J Is for Judgment

by Sue Grafton

  "I don't understand the connection."

  "Wendell tells me he's going to blow the whistle. He wants to 'clear his conscience' before he goes to jail. What a crock of shit. I can't believe it. He's going to tell 'em about the money he and Eckert have been hoarding. The minute he says it, I know that's the end of it. I'm finished. By the time the court gets done, I'll never see a cent. I get straight on the horn to Eckert and tell him he better get himself down here with the cash in hand. I mean, pronto."

  "Why hadn't you pressed for the money before?"

  "Because I thought it was gone. Eckert claimed the two of them had blown every penny. Once I heard I Wendell was alive, I threw the whole story out the window. I put the screws to Eckert, and it turns out they had a bundle. Wendell only took a million or so when he left. Eckert had the rest. Can you believe that? He'd had it the whole time, just taking out what he needed.

  "He was clever, I'll say that. He lived like a pauper, so who would have guessed?"

  "Weren't you a party to the lawsuit?"

  "Well, sure, but that kind of money won't survive intact. You know what I'd get? Maybe ten cents on the dollar, and that's if I'm lucky. You got the IRS first and two hundred fifty investors? Everybody wants a piece. I didn't give a shit if he turned in the money, as long as I got mine up front. To hell with everybody else. I earned that dough, and I went to great lengths to collect."

  "And what was the deal? What did you do in exchange?"

  "I didn't do anything. That's the point. Once I had the money I didn't care about those two."

  "You had no further interest."

  "That's right."

  I shook my head, confused. "I don't get this. Why would Carl Eckert pay you that much? If you want to get right down to it, why would he pay you at all? Was it blackmail?"

  "Of course it wasn't blackmail. Jesus Christ, I'm a cop. He didn't pay me a cent. He made good on my losses. I invested a hundred grand and that's what I got back. To the nickel," he said.

  "Did you tell Carl Eckert about Wendell turning in the money?"

  "Sure I did. Wendell was going to the cops that night. I'd already talked to Carl. He was supposed to stop by with the money Friday morning, so I knew he had it with him. I wanted to make sure I had the money in my pocket before old looney tunes Wendell started blabbing. What a dope he was."

  "Why do you say 'was'?"

  "Because he's gone again, right? You just said so yourself."

  "Maybe getting your money back wasn't enough."

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  I shrugged. "You might have wanted him dead."

  He laughed. "You're really stretching for that one. Why would I want him dead?"

  "The way I heard it, he ruined your relationship with your kids. Your marriage broke up. Your wife died shortly after that."

  "Oh, hell. My marriage was lousy to begin with, and she was sick for years. Losing the money was what pissed my kids off. Once I slipped' em each twenty-five grand under the table, they warmed right up."

  "Nice kids."

  "At least I know where I stand," he said dryly.

  "You're telling me you didn't kill him."

  "I'm telling you I didn't have to. I figured Dana Jaffe would do that once she found out about this other woman. It's enough he'd abandon her and the kids, but to do it over some little piece of fluff like that? Seems a bit much."

  Since my apartment is only a block from the ocean, I left my car parked in front and walked back to the marina. I loitered outside the locked gate leading down to Marina 1. I could have climbed around the outside as I'd done with Renata, but there was enough foot traffic at that hour to wait for someone with a key. The day was turning grim. I didn't think it would rain, but the clouds were a thick, brooding gray and the sea air was chilly. These Santa Teresa summers are really such a treat.

  Finally a guy came along in shorts and a sweatshirt. He had his card key in hand and he unlocked the gate. He even held it for me when he saw that I was interested in sliding through.

  "Thanks," I said, falling into step with him as he proceeded along the walkway. "You know Carl Eckert, by any chance? He owns the boat that was stolen Friday morning."

  "I heard about that. Yeah, I know Carl by sight. I think he went down to get it, as a matter of fact. I saw him motor out in his dinghy a couple of hours ago." The guy took the second left turn onto the line of slips marked D. I continued on to J, which was on the right- hand side. Sure enough, Eckert's slip was still empty, and there was no way to predict just what time he'd get back.

  It was nearly one o'clock, and I'd never had lunch. I walked back to my place and brought my typewriter in from the car. I made myself a sandwich-hot hard-boiled egg, sliced across a slathering of Best Foods mayo. Whole-wheat bread, lots of salt, a vertical cut. Rules are rules. I hummed to myself, licking my fingers as I set up my Smith-Corona. I ate at my desk, typing intermittently in between big gooey bites. I worked my way through a pack of index cards, reducing everything I knew to three-by-five notes. I sorted them into various categories and tacked them on the bulletin board hanging over my desk. I turned on my desk lamp. I got myself a diet Pepsi at one point. As if it were some kind of board game, I played and replayed the same set of cards. I didn't even know what I was doing, just looking at the information, arranging and rearranging, hoping I'd see a pattern emerge.

  The next time I looked at my watch it was 6:45. I felt anxiety stir. I'd meant to spend only a couple of hours at my desk, making use of the time until Eckert got back. I shoved a few bucks in my jeans pocket and grabbed a sweatshirt, pulling it over my head as I went out the door. I half trotted back to the marina, through that artificial twilight that gloomy weather generates. I caught up with a woman going down the ramp toward Marina 1. She glanced at me idly as she unlocked the gate. "Forgot my key," I murmured as I followed her in.

  The Lord was back in its slip, shrouded in blue canvas covers. The cabin was dark, and there was no sign of Eckert. There was an inflatable dinghy bobbing in the water behind it, attached by a line. I stared at it for a while, exploring the possibilities. I walked back to the yacht club, which was blazing with lights. I pushed in through the glass doors and went up the stairs.

  I spotted him across the dining room. He was sitting at the bar, wearing jeans and a denim jacket, his silver hair ruffled from the hours on the boat. The jacket-and-tie dinner crowd was already heavy, the bar itself jammed with drinkers, air dense with cigarette smoke. The maitre d' looked up at me, feigning startlement at my attire. In truth, he was probably just annoyed that I hadn't paused to genuflect as I passed. I waved toward the windows, letting my face light up as if with recognition. He glanced in that direction. There wasn't any dress code in the bar, and he knew it. Half the people in there wore polo shirts and long pants, windbreakers, deck shoes.

  Carl Eckert turned, catching sight of me when I was ten feet away. He murmured something to the bartender and then picked up his drink. "Let's grab a table. I think there's one outside." I nodded and followed as we picked a path through the crush.

  Both the noise and the temperature dropped considerably once the door closed behind us. We were out on the deck, where only a few hardy souls were huddled. It was getting darker by the minute, though the sun was actually setting behind clouds. Below us, the ocean bucked and heaved, waves breaking on the sand with a constant thunder and swish. I loved the smell out here, though the air was damp and uninviting. Two tall propane heaters generated a rosy, oblong glow without doing much to warm the air. We sat near one nonetheless.

  Carl says, "I ordered you some wine. The guy should be out with it in a minute."

  "Thanks. You got your boat back, I see. What'd they find? I'd guess nothing, but one can always hope."

  "Actually, they found traces of blood. Couple of little smears on the railing, but they don't know if it's Wendell's."

  "Oh, right. Like it might be yours."

  "You know the police. They're not going to jump to conclus
ions. For all we know, Wendell did it himself, trying to create the suspicion of foul play. Did you see Renata? She just left."

  I shook my head, noticing the change of subject he'd engineered. "I didn't know you two knew each other."

  "I know Renata. I can't say we're friends. I met her years ago when Wendell first fell in love with her. You know how it is when a good friend has a mate you don't really get along with. I couldn't understand why he wasn't happy with Dana."

  I said, "Marriage is a mystery. What's she doing up here?"

  "I'm not sure. She seemed down in the mouth. She wanted to talk about Wendell, but then she got upset and walked out."

  "I don't think she's handling this business well," I said. "What about the money? Is it gone?"

  His laugh was a dry, flat sound. "Of course. For a while I had hopes that it might still be on the boat. I can't even call the cops. That's the irony."

  "When did you last talk to Wendell?"

  "Must have been Thursday. He was on his way to Dana's."

  "I saw him after that at Michael's. We left together, but his car wouldn't start. I'm sure now somebody tampered with it because mine was tampered with, too. I was giving him a lift when my engine cut out. That's when somebody started shooting at us."

  Behind us, the door opened with a burst of noise. The waiter came out with a glass of Chardonnay on a tray. He had another Scotch and water for Carl. He set both drinks on the table, along with a bowl of pretzels. Eckert paid in cash, tossing out an extra couple of bills as a tip. The waiter thanked him and withdrew.

  When the door closed again, I shifted the conversation. "I talked to Harris Brown."

  "Good for you. How is he?"

  "He seems fine. For a while I thought maybe he was a likely candidate for Wendell's murder."

  "Murder. Oh, right."

  "It does make sense," I said.

  "Why does that make sense? It makes just as much sense to think he's gone off again," Carl said.

  "Why not suicide? God knows the people here didn't exactly welcome him with open arms. What if he killed himself? Have you considered that?"

  "What if he was taken up in a spaceship?" I countered.

  "Make your point. I can feel myself getting irritated with the subject. It's been a long day. I'm bushed. I'm out at least a million bucks. Not fun, I can tell you."

  "Maybe you killed him."

  "Why would I kill him? The fucker stole my money. If he's dead, how am I ever going to get it back?"

  I shrugged. "To begin with, it wasn't your money. Half of it belonged to him. I only have your word for the fact that the money's missing. How do I know you didn't take it off the boat yourself and hide it somewhere else? Now that Harris Brown knows about it, you may be worried he'll hit you up for more than the hundred thousand he's claiming."

  "Take my word for it. The money's gone," he said.

  "Why would I take your word for anything? You were filing bankruptcy while two hundred and fifty investors were getting a judgment against you for money they couldn't collect. Turns out you had it all the time, playing poor while you had millions stuffed under the mattress."

  "I know it looks like that."

  "It doesn't just look like that. That's how it was.

  "You can't possibly think I had a motive for killing Wendell. You don't even know if he's dead. Chances are he's not."

  "I don't know what the chances are one way or the other. Let's just look at it this way. You had the money. He came back to collect his share. You'd had the cash so long you were beginning to think you were the only one entitled to it. Wendell's been 'dead' for five years. Who's really going to care if he's 'dead' for the rest of time? You'd be doing Dana a big favor. Wendell turns up alive, she has to give the money back."

  "Hey, I talked to the guy on Thursday. That's the last I ever saw of him."

  "That's the last anybody ever saw of him except Renata," I said.

  He got up abruptly and headed for the door. I was right on his heels, banging through the door behind him.

  People turned to watch as he pushed his way across the crowded bar with me in his wake. He clattered down the stairs, around the corner, and out through the front door. Oddly enough, I wasn't worried, and I didn't care if he got away. Something was stirring at the back of my mind. Something about timing, about Wendell and the sequence of events. The dinghy bobbing in the water, trailing along behind the Lord like a little duckling.

  I couldn't put my finger on it yet, but I was going to get it soon.

  I could see Carl ahead of me, pausing at the locked gate. He was fumbling for his card key, and I trotted down the ramp behind him. He looked back in haste, and then his eyes flickered up toward the breakwater behind me. I glanced up. There was a woman at the railing. She was barefoot, in a trench coat, staring down at us. Her bare legs and the pale oval of her face were like punctuation against the darkness. Renata.

  I said, "Hang on a minute. I want to talk to her."

  Eckert ignored me, pushing on through the gate while I retraced my steps. The curving wall along the breakwater is about eighteen inches wide, a ledge of hip-high concrete. The ocean crashes perpetually against the barrier, water shooting straight up. A line of spray is forced along the wall and around the bend, which is marked by a row of flagpoles. The wind off the ocean blows a constant mist in this direction, waves splatting onto the walkway on the harbor side. Renata had hopped up on the wall and she was walking the curve, waves catching at her shoulder almost playfully. Her raincoat was getting soaked – dark tan on the ocean side, lighter tan on the left where the fabric was still dry. It was like getting rained on, that spray. I could feel it on my face.

  "Renata!" She didn't seem to hear, though she was only fifty yards ahead of me. The walk was slippery from seawater, and I had to watch my step. I broke into a trot, moving gingerly, hopping over puddles as I tracked her progress. The tide was in. I could see the ocean churning, a massive black presence disappearing into blackness. All the flags were snapping. There were lights at intervals, but the effect was ornamental."

  "Renata!"

  She glanced back then and saw me. She slowed her pace, waiting until I caught up with her before she started up again. She stayed one pace ahead of me. I was on the walkway below while she kept to the top of the wall so that I was forced to look up at her. I could see now that she was crying, mascara smudges below her dark eyes. Her hair was a series of dripping strands that hugged her face and clung to her neck. I tugged at her coat hem and she stopped, looking down. "Where's Wendell? You said he took off Friday morning, but you're the only one who ever claimed to have seen him after Thursday night." I needed details. I really wasn't sure how she'd managed to pull it off. I thought about how haggard she'd looked' when she showed up in my office. Maybe she'd been up all night. Maybe she was making me part of her alibi. "Did you kill him?"

  "Who cares?"

  "I'd like to know. I really would. CF took me off the case this morning and the cops don't give a shit. Come on. Just between us. I'm the only one who believes he's; dead, and nobody's listening to me."

  The answer was delayed as if traveling from a distance. "Yes."

  "You killed him?"

  "Yes."

  "How?"

  "I shot him. It was quick." She made a gun barrel of her index finger, firing it at me. The recoil was minimal.

  I scrambled up on the wall beside her, so that our faces were level. I liked it better that way. I didn't have to raise my voice to be heard above the surf. Was she drunk? I could smell alcohol on her person, even downwind. "Was that you shooting at us at the beach?"

  "Yes."

  "But I had your gun. I took it away from you on the boat."

  Her smile was wan. "I had a collection to choose from. Dean kept six or eight. He was very paranoid about burglars. The one I used on Wendell was a little semiautomatic with a suppressor. The shot didn't even make as much noise as a hardcover book falling on the floor."

  "When did you
do it?"

  "That same night, Thursday. He walked home from the beach. I had my car. I got home first, so I was there to meet him when he got in. He was exhausted and his feet hurt. I made him a vodka tonic and took it out to him on the deck. He took a long swallow. I put the gun against his neck and fired. He barely jumped, and I was quick enough to keep the drink from spilling. I dragged him down the dock to the dinghy and hauled him in. I covered him with a tarp and putt -putted out of the Keys. I took my time about it so I wouldn't attract attention."

  "Then what?"

  "Once I was out about a quarter mile, I weighted his body down with an old twenty-five-horsepower motor I was getting rid of anyway. I kissed him on the mouth. He was already cold and he tasted like salt. I heaved him overboard and he sank."

  "Along with the gun."

  "Yes. After that I shifted into high gear and jammed it from Perdido up to Santa Teresa, where I eased into the marina, attached the dinghy to the Lord, and motored it out to sea. I brought the boat down along the coast and hauled the sails up. I got back in the dinghy: and puttered into the Keys again while the Lord headed out into the ocean."

  "But why, Renata? What did Wendell ever do to you?"

  She turned her head, staring out at the horizon. When she looked back, I saw that she was smiling slightly. "I lived and traveled with the man for five years," she said. "I provided him money, a passport, shelter, support. And how does he repay me? By going back to his family. by being so ashamed of me, he wouldn't even admit my existence to his grown sons. He had a midlife crisis. That's all I was. Once it was over he was going back to his wife. I couldn't lose him to her. It was too humiliating."

  "But Dana wasn't ever going to take him back."

  "She would have. They all do. They say they won't, but when it comes right down to it, they can't resist. I'm not sure I blame them. They're just so bloody grateful when hubby finally comes crawling back. It doesn't matter what he's done. Just so he shows up again and says he loves her." The smile had faded, and she was starting to cry.