L Is for Lawless

by Sue Grafton

  For the life of me, I couldn't think of a polite response. The family fortunes must have dwindled as the years went by because it looked like less and less money had been spent with each successive death until the last one, John Lee, had been left in the box provided by the crematorium. The mantel was getting crowded. Whoever "went" next would have to be transported in a shoe box and dumped out the car window on the way home from the mortuary.

  He waved the subject aside. "Anyway, forget that. I know you didn't stop by to make small talk. I got the paperwork right here." He moved over to the bookshelf and began to sort through the magazines, which were apparently interspersed with unpaid bills and other critical documents. "All we're talking is a three-hundred-dollar claim for Pappy's burial," he remarked. "Babe and me paid to have him cremated and we'd like to get reimbursed. I guess the government pays another hundred and fifty for interment. It doesn't sound like much, but we don't have a lot to spare. I don't know what Henry told you, but we can't afford to pay for your services."

  "I gathered as much. I don't think there's much I can do anyway. At this point, you probably know more about VA claims than I do."

  He pulled out a sheaf of papers and glanced through them briefly before he passed them over to me. I removed the paper clip and scrutinized the copy of John Lee's death certificate, the mortuary release, his birth certificate. Social Security card, and copies of the two Veterans Administration forms. The first form was the application for burial benefits, the second a request for military records. On the latter, the branch of service had been filled in, but the service number, grade, rank, and the dates the old man had served were all missing. No wonder the VA was having trouble verifying the claim. "Looks like you're missing a lot of information. I take it you don't know his serial number or the unit he served in?"

  "Well, no. That's the basic problem," he said, reading over my shoulder. "It gets stupid. We can't get the records because we don't have enough information, but if we had the information we wouldn't need to make the request."

  "That's called good government. Think of all the money they're saving on the unpaid claims."

  "We don't want anything he's not entitled to, but what's fair is fair. Pappy served his country, and it doesn't seem like such a lot to ask. Three hundred damn dollars. The government wastes billions."

  I flipped the form over and read the instructions on the back. Under "Eligibility for Basic Burial Allowance," requirements indicated that the deceased veteran must have been "discharged or released from service under conditions other than dishonorable and must have been in receipt of pension or had an original or reopened claim for pension," blah, blah, blah. "Well, here's a possibility.

  Was he receiving a military pension?"

  "If he did, he never told us."

  I looked up at Bucky. "What was he living on?"

  "He had his Social Security checks, and I guess Dad pitched in. Babe and me paid rent for this place, which was six hundred bucks a month. He owned the property free and clear, so I guess he used the rent money to pay food, utilities, property taxes, and like that."

  "And he lived out back?"

  "That's right. Above the garage. It's just a couple little rooms, but it's real nice. We got a guy who wants to move in once the place is ready. Old friend of Pappy's. He says he'd be willing to haul out the junk if we give him a little break on the first month's rent. Most stuff is trash, but we didn't want to toss stuff until we know what's important. Right now half Pappy's things have been packed in cardboard boxes and the rest is piled up every which way."

  I reread the request for military records. "What about the year his discharge certificate was issued? There's a blank here."

  "Let's see." He tilted his head, reading the box where I was holding my thumb. "Oh. I must have forgot to mark that. Dad says it would've been August seventeenth of 1944 because he remembers Pappy coming home in time for his birthday party the day he turned four. He was gone two years, so he must have left sometime in 1942."

  "Could he have been dishonorably discharged?

  From what this says, he'd be disqualified if that were the case."

  "No ma'am," Bucky said emphatically.

  "Just asking." I flipped the form over, scanning the small print on the back. The request for military records showed various address lists for custodians for each branch of the service, definitions, abbreviations, codes, and dates. I tried another tack. "What about medical? If he was a wartime veteran, he was probably eligible for free medical care. Maybe the local VA clinic has a file number for him somewhere."

  Bucky shook his head again. "I tried that. They checked and didn't find one. Dad doesn't think he ever applied for medical benefits."

  "What'd he do when he got sick?"

  "He mostly doctored himself."

  "Well. I'm about out of ideas," I said. I returned the papers to him. "What about his personal effects? Did he keep any letters from his Air Force days? Even an old photograph might help you figure out what fighter group he was with."

  "We didn't find anything like that so far. I never even thought about pitchers. You want to take a look?"

  I hesitated, trying to disguise my lack of interest. "Sure, I could do that, but frankly, if it's just a matter of three hundred dollars, you might be better off letting the whole thing drop."

  "Actually, it's four hundred and fifty dollars with interment," he said.

  "Even so. Do a cost/benefit analysis and you'd probably find you're already in the hole."

  Bucky was non-responsive, apparently unpersuaded by my fainthearted counsel. The suggestion may have been intended more for me than for him. As it turned out, I should have taken my own advice. Instead I found myself dutifully trotting after Bucky as he moved through the house. What a dunce. I'm talking about me, not him.

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  I followed Bucky out the back door and down the porch steps. "Any chance your grandfather might have had a safe-deposit box?"

  "Nah, it's not his style. Pappy didn't like banks and he didn't trust bankers. He had a checking account for his bills, but he didn't have stock certificates or jewelry or anything like that. He kept his savings – maybe a hundred bucks all told – in this old coffee can at the back of the refrigerator."

  "Just a thought."

  We crossed the patched cement parking pad to the detached garage and climbed the steep, unpainted wooden stairs to a small second-story landing just large enough to accommodate the door to Johnny Lee's apartment and a narrow sash window that looked out onto the stairs. While Bucky picked through his keys, I cupped a hand to the glass and peered into the furnished space. Didn't look like much: two rooms with a ceiling slanting down from a ridge beam. Between the two rooms there was a door frame with the door removed. There was a closet on one wall with a curtain strung across the opening.

  Bucky unlocked the door and left it standing open behind him while he went in. A wall of heat seemed to block the doorway like an unseen barrier. Even in November, the sun beating down on the poorly insulated roof had heated the interior to a stuffy eighty-five degrees. I paused on the threshold, taking in the scent like an animal. The air felt close, smelling of dry wood and old wallpaper paste. Even after five months I could detect cigarette smoke and fried food. Given another minute, I probably could have determined what the old man cooked for his last meal. Bucky crossed to one of the windows and threw the sash up. The air didn't seem to move. The floor was creaking and uneven, covered with an ancient layer of cracked linoleum. The walls were papered with a pattern of tiny blue cornflowers on a cream background, the paper itself so old it looked scorched along the edges. The windows, two on the front wall and two on the rear, had yellowing shades half pulled against the flat November sunlight.

  The main room had a single bed with an iron bedstead painted white. A wooden bureau was pushed against the back wall while a suite of old wicker porch furniture served as a seating area. A small wooden desk and a matching chair were tucked i
nto one corner. There were ten to twelve cardboard boxes in a variety of sizes strewn across the floor. Some of the boxes had been packed and set aside, the flaps folded together to secure the contents. Two bookshelves had been emptied, and half the remaining books had toppled sideways.

  I picked my way through the maze of boxes to the other room, which held an apartment-size stove and refrigerator, with a small microwave oven on the counter between them. A kitchen sink top had been set into a dark-stained wooden cabinet with cheap-looking hinges and pulls. The cabinet doors looked as though they'd stick when you tried to open them. Beyond the kitchen there was a small bathroom with a sink, a toilet, and a small claw-foot tub. All of the porcelain fixtures were streaked with stains. I caught sight of myself in the mirror above the sink and I could see my mouth was pulled down with distaste. Bucky had said the apartment was nice, but I'd rather shoot myself than end up in such a place.

  I glanced out one of the windows. Bucky's wife, Babe, was standing at the back door across the way. She had a round face with big brown eyes and an upturned nose. Her hair was dark and straight, anchored unbecomingly behind her ears. She was wearing flip-flops, tight black pedal pushers, and a black sleeveless cotton top, stretched over drooping breasts. Her upper arms were plump and her thighs looked like they would chafe against one another when she walked. Everything about her looked unpleasantly damp. "I think your wife's calling you."

  Babe's voice drifted up to us belatedly. "Bucky?"

  He went to the landing. "Be right there," he yelled to her, and then in modulated tones to me: "You going to be okay if I just leave you here?"

  I watched him twist the apartment key from his key ring.

  "I'm fine. It really sounds like you've done everything you could."

  "I thought so, too. My dad's the one who's really got a bug up his butt. By the way, his name is Chester if he gets back before we do." He handed me the key. "Lock up when you're done and drop the key through the mail slot in the front door. If you find anything that looks important, you can let us know. We'll be back around one. You have a business card?"

  "Sure." I took a card from my bag and handed it to him.

  He tucked the card in his pocket. "Good enough."

  I listened to him clatter down the outside stairs. I stood there, wondering how long I could decently wait before I locked up and fled. I could feel my stomach squeeze in the same curious twist of anxiety and excitement I experience when I've entered someone's premises illegally. My presence here was legitimate, but I felt I was engaging in an illicit act somehow. Below, I heard Babe and Bucky chatting as they locked the house and opened the garage door beneath me. I moved to the window and peered down, watching as the car emerged, seemingly from beneath my feet. The car looked like a Buick, 1955 or so, green with a big chrome grille across the front. Bucky was peering back over his shoulder as he reversed down the driveway, Babe talking at him nonstop, her hand on his knee.

  I should have left as soon as the car turned out of the drive, but I thought about Henry and felt honor-bound to make at least a pretense of searching for something relevant. I don't mean to sound cold-hearted, but Johnny Lee meant absolutely nothing to me, and the notion of mucking through his possessions was giving me the creeps. The place was depressing, airless and hot. Even the silence had a sticky feel to it.

  I spent a few minutes wandering from one room to the next. The bathroom and the kitchen contained nothing of significance. I returned to the main room and scouted the periphery. I pushed aside the curtain covering the closet opening. Johnny's few clothes were hanging in a dispirited row. His shirts were soft from frequent washings, threadbare along the collar, with an occasional button missing. I checked all the pockets, peered into the shoe boxes lined up on the shelf. Not surprisingly, the shoe boxes contained old shoes.

  The chest of drawers was full of underwear and socks, T-shirts, fraying handkerchiefs; nothing of interest hidden between the stacks. I sat down at his small desk and began to open drawers systematically. The contents were innocuous. Bucky had apparently removed the bulk of the old man's files: bills, receipts, canceled checks, bank statements, old income tax returns. I got up and checked some of the packed cardboard boxes, pulling back the flaps so I could poke through the contents. I found most of the relevant financial detritus in the second box I opened. A quick examination showed nothing startling. There were no personal files at all and no convenient manila envelopes filled with documents that pertained to past military service. Then again, why would he keep war-related memorabilia for forty-some-odd years? If he changed his mind about applying for VA benefits, all he had to do was supply them with the information he probably carried in his head.

  The third box I looked into contained countless books about World War II, which suggested a lingering interest in the subject. Whatever his own contribution to the war, he seemed to enjoy reading other people's accounts. The titles were monotonous, except for the few punctuated with exclamation points. Fighter! Bombs Away! Aces High! Kamakazi! Everything was "Strategic." Strategic Command. Strategic Air Power over Europe. Strategic Air Bombardment. Strategic Fighter Tactics. I dragged the desk chair closer to the box and sat down, pulling out book after book, holding each by the spine while I riffled through the pages. I'm always doing silly shit like this. What did I imagine, his discharge certificate was going to drop in my lap? The truth is, most investigators have been trained to investigate. That's what we do best, even when we don't feel enthusiastic about the task at hand. Give us a room and ten minutes alone and we can't help but snoop, poking automatically into other people's business. Minding one's own business isn't half the fun. My notion of heaven is being accidentally locked in the Hall of Records overnight.

  I scanned several pages of some fighter pilot's memoirs, reading about dogfights, bailouts, flames spurting from tailguns, Mustangs, P-40s, Nakajima fighters, and V formations. This war stuff was full of drama, and I could see why men got hooked on the process. I'm a bit of an adrenaline junkie myself, having picked up my "habit" during two years on the police force.

  I lifted my head, hearing the chink of footsteps on the outside stairs. I checked my watch: it was only 10:35. Surely it wasn't Bucky. I rose and crossed to the doorway, peering out. A man, in his sixties, had just reached the landing.

  "Can I help you?" I asked.

  "Is Bucky up here?" He was balding, the white hair around his pate clipped close. Mild hazel eyes, a big nose, dimple in his chin, his face lined with soft creases.

  "No, he's out at the moment. Are you Chester?"

  He murmured, "No, ma'am." His manner suggested that if he'd worn a cap, he would have doffed it at that point. He smiled shyly, exposing a slight gap between his two front teeth. "My name's Ray Rawson. I'm an old friend of Johnny's... uh, before he passed away." He wore chinos, a clean white T-shirt, and tennis shoes with white socks.

  "Kinsey Millhone," I said, introducing myself. We shook hands. "I'm a neighbor from down that way." My gesture was vague but conveyed the general direction.

  Ray's gaze moved past me into the apartment. "Any idea when Bucky's due back?"

  "Around one, he said."

  "Are you looking to rent?"

  "Oh heavens, no. Are you?"

  "Well, I hope to," he said. "If I can talk Bucky into it. I put down a deposit, but he's dragging his feet on the rental agreement. I don't know what the problem is, but I'm worried he'll rent it out from under me. For a minute, when I saw all those boxes, I thought you were moving in." The guy had a southern accent I couldn't quite place. Maybe Texas or Arkansas.

  "I think Bucky's trying to get the place cleared. Were you the one who offered to haul all the stuff out for a break in the rent?"

  "Well, yeah, and I thought he was going to take me up on it, but now that his dad's in town, the two keep coming up with new schemes. First, Bucky and his wife decided they'd take this place and rent out the house instead. Then his dad said he wanted it for the times he comes out to visit. I don't mean to
be pushy, but I was hoping to move in sometime this week. I've been staying in a hotel... nothing fancy, but it adds up."

  "I wish I could help, but you'll have to take it up with him."

  "Oh, I know it's not your problem. I was just trying to explain. Maybe I'll stop by again when he gets back. I didn't mean to interrupt."

  "Not at all. Come on in, if you like. I'm just going through some boxes," I said. I moved back to my seat. I picked up a book and riffled through the pages.

  Ray Rawson entered the room with all the caution of a cat. I pegged him at five ten, probably 180 pounds, with a hefty chest and biceps for a guy his age. On one arm he sported a tattoo that said "Maria"; on the other, a dragon on its hind legs with its tongue sticking out. He looked around with interest, taking in the arrangement of the furniture. "Good to see it again. Not as big as I remember. The mind plays tricks, doesn't it? I pictured... I don't know what... more wall space or something." He leaned against the bedstead and watched me work. "You looking for something?"

  "More or less. Bucky's hoping to turn up some information about Johnny's military service. I'm the search-and-seizure team. Were you in the Air Force with him, by any chance?"

  "Nope. We met on the job. We both worked in the shipyards in the old days – Jeffersonville Boat Works outside of Louisville, Kentucky. This was way back, just after the war started. We were building LST landing craft. I was twenty. He was ten years older and like a dad in some ways. Those were boom times. During the Depression – back in 1932 – most guys weren't even pulling in a grand a year. Steelworkers made half that, less than waitresses. By the time I started working things were really looking up. Of course, everything's relative, so what did we know? Johnny did all kinds of things. He was a smart guy and taught me a lot. Can I lend you a hand?"

  I shook my head. "I'm almost done," I said. "I hope you don't mind if I keep at it. I'd like to finish before I head out." I picked up the next book, leafing through the pages before I stacked it with the others. If Johnny was opposed to banks, he might have taken to hiding money between the pages.