by Sue Grafton
“Tenuous at best.”
“You have a better theory? You even have a suspect? Because I’m offering both.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m saying I can’t sell this. The DA’s tough. She won’t file if she doesn’t think she’s got something solid under her feet.” I could see him turn the issue over in his mind. “Promise me your access to this information is legitimate.”
“Of course.” I tucked the pills back into my bag.
“No breaking and entering.”
I raised a hand as though swearing an oath.
“You never impersonated an officer.”
“I didn’t impersonate anybody. When I talked to Willard, I said I was a former colleague of Pete’s, which is true. I gave him my business card, so no funny business there.”
He shook his head. “An investigation like this would take months.”
“I understand. Just let me know if anything new develops. That’s all I ask.”
“Sure, but don’t hold your breath.”
34
I didn’t hear from Cheney until the following Tuesday morning. “The Ruger’s registered to a man named Sanford Wray.”
I don’t know what I thought he was going to say but it wasn’t that. “Who’s he?”
“Film producer. He started out as a venture capitalist and he’s been involved with Hollywood for the past six years. He lives in Montebello and commutes when he has a project in the works. Jonah’s been filling in the blanks. Wray’s heavy into charities and he’s on half a dozen boards. Big cheese in town.”
“Does he have a criminal history?”
“Nope. His record’s clean.”
“I never heard of the guy. Does the name mean anything to you?” I found myself pacing in front of my desk, telephone in hand.
Cheney said, “Hollywood moguls aren’t high on my list. The last movie I saw was Dirty Harry, so Clint Eastwood’s it.”
“How does Sanford Wray know Pete?”
“Remains to be seen. We haven’t talked to him.”
“When will you do that?”
“Jonah’s checking to see if he’s in town. Once we track him down, we’ll pay him a visit and have a nice long chat.”
“I’d love to be there when you do.”
Cheney made a sound that said, Not in our lifetime. “We don’t know how he’s going to react. He could barricade himself in the house, break out a window, and shoot at us. We might end up calling in the SWAT team.”
“Or not,” I said. I sat down, hoping to calm myself. I couldn’t tell if I was nervous, anxious, or excited, but my blood pressure was up.
Cheney said, “The explanation might be innocent. The gun was stolen and he wasn’t aware of it, or he knew the gun was gone and he hadn’t reported it. If we brought along a civilian, he could file a complaint.”
“That was just wishful thinking on my part,” I said. “I know I won’t be tagging along. Department policy, public safety, or whatever else you care to cite.”
“Good girl.”
“Will you tell me what he says?”
“Probably. The gist of it at any rate.”
“Not the gist. I want you to swear you’ll remember everything he says and repeat the conversation back to me. Word for word.”
“You got it. Word for word.”
• • •
I couldn’t think what to make of this odd turn of events. I was suddenly facing an information gap. Up pops Sanford Wray and until Cheney filled in the blanks, I had to let go. I returned to the office, happy to be picking up the old routines. No new business yet, but that would take care of itself in due course. I knew William was hard at work on his plans for the two funerals, and I was just about resigned to footing the bill. At least it would be something to occupy my time. I was sitting at my desk in the little bungalow downtown when I heard someone open and close the front door.
Anna appeared. Here it was October and she was in a tank top and a pair of short shorts. “Can I talk to you?”
I hadn’t seen her for days, but Henry had told me she’d picked up a job in a beauty salon on lower State Street, which allowed her to walk to work. She was still bunking at his place, but since he had no objections, I didn’t see how I could complain.
I said, “Sure. Have a seat. I hear you found work. How’s it going?”
She perched on the edge of one of my visitor’s chairs. “The job’s fine. Still minimum wage, but I like the place.”
“Good. What can I do for you?”
“Gee, well, let’s just get down to business here.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know you came to chitchat.”
“I think I made a mistake.”
This was interesting. I swear if she’d had a hankie in hand, she’d be twisting it. I noticed I wasn’t getting the benefit of those big blue eyes of hers. I waited.
“I talked to Dr. Reed. Henry lent me his car and I drove out to the university.”
“This was Thursday of last week?”
“Well, yes, but I haven’t seen you since then or I’d have told you earlier.”
“I wasn’t accusing you of anything,” I said.
“When I told Dr. Reed I was Terrence Dace’s daughter, he was confused about why I was there when he’d already talked to you earlier that day. He got all pissy and said he couldn’t understand why you hadn’t just passed the information along.”
“To which you replied?”
“I was so rattled I don’t remember now, but that’s not the point. I thought he knew what you did . . .”
“About what?”
“Your work. He didn’t know you were a private detective.”
“How did that come up?”
“I was just making conversation. I told him I hadn’t been in town long. I said I was staying with your landlord, who owns the studio you rent on the same property. I said it worked out well for both of you because you were sometimes on the road. Dr. Reed asked if you were in sales and then I mentioned what you did for a living. He got upset you never identified yourself. He said you acted like you were having any old conversation about a family member.”
“That’s what it was. I wasn’t there in any professional capacity.”
“But you asked all those questions about the program.”
“He volunteered. I didn’t even know enough to ask.”
“That’s not how he remembers it.”
I considered the situation briefly. “I don’t see how any harm was done,” I said. “I’d have preferred your keeping my personal life to yourself, but it’s too late to worry about that now.”
“I lied a little bit and said you’d given me some of the information, but what I’d really come to ask him was something else. I told him Ethan’s concerns that Daddy’s medication might have affected his mind. Dr. Reed blew his stack. The guy’s a basket case. He wanted to know why everybody was suddenly so interested. He said my father didn’t suffer dementia or any other mental impairment. He was taking a placebo and it wouldn’t have had that effect.”
“Good news for me and bad for you,” I said. “I guess the will’s back in effect.”
“You don’t have to make jokes about it.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be flip.”
“Anyway, I didn’t see why he had to get so huffy. I felt like I really put my foot in it. And then to make matters worse, this other business came up.”
“Please don’t make me guess.”
“Well, I knew one of those homeless people gave you a bottle of Daddy’s pills . . .”
I cut in, saying, “Who told you that?”
“Henry.”
I was close to pressing her further when I picked up the unspoken message. “And you told Dr. Reed?”
I was not actually shrieking, but she must have guessed the level of my outrage from the expression on my face.
“I didn’t know it was any big secret.”
“But why would you do that? Why in the world would you do that?
Why would the subject even come up?”
“Because he said if I went through Daddy’s things I should keep an eye out. He said fourteen pills were missing and I said you had them.”
“Is the concept of minding your own business completely foreign to you? I told you not to go out there. I knew no good would come of it.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose. I mean, I went on purpose, but I didn’t mean to make trouble. It just came out. I was trying to help. I was trying to smooth things over.”
“So now what happens?”
“Nothing. He’d appreciate it if you’d return them. He says addicts will take any drug they get their hands on in hopes of getting buzzed.”
“But those are placebos, so what’s the risk?”
“I’m telling you what he said. Daddy signed a form and agreed to abide by the rules.”
“But your father didn’t abide by the rules, Anna, which is why they kicked him out. Dr. Reed was the one who made the decision, so as far as I’m concerned, all bets are off.”
“I understand why you’re irritated. You already went out there once, but there’s no big rush. He said by the end of the week would be fine.”
“This isn’t a negotiation. I’m not giving him anything. I didn’t sign an agreement, so the rules don’t apply to me.”
“You can’t refuse. He has a government grant. He has to account for everything. With a clinical trial, you can’t just do anything you please. There are strict guidelines.”
“Strict guidelines. Wow. I don’t know what to say.”
“This is stupid. I’m not going to sit here and argue.”
“That is the best news I’ve had so far.”
“I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal of it.”
“Because I’m having a bad day and you’re not helping me, okay? Neither is Linton Reed.”
“Well, you don’t have to take that attitude. He said if you didn’t want to make the drive to the university, he’d stop by and pick them up himself.”
“So now he’s the pill police?”
“He has a responsibility.”
“Well, I don’t doubt that. Happily he has no idea where I live.”
That’s when I got the big blue eyes.
“Do not tell me you gave him my address.”
She dropped her gaze. “When he asked, I gave him my address. What was I supposed to say?”
I stood up and leaned across the desk. My voice had dropped so low I wasn’t sure she’d hear what I was saying unless she knew how to read lips. “Please get out of my office. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to talk to you. If you so much as catch sight of me, you better run the other way. Have I made myself clear?”
She got up without another word and left, slamming the door behind her.
After I’d cleaned the office from top to bottom, I realized I’d probably gone too far with her. What difference did it make if he knew where to find me? True, I harbored the suspicion that he might have had a hand in Pete’s death, but he didn’t know that. As far as I was concerned, he had no power over me and he had no leverage, so what was there to sweat? If he had the gall to come knocking at my door, I’d tell him I’d tossed the pills. That settled, I retrieved said bottle from my shoulder bag, pulled the rug back, opened my floor safe, and locked the pills away.
• • •
Cheney called late in the afternoon, saying, “I have a one-hour dinner break. I’m buying if you want to join me.”
He knew full well I wouldn’t refuse.
I said, “You did talk to Sanford Wray, right?” I held the handset loosely, pen and paper at the ready in case I needed to take notes.
“First thing this morning. Hey, we’re old friends by now. He asked me to call him Mr. Wray. That’s how tight we are.”
“What’d he say about the gun?”
“I’m not doing this on the phone. We’re starting to cook on this, I can tell you that. We picked up partial prints. Thumb and index finger.”
“Oh, come on, Cheney. Don’t make me wait. I want to know what went on.”
“I’ll pick you up in an hour. How do you feel about eating breakfast at dinnertime?”
“I love the idea.”
• • •
I was home and waiting at the curb when Cheney came around the corner in his red Mercedes-Benz Roadster. I found myself mentally cocking my head. I was thinking about Robert Dietz and his red Porsche, wondering if Jonah Robb had a little red sports car as well. Cheney leaned across the seat and opened the passenger-side door. I slid into the black leather bucket seat and said, “Is this the car you had when I saw you last?”
“That was an ’87. This is the ’88. A 560SL. You like it?”
“I thought the other one was a 560SL.”
“It was. I was so crazy about the car I got a duplicate.”
He drove us out onto the wooden pier, the big timbers rumbling beneath his wheels. The restaurant was three blocks from my apartment but it wasn’t one I frequented. We ate at a table overlooking the harbor with its modest traffic in powerboats and fishing vessels. Not surprisingly, the restaurant was given over to a nautical theme: black-and-white photographs of sailboats, fish netting draped along the walls, distressed wood, buoys, and other maritime artifacts, including fiberglass fish reproductions—two marlins, three sharks, and a school of sailfish.
As we ate, I wondered idly if you could classify men according to their breakfast preferences. Cheney was a pancake kind of guy; crisp bacon, breakfast sausage, eggs over easy. He piled it all together, poured syrup over the top, and cut it into a big nasty pile that he devoured with enthusiasm. He wasn’t a big man but he never seemed to gain weight.
I ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, rye toast, and orange juice. When we finally pushed our plates aside and the waitress had refreshed our coffee cups, I said, “Are you going to volunteer the information or do I have to beg?”
“I’m happy to tell you the story, but I’m taking out the filler. You know how it is, you show up at a guy’s door asking about a gun, there’s all this preliminary bullshit while they decide if they should hire legal counsel before letting you set foot on the premises. Okay, so the nitty-gritty. He answers the door. We introduce ourselves and I ask if he has a forty-five-caliber Ruger semiautomatic registered to him. This is me and Jonah by the way. He says he does. We ask where the gun is. He says his bed table drawer. We say we’d like to see the weapon if he has no objections. He says, ‘None whatever.’
“So far this is going great, but just to be on the safe side, we clarify the request, letting him know he has the right to refuse. By now, he’s getting antsy. We reaffirm we have his consent to come in and take a look. He says, ‘What the hell is this?’ We tell him the Ruger might have been used in the commission of a crime, which he says is bullshit.”
“I thought you were skipping the filler.”
“This is important Fourth Amendment stuff. Something goes wrong, I don’t want him claiming we didn’t spell it out for him. So there’s more back-and-forth before he gets down to it.
“Okay, so after that little verbal skirmish, he decides not to argue the point. We all troop into the bedroom, where he opens the bed table drawer. Sure enough, there’s a gun. Obviously not the Ruger because Jonah’s holding that in an evidence bag. First thing Wray says is, ‘That’s not my gun.’
“So we ask if he recognizes the gun and he says of course not, he never saw it in his life. So then we go back and quiz him as to his whereabouts the night of August 25. Turns out he was on location in North Carolina, where his company’s shooting a film. We show him the Ruger, which he identifies as his. Now we’re making progress. We ask how he acquired it. He says he bought it two years ago after a rash of home invasions in Los Angeles where he was living. Both he and his wife had themselves safety-certified before he made the purchase. After that they took shooting lessons. Very conscientious, and we’re quick to compliment him for being such a good citizen. We ask him whe
n’s the last time he or his wife handled the Ruger, and he names the occasion, which was maybe five months back. They went target shooting and he cleaned the gun afterward.”
I leaned forward. “He can prove he was out of town?”
“No question. And please remember, this is coming out of left field, so he’s had no time to prepare.”
“Okay, so the gun is his, but he was gone. Now what?”
“There’s a kicker.”
“I hope it’s good.”
“I don’t know how good it is, but it’s interesting. I take that back—it’s good and it’s interesting.”
I made that rolling-hand gesture hoping to speed him along.
“Once we tell him the semiautomatic in the drawer might be the one used in a shooting death, he’s practically begging us to get the damn thing out of his house. We bag and tag and go back to the station, where we run the serial numbers. And you know what we find?”
“The gun’s not registered.”
“It is registered. You want to guess who to?”
“Cheney, would you quit this? Either tell me or don’t tell me, but don’t play games. Whose gun was it?”
“Pete Wolinsky’s.”
• • •
I told Cheney I’d walk home. He had to get back to work and I needed the air. Nothing made sense. How had Pete’s Glock 17 ended up in some stranger’s bed table drawer? What was that about? We’d gone through the story a second time. Once the gun was identified as Pete’s, the Wrays were invited downtown for further conversation and they couldn’t have been more cooperative. Both agreed to have their prints rolled. Sanford Wray didn’t know Pete Wolinsky. He’d never even heard the name. Nor had his wife, Gail. Neither had a criminal history. Both husband and wife were out of state the night Pete was killed. Their home security system had been activated and there were no reports of an alarm. Jonah asked them to make a list of everyone who’d had access to the house in their absence and they’d given it to him on the spot. Not that many, as it turned out. House cleaners, Wray’s personal assistant, a couple of family members who were coming in at Jonah’s request. In the meantime, Ballistics was now in possession of both the Ruger and the Glock 17, and they’d determine which slugs had been fired from which gun.
