D is for DEADBEAT Page 3

  “He still is.”

  “Oh, no. He’s out. He was released six weeks ago.”

  “John? No, ma’am. He’s still in prison and I hope he stays there. I don’t mean to speak ill of the man, but you’ll find he’s what I call a problematic person.”

  “Problematic?”

  “Well, yes. That’s how I’d have to put it. John is the type of person that creates problems and usually of a quite serious nature.”

  “Oh, really,” I said. “I didn’t realize that.” I loved it that this man was willing to chat. As long as I could keep him going, I might figure out how to get a bead on Daggett. I took a flyer. “Are you his brother?”

  “I’m his brother-in-law, Eugene Nickerson.”

  “You must be married to his sister then,” I said.

  He laughed. “No, he’s married to my sister. She was a Nickerson before she became a Daggett.”

  “You’re Lovella’s brother?” I was trying to picture siblings with a forty-year age span.

  “No, Essie’s.”

  I held the receiver away from my ear and stared at it. What was he talking about? “Wait a minute. I’m confused. Maybe we’re not talking about the same man.” I gave a quick verbal sketch of the John Daggett I’d met. I didn’t see how there could be two, but there was something going on here.

  “That’s him all right. How did you say you knew him?”

  “I met him last Saturday, right here in Santa Teresa.”

  The silence on the other end of the line was profound.

  I finally broke into it. “Is there some way I might stop by so we can talk about this?”

  “I think you’d best,” he said. “What would your name be?”

  “Kinsey Millhone.”

  He told me how to get to the place.

  The house was white frame with a small wooden porch, tucked into the shadow of Capillo Hill on the west side of town. The street was abbreviated, only three houses on each side before the blacktop petered out into the gravel patch that formed a parking pad beside the Daggett residence. Beyond the house, the hill angled upward into sparse trees and underbrush. No sunlight whatever penetrated the yard. A sagging chicken wire fence cut along the lot lines. Bushes had been planted at intervals, but had failed to thrive, so that now there were only globes of dried twigs. The house had a hangdog look, like a stray being penned up until the dogcatcher comes.

  I climbed the steep wooden steps and knocked. Eugene Nickerson opened the door. He was much as I had pictured him: in his sixties, of medium height, with wiry gray hair and eyebrows drawn together in a knot. His eyes were small and pale, his lashes nearly white. Narrow shoulders, thick waist, suspenders, flannel shirt. He carried a Bible in his left hand, his index finger closed between the covers, keeping his place.

  Uh-oh, I thought.

  “I’ll have to ask your name again,” he said as he admitted me. “My memory’s not what it was.”

  I shook his hand. “Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Nickerson. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

  “Not at all. We’re preparing for our Bible class. We usually get together on Wednesday nights, but our pastor has been down with the flu this week, so the meeting was postponed. This is my sister, Essie Daggett. John’s wife,” he said, indicating the woman seated on the couch. “You can call me Eugene if you like,” he added. I smiled briefly in assent and then concentrated on her.

  “Hello. How are you? I appreciate your letting me stop by like this.” I moved over and offered my hand. She allowed a few fingers to rest in mine briefly. It was like shaking hands with a Playtex rubber glove.

  She was broad-faced and colorless, with graying hair in an unbecoming cut and glasses with thick lenses and heavy plastic frames. She had a wen on the right side of her nose about the size of a kernel of popcorn. Her lower jaw jutted forward aggressively, with protrusive cuspids on either side. She smelled virulently of lilies of the valley.

  Eugene indicated that I should have a seat, my choice being the couch where Essie sat, or a Windsor chair with one of the wooden spokes popped out. I opted for the chair, sitting forward slightly so as not to pop anything else. Eugene seated himself in a wicker rocker that creaked under his weight. He took up the narrow purple ribbon hanging out of the Bible and marked his place, then set the book on the table in front of him. Essie had said nothing, her gaze fixed on her lap.

  “May I get you a glass of water?” he asked. “We don’t hold with caffeinated beverages, but I’d be happy to pour you some 7-Up, if you like.”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I said. I was seriously alarmed. Being with devout Christians is like being with the very rich. One senses that there are rules at work, some strange etiquette that one might inadvertently breech. I tried to hold bland and harmless thoughts, hoping I wouldn’t blurt out any four-letter words. How could John Daggett be related to these two?

  Eugene cleared his throat. “I was explaining to Essie this confusion we’re having over John Daggett’s whereabouts. Our understanding is that John is still incarcerated, but now you seem to have a different point of view.”

  “I’m as baffled as you are,” I said. I was thinking fast, wondering how much information I might elicit without giving anything away. As bugged as I was with Daggett, I still didn’t feel I should be indiscreet. Not only was there the issue of his being out on parole – there was Lovella. I didn’t want to be the one to spill the beans about this new bride of his to a woman he was apparently still married to. “Do you happen to have a picture of him?” I asked. “I suppose it’s possible the man I talked to was simply claiming to be your brother-in-law.”

  “I don’t know,” Eugene said, dubiously. “It surely sounded like him from what you described.”

  Essie reached over and picked up a color studio photograph in an ornate silver frame. “This was taken on our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary,” she said. Her voice had a nasal cast and a grudging undertone. She passed the photograph to her brother as though he’d never seen it before and might like to have a peek.

  “Shortly before John left for San Luis,” Eugene amended, passing the photo to me. His tone suggested John was off on a business trip.

  I studied the picture. It was Daggett all right, looking as selfconscious as someone in one of those booths where you dress up as a Confederate soldier or a Victorian gent. His collar looked too tight, his hair too slicked down with pomade. His face looked tight too, as if any minute he might cut and run. Essie was seated beside him, as placid as a blancmange. She was wearing what looked like a crepe de chine dress in lilac, with shoulder pads and glass buttons, a big orchid corsage pinned to her left shoulder.

  “Lovely,” I murmured, feeling guilty and false. It was a terrible picture. She looked like a bulldog and John looked like he was suppressing a fart.

  I handed the picture to Essie again. “What sort of crime did he commit?”

  Essie inhaled audibly.

  “We prefer not to speak of that,” Eugene interjected smoothly. “Perhaps you should tell us of your own acquaintance with him.”

  “Well, of course, I don’t know him well. I think I mentioned that on the phone. We have a mutual friend and he’s the one I was hoping to get in touch with. John mentioned that he had family in this area and I just took a chance. I’m assuming you haven’t spoken to him recently.”

  Essie shifted on the couch. “We stuck by him as long as we could. The pastor said in his opinion we’d done enough. We don’t know what John might be wrestling with in the dark of his soul, but there’s a limit to what others can take.” The edge was there in her voice and I wondered what it was made of: rage, humiliation perhaps, the martyrdom of the meek at the hands of the wretched.

  I said, “I gather John’s been a bit of a trial.”

  Essie pressed her lips together, clutching her hands in her lap. “Well, it’s just like the Bible says. ‘Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them
which despitefully use you and persecute you’!” Her tone was accusatory. She began to rock with agitation.

  Whoa, I thought, this lady’s heat gauge has shot right up into the red.

  Eugene creaked in his chair, snagging my attention with a gentle clearing of his throat. “You said you saw him on Saturday. May I ask what the occasion was?”

  I realized then that I should have devoted a lot more time to the fib I’d told because I couldn’t think how to respond, I was so unnerved by Essie Daggett’s outburst that my mind went blank.

  She leaned forward then. “Have you been saved?”

  “Excuse me, what?” I said, squinting.

  “Have you taken Jesus into your heart? Have you set aside sin? Have you repented? Have you been washed in the Blood of the Lamb?”

  A spark of spit landed on my face, but I didn’t dare react. “Not lately,” I said. What is it about me that attracts women like this?

  “Now Essie, I’m sure she didn’t come by to ponder the state of her soul,” Eugene said. He glanced at his watch. “My goodness, I believe it’s time for your medication.”

  I took the opportunity to rise. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time,” I said, conversationally. “I really appreciate your help on this and if I need any more information, I’ll give you a call.” I fumbled in my handbag for a business card and left it on the table.

  Essie had kicked into high gear by now. ” ‘And they shall stone thee with stones, and thrust thee through with their swords. And they shall burn thine houses with fire, and execute judgments upon thee in the sight of many women; and I will cause thee to cease from playing harlot, and thou also shall give no hire anymore…’”

  “Well, okay now, thanks a lot,” I called, easing toward the door. Eugene was patting Essie’s hands, too distracted to worry about my departure.

  I closed the door and trotted back to my car at a quick clip. It was getting dark and I didn’t like the neighborhood.

  Chapter 4

  *

  Friday morning I got up at 6:00 and headed over to the beach for my run. For much of the summer, I’d been unable to jog because of an injury, but I’d been back at it for two months and I was feeling good. I’ve never rhapsodized about exercise and I’d avoid it if I could, but I notice the older I get, the more my body seems to soften, like butter left out at room temp. I don’t like to watch my ass drop and my thighs spread outward like jodhpurs made of flesh. In the interest of tight-fitting jeans, my standard garb, I jog three miles a day on the bicycle path that winds along the beach front.

  The dawn was laid out on the eastern skyline like water-colors on a matte board: cobalt blue, violet, and rose bleeding together in horizontal stripes. Clouds were visible out on the ocean, plump and dark, pushing the scent of distant seas toward the tumbling surf. It was cold and I ran as much to keep warm as I did to keep in shape.

  I got back to my apartment at 6:25, showered, pulled on a pair of jeans, a sweater, and my boots, and then ate a bowl of cereal. I read the paper from front to back, noting with interest the weather map, which showed the radiating spiral of a storm sweeping toward us from Alaska. An 80 percent chance of showers was forecast for the afternoon, with scattered showers through the weekend, clearing by Monday night. In Santa Teresa, rain is not a common event, and it takes on a festive air when it comes. My impulse, always, is to shut myself inside and curl up with a good book. I’d just picked up a new Len Deighton novel and I was looking forward to reading it.

  At 9:00, reluctantly, I dug out a windbreaker and picked up my handbag, locked the apartment, and headed over to the office. The sun was shining with a brief show of warmth while the bank of charcoal clouds crept in from the islands twenty-six miles out. I parked in the lot and went up the back stairs, passing the glass double doors of California Fidelity, where business was already under way.

  I unlocked my office and dropped my bag on the chair. I really didn’t have much to do. Maybe I’d put in a little bit of work and then head home again.

  My answering machine showed no messages. I sorted through the mail from the day before and then typed up the notes from my visit with Lovella Daggett, Eugene Nickerson, and his sister, Essie. Since no one seemed to know where John Daggett was, I decided I’d try to get a line on Billy Polo instead. I was going to need data for an effective paper search. I put a call through to the Santa Teresa Police Department and asked to be connected to Sergeant Robb.

  I’d met Jonah back in June when I was working on a missing persons case. His erratic marital status made a relationship between us inadvisable from my point of view, but I still eyed him with interest. He was what they called Black Irish: dark-haired, blue-eyed, with (perhaps) a streak of masochism. I didn’t know him well enough to determine how much of his suffering was of his own devising and I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out. Sometimes I think an unconsummated affair is the wisest course, in any event. No hassles, no demands, no disappointments, and both partners keep all their neuroses under wraps. Whatever the surface appearances, most human beings come equipped with convoluted emotional machinery. With intimacy, the wreckage starts to show, damage rendered in the course of passions colliding like freight trains on the same track. I’d had enough of that over the years. I wasn’t in any better shape than he was, so why complicate life?

  Two rings and the call was picked up.

  “Missing Persons, Sergeant Robb.”

  “Hello, Jonah. It’s Kinsey.”

  “Hey, babe,” he said, “What can I do for you that’s legal in this state?”

  I smiled. “How about a field check on a couple of ex-cons?”

  “Sure, no sweat,” he said.

  I gave him both names and what little information I had. He took it down and said he’d get back to me. He’d fill out a form and have the inquiry run through the National Crime Information Computer, a federal offense since I’m really not entitled to access. Generally, a private investigator has no more rights than the average citizen and relies on ingenuity, patience, and resourcefulness for facts that law enforcement agencies have available as a matter of course. It’s a frustrating, but not impossible, state of affairs. I simply cultivate relationships with people plugged into the system at various points. I have contacts at the telephone company, the credit bureau, Southern California Gas, Southern Cal Edison, and the DMV. Occasionally I can make a raid on certain government offices, but only if I have something worthwhile to trade. As for information of a more personal sort, I can usually depend on people’s tendencies to rat on one another at the drop of a hat.

  I made up a check sheet for Billy Polo and went to work.

  Knowing Jonah, he’d call Probation and pick up Polo’s current address. In the meantime, I wanted to tag some bases of my own. A personal search always pays unexpected dividends. I didn’t want to bypass the possibility of surprise, as that’s half the fun. I knew Polo wasn’t listed in the current phone book, but I tried information, thinking he might have had a phone put in. There was no new listing for him.

  I put a call through to my pal at the utility company, inquiring about a possible service connection. Their records showed nothing. Apparently he hadn’t applied for water, gas, or electricity in the area in his own name, but he could be renting a room somewhere, paying a flat rate, with utilities thrown in.

  I put calls through to five or six fleabag hotels on lower State Street. Polo wasn’t registered and nobody seemed to spark to the name. While I was at it, I tried John Daggett’s name and got nowhere.

  I knew I wouldn’t get so much as a by-your-leave from the local Social Security office and I doubted I’d find Billy Polo’s name among the voter registration files.

  Which left what?

  I checked my watch. Only thirty minutes had passed since I talked to Jonah. I wasn’t sure how long it would take him to call back and I didn’t want to waste time sitting around until I heard from him. I grabbed my windbreaker, locked the office, and went down the front stairs to State St
reet, walking two blocks over and two blocks up to the public library.

  I found an empty table in the reference department and hauled out Santa Teresa telephone directories for the past five years, checking back year by year. Four books back, I found Polo. Great. I made a note of the Merced Street address, wondering if his prison sentence accounted for the absence of a listing since then.

  I went over to the section on Santa Teresa history and pulled out the city directory for that year. In addition to an alphabetical listing by name, the city directory lists addresses alphabetically so that if you have an address and want to know the resident, you can thumb to the street and number and pick up the name of the occupant and a telephone number. In the back half, telephone numbers are listed sequentially. If all you have is a telephone number, the city directory will provide you with a name and address. By cross referencing the address, you can come up with the name again, an occupation, and the names of neighbors all up and down the same street. In ten minutes, I had a list of seven people who had lived in range of Billy Polo on Merced. By checking for those seven in the current directory, I determined that two were still living there. I jotted down both current telephone numbers, returned the books to their proper places, and headed back toward my office.

  The sunlight, intermittent for the last hour, was now largely blocked by incoming clouds which had crowded out blue sky, leaving only an occasional patch, like a hole in a blanket. The air was beginning to cool rapidly, a damp breeze worrying at women’s hems. I looked toward the ocean and spotted that silent veil of gray that betokens rain already falling some miles out. I quickened my pace.

  Once in my office again, I entered the new information in the file I’d opened. I was just on the verge of closing up for the day when I heard a tap at the door. I hesitated, then crossed to the door and peered out.

  There was a woman standing in the corridor, late thirties, expressionless and pale.

  “Can I help you?” I said.

  “I’m Barbara Daggett.”