N is for NOOSE

by Sue Grafton

  “None that I’m willing to tell you about,” he said.

  “You want to make a trip out here, I could maybe have you talk to the watch commander, but as far as giving out information by phone, it ain’t gonna fly. I don’t mean to cast aspersions, but you could be anyone… a journalist.”

  “God forbid,” I said. “Surely you don’t think I’m anyone that low.”

  I could hear him smile. At least he was enjoying himself. He seemed to think about it briefly and them he said, “Let’s try this. Why don’t you give me your number and if anything comes up I’m at liberty to pass along, I’ll be in touch.”

  “You’re entirely too kind.”

  Detective Boyd laughed. “Have a good day.”

  Chapter 14

  *

  Olga Toth opened the door to her Perdido condominium wearing a bright yellow outfit that consisted of form-fitting tights and a stretchy cotton tunic, ciched at the waist with a wide white bejewled plastic belt. The fabric clung to her body like a bandage that couldn’t quite conceal the damage time had inflicted on her sixty-year-old flesh. Her knee-high boots looked to be size elevens, white vinyl alligator with a fancy pattern of stichwork across the instep. She’d had some work done on her face, probably collagen injections given the plumpiness of her lips and the slightly lumpy appearance of her cheeks. Her hair was a dry-looking platinum blond, her brown eyes heavily lined, with a startling set of eyebrows drawn in above. I could smell the vermouth on her breath before she said a word.

  I’d driven the thirty miles to Perdido in the midst of a drizzling rain, that sort of fine spray that required the constant flip-flop of windshield wipers and the fiercest of concentration. The roadway was slick, the blacktop glistening with a deceptive sheen of water that made driving hazardous. Under ordinary circumstances, I might have delayed the trip for another hour or two, but I was worried the cops would somehow manage to warn Alfie’s ex-wife of my interest, urging her to keep her mouth shut if I knocked on her door.

  The address I’d been given was just off the beach, a ten-unit complex of two-story frame townhouses within view of the Pacific. Olga’s was on the second floor with an exterior stairway and a small sheltered entrance lined with potted plants. The woman who answered the door bell was older than I’d expected and her smile revealed a dazzling array of caps.

  “Mrs. Toth?”

  She said, “Yes?” Her tone conveyed a natural optimism, as though, having sent in all the forms, having held on to the matching numbers that established her eligibility, she might open the door to someone bearing the keys to her new car or, better yet, that oversized check for several million bucks.

  I showed her my card. “Could I talk to you about your ex-husband?”

  “Which one?”

  “Alfie Toth.”

  Her smile faded with disappointment, as though there were better ex-husbands to inquire about among her many. “Honey, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but he’s deceased so if you’re here about his unpaid bills, the line forms at the rear.”

  “This is something else. May I come in?”

  “You’re not here to serve process,” she asked, cautiously.

  “Not at all. Honest.”

  “Because I’m warning you, I put a notice in the paper the day we separated saying I’m not responsible for debts other than my own.”

  “Your record’s clean as far as I’m concerned.”

  She studied me, considering, and then stepped back. “No funny business,” she warned.

  “I’m never funny,” I said.

  I followed her through the small foyer, watching as she retrieved a martini glass from a small console table. “I was just having a drink in case you’re interested.”

  “I’m fine for now, but thanks.”

  We entered a living room done entirely in white; trampled-looking, white nylon cut-pile carpeting, white nylon sheers, white leatherette couches, and a white vinyl chair. There was only one lamp turned on and the light coming through the curtains had been subdued by the rain. The room felt damp to me. The glass-and-chrome coffee table bore a large arrangement of white lilies, a pitcher of martini’s, several issues of Architectural Digest, and a recent issue of Modern Maturity. Her eye fell on the latter about the same time mine did. She leaned forward impatiently. “That belongs to a friend. I really hate those things. The minute you turn fifty, the HARP starts hounding you for membership. Not that I’m anywhere close to retirement age,” she assured me. She poured herself another drink, adding olives she plucked from a small bowl nearby. She licked her fingertips with enthusiasm. “Olives are the best part,” she remarked. Her nails, I noticed, were very long and pink, thick enough to suggest acrylics or poorly done silk overlays.

  “What sort of work do you do?” I asked.

  She motioned me into a seat at one end of the couch while she settled at the other end, her arm stretched out along the back. “I’m a cosmetologist and if you don’t mind my saying so ���”

  I held up a hand. “Don’t give me beauty tips. I can’t handle ‘em.”

  She laughed, an earthy guttural sound that set her breasts ajiggle. “Never hurts to try. You ever get interested in a makeover, you can give me a buzz. I could do wonders with that mop of yours. Now what’s this about Alfie? I thought all his problems were over and done with, the poor guy.”

  I filled her in on the nature of the job I’d been hired to do, thinking that as a widow, she might appreciate Selma Newquist’s concern about her husband’s mental state in the weeks before he died.

  “I remember the name Newquist. He was the one called me a couple weeks after Alfie took off. Said it was important, but it really wasn’t urgent, as far as I could tell. I told him Alfie was still around some place and I’d be happy to go looking for him if he’d give me a day or two.”

  “How long was Alfie here?”

  “Two days, maybe three. I don’t let any ex of mine stay longer than that. Otherwise, you have fellows camping on your doorstep every time you turn around. They all want the same thing.” She lifted her right hand, ticking off the items as she mentioned them. “They want sex, want their laundry done, and a few bucks in their pocket before you send ‘em on their way.”

  “What made Alfie leave the Gramercy?”

  “I got the impression he was nervous. I noticed he was jumpy, but he never said why. Alfie was always restless, but I’d say he was looking for a place to hole up. I think he was hoping for the chance to set up permanent residence here, but I wasn’t having any. I tried to discourage any long-range plans of his. He was a sweet man, the sweetest. He was twenty years younger than me though you never would have guessed. We were married for eight years. Of course, he was in and out of jail for most of it which is why we lasted as long as we did.”

  “What was he in jail for?”

  She waved the question away. “It was never anything big ��� bad checks, or petty thievery, or public drunkenness. Sometimes he did worse, which is how he ended up in prison. Nothing violent. No crimes against persons. His problem was he couldn’t figure out how to outsmart the system. It wasn’t in his nature, so what could you do? You couldn’t fault him for being dumb. He was just born that way. He tended to fall into bad company, always taking up with some loser with a harebrained scheme. He was easily dominated. Anybody could lead poor Alfie around by the nose. It all sounded good to him. That’s how innocent he was. Most of it ended in disaster, but he never seemed to learn. You had to love that about him. He was good-looking, too, in a goofy sort of way. What he did, he did well, and the rest you might as well write off as a dead loss.”

  “What was it he did well?”

  “He was great in the sack. The man was hung like a donkey and he could fuck all day.”

  “Ah. And how did you two meet?”

  “We met in a bar. This was when I was still doing the singles scene, though I’ve about given that up. I don’t know about you, but these days, I stick to the personal ads. It’s a
lot more fun. Are you single? You look single.”

  “Well, I am, but it seems to suit me.”

  “Oh, I know what you mean. I don’t mind living on my own. I have no problem with that. I prefer it, to tell the truth. I just don’t know how else to get laid.”

  “You run ads for sex?”

  “Well, you don’t come right out and say so. That’d be dumb,” she remarked. “There’s a hundred cute ways to put it. ‘Party-Hearty,’ ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun,’ ‘Passionate at Heart Seeks Same.’ Use the right terminology and guys get the point.”

  “But doesn’t that make you nervous?”

  “What?” she said, her big eyes fixed on me blankly.

  “You know, picking up a bed partner through a newspaper ad.”

  “How else are you going to get ‘em? I’m not promiscuous by any stretch, but I’ve got your normal appetite for these things. Three, four times a week, I get the itch to go lookin’ for love.” She shimmied in her seat, snapping her fingers to indicate the joys of the bump-and-grind single life, something I’d obviously missed. “Anyway, at the time I met Alfie, I was still cruising the clubs which, believe me, in Perdido really limits your range, not to mention your choices. Looking at Alf, I never guessed his talents would be so impressive. The man never got tired ��� just kept banging away. I mean, in some ways, it was fortunate he spent so much time in jail.” She paused to sip her martini, lifting her eyebrows appreciatively.

  I made some bland comment, wondering what might constitute a proper response to these revelations. “So he was here less than a week last June,” I said, trying to steer her back onto neutral ground.

  She set the glass on the table. “Something like that. Couldn’t have been long, because I met the fellow I’m currently balling at the end of May. Lester didn’t take kindly to the idea of Alfie’s sleeping on my couch. Men get territorial, especially once they start jumping your bones.”

  “Where’d he go when he left?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Last time I saw him he was gathering up his things. Next thing I know, they’re asking about his bridgework, trying to identify his body from the crowns on his molars. This was the middle of January so he’d been gone six months.”

  “Do you think something frightened him into leaving when he did?”

  “I didn’t think so at the time, but that could have been the case. The cops seemed to think he’d been killed shortly after he took off.”

  “How’d they pinpoint the time?”

  “I asked the same thing, but they wouldn’t give me any details.”

  “Did you identify his body?”

  “What was left of it. I’d reported him missing, oh I’d say early September. His parole officer had somehow tracked down my address and telephone number and he was in a tiff because Alfie hadn’t been reporting. There he was chewing me out. I told him what he could do with it.”

  “Why’d you wait so long to call the cops?”

  “Don’t be; silly. Somebody spends as much time as Alfie did on the wrong side of the law, you don’t call the cops just because he hasn’t showed his face in two months. He was usually missing, as far as I was concerned. In jail or out of town, on the road… who the hell knows? I finally filed a report, but the cops didn’t take it seriously until the body showed up at Ten Pines.”

  “Did the police have a theory about what happened to him?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll tell you this. He wasn’t killed for his money because the man was stone broke.”

  “You never told me why Newquist was looking for Alfie in the first place.”

  “That was in regard to a homicide in Nota County. He’d heard Alfie was friends with a fellow whose body was found back in March of last year. I guess they had reason to believe the two were traveling together around the time of this man’s death.”

  “Alfie was a suspect?”

  “Oh, honey, the cops will never say that. They think you’ll be more cooperative if they tell you they’re looking for a potential witness to a crime. In this case, probably true. Alfie was a sissy. He was scared to death of violence. He’d never kill anyone and I’d swear to that on a stack of Bibles.”

  “How did Tom Newquist find out Alfie was here?”

  “The fellow at the hotel told him.”

  “I mean, in Santa Teresa.”

  “Oh. I don’t know. He never said a word about that. He might have run the name through the computer. Alfie’d just done a little jail time so he’d have popped right up.”

  “What about the victim? Did Newquist give you the name of the other man?”

  “He didn’t have to. I knew hire through Alfie. Fellow by the name of Ritter. He and Alfie met in prison. This was six years ago at Chino. I forget what Alfie was doing time for at that point, something stupid. Ritter was vicious, a real son of a bitch, but he protected Alfie’s backside and they hung around together after they got out. Alfie wanted Ritter to stay here as well, but I said absolutely not. Ritter was a convicted rapist.”

  “Ritter,’ was the first name or last?”

  “Last. His first name was something fruity, maybe Percival. Everybody called him Pinkie.”

  “What was Alfie’s reaction when he heard about Ritter’s death?”

  “I never had the chance to tell him. I looked all over town for him, but by then he was gone and I figured he took off. As it turns out, he was probably dead within days, at least according to the cops.”

  “I take it he was good about keeping in touch?”

  “The man never went a week without calling to borrow money. He referred to it as his stud fee, but that was just a joke between us. Alfie was proud.”

  “I’m sure he was,” I said.

  “I really miss the guy. I mean, Lester’s okay, but he can be prissy about certain sexual practices. He’s opposed to anything south of the border, if you know what I mean.”

  “You don’t think Lester had anything to do with Alfie’s death? He might have been jealous.”

  “I’m sure he would have been if he’d known, but I never said a word. I told him Alfie was camping out on my couch, but he had no idea we were screwing like bunny rabbits every chance we got. Bend over to tie your shoe, Alfie’d be right on you, the big dumb lug.”

  “And no one else called or came around looking for him?”

  “I was off at work most days so I don’t really know what Alfie did with himself, except drink, play the ponies, and watch the soaps on TV He liked to shop. He dressed sharp so that’s where a lot of his money went. Why the credit card companies kept sending him plastic is beyond my comprehension. He filed bankruptcy twice. Anyway, he might have had friends. He usually did. Like I said, he was a sweet guy. You know, horny, but kind.”

  “He sounds like a nice man,” I murmured, hoping God wouldn’t strike me dead.

  “Well, he was. He wasn’t quarrelsome or hard to get along with. He never got in bar fights or said a cross word to anyone. He was just a big dumb Joe with a hard-on,” she said, voice wavering. “Seems like, any more, people don’t get killed for a reason. It’s just something that happens. Alfie was a bumpkin and he didn’t always show good sense. Someone could have killed him for the fun of it.”

  I drove back to Santa Teresa, trying not to think much about the information I’d gleaned. I let thoughts wash over me without trying to put them in order or make any sense of them. I was getting closer to something. I just wasn’t sure what it was. One thing seemed certain: Tom Newquist was on the same track and maybe what he’d found caused him untold distress.

  I reached my apartment shortly after three o’clock. The rain had passed for the moment, but the sky was darkly overcast and the streets were still wet. I bypassed the puddles, my furled umbrella tucked under my arm, moving through the gate with a sense of relief at being home. I unlocked my door and flipped on the lights. By then, my hand was beginning to ache mildly and I was tired of coping with the splint. I shed my jacket, went into the kitchenet
te for water, and took some pain medication. I perched on a stool and removed the gauze wrap from my fingers. I tossed the splint but left the tape in place. The gesture was symbolic, but it cheered me up.

  I checked the answering machine, which showed one message. I pressed Replay and heard Tom’s contact at the sheriff’s department, who’d left me one sentence. “Colleen Sellers here, home until five if you’re still interested.”

  I tried her number. She picked up quickly, almost as though she’d been waiting for the call. Her “Hello” was careful. No infusion of warmth or friendliness.

  “This is Kinsey Millhone, returning your call,” I said. “Is this Colleen?”

  “Yes. Your message said you wanted to get in touch with me regarding Tom Newquist.”

  “That’s right. I appreciate your getting back to me. Actually, this is awkward. I’m assuming you’ve heard that he passed away.” I hate the phrase passed away when what you really mean is died, but I thought I should practice a little delicacy.

  “So I heard.”

  That was as much as she gave me so I was forced to plunge right on. “Well, the reason I called… I’m a private investigator here in town…”

  “I know who you are. I checked it out.”

  “Well, good. That saves me an explanation. Anyway, for reasons too complicated to go into, I’ve been hired by his widow to see if I can find out what was going on the last two months of his life.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Why is it too complicated to go into?”

  “Is there any way we can do this in person?” I asked.

  There was a momentary pause, during which I heard an intake of breath that led me to believe she was smoking. “We could meet someplace,” she said.

  “That would be good. You live in Perdido? I’d be happy to drive down, if you like, or…”

  “I live in Santa Teresa, not that far from you.”

  “That’s great. Much better. You just let me know when and where.”

  Again, the pause while she processed. “How about the kiddy park across from Emile’s in five minutes.”