Write Me a Letter (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  "That's all there is, there ain't no more," she said. I took out my notebook and a pen, opened the file, and began detecting. Katy watched me with undisguised fascination.

  Number of thefts—eight, not umpteen million. From eight separate mobile homes, no repeats. I noted the names of the home owners. I inquired of Katy what protective devices, if any, the homes had when they were burgled—they all had something more than a lock on the front door; in a few cases, a lot more. I made a list of what had been stolen—there were a handful of small items but mainly money, quite a lot of it, considering. Of course the biggest hauls came from the homes that were the best protected; it stands to reason that if you spend a lot of money to protect, you must be protecting something valuable, any crook could work that out. All this money had, also of course, been cleverly stashed away in unfindable places, so much so that it might have taken the thief as much as say five minutes to unearth it.

  When I'd gotten that far, I asked Katy to take me on a tour of the estate, please, and to make sure the tour included all the homes that had been broken into. So off we went, down Election Lane, into Convention Lane, around Representative Circle, and son on—well, it was the Senate Estate and Sacramento was the state capitol—get it? I noticed that everything was clean, the grass was well tended, likewise the flowers, that the swimming pool had no customers, nor did the rec room, and that all of the homes that had been burgled all had back windows that faced the high, wooden, slatted fence that enclosed the estate, not back windows that faced someone else's windows. I left Katy talking with an elderly resident we met on our meanderings, the subject being animal droppings, and made two complete tours of the exterior fencing, one outside and one inside.

  Some half an hour later I rejoined her in her home. When we were sitting around the cocktail table again, I said,

  "The story so far. We are dealing with a professional, not kids. He's done eight successful break-ins, and according to the police report they sent you, they don't have a clue. He's also a professional because he's not frightened off at all by alarm systems or weight sensors or whatever, au contraire, he loves them. And it looks like an inside job to me. There's been some small attempt to make it look like someone climbed over the fence but I'm not convinced; the couple of places where the grass near the fence was disturbed on the inside, on the other side is cement, which doesn't show traces."

  "So?" said Katy.

  "So, I as a resident here could find plenty of reasons for wandering around inside making all the traces I wanted, walking the dog, picking wildflowers, but who's going to walk around no man's land outside, looking for what, weeds, used tires? And it goes without saying that he's also a pro because wherever you cleverly hide your emergency fund, he's on to it pronto, but you know what is outside that fence?"

  "No," said Katy. "What?"

  "A service road that leads back up to the highway. So the reason only small stuff was taken wasn't because of the difficulties of moving it, you could hoist a grand piano over that fence as long as someone's waiting to catch it and shove it in the van. Or VCRs, TVs, rugs, you name it, but if it is someone living here, what's he going to do with a grand piano, stick it in his living room? Or ten TVs, stick them in the den? There's no way he could truck them out of here without some kindly neighbor watching. Something else, Watson—in every case the homes that got burgled were empty at the time of the crime. How did he know? Most of them had lights left on, I noticed, and in a couple of cases, radios, too. All right. Next step. I need a list of all residents. Also I need that." I indicated the calendar of events pinned on the notice board. "Ages of residents, too, if you've got them," I said to her as she was heading for the notice board.

  "I do," she said, " 'cause I send them all birthday cards." She unpinned the calendar and brought it over to me. "I had a thought. This awful man who's making my life a misery—well, it has to be a man, doesn't it, I can't see any of the old biddies who live here creeping around at dead of night climbing into windows, bless them. Anyway, why doesn't he know a home is empty because he sees the people inside leaving?"

  "Excellent, Watson," I said. "However, the eight homes in question are all scattered around the periphery of the estate, there's no central location he could be in that would allow him a line of sight with them all."

  What if his home is like where mine is so he can see every car that leaves, 'cause there's only one way out?"

  "A fine feat of ratiocination yet again, Watson," I said. "But recall." I showed her one of the lists I'd made. "God knows why the cops didn't pick this up." In all the burglaries the residents were away from home all right, but they weren't off the estate, they hadn't driven into town to catch an X-rated film or gone to a drive-in. They were still on the estate attending one of the regular social events put on in the rec room, which is why I wanted to check out the calendar. So I checked it out. It said things like, "Monday—social club meeting." "Tuesday—sewing group." "Wednesday—executive board meeting." "Thursday—paper pickup—have them out by 8 A.M." "Friday—special meeting." "Saturday—bingo!" "Sunday—breakfast in the park." Also entries like "Wednesday—gamblers, bus to Reno." "Thursday—Talk 'n' slides on South Korea." 'Sat.— dance." "Tuesday—Spanish group." And so on, amigos; starting to get the idea? Deduction by elimination is the idea, for you slo-pokes. Katy, at my request, came up with membership lists for all the various groups, classes and what have you. She also came up with copies of the estate's monthly newsletter, in which were published news 'n' views and new residents and of course the monthly calendar of events and occasionally a tidbit like, "The sewing group is pleased to welcome new member Mildred Baker, blah blah blah . . ." It also helpfully listed the members in attendance at the various meetings, following the old small-time newspaper principle that what a reader wants most to see in a paper is his or her own name.

  Elimination—from the list of residents and their ages, I eliminated all males under twenty-five (none) and over, just guessing, seventy. We had already eliminated all females, remember. That left me fourty-four clients. Then I eliminated all those attending social functions on the estate the nights of the robberies, what else. One man from the sewing circle. The Reno bus took care of another eight. Spanish class, two more; obviously if someone was brushing up his Mexican he wasn't likely to say, "Excuse me a momento," slip out and go looting and pillaging. It was possible, OK, but it was later shown the burglary took place when he was gone, then where would he be? Old-time dancing eliminated three more, including me. Still too many names left. I took a wild stab at it and eliminated all married men, because you try hiding something from your wife and see how you get on. That cut it down to four possibles—all right. I asked Katy what she knew about our four potentials—she knew them all personally, of course, she said. All seemed ordinary. No one was a newcomer. The only thing . . .

  "Speak to me," I said.

  "Mr. Elkins," she said, pointing to one name on the list. "I seem to remember he paid cash for his home, which you don't see often."

  "Well, well," I said. "When was that, can you remember?"

  "Eight or nine years now," she said. "I could look it up if you want."

  "Doesn't matter," I said. "Use your phone? it's to L.A."

  "Help yourself."

  I called Sneezy. He was out. I sighed, and asked to be transferred to my brother. He was in.

  "Lt. Anthony Daniel, Records," he said.

  "Tony? It's me," I said. "How's the wife? How're the kids?"

  "They're fine," he said guardedly.

  "Mom?"

  "Not so good last time I was out there," he said. "When was the last time you were out there?"

  "Tony, give me a break," I said. "I've been busy, haven't I. I've even been up in Canada, for Christ's sake. I'm still shivering."

  There was long pause. Oh-oh. Somehow I didn't get the feeling that Tony was about to give me a break.

  "Tony, I need a favor," I said. "I'm up in Sac on a case, can you run three or four names through t
he computer for me? I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

  "No," he said, not trying too hard to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. "You know it's against the rules."

  Helping your brother isn't, I thought. What I said was, "OK, talk to you later," and hung up. I dialed the same number again and this time asked to be put through to Momma. Momma was in. Momma was delighted to hear from me, she claimed. Sure she'd run a few names for me through the system, no sweat. While she was doing so, I asked her if by any chance D. Gresham the Third had spilled all, thus leading to the recovery of all the stolen antiques, thus leading to a hefty payout from certain insurance companies to a certain highly-skilled investigator.

  She laughed.

  "Forget it," she said. "All he did was smile like a cherub, then he went back to his chanting again, three times I talked to him. He's already walked, what have we got on him? Possession of one stolen article, value, who knows, five hundred bucks? Seven-fifty? Hang on, it's coming through."

  I hung on. I rolled my eyes at Katy. She rolled hers back.

  "Dunno why this one's still in the computer." she said after a minute. "Pearlman, Arnold J. He was wanted in Kansas for nonpayment of alimony, but hell, it's ten years out of date. Now, your Elkins, William, no middle initial? Guess what?"

  "I guess you are an OK doll, and I guess I owe you an intimate candle-lit supper," I said.

  "He's got more aliases than I've got gray hairs," she said. "Real name, Paul Horbovetz, that's H-o-r-b-o-v-e-t-z."

  "Horbovetz," I echoed, writing the name down.

  "Reading between the lines," Momma said, "and noting the company he used to keep, I'd say he was your specialist B-and-E pro, probably did hundreds of jobs, mostly for one of the New York families, one conviction only, did 18 months of a one-to-three. That do you? You can have the details if you want, there's only about a page of them."

  "That'll do me fine, darling," I said. I said I'd call her as soon as I was back in town, blew her a kiss, and hung up.

  "Bingo!" I said to Katy. 'Who's the lucky boy today."

  "Mr. Elkins?" said Katy, who had been hanging on to my every word, to say nothing of my arm a couple of times. "I can't believe it. He's the sweetest little thing. He doesn't join in much with our group activities, but he's always polite as can be whenever we meet."

  "What does someone who breaks and enters for a living look like, Katy me dear? Riddle me that. A sweet little inoffensive citizen or a blood-stained Jack the Ripper with a bundle of swag over one shoulder? If you'll kindly provide me with Mr. Elkins' particulars, I think I might stroll over and have a word with him."

  "Well, I'll be damned," Katy said, beginning to get angry. "I think I'll just stroll with you." Her cheeks started to redden.

  "You are not strolling anywhere," I said firmly. "You are paying me to stroll down dark alleys and into enemy territory, not vice versa. You are staying here by the phone, which you are picking up and dialing the fuzz with if I'm not back in an hour or haven't called you in that time."

  "Oh, shoot," she said. "OK. But be careful."

  "I'm always careful, except on the dance floor," I said, getting up. "But I don't think our Mr. Elkins is the violent type or Momma would have mentioned it. It doesn't go with the job, either."

  "By the way, who is Momma?" she asked, pointing out for me on a map of the estate where Mr. Elkins' home was.

  "A friend, a lady cop, who has access to police files, unlike my brother I spoke to, too, who is not a friend and who has access to police files. Well, toodle-oo."

  I toddled. She saw me to the door and watched me amble down Representative Way until I turned the corner. A lady with pink hair who was out walking her pooch said good morning to me. I said good morning to her. An elderly gent in jogging togs, breathing heavily, trotted by me. He said good morning. I said good morning. I passed an orange cat sitting under a tree. I said good morning.

  I found Mr. Elkins' home without any difficulty; it looked just like all the others. A well-maintained but elderly Chevy sat in the drive beside it. I knocked on Mr. Elkins; aluminum-sided door. When it opened, I said to the man who opened it, "Good morning."

  He said," Good morning."

  "Mr. Paul Horbovetz?" I said. "That's H-o-r-b-o-v-e-t-z."

  "Never heard of him," he said, eyeing me carefully. As Katy had mentioned, he was an inoffensive-appearing little fellow, although I'm not sure I would have used the work sweet. He was maybe five foot seven or eight, bald as a coot, with a pleasant but unremarkable face, in his sixties probably, attired in a white shirt buttoned at both neck and cuffs and a pair of baggy black trousers that seemed to be belted somewhere just below his armpits. The belt was snakeskin, I perceived.

  As for me, I merely smiled enigmatically. After a minute he sighed, then said, "Oh, shit, you better come in out of the rain, whoever you are."

  I followed him in, over another nubbed carpet, into his rather sparsely furnished front room.

  "I'll tell you who I am," I said. I told him. I even presented him with one of my business cards. He gave it a glance, then handed it back.

  "That's nice," I said. "In fact, that's gorgeous." I was referring to a wall hanging that was maybe three feet by six, it was a sort of Noah's ark scene full of animals and birds and butterflies and jungle and clouds and sky and a crocodile or two. There was even an ark in it, with three windows—two were blank but the head of a man who looked remarkably like Mr. Paul Horbovetz appeared in the third. I walked over to get a closer look at it.

  "Needlepoint, it's called," he said. "I learned to do it up in Attica. I shared a cell for six months with what they call a child molester, Harry, he got me into it. Shit, it passes the time."

  "How much time would it take to do something like that?"

  "On and off, a year," he said. "You might as well sit down, I can see you're planning on staying awhile." I sat down carefully on the sofa. He sat in a straight chair by the bookcase.

  "Well, here we are," I said brightly.

  "Ain't we just," he said. "So what put you onto me?"

  "Oh, a spot of elimination," I said modestly. "A spot of deductive reasoning. Mostly luck. Then I ran you through the computer, and bulls-eye."

  "That I knew, didn't I," he said. "As soon as you came up with my right name, you had to know my form, being a dick and all. Talk about a ghost from the past, shit, I'd almost forgotten what my real name was. Nine years I been here, can you believe it? Nine years of playing canasta and doffing my hat to old ladies with hearing aids. Stir crazy ain't in it."

  "I can see how a man of the world like yourself might get a trifle bored here after a decade or so," I said.

  "Shit, I was bored after a week," he said. "But what's a guy to do? I'd rather be alive and bored than dead and bored, any day."

  "So what happened?" I said. "I hope you didn't suddenly take off with a suitcase of greenbacks that didn't belong to you. Someone else I know just did that very thing, giving me all kinds of problems, including French."

  "Nah," he said. "But I might as well of, I just took off, but when you're in my line of work working for the types I was working for, you can forget about retiring and going to live on a chicken farm somewhere on your old-age pension. Something came up, a job, I didn't like anything about it, so it was either disappear or get disappeared, if you get my meaning, friend."

  I allowed that I got the general tenor.

  "Funny," I said. "That guy I just mentioned, I helped him to disappear, too, but I sure never thought of disappearing into the Senate Mobile Estate."

  "I never spent none of the money or nothing." he said. "Shit. I dunno. Maybe I can give it back."

  "So how come?" I said. "If you didn't need the money?"

  "How come?" he said, getting up and walking around the room. "How come is I can't go to the track. How come is I can't go the Reno, or Tahoe or Atlantic City. How come is I'm afraid to go bowling or to the stock car races or even to some nothing demolition derby. Those guys don't forget—I s
how my face anywhere I'm long gone. And this joint—you see me taking up Scottish square dancing or learning modern Greek or something? And they're all straights out there, I wouldn't know what to say to them even if i wanted to. You want a beer or something?"

  "I'll take a glass of milk, if you've got one," I said. He headed for the kitchen; I followed him just in case he was up to something like spiking my milk with instant oblivion capsules, although I didn't really think he would.

  He opened the fridge; there was nothing in it but a couple of six-packs, olives, and a half carton of milk.

  "Don't you eat?"

  He opened the freezer compartment; it was jammed with TV dinners. "Who can cook?" he said. 'My mom did the cooking, then my wife, all I can make is coffee and that's shit the way I make it. You know how long it's been since I saw a basketball game or a decent fight?" He opened a can of Bud for himself and poured me out a small glass of milk.

  "If I get the picture," I said, 'What you are suggesting to me is you began to crave a little action. Any action. And, finally, what is sneaking into someone else's home in the middle of the night but action, and a lot of it, I would guess."

  "You guess rightly, friend," he said. "I'm here to tell you it is a charge and a half."

  "Well, friend," I said, "I'm here to tell you, you better start getting your charges some other way, because you sure got yourself in the shits this time and I don't know if I can get you out."

  "Why would you want to?" he said. "C'mon, let's go back inside." We went back into the front room. "What's in it for you?"

  "Maybe your sad story has gotten to me," I said. "Or maybe it's the difference between you and another old fart I ran into recently. He was on the lam, too, but he came out shooting everyone in sight, including my best pal. Come to think about it, everyone I've met recently has been on the lam, there must be something going around. Let me think a minute."

  "Take two, they're cheap." He sat in the straight chair again and picked up a smaller piece of needlepoint he was working on. He expertly threaded a length of red wool into a huge needle and began pointing or needling or whatever.