calling them ‘clients,’ but no.”

  “Good. That’s great. I’d hate asking you to violate a confidence.”

  “No danger there,” she said with a polite smile.

  “Can you tell me how you knew him?”

  “Call it ‘old business’ for simplicity’s sake. Our paths crossed years ago, and then he showed up again last spring.”

  Chances were good the “old business” she was referring to was the lawsuit she’d filed against Ned Lowe. I nearly mentioned him, but I decided to wait, curious to see if she’d volunteer the name.

  “So Pete initiated contact?” I asked.

  “Yep. We got together twice, with maybe three or four weeks between meetings. When I didn’t hear from him again, I didn’t think anything about it. When I found out he’d been killed, I was taken aback.”

  “That was a tough one,” I said, my tone noncommittal.

  “What’s the nature of your interest?”

  “His widow’s a friend of mine. Pete left Ruth with a pile of debt and his affairs in disarray. She’s got an IRS audit coming up, so we’ve been going through his effects, looking for financial records. Yesterday I found a mailing pouch concealed under a false bottom in a banker’s box. The mailer was addressed to a priest in Burning Oaks, postmarked 1961. There was also a list hidden in the pages of a document in the same box. Your name was on it.”

  “What kind of list?”

  “Six women’s names, which he’d encrypted for reasons unknown. My landlord identified the cipher and provided me the key.”

  “I didn’t know Pete was into cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

  “I guess he was; in this regard, if nothing else.”

  She studied me. “Now you’re trying to determine if there’s a link between the names.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Can you give me the other five?”

  “Sure.”

  I opened my shoulder bag and took out my index cards. I removed the rubber band and sorted through the first few until I found the notes I’d made. “There’s a Susan Telford in Henderson, Nevada, and a woman named Janet Macy in Tucson, Arizona.”

  She shook her head to both.

  “Shirley Ann Kastle from Burning Oaks?”

  “I know who she is, but the reference is secondhand. I never met her myself. And the fourth?”

  “Lenore Redfern, also from Burning Oaks. There’s also a Phyllis Joplin from Perdido.”

  “This is about Ned Lowe, isn’t it?”

  “It’s possible. I’m not sure.”

  “Back up a step. You said Pete’s widow is a friend. Were you and Pete also friends?”

  “Sorry. I should have filled you in. We worked for the same detective agency many years ago. I was just starting out and needed six thousand hours for licensing purposes. Pete was pals with Ben Byrd and Morley Shine, the guys who ran the firm. To be honest, I know about the lawsuit you filed against Ned Lowe in that same time period.”

  “How long did you work there?”

  “From 1975 to 1978, when I left to open an office of my own.”

  “I thought Pete was a partner in the agency.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “Not directly, but that was the impression he gave.”

  “Well, it’s not true. He didn’t even work there full-time. He did occasional contract work.” I was doing a poor job of concealing my dislike, which might have been a mistake. If she was crazy about Pete, I didn’t want to put her off.

  Her response was mild. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “I don’t like his distorting the facts. Ben and Morley kept him at arm’s length.”

  “And why was that?”

  I considered my reply. No reason to offend on the off chance she thought he was a model citizen. “I don’t see the point in going into it,” I said.

  “If you’re asking about Pete, your history with him is relevant, don’t you think?”

 
I entertained a small debate. If I wanted information from her, I was going to have to prime the pump. The problem was I’d have to be circumspect, which is not my strong suit. I chose my words carefully. “Pete had trouble distinguishing right from wrong. He was usually hard up for cash and willing to cut corners when it came right down to it.”

  “Really,” she said, bemused. “He didn’t strike me as morally compromised, which is what you’re suggesting.”

  “Let’s put it this way: what got him killed was extorting money from someone with something to hide. Maybe he was different in his dealings with you.”

  “Possible.”

  “You know, I appreciate your professional reticence, but so far this is like pulling teeth. Can we loosen up a bit?” I asked. “I’m trying to decide how much time and effort to expend, so a tiny bit of information would be a boon.”

  “Ask anything you like. I’ll tell you what I can.”

  “I’d appreciate it. Let’s start with Lenore Redfern. Am I correct in thinking Ned was married to her?”

  “Years ago, yes. According to the story I heard, Lennie suffered postpartum psychosis after their little girl was born. When the child was three, Lennie killed herself, and now he’s married to someone else.”

  “Celeste. I ran across her name in a wedding announcement Pete clipped from the local paper.”