W Is for Wasted

25

Here’s how hard-hearted I am: I was irritated by Pearl’s wailing. It seemed pumped up, artificial, overdone. My response was to disconnect, as though I were pulling a plug out of a wall socket. I couldn’t react to the news of Felix’s death because her excess had shut me down. It was as though she’d preempted any honest feelings generated by his passing. At the same time, I wondered if Pearl was the normal one and I was too psychologically stunted to experience sorrow. This didn’t seem like the proper moment to sort out questions of such complexity, but the idea had occurred to me on previous occasions—this sense that I was somehow out of step with the rest of humankind. Maybe I’d seen too much. Maybe I’d been exposed to matters so coarse and wrenching, I was no longer capable of feeling pain. I could almost picture myself in a therapist’s office, gingerly picking my way across this minefield. Was I nuts?

Nah, I was almost sure it was Pearl. If I were that screwed up, I wouldn’t be capable of reflecting on the point, would I?

So, there I stood while she collapsed on the couch in what looked like a parody of grief. Granted, it’s not my job to judge how others process emotions, but I gave her a 2.5 out of 10 on the basis of her phoniness. Dandy made no move to comfort her. I wasn’t sure if he felt equally alienated or he was simply helpless in the face of female histrionics. I didn’t doubt Pearl loved Felix. I just thought she was cranking up the theatrics so she could command center stage. I crossed my arms and kept my gaze on the floor, knowing my body language testified to my state of mind, which was cranky and withdrawn. I could have sworn Pearl was aware of my disconnect because she took to thrashing about like a kid in the throes of a temper tantrum, determined to get a rise out of Mom.

Someone brought her a glass of water. Someone wet a paper towel and gently dabbed her face. I wanted to slap the shit out of her but somehow managed to restrain myself. This went on for longer than was absolutely necessary to make her point clear. Two of the residents helped her to her feet and she was led from the room like an athlete injured on the playing field. The others stood by in respectful silence while I mentally crossed my eyes. Dandy and I exchanged a look, but I couldn’t read the content.

I said, “What in the world happened while I was off in Bakersfield? I know those guys beat the shit out of Felix, but what precipitated the attack? Did he and Pearl find some way to add insult to injury?”

“Not that I know. Pearl mostly stayed here, worried they’d come after her. Felix didn’t seem concerned. I don’t think the notion that actions have consequences meant anything to him. He did what he did and then forgot about it. That boy wasn’t blessed with much in the way of common sense.”

“What have the police done about the Boggarts?”

“Asked around, I’m sure. Filled out paperwork. I know they talked to the fellow who called 911, but he won’t help. Sorry it happened and so forth, but he’s not sticking his neck out for a bum who gets in a brawl with three other bums.”

“Meanwhile, you and Pearl go off on a toot,” I said. “What was that about? You’d think the last thing you’d want to do is get shitfaced.”

Sheepishly, he said, “Feels good sometimes, you know? When bad things go down, you want to cut loose. Get loaded and forget. Better than feeling sad or mad or depressed.”

“Are you okay now? You don’t look good.”

“Naw, I’m not feeling so hot. I need to find me a spot where I can curl up and sleep.”

“You’ll keep an eye on Pearl?”

“Oh sure. Gotta look after my pal.”

“You go off on another bender and I’ll wring your neck,” I said with all the compassion I could muster, which was none.

Then I repressed the urge to hug the man, primarily because he had what looked like a streak of spit-up down the front of his shabby sport coat. I patted him on the arm. The gesture was weak but it was the best I could do.

On my way out, the volunteer at the desk beckoned to me. I checked behind me to make sure she meant the gesture for me. I paused at the desk. She said, “Are you related to Terrence Dace?”

“Yes.”

“The one he made executor of his estate?”

“That’s me. I’m Kinsey.”

“Belva,” she said. “The reason I ask is I came across some mail for him and thought you should have it.”

“Well, thanks. That’s good of you.”

She turned and picked up a couple of bank statements in windowed envelopes and a fourteen-by-twenty mailing pouch. The package was thick, and when she passed it across the counter to me, I was surprised by the weight. The label was self-addressed in the printing I’d come to recognize. The postmark was June 29, 1988.

“I appreciate this,” I said. I pulled out a business card and placed it on the desk for her. “If anything else comes in, would you let me know?”

“Of course. I’ll leave a note for the other volunteers in case there’s something more.”

I thanked her and carried the bulky package to my car. The package was so plastered over with clear tape that I couldn’t make any headway. I’d have to wait and open it later to see what he’d shipped to himself months before he died. I sat for a while. No point in consigning Felix’s death to an index card. I wasn’t sure what time he’d died or what the attending physician had listed as the cause of death. I didn’t even know how old he was. All I knew for a certainty was he’d never get his braces off and that seemed too sad for words. I turned the key in the ignition and headed toward the bike shop at the foot of State Street. I turned into a side street just shy of the intersection and found a parking place. I locked my car and walked around the corner to the bicycle-rental shop.

The weekend art show was in progress: paintings, ceramics, and assorted crafts displayed in a line of booths laid out alongside the walk. Some vendors had erected lightweight tents to display homemade articles of clothing, wind chimes, lawn ornaments, jewelry, and whirligigs. Given that it was Sunday afternoon and the sun was out, the beach beyond was littered with people—screaming children, joggers with dogs, and prone lasses who’d loosened the tops of their bikinis to avoid the tan lines. The restaurants along the boulevard had flung their doors open, and those establishments with outside seating were filled to capacity.

The bicycle-rental shop was doing a lively business as well, especially with their pedal surreys, which were always popular with kids. I went in. In addition to bike rentals, the shop sold surfboards, bathing suits, T-shirts, shorts, ball caps, sunglasses, sunscreen, and accessories. I looked for someone in charge and settled on a fellow in his sixties who stood at the cash register, ringing up a sale. His Hawaiian shirt was one of those with washed-out colors, shades of pale blue with a design of palm fronds picked out in white. He was balding and wore a pair of reading glasses on top of his head. He sported a wedding ring and a wristwatch that looked sturdy enough to flush down a toilet without losing time.

I moved to the counter and waited my turn. When he’d finished with the customer, he looked at me expectantly.

I held out my hand. “Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Are you the owner?”

My introducing myself put me in a category with traveling salesmen and promoters hoping to post a flyer, advertising a little theater production no one wanted to attend.

After a slight hesitation, he shook my hand. “I own the place, yes. Last name’s Puckett. What can I do for you?”

“I’m a friend of the young man who got beat up out front.”

His smile dimmed. “You’re talking about Felix. How’s he doing?”

“Not that well. He died a little while ago.”

He held up a hand. “Hold it. Before you get into your spiel, I know what you want and I can’t help. Those goons kicked the shit out of him and I’m sorry he died, but I’m not going to go down to the station to look at mug shots. I know who they are. I see ’em down here all the time. What’s it to you?”

“I didn’t know Felix well, but I feel bad.”

“Me, too. Who wouldn’t? He was a good kid, but that doesn’t change the facts. I’m sick to death of the homeless population. If they’re not hitting up the tourists for change, they’re passed out between buildings or parked on public benches, talking to themselves. I don’t begrudge a guy a place to sleep. What gets my goat is every night I got someone peeing on my front step. It smells like a urinal out there. I got some gal takes a dump out by my fence every single night. What kind of person does that?”

“Maybe she’s mentally ill.”

“Then maybe she should be put away somewhere. Worst thing ever happened was Reagan closing down all the loony bins back in the seventies—”

I cut him off. “Let’s not get into the politics, okay? I understand your complaints, but I’m not here to debate. I’d like to talk about Felix, not the rest of this stuff.”

“Point taken. The kid was never disrespectful, so I don’t mean to tar him with the same brush. Homeless in general, I got no beef with as long as they lay off what’s mine. Town’s filled with weepy-minded liberals—”

“Hey!”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to go off again,” he said. “Comes down to identifying the assholes who throttled him, I got nothing to say. That big goon gets picked up, what’s the system gonna do with him? Run him through the courts and spit him out the other end.”

“But why should those guys get away with murder?” I asked. “Homeless or not, those are bad men.”

“I agree,” he said. “Let me tell you something. I knew Felix a lot longer than you did. First time he showed up was six or eight years back. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. He asked for a couple of bucks and I turned him down. I said I needed work done and was he willing or not? He said yes, so I let him sweep up. He’d break down boxes, take out trash, and stuff like that. In exchange, I’d buy him dinner. Nothing fancy, but it wasn’t fast food. Sometimes I’d slip him a ten to see him through until his disability check came in. After a while, I guess he lost interest or found some other way to make ends meet. I’m sorry about what happened to him.”

“But you still won’t look at mug shots.”

“No, I will not. You know what I’d get in return? That two-bit gangster and his cronies would come in here looking for me. Punch my lights out, smash my plate-glass windows, pull merchandise off the racks, and stuff it down their pants. Where does that leave me?”

“Would you at least think about it?”

“No, because nothing’s going to change. Not you, not me, not that kid’s death. I get your point. You’d like to do what you can. Me, too, for that matter, but I won’t put myself in harm’s way. I got a wife and kids and they come first. You might think I’m a coward, but I’m not.”

“I understand. I just can’t think what else to do for him.”

“I appreciate the sentiment. This is nothing against you or Felix. I know my limits. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

I took out a business card and placed it on the counter. “If anything else comes up, could you give me a call?”

“No, but I wish you luck.”

• • •

When I returned to the studio, I passed Dietz’s red Porsche parked half a block away. Either he hadn’t found Con Dolan at home or information had been in short supply. There was a parking place on the far side of the street, so I made a U-turn and pulled into it. I grabbed my shoulder bag and the mailing pouch, locked my car, crossed the street, and let myself in through the gate.

When I reached the back patio I stopped dead. Henry sat in one of the two Adirondack chairs. Anna Dace had settled in the other. Her dark hair was pulled up on top of her head and held in place with a series of silver clips. Boots, jeans, a denim jacket, under which she wore a low-cut T-shirt. All well and good. It was the oversize suitcase beside her that caught my attention. I also took note of Ed the cat, who was curled up in her lap sleeping like a baby.

I held Dace’s package against my chest like body armor as I stared at her. “How did you get here?”

“A Greyhound bus.”

“I thought you didn’t have a dime.”

“I had to borrow the money from Ellen. If you’d given me a ride like you said, I wouldn’t have had to bother her.”

“I never said I’d give you a ride.”

“You sure as shit didn’t say no.” She glanced at Henry. “Excuse the trash talk, but I’m sure you can see my point.”

He had the good grace not to comment one way or the other. He ventured a smile at me. “Your father’s side of the family. This is nice.”

I was still focused on her. “You can’t stay with me.”

“Who asked you? I got a place to stay.”

Henry said, “It’s no trouble. I have a spare bedroom. We were just going in to get her settled. I thought you’d enjoy having her close by so the two of you could get to know each other.”

“Did you come up with that plan or did she?”

Henry blinked. “I don’t quite remember now. I thought I did.”

“I have work to do,” I said.

I hadn’t given Dietz a key, but he must have hung on to the one he had made when he was last in town. The apartment was unlocked and the door stood ajar, leaving a plank of October sunshine lying on my floor. I had to stand in the doorway for a moment to regain my self-control. I couldn’t blame Henry. How was he to know how manipulative she was?

I put the package on the desk.

Dietz was sitting on my couch, bare feet propped on the coffee table while he worked his way through my copy of the Sunday Los Angeles Times. This was the very paper he had open across the breakfast table when I’d found him at the Edgewater earlier. He’d put on a fresh pot of coffee and his empty cup was resting within reach. “You’re upset.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You look upset.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“Imagine my relief.”

I tossed my shoulder bag onto one of the kitchen stools and settled on the couch beside him. “I should’ve let you finish reading the paper while you had the chance,” I said.

He smiled. “I can do this all day. I like the bits and pieces buried at the back. I check the personals columns and study the car ads. You never know when you might come across the deal of the century.”

“What did Con say?”

“He wasn’t home. Neighbor said he and Stacy Oliphant went off to Cabo for a couple of weeks. Sport fishing, I gather. We’ll chat with the homicide detectives tomorrow and hope they have information to trade. Your old boyfriend still assigned to the crimes against persons unit?”

“Who, Jonah? He was never a boyfriend. He was a guy I dated when his wife wasn’t jerking him around.”

“Really. I don’t think I knew about him. I was talking about the other one. Curly-haired fellow whose dad has all the dough.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I said, though I knew perfectly well he was referring to Cheney Phillips.

I wasn’t sure how he could contemplate the subject of my so-called love life. If I’d known he’d been involved with two other women, I’d have been too insecure to mention either one. In my opinion, this was exactly the sort of issue that lengthy and frequent separations bring to the fore. I didn’t want to “share.” I was an only child and I still tend to cling to the notion of “what’s mine is mine.” Actually, Deitz was an only child as well, but he’d gone to the other extreme. Where I was possessive, he was laissez-faire, a free-market kind of guy. I knew it was his coping mechanism, but I wasn’t sure how it worked. Maybe he was casual about bonds because he was always out the door and always moving on. He had no interest in putting down roots. To him, life was a slide show and he was happy with the change of scene. He liked stimulation and novelty. He didn’t attach emotional meaning to what I did, especially since he felt it had nothing to do with him. I don’t understand how men can operate like that. Given my abandonment issues (and I confess I hate talk of that sort), I was always in danger of losing what I longed for most—stability, closeness, belonging. In my head, I knew better. Being needy is actually a way of keeping others at bay. It may seem attractive to those addicted to rescue, but the yearning can never be fulfilled and the clinging ends up driving folks away. Why would you want someone hanging around your neck, worried you don’t care enough and asking for constant reassurance on the point?

“I think we should do something,” I said.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Let’s get out of here.”

He folded the paper and put his bare feet on the floor, feeling around for his loafers. “I’m game, though I’d prefer to have a plan.”

“I’m thinking we should take a look at Pete’s office. Maybe he actually has a partner with a shitload of cash. You can collect and be on your way.”

“I didn’t say I was leaving.”

“But you will.”

“You have a bad attitude.”

“I know, but it’s the only one I have.”

• • •

We took Dietz’s car to avoid the wear and tear on my spare tire. The drive into town was a simple matter of taking Cabana to State and hanging a left. Pete’s office was on Granita in a building that had seen better days. We found street parking in a small lot nearby. The neighborhood was funky. The entire block would doubtless be bought someday soon, razed, and replaced with a more lucrative concern: a parking garage, a condominium complex, a hotel of a modest chain. Pete’s ground-floor office was marked A.

The agency had apparently never been graced with a sign hanging out front. The names Able and Wolinsky were still lettered on the plate-glass window in black and gold decals that had largely flaked and fallen away. In the lower right-hand corner a For Lease sign had been propped with a contact number. There was no realtor or property manager mentioned by name. Dietz jotted down the phone number while I peered through the glass.

The office consisted of one large room with a closet. I was guessing he had access to the executive restroom, located down the hall and open to the public. His space was bare of furniture. The closet door stood open, revealing an empty hanging rod and a few makeshift shelves. There was a second door in the middle of the back wall that probably opened into an interior corridor. Knowing Pete as I did, I imagined a number of hasty departures when circumstances warranted his absenting himself on short notice. As this was Sunday, the offices on either side of his were closed.

“You want to track down the property manager?” Dietz asked.

“I’d rather see if Pete’s wife is available.”

• • •

I remembered Pete’s home address from the days when the Byrd-Shine agency was still in business. While I was accruing my training hours, I also made coffee and ran errands for the two. If Pete was late turning in a report, I’d be sent over to pick up the paperwork. The Wolinsky house was ten blocks away; a story and a half of white frame with a small recessed porch barely large enough for the two dusty white wicker chairs arranged to one side. Two sets of double windows sat one above the other. A single diamond-shaped pane to the right suggested attic space. The window frames and the trim pieces around the front door were painted dark blue. An enormous eucalyptus tree in the front yard was leaning drunkenly to one side where the edge of the porch prevented its upright growth.

I twisted the handle on the mechanical doorbell. The resultant response mimicked an alarm clock going off. Ruthie Wolinsky opened the door. I hadn’t seen her for many years, but she looked much the same—tall, very slim, with long thinning hair brushed away from her face. She wore a long-sleeve white lace blouse and a long denim skirt with boots. She was easily sixty years old, and while the headband might have looked incongruous on anyone else, it was perfect on her. Her hair color had shifted from mild brown to gray with much of the original shade still in evidence. Her brows were pale over mild green eyes. Soft lines defined her elongated face with its high forehead. When she saw me, recognition flickered, but it had been far too long for her to recall my name.

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Pete and I were professional acquaintances years ago.”

“I remember you,” she said as her gaze shifted to Dietz.

“This is my colleague, Robert Dietz.”

Her gaze returned to mine. “You know Pete was shot to death in August.”

“I heard about that and I’m sorry.” Already, I admired the straightforward manner in which she conveyed the information. No euphemisms; no attempt to soften the facts.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

Dietz said, “I’m a Nevada PI. I did some work for Pete last May—a four-day surveillance in a Reno hotel. There’s a balance outstanding on the account.”

“You’ll have to get in line with everyone else. Pete died without a penny to his name. His creditors are still swarming out of the woodwork.”

“We’re hoping to pursue another approach. One that won’t involve you,” I said.

She stared for a moment, making up her mind, and then held open the wooden screen door. “You’re welcome to come in. I’m not liable for his debts, but I don’t mind listening to what you have to say.”

Dietz and I stepped into the foyer. There was a living room to our left, and she led the way to a small seating area. Dietz and I sat side by side on an upholstered settee that probably didn’t get much use. I suspected she occupied cozier rooms at the back of the house.

“How are you doing?” I asked. “It must be difficult.”

“I’m getting along well enough, though every other day, a new problem seems to crop up.”

“Such as what?”

“People like you arriving at my door,” she said. Her smile was slight and carried no rebuke. “I’ve stopped opening his mail. There’s no point in knowing about bills when there’s nothing I can do.”

“What are the police telling you?”

“Not much. They were interested at first. Now other cases have taken precedence.”

“No suspect?”

She shook her head. “They think he was killed with his own gun, which was missing from the scene. He took his Glock and his Smith and Wesson with him everywhere. Especially if he went out at night, he wouldn’t have been without one or the other. Usually he carried both.”

“Both of his guns are gone?”

“Just the Glock. His pocket pistol was returned to me. They found that in the trunk of his car. They believe there was a second gun involved, also missing. A Lieutenant Phillips is handling the case. I’m sure he could tell you more.”

“You have no idea why he was out that night?”

“He was an insomniac, so he was out many nights, roaming the streets. There was nothing unusual about that night, at least as far as I know.”

“No business dealings that might have gone sour?”

“He mentioned a job coming up and he was optimistic about his prospects. I have no idea what came of it.”

“What about friends? Was there anyone he might have confided in?”

“You knew Pete. He was a loner. He didn’t have friends or confidants.”

Dietz said, “Were you aware he was in financial straits?”

“I suspected as much, though his affairs are in much worse shape than I thought. He’d let his life insurance lapse. He had nothing in savings, his checking account was in overdraft, and his credit cards were maxed out. I knew he had problems, but I had no idea of the magnitude. When we got married, we swore we’d be honest with one another, but his pride sometimes got in the way. The house is paid for, but both our names are on the deed. I haven’t talked to an attorney but I’m hoping I won’t have to sell or take out a mortgage to satisfy his creditors.”

“Did he leave a will?”

“I haven’t found one so far. That was the sort of thing he postponed. In his mind, there was always time.”

“What about assets?” Dietz said. “I’m not asking from self-interest. I’m wondering if there’s anything you might’ve overlooked.”

“I’m surprised he hadn’t filed for bankruptcy. I have two accounts in my name that he had no access to or he might have gone through those as well. It was easy come, easy go with him.”

“A free spirit,” I suggested.

“Not free, from my perspective,” she said, tartly.

I noted the flash of heat with a feeling of relief. She was keeping her anger in check, but it was there.

She went on, her gaze fixed on the floor. “Two months ago he told me he was setting money aside for our anniversary. Next year would have been our fortieth and he wanted us to go on a river cruise. I didn’t take him seriously, but I was hoping he’d managed to tuck a little something away. If I could lay hands on anything, I could at least pay the noisiest of his creditors.”

“You haven’t found anything?”

She shook her head. “I’ve turned this house upside down and there’s nothing except for the twenty-two dollars’ worth of coins he tossed in a jar.”

“No investments?”

“Oh, please. No stocks, no bonds, no annuities,” she said. “He drove a Ford Fairlane with over two hundred thousand miles on the odometer. The police impounded the car at the scene, but it’s since been returned. I sold it for a hundred dollars and I was delighted to get that much. The new owner’s picking it up later in the week. It’s parked out back if you’d like to take a look. Maybe he stashed a winning lottery ticket in the glove compartment.”

Her tone carried a touch of irony, but she wasn’t being sarcastic or self-mocking. She must have been appalled at the position he’d left her in.

Dietz said, “What about you, do you work?”

“I’m a private-duty nurse. I make more than adequate money for my personal needs. Even if I’m forced to mortgage the house, I’ll be fine, but it’s not what I pictured at this stage of my life.”

“I’m sorry we’ve had to burden you with this along with everything else,” he said.

“How much did he owe you?”

“A little more than three thousand dollars.”

She said, “I apologize.”

“Not your fault,” Dietz said.

“You mentioned another approach.”

Dietz said, “A long shot. It’s possible Pete hadn’t been paid for the job he subbed out to me. If we can take a look at his files, we might find his account receivables and collect from the client instead of having to worry you.”

“If someone owed him money, wouldn’t the income count as part of his estate?”

“All I know is I did the work and I’d like to be paid.”

She considered the request and then seemed to shrug. “There are files in the garage. He’d been carting home boxes a few at a time over a period of weeks. I realize now he was worried about being evicted and wanted to be prepared.” She rose to her feet. “You can follow me if you like.”