by Sue Grafton
The run was good. Often three miles just feels like a pain in the ass, something I do because I know I must. For once, here I was feeling grateful to be physically fit. I wouldn’t do well with an injury like Dietz’s that prevented exercise. I’ll never be any kind of champ, but for lifting a depression there’s really nothing better. I did the turn at East Beach and started back, picking up my pace a bit. The sun was coming up behind me, sloshing rivulets of yellow light across the sky. Walking home again, winded and sweating, my mood was light and I was feeling good.
Dietz was in the shower when I got in. He’d brought in the paper and set it on the kitchen counter. He’d tidied the bedcovers and folded up the sofa bed, tucking the pillows out of sight somewhere. I put on a pot of coffee and then went upstairs, waiting until I heard him turn off his shower before I started mine. By 8:35, I was dressed, I’d finished breakfast, and I was gathering up my jacket and my car keys. Dietz was still sitting at the kitchen counter with his second cup of coffee and the morning paper spread out before him.
“See you later,” I said.
“Have a good one,” he replied.
On the way downtown, I stopped off at a nearby condominium with the two subpoenas in hand. I served both without incident, though the fellow and his girlfriend were hardly happy with me. Occasionally, I’ll have someone who goes to absurd lengths to avoid service, but for the most part people seem resigned to their fates. If someone protests or turns ugly, my response is usually the same: “Sorry, pal, but I’m like a waitress. I don’t cook up the trouble, I just serve it. Have a nice day,” I say.
For a change, I parked in the public lot across from the courthouse and walked the two blocks to work. My current office is the former conference room for the law firm of Kingman and Ives, located in downtown Santa Teresa. From my apartment, the drive takes about ten minutes, given the usual traffic conditions. The Kingman building appears to be a three-story stucco structure, but the ground floor is an illusion. Behind a fieldstone facade, complete with barred and shuttered windows, there’s actually a small parking lot, with twelve assigned spaces. Most of the office staff and the lesser tenants in the building are forced to scrounge parking elsewhere. The surrounding blocks aren’t metered, but parking is restricted to ninety minutes max and most of us receive at least one ticket a month. Some mornings, it’s comical watching us pass and repass, trying to beat one another to the available spaces.
I climbed the two flights of stairs, forgoing the pleasures of the elevator, which is small and takes forever, often giving the impression it’s on the verge of getting stuck. Once in the office, I exchanged pleasantries with the receptionist, Alison, and Lonnie Kingman’s secretary, Ida Ruth. I seldom see Lonnie, who’s either in court or working doggedly behind closed doors. I let myself into my office, where I paused to make a note of the date, time, and a brief physical description of the couple to whom I’d served the subpoenas. I typed up a quick invoice, then picked up the telephone, leaning back in my swivel chair as I tossed the paperwork in my out box. California Fidelity didn’t open until nine, but Darcy usually came in early.
“Hey, Darcy. It’s me,” I said when she answered on her end.
“Oh hi, Kinsey. Hang on a minute. I’m not at my desk.” She put me on hold and I listened to leftover Christmas carols while I waited, feeling mildly optimistic. I figured if she hadn’t found anything she’d have said so.
Half a minute passed and then she clicked back in. “Okay. Guy David Malek doesn’t have a current driver’s license in the state of California. His was surrendered in 1968 and apparently it’s never been reissued.”
“Well, shit,” I said.
Darcy laughed. “Would you just wait? You’re always jumping to conclusions. All I said was he doesn’t drive. He has a California identification card, which is where I picked up the information. His mailing address is Route 1, Box 600, Marcella, California, 93456. That’s probably the same as his residence. Sounds like a ranch or a farm. You want to see the picture?”
“You have a current picture of him? This is great. I don’t believe it. You’re a wizard.”
“Hey, you’re dealing with a pro,” she said. “What’s your fax number?”
I gave her Lonnie’s fax number while I reached for the telephone book. “Are you sure he’s in Marcella? That’s less than a hundred miles away.”
“According to DMV records. That should make your job easy.”
“Ain’t that the truth. What do I owe you?”
“Don’t worry about it. I had to fake out some forms to make the request look legitimate, but nobody’s going to check. Took less than a minute.”
“You’re a doll. Thanks so much. I’ll be in touch and we’ll have lunch. I’ll pay.”
Darcy laughed. “I’ll take you up on that.”
I put the phone down and paged through the telephone book, looking up the area code for Marcella, California. It was actually in the 805 area, the same as Santa Teresa. I tried directory assistance, giving the operator Guy Malek’s name. There was no telephone listed at the address I’d been given. “You have any other listing for Guy Malek in the area? G. Malek? Any kind of Malek?”
“No ma’am.”
“All right. Thanks.”
I trotted down the hall to the fax machine just in time to see a copy of Guy Malek’s photo ID slide out. The black-and-white reproduction had a splotchy quality, but it did establish Guy David Malek’s SEX: M; HAIR: BLND; EYES: GRN; HT: 5-08; WT: 155; DOB: 03-02-42. He looked ever so much better than he had in his high school annual. Three cheers for him. I confess I felt smug as I sat down at my desk, the little show-off in my nature patting herself on the back.
I called Tasha’s office and identified myself to her secretary when she picked up. She said, “Tasha’s in a meeting, but let me tell her it’s you. She can probably take a quick call if it’s important.”
“Trust me, it is.”
“Can you hold?”
“Sure.” While I waited, I laid out a hand of solitaire. One card up and six cards down. In some ways, I was sorry everything had come together so fast. I didn’t want Donovan to think he was paying for something he could have done himself ��� though in truth, he was. There’s a lot of information available as a matter of public record. Most people simply don’t have the time or the interest in doing the grunt work. They’re all too happy to have a PI do it for them, so in the end everybody benefits. Still, this one was almost too easy, especially since I wasn’t sure the family would believe their real interests had been served by my discovery. I turned the next card up on the second pile and placed another five cards down.
Tasha clicked on, sounding terse and distracted. “Hi, Kinsey. What’s up? I hope this is important because I’m up to my ass in work.”
“I have an address for Guy Malek. I thought I’d better let you know first thing.”
There was half a second’s silence while she processed the information. “That was fast. How’d you manage?”
I smiled at her tone, which was the perfect blend of surprise and respect. “I have my little ways,” I said. Ah, how seductive the satisfaction when we think we’ve impressed others with our cleverness. It’s one of the perversities of human nature that we’re more interested in the admiration of our enemies than the approbation of our friends. “You have a pencil?”
“Of course. Where’s he living?”
“Not far.” I gave her the address. “There’s no telephone listed. Either he doesn’t have phone service or it’s in someone else’s name.”
“Amazing,” she said. “Let me pass this along to Donovan and see what he wants to do next. He’ll be delighted, I’m sure.”
“I doubt that. I got the impression they’d all be happier if Guy turned up dead.”
“Nonsense. This is family. I’m sure things will work out. I’ll have him give you a call.”
Within fifteen minutes, my phone rang. Donovan Malek was on the line. “Nice work,” he said. “I’m surpr
ised how quick it was. I thought the search would take weeks.”
“It’s not always this easy. We got lucky,” I said. “You need anything else?”
“Tasha and I just had a chat about that. I suggested we have you go up there in person. She could contact him by letter, but people sometimes react oddly getting mail from an attorney. You feel threatened before you even open the envelope. We don’t want to set the wrong tone.”
“Sure, I can talk to him,” I said, feeling puzzled what the right tone would be.
“I’d like a firsthand report about Guy’s current circumstances. Are you free sometime in the next two days?”
I checked my calendar. “I can go this afternoon if you like.”
“The sooner the better. I want this handled with kid gloves. I have no idea if he’s heard about Dad’s death, but even with the estrangement, he could be upset. Besides, the money’s a touchy issue. Who knows how he’ll react.”
“You want me to tell him about the will?”
“I don’t see why not. He’s bound to find out eventually.”
Chapter 5
*
I glanced at my watch. Since there was nothing on my schedule, I thought I might as well hit the road. It was just now nine-thirty. A round-trip to Marcella would take a little more than an hour each way. If I allowed myself an hour to track down Guy Malek, I’d still have plenty of time left to grab a quick lunch and be back mid-afternoon. I opened my bottom desk drawer and took out my map of California. According to the legend, Marcella was maybe eighty miles north, with a population of less than fifteen hundred souls. I didn’t think it would take even an hour to locate him once I hit town, assuming he was still there. The conversation itself probably wouldn’t take more than thirty minutes, which meant I might get this whole job wrapped up by the end of the day.
I put a call through to Dietz and let him know what was going on. I could hear the television in the background, one of the perpetual news broadcasts riddled with commercials. At the end of the hour, you know more about dog food than you do about world events. Dietz indicated that he had no particular plans. I wasn’t sure if he was angling for an invitation to accompany me, but since he didn’t ask the question, I didn’t answer it. I didn’t want to feel responsible for his entertainment anyway. I told him I expected to be back by three and would bypass the office and come straight home. We could figure out what to do about dinner when I finally rolled in.
I gassed up my VW and headed north on 101. The sunshine was short-lived. Where the highway hugged the coastline, the fog had rolled in and the sky was now milky white with clouds turning thick at the edge. Along the road, the evergreens stood out against the horizon in a variety of dark shapes. Traffic moved steadily, mostly single-passenger cars with an occasional horse van, probably heading to the Santa Ynez valley just north of us. We hadn’t had much rain and the hills looked like dull hay-colored mounds with an occasional oil rig genuflecting in a series of obsequious bows toward the earth.
The road turned inland and within the hour, the clouds had burned off again, fading back into a sky of pale blue, streaked with a residual haze as wispy as goose down. Just outside Santa Maria, I took 166 east and drove for ten miles on the two-lane road that paralleled the Cuyama River. The heat from the January sun was thin up here. Through the valleys and canyons, the earth smelled dry and a string of bald brown hills rose up in front of me. Rain had been promised, but the weather seemed to flirt, teasing us with high clouds and a hint of a breeze.
The town of Marcella was situated in the shadow of the Los Coches Mountain. Driving, I was aware of the unseen presence of the great San Andreas Fault, the 750-mile fracture that snakes up the California coastline from the Mexican border to the triple junction near Mendocino, the Pacific and North American plates grinding against each other since time began. Under the thin layers of granite and marine sediment, the crust of the earth was as cracked as a skull. In this area, the San Andreas Fault was intersected by the Santa Ynez Fault with the White Wolf and the Garlock not far away. It’s speculated that the mountains in this part of the state once ran north-south like other mountains along the coast. According to theory, the southern tip of this chain was snagged by the Pacific plate many millions of years ago and dragged sideways as it passed, thus shifting the range to its current east-west orientation. I’d been driving my car once during a minor quake and it felt like the VW had suddenly been passed by a fast-moving eighteen-wheeler. There was a lurch to the right, as if the car had been sucked into a sudden vacuum. In California, where the weather seems to change so little, we look to earthquakes for the drama that tornadoes and hurricanes provide elsewhere.
At the junction of two roads, I caught sight of a discreet sign and turned southward into the town of Marcella. The streets were six lanes wide and sparsely traveled. An occasional palm or juniper had been planted near the curb. There were no buildings over two stories high and the structures I saw consisted of a general store with iron bars across the front windows, a hotel, three motels, a real estate office, and a large Victorian house surrounded by scaffolding. The only bar was located in a building that looked like it might have been a post office once, stripped now of any official function: A Budweiser sign was hanging in a window. What did the citizens of Marcella do for a living, and why settle here? There wasn’t another town for miles and the businesses in this one seemed weighted toward drinking beer and going to bed soon afterward. If you wanted fast food or auto parts, if you needed a prescription filled, a movie, a fitness center, or a wedding gown, you’d have to drive into Santa Maria or farther north on 101 to Atascadero and Paso Robles. The land surrounding the town seemed barren. I hadn’t seen anything that even halfway resembled a citrus orchard or a plowed field. Maybe the countryside was devoted to ranches or mines or stock-car races. Maybe people lived here to escape the burly-burly of San Luis Obispo.
I found a gas station on a side street and stopped for directions. The youth who emerged was about seventeen. He was skinny, had pale eyes, hair shaved very close up to his ears, and a tangle of teeth, all reminiscent of someone in an early episode of The Twilight Zone. I said, “Hi. I’m looking for a friend of mine named Guy Malek. I think he lives on Route 1 somewhere, but he didn’t give me directions.” Well, okay. I was fudging, but I didn’t outright lie. I would be Guy’s friend when he heard the news about the five million bucks.
The youth said nothing, but he pointed a trembling finger like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Back that way?”
“That’s the house.”
I turned to stare with astonishment. The property was enclosed by chain-link fencing. Beyond a rolling chicken wire gate, I could see a small house, a shed, a large barn with corrugated metal siding curling away from the seams, an old yellow school bus, a single gas pump, and a sign too faded to read at any distance. The gate was open. “Oh. Well, thanks. Do you know if he’s home?”
“No.”
“He’s not?”
“No, I don’t know. I didn’t see him today.”
“Ah. Well, I guess I’ll go knock.”
“You could do that,” he said.
I pulled out of the station and drove across the road. I nosed the VW through the open gate and parked on a length of raw dirt that I took for a driveway. I got out. The surface of the yard was white sand with a rim of brown grass around the edge. The house was frame, painted once-upon-a-time white, one story with a wooden porch built across the front. A trellis that shielded the windows on the left sported only one bare vine, which twisted through the latticework like a boa constrictor. A matching trellis on the right had collapsed under its burden of dry, brown vegetation. Various wires extended from the roofline, connecting the occupants to telephone, cable, and electricity.
I climbed the wooden stairs and knocked on the dilapidated screen. The front door was shut and there were no signs of life. There was a fine dusting of soot everywhere, as if the structure were downwin
d of a smelting plant. The porch floor began to tremble in a way that suggested that someone was traversing the wooden floor inside of the house. The door was opened and I found myself face-to-face with the man I took to be Guy Malek. Aside from a three-day growth of beard, he didn’t look anywhere near his age. His hair looked darker and straighter than it had in his high school yearbook, but his features were still boyish: khaki green eyes fringed with dark lashes; a small, straight nose; and a generous mouth. His complexion was clear and his color was good. Age had sketched in fine lines around his eyes and the flesh along his jaw was beginning to sag, but I’d have pegged him in his mid-thirties. At fifty and sixty, he’d no doubt look just the same, the years making only moderate adjustments to his good looks. He wore denim overalls on top of what looked like a union suit. He was in the process of putting on a blue jeans jacket when he answered the door, and he paused to straighten the collar in the back before he said, “Hey.”
As an adolescent, Guy Malek had been as dorky looking as the rest of us. He was the bad kid, lawless and self-destructive, one of life’s lost souls. He must have been appealing because he was so in need of rescue. Women can’t resist a man who needs saving. Now his good angel had apparently taken up residence, bestowing on his countenance the look of serenity. It seemed odd that his brothers had matured so differently. Already, I liked this man better than his siblings. Aside from the scruffiness, he didn’t look like he was snorting, sniffing, or mainlining illegal substances.
“Are you Guy Malek?”
His smile was hesitant, as though I might be someone he had met before whose name he wished he remembered. “Yes.”
“My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator from Santa Teresa.” I gave him a business card. He studied the card, but didn’t offer to shake hands. His were as soiled as an auto mechanic’s. I could see a muscle work in his jaw.
His eyes came up to mine and his entire body became still. The smile faded. “My family hired you?”
