“She committed suicide?”
“Why not? Her whole family was gone. She had no one. The family was a bit dicey to begin with-bunch of manic-depressives. I guess something must have finally pushed her over the edge.”
“What’d she do, jump off a building?”
“I don’t know how she did it. I wasn’t being literal. There was a notice in the local paper. It happened back east somewhere.”
I was silent again. “So maybe one of the Maddisons killed Guy. Wouldn’t that make sense?”
“You’re fishing. I just told you, they’re all gone.”
“But how do you know there isn’t someone left? Cousins, for instance? Aunts and uncles? Patty’s best friend?”
“Come on. Would you really murder someone who wronged a relative of yours? A sibling, maybe. But a cousin or a niece?”
“Well, no, but I’m not close to my relatives. Suppose something like that happened to your family.”
“Something did happen to my family. Guy was killed,” he said.
“Don’t you want revenge?”
“Enough to kill someone? Absolutely not. Besides, if I cared enough to kill, I wouldn’t wait this long. You’re talking eighteen years.”
“But Guy was missing all that time. You notice, once he came home, he was dead within days.”
“True enough,” he said.
“Does the name Max or Maximilian Outhwaite figure into this in any way? It could even be Maxine. I can’t swear to gender.”
Donovan turned and looked at me with surprise. “Where’d you come up with that one?”
“You know the name?”
“Well, sure. Maxwell Outhwaite’s the name Guy used on the business cards he made to cheat Mrs. Maddison.”
I squinted at him. “Are you sure?”
“That isn’t something I’d forget,” he said. “How’d you come across it?”
” ‘Max Outhwaite’ was the one who wrote the letters to the Dispatch and the L.A. Times. That’s how the press knew Guy was home.”
NINETEEN
Once back at Malek Construction, I left Donovan in the parking lot and picked up my car. I was feeling anxious and confused. This Max Outhwaite business made no sense at all. Maybe Dietz had come up with a line on him. Throw the Maddisons into the mix and what did it add up to? I glanced at my watch, wincing when I saw how late it was. The trip up the pass had taken more than an hour and a half.
Dietz was waiting in front of the public library. I pulled over to the curb and he slid into the passenger seat. “Sorry I’m late,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it. I got news for you. Outhwaite’s a myth. I checked the city directories for the last twenty-five years and then went across the street and checked the County Clerk’s office. No one by that name was ever listed in the phone book or anywhere else. No marriages, no deaths, no real property, building permits, lawsuits, you name it. Everybody alive leaves a trail of some kind. The name has to be phony unless we’re missing a bet.”
“There is a connection, but it’s not what you’d expect,” I said. I filled him in on my conversation with Donovan while we headed for home. I’d forgotten how nice it was to have someone to consult. I told him about the Maddisons and Guy’s alleged involvement in the family’s downfall. “Maxwell Outhwaite was the name used by the fictitious appraiser who stole fifty thousand dollars’ worth of rare documents. I’m not convinced it was Guy, but Donovan seems to take it for granted. Now, honestly,” I said. “If you’d known about the Maddisons, wouldn’t you have told someone?”
“Namely you?”
“Well, yes, me,” I said. “Donovan could have mentioned it. Same with Max Outhwaite. The name pops up again years later-why didn’t he tell someone?”
“Maybe Katzenbach never told him there was a letter and that Outhwaite was the name of the sender.”
“Oh. I see what you’re saying. I guess it’s possible,” I said. “It still annoys me no end. I wish we could find the typewriter. That would be a coup.”
“Forget it. There’s no way.”
“What makes you say that? It has to be around here somewhere. Someone typed both those letters on the same machine.”
“So what? If I were writing poison-pen notes, I’d hardly sit at my desk and use my own IBM. I’m too paranoid for that. I’d use one of the rental typewriters at the public library. Or maybe find a place selling typewriters and use one of theirs.”
“This machine isn’t new. The typeface has an old-fashioned look to it and a lot of the letters are clogged. It’s probably got a fabric ribbon instead of carbon film.”
“Those typewriters at the library aren’t exactly hot off the assembly line.”
“Pick me up some samples and we’ll do a comparison. There are a couple of typeface defects that should help us pin it down. I’m sure a document expert could find others. I’ve only eyeballed it.”
“The clogged letters don’t mean much. Go after ’em with cleaning fluid and poof, those are gone.”
“Sure, but don’t you think the majority of people who write anonymous letters assume they’re safe from discovery?”
“They might assume they’re safe, but they’re not,” Dietz said. “The FBI maintains extensive files of anonymous letters. Plus, they have samples of type from most known machines. Post Office does, too, and so does the Treasury Department. They can determine the make and model of almost any machine. That’s how they nail cranks, especially people who send threatening letters to public officials. The only way to play it safe is to dismantle the machine.”
“Yeah, but who’s going to trash a typewriter? If you thought you were safe enough to use your own machine, you wouldn’t turn around and toss it in the garbage afterward. And in this case, why bother? Those letters were a nuisance, but hardly actionable.”
Dietz smiled. “What, you picture it sitting out on someone’s desk?”
“Maybe. It’s possible.”
“Keep an eye out.”
“I know you’re just saying that to humor me,” I said.
“What else did Donovan have to say about the Maddisons?”
“Not much. He claims they’re all gone, but I don’t think we should take his word for it.”
“It’s worth pursuing,” Dietz said. “As stories go, it’s not bad.”
“What do you mean, ‘it’s not bad’? I think it’s fabulous. I mean, talk about a motive for murder. It’s the best lead we’ve had-”
“The only lead,” he pointed out.
I ignored the obvious. “On top of that, we have Outhwaite, who seems to tie right back to them:”
“Shouldn’t be too hard to track down the name Maddison with two d’s. Even if they’re not local, they had to come from somewhere.”
“Donovan says the father died around Thanksgiving of 1967 and Patty followed, probably in May or June of 1968. The mother died five years later, but that’s as much as I know. You may not find Claire at all. He says she moved back to the East Coast and married. He does remember reading about her death in the local paper, so there must have been a notice in the Dispatch. Maybe she kept her maiden name?”
“I’ll get on it first thing.”
“You will? I can’t believe you’re volunteering. I thought you hated doing this stuff.”
“Good practice. It’s nice to keep a hand in. This way I know I haven’t lost my touch,” he said. “We might try the newspaper morgue if we can get Katzenbach’s cooperation. They might have old clips on the Maddisons along with the obits.”
“That’s a sexy suggestion.”
“I’m a sexy guy,” he said.
When we got home, I changed into my sweats in preparation for jogging. I had slept through my usual six A.m. run and I was feeling the effects. I left Dietz in the living room with his leg propped up, icing his bum knee while he flipped from channel to channel, alternately watching CNN, talk shows, and obscure sporting events. I headed out the front door, thankful for the opportunity to spend time alone.
There was scarcely any breeze coming off the ocean. The late-afternoon sun had begun to fade, but the daylong baked beach was still throwing off heat saturated by the smell of kelp and brine. The fronds of the palm trees looked like construction paper cutouts, flat dark shapes against the flat blue sky. I lengthened my stride, running at a pace that felt good. The stiffness and fatigue gradually gave way to ease. My muscles became liquid and sweat trickled down my face. Even the burning in my chest felt good as my body was flooded with oxygen. At the end of the run, I flung myself down on the grass, where I lay panting. My mind was a blank and my bones were washed clean. Finally, my breathing slowed and the run-generated heat in my body seeped out. I did a series of stretches and then roused myself. As I headed for home, I could feel the return of the Santa Ana winds lofting down the mountainside. I showered and changed clothes, throwing on a T-shirt and jeans.