Catnapped

by Gabriella Herkert

  “Mr. Jepsen, there’s been a mistake. I’m not here to discuss your lawsuit against Stuart Masterson. I need to ask you some questions about something else. Could we sit down?” I used my hands to urge him back to his chair on the other side of the desk, careful not to actually touch.

  He glared at me through bleary eyes. I took one step sideways, placing myself in the doorway for a quicker exit in case it became necessary. He continued to stare for a long moment before abruptly turning and dropping back to his chair. It squeaked in protest.

  I settled myself into the only other chair in the room, a heavy oak with ornate scrolling and no padding in the seat. I looked around the room. The furniture was too big and cramped for the small space. His desk was awash with stacks of papers. I didn’t see a computer here either. The Stone Age, complete with Neanderthal man. Great.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “I’m investigating the disappearance of an associate of Mr. Masterson. I was hoping you could help me with some background.”

  “Who’s missing?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.” I was glad I’d rehearsed my story on the way over. Even I thought I sounded coolly professional. It was a mismatch against a drunk, but still impressive.

  “Look, I’m a very busy man. I haven’t got time for some chickie asking stupid questions.”

  “I was wondering when you were last at Stuart Masterson’s house.”

  “His house. Why the hell would I go there?”

  “A witness saw you there quite recently.”

  He reached over and picked up a coffee cup sitting amidst the debris of his desk. I angled myself closer to the desk to try to read some of the papers. He took a swallow and returned the cup to its place on the desk. He smacked his lips. No way was that coffee.

  “Yeah, okay. I’ve been there.”

  “When?”

  “I dunno. Couple days ago. The bastard’s hiding. Thinks he can just pull a Howard Hughes and get away with it.”

  “Away with what, sir?”

  “Stealing. He’s nothing but a goddamn thief. My ideas, my contacts. Without me he’d still be conning widows out of their savings.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “I knew him. Really knew him. Before the nose job and the phony accent. Before he became Mr. High and Mighty Businessman of the Year. No one else knows, but I do.”

  Jepsen was drunk and probably spewing sour grapes, but what if he really did know something? Flash was missing. There was the dead guy in an alley, and when was the last time anybody had seen Stuart Masterson? Jepsen, if he was telling the truth, had gone to Masterson’s house looking for him. Someone at his office must know where he was, but who? I made a mental note to find out. I slid farther forward in my chair and casually turned my head to make reading upside down easier.

  “Do you remember the exact day that you were last at the Masterson house?”

  “Tuesday, Wednesday. I don’t know.”

  “Did you go into the house?”

  “No.” His voice was emphatic, clearer, suddenly more alert. I looked back into his eyes. They were green. A flat peridot green, totally different from Connor’s emerald. Connor’s were fringed with gold-tipped lashes thick as paintbrushes. They had laugh lines at the edges. . . . Jeez. I shook my head, trying to dislodge Connor’s image. What was I doing? I forced myself to smile and try to ease Jepsen back into his previous cooperative stupor.

  “Did you see anyone else at the house when you were there?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Like?”

  “A strange car, people in the neighborhood, animals roaming loose.”

  “No. I didn’t see anything. I knocked on the front door, and when no one answered I went home.”

  “You don’t have a key?”

  “Why the hell would I have a key?”

  “You and Masterson were partners. He worked from his house. It would make sense if you had a key.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “And you didn’t see a cat?”

  “No, I didn’t see no goddamn cat. Nasty thing. Gray, right? Never did understand why he put up with it.”

  “Put up with it?”

  “The bitch’s mongrel cat. Always biting and spitting.”

  The bitch or the cat?

  “You knew Millicent Millinfield?” A shot in the dark.

  “He’s got enough to screw anything he wants, and he spends his time with that ugly old bitch. He’s losin’ it. Mark my words. He ain’t what he was, and he wasn’t nothin’ without me. Stupid bastard, lettin’ her move in like that. And that mangy damn cat, too. I told him then, ‘Big mistake. Hump what you want, but don’t shit where you eat.’ You got me, girlie?” Spittle collected at the corners of his mouth. The little troll appeared to be frothing.

  “Do you know anyone else who might have keys?”

  Jepsen steepled his sausagelike fingers. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, and I took the opportunity to read the top page of the stack of paper at the desk’s front edge. The phone bill. Ugly red demand to pay now or your service will be discontinued. I glanced up to see that Jepsen’s gaze had returned to my face.

  “Did you check with the brat?”

  “Mr. Masterson’s children?”

  “Yeah, them. A couple of weeks ago I saw them coming out of the house when I went by to drop off some papers.”

  “Were they coming out of the house or just knocking?”

  “Coming out.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Did you talk to that sponge who lives in the guesthouse?”

  “Sponge?” Jeff?

  “I don’t know what the hell his name is. All I know is he acts like he owns the place. A real superior bastard, if you know what I mean. Thinks his shit don’t stink.”

  “I see. When was the last time you were actually in the house?”

  “Couple months ago.”

  “Do you remember the exact date?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe it’s in your Day-Timer,” I suggested with total innocence.

  Jepsen pulled a notebook from the stack of papers without looking. Impressive. The book was open, and I half rose from my chair to scan the entries as he flipped back a day at a time.

  “Nothing. Satisfied?”

  “You’ve been very helpful, sir.” I stood and reached my hand out to shake his, deliberately toppling the paper stack near the edge of the desk. The pages showered my feet and I dropped to my knees, scooping up the mess.

  “I’m so sorry. How clumsy of me.” I scraped at papers. I heard Jepsen rise from his chair but he made no move to help me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I could feel him staring at me. I gathered up the paperwork and stood, extending the documents to him with a smile.

  “Leave them. The girl will do it.”

  “Thanks again for your time, Mr. Jepsen.”

  He plopped back into his chair without trying to shake my hand again.

  “Yeah, whatever.” He dropped his head into his hands. I turned and left the room, closing the door behind me. I passed through the once-again-deserted reception area and into the hallway. I strolled to the elevator and waited until the door closed before checking my pocket. I grinned at Jepsen’s phone bill. It was amazing how fast I was developing light-fingered tendencies. Next time, maybe I wouldn’t even feel like throwing up.

  Chapter Thirteen

  If I hadn’t known from the credit check, this house made it clear that Daddy apparently didn’t share his economic good fortune with his progeny. Unlike the elder Masterson and his palatial estate, Bud and Stewie Masterson worked out of a dumpy little house squeezed between two equally dilapidated residences. It didn’t emit an aura of power or convenience. It felt more like desperation. A quick check of the file I had put together revealed that the house was owned by Sterling “Bud” Masterson, the younger son, and that it doubled as h
is home. Stuart Junior, or Stewie, rented a one-bedroom off Aurora Avenue. Note to self—drugs and temper do not a good time make, and big brother Stewie was the one who liked to cut things. For an instant I remembered my promise to Connor. Well, they did use it as an office, and it was daylight. Maybe I was a little beyond the spirit of the promise, but on a technical basis I was still innocent.

  I slid the file under the passenger seat and opened the glove compartment. Surprise, surprise—Joe didn’t keep pepper spray in his car either. I still didn’t have anything resembling a weapon. I wrote the words pepper spray on my hand in ink. Stuart’s last rap sheet entry was more than three years old. Stewie hadn’t been to jail in two. I crossed myself and said a quick prayer to whatever saint protected the truly stupid and totally unprepared and got out of the car.

  I walked toward the house on a cracked sidewalk erupting with patches of weeds. I climbed the sloping concrete steps and pulled open the torn screen door, knocking loudly. After waiting a long two minutes without a response, I tried again. I leaned close to the door, listening over the din of the nearby freeway.

  “He ain’t home.” I jumped at the sound of the voice, my heart pounding. My coronary inducer turned out to be a tow-haired boy of around four years old, sitting on a rusty blue tricycle at the end of the walk. So much for high alert.

  “Do you know Mr. Masterson?”

  “Bud is a butt-head.”

  I tried to keep my face bland. I didn’t have kids, but I was pretty sure butt-head wasn’t part of the preferred vocabulary. I didn’t want to encourage his delinquency, but I’d seen the rap sheet, and butt-head was an astute call. I moved down the stairs and along the walkway toward him. He flashed deep dimples with his sunny smile, and I couldn’t help but grin in return.

  “Bud is a butt-head, Bud is a butt-head,” he singsonged.

  “You don’t like him, I guess?”

  “He says bad words.” My young informer’s solemn expression showed his lack of appreciation for Sterling Masterson’s verbal abilities.

  “Oh. Well, that’s not good.”

  “Bud’s dumber than Stewie, and that’s not even possible.” He laid long emphasis on the word even, unconsciously adopting a censorious tone I was sure he had learned at home. I made a pledge to never voice opinions in front of preschoolers again.

  I took a final step closer to the boy and sat down on the sidewalk, folding my legs Indian-style. It probably wasn’t quite ethical to pump little kids for information, but he was offering pretty freely.

  “Why do you think Bud is dumb?”

  “He pees money. I can pee in the toilet like a big boy.” He seemed very pleased with his accomplishment, once again beaming at me.

  “Good for you. You seem like a big boy to me.”

  “I’m four.” He held up his pudgy hand, spreading his fingers so I could tell he hadn’t actually learned to count yet.

  “Four is definitely a big boy. Do you know where Bud is right now?”

  “The resation.”

  “I don’t know where that is.”

  “The resation. Wif da Indyans.”

  “Ah.”

  “I never seen a Indyan; have you?”

  “I think they call them Native Americans.” Never too young to numb him with political correctness. I reached out toward a tuft of grass, pulling a few blades as I considered. “So Bud went to the reservation, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  “Of course. And he pees money. Do you mean he pisses money away?”

  “That’s a bad word. You’re not ’sposed ta say that.” His blue eyes rounded, his voice a hush as he shifted around on the seat of his tricycle.

  “You’re absolutely right. I won’t do it again. Who said Bud pees money?”

  “Mommy.”

  I started to strip the thin blades of grass into even thinner slivers. The credit check had made it clear both sons owed large sums to legitimate creditors, but if Bud had a gambling problem, his debts could be the sort that led to violence. How that could have led to my dead guy in the alley, I couldn’t really see. Besides, Stewie was the one with the penchant for assault with grievous bodily intent. Maybe they were involved in something together? Nothing made sense.

  “Did your mom ever say anything else about Bud?”

  “Bud is a butt-head, Bud is a butt-head.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s another one of the words you shouldn’t say.”

  “ ’Kay.”

  “Did your mom say anything else about Bud?”

  “Bud kicked Yips.”

  “He kicked Yips?”

  “Yup. Hard.”

  “Yips is a dog?” I guessed. Bastard. If he’d kick a dog, what would he do to poor Flash? Maybe this wasn’t a swipe. Maybe it was a serial killer wannabe taking out his antisocial behavior on a helpless pet. I didn’t want to think about it. The little boy nodded again, beginning to rock on his seat, nearly throwing himself off. I dropped the grass and leaned forward, prepared to make a mad grab if the boy actually managed to launch himself.

  “Yips is a ’treaver. He’s Mikey’s dog. Mikey got him for his birfday.”

  “That’s a nice gift.”

  “Mikey’s daddy gave him to Mikey. Mikey’s got a new daddy.”

  I doubted they were actually connected, but I didn’t suggest it to my new friend. For all I knew, divorce might frequently follow pet adoption.

  “And Bud kicked Mikey’s dog.”

  “Yep. And Yips had to go to the doctor.”

  “Is he all right now?”

  “Yup.”

  “Tony,” a woman’s voice called urgently. “Tony.”

  “Bye.” The little boy pumped plump legs, quickly generating a head of steam as he raced toward the call. I looked toward the woman several houses away; her face was indistinct but her mood carried.

  “I thought I told you to stay in the yard.”

  “But, Moooom . . .”

  Ah, the universal retort of youth. Rising from my seated position, I brushed the seat of my pants. One look told me Tony’s mother had no interest in a conversation with a stranger who’d approached her son on the street. I couldn’t blame her. She glared until Tony was safely in the house, then slammed the door loud enough for me to hear. Accepting her decision with good grace, I went back to my car. If I bolstered my energy with some french fries, I had plenty of time for evil son number two.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The heavy security door on Stuart Masterson’s apartment had a broken lock and a spiderweb of cracks in the thick pane of cloudy glass. I opened the door, stepping into a dingy foyer that reeked with the sweet smell of marijuana. The hall was even gloomier, completely denying the August sunshine I had left behind. The floor was cluttered with garbage, the walls scarred. I followed the hall to a stairway at the end, hesitating for a moment before pushing the door open, tripping my way up three flights with the negligible aid of a low-watt bulb. This was not the sort of place any rational woman wanted to run into someone she didn’t know. Or someone she did know, for that matter. I doubted a scream for help in this building was either unusual or successful. I shook the can in my hand. One drive past the building and I’d headed straight for the local pawn-shop. There were plenty in the neighborhood. When the counterman realized I didn’t have three days to wait for a weapon, he’d sent me to REI. There, under the guidance of a Rasta granola guy in a tie-dyed T-shirt, I’d bought the Magnum of immediate personal protection—Counter Assault Bear Deterrent. Guaranteed to take out a PMSing grizzly from fifty feet away. Bad neighborhood, addict to interrogatee—no problem.

  Peering into the fourth-floor hallway, I was relieved to find it empty. Well, at least it didn’t have any people in it. Empty it wasn’t. This floor looked like a tornado had blown through, depositing refuse in every corner. It smelled of sweat and urine. I forced myself to breathe through my mouth, gagging a little. I found Stuart Masterson’s door and knocked loudly, looking around to see if I roused anyone else. I lift
ed my hand to pound a second time just as the door swung open, barely catching myself before rapping my knuckles against a barrel chest covered in wrinkled cotton. His khaki pants were soiled and crumpled. He squinted at me through the pudgy folds of his face.

  “Whaddya want?” His breath was heavy with alcohol while his eyes were dilated into tiny pinpricks. Drugs and alcohol, breakfast of champions. I suddenly wondered how important anything he had to say might be. Probably not important enough to linger very long.

  “Mr. Masterson, my name is Sara Townley. I’m with Abercroft, Hamilton, and Sterns.” I pulled a card from my jacket pocket, handing it to him. He held the card out, tipping his head and trying to read the fine print.

  “Yeah, so? I ain’t got all day.” He took a swig from the beer bottle he held in one hand.

  “Abercroft, Hamilton, and Sterns is the law firm that represents your father.” Once again I was playing fast and loose with my employment status. I was also losing my ability to feel terror at being caught doing it.

  “Bastard. What about ’im?”

  “When was the last time you were at his home on Mercer Island?”

  “What the fuck is this? What’s the son of a bitch been saying?” His face took on a mean, pinched look as he reddened. His voice was belligerent.

  “It’s just a routine inquiry, sir. I’m looking for something that was last seen at the Masterson estate.”

  “Routine. Right. Accusing his own son of stealing. Paranoid, worthless bastard.”

  I took a small step back as his voice boomed into the narrow hallway. He put his hands on his hips, a trickle of beer spilling onto the soiled carpet.

  “I didn’t mean to suggest—”

  “Suggest.” Even his short laugh was mean. “Like the last time he suggested something was missing and called the fucking cops. Tried to have me arrested. Bud, too.” He was swaying a bit, his squat body quivering. He reached out one meaty hand and grabbed hold of the door frame, steadying himself. His face was crimson now, the veins in his neck standing out. I glanced out of the corner of my eye, measuring the distance to the stairway at the end of the hall. Swallowing hard, I edged back. With a running start I had a chance to get away. If he caught me, the size mismatch would not be pretty. I’d have to gas him. I should have taken the cap off first.