M is for MALICE

by Sue Grafton

  “The forgeries were destroyed.”

  “And the originals?”

  “No one’s ever seen them again. Well, I haven’t in any case. They’ve never come up for sale in all the years I’ve done business.”

  “Do you know what they were?”

  “I have the itemized list. My dad kept meticulous records. You want to see it?”

  “I’d love to.”

  Trasatti got up and crossed to a closet. I caught a glimpse of a wall safe and four gray metal file cabinets. Above them, on shelves, there was a series of old-fashioned card files. “I’m going to get all this on computer one of these days.” He seemed to know right where he was going and I wondered if this was something he’d done recently. He extracted a card, glanced at it briefly, and then closed the drawer again. He left the closet door ajar and returned to his desk, handing me the card as he passed my chair. The cat had gone to sleep, lying across my knees like a fifteen-pound bag of hot sand.

  The list detailed six documents: a framed Society of Boston Membership Certificate and a personal letter, both signed by George Washington and valued at $11,500 and $9,500, respectively; a judicial writ signed by Abraham Lincoln, dated December 1847, valued at $6,500; a wartime document signed by John Hancock, valued at $5,500; a ten-page fragment from an original manuscript by Arthur Conan Doyle valued at $7,500; and a letter signed by John Adams, valued at $9,000.

  “I’m impressed,” I said. “I don’t know beans about rare documents, but these seem fabulous.”

  “They are. Those prices you’re looking at are twenty years out of date. They’d be worth more today.”

  “How did Patty Maddison’s father get his hands on items like these?”

  “Nobody really knows. He was an amateur collector. He picked some up at auction and the rest, who knows? He might have stolen them for all I know. My fathered heard about ‘em, but Francis ��� Mr. Maddison ��� would never let him examine them.”

  “His widow must have been an idiot to hand ‘em over the way she did.”

  Trasatti made no comment.

  “How did Guy hear about the letters?” I asked.

  “Patty probably told him.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “How do I know? Showing off. She was nuts. She did all kinds of weird things.”

  I saw him glance at his watch. “You have an appointment?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m hoping we can wrap this up. I have work to do.”

  “Five minutes more and I’ll be on my way.”

  Trasatti shifted restlessly, but motioned me on.

  “Let me try out a little theory. None of this came to light until after Guy took off, right?”

  Trasatti stared at me, without offering encouragement.

  I was forced to go on, feeling like Perry Mason in a courtroom confrontation, only this wasn’t going as well as his always did. “So maybe Jack was the one who got Patty knocked up. I heard Jack was the randy one. According to Guy, he screwed anything that moved.”

  “I told you he was off at college. He wasn’t even here,” Trasatti said.

  “He came back for his mother’s funeral and again for spring break. That was March, wasn’t it?”

  “I really don’t remember.”

  “As I understand it, Guy had hit the road by then. Jack felt betrayed. He was crushed that Guy’d left without him so maybe he turned to Patty for consolation. At that point, she must have needed comfort as much as he did.”

  Trasatti kept his face expressionless, his laced together on the desk. “You’re never going to get me to say anything about this.”

  “Jack could have forged the letters. You two were buddies. Your father was an appraiser. You could have cooked up the scheme yourself and showed Jack how to do it.”

  “I’m finding this offensive. It’s pure speculation. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

  I let that one slide, though what he said was true. “Everything was cool until Guy came home again.”

  “What difference would that make?”

  “In the old days, Guy took the blame for everybody’s sins, so it just stands to reason everyone felt safe until he showed up again.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Maybe the motive for Guy’s murder was never money,” I said. “Maybe Jack was just trying to protect himself.”

  “From what? I don’t get it. There’s really nothing at stake. The theft was eighteen years ago. The statute of limitations has run out. There’s no crime on the books. Even if your guess is correct, Jack’s the one, who ends up with his ass in a sling. You said you were here to help, but it’s blowing right back on him.”

  “You know what? Here’s the truth. I don’t really give a shit what blows back on him. If he’s guilty, so be it. That isn’t my concern.”

  “Well, that’s nice. You want me to pick up the phone and call Lonnie Kingman? He’s going to love your attitude and so will Jack. As far as I know, he’s the one paying your bills.”

  “You go right ahead. Lonnie can always fire me if he doesn’t like what I’m doing.”

  Chapter 20

  *

  I stopped at a pay phone and put a call through to Lonnie, who had the good grace to laugh when he heard my account of the conversation with Paul Trasatti. “Forget it. The guy’s a prick. He was just on the phone to me, whining and complaining about harassment. What a jerk.”

  “Why’s he so worried about Jack?”

  “Forget Jack for now. I’ll take care of him. You better go talk to Bennet; I couldn’t get to him. According to the grapevine, he’s talking to an attorney in case the hairy eyeball of the law falls on him next. He’s still got no alibi, as far as I’ve heard.”

  “Well, that’s interesting.”

  “Yeah, people are getting nervous. That’s a good sign,” he said. He gave me the address of Bennet’s restaurant, which was located downtown on a side street off State. The neighborhood itself was marked by a tire store, a minimart, a video rental shop, and a billiard parlor where fights erupted without much provocation beyond excess beer. Parking didn’t seem to be readily available and it was hard to picture where the restaurant trade would be coming from.

  Apparently, the place had once been a retail store, part of a chain that had filed for bankruptcy. The old sign was still out, but the interior had been gutted. The space was cavernous and shadowy, the floor bare concrete, the ceiling high. Heating ducts and steel girders were exposed to view, along with all of the electrical conduit. Toward the rear, an office had been roughed in: a desk, file cabinets, and office equipment arranged in a bare-framed cubicle. The back wall was solid and through a narrow doorway, I could see a toilet and a small sink with a medicine cabinet above it. It was going to take a lot of money to complete construction and get the business on its feet. No wonder Bennet had been so eager to get his hands on the second will. If Guy’s share was divided among his brothers, each would be richer by more than a million, which he could clearly use.

  To the right, a huge rolling metal door had been opened onto a weedy vacant lot. Outside, the sun was harsh, sparkling on the broken bottles while its heat baked a variety of doggy turds. There was not a soul in sight, but the building was wide open and I kept thinking Bennet, or a construction worker, would show up before long. While I waited, I wandered into the office area and took a seat at Bennet’s desk. The secretarial chair was rickety and I imagined he made his phone calls upright with his hip resting on the desk, which seemed sturdier. Everything in the office had an air of having been borrowed or picked up on the cheap. The calculator tape showed a long series of numbers that didn’t add up to anything. I could have checked in the drawers, but I was too polite. Besides, my recent clash with Paul Trasatti had chastened me some. I didn’t want Lonnie getting two complaints in a single day.

  There was a manual typewriter sitting on a rolling cart. My gaze slid across it idly and then came back. It was an ancient black Underwood with round yello
wed keys that looked like they’d be hard to press. The ribbon was so worn it was thin in the middle. I looked over at the rolling door and then surveyed the whole of the empty restaurant space. Still no one. My bad angel was hovering to my left. It was she who pointed out the open packet of typing paper sitting right there in plain sight.

  I pulled out a sheet and rolled it into the machine, settling myself on the wobbly typing chair. I typed my name. I typed that old standby: The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. I typed the name Max Outhwaite. I typed Dear Miss Millhone. I peered closely. The vowels didn’t appear to be clogged, which (as Dietz had pointed out) didn’t mean that much. This could still be the typewriter used for the notes. Maybe Bennet had simply made a point of cleaning his keys. I pulled the paper out and folded it, then stood up and slipped it in the pocket of my jeans. When I got back to the office, I’d see if the defective a and i were visible under magnification. I still hadn’t seen the anonymous letter Guy had received the Monday before he died, but maybe Betsy Bower would relent and let me pirate a copy.

  The telephone rang.

  I stared at it briefly and then lifted my head, listening for footsteps heading in my direction. Nothing. The phone rang again. I was tempted to answer, but I really didn’t need to because the answering machine kicked in. Bennet’s voice message was brief and very businesslike. So was the caller.

  “Bennet. Paul here. Give me a call as soon as possible.”

  The machine clicked off. The message light blinked off and on. My bad angel tapped me on the shoulder and pointed. I reached out and pressed DELETE. A disembodied male voice told me the message had been erased. I headed for the front door, breaking into a trot when I reached the street. Trasatti was a busy boy, calling everyone.

  A Harley-Davidson rumbled into view. Shit. Bennet was back just when I thought I’d escaped. I slowed my pace, as if I had all the time in the world. Bennet rolled Jack’s motorcycle up to the curb less than ten feet away. He killed the engine and popped the kickstand into place. He peeled off his helmet and cradled it under his arm. I noticed his hair was tightly frizzed and matted with sweat. Despite the heat, he was wearing a black leather jacket, probably protection in case he flipped the bike and skidded. “Working again?”

  “I’m always working,” I said.

  “Did you want to talk to me?” His jacket creaked when he walked. He headed into the restaurant.

  I followed. “How goes construction? It’s looking pretty good,” I said. It looked like a bomb crater, but I was kissing butt. Our footsteps echoed as we crossed the raw concrete floor.

  “Construction’s slow.”

  I said, “Ah. What’s your target for opening?”

  “April, if we’re lucky. We have a lot of work to do.”

  “What kind of restaurant?”

  “Cajun and Caribbean. We’ll have salads and burgers, too, very reasonably priced. Maybe jazz two nights a week. We’re really aiming for the singles’ market.”

  “Like a pickup bar?”

  “With class,” he said. “This town doesn’t have a lot going on at night. Get some dance music in here weekends, I think we’re filing a niche. A chef from New Orleans and all the hot local bands. We should pull crowds from as far away as San Luis Obispo.”

  “That sounds rowdy,” I said. We’d reached the office by then and I saw him flick a glance at his answering machine. I was only half listening, trying to think how to keep the conversation afloat. “Any problem with parking?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “We’ll pave the lot next door. We’re in negotiations at the moment. There’s room for thirty cars there and another ten on the street.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. He had an answer for everything. Mr. Slick, I thought.

  “I’ll comp you some tickets for the grand opening. You like to dance?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get you in and you can cut loose. Forget your inhibitions and get down,” he said. He snapped his fingers, dipping his knees in a move meant to be oh so hip.

  My least favorite thing in life is some guy encouraging me to “cut loose” and “get down.” The smile I offered him was paper-thin. “I hope this business with Jack has been resolved by then.”

  “Absolutely,” he said smoothly, his expression sobering appropriately. “How’s it looking so far?”

  “He can’t account for his time, which doesn’t help,” I said. “The cops are claiming they found a bloody print from his shoe on the carpet up in Guy’s room. I won’t bore you with details. Lonnie wanted me to ask where you were.”

  “The night of the murder? I was club-hopping down in L.A.”

  “You drove to Los Angeles and back?”

  “I do it all the time. It’s nothing. Ninety minutes each way,” he said. “That night, some of the time I was on the road.”

  “Did you have a date?”

  “This was strictly business. I’m trying to get a feel for what works and what doesn’t, sampling menus. You know, listening to some of the L.A. bands.”

  “I’m assuming you have credit card receipts to back you up.”

  A fleeting change of expression suggested I’d caught him out on that one. “I might have a few. I’ll have to look and see what I’ve got. I paid cash in the main. It’s easier that way.”

  “What time did you get in?”

  “Close to three,” he said. “You want to come in the back? I’ve got some beer in a cooler. We could have a drink.”

  “Thanks. It’s a bit early.”

  “Where you going?”

  “Back to the office. I have a meeting,” I said.

  On the way back to the office, I stopped off at a deli and picked up some soft drinks and sandwiches. Dietz had said he’d be joining me as soon as he’d finished his research. I stashed the soft drinks in the little refrigerator in my office and dumped my handbag on the floor beside my chair. I put the sack of sandwiches on the file cabinet and grabbed the folder full of clippings, which I tossed on my desk. I sat down in my swivel chair and assembled my index cards, the typewritten letters, and the sample I’d just taken from Bennet’s machine, lining everything up in an orderly fashion. In the absence of definitive answers, it’s good to look organized.

  I turned on the desk lamp and pulled out my magnifying glass. The type was no match. I was disappointed, but I wasn’t surprised. I took Guy’s last letter from my handbag and read the contents again. Aside from his invitation to Disneyland, which I’d have accepted in a flash, I realized that what I was looking at, in essence, was a holographic will. The letter was written entirely by hand and he’d specified in the postscript what he’d wanted done with his share of his father’s estate. I didn’t know all the technicalities associated with a holographic will, but I thought this might qualify. The handwriting would have to be verified, but Peter Antle could do that when I saw him next. I knew Guy had received a disturbing letter late that Monday afternoon, and whatever its contents, he must have been sufficiently alarmed to want to make his wishes clear. I got up and left the office, taking his letter with me to the copy room. I ran a Xerox and then locked the originals with the others in my bottom drawer. The copy I slid in the outer pocket of my handbag.

  I tried to picture Guy, but his face had already faded in my mind’s eye. What remained was his sweetness, the sound of his “Hey,” the feeling of his whiskers when he’d brushed my cheek with his lips. If he’d lived, I’m not sure we would have had a very strong relationship. Kinsey Millhone and a born-again was probably not a combination that would have gone anywhere. But we might have been friends. We might have gone to Disneyland once a year to experience some silliness.

  I went back to my index cards and began to make notes. Every investigation has a nature of its own, but there are certain shared characteristics, namely the painstaking accumulation of information and the patience required. Here’s what you hope for: a chance remark from the former neighbor on a skiptrace, a penciled notat
ion on the corner of a document, an ex-spouse with a grudge, the number on an account, an item overlooked at the scene of a crime. Here’s what you expect: the dead ends, bureaucratic bullheadedness, the cul-de-sacs, trails that go nowhere or simply fade into thin air, denials, prevarications, the blank-eyed stares from all the hostile witnesses. Here’s what you know: that you’ve done it before and you have the toughness and determination to pull it off again. Here’s what you want: justice. Here’s what you’ll settle for: something equivalent, the quid pro quo.

  I glanced down at my desk, catching sight of the label on the file of clippings. The label had been neatly typed: Guy Malek, Dispatch Clippings. The two letters from Outhwaite were lined up with the label itself, which is what made me notice for the first time that the lowercase a and the lowercase i were both defective on all three documents. Was that true? I peered closely, picking up my magnifying glass again and scrutinizing the relevant characters. It would take a document expert to prove it, but to me it looked like the letters had been typed on the same machine.

  I reached for the phone and called the Maleks. In the tiny interval between punching in the number and waiting for it to ring, I was scrambling around in my imagination, trying to conjure up a reason for the call I was making. Shit, shit, shit. Christie picked up on her end, greeting me coolly when I identified myself. I figured she’d talked to Paul Trasatti, but I didn’t dare ask.

  I said, “I was just looking for Bennet. Is he home, by any chance? I stopped by the restaurant, but he was out somewhere.”

  “He should be here in a bit. I think he said he was coming home for lunch. You want him to call you?”

  “I’m not sure he’ll be able to reach me. I’m down at the office, but I’ve got some errands to run. I’ll call back later.”

  “I’ll pass the message along.” She was using her good-bye tone.

  I had to launch in with something to keep the conversation afloat. “I talked to Paul this morning. What an odd duck he is. Is he still on medication?”

  I could hear her focus her attention. “Paul’s on medication? Who told you that? I never heard that,” she said.