by Sue Grafton
"Not everybody," I corrected. "The police didn't like it much, and neither did CF."
"Will this make you a hero?"
"Only if we get the money back."
"Doesn't seem very likely. Dana's probably got it all spent."
I didn't want to think about that. "How'd you feel about Wendell's 'death' at the time?"
"Terrible, of course. Actually, I missed him, even with the flak I took. Strange thing is, he told me some of it. I didn't believe him, but he tried to let me know."
"He told you he was leaving?"
"Well, he hinted as much. I mean, he never spelled it out. It was one of those statements you can interpret any way you want He came to me, I think in March, maybe six or seven weeks before he sailed. Said, 'Carl, buddy, I'm bailing. This whole fuckin' gig is comin' down around our heads. I can't take it anymore. It's too much.' Or words to that effect I thought the guy was just blowing smoke. I knew we had big problems, but we'd been up against it before and we'd always come out okay. I figured this was just one more hairy episode in the 'Carl and Wendell Show.' Next thing I know they find his boat drifting in the ocean. Looking back, you think, well... when he said 'bailing' did he mean he'd kill himself or cut out'!'
"But you were stuck either way, yes?"
"Yes indeed. First thing they did was start checking back through the books. I guess I could have walked out the door then, with just the clothes on my back, but I couldn't see the point. I had nowhere to go. I didn't have a cent, so I was forced to ride it out. Unfortunately, I had no idea the extent of what he'd done."
"Was it actually fraud?"
"Oh, big time. It was major. The days went by and all this shit came to light. He'd been stripping the company till there was nothing left. In the letter he left, he claimed he'd been pouring every dime back in, but I didn't see any evidence to support the claim. What did I know? By the time I understood just how bad it was, there was no escape. I didn't even have a way to recoup my personal losses." He paused and shrugged. "What can I say? With Wendell gone, there was just us chickens left. I gave' em everything. I copped a plea and took the jail time just to get it over with. Now you tell me he's alive. What a joke."
"Are you bitter?"
"Of course." He leaned his arm against the back of the banquette and rubbed his forehead idly. "I can understand his wanting out. At first I didn't realize the extent of his betrayal. I felt sorry for Dana and the kids, but I couldn't do anything about it if the guy was dead." He shrugged and sent me a rueful smile, moving with sudden energy. "What the hell. It's over with and you have to move on."
"That seems generous." He gestured carelessly. He glanced at his watch. "I'm going to have to call this a day. I have a breakfast meeting in the morning at seven o'clock sharp. I need to get some sleep. Shall I walk you out?"
I got up and set my empty wineglass aside. "I can do it," I said. "It's just a straight shot to the gate." I reached out and shook his hand. "I appreciate your time. You'll probably hear from me again. Do you still have my card?"
He pulled a corner of it from his shirt pocket to assure me it was there.
"If Wendell gets in touch, could you let me know?"
"Absolutely," he said.
I eased my way up the galley stairs, ducking my head as I emerged on deck. Behind me, I was conscious of Eckert's continuing gaze, his smile bemused as he watched me depart. Weird, but in retrospect, Dana Jaffe's response had seemed the truer.
Chapter 9
* * *
The walk back to my place took less than ten minutes. I was still wide awake, braced by the sea air. Instead of opening the gate and going into the backyard, I turned and headed down the street to Rosie's Tavern, which was located half a block away. In the old days, Rosie's was perpetually deserted, cavernous and dimly lighted, no doubt under constant surveillance by the health police. I used to meet clients there because nobody ever bothered us. As a single woman, I could drop in anytime it suited me without attracting the unwanted attentions of bounders and cads. Rosie might harass me, but nobody else would. Recently, the place has been discovered by sports nuts, and a variety of teams seem to use it as a hangout, especially on occasions when they've just won a trophy and feel the need for a parade. Rosie, who can otherwise be unbearably disagreeable, actually seems to enjoy all the ' testosterone and hysteria. In an unprecedented move she's even taken to displaying their hardware on the shelf behind the bar, which now boasts a permanent exhibit of winged silver angels holding globes above their heads. Tonight, the bowling championship. Tomorrow, the free world.
As usual, the place was jumping and my favorite table in the rear was occupied by a gang of rowdies. There was no sign of Rosie, but William was perched on a stool at the bar, surveying the premises with a look of sublime satisfaction. All the patrons seemed to know him, and there was much good-natured bantering going back and forth.
Henry was seated at a table by himself, his head bent above a pad of paper, where he was mapping out a crossword puzzle entitled "I Spy with My Little Eye." He'd been working on this one for the better part of a week, using espionage novels and old television shows as the underlying theme. He published regularly in the little crossword puzzle books you see in grocery store lines. Aside from the fact that he picks up some extra money, he's actually known by name among crossword puzzle buffs. He was wearing chinos and a white T-shirt, his face creased with concentration. I took the liberty of pulling out an extra chair at his table, turning it around so that the back rested against the table. I straddled the chair and rested my arms along the top rail.
Henry sent an irritated look in my direction and then relaxed when he saw it was me. "I thought you were one of 'them.' "
I looked around at the crowd. "Where'd we go wrong? A year ago there was never anybody. in the place. Now it's a zoo. How's it going?"
"I need an eight-letter word that starts with 'I.' It can end in anything... more or less."
A word flashed through my head, and I counted on my fingers. "Impostor," I said.
He stared at me blankly, doing the mental arithmetic. "Not bad. I'll take it. How about five letters down –"
"Stop right there," I said, cutting in. "You know I'm terrible at this stuff, and it just makes me tense. I scored once by a fluke. I think I'll retire while I'm ahead."
He tossed his notepad on the table and placed his pencil behind his left ear. "You're right. It's time to pack it in for the day. What are you having? I'll buy you a drink."
"Nothing for me. I'm about partied out, but I'll keep you company if you're having one."
"I'm fine for now. How'd you do with Dana Jaffe? Did you get anyplace?"
"I didn't expect to. I was just making her acquaintance. I also had a chat with Wendell's ex-partner."
"And what did he have to say?"
As I filled him in on my conversations with Dana Jaffe and Carl Eckert, I saw Henry's gaze stray toward the kitchen and I found myself turning automatically. "Well, would you look at that," I said.
William was emerging with a tray full of food, a not inconsiderable burden for a man of eighty-six. As usual, he was decked out in a three-piece suit with a properly starched white shirt and a crisply knotted tie. He looked enough like Henry to be his twin, though in reality the two men were two years apart. At the moment, William was looking very pleased with himself, high-spirited and energetic. It was the first time I'd registered the changes in him. Seven months before, when he'd moved in with Henry, he'd been morbidly self-obsessed, continually cross-referencing his various ill-nesses and infirmities. He'd brought his medical records with him when he arrived from the Midwest, and he was constantly assessing the state of his health: his heart palpitations, his digestive tract, his allergies, his suspicions about diseases undiscovered yet. A favorite pastime of his was cruising local funerals, where he commiserated with the other mourners to assure himself he wasn't dead yet. After he and Rosie fell in love, he'd begun to lighten up, until now he worked a full day, side by side w
ith her. Sensing that we were watching, he grinned happily. He set down the tray of food and began to unload plates. One of the patrons at the table made some remark to him. William crowed with delight and high-fived the guy on the spot.
"What's he so happy about?"
"He asked Rosie to marry him."
I stared at Henry, startled. "You're kidding. He did? God, that's great. What a hoot! I can't believe it!"
" 'A hoot' is not exactly how I'd refer to it. This just goes to show what happens when you 'live in sin.' "
"They've lived in sin for a week. Now he's making her an 'honest' woman, whatever that means. I think it's sweet." I put a hand on Henry's arm, giving it a shake. "You don't really mind, do you? I mean, way down deep."
"Let's put it this way. I'm not as appalled as I thought I'd be. I resigned myself to the possibility the day he moved in. He's too conventional a fellow to flaunt proprieties."
"So when's all this happening?"
"I have no idea. They haven't set the date. He just asked her tonight. She hasn't agreed to it yet."
"The way you were talking, I assumed she had."
"Well, no, but she's hardly going to turn down a gentleman of his caliber."
I gave his hand a smack. "Honestly, Henry. You're a bit of a snob."
He smiled at me, blue-eyed, his brows lifting quizzically. "I'm a complete snob, not a 'bit' of one. Come on. I'll walk you back."
Once home, I took a handful of medication for my assorted cold symptoms, including a hit of Nyquil that guaranteed a good night's sleep. At 6:00 I rolled out of bed groggily and pulled on my jogging clothes, filling out a mental checklist while I brushed my teeth. My chest was still congested, but my nose wasn't running and my cough no longer sounded like my lungs were on the verge of flopping out. My skin color had lightened to the mild gold of apricots and I thought, in another day or so, might revert to my natural skin tone. Never have I so yearned for my fonder pale complexion.
I bundled up against the early morning chill, my gray sweats nearly the same color as the ocean. The beach sand was a chalky white, speckled with foam from the outgoing tide. Seagulls, gray and white, stood and stared at the water like a flock of yard ornaments. The sky at the horizon was a perfect blend of cream and silver, the mist blocking out all but the darkened outlines of the islands in the channel. This was hurricane season in the far reaches of the Pacific, but so far we hadn't had a hint of tropical surf. The hush was profound, undercut only by the soft rustle of the waves. There was not another soul as far as I could see. The three-mile walk became a meditation, just me and my labored breathing, the feel of my leg muscles responding to the brisk pace. By the time I reached home, I was ready to face the day.
Through the front door, I caught the muffled sound of the telephone. I let myself into my apartment in haste. I caught it on the third ring, out of breath from the exertion. It was Mac. "What's up? This is awfully early for you." I buried my face in my T-shirt, suppressing a cough.
"We had a meeting last night. Gordon Titus has gotten wind of this Wendell Jaffe business and wants to meet with you."
"With me?" I squeaked.
Mac laughed. "He doesn't bite."
"He doesn't have to," I said. "Titus can't stand me, and the feeling is mutual. He treats me like a piece of –"
"Now, now," he broke in.
"I was going to say dirt!"
"Well, that's better."
"Human out-your-butt-type dirt," I amended.
"You better get yourself down here as soon as you can."
I sat for a moment making faces at the phone, my usual terribly mature method of dealing with the world. I did not exactly rush out the door as advised. I stripped off my sweat suit and took a hot shower, washed my hair thoroughly, and then got dressed. I had a bite to eat while I scanned the paper for news of interest. I rinsed my dish and my spoon and then took out a small load of trash, which I dumped in the bin by the street. When I ran out of ways to avoid the inevitable, I grabbed my handbag, a steno pad, and my car keys and headed out the gate. This was making my stomach hurt.
The office really hadn't changed much, though I noticed, for the first time, a certain shabbiness throughout. The wall-to-wall carpet was a quality synthetic, but the style had been chosen for its "wearability," a term synonymous with mottled, stain-mimicking patterns guaranteed not to soil. The space itself seemed crowded by the warren of "action stations," dozens of interlocking cubicles for examiners and underwriters. The perimeter was lined with glass-enclosed offices for the company executives. The walls needed fresh paint, and the trim was looking scuffed. Vera glanced up from her desk as I passed. From that angle I was the only witness to her facial antics, eyes crossed, tongue protruding slightly in comical disgust.
We met in Titus's office. I hadn't laid eyes on him since the day of our encounter. I had no idea what to expect, and I couldn't quite decide what behavior to adopt. He simplified the matter by greeting me pleasantly, as if this were our first meeting and we'd never exchanged a cross word. It was a brilliant move really because it freed me of any necessity to defend or apologize, relieving in of the burden of cross-referencing our past relationship. After the first sixty seconds, I found I had disconnected. I realized the man had no power over me at this point. Debts on both sides were paid, and both of us had ended up with exactly what we wanted. He'd removed what he'd seen as "deadwood" from the company payroll. I'd reestablished myself in a work environment I preferred.
Meanwhile, in the present, Mac Voorhies and Gordon Titus were a perfect contrast to one another. Mac's brown suit was as wrinkled as an autumn leaf, while his teeth and the flip of puffy white hair in front were discolored by the staining properties of nicotine. Gordon Titus wore an ice blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His gray pants were crisply pleated, the shade an eerie match for his prematurely gray hair. His tie formed a fierce punctuation mark emphasizing his office manner, which was terse and businesslike. Even Mac knew enough not to light a cigarette in his presence.
Titus sat down at his desk and opened the file in front of him. Typically, he'd outlined the relevant data about Dana and Wendell Jaffe. Neatly indented paragraphs marched sideways across the page, the paper pock-marked with holes where the nib of his pen had plunged through. He spoke without looking at me, his face as empty of expression as a mannequin's. "Mac's brought me up to date, so we don't need to cover any old ground," he said. "What's the status of the case?"
I hauled out my steno pad and flipped to an empty page, reciting what I knew about Dana's current situation. I detailed as much as possible and then summarized the rest. "She's probably used part of the insurance benefits to finance Michael's house, with another hefty chunk going as a retainer for Brian's attorney."
Titus was making notes. "Have you talked to the company lawyers about our position in this?"
"What's the point?" Mac broke in. "So what if Wendell faked his own death? What crime did he commit? Is that against the law... what's it called, faking suicide?" He snapped his fingers, trying to jog his memory.
I said, " 'Pseudocide' is the term I've heard."
"Pseudocide, right. Is it against the law to falsify your own death?" he asked.
"It is if you do it with intent to defraud the insurance company," Titus said with acid.
Mac's expression was impatient. "Where's the fraud? What fraud? At this point, we don't know that he's collected a cent."
Titus's gaze flicked up to Mac. "You're absolutely right. To be precise about it, we're not even sure it's really Jaffe we're dealing with." And then to me, "I want concrete evidence, proof of identity, fingerprints or some damn thing."
"I'm doing what I can," I said, sounding both dubious and defensive. I made a note on a blank page, just to look industrious. The note said, "Find Wendell." Like I was unclear on the concept until Titus spelled it out. "In the meantime, what? You want to go after Mrs. Jaffe?"
Again, Mac's exasperation surfaced. I couldn't figure out what he was so u
pset about "Goddamn it, what's she done? She hasn't committed a crime, as far as we know. How can she be held liable for spending money she believes she's legally entitled to?"
"What makes you think she wasn't in on this from the beginning? For all we know, the two colluded," Titus said.
"To what end?" I interjected mildly. "For the last five years the woman's been dead broke, accumulating debts by the bushel basket. Meanwhile Wendell's down in Mexico by the pool with some babe. What kind of deal is that? Even if she collects, all she ends up with is money to payoff the bill collectors."
"You only have her word for that," Titus said. "Besides which we don't really know how Mr. and Mrs. Jaffe accommodated their relationship. Maybe the marriage was over and this was his way of negotiating spousal support."
"Some support," I said. Titus plowed right over me. "And as you yourself pointed out, it looks like she's managed to buy one kid a house and probably retained the services of a hotshot attorney for the one who's in trouble. The bottom line is, we need to have a conversation with Wendell Jaffe. Now, how do you propose to find him?" The question was abrupt, but the tone was more curious than challenging.
"I figure Brian's the perfect bait, and if Wendell's too paranoid to approach him in jail, he can always contact Dana. Or Michael, his oldest, who has a child Wendell's never seen. Even his ex-partner, Carl, is a possibility." It all sounded weak, but what was I going to do? Fake it, that's what.
Mac stirred. "You can't run a twenty-four-hour surveillance on the whole lot of them. Even if we hire other ops on this, you're talking thousands of dollars going out, and in return for what?"
"True enough," I said. "Do you have a suggestion?"
Mac crossed his arms, turning his attention back to Titus. "Whatever we do, we better get a move on," he said. "My wife could go through half a million clams in a week."
Titus stood up and closed his file with a snap. "I'll call the company attorney and see if he can get us a temporary restraining order. With a TRO, we can get a lock on Mrs. Jaffe's bank accounts and prevent any more monies going out."