by Sue Grafton
“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.
As he’d never laid eyes on me, he was already wary and unreceptive. I’d have been willing to swear there was nothing in my demeanor to suggest the nature of my relationship to his dad. It’s not like I was half dressed or my hair was messed up. Neither of us had gone near the bed, so the covers were smooth. Granted we’d been intimate in the past, but we were still in neutral gear this round, so there was no charge whatsoever in the air. Something had cued him and I’d been marked as the enemy.
I smiled and held out my hand, saying, “Hi, Nick.”
He said, “Hello.”
We shook hands briefly and I covered nimbly for the chill wafting in my direction.
I reached for my jacket and picked up my shoulder bag. “I was just on my way out. Your dad and I are working a case together and we were comparing notes.”
I have no idea why I offered this lame story, which cast the occasion in a false light. The toss-away comment, while true, sounded implausible on the face of it. I found this unnerving since I usually lie with greater finesse. Nick flicked a look at his father and his eyes then strayed to the room service menu I’d left open on the chair behind me. From there his gaze flicked to the Champagne bucket and half-filled flutes. I felt a flash of guilt, as though sharing a meal might have illicit undertones.
Meanwhile, Dietz was looking at me perplexed. “Why take off now?”
“I’ve got things to take care of at home,” I said. “We can chat tomorrow if you have a minute.”
“Sure thing,” he said.
He saw me to the door. Nick’s gaze remained fixed on me while I eased into the hall.
Dietz said, “You drive carefully.”
“I will and thanks for the drink.”
“You bet.”
Over his shoulder, I gave Nick a quick, friendly wave. “Nice meeting you.”
“Same here,” he said.
Uhn-hun, I thought. I turned and walked down the hall, doing a little quick step to speed myself along.
Once outside, I waited for the valet to bring around the Mustang, which he handed over in exchange for a folded bill. I’d given him a five, which I thought was absurd, but I couldn’t bear to be cheap with Dietz’s comment still ringing in my ears. I hadn’t been feeling cheap. Twenty-one dollars for a damn cheeseburger was robbery. I got in the car and released the handbrake, putting a gentle pressure on the accelerator. As I turned right out of the hotel driveway, I cranked the heater up full blast and still I shivered most of the way home.
• • •
In the morning, I jogged three miles and then continued with my usual routine. I had no idea what I was going to do that day, but I figured I’d better not count on Dietz. By 9:00, I was showered and dressed and drinking a second cup of coffee when the phone rang. I set the paper aside and picked up.
Dietz said, “Hey, it’s me. I just talked to Pete’s landlady. She’ll be in the office shortly if you want to pop over there with me.”
“Great. What about Nick?”
“Still asleep. I told him I had work to do this morning and we’d have lunch when I got back. You want me to pick you up?”
“Sure.”
“Good. I’ll see you in a few.”
• • •
I was waiting out in front when Dietz pulled up. I got in the car and we exchanged courtesies, both of us behaving as though everything was fine, which I suppose it was from his perspective.
He sent me a quick, proud smile. “What’d you think of Nick?”
“Nice kid. Handsome,” I said. “I see what you mean about his favoring his mom.”
“Two peas in a pod.”
“So what’s going on with him?”
“He’s got a bug up his butt about quitting his job to go traveling. We chatted about it some, without going into any great detail. The plan seems half-baked, but I didn’t want to argue the point until I heard him out.”
“I thought Graham was the one with the wanderlust.”
“Nick must have caught it from him, or from me for all I know. Fortunately, he’s still cautious enough to want my approval before he flings himself into the abyss.”
“So, he’s in the market for some fatherly advice?”
“Let’s hope not. I’m new at this. What do I know about parenting? This is the stuff Naomi dealt with.”
“Ah, well,” I said. I had nowhere to go with the subject and he didn’t seem that comfortable talking about incipient fatherhood. “How’d you end up talking to Pete’s landlady? You caught me by surprise on that.”
“I’d made a note of the number and called first thing this morning and introduced myself. I said I was representing Pete’s widow and suggested we might make a deal for the back rent.”
“Somehow I was picturing a guy.”
“She sounds like one. Her name’s Letitia Beaudelaire. I notice she didn’t invite me to call her Letty, so maybe that’s reserved for tenants who’re paid in full. I told her we wanted to pick up Pete’s files.”
“Was she receptive?”
“Actually, she was. I thought she’d put up a fuss, but she said come ahead.”
“You did mention money.”
“So I did. Clever me,” he said.
As it turned out, the real estate company that handled Pete’s lease was in the same building, one floor up. We passed the empty office again on our way to the entrance and couldn’t help but notice the For Lease sign had been removed. Inside we could see a painter at work on the interior walls; drop cloths, a ladder, and all the attendant paraphernalia.
Dietz said, “Hope she’s got a new tenant. That might make her receptive to a negotiation.”
A woman came close on our heels as Dietz pushed open the glass door to the lobby. We entered and Dietz paused to hold the door for her. She was short and round, dressed in a business suit and spike heels, a ribbon of perfume streaming in her wake.
We crossed to the elevators and he pushed the button for the second floor. We got in, the doors closed, and the three of us rode up in silence. I watched her fumble in her purse, apparently looking for a pack of cigarettes, which she found. She shook one loose and put it between her teeth, where it tilted at a jaunty angle while she searched for a light. Her lipstick was bright red and she wore a matching shade of polish on her short blunt-cut fingernails.
When the doors opened on 2, she got off the elevator, fi
ring up her cigarette while she walked. Smoke rose above her head and drifted back at us. Dietz paused to study the directional arrows, indicating which office numbers were to the left and which to the right. “Two-thirteen’s the one we want,” he said. We ended up turning left as she had.
Meanwhile, the woman had stopped in front of an office door, topped with half a panel of opaque glass.
As we caught up with her, Dietz said, “Are you Letitia?”
“I wondered when you’d figure that out. You’re my nine-thirty appointment.”
“I am, indeed,” he said.
“I pictured you alone. Who’s your friend?”
“This is Kinsey. She’s a private eye like me. You two should get along fine. She’s tough as nails.”
Letitia removed the cigarette from her lips, appraising me with a long look as she unlocked and opened the door. She placed her bag on a desk and crossed to the window, where she opened the Venetian blinds. I was hoping she’d grace us with fresh air, but I guess she didn’t want to dilute the effect of all the secondhand smoke.
The office consisted of two adjoining rooms with a short hall leading to what I was guessing was a third room with the door currently shut. It was unclear how many people the company employed. The furniture wasn’t arranged to accommodate a receptionist and boss or even two equal partners. Too many chairs and not enough working space. I counted three phones, two of which were unplugged. Most of the surfaces, including the windowsills, were stacked with office supplies. Ten mismatching file cabinets had been jammed into a space better suited for eight. The last two were angled so none of the drawers would open to the full.
When Letitia removed her coat, I could see that what I’d thought was a business suit was really a wool skirt and matching vest with big mother-of-pearl buttons down the front. The fit was tight and I was betting she was in denial about the extra thirty pounds she’d gained the day she reached menopause. The skirt waist had inched up her midriff, which shortened the hem to a coquettish three inches above her knees. The lapels on her vest no longer met in the front, but that might have been due to the size of her breasts, which threatened to topple her.
In her smoke-husky voice, she said to Dietz, “How’d you get tied up with Pete Wolinsky? You know he’s a deadbeat.”
“That’s our Pete,” Dietz said, equably. “On the other hand, his wife’s a lovely woman who’s now facing the mess he left.”
That netted him no response.
Dietz allowed his gaze to skirt the room. “What happened to his office furniture? Ruthie intended to have it moved to the house.”
“And I was supposed to know this how? She hasn’t even bothered to get in touch.”
“A call from you might not have been out of line. She had a lot on her mind.”
“I sold his stuff for two hundred bucks and that included that rickety rolling chair of his. I couldn’t even give away that piece-of-shit typewriter, so I tossed it in the trash.”
“Too bad. That was a collector’s item.”
“Liar,” she said.
Dietz smiled. “What about his file cabinets?”
“You’re looking at ’em. I took those for my own use.”
“All we’re interested in is the contents. She needs his business records for tax purposes.”
“It’s all in boxes.”
“Mind if we take a look?”
“Actually, I do mind. He died owing me a bundle. I thought you were here to haggle over his back rent. Isn’t that what you said?”
“Words to that effect.”
“Think of his files as collateral.”
“In other words, if his wife wants them back she’ll have to come up with the ransom money.”
“Why would she not? Somebody’s gotta pay me. I got fifteen boxes of his crap.”
“All worthless,” Dietz said.
“Must have some value or why would you be here?”
“We thought we might take it all off your hands and save you a trip to the dump.”
She stared at him, her eyes narrowing with amusement. “You’d have to have a signed authorization. Otherwise, I can’t be handing over his private papers. I’m sure there’s a law against that.”
Dietz smiled. “Signed authorization. I’m happy you mentioned it.”
He took out his wallet and removed four one-hundred-dollar bills, which he fanned out for her inspection. “These are signed by the secretary of the Treasury, James Baker. Remember him? Reagan’s old chief of staff.”
He held the bills up.
She made no move. She lifted the cigarette to her lips, inhaled, and let the smoke drift upward across her face. She glanced at me. “Where’d you find this guy?”
“I needed a bodyguard.”
“Don’t we all,” she said with a bawdy laugh.
Dietz added two more hundreds. “Last chance,” he said.
She reached out and removed the cash from his hand as daintily as a feral cat accepting a morsel of food.
“In there,” she said, using her cigarette to point toward the room down the hall.
27
PETE WOLINSKY
August 1988, Two Months Earlier
Pete and the good doctor Reed ran into difficulties deciding where to meet. On the phone, prior to their get-together, the two had settled on a price: four thousand dollars for Pete’s services, which was stunning when you considered it was an hour’s work at best. Pete insisted on half up front and the balance once the job was done. He was surprised at how little argument Linton Reed put up but decided he was unaccustomed to bargaining, especially in touchy matters such as this. Pete’s first thought was to ask for six, but he didn’t want to push. Four was very reasonable for what the man was getting.
Pete had roughed out a plan and he was eager to test the idea. The problem was Linton didn’t want to be seen with him, which meant the university was out. Too great a risk of running into someone who’d recognize Dr. Reed and wonder why he was deep in conversation with a fellow who looked like Ichabod Crane. They couldn’t meet at Pete’s office. He scarcely dared go there himself. The property manager had offices in the same building, and Pete was still kicking himself that he’d bought into the arrangement. They’d talked about connecting up in one of the parking lots at the beach, but again, the setting was too public and Reed had nixed the idea. Pete thought Reed was being melodramatic. He doubted the good doctor’s comings and goings would interest anyone.
They finally agreed to meet on the sea wall that jutted out from the marina. Mid-August and it was late in the day. The sun had faded and the wind was blustery. Lines of spray shot up as each incoming wave crashed against the rocky barrier. This was an unpleasant place for Pete, whose bones often ached with the damp. The only virtue of the location was that the setting was so miserable that no one else was there.
Linton Reed stood with his hands jammed down in the pockets of his dark overcoat, looking out toward the islands, barely visible in the haze. “What’s your proposal?”
“Couple of questions about security measures before I get into it. The lab’s in Southwick Hall, is that correct?”
Linton nodded tersely.
“You have a guard in the lobby?”
Linton focused on him. “I hope you’re not thinking of going into the lab.”
“Just answer my questions and I’ll tell you what I’m thinking when I know what’s up. Guard or no guard?”
“No need for one. Electronic access only. The building and the lab both have swipe-card entry systems. Staff and employees are each assigned an ID badge with a magnetic strip and personal identification number. Every ID has an integrated circuit chip that triggers both locks. You slide the card through a reader and then punch in your code.”
“You use the same swipe card to get out?”
“In this system, yes.”
“What about closed-circuit TV?”
“There was talk of installing cameras but the university doesn’t have the funds. In the e
nd, we decided this is a college campus, not a bank. I’ve seen security stickers on certain doors, but it’s just for show. Lots of signs—No Admittance; Authorized Personnel Only—none of it means anything.”
“How good is the lighting?”
“Campus safety’s a big deal, so there’s good visibility outside, especially along the paths and in the parking lots. Inside, lights are blazing all the time.”
“Lot of people work late?”
“That happens occasionally, but most of us have families. I’ve never seen anybody in the lab after nine. There are people going in and out just about any time of day,” he said. “Now, I’d appreciate an explanation.”
“Fair enough. So here’s the idea. You pick a night when there’s some big shindig going on that you and your wife plan to attend. You go and make sure you’re conspicuous throughout. Cocktails, conversation, dinner. Everybody knows you’re there. Airtight alibi. You have anything like that on the horizon?”
Linton looked off to the left and then said, “Close enough. August 24. That’s a Wednesday night. There’s an advisory board meeting of the local commission on alcohol and drug abuse. Dinner first and then I’ll be closeted for hours with a number of medical types. There’d be no question I was present and accounted for.”
“Sounds good. While you’re tied up, I let myself into the lab using the Bryce woman’s ID and PIN.”
“Her ID? How do you propose to do that?”
“My worry, not yours. I figure if I wear a white lab coat and employee badge, no one will pay me any mind. Make sure I have a map and then I’m just some schmo on the premises like anybody else. I go in, I stay a while, and then I come out. Swipe-card entry systems retain an audit trail of events at the door. Anybody checks on it later, it’s all set in stone—what time she went in, how long she stayed, and when she came out again.”
“Then what. I don’t understand. You go in the lab to do what? You don’t know anything about our work.”
