W Is for Wasted

28

The six hundred dollars Dietz had surrendered to Pete’s landlady netted us an additional fifteen banker’s boxes, too many to fit in Dietz’s little red Porsche. The expenditure should have been classified as “throwing good money after bad,” as he was now out the six hundred plus the three thousand dollars and some odd cents he’d already been cheated. I called Henry for assistance and he obligingly backed the station wagon out of his garage and drove to Pete’s former office building. We’d brought the boxes down on the elevator and stacked them at the curb. It took no time at all to load up the rear of Henry’s vehicle, after which I rode home with him while Dietz followed in his car.

We all pitched in transferring the boxes from the station wagon to my living room and there they sat. Henry said he’d lend a hand examining files, but we vetoed the idea. We knew what paperwork had already passed through our hands. We also knew what we were looking for and there was no point in stopping to educate Henry on the fine points of Pete’s filing system. We thanked him for his transportation services and I assured him I’d check in with him later in the day.

This left Dietz and me sitting cross-legged on my living room floor, pawing through more boxes. “I spend an inordinate amount of time doing shit like this,” I remarked.

“We don’t turn up something soon, I’m bagging it,” he said. “No point in spending more time trying to collect for a job than I devoted to the job itself.”

“You worked four days. We’ve been chasing your fee for one.”

“True, and I’m already bored.”

The first box I opened the contained the contents of Pete’s wastebasket, which Letitia Beaudelaire must have upended and emptied with one mighty shake. Here, in layers going back for weeks, was an accumulation of overdue notices, judgments, legal warnings, dunning letters, threats, unpaid bills, and bank statements showing countless checks returned for inadequate funds. It appeared that Pete, when he had his back pressed to the wall, would send off a bad check as a means of buying himself a few days’ time. The plan always failed—how could it not?—but he was too busy putting out fires to worry about the ones that flared up again.

Dietz said, “At least he was sincere about the river cruise. Take a look at this.”

He leaned forward and handed me a glossy brochure that featured a color photograph of a sleek boat on a body of water. This was not a 2,600-passenger cruise liner tracking the Norwegian fjords. This was river travel. A village was laid out along the shore, with a low rolling mountain beyond. The bell tower on the church was reflected like a shimmering mirage at the water’s edge. Everything about the image was inviting, including the sight of passengers on the upper deck where a swimming pool was visible. “I could learn to live like that,” I said.

“I told you money has its advantages.”

“For sure. I just couldn’t picture anything I wanted. Now I’m getting it,” I said. “It’d be nice if he’d set aside some cash to pay for the trip. I’m sure Ruthie could use the getaway.”

“You think she’d go without him?”

“Not really. I think if she had the money, she’d pay off his creditors before she did anything else.”

I watched Dietz pick up a sheaf of papers. As his eyes traced the lines of print, he let out a bark of outrage. “Son of a bitch! Look at this! What the hell is he doing here?”

I took the typewritten pages and glanced at the first. “What am I looking at?”

“My report. He stole the whole damn thing. Retyped it and dicked around with the language, but essentially it’s my work, with all my receipts attached. I’ll bet he was reimbursed for everything, including my time. This is my original. Look at that.”

I leafed through both reports, keeping the two documents side by side for comparison purposes. Pete had rewritten Dietz’s account on his own letterhead, embellishing in places, altering the wording so it sounded more folksy. Attached were invoices showing two sets of round-trip tickets from Santa Teresa to Reno, trips he’d certainly never made. He’d done a clumsy job of substituting his name for Dietz’s in the hotel bill, but he probably thought his client wouldn’t know the difference. I couldn’t think why he’d kept Dietz’s original. He’d have been smarter to destroy it unless he’d hoped to lift details to fashion a follow-up report. I doubted he had any intention of paying Dietz at all and what options did Dietz have? Trying to collect in California for work done in Nevada would have been an exercise in frustration. Taking Pete to small claims court would have been time consuming, and even if Dietz had won a judgment, what was he to do with it? Pete was flat broke.

“I hope he made good use of my photographs while he was at it,” he said.

He opened the manila envelope that bore his return address and removed the pictures he’d taken.

I peered over his shoulder. “That’s the gal you were hired to spy on?”

“Mary Lee Bryce, right.” Dietz shuffled through the prints while I looked on. “This is her when she first arrived at the hotel and this is Owen Pensky, the high school classmate she met with. Here’s one of her with the boss she was supposed to be having the affair with.”

“No love lost there,” I remarked.

“Unless they’re really good at faking it.”

“I bet Pete collected up front and in cash. He wasn’t the type to bill after the fact.”

“Depressing, but you’re probably right.”

“So if Willard Bryce has already paid Pete, there’s no point in asking him for the money. He’d turn you down cold.”

“When you said Pete was a scumbag, I thought you were exaggerating.”

“I should point out that you had a better motive to shoot Pete than any armed robber did. All that guy got was an empty wallet and a cheap watch.”

Dietz tossed aside the manila envelope. “You know what bugs me? Here I was so worried his death was connected to the job I did. If I’d known he was ripping me off, I wouldn’t have given it another thought.”

“He did provide a great excuse for spending time with me.”

“Well, there’s that.”

I checked the receipts for the two sets of plane tickets. “You think he actually paid for tickets? These are copies of copies. I wonder what happened to the originals.”

“He had to pay for ’em or he wouldn’t have tickets in his possession in the first place. I’m sure he didn’t make two trips to Reno. Hell, he didn’t even make one.”

“Maybe he has a refund coming.”

“Maybe he collected the money and spent it all. Who cares?”

“I’m sure Ruthie would appreciate the windfall.”

“Fine. Give her the file and let her figure it out.”

“Such a grouch,” I said.

Dietz was dropping files back into the banker’s box he’d placed in front of him. “What time is it?”

I checked my watch. “Ten fifteen. Why?”

“I told Nick I’d be back in time to take him to lunch.”

“It’s the middle of the morning. We have eight boxes to go!”

“Not me. I’ve had it.”

“I don’t want to do this on my own.”

“Then don’t. Nobody’s paying you.”

“Come on. Don’t you have any curiosity at all about who else he might’ve been working for? Suppose he had half a dozen other clients who were all set to pay?”

“He didn’t. That Bryce fellow was the only one.”

“But suppose there was another one?”

“What if there was? If I’d done business with Pete and heard he’d been shot dead, I’d count myself lucky and lay low.”

Dietz hauled himself to his feet. I extended my hand and he pulled me into an upright position.

He stepped into the kitchenette to wash his hands. Mine were as filthy as his, but I planned to go on working, so there wasn’t any point in being dainty.

He picked up his car keys, looking way too cheerful for my taste. “I’ll check with you later. Why don’t you plan on having dinner with us?”

“You better chat with Nick first. He may have other ideas.”

“You think?”

“Dietz, so far he hasn’t been here one full day. He came to talk to you about his plans and from what you’ve said, he hasn’t even told you the whole story yet. You need to pay attention to these things.”

“How complicated could it be?”

I would have laughed, but he hadn’t meant to be funny. I said, “Forget about tonight. Find out what’s on his mind and we’ll get together some other time.”

Once he was gone, I turned my attention to the remaining eight boxes, which I confess didn’t have quite the same appeal. Doing a tedious chore in the company of a friend makes the labor seem less onerous. These files had been packed haphazardly without the benefit of Pete’s casual organizational skills. This was the work of his landlady, who was already annoyed with his bounced checks and probably not that sorry to hear about his unhappy fate. On the other hand, I was feeling slightly more charitable about the man. He might have been a skunk, but he wasn’t a malicious skunk; just someone with a tendency to deceive. Nothing wrong with a lie or two when the situation demanded it.

I sat down again and started to work. Ruthie was right about his being a pack rat. In the next box I tackled, the topmost file caught my attention. I opened the folder and had a quick look, leafing through photocopies of various articles related to a diabetes study and some to an NIH grant for a clinical trial being run out at UCST. All of it pertained to Linton Reed—the clinical trial, his educational background, his CV, and numerous scientific papers that made reference to a drug called Glucotace. I was curious about Pete’s sudden passion for medical matters. When I knew him, he seldom pursued a subject unless he smelled some monetary benefit. Clearly his interest in Linton Reed went beyond any suggestion that he was in a relationship with Mary Lee Bryce. That theory had been knocked flat. I set the folder aside, placing it on top of the one that contained Dietz’s surveillance notes and his photographs.

Next layer down, I came across a thick cross-section of signed contracts, surveillance logs, typed reports, and confidential client information from the old Byrd-Shine days, material Pete shouldn’t have had in his possession. I couldn’t imagine how he’d managed to get his hands on the files or why he’d held on to them all these years.

Tucked in one end of the same box, I found a pen mike and a handful of tape cassettes, along with his tape recorder, crude and clunky looking by today’s standards. I checked the window in the lid, where I could see a cassette still in place. The Sony Walkman had been his pride and joy. I remembered running into him years before when he’d first bought it. He was excited about the technology, which he considered cutting edge. He’d given me a lengthy demonstration, crowing with delight. At this point, the device seemed ancient. New cassette recorders were half this size.

Pete had a penchant for illegal wiretaps. He was a big fan of planting mikes behind picture frames and slipping listening devices in among the potted ferns. I guess we all have our preferences. I put the tape recorder where it had been, replaced the lid on the box, and marked it with a big X. I’d chat with Ruthie and explain why I wasn’t returning it. Even a decade later, Byrd-Shine business was confidential. The contents should either be shredded or permanently consigned to my care.

I did a cursory search of another five boxes before I lost heart. Dietz was right. I wasn’t getting paid, so why bust my butt? I suppose I’d been hoping to find a fat manila envelope filled with spare cash, but apparently among the treasures Pete clung to, money wasn’t one. It wasn’t noon yet, but I was hungry. I was also grubby enough that I longed for another shower. There’s something about used paper and old storage containers that leaves you feeling chalky around the edges. I trotted myself up the spiral stairs, stripped down, and started my day all over again, emerging from the hydrotherapy feeling happier. I swapped out my sooty jeans for fresh and pulled on a clean turtleneck. I knew Rosie’s would be open for lunch, so I grabbed my shoulder bag and a denim jacket and headed out. I was in the process of locking my door when I spotted William out of the corner of my eye.

He was sitting bolt upright in an Adirondack chair, wearing his customary three-piece suit, starched white dress shirt, and a dark tie, carefully knotted. He had his face tilted up to absorb the October sunshine, and his hands rested on the cane he’d propped between his highly polished wingtip shoes.

“Hey, William. What are you doing out here?”

“I came to visit Ed.”

“Is he here?”

William opened his eyes and looked around. “He was a minute ago.”

We both did a quick survey, but there was no cat to be seen.

“Where’s Henry? I’m assuming you’ve met his houseguest.”

“Anna’s your cousin, isn’t she?”

“A cousin of sorts. She lives in Bakersfield unless she’s decided on a permanent change of residency. I take it they’re off someplace.”

“A beauty-supply shop. They’ll be back in a bit. You don’t care for her?”

“I don’t. Thanks to her I got stuck with a huge bar bill and then she tried bumming a ride with me. I had no intention of driving her down here so what does she do? She takes a bus and now she’s moved in next door. Don’t you think that’s pushy?”

“Very. I don’t like pushy people.”

“Neither do I.”

I pulled over a lightweight aluminum lawn chair and sat down next to him. “How’s your back doing these days?”

“Better. I appreciate your concern. Henry’s bored with the subject and Rosie thinks I’m faking it,” he said. “Actually, now that I have you here, there’s something we ought to chat about.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I just returned from a visitation and service at Wynington-Blake.” His tone had shifted at the mention of the mortuary.

“I’m sorry. Was this for a friend of yours?”

“No, no. I never met the man. I came across his obituary while I was waiting for my last physical therapy appointment. Gentleman named Hardin Comstock. Ninety-six years old and he was allotted one line. No mention of his parents or his place of birth. Not a word about hobbies or what he’d done for a living. It’s possible there was no one left to provide the information.”

“Who paid for the funeral?”

“He took care of his own expenses before he passed. I admired his forethought. I think he might have hired a small band of professional mourners. There were three people there who didn’t seem to know each other, let alone the man to whom they were paying their respects. Tastefully done, I must say, except for the inclusion of that unfortunate hymn, “Begone Unbelief.” Never cared for that one. Rhyming the word ‘wrestle’ with ‘vessel’ strikes me as unseemly.”

“Well, yeah.”

“I was the only other visitor, so I felt obliged to sing along. When I came to the word ‘wrestle,’ I hummed instead. I couldn’t help myself. I hope you don’t think I was out of line.”

“Well within your rights. No question. Entirely up to you,” I said.

“Thank you, though that’s not what I wanted to discuss.”

“Ah.”

“After the service, your friend Mr. Sharonson took me aside, expressing his concern that you hadn’t yet met with him to discuss arrangements for your family member.”

“Family member?”

“Terrence Dace.”

“Oh, Dace. Oh, him. I’m sorry, I drew a blank. I was focused on Hardin Comstock and the reference threw me. I did have Dace’s body transported from the coroner’s office, but that’s as much as I’ve done. I’m postponing decisions until I hear from his kids, which might get tricky. It’s hard to say at this point.”

“As I understand it, that’s why Anna’s here. To help with the arrangements.”

“That’s just an excuse.”

William said, “Nonetheless, I’d like to offer my assistance. I have years of experience in planning the formalities. Visitation in advance and graveside services as well. A modest reception afterward would be nice.”

“I appreciate the offer. Anna won’t lift a finger, but when the time comes, we’ll chat.”

“Excellent. I understand there’s a second chap.”

“A second one? I don’t think so.”

“This fellow, Felix. Wasn’t he a friend of yours?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’ll pay to bury him. I’ve got my hands full as it is.”

William blinked in puzzlement. “Perhaps I’m mistaken. Terrence Dace was your cousin. Isn’t that correct?”

“Something of the sort.”

“As I understand it, Terrence and this Felix fellow were inseparable.”

I could feel uneasiness creeping up my spine. “I wouldn’t go that far. I mean, I don’t think they were close. They were both homeless and hung out at the beach, so they knew each other, but that’s about it.”

“I’m sure they’d take comfort in being together now that they’re . . .” William raised a finger and pointed heavenward.

I looked up, thinking he’d spotted the cat on a branch above our heads. When I caught his meaning, I made a face. “You’re picturing a double feature; two for the price of one.”

“If you care to think of it that way.”

I put my hand across my forehead, like I was coming down with something. “Oh, man. This is all a bit much. Let me give it some thought, okay? Dace I can accept, but I knew Felix a week and a half and I don’t think I’m responsible for his remains.”

“If the county buries him, you know it will be a miserable affair.”

“Probably.”

“Good we agree on that point. I’ll put together my suggestions before we meet again. I’m sure we can fashion a program satisfactory to everyone.”

• • •

I abandoned the idea of Rosie’s and retreated to my studio, undone by the sudden prospects of tandem funerals. During the conversation with William, I hadn’t heard my phone ring, but as I closed the door behind me, I saw the message light winking on my answering machine. I turned on my desk lamp and took a seat. I pressed play and listened to my outgoing recorded greeting, wishing I didn’t sound quite so adenoidal.

A young-sounding fellow said, “Hi, Kinsey. Sorry I missed you. This is Drew from the car wash. Wonder of wonders. My friend finally paid me back, so I’m flush. Give me a call and we’ll see what we can work out.”

He recited his number.

I had no idea who he was or what he was talking about. Sounded like an anonymous drug deal gone wrong except he’d used my first name and I don’t do drugs. Okay, except for NyQuil when I have a cold, but that’s commercially marketed and doesn’t count. What car wash? What money? I listened to the message a second time and comprehension dawned. The guy at the car wash . . . oh, that guy. Drew was the one who’d admired my Boss 429 a lifetime ago. When I’d offered to sell the car for the five grand I paid, he expressed interest, but I hadn’t taken him seriously. I still hoped to get rid of the car, but not just now. In order to off-load the Mustang, I’d have to line up another vehicle, which might take weeks. You don’t just run out and buy the first car that catches your fancy. That’s how I’d acquired the Mustang and look what a dumb move that was.

I tried Drew’s number, which was busy. I left the scratch pad in plain sight to remind myself to try him again.

I peered out of the window. William still sat in the sun, his head back, his eyes closed, this time with Ed on his lap. The cat stood and stared into William’s face intently, perhaps mistaking him for dead. I was praying nobody else would die or I’d have three funerals on my hands. To appease my jangled sensibilities, I made myself another hot hard-boiled-egg sandwich with a line of mayonnaise so thick it looked like a slice of cheese. The copious amounts of salt I shook onto the mayonnaise glistened like artificial snow. I knew if I’d gone to Rosie’s right then, I’d have ordered a glass of wine just to settle my nerves. As often as I thought of Dace, I kept forgetting he was dead. Not only dead, but related to me and I was charged with his care. In the “olden” days when I longed for family—which I’d now thoroughly repented—I always pictured living persons instead of the other kind. Now I had some of each.

I finished lunch and put a call through to the service station to inquire about my tire. The attendant seemed surprised to hear from me and it was clear he’d forgotten. Happily, the mechanic in the service bay had taken care of it. I drove the four blocks and read a comic book while the newly repaired tire was swapped out for the spare. While the mechanic was at it, he insisted on rotating and balancing the tires, a process I had little patience with but endured nonetheless.

When I got home, I scurried through the backyard like a thief, unlocking my door in haste. It would only be a matter of time before Anna came knocking on my door, trying to con me out of who knows what.

I settled on the sofa with a book, pausing to peek out the window now and then to see if William was still there. For a while he remained, making notes on the back of an envelope. The afternoon stretched on. When I found myself sliding down on the sofa, I pulled a quilt over me for warmth. For unpaid time off, due to lack of work, this was close to perfect. All the comforts of home and it wasn’t costing me a cent. Next thing I knew, I’d drifted off to sleep.

Of course I didn’t hear from Dietz. I couldn’t believe he was so clueless when it came to his son. I’ve never even had a kid and I still had a better sense of what was going on. It was natural for Nick to be territorial. Not that there was any reason to be alarmed. Dietz and I were not an item. In the ebb and flow of our relationship, the tide was usually going out. I’d thought of Dietz as a gadabout, a freewheeling soul whose ties were few and whose life was his own. But nobody with kids can evade the commitment indefinitely. Dietz had lived as though he had no one to answer to. Naomi had stepped into the breach for him and filled the parenting role. Now that she was gone, he was “it.” Apparently, he hadn’t twigged to the fact that Nick and Graham would be looking to him for guidance, companionship, and spare cash. For the first time in all the years I’d known him—five by my count—I saw Dietz as a man with baggage. In the singles world, “baggage” is a dirty word, denoting ex-wives, double mortgages, spousal support, writs, liens, offspring of all ages, split-vacation time, alternating holidays, family-counseling sessions, attorneys’ fees, PTA conferences, private schools, college tuition, accusations, court appearances, and vicious spats on every conceivable subject, including any new relationship the offending parent was engaged in that the other parent objected to.

In my brief fling with Jonah Robb I’d had a taste of this. I was relegated to the wings, a peripheral character in the play that he and his wife/ex-wife had produced, cast, and starred in from seventh grade until the present. I’d bowed out in short order, smart enough to realize I’d never count for anything where he and Camilla were concerned. Let’s not even talk about his two girls, whose names I still had trouble remembering. Courtney might have been one. This new development with Dietz didn’t bode well for anyone. Nick had figured that out the first time he laid eyes on me.

It wasn’t until after dark that I roused myself, brushed my teeth, doused my flattened hair with water, and ventured out. I couldn’t help but check Henry’s house, where I could see lights on in his kitchen, his back bedroom windows aglow as well. I should have warned him about Anna, but how did I know she’d show up unannounced?

I headed for Rosie’s. I knew William would be tending bar, but I didn’t think he’d raise the subject of any postlife ceremonials as long as she was nearby. Rosie has no patience for his fascination with the festive aspects of our mortality. As I pushed the door open, I spotted her sitting at one of the tables near the back, getting her nails done. Anna had brought her manicure supplies, which she’d spread across the Formica surface: buffers, emery boards, files, cuticle scissors, and bottles of nail polish. Was that why she and Henry had gone to the beauty-supply place? She was already taking scandalous advantage of him. Rosie’s hands rested on a fresh white towel, a reservoir of warm soapy water nearby. She seemed pleased with the attention, sending me a shy smile in behalf of this lovely relative of mine.

Fine, I thought. Far be it from me to say a word. They’d all have to figure it out for themselves.

I slid into my usual back booth, which was much too close to Anna’s “work station.”

She turned sulky at the sight of me. “I’m earning a living here if it’s all the same to you,” she said.

“What a refreshing change,” said I, in response.

When Rosie’s nails were done, she got up and sidled in my direction. Her garish pink polish was still drying, so she couldn’t use her order pad. She blew on her nails from time to time while she dictated the dinner fare. This is what I ate through no desire of my own. Paprikás Ponty (paprika carp, in case you hadn’t heard) with a side of sweet-and-sour cabbage. Also, a dish made with onion, green peppers, tomatoes, and a tablespoon of sugar, tossed together and fried in a dollop of lard. Oh, boy. I was just cleaning sauce from my plate, using the crust of one of Henry’s homemade rolls, when I looked up and saw Cheney Phillips coming in the door. He made a quick visual survey and when he spotted me sitting in the back booth he headed in my direction. Now what, I thought.

Anna had packed her equipment and she was reaching for her jacket when she caught sight of him. Cheney Phillips was, no doubt, the first Santa Teresa stud she’d clapped eyes on. She sat down again.

He slid in across from me. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“No reason in particular. Your name came up in conversation today. I was in the neighborhood so I stopped by. You look good.”

“Thanks. So do you.” I glanced at Anna, who was looking at Cheney as though she’d like to nibble him around the edges. I was hoping he wouldn’t catch sight of those blue eyes of hers, not to mention the boobs.

Rosie appeared at the table, order pad in hand. She’s irresistibly drawn to attractive men, and while she’s wildly flirtatious she’d never look one in the eye. She made sure her newly polished nails were handsomely displayed while she kept her gaze pinned on mine. “Your friend would care for liquid refreshment, perhaps?” Her Hungarian accent was particularly pronounced that night.

I looked at Cheney. “Are you working or do you want a drink?” I said by way of translation. There was no question about what she’d asked, but I knew she’d appreciate my intercession.

Cheney said, “Ask her if she has Dreher Bak or Ko˝bányai Világos.”

Rosie waited patiently until I repeated his request and then said, “Is good. Preference is excellent and I’m bringing Ko˝bányai Világos.”

I said, “Why don’t you give Anna a plate of Paprikás Ponty. I think she’d enjoy it. My treat.”

Rosie said, “For the lovely Anna, is good.”

As she glided away, Cheney smiled, showing a flash of white teeth. I hadn’t seen him recently and I looked at him with an air of detachment. His hair was in need of a cut. He was clean-shaven and smelled of soap, which I’m always a sucker for. He wore a caramel-colored turtleneck under the sort of sport coat you want to reach out and touch. The fabric looked like suede and the color was a smoky chocolate brown. I know it’s very naughty to compare one man to the next, but with Dietz lurking in the background, I couldn’t help myself. If Jonah Robb had wandered in just then, I’d have found myself in range of the three men I’d slept with in the last six years. I’m not at all promiscuous. Far from it. I’m largely celibate, which is not to say I’m immune from temptation. Technically speaking, with three guys, that’s only one every other year, but it still seemed alarming for someone with my old-fashioned values and a well-developed self-protective streak.

At least I could see tangible evidence of my taste in men. While the three of them looked nothing alike, they were smart guys, good souls, competent, well seasoned, and knowledgeable. All of us were involved in law enforcement to one extent or another—Cheney and Jonah more so than Dietz and me. Temperamentally, we were all compatible—competitive, but good-natured enough that we could have formed a bowling team or played a few hands of bridge, assuming any of us knew how.

Rosie reappeared and placed a paper coaster on the table, then set a freezer-chilled clear glass mug in the center. She placed a beer bottle beside the mug. “Does your friend want I should pour?”

“Tell her thanks. I’ll take care of it.”

“He appreciates the offer,” I said to her. “He says it’s kind of you to ask.”

“Is no worry. Anytime is happy to be of assistance.”

Cheney said, “I got that.”

I watched while he tilted the bottle against the edge and filled the mug with a tawny brew.

Rosie was still waiting.

“He says he’ll take you up on it sometime and thanks so much,” I said.

She told me he was welcome and I passed the news along. When she’d departed for the second time, he paused long enough to sample the beer, which seemed to meet with his approval.

I said, “Bullshit aside, what brings you here?”

“I got a call from Ruth Wolinsky. She tells me you and your friend Dietz are interested in Pete’s clientele.”

“That’s because Pete stiffed Dietz for three grand. We were hoping he had money coming in that hadn’t surfaced yet. So far, no such luck. What’s the story on the shooting?”

“Ballistics says there were two guns at the scene, neither of which was found.”

“Ruthie told me Pete had two guns.”

“He had a Glock 17 and a Smith and Wesson Escort registered in his name. The S-and-W was locked in the trunk of his car. No sign of the Glock. Ruth says he was never without the two. In his bed table drawer we found a shitload of nine-millimeter ammo that matched the slug that killed him. It looks like Pete was shot with his own gun.”

“I take it you weren’t referring to the S-and-W when you mentioned a second gun.”

“Nope. There was one stray casing, a forty-five caliber, which suggests he and his assailant were both armed and probably struggled for control. The slug was buried in the dirt to one side of the path. All in all, four shots were fired—three from the Glock and one from the forty-five.”

“With his watch and his wallet missing, you think the robber stole his gun as well?”

“Took it or tossed it. We had guys in wet suits wading the lagoon. Water’s shallow for a distance of fifteen feet or so before the bottom falls away. Mud and algae are such that visibility is zilch. We also did a grid search of the surrounding terrain. Location of the two guns may be a function of how well the guy could throw, unless he took them with him.”

“What about Pete’s car keys?”

“In his pocket. We dusted the Fairlane inside and out, but the only prints we identified were his. The shooter might have been reluctant to add grand theft auto to his other offenses.”

“Any chance Pete knew him?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. There were no eyewitnesses and no one heard the shots. Not to speak ill of the dead, but Pete was a bit of a shady character.”

“No need to tell me. I notice I’m feeling more charitable, but that’s because I feel sorry for his wife.”

“I’m with you,” he said. “So what’s this I hear about you and some homeless guy? Is the last name Dace?”

“Randall Terrence Dace. Turns out we’re cousins—fourth, once removed, by marriage—one of those.” I decided not to mention the proximity of his youngest child. If Cheney so much as glanced in her direction, she’d gallop over and fling herself onto his lap, the better to slurp him.

“What happened to him?”

“He drank heavily for years. He was also hooked on prescription meds. When he died, he was fifty-three years old and he looked like an old man. When I saw him at the morgue I had no idea we were related. Turns out I’m his sole heir and executor of his estate.”

“That ought to keep you hopping.”

“Actually, it has. The man left me half a million bucks.”

Casually, Cheney leaned forward. “Are you dating anyone?”

I laughed and he had the good grace to look sheepish.

“That came out wrong. No connection. I was just wondering,” he said.

Robert Dietz popped to mind, but I didn’t know what to make of him. Were we on again or off?

“That’s a tough one,” I said. “I’ll have to think about it and let you know.”

I watched Anna’s departure without moving my head. No point in calling attention to her when Cheney had just declared himself. I kept him company for an additional half hour just in case she was lurking outside.