M is for MALICE

by Sue Grafton

  “He never gave me the chance.”

  “Well, let me put in a call to him. Why don’t we just ask him? It might be something simple or obvious once you hear. You remember his name?”

  “Katzensomething, but I don’t think it’s smart for you to talk to him.”

  “Katzenbach. I know Jeffrey. He’s a nice man.”

  Donovan plowed on, not wanting to yield his ground. “I’m telling you, lay off. I don’t want you talking to him about anything. Enough is enough. If I find out you’re behind this, I’ll sue your ass from here to next Tuesday,” he said and banged down the receiver on his end.

  The “screw you” I offered snappishly came half a second too late, which was just as well.

  The minute he’d broken the connection my adrenaline shot up. My mouth was dry and I could feel my heart begin to pound in my ears. I wanted to protest, but I could see how it looked from his perspective. He was right about the fact that I was the only one outside the family who knew what was going on. More or less, I thought, pausing to correct myself. Myrna could have tipped the paper, but it was hard to see why she’d do such a thing. And of course, Peter and Winnie knew what was going on, but again why would either one of them want to make the matter known? I had a strong impulse to pick up the phone and call Katzenbach, but Donovan’s admonition was still ringing in my ears. Once in touch, I was worried the reporter would start pumping me for information. Any comment I made might be quoted in a follow-up and then my credibility would be shot for sure.

  Dimly, I wondered if Guy could have tipped off the paper himself. It seemed unlikely, but not impossible and I could see a certain canny logic if the move was his. If the issue of his inheritance became public knowledge, his brothers would have a hell of a time trying to screw him out of it. The problem with that notion was that Guy had never demonstrated much interest in the money and he certainly hadn’t seemed concerned about protecting his share. Could he be as devious and manipulative as his family claimed?

  I snagged my jacket and my handbag and headed out again. I tried to shake off my anxiety as I walked the short distance to my car, which was parked half a block down. There was no way to convince the Maleks of my innocence. Accused of the breach, I found myself feeling apologetic, as if I’d actually been guilty of violating the family’s trust. Poor Guy. In the wake of my denial, they’d probably turn on him.

  By the time I reached the downtown area, I’d managed to distract myself, wondering if I’d find a parking space within a reasonable radius of Lonnie Kingman’s building. I tried the spiral approach, like a crime scene investigation, starting at the inner point and working outward. If nothing opened up, I could always use the public parking lot, which was three blocks away.

  The second time I circled, I saw a van pull into the stretch of red-painted curb in front of the building. The door on the passenger side slid back and a fellow with a camcorder swung himself out on the walk. The slim blond who anchored the six o’clock news hopped down from the front seat and scanned the numbers on the building, verifying the address from a note on her pad. Coming up from behind, I couldn’t see the logo on the side of the van, but it had an aerial on top that looked fierce enough to receive messages from outer space. Oh, shit. As I passed the van, I could see KEST-TV painted on the side. I resisted the urge to speed away as the woman threw a glance in my direction. I peered to my left, turning toward the building across the street. I waved merrily at someone emerging from the Dean Witter office. Maybe the press would mistake me for a cruising mogul with some money to invest. I kept driving, eyes pinned on my rearview mirror as the cameraman and his companion went into the entranceway.

  Now what? I didn’t like the idea of skulking in the bushes like a renegade. Maybe I was being paranoid and the crew was on its way to cover something else. I drove several blocks before I spotted a pay phone on the corner. I left my car at the curb, dropped a quarter in the slot, and dialed Lonnie’s private line. He must have been in court because Ida Ruth picked up, thinking it was him. “Yessir?”

  “Ida Ruth, this is Kinsey. Did a TV crew show up looking for me?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’m back here at my desk. Let me check with Alison up front.” She put me on hold for a moment and then clicked back in. “I stand corrected. They’re waiting for you in reception. What’s going on?”

  “It’s too complicated to explain. Can you get rid of them?”

  “Well, we can get ‘em out of here, but there’s no way we can keep them from hanging around on the street outside. What did you do, if I may be so bold?”

  “Nothing, I swear. I’m completely innocent.”

  “Right, dear. Good for you. Stick to that,” she said.

  “Ida Ruth, I’m serious. Here’s the deal,” I said. I filled her in briefly and heard her cluck in response. “My, oh my. If I were you, I’d lay low. They can’t stay long. If you tell me how to reach you, I’ll call you when they’re gone.”

  “I’m not sure where I’ll be. I’ll check back in a bit.” I put the receiver down and scanned the street corner opposite. There was a bar on the corner that appeared to be opening. I could see a neon light in the window blink on. As I watched, a fellow in an apron opened the front door and kicked the doorstop into place. I could always hang out in there, drinking beer and sniffing secondhand smoke while I figured out what to do next. On the other hand, come to think of it, I hadn’t done anything so why was I behaving like a fugitive? I fished around in the bottom of my bag and came up with a second coin. I put a call through to the Dispatch and asked for Jeffrey Katzenbach. I didn’t know him well, but I’d dealt with him on a couple of occasions in the past. He was a man in his fifties, whose career had been stalled by his appetite for cocaine and Percocet. He’d always been sharp if you caught him early in the day, but as the afternoon progressed, he became harder to deal with. By nightfall, he could still function, but his judgment was sometimes faulty and he didn’t always remember the promises he’d made. Two years ago, his wife had left him and the last I’d heard, he’d finally straightened up his act with the help of Narcotics Anonymous. Guy Malek wasn’t the only one who’d undergone personal transformation.

  When I got through to Katzenbach, I identified myself and we exchanged the usual pleasantries before getting down to business. “Jeffrey, this is strictly off the record. The Maleks are my clients and I can’t afford to be quoted.”

  “Why? What’s the problem?”

  “There isn’t any problem. Donovan’s pissed off because he thinks I called you and spoiled the family reunion.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “How’d you get wind of it? Or is this a ‘confidential source’?”

  “Nothing confidential about it. There was a letter on my desk when I got in last night. We’ve always encouraged our subscribers to get in touch if they think there’s a story we might not’ve heard about. Sometimes it’s just trivia or crank stuff, but this one grabbed my attention.”

  “Who sent the letter?”

  “Some fellow named Max Outhwaite with an address on Connecticut out in Colgate. He thought it was an item worth bringing to our attention.”

  “How’d he hear about it?”

  “Beats me. He talked like he’d known ‘em all for years. Basically, the letter says a search was conducted and Bader Malek’s son Guy was located after an absence of eighteen years. That’s correct, isn’t it? I mean, tell me I’m wrong and I’ll eat my jockey shorts.”

  “You’re correct, but so what?”

  “So nothing. Like he says, here’s this fellow working as a janitor in some backwater town, finds out he’s inheriting five million bucks. How often does that happen? He thought the community would be interested. I thought it sounded like a winner so I put a call in to the Maleks. The number’s in the book, it didn’t require any red-hot detective work. I talked to Mrs. Malek ��� what’s her name, Christie ��� who confirmed the story before I even got to Donovan. Sure enough, that’s the deal
unless there’s something I missed.”

  “And I was mentioned by name?”

  “You bet. It’s one of the reasons I figured it was on the up-and-up. I tried to reach you last night, but all I got was your answering machine. I didn’t bother to leave a message. I figured you were on your way over there to help ‘em celebrate. How’d you find the guy? Outhwaite’s letter says you got a lead on him through the DMV.”

  “I don’t believe this. Who is this man and where’s he getting his information?”

  “How do I know? He acted like he was maybe a friend of the family. You never talked to him yourself?”

  “Jeffrey, knock it off. I didn’t call so you could pump me. I’m trying to persuade the Maleks I didn’t leak this thing.”

  “Too bad you didn’t. You could have filled in the details. I went back to check with Outhwaite and the guy doesn’t exist. There’s no Outhwaite in the phone book and no such house number anywhere on Connecticut Avenue. I tried a couple of other possibilities and I came up with blanks. Not that it matters as long as the story’s legitimate. I got confirmation from the family.”

  “What about the L.A. Times? How did they get wind of it?”

  “Same way we did. Outhwaite dropped ‘em a note almost like a press release. It’s been a slow week for news and we’re always on the lookout for human-interest stuff. This was better than a little lost kitty-cat trapped in a well. I thought it was worth pursuing, especially when I saw you were involved.”

  “I wish you’d done some fact checking with me along the way.”

  “Why? What’s the problem?”

  “There isn’t any problem,” I said, irritably. “I just think the family might appreciate a little privacy before the whole world rushes in. By the way, Jeffrey, I’ve heard you zippy-tapping on your keyboard ever since we started this conversation. I told you this is off the record.”

  “What for? It’s a nice story. It’s a great fantasy. What’s the deal with the Maleks? Why’re they so pissed with the coverage? We did front page, second section when Bader Malek died. He was an important figure in the community and they were happy to have the tribute. What’s so hush-hush about Guy? Are they trying to cut him out of his inheritance or something?”

  I rolled my eyes skyward. The man couldn’t help but press for information. “Listen, buddy, I’m as clueless as you. What about the letter? What happened to it?”

  “It’s sitting right here.”

  “You mind if I have a copy? It would go a long way toward restoring my credibility. I feel like a fool having to defend myself, but I have a reputation to maintain.”

  “Sure. I can do that. I don’t see why, not. We’re interested in Guy’s perspective if you can talk him into it.

  “I’m not trading ��� but I’ll do what I can.”

  “Terrific. What’s your fax number?”

  I gave him the number of Lonnie Kingman’s machine and he said he’d fax the letter over. If I located Max Outhwaite, Jeffrey wanted to talk to him. Fair enough. I said I’d do what I could. It didn’t cost me anything to profess my conditional cooperation. I tried not to be too profuse in my thanks. It’s not like I planned to take the letter straight to Donovan, but I was curious about the contents and thought it made sense to have a copy for my files. At some point, Katzenbach would extract something from me in return, but for now, I was fine. I didn’t believe Guy would agree to an interview, but maybe he’d surprise me.

  I got back in my car and drove over to the public parking lot. From there, I hoofed it to the office on foot. There was no sign of the KEST TV van out front. I took the stairs two at a time and entered Kingman and Ives through an unmarked door around the corner from the main entrance. In the back of my mind, I was mulling over the possibility that maybe Bennet or Jack had taken the letter to the Dispatch. I couldn’t see what it would net either of them, but someone had an interest in seeing Guy’s homecoming splashed across the news and it was someone who knew more than I was comfortable with. Again, I could feel the faint nudge of uneasiness. Darcy Pascoe’s computer search had been a fudge. I hoped she wasn’t going to find herself in trouble as a result of my request. I checked the fax machine in Lonnie’s office and found the copy of Max Outhwaite’s letter sitting in the slot as promised. I went to my office, reading as I went.

  Dear Mr. Katzenbach,

  Thought you’d be interested in a Modern-Day ”Cinderfella” story taking place right here in Santa Teresa! As I recall, your the reporter, who wrote about Bader Malek’s death last month. Now, word around town has it that his Probate Attorney hired a Private Investigator (a ”Female” no less) to locate his missing son, Guy. If you’ve been around town as long as me, you’ll remember that as a youngster, Guy Malek was caught in a number of scrapes, and finally disappeared from the local scene, nearly twenty years ago. You’d think finding someone like that after all this time would prove daunting, but Millhone (the aforementioned ”Female” Detective) ran a DMV check, and turned him up in less than two days!! Seems he’s been up in Marcella ever since he left, and he’s working as a janitor in a church up there! He’s one of those ”Born-Agains,” who probably didn’t have two nickels to rub together, but his father’s death has turned him into an instant millionaire!! I think people would be heartened to hear how he’s managed to turn his life around, threw his Christian Faith. Folks might also enjoy hearing what he’s planning to do with his newfound riches. With all the bad news that besieges us from day to day, wouldn’t this story give everyone a nice lift? I think it would be a wonderful inspiration to the Community! Let’s hope Guy Malek is willing to share the story of his ”good fortune” with us. I look forward to reading such an article and know you’d do a fine job of writing it! Best of luck and God Bless!

  Sincerely yours,

  Max Outhwaite

  2905 Connecticut Ave.

  Colgate, CA

  I noticed I held the letter by the corners, as if to avoid smudging prints, a ridiculous precaution given the fact that it wasn’t even the original. The note was neatly typed, with no visible corrections and no words XXX’d out. Granted, there were spelling errors (including my name), an excessive use of commas, a tendency toward the emphatic, and a bit of Unnecessary Capitalization! but otherwise the intentions of the sender seemed benign. Aside from alerting the press to something that, was nobody else’s business, I couldn’t see any particular attempt to meddle in Guy Malek’s life. Maximilian (or perhaps Maxine) Outhwaite apparently thought subscribers to the Santa Teresa Dispatch would be warmed by this story of a Bad Boy Turned Good and the Resultant Rewards! Outhwaite didn’t seem to have an ax to grind and there was no hint of malice to undercut his (or her) enthusiasm for the tale. So what was going on?

  I set the letter aside, swiveling in my swivel chair while I studied it covertly out of the corner of my eye. As a “Female” Detective, I found myself vaguely bothered by the damn thing. I didn’t like the intimate acquaintance with the details and I couldn’t help but wonder at the motivation. The tone was ingenuous, but the maneuver had been effective. Suddenly, Guy Malek’s private business had been given a public audience.

  I placed the letter in the Malek file, turning it over to my psyche for further consideration.

  I spent the rest of the morning at the courthouse, taking care of other business. As a rule, I’m working fifteen to twenty cases concurrently. Not all of them are pressing and not all demand my attention at the same time. I do a number of background checks for a research and development firm out in Colgate. I also do preemployment investigations, as well as skip traces for a couple of small businesses in the area. Periodically, I’m involved in some fairly routine snooping for a divorce attorney down the street. Even in a no-fault state, a spouse might hide assets or conceal the whereabouts of communal items, like cars, boats, planes, and minor children. There’s something restful about a morning spent cruising through the marriage licenses and death records in pursuit of genealogical connections, or an afternoon pickin
g through probated wills, property transfers, and tax and mechanics’ liens at the county offices. Sometimes I can’t believe my good fortune, working in a business where I’m paid to uncover matters people would prefer to keep under wraps. Paper stalking doesn’t require a PI to slip into a Kevlar vest, but the results can be just as dangerous as a gun battle or a high-speed chase.

  My assignment that Monday morning was to probe the financial claims detailed in a company prospectus. A local businessman had been approached to invest fifty thousand dollars in what looked like a promising merchandising plan. Within an hour, I’d found out that one of the two partners had filed for personal bankruptcy and the other had a total of six lawsuits pending against him. While I was about it, I did a preliminary search for Max Outhwaite, starting with voter registration and working my way through local tax rolls. I crossed the street to the public library and tried the reference department. Under that spelling, there were no Outhwaite’s listed in the local phone books and none in the city directories going back six years. This meant nothing in particular as far as I could see. It did suggest that “Max Outhwaite” was a nom de plume, but under certain circumstances, I could relate to the maneuver. If I wanted to call an issue to the attention of the local paper, I might conceivably use a fake name and a phony address. I might be a prominent person, reluctant to have myself associated with the subject in question. I might be a family member, eager to get Guy in trouble, but unwilling to take responsibility. Writing such a letter was hardly a crime, but I might feel guilty nonetheless and not want the consequences blowing back on me.

  For lunch I bought a sandwich and a soft drink from a vending machine and sat on a stretch of lawn out behind the courthouse. The day was hot, the treetops buffeted by dry winds coming off the desert. The branches of the big evergreens planted close to the street seemed to shimmer in the breeze, giving off the scent of pitch. I leaned back on my elbows and turned my face up to the sun. I can’t say I slept, but I gave a good impression of it. At one o’clock, I roused myself and went back to the office where I began to type up my findings for the cases I’d worked. Such is the life of a PI these days. I spend more time practicing my skills with a Smith-Corona than a Smith Wesson.