“That sounds rowdy,” I said. We’d reached the office by then and I saw him flick a glance at his answering machine. I was only half listening, trying to think how to keep the conversation afloat. “Any problem with parking?”
“Not at all,” he said. “We’ll pave the lot next door. We’re in negotiations at the moment. There’s room for thirty cars there and another ten on the street.”
“Sounds good,” I said. He had an answer for everything. Mr. Slick, I thought.
“I’ll comp you some tickets for the grand opening. You like to dance?”
“No, not really.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll get you in and you can cut loose. Forget your inhibitions and get down,” he said. He snapped his fingers, dipping his knees in a move meant to be oh so hip.
My least favorite thing in life is some guy encouraging me to “cut loose” and “get down.” The smile I offered him was paper-thin. “I hope this business with Jack has been resolved by then.”
“Absolutely,” he said smoothly, his expression sobering appropriately. “How’s it looking so far?”
“He can’t account for his time, which doesn’t help,” I said. “The cops are claiming they found a bloody print from his shoe on the carpet up in Guy’s room. I won’t bore you with details. Lonnie wanted me to ask where you were.”
“The night of the murder? I was club-hopping down in L.A.”
“You drove to Los Angeles and back?”
“I do it all the time. It’s nothing. Ninety minutes each way,” he said. “That night, some of the time I was on the road.”
“Did you have a date?”
“This was strictly business. I’m trying to get a feel for what works and what doesn’t, sampling menus. You know, listening to some of the L.A. bands.”
“I’m assuming you have credit card receipts to back you up.”
A fleeting change of expression suggested I’d caught him out on that one. “I might have a few. I’ll have to look and see what I’ve got. I paid cash in the main. It’s easier that way.”
“What time did you get in?”
“Close to three,” he said. “You want to come in the back? I’ve got some beer in a cooler. We could have a drink.”
“Thanks. It’s a bit early.”
“Where you going?”
“Back to the office. I have a meeting,” I said.
On the way back to the office, I stopped off at a deli and picked up some soft drinks and sandwiches. Dietz had said he’d be joining me as soon as he’d finished his research. I stashed the soft drinks in the little refrigerator in my office and dumped my handbag on the floor beside my chair. I put the sack of sandwiches on the file cabinet and grabbed the folder full of clippings, which I tossed on my desk. I sat down in my swivel chair and assembled my index cards, the typewritten letters, and the sample I’d just taken from Bennet’s machine, lining everything up in an orderly fashion. In the absence of definitive answers, it’s good to look organized.
I turned on the desk lamp and pulled out my magnifying glass. The type was no match. I was disappointed, but I wasn’t surprised. I took Guy’s last letter from my handbag and read the contents again. Aside from his invitation to Disneyland, which I’d have accepted in a flash, I realized that what I was looking at, in essence, was a holographic will. The letter was written entirely by hand and he’d specified in the postscript what he’d wanted done with his share of his father’s estate. I didn’t know all the technicalities associated with a holographic will, but I thought this might qualify. The handwriting would have to be verified, but Peter Antle could do that when I saw him next. I knew Guy had received a disturbing letter late that Monday afternoon, and whatever its contents, he must have been sufficiently alarmed to want to make his wishes clear. I got up and left the office, taking his letter with me to the copy room. I ran a Xerox and then locked the originals with the others in my bottom drawer. The copy I slid in the outer pocket of my handbag.
I tried to picture Guy, but his face had already faded in my mind’s eye. What remained was his sweetness, the sound of his “Hey,” the feeling of his whiskers when he’d brushed my cheek with his lips. If he’d lived, I’m not sure we would have had a very strong relationship. Kinsey Millhone and a born-again was probably not a combination that would have gone anywhere. But we might have been friends. We might have gone to Disneyland once a year to experience some silliness.
I went back to my index cards and began to make notes. Every investigation has a nature of its own, but there are certain shared characteristics, namely the painstaking accumulation of information and the patience required. Here’s what you hope for: a chance remark from the former neighbor on a skip-trace, a penciled notation on the corner of a document, an exspouse with a grudge, the number on an account, an item overlooked at the scene of a crime. Here’s what you expect: the dead ends, bureaucratic bullheadedness, the cul-de-sacs, trails that go nowhere or simply fade into thin air, denials, prevarications, the blank-eyed stares from all the hostile witnesses. Here’s what you know: that you’ve done it before and you have the toughness and determination to pull it off again. Here’s what you want: justice. Here’s what you’ll settle for: something equivalent, the quid pro quo.
I glanced down at my desk, catching sight of the label on the file of clippings. The label had been neatly typed: Guy Malek, Dispatch Clippings. The two letters from Outhwaite were lined up with the label itself, which is what made me notice for the first time that the lowercase a and the lowercase i were both defective on all three documents. Was that true? I peered closely, picking up my magnifying glass again and scrutinizing the relevant characters. It would take a document expert to prove it, but to me it looked like the letters had been typed on the same machine.
I reached for the phone and called the Maleks. In the tiny interval between punching in the number and waiting for it to ring, I was scrambling around in my imagination, trying to conjure up a reason for the call I was making. Shit, shit, shit. Christie picked up on her end, greeting me coolly when I identified myself. I figured she’d talked to Paul Trasatti, but I didn’t dare ask.
I said, “I was just looking for Bennet. Is he home, by any chance? I stopped by the restaurant, but he was out somewhere.”
“He should be here in a bit. I think he said he was coming home for lunch. You want him to call you?”
“I’m not sure he’ll be able to reach me. I’m down at the office, but I’ve got some errands to run. I’ll call back later.”
“I’ll pass the message along.” She was using her good-bye tone.
I had to launch in with something to keep the conversation afloat. “I talked to Paul this morning. What an odd duck he is. Is he still on medication?”
I could hear her focus her attention. “Paul’s on medication? Who told you that? I never heard that,” she said.
I let a beat pass. “Uhh, sorry. I didn’t mean to breach anybody’s confidence. Forget I said anything. I just assumed you knew.”
“Why bring it up at all? Is there a problem?”
“Well, nothing huge. He’s just so paranoid about Jack. He actually sat there and accused me of undermining Jack’s credibility, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Lonnie and I are working our butts off for him.”
“Really.”
“Then he turned around and called Lonnie. I think he’s probably on another phone rampage, hounding everyone he knows with those wild stories of his. Ah, well. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure he means well, but he’s not doing anybody any favors.”
“Is that what you wanted to talk to Bennet about?”
“No, that was something different. Lonnie wanted me to verify Bennet’s whereabouts Tuesday night.”
“I’m sure he’ll be happy to talk to you. I know he’s told the police and they seem satisfied. I can leave him a note.”
“Perfect. I’d appreciate that. Can I ask you about something? You remember the file I borrowed?”
“With all the clippings?”
“Exactly. I wondered about the label. Did you type that yourself?”
“Not me. I never took typing. My mother warned me about that. Bader probably typed the label or he gave it to his secretary. He thought typing was restful. Shows how much he knew.”
“That must have been a while ago. I don’t remember seeing a typewriter in his office when I was there.”