J Is for Judgment

by Sue Grafton

  Finally, head shaking, he slid onto the driver's seat and tried starting the car. I suspect he would have taken great satisfaction if the engine had fired right up. He struck me as the sort of fellow who didn't mind women looking foolish. No luck. He got out, went around, and peered in the back end. He grunted to himself, fiddled with some car parts, and tried the starter again without producing results. He towed the VW to the gas station, where he left it in a service bay and then departed with a sly glance backward and a shake of his head. No telling what he thought of little ladies these days. I had a chat with the attendant, who assured me the mechanic would be in by seven the next morning.

  By now it was well after midnight and I was not only exhausted, but I was stranded as well. I could have called Henry. I knew he'd have hopped in his car and driven down to fetch me at any hour without complaint.

  The problem was I simply couldn't face the drive, yet another lap in the track I was running between Santa Teresa and Perdido. Happily, the area wasn't short of motels. I spotted one on the far side of the freeway, within easy walking distance, and hoofed it across the overpass. In preparation for such emergencies, I always carry a toothbrush, toothpaste, and clean underpants shoved down in my handbag.

  The motel had one vacancy. I paid more than I wanted, but I was too tired to argue. For the extra thirty dollars I was accorded one tiny bottle each of shampoo and conditioner. A matching container held just enough "body" lotion to moisturize one limb. The problem was you couldn't get the stuff out. I finally gave up the idea of being moist and went to bed stark naked and dry as a stick. I slept like a zombie without any medication and decided, with regret, that my cold was gone'.

  I woke up at 6:00, wondering briefly where I was. Once I remembered, I sank down under the covers and went back to sleep, not waking again until 8:25. I showered, donned my clean underwear, and then put on yesterday's clothes again. The room was paid for until noon, so I kept my key and grabbed a quick cup of coffee from the vending machine before I hiked back across 101 to my car.

  The mechanic was eighteen years old, with frizzy red , hair, brown eyes, a pug nose, a gap between his front teeth, and a thick Texas accent. The coverall he was wearing looked like a romper suit. When he saw me, he beckoned me over by doing curls with his index finger.

  He'd put the car up on the hydraulic lift, and we peered at the underside together. I could already picture dollars flying out the window. He wiped his hands on a rag and said, "Lookit."

  I looked, not understanding at first what he was pointing to. He reached up and touched a vise clamp that had been affixed to a line. "Somebody put this little dingus on your fuel line. I bet you only got about three blocks before the engine give out."

  I laughed. "And that's all it was?"

  He unscrewed the clamp and dropped the little dingus in the palm of my hand. "That's all. Car should run fine now."

  "Thanks. This is great. How much do I owe you?"

  "Thanks is good enough where I come from," he said. I drove back to my motel room, where I sat on the unmade bed and called Renata. Her machine picked up and I left a message, asking her to give me a call. I tried Michael's house next, surprised when he snatched up the phone after half a ring.

  "Hi, Michael. This is Kinsey. I thought you'd be at work. Have you heard from your father?"

  "Nuhn-uhn, and Brian hasn't, either. He's called this morning to say Dad never showed. He really sounded worried. I called in sick so I could hang by the phone."

  "Where is Brian?"

  "He won't tell me. I think he's afraid I'll turn him in to the cops before he and Dad connect up. You think Dad's okay?"

  "That's hard to say." I filled him in on events from the night before. "I left a message for Renata, and I hope to hear back. When I talked to her last night, she said she'd see if she could find him. She may have picked him up somewhere out on the road."

  There was a brief silence. "Who's Renata?"

  Oops. "Ahh. Nnnn. She's a friend of your dad's. I think he's been staying at her place with her."

  "She lives here in Perdido?"

  "She has a house on the Keys."

  Another silence. "Does my mom know?"

  "I don't think so. Probably not."

  "Man, oh, man. What a jerk." Silence again. "Well. I guess I better let you go. I want to keep the line free in case he tries to get in touch."

  I said, "You've got my number. Will you let me know if you should hear from him?"

  "Sure," he said tersely. I suspected any lingering sense of loyalty to his father had been erased with the news about Renata.

  I tried calling Dana. Her machine picked up. I listened to strains of the wedding march, drumming my fingers until I heard the beep. I left word for her to call me, keeping my message brief. I was still kicking myself for mentioning Renata in my conversation with Michael. Wendell had generated enough hostility in the kid without my adding the issue of his common-law wife. I tried reaching Lieutenant Ryckman at the Perdido County Jail. He was out, but I had a quick chat with Senior Deputy Tiller, who told me there was a big department shake-up over Brian's unauthorized release. Internal Affairs was scrutinizing every employee who lad access to the computer. Another call came through, and he had to ring off. I said I'd try Ryckman again when I got back to Santa Teresa.

  I'd just about exhausted my list of local calls. I checked out of the motel and was on the road by 10:00. I was hoping that by the time I reached the office in Santa Teresa I'd have some return messages, but I unlocked my door to find the green light glowing blankly on my answering machine. I spent the morning with my usual office routines: business calls and mail, a few bookkeeping entries, one or two bills to pay. I made a pot of coffee and then called my insurance adjuster to report last night's incident. She told me to go ahead and get the rear window replaced at the auto glass shop I'd used before. It was clear I couldn't ride around without protection because I'd be ticketed.

  In the meantime I was half tempted to leave the bullet holes where they were. Make too many claims and you get your policy canceled or your rates elevated to astronomical rates. What did I care about bullet holes I was sporting a few of those myself. I called and m an appointment to have the window taken care of late afternoon.

  Shortly after lunch, Alison buzzed me to say Rena Huff was in the reception area. I went out to the front. She was sitting on the little sofa, head back, eyes closed. She was not looking good. She wore chin bunched together and belted at the waist, and a black V-neck top with an orange anorak over it. Her curls were still damp from a recent shower, but her eyes were darkly circled and her cheeks seemed gaunt from stress. She pulled herself together with an apologetic smile at Alison, who seemed especially perky by comparison.

  I took Renata back to my office, sat her on my visitor's chair, and poured us both some coffee. "Thank you," she murmured, sipping gratefully. She closed her eyes again, savoring the rich liquid on her tongue. "This is good. I need this."

  "You look tired."

  "I am."

  It was really the first time I'd had a chance to study her closely. Her face in repose was not what I'd call pretty. Her complexion was lovely-clear olive tones without flaw or blemish-but her features seemed wrong: brows dark and untamed, dark eyes too small. Her mouth was large, and her short-cropped hair made her jaw look squared off. Her expression ordinarily had a petulant cast, but in the rare moments when she smiled, her whole face was transformed-exotic, full of light. With her coloring, she could wear hues a lot of women couldn't get away with: lime green, hot pink, royal blue, and fuchsia.

  "Wendell got home about midnight last night. This morning I went out to run errands. I couldn't have been gone for more than forty minutes. When I came home, everything he owned was gone and so was he. I waited for an hour or so and then got in my car and came up here. My real inclination was to call the police, but I thought I'd try you first and see what advice you might have to give."

  "About what?"

  "He stole money
from me. Four thousand dollars in cash."

  "What about the Fugitive?"

  She shook her head wearily. "He knows I'd kill him if he took that boat."

  "Don't you have a speedboat, too?"

  "It's actually not a speedboat. It's an inflatable dingy, but it's still at the dock. Anyway, Wendell doesn't have keys to the Fugitive."

  "Why not?"

  Her cheeks tinted slightly. "I never trusted him."

  "You've been together five years and you didn't trust him with the keys to your boat?"

  "He had no business on the boat without me," she said in an irritated tone.

  I had to let that one pass. "So what's your suspicion?"

  "I think he went back for the Lord. God only knows where he means to go after that."

  "Why would he steal Eckert's boat?"

  "He'd steal anything. Don't you get that? The Lord was his boat to begin with, and he wanted it back. Besides, the Fugitive's a coastal cruiser. The Lord's a blue water boat, better suited to his purpose."

  "Which is what?"

  "Getting as far away from here as possible."

  "Why come to me?"

  "I thought you'd know where the Lord was slipped. You said you talked to Carl Eckert on the boat. I didn't want to waste a lot of time at the harbormaster's office trying to track him down."

  "Wendell told me Carl Eckert was out of town last night."

  "Of course he's gone. That's the point. He won't even miss the boat until he gets back." She checked her watch. "Wendell must have left Perdido about ten this morning."

  "How'd he manage that? Did he get the car fixed?"

  "He took the Jeep I keep parked on the street. Even if it took him forty minutes to get up here, the Coast Guard still has a chance to head him off."

  "Where would he go?"

  "Back to Mexico, I'd guess. He knows the waters around the Baja, and he's got a counterfeit passport that identifies him as a Mexican citizen."

  "I'll get my car," I said.

  "We can take mine."

  We clattered down the steps together, me in front, Renata bringing up the rear. "You should notify the police about the Jeep."

  "Good point. I'm hoping he left it somewhere in the marina parking lot."

  "Where'd he go last night, did he say? I lost track of him around ten. If he got home at midnight, what'd he do for two hours? It doesn't take that long to walk a mile and a half."

  "I'm not sure. After you called, I got in my car and went looking for him. I scoured every street between t my place and the beach, and there was no sign of him. From what he said later, I got the impression somebody , came and got him, but he wouldn't say who. Maybe one of his boys."

  "I don't think so," I said. "I talked to Michael a little while ago. He says Brian called this morning. Wendell was supposed to be there last night, but he never showed."

  "Wendell's never been good at promises."

  "Do you know where Brian is?"

  "I have no idea. Wendell made sure I knew as little as possible. That way if I was ever questioned by the police, I could claim ignorance."

  This was apparently Wendell's standard operating procedure, but I wondered if this time keeping everybody ignorant was going to work against him.

  We'd reached the street by then. Renata had defied all the parking gods and snagged a place right in front where the curb was painted red. And did she have a ticket? Of course not. She unlocked the Jag, and I let myself into the passenger seat. Renata took off with a little chirp of her tires. I found myself holding on to the chicken stick. "Wendell might have gone to the cops," I said.

  "From what he told Michael, he intended to turn himself in. With somebody shooting at him, he might have felt safer in the slammer."

  She made a little snort of contempt, flashing me a cynical look. "He had no intention of turning himself in. That was bullshit. He mentioned he was going to see Dana, but that might have been bullshit, too."

  "He went to Dana's last night? What was that about?"

  "I don't know that he went, but he said he wanted to talk to her before he left. He felt guilty about her. He hoped to get things squared away before he took off. He probably wanted to have his conscience clear."

  "You think he left without you?"

  "I certainly think he has it in him. Spineless bastard. He never faced the consequences of his own behavior. Never. At this point, I don't care if he ends up in jail." She seemed to be catching every traffic light. If there was no cross traffic visible, she would sail through red, skipping four-way stops altogether in her haste to reach the marina. Maybe she thought traffic laws were meant only as suggestions, or maybe the traffic laws simply didn't apply to her that day.

  I studied her profile, wondering how much information I could pump her for. "Do you mind if I ask about the logistics of Wendell's disappearance?"

  "Like what?"

  I shrugged, not quite sure where to start. "What arrangements did he make? I don't see how he could have managed it alone." I could see her hesitate, so I tried a gentle coaxing, hoping she would open up. "I'm not just being nosy. I'm thinking whatever he did then, he might try again."

  I didn't think she'd answer, but she finally slid a look in my direction. "You're right. He couldn't pull it off without help," she said. "I single-handed my ketch down along the coast of Baja and picked him up in the dinghy after he abandoned the Lord."

  "That was risky, wasn't it? What if you'd missed him? The ocean's a big place."

  "I've sailed all my life, and I'm very good with boats. The whole plan was risky, but we pulled it off. That's the point, isn't it?"

  "I guess so."

  "What about you? Do you sail yourself?"

  I shook my head. "Too expensive. "She smiled faintly. "Find a man with some money. That's what I've always done. I learned to ski and play golf. I learned to fly first class traveling around the world."

  "What happened to your first husband, Dean?" I asked.

  "He died of a heart attack. He was actually number two."

  "How long has Wendell been traveling on his passport?"

  "The whole five years. Ever since we took off."

  "And the passport office never checked?"

  "They slipped up on that, which is what gave us the idea in the first place. Dean died in Spain. Somehow the papers were never processed here. When his passport expired and the time came to renew, Wendell filled out the application and we substituted his picture. He and my husband were close enough in age to use Dean's birth certificate if the documentation was ever questioned."

  We reached Cabana Boulevard and turned right, the marina visible, with its forest of naked masts, to our left. The day was thickly overcast, a mist floating on the dark green waters of the harbor. I could smell brine shrimp and diesel fuel. A strong wind was blowing off the ocean, bringing with it the smell of a distant rain. Renata turned into the marina parking area and found a space in the tiny lot just outside the kiosk. She parked the Jag and the two of us got out. I led the way since I knew where the Captain Stanley Lord was slipped.

  We passed a funky little seafood restaurant with a few outside tables and the naval reserve building. "Then what?"

  She shrugged. "After we got the passport? We took off. I would come back at intervals, usually by myself, but occasionally with Wendell. He stayed on the boat. I was free to come and go as I pleased since no one knew of our connection. I kept an eye on the boys, though they didn't seem to be aware of it."

  "So when Brian first got in trouble with the law, Wendell knew all about it?"

  "Oh, yes. At first he didn't worry. Brian's run-ins with the law seemed like childish pranks. Truancy and vandalism."

  "Boys will be boys," I said.

  She ignored that. "We were off on a round-the-world cruise when things got out of hand. By the time we came home, Brian was in bigger trouble than we knew. That's when Wendell really went to work."

  We passed a yacht brokerage and a fish market. The navy pier extend
ed to our left, a big marine travel rig in place. A boat had just been hoisted out of the water, and we had to wait impatiently while the long-legged mobile rig crept across the walkway and down the short avenue to our right. "Doing what? I still don't understand how he managed it."

  "I'm not sure myself. It had something to do with the name of the boat." The breakwater was nearly deserted, the threatening weather probably driving boats into port and people under cover. "Not directly," she went on. "From what he told me, Captain Stanley Lord was always blamed for something he didn't do."

  "He ignored the SOS from the Titanic, is what I beard," I said.

  "Or so people claimed. Wendell had done a lot of research on the incident, and he felt Lord was innocent."

  "I don't get the connection."

  "Wendell was in trouble with the law once himself..."

  "Oh, that's right. I remember. Somebody mentioned that. He'd graduated from law school. He was convicted of manslaughter, wasn't he?"

  She nodded. "I don't know the details."

  "He told you he wasn't guilty?"

  "Ob, he wasn't," she said. "He took the blame for somebody else. That's how he was able to get Brian out of jail. By calling in his marker."

  I stared at her without slowing my pace. "Did you ever hear of a guy named Harris Brown?"

  She shook her head in the negative. "Who's he?"

  "An ex-cop. He was originally assigned to the fraud investigation after Wendell disappeared, but then he was pulled off. Turns out he'd invested a lot of money in Wendell's company, and the scam wiped him out. I was thinking he might have used some of his old connections to help Brian. I just can't figure out why he'd do it."

  The ramp for Marina I was another fifty yards down on the left, the gate locked as usual. Seagulls were pecking intently at a fishing net. We stood there for a moment, hoping somebody with a key card would pass through so we could slipstream in behind them.

  Finally I grabbed on to the fence post and held on while I climbed around on the outside of the barrier, working my way along the fencing until I reached the other side. I opened the gate for her and let her through, and we started off down the dock. Conversation between us dwindled. I turned into the sixth line of slips on the right, marked J, counting down visually to the slot where the Lord was tied up.