J is for JUDGMENT Read online

  “I’m retired now, Miss Millhone. Time is all I’ve got. Unfortunately, I’m tied up this afternoon. Tomorrow’s fine if that suits.”

  “Looks good to me. What about lunch? Are you free by any chance?”

  “That’d be doable,” he said. “Where are you?”

  I gave him my office address.

  He said, “I’m out here in Colgate, but I have an errand in town. Is there someplace we can meet?”

  “Whatever’s convenient for you.”

  He suggested a large coffee shop on upper State, not the best place for food, but I knew we wouldn’t need reservations for lunch. r made a note on my calendar when I hung up the phone. On a whim, I tried Renata’s number.

  Two rings. She picked up.

  Oh, shit, I thought. “May I speak to Mr. Huff?”

  “He’s not here at the moment. Would you care to leave a message?”

  “Is this Mrs. Huff?”

  “Yes.”

  I tried a smile. “Mrs. Huff, this is Patty Kravitz with Telemarketing Incorporated? How are you today?”

  “Is this a sales pitch?”

  “Absolutely not, Mrs. Huff. I can guarantee it. We’re doing market research. The company I work for is interested in your leisure pursuits and discretionary spending. These forms are filed by number, so your answers are completely anonymous. In return for your cooperation, we have a nice prize already set aside.”

  “Oh, right. I bet.”

  Jesus, this lady wasn’t very trusting. I said, “It will only take five minutes of your valuable time.” Then I kept my mouth shut and let her work it out on her end.

  “All right, but make it brief, and if it turns out you’re selling something, I’m going to be annoyed.”

  “I understand that. Now, Mrs. Huff, are you single, married, divorced, or widowed?” I picked up a pencil and started doodling on a legal pad, thinking ahead frantically. What did I really hope to learn from her?

  “Married.”

  “And do you own or rent your home?”

  “What does this have to do with travel?”

  “I’m getting to that. Is this a primary or vacation residence?”

  Mollified. “Oh, I see. It’s primary.”

  “And how many trips have you taken in the past six months? None, one to three, or more than three?”

  “One to three.”

  “Of the trips taken in the past six months, what percentage were business?”

  “Look, would you just get to the point?”

  “Fine. No problem. We’ll just skip some of these. Do you or your husband have plans to travel any time in the next few weeks?

  Dead silence.

  I said, “Hello?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Actually, that brings us to the end of my questionnaire, Mrs. Huff,” I said, speaking rapidly and smoothly. “As a special thank-you, we’d like to provide you, at no cost, two round-trip tickets to San Francisco and two nights all expenses paid, at the Hyatt Hotel.

  Will your husband be home soon to accept the complimentary tickets? There’s absolutely no obligation on your part, but he will have to sign for them since the :, survey was in his name. Can I indicate to my supervisor ‘when you might like to have us drop those off?”

  “This is not going to work,” she said, her voice tinged with irritation. “We expect to be leaving town momentarily, as soon as… I’m not sure when he’ll be here and we’re not interested.” With a click, she disconnected.

  Shit! I banged the phone down on my end. Where was the man, and what was he up to that might “momentarily” motivate his departure from Perdido? Nobody’s heard from him. At least, nobody I knew of. I couldn’t believe he’d talked to Carl Eckert, unless he’d done so within the last half day. As nearly as I could tell, he hadn’t been in touch with Dana or Brian. I wasn’t sure about Michael. I’d probably have to check that out. What the hell was Wendell doing? Why would he come this close to his family without making contact? Of course, it was always possible he’d managed to talk to all three of them, and if that was the case, they were better liars than I was. Maybe it was time for the cops to put a tail on Renata Huff. And it might not hurt to run Wendell’s picture in the local papers. As long as he was running, we might as well sic the dogs on him.

  Meanwhile, come suppertime, I was going to have to make yet another trip to Perdido.

  Chapter 15

  *

  I set out for Perdido again after supper that evening. The drive was pleasant, the light at that hour a tawny yellow, gilding the south-facing mountain ridges in gold leaf. As I passed Rincon Point, I could still see surfers out in the water. Most were straddling their boards, rocking in the low swell, chatting while they waited, ever hopeful, for a wave. The surf was mild for the moment, but the weather map in the morning paper had showed an eastern Pacific hurricane off the California Baja, and there was talk that the storm system was moving up the coast. I noticed then that the horizon was rimmed with black clouds like a row of brushes, sweeping a premature darkness in our direction. The Rincon, with its rocky projection and its offshore shoals, seems to act like a magnet for turbulent weather.

  Rincon is the Spanish term for the cove formed by a land point projecting seaward. Here, the coastline is molded into a series of such indentations, and for a stretch, the ocean butts right up against the roadway. At high tide the waves erupt along the embankment, sending up a white wall of frustrated water. Beyond, on my left, fields of flowers had been cultivated on several terraces where the underlying earth was slumping toward the sea. The vibrant red, gold, and magenta of the zinnias glowed in the half-light as if illuminated from below. It was just after 7:00 when I left Highway 101 at Perdido Street. I sailed through the light at the intersection and crossed Main Street on a northbound path that cut through the Boulevards. I turned left at Median and pulled over to the curb about six houses down. Michael’s yellow VW bug was parked in the driveway. The windows along the front of the house were dark, but I could see lights on in the rear, where I imagined the kitchen and one of the two bedrooms.

  I knocked at the front door, waiting on the small front porch until Michael responded. He’d changed from his work clothes into stone-washed denim coveralls, the sort of outfit a plumber wears when he’s crawling under the house. Having so recently met Brian, I was struck by the similarities. One was blond, one brunette, but both had inherited Dana’s sultry mouth and fine features. Michael must have expected me because he evidenced no surprise at my standing on his doorstep.

  “Mind if I come in?”

  “If you want. Place is a mess.”

  “That’s all right,” I replied.

  I followed him through the house, moving toward the rear. The living room and the kitchen were still furnished with opened but largely unpacked moving cartons, clouds of crumpled newspaper boiling out of boxes onto the floor.

  Michael and Juliet had taken refuge in the larger of the two small bedrooms, a nine-by-twelve space dominated by a king-size bed and a big color television set currently tuned to a baseball game that I gathered was being played in Los Angeles. Pizza boxes, take-out cartons, and soft-drink cans were crowded together on the surface of the dresser and atop the chest of drawers. The whole place had the air of a hostage situation where the cops were sending in fast food to satisfy the terrorists’ demands. Everything was untidy, smelling of damp towels, french fries, cigarette smoke, and men’s athletic socks. There were wads of Pampers in the trash, a flip-top plastic waste bin with used diapers bulging out.

  Michael, his attention focused on the TV set, perched himself on the edge of the king-size bed, where Juliet was stretched out with a copy of Cosmopolitan. A half-filled ashtray rested on the spread beside her. She was barefoot, wearing short shorts and a fuchsia tank top. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen and had already dropped any excess weight she might have picked up during pregnancy. Her hair was chopped short, a crew cut cropped close around the ears in a styl
e the average man hasn’t worn for years. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have assumed she’d just joined the service and was off to boot camp. Her face was freckled, her blue eyes lined darkly with black, lashes beaded with mascara. Her upper lids were two-toned, blue and green. She wore big dangle earrings, jaunty hoops of pink plastic, apparently purchased to match her tank top. She set the magazine aside, visibly irritated by the volume on the TV set. The picture switched to a cheap-looking commercial for a local car dealership. The jingle blasting out sounded like it had been especially written by the wife of the company president. “God, Michael. Could you turn that fuckin’ thing down? What’s the matter with you, are you deaf or what?”

  Michael pushed the volume button on the remote control. The sound dropped to something slightly less than the levels required for ultrasonic brain surgery. Neither seemed to react to my arrival. I thought I could probably plop down on the bed and join them for the evening without attracting much notice. Juliet finally slid a look in my direction, and Michael made the formal introduction halfheartedly. “This is Kinsey Millhone. She’s the private detective looking for my dad.” With a nod at her, he added, “This’s my wife, Juliet.”

  I gave Juliet a murmured, “Hi, how are you?”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said her eyes already straying back to her magazine. I couldn’t help noticing that I was competing for her attention with an article about how to be a good listener. She felt for the pack of cigarettes lying near her on the bed. She explored with her index finger, picked up the pack, and peered in. She made a moue of exasperation when she realized it was empty. I found myself transfixed by the sight of her. With that marine corps haircut, she looked like a teenaged boy in eye shadow and dangle earrings. She nudged Michael with her foot. “I thought you said j you’re going up to the corner for me. I’m out of cigarettes and the baby needs Pampers. Could you make a run? Please, please, please?”

  On the television screen, baseball play was resuming.

  His sole function as a husband seemed to be fetching cigarettes and Pampers. I gave this marriage another ten months at best. By then she’d be bored with all these nights at home. Oddly enough, as young as Michael was, he struck me as the sort who could really make a go of it. Juliet was the one who’d be testy and petulant, opting out on her responsibilities until the relationship fell apart. Dana would probably end up taking care of the baby.

  Michael, his attention still riveted to the set, made a vague reply unattended by any actual move to get up, a fact not lost on her. He was fiddling with the Cottonwood Academy class ring his mother had given him, turning it around and around.

  “Mike-cull, if Brendan pees again, what am I supposed to do? I just used the last diaper.”

  “Hey, yeah, babe. Just a sec, okay?”

  Juliet’s face got all pouty and she rolled her eyes. He glanced back at her, sensing her irritation with him.

  “I can go in a minute. Is the baby asleep? Mom wanted her to see him.”

  Startled, I realized the “her” referred to me. Juliet swung her feet over to the side of the bed. “I don’t know. I can check. I just put him down a little while ago. He hardly ever goes to sleep with the TV so loud.” She got up and crossed the room, moving toward the narrow hallway between bedrooms. I followed, trying quickly to think of a generic baby compliment in case the kid turned out to have a pointy head.

  I said, “I better keep my distance. I don’t want him to catch my cold or anything.” Sometimes mothers actually wanted you to hold the little buggers.

  Juliet leaned around the door frame into the smaller of the two bedrooms. A wall of cardboard wardrobe cartons had been shoved into the room, all packed with heavily laden hangers dragging at the metal bars affixed across the tops. The baby’s crib had been placed in the center of this fortress of wrinkled cottons and winter clothing. Somehow I pictured the room looking just like this many months from now. It did seem quieter in this jungle of old overcoats, and I imagined in time Brendan would get used to the smell of mothballs and matted wool. One whiff in later life and he’d feel like Marcel Proust. I lifted up on tiptoe, looking over Juliet’s shoulder.

  Brendan was sitting bolt upright, his gaze pinned on the doorway as if he knew she’d come to fetch him. He was one of those exquisite babies you see in magazine ads: plump and perfect with big blue eyes, two little teeth showing in his lower gum, dimples in his cheeks. He was wearing blue flannel sleepers with rubber-soled feet, his arms held out on either side of his body for balance. His hands seemed to wave randomly like little digital antennae, picking up signals from the outside world. The minute he caught sight of Juliet, his face was wreathed in smiles and his arms began an agitated pumping motion, indicating much baby joy. Juliet’s face lost its sullen cast and she greeted him in some privately generated mother tongue. He blew bubbles, flirting and drooling. When she picked him up, he buried his face against her shoulder, bunching his knees up in a squirm of happiness. It was the only moment in recorded history when I found myself wishing I had a critter like that.

  Juliet was beaming. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

  “He’s pretty cute,” I said.

  “Michael doesn’t even try to pick him up these days,” she said. “This age, he’s suddenly very possessive of me. I swear, it just happened a week ago. He used to go right to his daddy without a murmur. Now if I’m about to hand him to anyone else? You ought to see his face. His mouth gets all puckery and his chin starts to tremble. And the wailing, my Lord. He’s so pitiful, it would break your heart. Dis little guy wuves his mudder,” Juliet went on.

  Brendan reached a plump hand forward and stuck some fingers in her mouth. She pretended to bite, which stimulated a low throaty I chuckle from the child in her arms. Her expression changed, nose wrinkling. “Oh, God, does he have a load in his drawers?” She stuck an index finger into the back rim of his diaper, peering into the gap. “Mike-cull?”

  “What?”

  She moved back toward the bedroom. “Would you just one time do like I ask? The baby pooped his pants and I’m out of Pampers. I told you that twice.”

  Michael got up obediently, his eyes still pinned to the television screen. Another commercial came on, and the shift seemed to break the spell.

  “Sometime tonight, okay?” she said, hefting the baby on one hip.

  Michael reached for his windbreaker, which he snatched from a pile of clothes on the floor. “I’ll be right back,” he said to no one in particular. As he hunched into his jacket, I realized it would be the perfect opportunity to talk to him.

  “Why don’t I go, too?” I said.

  “Fine with me,” he said with a look at Juliet. “You need anything else?”

  She shook her head, watching a crew of cartoon bite-‘ems demolish grunge from a dinner plate. I would have bet money she hadn’t gotten the hang of washing dishes yet.

  Once we were out on the street, Michael walked rapidly, head bent, hands in his jacket pockets. He was easily a foot taller, with a loose-limbed gait. The approaching storm had darkened the sky overhead, and a tropical breeze sent leaves scuttling along the gutters. The paper had warned that the system was weakening and would probably bring us little more than drizzle. The air was already turbulent, erratic, and humid, the sky charcoal blue where it should have been pale. Michael lifted his face, and the promise of rain seemed to buffet his cheeks.

  I found myself ,trotting to keep up with him. “Could you slow down a little bit?”

  “Sorry,” he said, and cut his pace by a third. The Stop ‘N’ Go was at the corner, maybe two blocks away. I could see the lights ahead of us, though the street itself was dark. Every third or fourth house we passed would have the porch lights on. Low-voltage lamps picked out the path of a front walk or an illuminated ornamental shrub. Supper smells still lingered in the chill night air: the aroma of baked potatoes and meat loaf with a barbecue sauce on top, oven-fried chicken, sweet-and-sour pork chops. I knew I’d already eaten supper, but I was hungry anywa
y. “I’m assuming you know your father might be heading back to town,” I said to Michael, trying to distract myself.

  “Mom told me that.”

  “You have any idea what you’ll do if he gets in touch?”

  “Talk to him, I guess. Why? What am I supposed to do?”

  “There’s still a warrant out for his arrest,” I said.

  Michael snorted. “Oh, great. Snitch on your dad. You haven’t seen him for years, first thing you do is call the cops.”

  “It does sound shitty, doesn’t it?”

  “Doesn’t just sound like that. It is.”

  “Do you remember much about him?”

  Michael lifted one shoulder. “I was seventeen when he left. I remember mom cried a lot and we got to stay home from school for two days. I try not to think about the rest of it. I tell you one thing, I used to think, ‘Hey, so my old man killed himself… what’s the big deal, you know? Then I had my son, and it changed my attitude. I couldn’t leave that little guy. I couldn’t do that to him, and now I wonder how Dad could have done it to me. What kind of turd is he, do you know what I mean? Me and Brian both. We were good kids, I swear.”

  “Sounds like Brian was devastated.”

  “Yeah, that’s true. Brian always acted like it didn’t matter, but I know he took it hard. Most of it rolled right offa me.”

  “Your brother was twelve?”

  “Right. I was a senior in high school. He was in the sixth grade. Kids are mean at that age.”

  “Kids are mean at any age,” I said. “Your mother r tells me Brian started getting into trouble about then.”

  “I guess.”

  “What sort of things did he do?”

  “I don’t know, petty stuff… skipping school, marking on the walls with spray paint, fistfights, but he was just messing around. He didn’t mean anything by it. I’m not saying it was right, but everybody made such a goddamn big deal out of it. Right away they’re treating him like a criminal or something, and he’s just a kid. Lot of boys that age get in trouble, you know what I mean? He was horsing around and he got caught. That’s the only difference. I did the same thing when I was his age and nobody called me a ‘juvenile delinquent.’ And don’t give me that junk about ‘a cry for help.’ “