by Sue Grafton
“The Christmas before he took off, Guy knocks on this woman’s door. He says he’s a friend of Patty’s and presents himself as an appraiser of rare documents. He tells her there’s some question about the authenticity of the letters. Rumor has it, says he, these are fakes and he’s been hired by the father to take a look at them.”
“This was while the father was still alive?”
He shook his head. “He’d been dead a month by then. He died at Thanksgiving time. Mom’s feeling very nervous because the letters are really all she has. She doesn’t know beans about an appraiser being hired, but it all sounds legitimate ��� like something her husband would have done toward the end ��� so she hands the letters over to Guy and he takes them away.”
“Just like that?” I asked. “She didn’t ask for ID or credentials?”
“Apparently not. He had some business cards done up and he handed her one, which she took at face value. You have to understand, this was all pieced together months afterward. What the hell did she know? She needs an appraisal done anyway in preparation for selling.”
“I can’t believe people are so trusting.”
“That’s what keeps con artists in business,” he said.
“Go on.”
“Well, Guy keeps the letters for two weeks. He claims he’s subjecting them to a number of scientific tests, but what he’s really doing is making copies, elaborate forgeries. Or, not so elaborate as it turns out. At any rate, he’s putting together a set of fakes good enough to pass superficial inspection. After two weeks, he takes the copies back and gives her the bad news. ‘Golly, gee, Mrs. Maddison, these really are fakes,’ he says, ‘and they’re not worth a dime.’ He tells her to ask any expert and they’ll tell her the same. She nearly drops dead from shock. She takes ‘em straight to another expert and he confirms what Guy’s said. Sure enough, the letters are completely worthless. So here’s this lady whose husband’s dead and she suddenly has nothing. Next thing you know, she’s knocking on Dad’s door demanding restitution.”
“How’d she figure out it was Guy?”
“He’d been seeing Patty Maddison…”
I said, “Ohhh. That Patty. I get it. Guy told me about her the day we walked the property. He said he’d broken up with her. Sorry to interrupt, but I just remembered where I’d heard the name. So how’d they know it was him? Did Patty point a finger?”
Donovan shook his head. “Far from it. Patty tried to protect him, but Guy had just taken off and Mrs. Maddison put two and two together.”
“Mrs. Maddison hadn’t met him?”
“Only the one time when he showed up for the appraisal. Obviously, he didn’t use his own name.”
Donovan slowed and turned left off the main highway. We followed a two-lane paved road for a mile until it turned to gravel, small rocks popping as the truck bounced upward. Ahead, I could see white dust, like smoke, drifting across the road as it curved around to the left where it widened to reveal the quarry site. Massive benches of raw soil and rock had been cut into the hillside. There were no trees and no vegetation in the area. The din of heavy machinery filled the still mountain air. Much of the area was a flat, chalky gray contrasting sharply with the surrounding gray-green hills and a sky of pale blue. The. mountains beyond were cloaked in dark green vegetation interspersed with the gold of short dry grassy patches. Tiers had been cut into the side of the hill. Everywhere there were steep piles of earth and gravel, shale and sandstone, eroding raw earth and rock. Conveyor belts trundled rock upward toward the crusher, where rocks as big as my head were being shaken down into vibrating jaws that reduced them to rubble. Rugged horizontal and inclined screens and feeders sorted the crushed rock into various sizes.
Donovan pulled up close to a trailer, turned off the ignition, and set the hand brake. “Let me take care of business and I can finish the story on the way back. There’s a hard hat in the back if you want to take a walk around.”
“You go ahead. I’ll be fine.”
Donovan left me in the pickup while he conferred with a man in coveralls and a hard hat. The two disappeared into the trailer while I waited. From a distance, the machinery was the size of Matchbox toys. I watched as a conveyor belt moved loose rock in a steady stream that poured off the end into a cascading pile. I lifted my chin, shifting my sights to the countryside stretched out in a pristine canvas of hazy mountain and low growing dark green. I let my gaze drift across the site, trying to make sense out of what Donovan had said. As nearly as I remembered Guy’s passing reference to Patty, he saw his discretion with her as his one decent act. He’d described her as unstable, emotionally fragile, something along those lines. It was hard to believe he’d try to convince me of his honor when he’d gone to such lengths to rip her mother off. In truth, he’d ripped Patty off too since the money from the letters was supposed to go to her.
The sun was beating down on the cab of the pickup. Donovan had left the windows open so I wouldn’t cook to death. White dust clouded the air and the growling of heavy equipment battled the quiet. I could hear the clank of metal, the high whine of shifting gears as a wheel loader grumbled across flat ground as barren as a moonscape. I unsnapped my seat belt and slouched down on my spine with my knees propped on the dashboard. I didn’t want Guy to be guilty of a crime of this magnitude. What was done was done, but this was bad, bad, bad. I was prepared for pranks, willing to accept minor acts of mischief, but grand larceny was tough to overlook, even at this remove.
I didn’t realize I’d been dozing until I heard the crunch of work boots and Donovan opened the truck door on the driver’s side. I awoke with a start. He kicked the sides of his boots against the floor frame, knocking gravel loose before he slid in beneath the steering wheel. I sat up and refastened my seat belt.
“Sorry it took so long,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it. I was just resting my eyes,” I said dryly.
He slammed the door, clicked his seat belt into place, and turned the key in the ignition. Within moments, we were bouncing down the road toward the highway again. “Where was I?” he asked.
“Guy switched a set of forged letters for the real ones and then disappeared. You were saying your father refused to make good.”
“I’ll say. The letters were worth something close to fifty thousand dollars. In those days, Dad didn’t have that kind of money and wouldn’t have paid anyway.”
“What happened to the letters? Did Guy sell them?”
“He must have, because as far as I know, they were never seen again. Paul Trasatti could tell you more. His father was the appraiser brought in once the switch was made.”
“So he was the one who confirmed the bad news to Mrs. Maddison?”
“Right.”
“What happened to her?”
“She was a lush to begin with and she’d been popping pills for years. She didn’t last long. Between the alcohol and cigarettes, she was dead in five years.”
“And Patty?”
“That was unfortunate. In May of that year ��� this was two months after Guy left ��� Patty turned up pregnant. She was seventeen years old and didn’t want anyone to know. She’d had a lot of mental problems and I think she was worried they’d put her away, which they probably would have. At any rate, she had an illegal abortion and died of septicemia.”
“What?”
“You heard me right. She had what they referred to as a ‘backroom’ abortion, which was more common than you’d think. Procedure wasn’t sterile ��� just some hack down in San Diego. She developed blood poisoning and she died.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s the truth,” he said. “We weren’t down on Guy for nothing. I know you think we’re nothing but a bunch of hostile jerks, but this is what we’ve had to live with and it hasn’t been easy.”
“Why wasn’t something said before now?”
“In what context? The subject never came up. We all knew what happened. We discussed it among
ourselves, but we don’t run around airing our dirty laundry in front of other people. You think we like owning up to his part in it?”
I brooded about it, staring out at the passing roadside. “I’m really having trouble believing this.”
“I’m not surprised. You don’t want to think Guy would do a thing like that.”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “Guy told me Patty was hung up on him. He considered it his one decent act that he didn’t seduce her when he had the chance. Now why would he say that?”
“He was hoping to impress you. Stands to reason,” he said.
“But there wasn’t any context. This was passing conversation, something he brought up. He didn’t go into any detail. What’s to be impressed about?”
“Guy was a liar. He couldn’t help himself.”
“He might have been a liar back then, but why lie about the girl all these years later? I didn’t know her. I wasn’t pressing for information. Why bother to lie when he had nothing to gain?”
“Look, I know you liked him. Most women did. You start feeling sorry for him. You feel protective. You don’t want to accept the fact he was twisted as they come. This is the kind of shit he pulled.”
“It isn’t that,” I said, offended. “He’d undergone a lot of soul-searching. He’d committed his life to God. There wasn’t any point fabricating some tall tale about Patty Maddison.”
“He was busy revising history. It’s something we all do. You repent your sins and then in memory, you start cleaning up your past. Pretty soon, you’re convinced you weren’t nearly as bad as everyone said. The other guy was a jerk, but you had good reason for anything you did. It’s all bunk, of course, but which of us can stand to take a look at ourselves? We whitewash. It’s human nature.”
“You’re talking about the Guy Malek of the old days. Not the one I met. All I know is, I have a hard time picturing Guy doing this.”
“You knew him less than a week and believed everything he said. He was a bad egg.”
“But Donovan, look at the nature of his crimes. None of them, were like this,” I said. “As a kid, he was into vandalism. Later, he stole cars and stereos to pay for drugs. Forgery’s too sophisticated a scheme for someone who spent his days getting high. Trust me. I’ve been high. You think you’re profound but you’re barely functional.”
“Guy was a bright boy. He learned fast.”
“I better talk to Paul,” I said, unwilling to concede.
“He’ll tell you the same thing. In fact, that’s probably what put the idea in Guy’s head in the first place. You have a good friend whose dad deals in rare documents, it doesn’t take any great leap to figure it out when you’ve got access to something valuable.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but it isn’t sitting right.”
“You know anything about liars?” Donovan asked.
“Sure, I think I can say so. What about ‘em?”
“A liar ��� a truly dedicated liar ��� lies because he can, because he’s good at it. He lies for the pure pleasure, because he loves getting away with it. That’s how Guy was. If he could tell you some lie ��� even if it meant nothing, even if there was nothing to be gained ��� he couldn’t resist.”
“You’re telling me he was a pathological liar,” I said, restating his claim in a tone of skepticism.
“I’m saying he enjoyed lying. He couldn’t help himself.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said. “I happen to think I’m a pretty good judge of liars.”
“You know when some people lie, but not all.”
“What makes you such an expert?” I said, beginning to take offense. Donovan was just as annoyed with me.
He made a dismissive gesture. I suspected he wasn’t used to having women argue with him. “Forget it. Have it your way,” he said. “I can tell I’m not going to persuade you of anything.”
“Nor I you,” I said tartly. “What happened to the older sister?”
Donovan grimaced with exasperation. “Are you going to take my word for it or is this an excuse for another round of arguments?”
“I’m arguing about Guy, not the Maddisons, okay?”
“Okay. Claire ��� the older one ��� abandoned her plans for med school. She had no money and her mom was sinking like a. stone. For a while she came back to. take care of her. That, was maybe six months or so. Once mom was gone, she went back to the East Coast ��� Rhode Island or some place. Might have been Connecticut. She got married to some fellow, but it didn’t work out. Then about a year ago, she offed herself. Or so I heard.”
“She committed suicide?”
“Why not? Her whole family was gone. She had no one. The family was a bit dicey to begin with ��� bunch of manic-depressives. I guess something must have finally pushed her over the edge.”
“What’d she do, jump off a building?”
“I don’t know how she did it. I wasn’t being literal. There was a notice in the local paper. It happened back east somewhere.”
I was silent again. “So maybe one of the Maddisons killed Guy. Wouldn’t that make sense?”
“You’re fishing. I just told you, they’re all gone.”
“But how do you know there isn’t someone left? Cousins, for instance? Aunts and uncles? Patty’s best friend?”
“Come on. Would you really murder someone who wronged a relative of yours? A sibling, maybe. But a cousin or a niece?”
“Well, no, but I’m not close to my relatives. Suppose something like that happened to your family.”
“Something did happen to my family. Guy was killed,” he said.
“Don’t you want revenge?”
“Enough to kill someone? Absolutely not. Besides, if I cared enough to kill, I wouldn’t wait this long. You’re talking eighteen years.”
“But Guy was missing all that time. You notice, once he came home, he was dead within days.”
“True enough,” he said.
“Does the name Max or Maximilian Outhwaite figure into this in any way? It could even be Maxine. I can’t swear to gender.”
Donovan turned and looked at me with surprise. “Where’d you come up with that one?”
“You know the name?”
“Well, sure. Maxwell Outhwaite’s the name Guy used on the business cards he made to cheat Mrs. Maddison.”
I squinted at him. “Are you sure?”
“That isn’t something I’d forget,” he said. “How’d you come across it?”
” ‘Max Outhwaite’ was the one who wrote the letters to the Dispatch and the L.A. Times. That’s how the press knew Guy was home.”
Chapter 19
*
Once back at Malek Construction, I left Donovan in the parking lot and picked up my car. I was feeling anxious and confused. This Max Outhwaite business made no sense at all. Maybe Dietz had come up with a line on him. Throw the Maddisons into the mix and what did it add up to? I glanced at my watch, wincing when I saw how late it was. The trip up the pass had taken more than an hour and a half.
Dietz was waiting in front of the public library. I pulled over to the curb and he slid into the passenger seat. “Sorry I’m late,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it. I got news for you. Outhwaite’s a myth. I checked the city directories for the last twenty-five years and then went across the street and checked the County Clerk’s office. No one by that name was ever listed in the phone book or anywhere else. No marriages, no deaths, no real property, building permits, lawsuits, you name it. Everybody alive leaves a trail of some kind. The name has to be phony unless we’re missing a bet.”
“There is a connection, but it’s not what you’d expect,” I said. I filled him in on my conversation with Donovan while we headed for home. I’d forgotten how nice it was to have someone to consult. I told him about the Maddisons and Guy’s alleged involvement in the family’s downfall. “Maxwell Outhwaite was the name used by the fictitious appraiser who stole fifty thousand dollar
s’ worth of rare documents. I’m not convinced it was Guy, but Donovan seems to take it for granted. Now, honestly,” I said. “If you’d known about the Maddisons, wouldn’t you have told someone?”
“Namely you?”
“Well, yes, me,” I said. “Donovan could have mentioned it. Same with Max Outhwaite. The name pops up again years later ��� why didn’t he tell someone?”
“Maybe Katzenbach never told him there was a letter and that Outhwaite was the name of the sender.”
“Oh. I see what you’re saying. I guess it’s possible,” I said. “It still annoys me no end. I wish we could find the typewriter. That would be a coup.”
“Forget it. There’s no way.”
“What makes you say that? It has to be around here somewhere. Someone typed both those letters on the same machine.”
“So what? If I were writing poison-pen notes, I’d hardly sit at my desk and use my own IBM. I’m too paranoid for that. I’d use one of the rental typewriters at the public library. Or maybe find a place selling typewriters and use one of theirs.”
“This machine isn’t new. The typeface has an old-fashioned look to it and a lot of the letters are clogged. It’s probably got a fabric ribbon instead of carbon film.”
“Those typewriters at the library aren’t exactly hot off the assembly line.”
“Pick me up some samples and we’ll do a comparison. There are a couple of typeface defects that should help us pin it down. I’m sure a document expert could find others. I’ve only eyeballed it.”
“The clogged letters don’t mean much. Go after ‘em with cleaning fluid and poof, those are gone.”
“Sure, but don’t you think the majority of people who write anonymous letters assume they’re safe from discovery?”
“They might assume they’re safe, but they’re not,” Dietz said. “The FBI maintains extensive files of anonymous letters. Plus, they have samples of type from most known machines. Post Office does, too, and so does the Treasury Department. They can determine the make and model of almost any machine. That’s how they nail cranks, especially people who send threatening letters to public officials. The only way to play it safe is to dismantle the machine.”