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by Sue Grafton

  “You won’t believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Okay, so here it is: Pete told me Morley Shine got drunk one night and admitted he’d broken into my psychiatrist’s office. That’s how he got the information. He photocopied my file and turned everything over to Ned’s attorney. Of course it was illegal, immoral, and unethical, but what good did that do me? Pete had felt guilty about it for years and he wanted to set the record straight.”

  “Too little too late, wasn’t it?”

  “Not at all. In a weird way, it helped. I felt vindicated. In some sense of the word Ned ‘won,’ but only by playing dirty.”

  “Would have been nice if Pete had spoken up back then.”

  “Oh, he did. That’s the point. He went to Ben Byrd and told him what Morley had done. Ben confronted Morley and they had a knock-down, drag-out fight. After that, I gather Ben never spoke to Morley again.”

  I closed my eyes and lowered my head. “That’s why the partnership broke up.”

  “Basically, yes. Morley blamed Pete for blowing the whistle on him, and I guess Ben blamed him, too, even though Morley was the guilty party. In the end, Pete was left out in the cold. Any work he did afterward was strictly catch-as-catch-can.”

  I sat, pondering what I already knew in light of this new information. “So what’s the list of women’s names about?”

  “You know Pete was an insomniac. He roamed the streets at night.”

  “Right. He was doing that when I knew him way back when.”

  “He had a protective streak. He knew Ned was treacherous and he took to hovering over the women who’d come in range of him. Me, Ned’s daughter, his wife, Celeste.”

  “His daughter’s name and his wife’s weren’t on the list.”

  “Maybe he intended to add them. He told me he’d spoken to both.”

  “What about Shirley Ann Kastle? Who is she?”

  “Ned’s high school sweetheart. That’s as much as I know about her.”

  “I figured all of you were victims of a blackmail scheme.”

  “No, no. You’re wrong about that. Pete was a purist.”

  “A purist? You gotta be kidding me! The guy was a crook.”

  “Not so,” she said. “I saw him as someone so passionate about justice, he was destined to fail.”

  I made a sour face. “You met with him, what, twice? I knew him for the better part of ten years.”

  “Hold on and just listen to me. I have clients you’d swear up and down were total, unmitigated slobs, but they’re actually the opposite—so hell-bent on ‘clean and tidy,’ they can’t even start. Rather than fail, they give up. Their standards are so high, they’re overwhelmed before they start. To them, it’s better not even tackling the job.”

  “That’s a stretch.”

  “Talk to Ruth. She understood him better than you did.”

  “No doubt.”

  “You want my opinion?”

  “Are you speaking as a person or as a shrink?”

  “I’m always speaking as a shrink.”

  “Then I don’t want to hear it.”

  She smiled. “I’ll give it to you anyway. No charge to the recipient.”

  I raised a hand. “I’m serious. I don’t want to hear it.”

  Taryn went on as though I’d never opened my mouth. “This is as much about you as it is about him. You’re entangled with the man. I don’t know how or why, but I can see it as clear as day.”

  “I’m not ‘entangled.’ Bullshit. Where’d you get that? I didn’t like him. I disapproved of the choices he made. That’s hardly ‘entanglement.’”

  “You felt no compassion for his Marfan syndrome?”

  “Oh, come on. We all have a cross to bear. His life was tough, but his problems were self-generated. The Marfan was the least of them. Most were the result of his basic dishonesty, which is something you can’t fix.”

  “He didn’t need fixing. He needed to get back to who he was before he lost track of himself.”

  “Too late for that now.”

  “No, it’s not. That’s what you’re here for, to tie up loose ends.”

  “Wait. Excuse me. This is about him. It has nothing to do with me.”

  She seemed to be enjoying herself, her manner animated. “You said it yourself. We ‘do much the same job. We study people’s lives, determine what went wrong, and try to make it right.’”

  I laughed. “You’re quoting me back to myself? That’s a low blow. I was referring to the two of us. You and me. Not Pete and me.”

  “He left work undone. Whatever his plan was, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  “I’ll figure it out? I don’t think so. Since when is this my problem?”

  “Since the day he died,” she said.

  I shook my head, smirking, as though her comment warranted no legitimate response. Then I noted my body language. I’d crossed my arms over my chest, which I thought she might misinterpret as stubborn and defensive. I uncrossed my arms and then couldn’t think what to do with them. I leaned forward and put my elbows on the desk. “No offense, Ms. Sizemore, but you are full of shit.”

  She reached for her bag and rose to her feet. “We’ll come back to this. Right now I have a client coming and I have to run.”

  18

  “Who asked you?” I called after her. The rejoinder was not only weak, but she’d already left by the time I delivered it.

  I turned and peered out the window, catching sight of her as she retreated down my walk. She waved over her shoulder, confident she was having the final word. Well, wasn’t I cranky and out of sorts? I thought therapists were supposed to keep their opinions to themselves. I wasn’t even a client and there she was challenging my view of Pete’s character when I’d known the man for years. I was the one who’d witnessed his moral failings. The idea that I was going to come along in the wake of his death and tidy up his unfinished business struck me as ludicrous. What especially annoyed me was the fact that I’d already been planning to unearth the remaining women on the list and see what they could tell me. In Taryn Sizemore’s analysis, that was tantamount to taking on Pete’s investigation, which was certainly not the case. I had work of my own to do. Sort of.

  I had intended to file a police report about the break-in, but what was the point? I could picture writing out my complaint about an intruder unraveling a roll of toilet paper. This would not be compelling to officers whose sworn duty was to battle crime in our fair city. I might have legitimate grounds, but in the larger scheme of things, this was chickenshit. I did a circuit of the inner and outer offices, testing locks and righting the remaining disorder Ned had created. Took all of three minutes. I had no proof it was him in any event, so scratch that idea.

  I returned to my office proper, and I’d no more than crossed the threshold when I stopped in my tracks.

  Where was the banker’s box with the X on the lid?

  I stared at the floor as though I’d already registered the empty spot. The box should have been sitting near the door where I’d left it, but there was no sign of it. I knew I’d brought the box to work with me. I’d removed the padded mailer from its hiding place, crammed the pouch into my floor safe, and set the box aside. I’d meant to go through the contents a second time, but now it was gone. I felt a sharp pang of regret, grasping at alternative explanations. I hadn’t left it at home, had I? I remembered toting it to the car and then bringing it into the office.

  Feeling anxious, I pulled back the carpet, ran the combination to the safe, and opened it. The manila mailing pouch was still there. I pulled it out, opened it, and eyed the contents. Everything was accounted for. I returned the pouch, then closed and locked the safe. I made another circuit of the bungalow, knowing I wouldn’t find what I was looking for. I sat down at my desk and stared out the window, trying to come up with an
explanation other than the certain knowledge that someone had stolen it. “Someone” being Ned Lowe.

  I knew my current obsession was an emotional state called “psychological assessment”—an endless revisiting of events in hopes the outcome would change. I stopped myself. It was done. The box was gone. If I’d failed to find something critical, it was too late. Really, had I left the box in the trunk of my car? I didn’t think so.

  Time to get practical, I thought. Instead of fretting about what I didn’t have, maybe it was time to go back to what I had. I pulled out the list of names. Of the six, the last two women were still unaccounted for. I picked up the handset, dialed directory assistance in Tucson, Arizona, and asked for listings for last name, Macy. There were twenty-one of them. I didn’t think the operator would have the patience to read all of them out to me one by one, so I asked for the first ten with the accompanying numbers, which I jotted on an index card: Andrew, Christine, Douglas, E. (probably Emily or Ellen), Everett P. . . . On and on it went.

  I thanked her profusely and depressed the plunger, determined to launch into the first batch before I lost heart. I wasn’t quite sure of my approach. I could, of course, simply call and ask for Janet by name, hoping for the best, but I felt I should also be prepared to explain the reason I was asking for her. I could feel myself waffle. Making cold calls is time-consuming and tedious, and the longer I put it off, the more tempting it would be to avoid the chore altogether.

  I checked the ten numbers and dialed the first. Six minutes later, I’d left messages on four answering machines, two numbers were disconnects, two parties hadn’t answered, and one didn’t know a Janet Macy. The effort had been pointless, but at least it hadn’t taken long. As I dialed the last number, I made up my mind that this was it for the day.

  When a woman picked up, I said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m calling from Santa Teresa, California, trying to track down a Janet Macy. Is this the correct number for her?”

  “Not anymore,” she said. She sounded elderly, tired, and perturbed.

  “Ah. But this was her number at one time?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Do you have her new number?”

  “There’s no new number as far as I know. Janet left some time ago, and I haven’t heard from her. I can’t say it surprises me. She was never good about things like that. Are you a friend?”

  “Actually, I’m not. A mutual acquaintance is hoping to locate her, and I offered to help.” This explanation made no particular sense, and if the woman pressed me, I’d be at a loss to elaborate. “Are you her mother?”

  “I am. Her dad passed a year ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Took him long enough.”

  “That must have been difficult,” I said.

  She said, “Well.”

  I was afraid she’d launch into his medical history, so I moved right along. “Do you remember when you last spoke to Janet?”

  “Let me think about that now. It must have been three years ago this spring. She wanted to pursue a modeling career in New York City. I was against the whole idea. I told her she was too young and inexperienced, but she was bullheaded and wouldn’t listen. She picked that up from her dad, if you want to know the truth. A very unattractive character trait.”

  “How old was she?”

  “That’s just it. She was not quite sixteen and she couldn’t very well leave without my permission. She had no money, for one thing, and she didn’t drive. She was still in high school. She was never a good student anyway, so it’s no big loss there.”

  “If she was broke and didn’t drive, how did she intend to get to New York?”

  “Greyhound bus, I imagine. She might have had enough for a one-way ticket. It’s possible she hitchhiked, which she knew I was opposed to.”

  “Did she know anybody in the city?”

  “She did. She met this photographer who thought she had promise. He worked for a big modeling agency and he was helping her put together a portfolio. I didn’t think anything would come of it and I didn’t appreciate her taking off without a word.”

  “As young as she was, did you report her as missing?”

  “Of course I did. Regardless of her opinion, I’m still her mother. I went down to the police station and talked to someone. He took the information, but didn’t seem that interested.”

  “Was there any follow-up?”

  “Not that I’m aware. I filed a report, but nothing’s come of it. The police officer was nice about it. He said it was probably nothing to worry about and I should be sure to let him know if I heard from her, which I have not. What did you want with her?”

  “Just making sure she’s okay, I guess.”

  “No way to know how she is unless she calls me one of these days. I look for her picture in the fashion magazines, but I haven’t seen her yet. I always told her hard work was required if you wanted to be a success. I guess she’s finding that out.”

  “I suppose she is,” I said. “Well, I thank you for your time. I appreciate your courtesy.”

  “You’re entirely welcome.”

  I made a note beside the number. I drew a line under her name. For some reason Pete had thought she was of interest, but I didn’t see a link.

  The phone rang. I picked up the handset, saying, “Millhone Investigations.”

  “Kinsey? Spencer Nash. I’ve got a plane to catch, but I thought I’d give you an update on your pal Satterfield. You have a sec?”

  “Absolutely. What now?”

  “I got word last night he was huddled with a gal in a bar off Dave Levine Street. Place called Lou’s. The two had their heads together and the talk was intense. No description of the woman, but it could have been your Hallie Bettancourt. Timing’s right if she found him on the basis of information you provided her.”

  “Nice. I’d about given up on her.”

  “Well, don’t give up yet, because there’s more. For the past twenty minutes, Satterfield’s been sitting in a limousine idling outside the Santa Teresa Shores Hotel. You know the area where the shuttle to LAX picks up?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, the next run leaves at three twenty this afternoon. If she’s the one he’s waiting for, you’ve got time enough to get down here. Long shot, but I’m giving you the heads-up. You want to check it out, she’s yours.”

  “Why are you suddenly so interested?”

  “I mentioned your encounter with her to a pal in vice. Hallie he doesn’t care about, but he thinks Satterfield is promising. He likes the idea of grooming him as a confidential informant.”

  “In what context?”

  “Money laundering’s my guess. At Lompoc, he was tight with guys who run a gambling syndicate on the outside.”

  “I won’t be stepping on toes?”

  “Get results and I’ll take care of any flack you generate.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “Lobby at the Shores, which is where I sign off. I’d pursue this myself, but I’m out of here.”

  “How long?”

  “Two days max. I’ll call when I get back. Meantime, you interested?”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Great.” He clicked off.

  I grabbed my shoulder bag, locked the office, scooted out to the Honda, and slid under the wheel. As I backed out of the drive, I glanced at the dashboard and realized I’d committed the two cardinal sins in the catechism of a private eye:

  1. Never allow your car to get low on gas. I was looking at a third of a tank at best. Now I was in a hurry and had no time to top it off.

  2. Never pass up a chance to pee.

  I traveled surface streets. The Shores was on Cabana Boulevard across the street from the turnaround point on my usual morning jog. The location must have seemed perfect to tourists who flocked
to our city in June and July, not realizing we’d be socked in by a marine layer that blocked the sun and chilled the summer air. The hotel itself had seen better days. Age and the sea damp had taken their toll, though the facility still played host to small conventions.

  I hadn’t had a chance to tell Nash that Christian’s mother, Geraldine, worked for Prestige Transportation Services Inc. I had no doubt she was at the wheel of the limousine, decked out in her stern black suit, white shirt, and black bow tie. I couldn’t imagine why she’d ferried him to a bus stop unless it was a habit left over from his grade school days when his morning dawdling required her to load him in the car and drive him to prevent his being late.

  I turned left at Cabana and followed the boulevard as it paralleled the beach. The entrance to the Shores was on a small street that ran behind the hotel. An adjacent parking lot allowed guests the use of valet services. A few hundred yards to the left, a passenger pickup area was designated for the airport shuttle that made the round-trip to Los Angeles eight times a day.

  Across the street, the limousine was idling at a length of curb painted red, despite numerous posted signs that forbade parking, stopping, and loitering. One of the Shores’ minivans was parked directly behind the limousine in a spot designated for passenger loading and unloading. I pulled the Honda to the curb behind the minivan, which allowed me a modicum of cover while I kept the stretch in view. Rear and side windows were heavily tinted, creating the impression that someone famous was currently on board. On the street, people would turn and stare, wondering who it was. I saw the front driver’s-side window descend. The driver reached out to adjust the side-view mirror. In the convex oval, I saw a portion of Geraldine’s face reflected before she withdrew her arm and closed the window.

  I considered scurrying into the hotel lobby in search of the ladies’ room, but worried the limousine would take off while I was gone. Instead, I unearthed my index cards and recorded the content of Detective Nash’s phone call and the bits of information I’d gleaned. I wondered who at the STPD hoped to cultivate Christian as a source. Cheney had worked vice once upon a time, but he was now assigned to homicide. Next time I saw him, I’d quiz him on the subject.