by Sue Grafton
Even from a distance, I could see the slip was empty and the boat was gone.
Chapter 21
* * *
Renata's mood darkened as we moved up the ramp toward the harbormaster's office, which was located above a ship's chandler selling marine hardware and supplies. I half expected an outburst of some kind, but she was remarkably silent. She waited on a small wooden balcony outside while I went through the explanations with the clerk at the counter. Since we weren't die legal owners of the missing boat and since there was no way we could prove Eckert hadn't taken the boat himself, it soon became clear that for the time being, nothing much could be done. The clerk took the information, as much to appease me as anything else. When and if Eckert showed, he could file a report. The harbormaster would then notify the Coast Guard and the local police. I left my name and telephone number and asked if they'd have Eckert get in touch if they heard from him.
Renata followed me downstairs, declining to accompany me as I walked over to the yacht club next door. I was hoping somebody there might know where Eckert had gone. I pushed in through the glass doors and welt upstairs, pausing outside the dining room. From the second-floor deck, she looked cold and tired, sitting on the low concrete wall that bordered the breakwater. At her back the ocean thundered monotonously, wind tearing at her hair. In the shallows a yellow Labrador charged through the surf, chasing pigeons off the beach while the seagulls wheeled above him and screamed with amusement.
The yacht club dining room was empty except for the bartender and a fellow with a vacuum cleaner, mowing the wall-to-wall carpeting. Again I left my name and number, asking the bartender to have Carl Eckert get' touch with me if he came in.
As we walked back to the car, Renata gave me a bitter smile.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"Nothing. I was just thinking about Wendell. He had all the luck. It'll be hours before anybody starts to loot for him."
"There's nothing we can do, Renata. It's always possible he'll show up," I said. "Actually, we can't really be sure he left. Hell, we can't even prove Wendell toot the boat."
"You don't know him like I do. He rips everybody off one way or another."
We cruised through the parking lot in search of the missing Jeep, but it was nowhere in sight. She drove me back to the office, where I retrieved my VW and drove out to Colgate. I spent the next two irksome hours getting the rear window replaced. While I was waiting, I sat in the chrome-and-plastic reception area, drinking free bad coffee from a foam cup while I leafed through tattered back issues of Arizona Highways. This lasted four minutes before I left the building. As was my habit, of late, I found a public telephone booth and conducted little business from the parking lot. Once I got the hang of it, I could probably dispense with an office altogether.
I put a call through to Lieutenant Whiteside in Fraud Id brought him up to date. "I think it's time to run mug shots in the paper," he said. "I'll contact the local TV station, too, and see what they can do for us. I want the public aware these guys are out there. Maybe someone will dime 'em out."
"Let's hope."
Once my rear window had been installed, I tooled on ck to the office and spent the next hour and a half at my desk. I felt I should stay near the phone in case Ekert called in. In the meantime, I gave Mac a buzz d filled him in on what was happening. I no sooner the phone down than it rang. "Kinsey Millhone Investigations. Kinsey Millhone."
An instant of silence and then a woman said, "Oh. I thought this was an answering machine."
"No, this is me. Who is this?"
"This is your cousin Tasha Howard, up in San Francisco."
"Ah, yes. Tasha. Liza mentioned you. How are you?" I said. Mentally I'd begun to drum my fingers, hoping get her off the line in case Wendell phoned in.
"I'm fine," she said. "Something's come up and it occurred to me you might be interested. I just had chat with Grand's attorney down in Lompoc. The house where our mothers lived is either being moved or torn down. Grand's been fighting with the city for the last several months, and we're supposed to hear something soon about the disposition of the matter. She's trying to have the house protected under the local historical preservation act. The original structure dates back to the turn of the century. The house hasn't been lived in for years, of course, but it could be restored. She owns another lot where she can put the house if she call get the city to agree. Anyway, I thought you might want to see the place again since you were there once yourself."
"I was there?"
"Oh, sure. You don't remember? The four of you – Aunt Gin, your parents, and you – came up when Burt and Grand were off on the big cruise for their forty-second anniversary. It was really meant for their fortieth, but it took' em two years to get organized. All the cousins got to play together, and you fell off the sliding board and cut your knee. I was seven, so you must have been about four, I'd say. Maybe a little older, but I know you weren't in school yet. I can't believe you don't remember. Aunt Rita taught us all to eat peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwiches, which I've adored ever since. You were supposed to come back in the next couple of months. It was all set up for when Burt and Grand got home."
"Only my parents never made it," I said, thinking, Jesus, the peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwiches aren't even mine anymore.
"I suppose not," she said. "Anyway, I thought if you saw the house, it might jog your memory. I have to come down on business, and I'd be happy to give you the nickel tour."
"What sort of work do you do?" "I'm an attorney. Probate and estate administration, intervivos trusts, tax planning. The firm has an office up here and another one in Lompoc, so I end up flying back and forth all the time. What's your schedule look like in the next few days? Are you free any time soon?"
"Let me think about that. I appreciate the offer, but I'm currently tied up with a case. Why don't you go ahead and give me the address? If I have a chance to get up there, I can take a look and if not, well... so be it"
"I suppose that would do," she said reluctantly. "I was actually hoping I could see you. Liza wasn't entirely happy with the way she handled the situation. She thought maybe I could smooth the waters a bit."
"No need for that. She did fine," I said. I was keeping my distance, and I'm sure the maneuver wasn't lost on her. She gave me the address and a sketchy set of directions, which I jotted on a sheet of scratch paper. I was already struggling with an urge to toss it in the trash. I started making good-bye noises, using that airy tone that says, Okay, thanks a lot, nice talking to you.
Tasha said, "I hope this doesn't seem too personal, but I get the impression you're really not interested in cementing any family ties."
"I don't think that's too personal," I said. "I guess I'm in the process of assimilating the information. I don't really know what I want to do about it yet."
"Are you angry with Grand?"
"Of course I am, and why wouldn't I be? She threw my mother out. That estrangement must have gone on for twenty years."
"That wasn't all Grand's doing. It takes two to make a rift."
"Right," I said. "At least my mother was on her way to make amends. What did Grand ever do? She sat back and waited, which I notice she's still doing."
"What does that mean?"
"Well, where's she been all these years? I'm thirty-four years old. Until yesterday I never even knew she existed. She could have gotten in touch."
"She didn't know where you were."
"Bullshit. Liza told me everybody knew we were down here. For the last twenty-five years I've been an hour away."
"I don't mean to argue about this, but I really don't believe Grand was aware of that."
"What did she think happened, I was eaten by bears? She could have hired a detective if she'd cared enough."
"Well. I see your point, and I'm sorry about all this. We didn't make the contact to cause you pain."
"Why did you, then?"
"We were hoping to connect. We thought enough time had passed to hea
l old wounds."
"Those 'old wounds' are news to me. I just heard about this shit yesterday."
"I can appreciate that, and you're entitled to feel what you feel. It's just that Grand's not going to live forever. She's eighty-seven now, and she's not in the best of health. You still have a chance to enjoy the relationship."
"Correction. She has a chance to enjoy the relationship. I'm not sure I would."
"Will you think about it?"
"Sure."
"Do you mind if I tell her we've spoken?"
"I don't see how I can prevent it."
There was a fractional silence. "Are you really this unforgiving?"
"Absolutely. Why not? Just like Grand," I said. "I'm sure she'll appreciate the attribute."
"I see," she said coolly. "Look, this is not your fault, and I don't mean to take it out on you. You're just going to have to give me some time here. I've made my peace with the fact that I'm alone. I like my life as it is, and I'm not at all sure I want to change."
"We're not asking you to change."
"Then you better get used to me the way I am," I said.
She had the good grace to laugh, which in an odd way helped. Our good-byes were slightly warmer. I said all the right things, and by the time I hung up my churlishness was already fading to some extent. Content so often follows form. It's not just that we're nice to the people we like... we like the people we're nice to. It works both ways. I guess that's what good manners are about, or so my aunt always claimed. In the meantime, I knew I wouldn't be driving up to Lompoc any time soon. To hell with that.
I went across the hall to the restroom, and when I got back the phone was ringing. I made a lunge and snatched up the receiver from the far side of the desk, easing my way around until I reached my swivel chair. When I identified myself, I could hear breathing on the line and for one split second I thought it was Wendell.
"Take your time," I said. I closed my eyes and crossed my fingers, thinking, Please, please, please. "This is Brian Jaffe."
"Ah. I thought it might be your father. Have you heard from him?"
"Nuhn-uhn. That's why I called. Have you?"
"Not since last night."
"Michael says the car Dad came to his place in is still parked at the curb."
"He was having car trouble, which is why I gave him a lift. When did you last see him?"
"Day before yesterday. He came by in the afternoon and we talked. He said he'd be back last night, but he never showed."
"He may have tried," I said. "Someone took some shots at us and he disappeared. This morning we found out the Lord was gone."
"The boat?"
"Right. That's the one your father was on when vanished."
"Dad stole a boat?"
"Well, it looks that way, but nobody really knows at this point. Maybe that's the only way he could think of to get out. He must have felt he was in real jeopardy."
"Hey, yeah, getting shot at," Brian said facetiously, I fleshed out the story for him, hoping to ingratiate myself. I nearly mentioned Renata, but I bit the words off in time. If Michael hadn't known about her, chances were that Brian didn't, either. As usual, given my per. verse nature, I was feeling protective of the "villain" of the piece. Maybe Wendell would have a change of heart and return the boat. Maybe he'd talk Brian into "coming in," and the two would turn themselves over to those spun-sugar eggs with a hole you could peek in, revealing a world much better than this.
Brian breathed in my ear some more. I waited him out. "Michael says Dad has a girlfriend. Is that true?" be said.
"Ah, mmm. I don't know what to say about that. He was traveling with a friend, but I really don't know what their relationship consists of."
"Right." He snorted with disbelief. I'd forgotten he was eighteen years old and probably knew more about sex than I did. He certainly knew more about violence. What made me think I could fool a kid like him?
"You want Renata's number? She may have heard from him."
"I got a number to call and this machine picks up. If Dad's around, he calls back. Is this the one you have?" He recited Renata's unlisted number.
"That's it. Look, why don't you give me your current location. I'll pop over there and we can talk. Maybe between us we can figure out where he is."
He thought about that. "He told me to wait. He said don't talk to anyone until he gets here. He's probably on his way." He said this without conviction in a tone oozed with uneasiness.
'That's always possible," I said. "What's the plan?" Ute I really thought Brian would spill the beans to me.
"I have to go."
"Wait! Brian?"
The phone clicked down in my ear.
"Goddamn it!" I sat and stared at the receiver, willing it to ring. "Come on, come on."
I knew perfectly well the kid wasn't going to call again. I became aware of the tension rippling through my shoulders. I got up and moved around the desk, finding a bare expanse of carpeting where I could stretch out on my back. The ceiling was singularly 'uninformative. I hate waiting for things to happen, and I don't like being at the mercy of circumstance. Maybe I could figure out where Brian was being hidden. Wendell didn't have much in the way of personal re- sources. He had very few friends and no confederates that I knew of. He was also being very secretive, apparently not even trusting Renata with the information about Brian. The Fugitive might have been a great place for him to hole up, but she and Brian would both have to be extraordinarily talented liars to pull that one off. From what I could tell, he'd seemed genuinely ignorant of her existence, and she seemed uninterested in his. I suspected if Renata had known where Brian was, she'd have blown the whistle on him. She was certainly angry enough at Wendell's desertion.
Wendell almost had to have Brian tucked away in. motel or hotel someplace. If he was able to pop in to see Brian on a near daily basis, the place probably wasn't that far away. If Brian was left on his own for long periods, he'd have to have access to food without exposing himself to public scrutiny. Maybe a motel room with a kitchen so he could cook for himself. Big? Small? There were maybe fifteen to twenty motels in the vicinity. Was I going to have to drive down there and canvass every single one? That was an unappealing possibility. Canvassing is the equivalent of cold calls in the sales field. Once in a while you might hit pay dirt, but the process is tedious. Then again, Brian was really my only access to Wendell. So far, the Dispatch didn't seem to be picking up on Brian's jail release, but once pictures of the two appeared in the papers, the situation was going to heat up. Brian might have pocket money, but he probably didn't have unlimited funds. If Wendell was determined to rescue his kid, he had better be quick about it, and I had, too.
I checked my watch. It was now 6:15. I hauled myself off the floor and made sure my answering machine was in message mode. I pulled out the newspaper clip- pings that detailed the original escape. The mug shot of Brian Jaffe wasn't flattering, but it would serve my purposes. I grabbed my portable Smith-Corona typewriter and my handbag and headed for the door. I clattered down the stairs, typewriter bumping against my leg, and then trotted two blocks to the spot where my car was parked. I decided at the last minute to take a quick detour along the beach. By taking the long way around to a freeway entrance, I'd end up passing the marina, where I could check up on Carl Eckert. It was entirely possible that he'd returned from out of town and nobody'd bothered to let me know. I was also thinking about the little harborside snack shack where I could pick up some killer burritos to munch on in the car. Kinsey Millhone dining al fresco again.
All the slots in the small no-pay parking lot were full, so I was forced to take a ticket and actually drive through to the pay lot. I locked my car, glancing to my left as I passed the kiosk. Carl Eckert was sitting in his car, a little red sports job of some exotic sort. He looked like a man in shock, pasty-faced and sweating, his pupils dilated. He surveyed his surroundings with an air of confusion. He was wearing a snappy dark blue business suit, but his tie had been loosened
and his collar button opened. His silvery hair was unkempt, as if he'd been running his hands through it.
I slowed my pace, watching. He couldn't seem to decide what to do. I saw him reach for his car keys as if to turn the ignition. He pulled his hand back, reached into his pants pocket, and took out a handkerchief, which he used to mop at his face and neck. He shoved the handkerchief in his suit coat, then took out a pack of cigarettes and shook one into view. He pushed in his car lighter.
I crossed to his car, hunkering down on the driver's side so that my gaze would be level with his. "Carl? Kinsey Millhone." He turned and stared at me without comprehension. "We met at the yacht club the other night. I was looking for Wendell Jaffe."
"The private investigator," he said finally.
"That's right."
"Sorry it took me so long, but I've had some bad news."
"I heard about the Lord. Can I do anything?"
The lighter popped out. He lit his cigarette with, hands that shook so badly he could barely make the lighter meet the tip. He sucked in smoke, choking on it in his desperation for a hit of nicotine. "Son of a bitch stole my boat," he said, coughing violently. He started to say something more, but then he stopped himself and looked off across the parking lot. I'd caught the glint of tears, but I couldn't tell if they were from the smoke or the loss of his boat.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"I live on that boat. Everything I have is tied up in the Lord. It's my life. He had to have known that. He'd be a fool not to know. He loved the boat as much as I did." He shook his head in disbelief.
"That's a rough one," I said. "How'd you hear about it?"
"Renata showed up at my office after lunch," I said. "She said he'd cleared out of her place and she was worried he'd try to make a run for it. Her boat was at die dock, so I guess she thought of yours."