W Is for Wasted km-23

by Sue Grafton

  The two sets of double doors that opened onto the alleyway were operated by hand, and it was clear neither had been used in years. The hinges were dark brown with rust, and cobwebs lined the crevices, like fake Halloween effects. Spiders had set up small nurseries, swaddling their eggs in gauzy tapers until time to hatch. The floor was concrete, though little of it showed. There was no room for cars given the staggering number of cardboard boxes in evidence, among other things. The space was jammed with old furniture, power tools, lamps, file cabinets, crates, broken appliances, luggage, discarded doors, and miscellaneous lawn equipment, also rusted from neglect. Dilapidated cartons were stacked ten deep and eight high, sealed with masking tape and unmarked. Some had toppled over and their contents had fallen out and been left where they landed. The air smelled of mice and dust.

  “Is this everything?” Dietz asked, not quite masking the plaintiveness in his tone.

  “I’m afraid not. I haven’t been able to face his office, so the furniture and any remaining files will be there. I know his rent was in arrears and I don’t have the nerve to contact his landlady for fear I’ll be forced to pay up. I’ll give you the key if you want to go through his desk and his file cabinets.”

  I said, “We stopped by Pete’s office earlier. The place has been cleaned out.”

  She seemed surprised and then recovered herself. “Well, that’s one more tiresome chore I don’t have to bother with. I’m still emptying closets and drawers here. I can’t tell you how many trips I’ve made to Goodwill. Some of the items I’ve dropped off are an embarrassment, but I didn’t want to throw them in the trash.”

  “What about his business records? You’ll have the IRS to deal with eventually,” I said.

  “They’ll just have to come after me,” she said. “I don’t have any idea what he paid in the way of state or federal taxes. I took care of property taxes and he did the rest.”

  “You filed jointly?”

  “We did,” she said. “I made sure he had my W-2s and any relevant receipts. He’d have me sign the forms, but I really never looked at them.”

  I didn’t press the point. I wondered why she’d trust him with filing state and federal tax returns when he was so irresponsible, but she had problems enough and her relationship with the government wasn’t any business of mine.

  I said, “We’ll probably be out here for a while. You want us to let you know when we’re done?”

  “No need. We leave the garages unlocked. If I’m lucky someone will come along and steal everything.”

  She handed over the car keys and left us to our task. Judging from surface dust and the ribbons of ratty tape coming loose here and there, the majority of the boxes had sat untouched for years. We left those alone and focused on the ones that were clean, intact, and closest to the door. As far as I could tell, Pete had no system. His approach was to dump cartons willy-nilly wherever he found room. Dietz hauled a couple of lawn chairs from the assortment of old furniture, which allowed us to sit in reasonable comfort while we searched.

  “She’s a beautiful woman,” Dietz said. “She had more faith in the guy than he deserved.”

  “Pete was a piece of work,” I said. “Homeliest man you ever laid eyes on. I have no idea what she saw in him.”

  “What’s your take on the story about his putting money aside for a cruise?”

  “Pete’s belief was if you expressed your desires, they’d manifest themselves. His phrase was ‘putting it out to the Universe.’ I’m not sure that entailed actual savings.”

  We settled down to work. Most of Pete’s files were unmarked. Where folders were labeled, the tag might be scratched through with a subsequent name written over it in ink. Sometimes the label was gone or had nothing to do with the contents. There was no visible order to the folders he’d shoved into a particular box. Catalogs, old letters, unpaid bills, and unopened mail would be dumped unceremoniously into the same container. This forced us to sort page by page, doing a quick read as we went along. Dietz’s method was to put a stack of folders upright on his lap, pick his way through, and then return them to the box. I left the files where they were and hunched over each box, pulling out one folder at a time. Most were junk, but we didn’t dare toss anything because it wasn’t our job. Who knew what Ruthie might consider worth keeping?

  After we’d labored an hour, I sat back. “This is pointless. We’re being optimistic thinking he’d even bother with anything so organized as ‘accounts receivable.’ More likely, he kept his cash in an old coffee can.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  For a moment, we sat and contemplated the disorder. Dietz said, “Let’s try his car. He might not have unloaded all of the boxes he’d brought.”

  “Like the idea,” I said.

  We restacked the boxes we’d searched and then angled our way across the garage, stepping over and around the jumble until we reached the door. A gate in the fence opened into the alley. Pete’s Ford Fairlane was parked in a wide place probably meant to accommodate trash cans. Those were now lined up against the shrubs, lids sitting like little caps on top of bulging black trash bags. There were no cardboard boxes in the backseat and none in the trunk. We found a bag of birdseed and a gun-cleaning kit, but that was it. No accounts payable, no accounts receivable, no contracts, and no recent correspondence. Certainly no caches of money tucked away. So much for our fishing expedition, which was disappointing, but not entirely fruitless. At least we’d written off a handful of dead ends. The glove compartment was jammed. I emptied it, piling the contents on the passenger seat, but there was nothing of significance as far as I could see. Gasoline receipts and parking tickets, plus paper trash of every conceivable sort. I returned all the miscellany and used brute force to get the glove compartment closed.

  • • •

  At 4:00, Dietz dropped me at my place while he returned to the hotel to shower. He said he’d be back to pick me up at 7:00. In an earlier conversation, he’d mentioned Emile’s for drinks and dinner, but he hadn’t mentioned it since. As I got out of the car, I leaned in the window. “What’s the dress code?”

  “Wear what you have on.”

  I looked down at my filthy hands and my sooty jeans and decided against. “I look like shit.”

  “No, you don’t. You look cute.”

  I watched him drive away, and I then passed through the gate and around to the rear patio, where I let myself into the studio. The first thing I did was to sit down at my desk. The bulky package Dace had mailed to himself had been sitting there since the volunteer had handed it over to me.

  I pulled the mailer closer and turned it over. There was a tag at one end of the padded envelope and I tore the strip open along the length. Inside were medical charts for three patients: Terrence Dace, Charles Farmer, and a man named Sebastian Glenn. All three charts were fat with lab work, doctor’s notes, and medical reports. How had Dace managed to get his hands on them?

  I took the bundle upstairs with me. I stood in the loft trying to think where I might stash the contents for safekeeping. I cleared the footlocker at the near end of my bed, removing a pile of heavy sweaters to make room for it. I closed the trunk and placed the stack of sweaters on top. Maybe Dandy would have some idea what Dace had in mind.

  In the meantime, I went through my usual routine: shower, shampoo, and a change of clothes. Dietz and I were doing okay and I was happy with the pace we’d set. I wasn’t prepared to jump back into the relationship without getting my bearings first. For now, there was a blank space between us, packed with all of the moments that had flown by while we were apart. On prior occasions, when we’d come together after a separation, there was this same period of adjustment. Last round, I’d been cranky at first, only gradually letting down my guard. This time I was less resistant, but the chemistry was still on hold.

  The phone rang as I was coming down the stairs. I picked up on the second ring to find Dietz on the line.

  “Kink in the works. I just got a call from Nick.
He’s on his way down from San Francisco.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “He says he’s taking time off work, but that’s as much as I know. He called from the road and said he’d explain the rest when he gets here.”

  “Well, that’s worrisome.”

  “Remains to be seen. He sounded fine.”

  “What time’s he getting in?”

  “Depends on where he was when he called. The city’s a six-hour drive, so I’m guessing ten at the earliest.”

  “If you want to take a rain check on dinner, it’s fine with me.”

  “Let’s don’t do that. Nick’s a big boy. If he gets in while I’m out, he can pick up a key and make himself at home. I’ll leave word for him at the desk.”

  “Here’s another plan. Why don’t I come over to the hotel and we can order room service? That way if he gets in, you’ll be on the premises.”

  “Not a bad idea, but it’s up to you.”

  “We can go out another night.”

  “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not a bit,” I said.

  “Great. I’ll see you shortly.”

  I hung up, found my jacket, and shrugged myself into it. I grabbed my shoulder bag and fished out my car keys, realizing as I stepped out the door how dark and chilly it was. A trip to his hotel was a bad idea. I was tired and I really didn’t feel like driving across town. I stopped in my tracks, wondering how tacky it would be if I called and begged off. I’d spent much of the day with him and I’d have been happy with a stretch of time on my own. I stood there, wishing I hadn’t piped up. Me and my big mouth. I should have done us both a favor and let him off the hook. Now, since I was already in motion, it felt easier to proceed to my car. I unlocked the Mustang and slid under the wheel. I sat for another brief interlude, conflicted and out of sorts. Finally, I turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb. I’d have one glass of wine and a quick bite to eat and then I’d come home. Nick was probably more in need of his father’s attention than I was at this point.

  • • •

  When Dietz answered the door he was in a fresh pair of jeans and a collared shirt, over which he’d pulled a black cashmere sweater. His hair was still damp from the shower and I could smell soap and aftershave. He helped me out of my jacket and tossed it over the arm of a chair. He’d ordered a bottle of Champagne that was nestled in a silver ice bucket frosty with condensation. He picked up the bottle, put a cloth over the top, and worked the cork out with his thumbs. He held up a Champagne flute, his way of asking if he could pour me a glass.

  “By all means.”

  The room was larger than my apartment, no big surprise. My studio is small, which is why it suits me so well. Here the king-size bed seemed to dominate the room with its puffy white duvet like a heavy layer of snow. The bedframe was topped with an ornate wrought-iron crown. The walls were a buttery yellow, the Oriental rug awash in muted colors, mild green dominating. There was a corner fireplace with a real wood fire, throwing out a warmth I couldn’t quite feel from where I stood. The furniture looked antique, which may or may not have been the case.

  Dietz handed me my Champagne flute and I took a sip, experiencing the surprise on my tongue. If I drink Champagne at all, it’s the cheap stuff, which is closer to a freshly poured glass of tonic water with harsh undertones. This was delicate, like a mouth full of sunshine and butterflies. I watched him pour a glass for himself.

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  I settled on a leather-upholstered easy chair with a matching ottoman, one of two set at angles on either side of the snapping fire. The bed was stacked three deep with pillows, each covered in a faded chintz and trimmed with a thick fringe. Dietz had money. I had no idea how he’d come by it. To hear him tell it, his family was a shiftless lot of gypsies and vagabonds. His father worked the oil fields when jobs were available and otherwise spent his life crisscrossing the country in a series of dilapidated station wagons and vans. His mother rode shotgun, her bare feet propped on the dashboard while she drank beer and tossed empty cans out the window. Dietz and his grandmother occupied the backseat, playing cards or reading road maps and picking out towns with weird names. They made a point of traveling south for the winter, usually to Florida, but any place warm would do. If they couldn’t afford a motel, they slept in the car. If money was really in short supply, they’d cruise country roads and raid kitchen gardens for something to eat. He was largely homeschooled and he had little in the way of formal education. I suspected his job history was checkered, yet he seemed at home in this opulent hotel room, which felt alien to me.

  “You hungry?” he asked.

  “Getting there.”

  “We should probably take a look at the menu. Room service is slow at this hour, so the sooner we order, the better off we’ll be.”

  He handed me a menu while he sat down in the other leather chair with a menu of his own.

  The bifold was oversize, printed on heavy card stock. I ran an eye down both pages, which were writ in an elegant hand as though a scribe had just left the premises. Shrimp cocktail was $14. Asparagus soup, $10. All of the entrees were $35 or more. Personally, I’d have preferred a peanut butter and pickle sandwich; seventy-five cents max. “A bit pricey, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s my treat. If you’re feeling cheap, have a sandwich.”

  “Who said anything about cheap? The cheeseburger’s twenty-one dollars! Two dollars more if you add bacon or avocado.”

  “Relax. The burgers are prime sirloin ground to order. The patties are hand-formed and cooked any way you like.”

  I held up my Champagne glass. “I think I’ll make do with this and fix my own supper when I get home.”

  “Don’t be silly. If you don’t eat, you’ll get too snockered to drive.”

  “I can’t stay that long anyway. It would have been smarter to postpone. I’m tired.”

  “No, no. It was a great idea. Nick won’t roll in for another couple of hours.”

  “What’s he going to think if he gets here and I’m in your room?”

  Dietz studied me quizzically. “Are you concerned about that?”

  “I should have stayed at home. At least I could’ve put on my comfies and read a good mystery.”

  “You can do that here. I have two Robert Parker paperbacks in my suitcase,” he said. “Is there something else going on? I’m not reading your mood.”

  “I don’t have moods.”

  “What is it then?”

  I was tempted to tell him about Dace and the money he’d left me, but I was still trying to come to terms with it myself. I wasn’t sure why I couldn’t just make my peace with my newfound riches and rejoice. “How did you get so comfortable with money? You seem at home in a place like this while I’m out of my element.”

  “I like what money buys. Space, mobility, leisure, freedom from anxiety.”

  “I’ve got all those things.”

  “No, you don’t. You live like a monk.”

  “Don’t change the subject. Where’d your money come from? I thought your father was a roustabout. Isn’t that what you said? The way you talk about your youth, I assumed you were poor.”

  “We were dirt poor for years. As it turned out—and I wasn’t aware of this at the time—my dad trained with a man named Myron Kinley. He’s the guy who developed techniques for fighting oil-well fires. It was dangerous work and very lucrative, of course. My dad loved high stakes. At some point, I guess my mother put her foot down. The job was way too risky, so eventually he got out. Meantime, he’d saved up a big chunk of change that was literally burning a hole in his pocket. When we moved from Oklahoma to Texas, he met a guy who fancied himself quite the entrepreneur. This fellow had come up with a scheme to buy oil and gas leases with an eye to flipping them, but he was short on capital. He and my dad each put up a couple of thousand bucks and started picking up expired leases. They’d pay pennies on the dollar, then turn around and resell them t
o oil companies that actually had the capacity to drill.”

  “Sounds like a great idea.”

  “To a point. Problem was, they fought all the time. They were both headstrong and opinionated, so they couldn’t agree on anything. Eventually, they split their holdings down the middle and called it square. The other guy went broke. My dad hung on to his shares and eventually cashed in big. I didn’t know anything about it until he died.”

  “Nice story. I like that.”

  The phone rang and we both turned to look at it. Seemed too early for Nick’s arrival, but who else would be calling? Dietz crossed to the writing desk and picked up. “Dietz.”

  He listened briefly and said, “Great. Send him up.” He returned the handset to the cradle. “It’s Nick.”

  “It’s good you were here and not out somewhere.”

  “I’m sure my being gone never crossed his mind. Kids are egocentric. Parents exist strictly for their convenience. He probably can’t conceive of my having a life of my own.”

  I got up and set my glass on the side table. “I should go and leave the two of you to catch up.”

  “Stay and say hello. If he hasn’t eaten, the three of us can have dinner downstairs.”

  “I’d love to meet him. I didn’t mean I was galloping off right this minute.”

  When the knock came, Dietz opened the door. He and Nick grabbed each other in a big enthusiastic hug. Then Dietz put an arm across Nick’s shoulders and ushered him into the room. “Someone I want you to meet,” he said to Nick. “This is Kinsey.” And to me, “My son, Nick.”

  Nick turned a dark-eyed look on me, his smile diminishing almost imperceptibly. It was clear he had no idea his father would be entertaining anyone. He was tall and lean with the same striking features I’d seen in his mother’s photograph. In his faded jeans and a leather bomber jacket, he still somehow managed to look elegant. He was actually my concept of a snooty prep school kid who’d had his choice of Ivy League colleges. He was Dietz’s counterpoint and (perhaps) just as appealing in his own way.