“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 multi-layered 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 and 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 falls, but I was having trouble lying to a man who wrote worm adventure stories for his greatgrandson. 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 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.”