by Sue Grafton
"Anica, it's Kinsey. I thought you went back to Fitch."
"I did, but then Detective Paglia called this morning to tell Crystal the body'd been identified as Dow's. She called me and I turned around and drove right up. I told them I'd take vacation days through the end of next week. This takes priority. We'll be here until Sunday and then we're going to the other house so we can sort through Dow's things."
"How's she doing?" I could hear murmuring in the background and I got the impression Crystal might have been nearby.
Anica lowered her voice. "She's a mess. I think it's the finality that's getting to her. Rand says she just lost it the minute she heard. She always swore something happened to him, but the whole time she must have been praying she was wrong."
"What about Leila? How's she taking it?"
"Oh, you know her. She was up in her room listening to music at top volume, driving everyone nuts. She and Crystal got into it, so I finally called Lloyd and asked him to pick her up and take her for the day. The quiet is heavenly."
"What about the funeral? Is she planning to have a service?"
"She's talking about Saturday if she can pull it together. She'll have to get the notice in the paper and an officiant lined up. Dow wasn't religious, so this is really more in the way of a memorial to him. I just called the mortuary and they said they'd make arrangements to pick him up. She's having him cremated... not that she has a lot of choice in the matter."
"I guess not."
"What happened? Detective Paglia never said, but I'm assuming he drowned."
I could feel my heart lurch. "Ah. I don't know. I haven't heard anything definitive. They're probably still working to determine that. In the meantime, is there anything I can do to help?" The question seemed false even to my lie-corrupted ear, but I had to get her off the subject.
"Not at the moment, but thanks, anyway. I should probably get back, but I'll tell Crystal you called."
"While I have you on the line, I wondered if I could get some information. Crystal mentioned a post-office box she used to keep here in town. I need the number and location."
"Hang on for a second." Anica placed a palm across the mouthpiece and I heard her muffled conversation with someone in the background. It reminded me of days spent at the public pool as a kid. I'd emerge from the water to find my hearing blocked, with much the same effect. It sometimes took hours before the tiny trickle of hot water cleared my ear canal.
Anica removed her hand. "P.O. Box 505. She says it's the Mail More over in Laguna Plaza. Be sure and let her know what you find."
"I'll do that."
I'd no more put the phone down than it rang.
Mariah Talbot said, "Hi. Are you free to talk or do you want to meet somewhere?"
"This is fine. The phone's secure. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff feels dumb, but I can't help myself. Thanks for returning my call." I picked up a pen and began to doodle on a scratch pad... a dagger with blood dripping off the tip and a hangman's noose, one of my specialties. Sometimes, focusing on a doodle helps me articulate my thoughts.
"What's up?"
"Well, here's the situation." I went on to describe the conversation at Rosie's the previous night when Henry had laid out the bait about the jeweler in L.A.
"You think Tommy bought it?"
"I have no idea. I thought I'd report it because the last time we spoke I told you I wasn't going to help. Now the deed's been done, but only because Henry stepped in and did it."
"What a cool move on his part. If it's coming from him, it'll never occur to Tommy he's being conned."
"It's still a long shot."
"Not so. They're hard up for cash and their property is mortgaged to the hilt. The jewelry's their only asset. They have to sell to survive," she said. "By the way, where did you and Prince Charming end up? Not in the bedroom, I hope."
"Absolutely not," I said. "I canceled our dinner plans, which he didn't like. He pretended it was okay, but he was pissed. I wish I knew how to dump the guy without setting him off."
"Oh, good luck. He's never going to let you get away with that. Tommy's an egomaniac. He dumps you. You don't dump him."
"He's like a spider. He lurks. Every time I go somewhere, he crawls out. He's really getting on my nerves."
"Well, what do you expect? These boys are both wacko. You ever want to see Richard lose it, ask him about Buddy and the bike."
"Why? What's that about?"
"This is a story I heard when I did the background work. This guy, Buddy, swears by the time those kids were ten, they were already competitive little shits, always at each other's throats. Jared thought it was time they learned to share, so he gave 'em a bike and said they had to take turns. Richard wasn't into taking turns so he stashed it somewhere and told his dad the bike got stolen. For weeks, he kept it hidden so he could ride it anytime he wanted."
"Didn't their father figure it out?"
"No, but Tommy did. They had a mutual friend – Buddy – who'd seen Richard do it. Buddy says Richard was always pounding on him, broke his nose once, so Buddy tattled to Tommy just to get even. Tommy waited until Richard was off somewhere. He stole the bike back and pushed it off the side of a bridge."
"He got away with that?"
"Richard guessed right away, but what could he do? It still pisses him off. The thing about those two is both would rather forfeit everything than see the other enjoy his half. Happened with a girl once and she ended up dead."
"You're really cheering me up here." I wrote THE END on the scratch pad and gave the letters a look of three-dimensions in the manner of gang graffiti. "Happily, I'm hanging up my spurs. I called to fill you in in case one of 'em makes a move."
"Come on. You can't leave me now with the job half done. What about the safe? You have to hang in until you locate that."
"Find it yourself. I'm bowing out of this."
"Just think how good it'll feel when we finally nail those guys."
"What's this 'we' shit? The problem isn't mine. It belongs to you."
Mariah laughed. "I know, but I keep hoping I can talk you into it."
"No, thanks. Nice doing business with you. It was fun," I said, and hung up. I lifted my eyes from my drawing to find Richard Hevener standing at my door, wearing a black raincoat and black cowboy boots.
I felt the icy-hot sensation of a bad sunburn, a stinging heat on my skin that chilled me to the bone. I had no idea how long he'd been there and I couldn't remember for the life of me if I'd mentioned his name or Tommy's in the final moments of my conversation. I didn't think I'd used hers.
I said, "Hello," trying to sound unconcerned.
"What's this?" He pulled an envelope from his pocket and tossed it toward the desk. My letter whicked through the air and landed in front of me.
I could feel my heart begin to thump. "I feel bad about that. I probably should have called, but it seemed so awkward somehow."
"What's going on?"
"Nothing. It's just not going to work."
"'It's not going to work.' Just like that."
"I don't know what else to say. I don't want the space. I thought I did, but now I don't."
"You signed a lease."
"I know and I apologize for the inconvenience –"
"It's not a matter of inconvenience. We have an agreement." His tone was light but unrelenting.
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to honor the terms of the lease you signed."
"You know what? Why don't you talk to my attorney about that. His name is Lonnie Kingman. He's right down the hall."
Ida Ruth appeared in the hall behind him. "Everything okay?"
Richard flicked a look at her and then looked back at me. He said, "Everything's fine. I'm sure we'll find the perfect solution to the little problem we have."
He backed out of the room. I watched him turn in her direction, careful not to touch her as he passed. He moved out of my line of sight, but Ida Ruth continued to stare. "What's wit
h him? Is he nuts or what? He seems off."
"You don't know the half of it. If he shows up again, call the cops."
I locked my office door and placed a call to Mariah's Texas number, leaving another message on her answering machine. I wasn't sure how soon she'd check back, but I really didn't like the direction this was starting to take.
Chapter 20
* * *
I headed north on the 101 to the off-ramp at Little Pony Road, a distance of three to four miles in light traffic. I found myself reviewing that phone conversation with Mariah, the easy banter between us at the Hevener boys' expense. I was almost positive I hadn't tipped my hand. In the meantime, I had no idea what Richard had in mind for me, but I figured his "perfect solution" lay somewhere on a continuum between small claims court and death. I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, flicking a quick look at any car that pulled up even with mine. Laguna Plaza is an aging L-shaped strip mall, much classier than some, but a far cry from the massive retail stadiums being built these days. No glass-enclosed atrium planted with full-sized trees, no food court, no second and third tiers with escalators running in between. I pulled my VW into a slot directly in front of Mail More, a franchise that boasted private mailbox rentals, mail receiving and forwarding, copy machines, a notary public, custom business cards, rubber stamps, and twenty-four-hour access, seven days a week.
The interior was divided into two large areas, each with an entrance, and separated from each other by a glass wall and lockable glass door. The space on the right contained a counter, the copiers, office supplies, and a clerk to assist with the packaging and mailing services. Through a doorway in the rear wall, I could see banks of flat cardboard boxes in assorted sizes, continuous rolls of bubble wrap, wrapping paper, and bins of Styrofoam packing fill.
The clerk was gone, but she'd left a note on the counter: CLOSED FOR PERSONAL EMERGENCY. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. BACK MONDAY. TIFFANY. If she was anything like Jeniffer, the personal emergency consisted of a tanning session and a pedicure. I said, "Yoo hoo" and "Hello" type things to cover my ass while I took the liberty of walking around the counter to inspect the backroom. Not a soul in sight. I returned to the front and stood for a moment, feeling thoroughly annoyed. Anyone could waltz in and steal the office supplies. What if I had a package to ship or a critical need for a notary public?
I crossed to the glass wall and peered into adjoining space: a veritable cellblock of mailboxes, numbered and glass-fronted, floor to head height, with a slot on the far wall for the mailing of letters and small packages. This was the section open twenty-four hours a day. I pushed through the glass door. I followed the numbers in sequence and found box 505 – fifth tier over, five down from the top. I leaned over and looked through the tiny beveled glass window. No mail in evidence, but I was treated to a truncated view of the room beyond where I could see a guy moving down the line, distributing letters from a stack in his hand. When he reached my row, I knocked on the window of 505.
The fellow leaned down so his face was even with mine.
I said, "Can I talk to you? I need some help out here."
He pointed to my right. "Go down to the slot."
We both moved in that direction, he on his side of the boxes, me on mine. The slot was at chest height. This time, I leaned close, catching a glimpse of mail piled in the bin beneath. The guy was much taller than I and the difference in our heights forced him not only to bend, but to tilt his head at an unnatural angle. He said, "What's the problem?"
I took out a business card and stuck it through the slot so he could see who I was. "I need information about the party renting box 505."
He took my card and studied it. "What for?"
"It's a murder investigation."
"You have a subpoena?"
"No, I don't have a subpoena. If I did, I wouldn't need to ask."
He pushed the card back at me. "Check with Tiffany. That's her department."
Her department? There were two of them. What was he talking about? "She's gone and the note says she won't be back until Monday."
"You'll have to come back then."
"Can't. I have a court appearance. It won't take half a second," I said. "Please, please, please?"
He seemed vexed. "What do you want?"
"I just need a peek at the rental form to see who's renting it."
"Why?"
"Because the man's widow thinks he might have been receiving pornographic material at this address and I don't think it's true. All I want to know is who filled out the form."
"I'm not supposed to do that."
"Couldn't you make an exception? It could make a really big difference. Think of all the grief she'd be spared."
I could see him staring at the floor. He appeared to be forty, way too old for this line of work. I could well imagine his debate. On one hand, the rules were the rules, though I personally doubted there was any kind of policy to cover my request. He wasn't a federal employee and his job didn't require a security clearance. Executive mail-sorter. He'd be lucky to earn fifty cents an hour over the minimum wage. I said, "I just talked to the police and told them I'd be doing this and they said it was fine." No response.
"I'll give you twenty bucks."
"Wait right there."
He disappeared for what felt like an interminable length of time. I pulled the twenty from my wallet, folded it lengthwise, bent it, and balanced it on the lip of the slot, thinking he might be morally dainty, shying away from a direct hand-to-hand bribe. While I waited, I kept my back to the wall, my attention fixed on the entrance. I entertained a brief fantasy of Richard Hevener crashing his sports car through the plate glass window, squashing me up against the wall like a dead person. In movies, people were always diving out of the path of runaway trains as they plowed into stations, flinging themselves sideways as jumbo jets smashed into airline terminals, or buses went berserk and jumped the curb. How, in real life, did one prepare for such a leap? "Lady?"
I looked back. The guy had reappeared and the twenty I'd left in the slot was gone. He had the rental form with him, but he held it behind his back, apparently uneasy about letting go of it. I waited until his face was on a plane with mine and tried asking him some easy questions, just to get him in the mood. This is called private-eye foreplay. "How's this done? Someone comes in and pays the fee for the coming year?"
"Something like that. It can also be done by mail. We put a notice in the box when the annual fee comes up."
"They pay in cash?"
"Or personal check. Either way."
"So you might never actually see the person renting the box?"
"Most of them we don't see. We don't care who they are as long as they pay the money when it's due. I notice some renters have fancy stationery done up, acting like this is their corporate office with individual suites. It's a laugh, but it's really all the same to us."
"I'll bet. Can you push the form through the slot so I can see it better? This is a legitimate investigation. I'm really serious about that."
"Nope. I don't want you touching it. You can look for thirty seconds, but that's the best I can do."
"Great." What kind of world is this – you bribe a guy with twenty bucks and he still has scruples?
He held the card up on his side, angled so I could see it. He was checking his watch, counting off the seconds. Big deal. Little did this fellow know that as a kid my prime talent was the game played at birthday parties wherein the mother of the birthday girl put a number of articles on a tray, which she then covered with a towel. All the little partygoers clustered around. Mrs. Mom would lift the towel for thirty seconds, during which we were allowed to look, committing all the items to memory. I always won this game, primarily because it was always the same old stuff. A bobby pin, a spoon, a Q-tip, a cotton ball. I would use my thirty seconds to make note of any new or unexpected object. The only sad part of this contest was the prize itself, usually a plastic jar full of bubble syrup with the blower inside.
&n
bsp; The rental form was a no-brainer and I assimilated the information in the first two seconds. The signature on the bottom line appeared to be Dow's, but he hadn't written in the data on the lines above. The printing was Leila's, complete with the angled t's and puffy i's. Well, well, well.
I said, "One more tiny thing. Would you spit on your finger and run it across the signature?"
"Why?"
This guy was worse than a four-year-old. "Because I'm wondering if it was done with a pen or a copier."
Frowning, he licked his index finger and rubbed the signature. No ink smear. He said, "Hnh."
"What's your name?"
"Ed."
"Well, Ed. I appreciate your help. Thanks so much."
I returned to my car and sat for a minute, considering the implications. Working backward, I had to conclude that Leila'd intercepted the rental renewal notice when it arrived with its request for the annual fee. Crystal had told me the Mid-City Bank statements were routed to the P.O. box. Very likely Leila had notified the bank, perhaps typing the request on a sheet of Pacific Meadows letterhead, forging Purcell's signature or affixing a photocopy, and asking that the statements for that account be mailed to 505. I let my gaze stray across the store front, thinking how easily she could have stopped by the Mail More when she was up from school.
I started my car, backed out of the parking place, and headed for the exit. When I reached the street, I realized the Laguna Plaza branch of the Mid-City Bank was located on the opposite corner. Even from this distance, I could see the ATM she'd used to drain the account. All she really needed was the bank card and pin number for the account, which Dow probably left in his desk at home.
True to my word, when I got back to the office, I put a call through to Jonah.
"Lieutenant Robb."
"This is Kinsey. If you don't scrutinize my methods, I'll tell you what I found out. I swear I didn't mess with anything. I left it all in place."
"I'll bite."
I explained my trip to the Mail More, leaning heavily on Leila's behavior while glossing over mine.
Jonah didn't say much, but I could tell he was taking notes. "You better give me the location of the P.O. box."