by Sue Grafton
"What did I come up with for that? Let's see. It had something to do with dentists. Oh, yes. His last name was Toth? That's tooth with an O missing. That was a good one because the fellow had a tooth missing so it all tied together. His first name was Alfie. Dentists connect to doctors. And like at the doctor's, you say 'Ahh' when they stick in that tongue depressor in your mouth? First name began with A. So mentally, I go through all the A names I can think of. Allen, Arnold, Avery, Alfie. And there you have it."
"So Tom Newquist was here on business."
"That's correct. Trouble is, he missed him. Toth'd been here two weeks, but he moved out June One, shortly before this detective of yours came in."
"Do you have any idea why he was looking for Toth?"
"Said he was developing a lead on a case he was working. I remember that because it was just like the movies. You know, Clint Eastwood comes in, flashing a badge and real serious. All I know is Newquist never had the chance to talk to him because Toth was gone by then."
"Did he leave a forwarding address?"
"Well, no, but I have his ex-wife's address, under 'nearest relative not living with you.' That's so we got someone to call if a guy trashes the room or drops dead. It's a hassle trying to figure out what to do with a dead body."
"I can imagine," I said. "Is there any way I could get the ex-wife's name and address?"
"Sure. No problem. This's not confidential information as far as I'm concerned. People check in, I tell 'em the hotel files are open to the authorities. Cops come in asking to see records. I don't insist on a subpoena. That'd be obstruction of justice, in my opinion."
"I'm sure the police appreciate your attitude, but don't the hotel guests object?"
Dave Estes shrugged. "I guess the day I get sued, we'll change the policy. You know, another fellow came in, too. Plainclothes detective. This was earlier, maybe June One. I wasn't working that day or I'd have filed it away in the old noggin," he said with a tap to his temple. "I told Peck he better take the same course I did, but so far I haven't managed to talk him into it."
"Too bad," I said. "So who was this other detective who came in?"
"Can't help you there and that's my point. If Peck took this course, he could recall in detail. Since he didn't; no dice. The slate's blank. End of episode."
"Could I talk to Peck myself?"
"You could, but I can tell you exactly what he's going to say. He remembers this investigator came in – had a warrant and all, but Toth wasn't on the premises. In fact, he checked out later that day so maybe he was worried about the law catching up with him. Detective called back the next morning and Peck gave him the address and telephone number of Toth's ex-wife, same as I would."
"Did you tell Tom Newquist about the other detective?"
"Same way I'm telling you. I figured it must have been a cop he knew."
"What about Toth's ex? Did you tell him how to get in touch with her?"
"Sure did. The woman had a regular parade coming through the door."
"Hasn't anybody suggested you shouldn't be quite so free passing out information?"
"Lady, I'm not the guardian of public safety. Some cop comes in looking for information, I don't want to get in his way."
"What about the warrant? Was that local?"
"Can't answer that. Peck doesn't pay attention to these items the same way I do. He's got the right idea we're here to cooperate. Place like this, you want the cops on your team. Fight breaks out, you want action when you hit 9-1-1."
"Not to mention help with all the bodies afterward."
"Now you're getting it."
"Could we just back up a minute and see if I got this straight? Alfie Toth was here two weeks, from sometime in the middle of May."
"Right."
"Then a plainclothes detective came in with a warrant for his arrest. Alfie heard about it and, not surprisingly, checked out later that day. The detective called back and Peck told him how to get in touch with Alfie Toth's ex-wife."
"Sure. Peck figured that's where Toth went," Estes said.
"Then around June Fifth, Tom Newquist came in and you passed the same information along to him."
"Hey, I don't show favorites, is my motto. That's why I'm giving it to you. Why say yes to one and no to someone else is the way I look at it."
"You haven't given me anything yet," I said.
He reached for a piece of scratch paper and jotted down a woman's name, address, and telephone number, apparently off the top of his head. He passed it across the counter.
I took the paper, noting at a glance the Perdido address. "Sounds like Alfie Toth was suddenly very popular."
"Yep."
"And you have no idea why?"
"Nope."
"What's Peck's first name?"
"Leland."
"Is he in the phone book if I need to talk to him?"
Estes shook his head. "Number's unlisted. Now that I wouldn't give out without getting his permission."
I thought about it for a moment, but couldn't think what other ground I should cover. I could always check with him later if something else occurred to me. "Well. Thanks for the help. You've been very generous and I appreciate that." I reached for my umbrella, shifting my handbag from my right shoulder to my left so I could manage both.
"Don't you want to hear the rest of it?"
I hesitated. "What rest?"
"The guy's dead. Murdered. Some backpacker found his body up near Ten Pines couple months ago. January Thirteen. Reason I remember is it's my great-aunt's birthday. Death. Birth. Doesn't take a wizard to make that connection. I got it locked right in here."
I stared at him, remembering a brief mention of it in the paper. "That was Alfie Toth?"
"Yep. Coroner figured he'd been dead six, seven months – since right about the time everybody came looking for him – including the fellow with the warrant and your Tom Newquist. Somebody must have caught up with him. Too bad Peck's never bothered to develop his skills. He might've been the state's star witness."
"To what?"
"Whatever comes up."
I sat in my car, trying to figure out what this meant. Everybody had wanted to talk to Alfie Toth until he turned up dead. I'd have to search back issues of the local newspaper, but as nearly as I remembered, there was precious little information. Decomposed remains had been found in a remote area of the Los Padres National Forest, but I hadn't registered the name. There was no mention of cause of death, but the presumption was of foul play. The police had been stingy with the details, but perhaps they'd told the papers everything they knew. I hadn't been aware of any other reference to the matter and I'd thought no more of it. The Angeles and Los Padres national forests are both dumping grounds for homicide victims, whose corpses one imagines littering the hiking trails like bags of garbage.
I dutifully fired up the VW and drove the eight blocks to the public library, where I turned up the relevant paragraph in a copy of the Santa Teresa Dispatch for January 15.
BODY FOUND IN LOS PADRES
THAT OF TRANSIENT
The decomposed remains discovered by a hiker in the Los Padres National Forest January 13 have been identified as a transient, Alfred Toth, 45, according to the Santa Teresa County Sheriff's Department. The body was found Monday in the rugged countryside five miles east of Manzanita Mountain. Detectives identified Toth through dental work after linking the body to a missing-persons report filed by his ex-wife, Perdido resident Olga Toth. The case is being investigated as a homicide. Anyone with information is asked to call Detective Clay Boyd at the Sheriff's Department. I found a pay phone outside the building, scrounged a couple of coins from the bottom of my handbag, dialed the Santa Teresa County Sheriff's Department, and asked for Detective Boyd.
"Boyd." The tone was flat, professional, all business. All he'd done so far was give me his name and already I knew he wasn't going to be my best friend.
"Hi, my name is Kinsey Millhone," I said, trying not to sound too chirpy.
"I'm a local private investigator working on a case that may connect to the death of Alfie Toth."
Pause. "In what way?"
"Well, I'm not sure yet. I'm not asking for confidential information, but could you give me an update? The last mention in the paper was back in January."
Pause. This was like talking to someone on a time delay. I could have sworn he was taking notes. "What's the nature of your interest?"
"Ah. Well, that's tricky to explain. I'm working for the wife – I guess I should make that the widow – of a sheriff's investigator up in Nota Lake. Tom Newquist. Did you know him by any chance?"
"Name doesn't sound familiar."
"He drove down last June to talk to Alfie Toth, but by the time he reached the Gramercy, Toth had moved out. They might have connected later – I'm not sure about that yet – but I'm assuming this was part of an ongoing investigation."
"Uh-unh."
"Do you have any record of Newquist's contacting your department?"
"Hang on." He sounded resigned, a man who couldn't be accused later of thwarting the public's right to know.
He put me on hold. I listened to the mild hissing that signals one's entrance into telephone hyperspace. I sent up a little prayer of thanks that I wasn't being subjected to polka music or John Philip Sousa. Some companies patch you into news broadcasts with the volume pitched too low and you sit there wondering if you're flunking some bizarre hearing test.
Detective Boyd clicked back in. He apparently had the file open on the desk in front of him as I could hear him flipping pages. "You still there," he asked idly.
"I'm here."
"Tom Newquist didn't get in touch with us when he was here, but I do show we've been with Nota Lake."
I said, "Really. I wonder why he didn't let you know he was coming down."
"Gosh, I don't know. That's a stumper," he said blandly.
"If he'd gotten in touch, would there be a note of it?'
"Yes ma'am."
I could see how this was going to go. I was on a fishing expedition and Detective Boyd was responding only to direct questions. Anything I didn't ask, he wasn't going to volunteer. Somehow I had to snag his interest and inspire his cooperation. "Why don't I tell you my problem," I said conversationally. "His widow's convinced her husband was deeply troubled about something."
"Uh-unh."
I could feel my frustration mount. How could this man be so pleasant and so completely obtuse at the same time? I switched gears. "Was Alfie Toth wanted for some crime at the time of his death?"
"Not that I'm aware of. He'd just finished serving time on a conviction for petty theft."
"The desk clerk at the Gramercy says a plainclothes detective came in with a warrant for his arrest."
"Wasn't one of ours."
"You don't show any outstanding warrants?"
"No ma'am, I don't."
"But there must have been some connection or Tom Newquist wouldn't have bothered to drive all the way down here."
"I'll tell you what. If this is just a question of satisfying Mrs. Newquist's curiosity, I can't see any reason to share information. Why don't you talk to Nota Lake and see what they have to say. That'd be your best bet."
"Are you telling me you have information?"
"I'm telling you I'm not going to reveal the substance of an ongoing investigation to any yahoo who asks. You have knowledge of the facts – something new to contribute – we'd be happy to have you come in."
"Has there been a resolution to the case?"
"Not so far."
"The newspapers indicated that this was being investigated as a homicide."
"That's correct."
"Do you have a suspect?"
"Not at this time. I wouldn't say that, no."
"Any leads?"
"None that I'm willing to tell you about," he said.
"You want to make a trip out here, I could maybe have you talk to the watch commander, but as far as giving out information by phone, it ain't gonna fly. I don't mean to cast aspersions, but you could be anyone... a journalist."
"God forbid," I said. "Surely you don't think I'm anyone that low."
I could hear him smile. At least he was enjoying himself. He seemed to think about it briefly and them he said, "Let's try this. Why don't you give me your number and if anything comes up I'm at liberty to pass along, I'll be in touch."
"You're entirely too kind."
Detective Boyd laughed. "Have a good day."
Chapter 14
* * *
Olga Toth opened the door to her Perdido condominium wearing a bright yellow outfit that consisted of form-fitting tights and a stretchy cotton tunic, ciched at the waist with a wide white bejewled plastic belt. The fabric clung to her body like a bandage that couldn't quite conceal the damage time had inflicted on her sixty-year-old flesh. Her knee-high boots looked to be size elevens, white vinyl alligator with a fancy pattern of stichwork across the instep. She'd had some work done on her face, probably collagen injections given the plumpiness of her lips and the slightly lumpy appearance of her cheeks. Her hair was a dry-looking platinum blond, her brown eyes heavily lined, with a startling set of eyebrows drawn in above. I could smell the vermouth on her breath before she said a word.
I'd driven the thirty miles to Perdido in the midst of a drizzling rain, that sort of fine spray that required the constant flip-flop of windshield wipers and the fiercest of concentration. The roadway was slick, the blacktop glistening with a deceptive sheen of water that made driving hazardous. Under ordinary circumstances, I might have delayed the trip for another hour or two, but I was worried the cops would somehow manage to warn Alfie's ex-wife of my interest, urging her to keep her mouth shut if I knocked on her door.
The address I'd been given was just off the beach, a ten-unit complex of two-story frame townhouses within view of the Pacific. Olga's was on the second floor with an exterior stairway and a small sheltered entrance lined with potted plants. The woman who answered the door bell was older than I'd expected and her smile revealed a dazzling array of caps.
"Mrs. Toth?"
She said, "Yes?" Her tone conveyed a natural optimism, as though, having sent in all the forms, having held on to the matching numbers that established her eligibility, she might open the door to someone bearing the keys to her new car or, better yet, that oversized check for several million bucks.
I showed her my card. "Could I talk to you about your ex-husband?"
"Which one?"
"Alfie Toth."
Her smile faded with disappointment, as though there were better ex-husbands to inquire about among her many. "Honey, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but he's deceased so if you're here about his unpaid bills, the line forms at the rear."
"This is something else. May I come in?"
"You're not here to serve process," she asked, cautiously.
"Not at all. Honest."
"Because I'm warning you, I put a notice in the paper the day we separated saying I'm not responsible for debts other than my own."
"Your record's clean as far as I'm concerned."
She studied me, considering, and then stepped back. "No funny business," she warned.
"I'm never funny," I said.
I followed her through the small foyer, watching as she retrieved a martini glass from a small console table. "I was just having a drink in case you're interested."
"I'm fine for now, but thanks."
We entered a living room done entirely in white; trampled-looking, white nylon cut-pile carpeting, white nylon sheers, white leatherette couches, and a white vinyl chair. There was only one lamp turned on and the light coming through the curtains had been subdued by the rain. The room felt damp to me. The glass-and-chrome coffee table bore a large arrangement of white lilies, a pitcher of martini's, several issues of Architectural Digest, and a recent issue of Modern Maturity. Her eye fell on the latter about the same time mine did. She leaned forward impatiently. "That belongs to a friend
. I really hate those things. The minute you turn fifty, the HARP starts hounding you for membership. Not that I'm anywhere close to retirement age," she assured me. She poured herself another drink, adding olives she plucked from a small bowl nearby. She licked her fingertips with enthusiasm. "Olives are the best part," she remarked. Her nails, I noticed, were very long and pink, thick enough to suggest acrylics or poorly done silk overlays.
"What sort of work do you do?" I asked.
She motioned me into a seat at one end of the couch while she settled at the other end, her arm stretched out along the back. "I'm a cosmetologist and if you don't mind my saying so –"
I held up a hand. "Don't give me beauty tips. I can't handle 'em."
She laughed, an earthy guttural sound that set her breasts ajiggle. "Never hurts to try. You ever get interested in a makeover, you can give me a buzz. I could do wonders with that mop of yours. Now what's this about Alfie? I thought all his problems were over and done with, the poor guy."
I filled her in on the nature of the job I'd been hired to do, thinking that as a widow, she might appreciate Selma Newquist's concern about her husband's mental state in the weeks before he died.
"I remember the name Newquist. He was the one called me a couple weeks after Alfie took off. Said it was important, but it really wasn't urgent, as far as I could tell. I told him Alfie was still around some place and I'd be happy to go looking for him if he'd give me a day or two."
"How long was Alfie here?"
"Two days, maybe three. I don't let any ex of mine stay longer than that. Otherwise, you have fellows camping on your doorstep every time you turn around. They all want the same thing." She lifted her right hand, ticking off the items as she mentioned them. "They want sex, want their laundry done, and a few bucks in their pocket before you send 'em on their way."
"What made Alfie leave the Gramercy?"
"I got the impression he was nervous. I noticed he was jumpy, but he never said why. Alfie was always restless, but I'd say he was looking for a place to hole up. I think he was hoping for the chance to set up permanent residence here, but I wasn't having any. I tried to discourage any long-range plans of his. He was a sweet man, the sweetest. He was twenty years younger than me though you never would have guessed. We were married for eight years. Of course, he was in and out of jail for most of it which is why we lasted as long as we did."