“Oh I got more secrets than you ever dreamed about,” he said.
“Me too,” I said. “Now why are we playing games?”
He gave me a look that might have been annoyance and might have been something else. He’s a hard man to read. “You know how I feel about people like you.”
“Look, as far as I’m concerned, we’re in the same business,” I said. “I’m straight with you. I don’t know what kind of gripes you have with the other private investigators in town, but I stay out of your way and I’ve got nothing but respect for the job you do. I don’t understand why we can’t cooperate with one another.”
He stared at me for a moment, his mouth turning down with resignation. “You’d get more out of me if you’d learn to flirt,” he said grudgingly.
“No I wouldn’t. You think women are a pain in the ass. If I flirted, you’d pat me on the head and make me go away.”
He wouldn’t take the bait on that one but he did reach over and pick up the phone, dialing Identification and Records.
“This is Dolan. Have Emerald bring me the files on Laurence Fife. ” He hung up and leaned back again, looking at me with a mixture of speculation and distaste.
“I better not hear any complaints about the way you handle this. If I get one call from anyone — and I’m talking about a witness who feels harassed or anyone else, including my men or anybody else’s men — you’re up shit creek. You got that?”
I held up three fingers beside my temple dutifully. “Scouts honor.”
“When were you ever a Scout?”
“Well, I was a Brownie once for almost a week,” I said sweetly. “We had to paint a rose on a hanky for Mother’s Day and I thought it was dumb so I quit.”
He didn’t smile. “You can use Lieutenant Becker’s office,” he said when the files arrived. “And stay out of trouble.”
I went into Becker’s office.
It took me two hours to sort through the mass of paperwork but I began to see why Con had been reluctant to let me look because just about the first thing that came to light was a series of Telexes from the West Los Angeles Police Department about a second homicide. At first, I thought it was a mistake-that communiques from another case had been inadvertently sandwiched into the wrong file. But the details nearly leapt off the page and the implications made my heart go pitty-pat. An accountant named Libby Glass, Caucasian, female, age twenty-four, had died from ingesting ground oleander four days after Laurence Fife died. She had worked for Haycraft and McNiece, a business-management firm representing the interests of Laurence Fife’s law firm. Now what the hell was that about?
I flipped through copies of investigators’ reports, tying to piece together the story from terse departmental memorandums and penciled summations of telephone calls flying back and forth between the Santa Teresa and West Los Angeles police departments. One memo noted that the key to her apartment had been found on the key ring in Laurence Fife’s office desk drawer. A lengthy interview with her parents didn’t add anything. There was an interview with a surly sounding exboyfriend named Lyle Abernathy, who seemed convinced that she was romantically involved with a “certain unnamed Santa Teresa attorney,” but no one had pinned it down much beyond that. Still, the connection was ominous enough and it looked like Nikki Fife’s alleged jealous rage might have included the object of her husband’s philanderings as well as the man himself. Except that there wasn’t any proof.
I made notes, jotting down last-known addresses and telephone numbers for whatever good that might do after all these years, and then I pushed my chair back and went to the door. Con was talking to Lieutenant Becker but he must have known what I wanted because he excused himself, apparently satisfied that I hadn’t missed the point. I leaned on the doorframe, waiting. He took his sweet time ambling over.
“You want to tell me what that was about?”
His expression was bemused but there was an air of bitterness about it. “We couldn’t make it stick,” he said flatly.
“You think Nikki killed her too?”
“I’d be willing to bet on it, ” he snapped.
“I take it the D.A. didn’t see it that way.”
He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I can read the California Evidence Code as well as the next man. They called off my dogs.”
“The stuff in the file was all circumstantial,” I said.
“That’s right.”
I shut my mouth, staring off at a row of windows that badly needed to be cleaned — I didn’t like this little turn of ‘events at all and he seemed to know that. He shifted his weight.
“I think I could have nailed her but the D.A. was in a big hurry and he didn’t want to jeopardize his case. Bad politics. That’s why you didn’t like being a cop yourself, Kinsey. Working with a leash around your neck.”
“I still don’t like that,” I said.
“Maybe that’s why I’m helping you,” he said and the look in his eyes was shrewd.
“What about follow-up?”
“Oh, we did that. We worked on the Libby Glass angle for months, off and on. So did the West LAPD. We never turned up anything. No witnesses. No informants. No fingerprints that could have placed Nikki Fife at the scene. We couldn’t even prove that Nikki knew Libby Glass.”
“You think I’m going to help you make your case?”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” he said. “You might. Believe it or not, I don’t think you’re a bad investigator. Young yet, and sometimes off the wall, but basically honest at any rate. If you turn up evidence that points to Nikki, I don’t think you’d hold that back now, would you?”
“If she did it.”
“If she didn’t, then you don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Con, if Nikki Fife has something to hide, why would she open this whole thing up again? She couldn’t be that kind of fool. What could she possibly gain?”
“You tell me.”
“Listen,” I said, “I don’t believe she killed Laurence in the first place so you’re going to have a hell of a time persuading me she killed someone else as well.”
The phone rang two desks over and Lieutenant Becker held up a finger, looking over at Con. He gave me a fleeting smile as he moved away.
“Have a good time,” he said.
I scanned the file again quickly to make sure I hadn’t overlooked anything and then I closed it up and left it on the desk. He was deep in conversation with Becker again when I passed the two of them and neither looked up at me. I was troubled by the idea of Libby Glass but I was also intrigued.
Maybe this was going to be more than a rehash of old business, maybe there was more to be turned up than a trail that was eight years cold.
By the time I got back to the office, it was 4:15 and I needed a drink. I got a bottle of Chablis out of my little refrigerator and applied the corkscrew. The two coffee mugs were still sitting on my desk. I rinsed out both and filled mine with wine tart enough to make me shudder ever so slightly. I went out onto the second-floor balcony and looked down at State Street, which runs right up the middle of downtown Santa Teresa, eventually making a big curve to the left and turning into a street with another name. Even where I stood, there were Spanish tile and stucco arches and bougainvillea growing everywhere. Santa Teresa is the only town I ever heard of that made the main street narrower, planted trees instead of pulling them up, and constructed cunning telephone booths that look like small confessionals. I propped myself up on the waist-high ledge and sipped my wine. I could smell the ocean and I let my mind go blank, watching the pedestrians down below. I already knew that I would go to work for Nikki but I needed just these few moments for myself before I turned my attention to the job to be done.
At 5:00 I went home, calling the service before I left.
Of all the places I’ve lived in Santa Teresa, my current cubbyhole is the best. It’s located on an unpretentious street that parallels the wide boulevard running along the beach. Most of the homes in the neighborhood are owned by retired folk whose memories of the town go back to the days when it was all citrus groves and resort hotels. My landlord, Henry Pitts, is a former commercial baker who makes a living now, at the age of eightyone, by devising obnoxiously difficult crossword puzzles, which he likes to try out on me. He is usually also in the process of making mammoth batches of bread, which he leaves to rise in an old Shaker cradle on the sunporch near my room. Henry trades bread and other baked goods to a nearby restaurant for his meals and he has also, of late, become quite crafty about clipping coupons, declaring that on a good day he can buy $50.00 worth of groceries for $6.98. Somehow these shopping expeditions seem to net him pairs of panty hose, which he gives to me. I am halfway in love with Henry Pitts.