J Is for Judgment Read online

  "She's going to love that," I said.

  "Is there anything specific you want her to do in the meantime, Gordon ?"

  Titus sent me a chilly smile. "I'm sure she'll think of something." He looked at his watch as a signal that we were dismissed.

  Mac went into his office, which was two doors down. There was no sign of Vera. I chatted briefly with Darcy Pascoe, the CF receptionist, and then I went back to Lonnie's office, where I took care of odds and ends. I picked up messages, opened mail, sat on my swivel chair, and swiveled for a while, hoping for inspiration about where I should go next. In the absence of a great idea, I tried the only other action item that occurred to me.

  I put in a call to Lieutenant Whiteside at the police department, asking him if I could have the telephone number of Lieutenant Harris Brown, who'd worked on the case when Wendell first disappeared. Jonah Robb had told me Brown had since retired, but he might have information. "Do you think he'd be willing to talk to me?" I asked.

  "I have no idea, but I'll tell you what," he said. "His telephone's unlisted, and I wouldn't want to give it to you unless I had his okay. When I can find a minute, I'll give him a call. If he's interested, I'll have him get in touch with you."

  "Great. That'd be fine. I'd appreciate the contact." I hung up the phone and made a note to myself. If I didn't hear in two days, I'd try calling back. I wasn't sure the man would be any help, but you never knew. Some of those old cops loved nothing better than to reminisce. He might have suggestions about places Wendell might be holing up. In the meantime, what? I went back to the Xerox machine and ran off several dozen copies of the flier with Wendell's photograph. I'd added my name and telephone number in a box at the bottom, indicating my interest in the man's whereabouts.

  I filled my gas tank and hit the road again, heading back to Perdido, I cruised past Dana's house, did a U-turn at the intersection, and Dulled into a parking place across the street. I began a door-to-door canvass, moving patiently from house to house. I worked my way down the block, leaving a flier in the screen door if there was no one home. On Dana's side of the street many couples apparently worked, because the houses were dark and there were no cars in the drive. When I found someone home, the conversations all seemed to share the same boring elements. "Hello," I would say, quickly trying to work in my message Before I could be mistaken for a salesperson. "I wonder if you might give me some help. I'm a private investigator, working to locate a man we think might be in the area. Have you seen him recently?" I would hold up the artist's composite of Wendell Jaffe, waiting without much hope while the person's gaze moved across his features.

  Much mental scratching of chins. "No, now I don't think so. No, ma' am. What was it the man did? I hope you re not telling me he's dangerous."

  "Actually, he's wanted for questioning in a fraud investigation.

  Hand cupped behind the ear. "What's that?"

  I would raise my voice. "Do you remember a couple of real estate developers a few years back? They had a company called CSL Investments and they put together syndicates –"'

  "Oh, my Lord, yes. Well, of course I remember them. The one fellow killed himself and the other one went to jail."

  On and on it went, with no one contributing any fresh information.

  Across the street from Dana and about six doors down, I had better luck. I knocked on the door of a house identical to hers, same model, same exterior, dark gray with white trim. The man who answered was in his early sixties, wearing shorts, a flannel shirt, dark socks, and an incongruous pair of wingtips. His gray hair was all abristle, and he wore a pair of half-glasses at the mid-point on his septum, peering at me blue-eyed above the smudged surface of his lenses. A mask of white whiskers covered the lower part of his face, a possible refusal to shave more than twice a week. He was narrow through the shoulders, and his posture seemed stooped, a curious combination of elegance and defeat. Maybe the hard-soled shoes were a holdover from his former occupation. I was guessing salesman or a stock-broker, someone who spent his life in a three-piece suit.

  "What can I do for you?" he said, the question intended more for efficiency than any real assistance.

  "I wonder if you could help me. Are you acquainted with Mrs. Jaffe, from across the street?"

  "The one whose boy's been screwing up? We know the family," he said cautiously. "What's he done now? Or what hasn't he done might be the better question in this case."

  "This is actually about his father."

  There was a silence. "I thought he was dead."

  "That's what everybody thought until recently. Now we have reason to believe he's alive and possibly returning to California. This is an updated likeness along with my business number. I'd appreciate a call if you should spot him in the area." I held the flier out, and he took it.

  "Well, I'll be damned. It's always something with that bunch," he said. I watched his gaze trace a triangle from the photograph of Wendell to Dana's house down the street and then back to my face. This is probably none of my business, but what's your connection to the Jaffes? Are you a relative?"

  "I'm a private investigator working for the company that wrote the policy on Wendell Jaffe's life."

  "Is that right," he said. He cocked his head. "Why don't you come on in a second? I wouldn't mind hearing this."

  Chapter 10

  * * *

  I hesitated for just a second, and a smile creased his face.

  "Don't worry about it. I'm not the boogey man. My wife's on the premises, pulling weeds in the garden. Both of us work at home in one capacity or another. If anybody's going to spot Mr. Jaffe, it's most likely us. What's your name again?" He backed into the hallway, motioning for me to follow.

  I moved across the threshold behind him. "Kinsey Millhone. Sorry. I should have introduced myself. That's my name there at the bottom of the flier." I held my hand out, and we shook.

  "Good to meet you. Don't worry about it. Jerry Irwin. My wife's name is Lena. She saw you bumping doors across the street. I got a study in the back. She can bring us coffee, if you like."

  "None for me, thanks."

  "She's going to love this," he said. "Lena? Hey, Lena!"

  We reached his study, a small room paneled in a light veneer, scored and pockmarked to look like knotty pine. An L-shaped desk occupied most of the space, the walls lined with floor-to ceiling metal shelves. "Let me see if I can find her. Have a seat," he said. He headed off down the hall, moving toward the back door.

  I sat down on a metal folding chair and did a quick check of my surroundings, trying to get a feel for Irwin in his absence. Computer, monitor, and keyboard. Lots of floppy disks neatly filed. Open banker's boxes filled with some kind of color illustrations, segregated by sheets of cardboard. A low metal bookshelf to the right of the desk held numerous heavy volumes with titles I couldn't read. I leaned closer, squinting. Burke's General Armory, Armorial General Rietstap, New Dictionary of American Family Names, Dictionary of Surnames, Dictionary of Heraldry. I could hear him hollering out into the backyard and moments later the sound of conversation as the two moved toward the study where I was waiting. I sat back in the chair, trying to look like a woman unconsumed by nosiness. I stood up as they entered, but Mrs. Irwin shooed me onto my seat again. Her husband tossed the flier on his desk and moved around to his chair.

  Lena Irwin was petite and on the plump side for her height, dressed for gardening in Japanese farmer's pants and a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She'd pinned up her gray hair, damp tendrils escaping from various combs and barrettes. The spattering of freckles across her broad cheekbones suggested that her hair might have been red once upon a time. Her prescription sunglasses sat like a bow across her head. Having come in from digging, she had nails that looked as if she'd just had a set of French tips done in dirt. Her handshake was faintly gritty, and her eyes raked my face with interest. "I'm Lena. How're you?"

  "I'm fine. Sorry to interrupt your gardening," I said.

  Her wave was c
areless. "Garden's not going anyplace. I was glad to take a break. That sun out there is murder. Jerry mentioned this business about the Jaffes."

  "Wendell Jaffe in particular. Did you know him?"

  "We knew of him," Lena said.

  Jerry spoke up. "We know her to speak to, though we tend to keep our distance. Perdido's a small town, but we were still surprised when we heard she'd moved in over there. She used to live in a nicer area. Nothing fancy, but better than this one by a long shot."

  "Of course, we always thought she was a widow."

  "So did she," I said. I gave a quick synopsis of the rumored change in Dana Jaffe's marital status. "Did Jerry show you the picture?"

  "Yes, but I haven't had a chance to study it."

  Jerry straightened the flier on his desk, lining up the page with the bottom edge of his blotter. "We read about Brian in the papers. What a mess that boy's made. We see police over there every time we turn around."

  Lena interjected a change of subject. "Would you like a cup of coffee or some lemonade? Won't take but a minute."

  "I better not," I said. "I have a lot of ground to cover yet. I'm trying to get these fliers out in case Wendell puts in an appearance."

  "Well, we'll certainly keep an eye out. This close to the freeway, we get a lot of cars through here, especially during rush hour with people looking for a shortcut. The southbound off ramp's just a block in that direction. We have a little strip mall down the street, so we get foot traffic, too."

  Lena added her comment, cleaning dirt away from her cuticles. "I run a little bookkeeping business from my office up front, so I'm sitting near a window several hours a day. We don't miss much, as you can probably tell. Well, now. I'm glad we had a chance to meet. I better finish up out back and get some work done since I mentioned it."

  "I'll be on my way, then, but I'd sure appreciate the help."

  She walked me as far as the front steps, a copy of the flier and my business card in hand. "I hope you don't mind my getting personal, but your first name's unusual. Do you know the origin?"

  "Kinsey is my mother's maiden name. I guess she didn't want to lose it, so she passed it on to me."

  "The reason I ask is that's what Jerry's been doing since he took early retirement. He researches names and family crests."

  "I gathered as much. The name is English, I think."

  "And what's the story on your parents? Do they live here in Perdido?"

  "Both died years ago in an accident. They lived up in Santa Teresa, but they've been gone now since I was five."

  She pulled her glasses down from her head, giving me a long look above the half-moon of bifocal lenses. "I wonder if your mother was related to Burton Kinsey's people up in Lompoc."

  "Not as far as I know. I don't remember any mention of a name like that."

  She studied my face. "Because you look an awful lot like a friend of mine who's a Kinsey by birth. She has a daughter just about your age, too. What are you thirty-two?"

  "Thirty-four," I said. "But I don't have any family left. My only close relative was my mother's sister, who died ten years back."

  "Well, there's probably no connection; but I just; thought I'd ask. You ought to have Jerry check his files. ; He has over six thousand names in his computer program. He could research the family crest and run off a copy for you."

  "Maybe I'll do that the next time I'm down. It sounds interesting." I tried to picture the Kinsey family crest emblazoned on a royal banner. I could probably mount it near the suit of armor in the great hall antechamber. Might be the perfect touch on those special occasions when one hopes to impress.

  "I'll tell Jerry to do the research," she said, having made up her mind. "This is not genealogy... he doesn't trace anybody's family tree. What he gives you is information about the derivation of the surname."

  "Don't have him go to any trouble," I said.

  "It's no trouble. He enjoys it. We work the art show up in Santa Teresa every Sunday afternoon. You ought to stop by and see us. We have a little booth near the wharf."

  "Maybe I'll do that. And thanks for your time."

  "Happy to be of help. We'll keep an eye out for you."

  "That's great, and please don't hesitate to call if you see anything suspicious."

  "We surely will." I gave her a quick wave and then moved down the porch steps. I heard the door close behind me as she went back inside.

  By the time I'd distributed fliers up and down the block, a locally owned moving company with a bright red van had arrived at Dana's house and two burly guys were in the process of angling a box spring down the stairs. The screen door was propped open, and I could see them struggle with the turn. Michael was pitching in, probably in an effort to speed the process and thus cut costs. A young woman I guessed to be Michael's wife, Juliet, wandered out of the house from time to time, the baby on her hip. She'd stand out in the grass, in a pair of white shorts, rocking and jiggling the baby while she watched the movers work. The garage doors were open, a yellow VW convertible parked on one side, the backseat piled high with the sorts of odds and ends no one wants to trust to the movers. There was no sign of Dana's car, and I had to guess she was out running errands.

  I unlocked my car door and slid onto the driver's seat, where I busied myself. No one seemed to pay any attention to me, too busy loading furniture to notice what I was doing. Within an hour the truck had been packed with whatever furniture the couple was taking with them. Michael, Juliet, and the baby got into the VW and backed out of the driveway. When the van pulled away from the curb, Michael fell in behind it. I waited a few minutes and joined the motorcade myself, keeping several car lengths between us. Michael must have known a shortcut because I soon lost track of him. Fortunately, the van wasn't hard to spot on the highway up ahead. We drove north on 101, passing two off ramps. The truck took the third, turning right, and then left on Calistoga Street, proceeding into a section of Perdido known as the Boulevards. The van finally slowed, pulling into the curb just as the VW appeared from the opposite direction.

  The house they were moving into looked as if it had been built in the twenties: rosy-beige stucco exterior with a tiny porch and a patchy front yard. The window trim had been done in a darker shade of rose with a tiny rim of azure. I'd been in half a dozen, houses just like it. The interior couldn't have been much more than nine hundred square feet: two bedrooms, one bath, living room, kitchen, and a small utility room in the rear. There was a cracked concrete driveway to the right of the house, a two-car garage visible in the rear, with what looked like a bachelor apartment above.

  The movers began to unload the truck. If they noticed my presence, they gave no indication of it. I made a note of the house number and the street before I fired up my engine and returned to Dana's. I had no compelling reason to talk to her again, but I needed her cooperation, and I was hoping to establish a rapport of some kind. I caught her just as she was turning into her drive. She parked the car in the garage, assembling some parcels before she opened the car door. The minute she spotted me, I could see the color tint her cheeks. She slammed her car door, emerged from the garage, and crossed the grass in my direction. She was wearing tight jeans, an old T-shirt, and tennis shoes, her hair held back by a blue-and-white cotton scarf that she had tied around her head. The assorted paper bags in her arms seemed to crackle with her agitation. "What are you doing back here again? I consider this harassment."

  "Well, it's not," I said. "We're trying to get a line on Wendell and you're the logical place to start."

  Her voice had dropped, and her eyes were glittering with rage and determination. "I will call you if I see him. In the meantime, if you don't stay away from me, I will notify my attorney."

  "Dana, I'm not your enemy. I'm just trying to do a job. Why don't you help me? You're going to have to deal with the issue sometime. Tell Michael what's going on. Tell Brian, too. Otherwise I'm going to have to step in and tell them myself. We need your help on this."

  Her nose sudd
enly reddened and a fiery triangle formed around her mouth and chin. Tears leapt into her eyes and she pressed her lips together, sealing back her rage. "Don't tell me what to do. I can handle this myself."

  "Look. Can we talk about this inside?" I saw her glance at the houses across the street. Without a word she turned and proceeded toward the front door, pulling keys from her shoulder bag. I followed her through the entrance and closed the front door behind us.

  "I have work to do." She dumped her parcels and handbag on the bottom step and went up the stairs toward the second-floor bedrooms. I hesitated, watching her until she disappeared from view. She hadn't said I couldn't join her. I took the stairs two at a time, peering right at the landing until I located the empty master suite that Michael and his wife had apparently just vacated. There was a canister vacuum cleaner outside the door, cord neatly retracted, cleaning tools still attached. My guess was that Dana had left it there as a tangible suggestion, hoping someone would vacuum once the furniture had been moved. No one seemed to have taken her up on the offer. She was standing in the middle of the bedroom, surveying the premises, trying (I imagined) to figure out where to begin the cleanup. I eased into the doorway and leaned against the frame, trying not to disturb the fragile truce between us. She glanced over at me without any evidence of her earlier hostility.

  "Do you have children?"

  I shook my head.

  "This is what it looks like when they leave you," she said.

  The room was drab and empty. I could see a king-size square of clean carpet where the bed had been. There were stray coat hangers on the floor, and the wastebasket was jammed with last-minute discards. Nests of accumulated hair and fuzz rimmed the wall-to- wall carpeting. There was a broom leaning against the wall, a dustpan upright beside it. There was an ashtray on the windowsill, the brim filled with old cigarette butts, an empty, crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights balanced jauntily on top. Pictures were gone. I had to guess the young married couple was still at that stage of decorating where travel or rock posters were affixed to the walls with tape. I could see the patches left behind. The curtains were down. The windowpanes were lacquered with a gray film of cigarette smoke, and I guessed the glass hadn't been washed since the "kids" moved in. Even from a distance, Juliet didn't strike me as the sort who scrubbed the baseboards on her hands and knees.