O Is for Outlaw Page 8

  “Oh, I know Mickey,” she said, and right away I wondered if she knew him in the biblical sense.

  “Do you know if Mark has a current address and phone number?”

  “Hold on and I’ll check. I know we have something, because he called here a couple months ago and I spoke to him myself.” I could hear pages rattling as she leafed through her book.

  “Ah, here we go.” She recited an address on Sepulveda, but the house number differed from the one I had. The digits were the same but the order was changed, which was typical of Mickey. In his semi-paranoid state, he’d give the correct information but with the numbers transposed so you couldn’t pin him down. He thought your address was your own damn business and phones were meant for your convenience, not anyone else’s. If other people couldn’t call him, what did he care? I don’t know how he managed to receive his mail or have pizza delivered. Those were not issues he found interesting when his privacy was at stake. Judy chimed back in, and the phone number she recited was a match for the one I had in my book.

  I said, “You can scratch that one out. I tried it a while ago, and it’s a disconnect. I thought maybe Mickey moved or had the number changed.”

  I could hear her hesitate. “I probably shouldn’t say this. Mark hates when I discuss a client, so please don’t tell him I said this—”

  “Of course not.”

  “When Mickey called—this would have been mid-March—he did ask to borrow money. I mean, he didn’t ask me. This is just what I heard later, after Mark talked to him. Mark said Mickey’d had to sell his car because he couldn’t afford the upkeep and insurance, let alone the gas. He’s got financial problems even Mark couldn’t bail him out of.”

  “That doesn’t sound good. Did Mark lend him any money?”

  “I’m not really sure. He might have. Mickey was always one of Mark’s favorites.”

  “Could you check your message carbons and see if Mickey left a number where Mark could reach him?”

  “I’ll check if you like, but I remember asking at the time, and he said Mark would know.”

  “So Mark might have another number?”

  “It’s possible, I guess. I can ask and have him call you.”

  “I’d appreciate that. He can buzz me tomorrow and we’ll take it from there.” I left her my number and we clicked off.

  My evening was unremarkable—dinner with Henry at Rosie’s Tavern half a block away—after which I curled up with a book and read until I fell asleep, probably ten whole minutes later.

  I turned off the alarm moments before it was set to ring. I brushed my teeth, pulled on my sweats, and went out for a three-mile jog. The bike path along the beach was cloaked in the usual spring fog, the sky a uniform gray, the ocean blended at the horizon as though a scrim of translucent plastic had been stretched taut between the two. The air temperature was perfect, faintly chill, faintly damp. I was feeling light and strong, and I ran with a rare sense of happiness.

  Home again, I showered, dressed, and ate breakfast, then hopped in my car and hit the road for San Felipe with the receipt from the storage company tucked in my pocket. I’d dressed up to some extent, which in my case doesn’t amount to much. I only own one dress: black, collarless, with long sleeves and a tucked bodice (which is a fancy word for front). This entirely synthetic garment, guaranteed wrinkle-free (but probably flammable), is as versatile as anything I’ve owned. In it, I can accept invitations to all but the snootiest of cocktail parties, pose as a mourner at any funeral, make court appearances, conduct surveillance, hustle clients, interview hostile witnesses, traffic with known felons, or pass myself off as a gainfully employed person instead of a freelance busybody accustomed to blue jeans, turtlenecks, and tennis shoes.

  Before I departed, I’d taken a few minutes to complete a generic claim form that I’d dummied up from my days of working at California Fidelity Insurance. As I headed south on 101, I practiced the prissy, bureaucratic attitude I affect when I’m masquerading as someone else. Being a private investigator is made up of equal parts ingenuity, determination, and persistence, with a sizable dose of acting skills thrown in.

  The drive to San Felipe took forty-five minutes. The scenery en route consisted largely of citrus and avocado groves, stretches of farmland, and occasional roadside markets selling—what else?—oranges, lemons, and avocados. I spotted the storage company from half a mile away. It was just off the main road, countless rows of two-story buildings, occupying two square blocks. The architectural style suggested a newly constructed California prison, complete with floodlights and tall chain-link fences.

  I turned in at the gate. The buildings were identical: cinder block and blank doors, with wide freight elevators and a loading ramp at each end. The units were marked alphabetically and numerically in a system I couldn’t quite decipher. The doors in each section appeared to be color-coded, but maybe that was simply an architectural flourish. It couldn’t be much fun designing a facility that looked like cracker boxes arranged end to end. I passed a number of broad alleyways. Arrows directed me to the main office, where I parked and got out.

  I pushed through the glass door to a serviceable space, maybe twenty feet by twenty with a counter running across the center. The area on the far side of the counter was taken up by rental-quality file cabinets and a plain wooden desk. This was not a multilayered company with the administration assuming any lofty position. The sole individual on duty apparently functioned as receptionist, secretary, and plant manager, sitting at a typewriter with a pencil in his mouth while he hunt-and-pecked his way through a memorandum of some sort. I guessed he was in his late seventies, round-faced and balding, with a pair of reading glasses worn low on his nose. I could see his belly bulging out like an infant monkey clinging closely to its mother’s chest. “Be with you in just a second,” he said, typing on.

  “Take your time.”

  “How do you spell ‘mischeevious’?”

  “M-i-s-c-h-i-e-v-o-u-s.”

  “You sure? Doesn’t look right.”

  “Pretty sure,” I said.

  When he’d finished, he stood up, separated the carbons, and tucked both the original and the copies in matching blue folders. He came over to the counter, hitching up his pants. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, but I was on a tear,” he said. “When business is slow, I write stories for my great-grandson. Kid’s barely two and reads like a champ. Loves his pappaw’s little booklets written just for him. This one’s about a worm name of Wiggles and his escapades. Lot of fun for me, and you should see Dickie’s little face light up. I figure one day I’ll get ’em published and have ’em done up proper. I have a lady friend offered to do the illustrations, but somebody told me that’s a bad idea. I guess these New York types like to hire their own artists.”

  “News to me,” I said.

  His cheeks tinted faintly and his tone of voice became shy. “I don’t suppose you know an agent might take a look at this.”

  “I don’t, but if I hear of one, I’ll let you know.”

  “That’d be good. Meantime, what can I do for you?”

  I showed him my California Fidelity Insurance identification, which bore an old photograph of me and the company seal of approval.

  His gaze shifted from the photo to my face. “You oughta get you a new photo. This doesn’t do you justice. You’re a lot better looking.”

  “You really think so? Thanks. By the way, I’m Kinsey Millhone. And you’re … ?”

  “George Wedding.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “I hope you’re not selling policies. I’d hate to disappoint, but I’m insured to the hilt.”

  “I’m not selling anything, but I could use some help.” I hesitated. I had a story all ready. I intended to show him a homeowner’s claim listing several items lost to flooding when some water pipes broke. Of course, this was all completely false, but I was hoping he’d react with sufficient moral indignation to set the record straight. What I wanted was the address a
nd phone number Mickey’d used when he’d rented the space. I could then compare the information to facts already in my possession and thus (perhaps) figure out where the hell Mickey was. In my mind, on the way down, I’d spun the story out to a convincing degree, but now that I was here I couldn’t bring myself to tell it. This is the truth about lying: You’re putting one over on some poor gullible dunce, which makes him appear stupid for not spotting the deception. Lying contains the same hostile elements as a practical joke in that the “victim” ends up looking foolish in his own eyes and laughable in everyone else’s. I’m willing to lie to pompous bureaucrats, when thwarted by knaves, or when all else fails, but I was having trouble lying to a man who wrote worm adventure stories for his great-grandson. George was patiently waiting for me to go on. I folded the bogus claim in half until the bottom of the page rested a couple of inches from the top and the only lines showing were those containing the name, address, and telephone number of “John Russell.” “You want to know the truth?”

  “That’d be nice,” he said blandly.

  “Ah. Well, the truth is I was fired by CFI about three years ago. I’m actually a private investigator, looking for a man I was once married to.” I pointed to John Russell’s name. “That’s not his real name, but I suspect the address may be roughly correct. My ex scrambles numbers as a way of protecting himself.”

  “Is this police business? Because my records are confidential, unless you have a court order. If you think this fellow was using his storage unit for illegal purposes … manufacturing drugs, for instance … you might talk me into it. Otherwise, no deal.”

  I could almost have sworn George was inviting me to fib, given that he’d laid out the conditions under which he might be persuaded to open his files to me. However, having started with the truth, I thought I might as well stick to my guns. “You’re making this tough. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but this isn’t related to any criminal activity—at least, as far as I know. Uhm … wow … this is hard. I’m not used to this,” I said. “He and I parted enemies and it’s just come to my attention I misjudged him badly. I can’t live with my conscience until I square things with him. I know it sounds corny, but it’s true.”

  “What’d you do?” George asked.

  “It’s not what I did. It’s what I didn’t do,” I said. “He was implicated in a murder—well, not a murder, really, manslaughter is more like it. The point is I didn’t wait to hear his side of it. I just assumed he was guilty and walked out on him. I feel bad about that. I promised ‘for better or for worse’ and gave him ‘worse.’”

  “So now what?”

  “So now I’m trying to track him down so I can apologize. Maybe I can make amends … if it’s not too late.”

  George’s face was a study in caution. “I’m not entirely clear what you want from me.”

  I passed him the form, tilting my head to read the header along with him. I pointed to the relevant lines. “I think this is partly right. I’ve got two versions of this address. If yours matches this one or if you have another variation yet, I can probably determine which is correct.”

  He studied the name and address. “I remember this fellow. Went delinquent on his payments. We emptied his unit and auctioned everything off.”

  “That’s what worries me. I think he’s in trouble. Do you think you can help?”

  I could see him vacillate. I left the clipboard up on the counter, angled in his direction. I could see his gaze retracing the lines of print. He moved to a file cabinet, scanned the labels on the drawer fronts, and opened the third one down. He pulled out a fat binder and laid it across the open drawer. He wet his thumb and began to leaf through. He found the relevant page, popped open the rings, removed a sheet of paper, and copied it, handing me the information without another word.

  8

  I returned to the office, where I spent the rest of the day paying bills, returning phone calls, and taking care of correspondence. There was no message from Mark Bethel. I’d try him again if I didn’t hear from him soon. I locked my office at four-thirty, shoving my Los Angeles street map in the outer pouch of my bag. I left my car for the time being and walked over to the public library, where I checked the crisscross for the area encompassed by the three differing Sepulveda street numbers Mickey’d listed as his home address. It was impossible to determine the best candidate from looking at a map. I was going to have to make a run down there. It was time to satisfy myself as to his current situation, maybe even time for the two of us to talk. I had a big whack of money in my savings account. I was willing to offer my help if Mickey wasn’t too proud to accept. I walked back to the office, where I picked up my car and made the short drive home. I didn’t even have the details and I was already sick about the part I’d played in his slide from grace.

  I arrived at my apartment to find two gentlemen standing on my doorstep. I knew in a flash they were plainclothes detectives: neatly dressed, clean-shaven, their expressions bland and attentive, the perfect law enforcement presence on this May afternoon. I felt a spritz of electricity coursing through my frame. My hands were left tingling and the skin on my back suddenly felt luminous, like a neon sign flashing GUILT—GUILT—GUILT. My first thought was Teddy Rich had reported an intruder, that an officer had been dispatched, that he’d called for a tech who’d subsequently dusted for prints. Mine would have shown up on the inner and outer aspects of the pet door, on the edge of the desk, on the back doorknob, in other places so numerous I could hardly recall. I’d been a cop for two years and a P.I. since then. (I’d also been arrested once, but I don’t want to talk about that now, thanks.)

  The point is, my prints were in the system, and the computer was going to put me inside Teddy Rich’s house. The cops would ask what I was doing there and what could I say? Was there an innocent explanation? I couldn’t think of one to save me. The dog, of course, would pick me out of a police lineup, tugging at my pant leg, joyously barking, jumping, and slobbering on my shoes as they cuffed me and took me away. I could try to plea-bargain right up front or wait until sentencing and throw myself on the mercy of the court.

  I hesitated on the walkway, my house keys in hand. Surely, the cops had more pressing cases to pursue these days. Why would they even bother with a crime scene tech? The notion was absurd. These fellows might not be cops at all. Maybe Teddy figured out what I’d done and had sent these two goons to crush my elbows, my knees, and other relevant joints. Somewhat chirpily, I said, “Hi. Are you looking for me?”

  The two of them seemed to be approximately the same age: late thirties, trim, fit, one dark, the other fair. The blond carried a briefcase in his left hand like he was doing door-to-door sales. He spoke first. “Miss Millhone?” He wore a red plaid shirt under a tweed sport coat, his Adam’s apple compressed by the knot in his solid red tie. His slacks were dark cotton, wrinkled across the crotch from sitting in the car too long.

  “That’s right.”

  He held out his right hand. “My name’s Felix Claas. This is my partner, John Aldo. We’re detectives with the Los Angeles Police Department. Could we talk to you?”

  Aldo held out two business cards and a wallet he flipped open to expose his badge. Detective Aldo was a big guy with a muscular body, probably six-three, 240 pounds. He wore his dark hair slightly shaggy, and his dark eyes receded under wide dark eyebrows that came together at the bridge of his nose. His slacks were polyester, and he had a sport coat neatly folded and laid across one arm. His short-sleeved cotton shirt exposed a matting of silky hair on his forearms. He looked like a man who preferred wearing sweats. I’d heard his first name as “John,” but I noticed on his business card the spelling was the Italian, Gian, and I made the mental correction. In the flush of apprehension, I’d already forgotten the first detective’s name. I glanced down at the cards again. Felix Claas was the blond, Gian Aldo, the darker one.

  Claas spoke up again, smiling pleasantly. His blond hair looked wet, parted on the side and combed straight back beh
ind his ears. His eyebrows and lashes were an almost invisible pale gold, so that his blue eyes seemed stark. His lips were full and unusually pink. He had a cleft in his chin. “Great town you have here. The minute we crossed the county line, I could feel my blood pressure drop about fifteen points.”

  “Thanks. We’re lucky. It’s like this all year long. We get a marine layer sometimes in the summer months, but it burns off by noon so it’s hard to complain.” Maybe this pertained to an old case of mine.

  Detective Aldo eased into the conversation. “We had a chat with Lieutenant Robb. I hope we haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

  “Not at all. This is fine. You’re friends of his?”

  “Well, no, ma’am, we aren’t. We’ve talked to him by phone, but we only met today. Seems like a nice guy.”

  “He’s great. I’ve known Jonah for years,” I said. “What’s this about?”

  “A case we’ve been working. We’d like to talk to you inside, if you don’t object.”

  Detective Claas chimed in. “This shouldn’t take long. Fifteen—twenty minutes. We’ll be as quick as we can.”

  “Sure. Come on in.” I turned and unlocked the front door, talking over my shoulder. “When’d you get up here?”

  “About an hour ago. We tried calling your office, but they told us you’d left. We must have just missed you.”

  “I had some errands to run,” I said, wondering why I felt I owed them an explanation. I stepped across the threshold and they followed me in. In the past few years, a number of investigations had taken me to Los Angeles. One of the cases I’d handled for California Fidelity had exposed me to a bunch of bad-asses. This was probably related. The criminal element form a special subset, the same names surfacing over and over again. It’s always interesting to find out what the cruds are up to.

  I took a mental photograph of my apartment, idly aware of how it must appear to strangers. Small, immaculate, as compact as a ship’s interior complete with cubbyholes and built-ins. Kitchenette to the right; desk and seating arrangement to the left. Royal-blue shag carpet, a small spiral staircase leading to a loft above. I set my shoulder bag on one of the stools at the kitchen counter and moved the six steps into the living room.