W Is for Wasted km-23

by Sue Grafton

  “Is that right? And now you’re writing them yourself.”

  “As part of the team. I also do freelance editorial cartoons as well. I’m lucky circumstances allowed me to pursue my dream. My parents are still convinced I’ll starve.”

  “Well, I admire your gumption. I’ll have to take a look at your work sometime,” he said, hoping the fellow wouldn’t jump right up and fetch his portfolio.

  “I think of this as my bread-and-butter money until I can launch the project closest to my heart.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “A graphic novel. Are you familiar with the form?”

  “I’m not, but I’d imagine it’s much like it sounds. Comic book starring a superhero of some type?”

  “The graphic novel’s actually a separate genre. A version called manga’s been popular in Japan for years and encompasses all kinds of stories. Action-adventure, horror, detective. I’m not saying mine’s manga. That’s strictly of Japanese origin.”

  “Is that right? And yours is about what, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I’ve created a character called Joe Jupiter, who’s been crippled in an accident.”

  “Writing what you know, so to speak.”

  “Except I take the setup in a different direction. He enrolls in an experimental protocol and ends up acquiring supernatural abilities after being injected with a powerful new drug that’s supposed to regenerate nerves and cells. Through some fluke—I’m still working on that aspect—instead of being cured, Jupiter develops unusual powers of telepathy and mind control.”

  “No telling what kind of adventures that might lead to,” Pete remarked.

  “My wife thinks it’s too much like science fiction, which isn’t my intent. Of course, there’s an element of fantasy, but the premise is reality based.”

  “Not my area of expertise, but I can definitely see the possibilities. Is yours a lucrative trade?”

  “If you hit it big, absolutely,” Willard replied. The pink in his eyelids had intensified, like a curious form of blushing. Pete wondered which he was exaggerating—the earnings potential or his chances of making it.

  Pete kept hoping he’d state his problem and get on with it. So far, he had no idea what the job was and no clue if the fellow had the money to pay. “You’re a married man.”

  “I am.”

  “How many years is that now?”

  “Four and a half. We moved here a year ago from Pittsburgh, which is where we met. My wife’s an associate professor at UCST. She does pharmaceutical research, which is what triggered the Joe Jupiter idea.”

  “Promising field.” Pete fixed his gaze expectantly on the young man.

  Willard said, “Which actually brings me to the reason for my call.”

  Pete said nothing, worried that Willard would get off point and start talking about himself again.

  “As it, uh, happens my wife applied for this position without realizing the man in charge of the project was someone she’d worked with before.”

  “When was this?”

  “When she took this job or when she worked with him before?”

  “You already said you moved here a year ago. I’m assuming that was for the job.”

  “Right. They were both undergraduates at Florida State. This was several years back. I guess they were involved in a romantic relationship. Nothing serious from what she says. She was the one who broke it off.”

  “Because . . .”

  “I’m not really sure.”

  “Passing fling perhaps?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What’s his position now?”

  “Head of the research lab. There are guys above him, but essentially he runs the show.”

  “I’m surprised he wasn’t part of the hiring process—the interview or some such.”

  Willard apparently hadn’t thought of that, so Pete left the subject and moved on, saying, “Any rate, now they’re thrown into regular contact, you’re worried sparks might fly.”

  “I wouldn’t say worried. I’m concerned. It’s not that I don’t trust her.” The sentence came to an abrupt halt.

  “However . . .”

  “There’s a professional conference in Reno during this upcoming Memorial Day weekend. I knew she was planning to attend. What I didn’t realize until a couple of days ago was that he’d be there as well. He’s presenting a paper.”

  “I don’t believe you’ve mentioned your wife’s name.”

  “Mary Lee.”

  “The two plan on traveling together?”

  “Not as far as I know. She hasn’t said anything to that effect.”

  “One way or the other, you’d appreciate assurance everything’s on the up-and-up.”

  “Exactly.”

  “This fellow have a name?”

  “Dr. Reed. Linton Reed.”

  “Bit of a wunderkind,” Pete said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Fellow must be on a fast track, given they started out the same. Sounds like you’re talking star power if he’s already heading up a lab.”

  “I guess.”

  Pete took out a weather-beaten spiral-bound notebook and jotted down the name before he went on. “Are you talking medical doctor or a Ph.D.?”

  “Both. He went through a program at Duke that combined the two. His Ph.D. is in biochemistry.”

  “Admirable. And he lives where?”

  “Montebello. As I understand it, his wife comes from money. Quite a lot of money, as a matter of fact. Her family’s well known in town—very prominent—so he definitely married up.”

  “You’re telling me he’d risk all of that in order to pursue a relationship with your wife?”

  “I really have no idea.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “I have, yes.”

  “Good-looking fellow?”

  “Women seem to think so. I’m not impressed.”

  Pete pinched his lower lip, then shook his head. “Might not be anything to it, but it always pays to be informed. Unfortunately, what you’re talking here is an expensive proposition.”

  “Money’s not the issue. I wasn’t sure if this was the type of case you handled as a rule.”

  “You’re asking about my personal qualifications? May I call you Willard?”

  “Please do.”

  “Appreciate it, Willard. Point of fact, domestic happens to be a specialty of mine. My forte’s exactly the sort of situation you describe. Not to toot my own horn, but you ask around and you’ll find out I’m a man who not only gets results, but I’m known for my discretion. That’s a rare combination. I’m not saying there aren’t younger practitioners coming up behind, but there’s no one as well trained. I’ll admit I’m old-school, but you couldn’t be in better hands.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

  Pete waited.

  Willard cleared his throat. “When you say ‘expensive,’ I’m not sure what kind of money you’re talking about. I hope I’m not putting you on the spot.”

  “No need to apologize, but here’s what you should be aware of. You’re talking short notice here. This is the seventeenth, which means I have ten days to get my ducks in a row. I’m talking about equipment, airline tickets, a rental car once I’m on site. Once I find out where the conference is taking place, I still need time to study the layout, establish personal contacts, determine who’s staying where . . .”

  “I can give you most of that.”

  “Good thing. Because I’m a man who likes to be prepared.”

  “You’ll provide receipts?”

  “No question. I’ll submit an invoice same time I hand over my written report. Of course, I’ll be needing an advance.”

  “You mean right now?”

  “As good a time as any.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Twenty-five hundred should be sufficient.”

  “Oh. Well, fine. If you’ll take a credit card, I can use my busi
ness account.”

  “Won’t work. I’m not set up for it. I’ll take a check, but let’s be honest about this, I won’t get in gear until it clears the bank.”

  The tips of Willard’s ears turned a brighter shade of pink. “The problem is my wife pays the bills and reconciles the checking account. I don’t want her asking who you are or what this is about.”

  “Cash, then.”

  “That’s just it. I don’t keep cash like that on hand. I have five hundred. The rest I can reimburse you. I swear I’m good for it.”

  “Mr. Bryce . . . Willard. Forgive my impertinence, but I run a business here. I don’t mind a few out-of-pocket expenses, but we’re talking round-trip airfare right off the bat. I may have to make two trips depending on what comes up. Hotel and meals. On top of that, I may have to grease a few palms, if you get what I mean. Trust me, you don’t want me leaving a paper trail. Something comes to light and that sweet wife of yours will be all over you, thinking you have no confidence in her.”

  “I have money in a separate account. I could have it for you this afternoon, I suppose.”

  “Give me a call and I’ll be happy to swing back by.” Pete got up, thinking they were done.

  Uncomfortably, Willard said, “Can I ask you something?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You carry a gun?”

  Pete blinked. “Do you have need of one?”

  “No, no. Not at all. I’m working on three panels where a gangster pulls a gun on Joe Jupiter and I’ve never handled one. If I show a close-up, I want to get the details right.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Pete said. He removed the semiautomatic from his shoulder holster, released the magazine, and checked to make sure there wasn’t a round in the chamber before he offered it to Willard butt first.

  Willard took the gun and hefted it in his hand. “Wow. What is this?”

  “Pocket pistol. Smith and Wesson Escort. I have a Glock 17 that I carry on occasion, but that little gun’s my baby.”

  Pete spent a few minutes explaining the features while Willard checked it from all angles, turning it this way and that. He placed it on the arm of the chair and picked up his drawing pad. He folded the cover back and made a few quick pencil sketches, his eyes moving from the gun to the page and back. Pete was impressed with the rapidity with which he captured the weapon in a few simple strokes.

  Willard set the sketch pad to one side. “You have a permit?”

  Pete returned the gun to his shoulder holster. “I do. Issued in Tehama County, up north. Tehama you have densely wooded areas, lot of rainfall, and not many folks. Marijuana’s the big cash crop. I had a side business scoping out these little farmlets buried in the woods. I’d find ’em, map out the coordinates, and pass the information along to law enforcement. Job didn’t offer benefits, so I got my concealed carry permit as part of my compensation.”

  “Is it legal here?”

  “Permit’s valid statewide. Both my guns are registered,” he said.

  “Well, that’s good.”

  Pete shrugged, saying, “Anything else you need?”

  Willard shook his head. “I’ll call when I have the cash.”

  It wasn’t until Pete was in his car again that he started to laugh, delighted with the way the meeting had gone. He turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from Willard’s Cherry Lane address. He drove a block and took a right onto Colgate’s main thoroughfare. He had his choice of two travel agencies and he selected the smaller one. There were oversize travel posters taped to the plate-glass window, their once vibrant hues faded to a palette of misty pinks and blues. The one that caught his eye depicted a cruise ship moving along a wide still body of water. He leaned closer. BOUTIQUE RIVER TOURS. ENCHANTING DANUBE was what it said in small print.

  At the desk inside he picked up a glossy brochure from a display near the door and slid it into the inner pocket of his sport coat. Something about the scene made his heart swell with hope. There were two agents at work, both women, and he chose the older one, who invited him to have a seat. Her name tag indicated she was Sabrina. Pete introduced himself, and in a matter of minutes he made round-trip reservations to fly from Santa Teresa to Reno on Friday, the twentieth, returning on Monday, the twenty-third. Because of the short notice, the fare for United Airline tickets was a hefty thirteen hundred bucks. He put the charges on the only one of his credit cards with any margin to spare. Sabrina printed the tickets and handed them over, along with a copy of the itinerary and his receipt, all neatly tucked into a ticket envelope with the logo of the agency emblazoned on the front.

  He walked half a block to a UPS outlet and used their Xerox machine to run off multiple copies of the travel documents, which he slid into a blank manila envelope. Later that day, having picked up his retainer from Willard, he drove into Colgate for the second time and parked across the street from the travel agency. He waited until he saw Sabrina emerge, ostensibly to run an errand. As soon as she was out of sight, he went in and conferred with the other travel agent, expressing embarrassment that his plans had changed. She wasn’t the least bit curious. At his request, she rescheduled the flights for the Memorial Day weekend, departing on Thursday, the twenty-sixth, returning late on Monday, the thirtieth. She applied the money he’d paid for the first tickets to the second, and he applied the difference in fares to the credit card he’d used earlier. Expense was no issue. He wouldn’t be paying the card off in any event. He voiced his appreciation, but her gaze had already moved to the customer coming in the door.

  He returned to the office, waited for his copy machine to warm up, and photocopied the new itinerary and the second set of tickets, which he intended to cancel in a day or two. On the set he had, he changed the relevant dates, neatly typing the new number over the old, and photocopied the copies, satisfied that the result would pass superficial examination. Anyone with a knowledge of forgery techniques would spot the clumsy effort, but he was confident Willard had no such expertise.

  He slid the file folder into the box he was packing. No point in leaving sensitive papers in view since his landlady used a master key to get in on occasion, to poke around. Soon Pete would be forced to run his business from his home. For now, he was pleased. He’d effectively run up close to three thousand dollars’ worth of travel expenses without ever leaving the state. Truly, he was a man who loved his work.

  7

  At 4:50, Henry left the house, carrier in hand, to retrieve the cat from the veterinarian’s office. I took the opportunity to retreat to my studio. Once inside, I set my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool and stood there, trying to decide what to do with myself. There was no point in going back to the office. It was technically closing time and I’d already goofed off most of the day. Since new clients were temporarily in short supply, I had no paper searches, no phone calls, and no reports to write. It was too early to worry about supper and much too early for a glass of wine. Rosie’s was still closed, which meant that I’d be fending for myself in any event. I’d just about worked through my repertoire of sandwiches and I was down to my last can of soup.

  More from boredom than dedication, I scoured the kitchen sink, put the few clean dishes away, and wiped down the counters. I found a cache of dust rags and made short work of all the surfaces in my living room—desk, end tables, windowsills, and shutters. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled along the baseboards, rag in hand, sweeping away dust and soot. On a prior occasion, this was how I’d discovered that my studio was bugged and from that point on, I’d added baseboards to my must-do list.

  As was usually the case during one of my Cinderella moments, I wondered what other kick-ass private eyes were doing at this hour. Probably blasting paper targets at the shooting range or practicing their martial arts moves, busting bricks in half with their bare hands. I’m never going to be that tough. What I lack in brute force I make up for in persistence and sheer cunning. I’d been behaving myself of late, which wasn’t really my style. Being a g
ood girl has such a low adrenaline quotient I might as well take a nap.

  I put away the cleaning rags, then hauled out the vacuum cleaner, plugged it in, and began the process of mowing my shag carpet. The vacuum was sounding shrill and there didn’t seem to be any suction. Specks remained untouched and the shag itself showed none of those satisfactory tracks that speak of a job well done. I flipped off the power and turned the machine on its back to have a look. This was pointless, as I’m no more knowledgeable about the workings of a vacuum cleaner than I am about the internal combustion engine.

  When I heard someone knocking at my door, I assumed it was Henry wanting to properly introduce the cat. I crossed to the front door and peered out the porthole. Felix was standing on my porch, looking off across the yard. He was wearing yet another short-sleeve shirt, this one polyester with a Polynesian motif—parrots, thatch-roofed huts, palm trees, hula girls, and surf in garish yellows and blues.

  I opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

  I knew I sounded accusatory, but I was dismayed by his showing up at my residence.

  He didn’t actually shuffle his feet, but he shifted his weight, looking down at my welcome mat, where I could still see the mouse parts the cat had left.

  “I seen your car out front and thought you might be home.” His shorts were the sort that basketball players wear, a flabby black material, extending well below his knees. The fabric was perforated with tiny holes that were probably meant for ventilation in the heat of hard play.

  “How did you know where I lived?”

  He glanced over his shoulder and then down again, anything to avoid making eye contact. It was the first time it occurred to me that Felix might be slow. It was also possible he was stoned or drunk. I made a mental note to find out the nature and extent of his substance abuse.

  He lifted one shoulder. “Other day you said you jogged, so I waited until you went by this morning and followed you home.”

  “You saw me this morning? I didn’t see any of you.”

  “I was down at that bathhouse when you run by. I left the shelter early because I was curious where you lived. Dandy and Pearl stayed in and had breakfast. They won’t hardly miss a meal. Bacon, eggs, and biscuits the church ladies cook up. I watched you turn around and I fell in behind when you passed the second time.”