Kinsey and Me

by Sue Grafton

  “How much time you have to serve yet?”

  “Sixteen months,” he said. “You ever been in the can?”

  I shook my head.

  He pointed at me with his cigarette. “Word of advice. Never admit nothin’. Always claim you’re innocent. I learned that from the politicians. You ever watch those guys? They get caught takin’ bribes and they assume this injured air. Like it’s all a mistake, but the truth will out. They’re confident they’ll be vindicated and bullshit like that. They welcome the investigation so their names can be cleared. They always say that, you know? Whole time I’m in prison, I been saying that myself. I was framed. It’s all a setup. I don’t know nothin’ about the money. I was just doing a favor for an old friend, a bigwig. A Very Big Wig. Like I’m implying the governor or the chief of police.”

  “Has it done you any good?”

  “Well, not yet, but who knows? My lawyer’s still trying to find a basis for appeal. If I get outta this one, I’m going into therapy, get my head straight, I swear to God. Speaking of which, I may get ‘born again,’ you know? It looks good. Lends a little credibility, which is something all the money in the world can’t buy.”

  I took a deep breath. “Actually, it’s the money I need to talk to you about.” I took a few minutes to fill him in on the kidnapping without mentioning any names. Some of Karen Waterston’s paranoia had filtered into my psyche and I thought the less I said about the “victim,” the better off he’d be. “I know you’ve got a big cache of money somewhere. I’m hoping you’ll contribute some of it to pay the ransom demands.”

  His look was blank with disbelief. “Ransom?”

  “Harry, don’t put me through this. You know what ransom is.”

  “Yeah, it’s money you give to guys you never see again. Why not throw it out the window? Why not blow it at the track—”

  “Are you finished yet?”

  He smiled and a dimple formed. “How much you talking about?”

  “Five hundred thousand.”

  His eyebrows went up. “What makes you think I got money like that?”

  “Harry,” I said patiently, “an informant told the cops you had over a million bucks. That’s how you got caught.”

  Harry slapped the table. “Bobby Urquhart. That fuck. I should have known it was him. I run into the guy in a bar sitting at this table full of bums. He buys a round of tequila shooters. Next thing I know, everybody else is gone. I’m drunk as a skunk and flappin’ my mouth.” He dropped his cigarette butt on the concrete and crushed it underfoot. “Word of warning. Never confide in a guy wearing Brut. I must have been nuts to give that little faggot the time of day. The money’s gone. I blew it. I got nothin’ left.”

  “I don’t believe you. That’s bullshit. You didn’t have time to blow that much. When you were busted, all you had were a few lousy bucks. Where’s the rest of it?”

  “Un-uhn. No way.”

  “Come on, Harry. It isn’t going to do you any good in here. Why not help these people out? They’ve got tons of money. They can pay you back.”

  “They got money, how come they don’t pay the shit themselves?”

  “Because it’s Saturday and the banks are closed. The branch VP couldn’t even come up with the cash that fast. A man’s life is at stake.”

  “Hey, so’s mine and so what? You ever try life in the pen? I worked hard for that money so why should I do for some guy I never seen before?”

  “Once in a while you just gotta help people out.”

  “Maybe you do. I don’t.”

  “Harry, please. Be a prince . . .”

  I could see him begin to waver. Who can resist a good deed now and then?

  He put his hand on his chest. “This is giving me angina.” He wagged his head back and forth. “Jesus. What if the cops get wind of it? How’s it gonna look?”

  “The cops are never going to know. Believe me, this woman’s never going to breathe a word of it. If she trusted the cops, she’d have called them in the first place.”

  “Who are these people? At least tell me that. I’m not giving up half a million bucks without some ID.”

  I thought about it swiftly. I was reluctant to trade on their celebrity status. On the other hand, she was desperate and there wasn’t time to spare. “Swear you won’t tell.”

  “Who’m I gonna tell? I’m a con. Nobody believes me anyway,” he said.

  “Kevin McCall and Karen Waterston.”

  He seemed startled at first. “You’re kidding me. No shit? You’re talking Shamus, P.I.? Them two?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Whyn’t you say so? That’s my favorite show. All the guys watch that. What a gas. Karen Waterston is a fox.”

  “Then you’ll help?”

  “For that chick, of course,” he said. He gave me a stern look. “Get me her autograph or the deal’s off.”

  “Trust me. You’ll have it. You’re a doll. I owe you one.”

  We took a walk around the yard while he told me where the money was. Harry had nearly two million in cash hidden in a canvas duffel of his own, concealed in the false back of a big upholstered sofa, which was locked up, with a lot of other furniture, in a commercial self-storage facility.

  Harry said, “On the off chance I don’t get my money back, I can think of another way I might benefit. I’ve been worried the cops would figure out where my stash is hidden. Certain other evidence might come to light, in which case I’d be in more trouble than I’m in now. If you can do me this one thing, I’d consider us square.”

  “As long as it doesn’t put delivery of the ransom money in jeopardy, I’ll listen to anything you have to say.”

  He told me his idea, which I pondered briefly. I couldn’t see how any harm would come of doing what he suggested.

  I headed back to Santa Teresa with the key in my hand. Unearthing the money took the balance of the afternoon. The couch was at the bottom of an eight-by-eight-foot storage locker crammed with goods. Tables, chairs, cardboard boxes, a desk—a hundred or more items, which I removed one by one, stacking them behind me in the narrow aisle between bins. The facility was hot and airless and I could hardly ask for help. By the time I laid my hands on the canvas tote hidden in the couch, there was barely room in the passageway to turn around. By six o’clock, feeling harried, I had taken all but half a million out of Harry’s tote. The rest of the stash, I stuffed back into the couch, piling furniture and boxes helter-skelter on top of it. I’d have to return at some point—when the whole ordeal was over—and pack the bin properly.

  THE DROP PLAYED out according to the numbers, without the slightest hitch. At ten that night, I eased through a gap in the hedge on the north side of the Waterston-McCall property and made my way to the house with Harry’s canvas bag in tow. I slipped into the darkened service entry, where Karen was waiting. Once the door shut behind me, I shoved Harry’s canvas tote into the larger duffel she provided. We chatted nervously while I changed into the wig and yellow jumpsuit. It was just then ten-thirty and the remaining wait was long and tense. By eleven-thirty, both of us were strung out on pure adrenaline and I was glad to be on the move.

  Before I took off on the bicycle, Karen gave me a quick hug. “You’re wonderful. I can’t believe you did this.”

  “I’m not as wonderful as all that,” I said, uncomfortably. “We need to talk the minute Kevin’s home safe. Be sure to call me.”

  “Of course. Absolutely. We’ll call you first thing.”

  I pedaled down the drive and took a right on West Glen. The cash-heavy duffel threw the bike out of balance, but I corrected and rode on. It was chilly at that hour and traffic was almost nonexistent. For two miles, almost randomly, I bicycled through the dark, cursing my own foolishness for thinking I could pull this off. Eventually, I became aware that a sedan had fallen in behind me. In the glare of the headlights, I couldn’t tell the make or the model, only that the vehicle was dark blue and the front license plate was missing. The sedan followed m
e for what felt like an hour, while I pedaled on, feeling anxious, winded, and frightened beyond belief. Finally, the headlights blinked twice. Front wheel wobbling, I hauled the duffel from the basket and tossed it out onto the shoulder of the road. It landed with a thump near a cluster of bushes and I pedaled away. I glanced back only once as the vehicle behind me slowed to a stop.

  I returned to the big house, left the bicycle in the service porch, and made my way back across the blackness of the rear lawn to my car. My heart was still thudding as I pulled away. Home again, in my apartment, I changed into a nightie and robe, and huddled on the couch with a cup of brandy-laced hot tea. I knew I should try to sleep, but I was too wired to bother. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly two A.M. I figured I probably wouldn’t get word from Karen for another hour at best. It takes time to count half a million dollars in small bills. I flipped on the TV and watched a mind-numbing rerun of an old black-and-white film.

  I waited through the night, but the phone didn’t ring. Around five, I must have dozed because the next thing I knew, it was 8:35. What was going on? The kidnappers had ample time to effect Kevin’s release. If he’s getting out alive, I thought. I stared at the phone, afraid to call Karen in case the line was still tapped. I pulled out the phone book, looked up Jack Chamberlain, and tried his home number. The phone rang five times and his machine picked up. I left a cryptic message and then tried Karen at the house. No answer there. I was stumped. Mixed with my uneasiness was a touch of irritation. Even if they’d heard nothing, they could have let me know.

  Without much hope of success, I called the bank and asked for Jack. Surprisingly, Lacy Alisal put me through.

  “Jack Chamberlain,” he said.

  “Jack? This is Kinsey. Have you heard from Karen Waterston?”

  “Of course. Haven’t you?”

  “Not a word,” I said. “Is Kevin okay?”

  “He’s fine. Everything’s terrific.”

  “Would you kindly tell me what’s going on?”

  “Well, sure. I can tell you as much as I know. I drove her back over to the house about two this morning and we waited it out. Kevin got home at six. He’s shaken up, as you might imagine, but otherwise, he’s in good shape. I talked to both of them again a little while ago. She said she was going to call you as soon as we hung up. She didn’t get in touch?”

  “Jack, that’s what I just said. I’ve been sitting here for hours without a word from anyone. I tried the house and got no answer—”

  “Hey, relax. Don’t worry. I can see where you’d be ticked, but everything’s fine. I know they were going back to Los Angeles. She might have just forgotten.”

  I could hear a little warning. Something was off here. “What about the kidnappers? Does Kevin have any way to identify them?”

  “That’s what I asked. He says, not a chance. He was tied up and blindfolded while they had him in the car. He says they drove into a garage and kept him there until the ransom money was picked up and brought back. Next thing he knew, someone got in the car, backed out of the garage, drove him around for a while, and finally set him out in his own driveway. He’s going to see a doctor once they get to Los Angeles, but they never really laid a hand on him.”

  “I can’t believe they didn’t call to let me know he was safe. I need to talk to her.” I knew I was being repetitive, but I was really bugged. I’d promised Harry her autograph, among other things, and while he’d pretended to make a joke of it, I knew he was serious.

  “Maybe they thought I’d be doing that. I know they were both very grateful for your help. Maybe she’s planning to drop you a note.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll just wait until I hear from them,” I said and hung up.

  I showered and got dressed, sucked down some coffee and drove over to my office in downtown Santa Teresa. My irritation was beginning to wear off and exhaustion was trickling into my body in its wake. I went through my mail, paid a bill, tidied up my desk. I found myself laying my little head down, catching a quick nap while I drooled on my Month-At-A-Glance. There was a knock on the door and I woke with a start.

  Vera Lipton, the claims manager for the insurance company next door, was standing on my threshold. “You must have had a better time than I did Friday night. You hungover or still drunk?” she said.

  “Neither. I got a lousy night’s sleep.”

  She lifted her right brow. “Sounds like fun. You and that guy from the bank?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “So what’d you think of the glitzy twosome—Karen and Kev.”

  “I don’t even want to talk about them,” I said. I then proceeded to pour out the whole harrowing tale, including a big dose of outrage at the way I’d been treated.

  Vera started smirking about halfway through. By the end of my recital, she was shaking her head.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s the biggest bunch of horsepuckey I ever heard. You’ve been taken, Kinsey. Most royally had.”

  “I have?”

  “They’re flat broke. They don’t have a dime—”

  “They do, too!”

  She shook her head emphatically. “Dead broke. They’re busted.”

  “They couldn’t be,” I said.

  “Yes, they are,” she said. “I bet you dollars to doughnuts they put the whole scam together to pick up some cash.”

  “How could they be broke with a house like that? They have a hot new series on the air!”

  “The show was canceled. It hasn’t hit the papers yet, but the network decided to yank ’em after six episodes. They sank everything they had into the house up here when they first heard they’d been picked up.”

  I squinted at her. “How do you know all this stuff?”

  “Neil and I have been looking for a house for months. Our real estate agent’s the one who sold ’em that place.”

  “They don’t have any money?” I asked.

  “Not a dime,” she said. “Why do you think the house is so empty? They had to sell the furniture to make the mortgage payment this month.”

  “But what about the party? That must have cost a mint!”

  “I’m sure it did. Their attorney advised them to max out their credit cards and then file for bankruptcy.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  I looked at Vera blankly, doing an instant replay of events. I knew she was right because it suddenly made perfect sense. Karen Waterston and Kevin McCall had run a scam, that’s all it was. No wonder the drop had gone without a hitch. I wasn’t being followed by kidnappers—it was him. Those two had just successfully pocketed half a million bucks. And what was I going to do? At this point, even if I called the cops, all they had to do was maintain the kidnapping fiction and swear the bad guys were for real. They’d be very convincing. That’s what acting is all about. The “kidnappers,” meanwhile, would have disappeared without a trace and they’d make out like bandits, quite literally.

  Vera watched me process the revelation. “You don’t seem all that upset. I thought you’d be apoplectic, jumping up and down. Don’t you feel like an ass?”

  “I don’t know yet. Maybe not.”

  She moved toward the door. “I gotta get back to work. Let me know when it hits. It’s always entertaining to watch you blow your stack.”

  I sat down at my desk and thought about the situation and then put a call through to Harry Hovey at the prison.

  “This is rare,” Harry said when he’d heard me out. “I think we got a winner with this one. Holy shit.”

  “I thought you’d see the possibilities,” I said.

  “Holy shit!” he said again.

  The rest of what I now refer to as my missionary work, I can only guess at until I see Harry again. According to the newspapers, Kevin McCall and Karen Waterston were arrested two days after they returned to Los Angeles. Allegedly (as they say), the two entered a bank and tried to open an account with nine thousand dollars in counterf
eit tens and twenties. Amazingly, Harry Hovey saw God and had a crisis of conscience shortly before this in his prison cell up in Lompoc. Recanting his claims of innocence, he felt compelled to confess he’d been working for the two celebrities for years. In return for immunity, he told the feds where to find the counterfeit plates, hidden in a special zippered compartment at the bottom of a canvas tote, which turned up in their possession just as he said it would.

  the lying game

  THIS IS MY DEFINITION of misery. Pitch-black night. Cold. Hunger. Me in the wilderness . . . well, okay, a California state park, but the effect is the same. I was crouched in the bushes, peering at a campsite where identical twin brothers, alleged murderers, were rustling up supper: biscuits and a skillet full of eggs fried in bacon grease. The only bright note in all of this was my Lands’ End Squall Parka with its advanced Thermolite Micro insulation. On a whim, I’d ordered the parka from a Lands’ End catalog, little knowing that within weeks I’d be huddled in the woods, spying on fellows who cooked better than I did.

  The surveillance threatened to be a long one and I was wondering how close to the temp rating of -10/-30°F the mountain air would get. My color choices had been Black, Field Khaki, or True Red. I’d chosen the black on the theory that at night I’d be rendered invisible, always a good thing in my line of work. I’m a skulker by nature and I prefer to be inconspicuous while doing it.

  Not that you asked, but just for the record, I’d like to state my name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator, female, thirty-seven years old, and twice divorced. I never made it through college, but I’m smart as a whip.

  The Puckett twins, my subjects (which is what I call people when I’m spying on them), had been tried and convicted of whacking their wealthy parents, with an eye to inheriting their considerable estate. By one of those infuriating loopholes in the legal system, the verdict was overturned on appeal and “the boys” were now free. In two days, Doyle, the older twin, would be returning to his Ivy League college, where women would doubtless be fawning all over him. Before parting company, the two had retreated to this isolated spot, where I hoped they were searching their consciences, assuming either of them had one. In a tabloid tell-all, each lad had accused the other of masterminding the murder and accidentally pulling the trigger two dozen times, including reloads. One of the brothers had a reputation for truth-telling, while the other was a chronic liar. I’d been hired to keep an eye on them and, if possible, to persuade one twin to rat the other out, soliciting a confession, which would form the basis of a wrongful death suit being mounted by their only sister.