I set the letter aside, swiveling in my swivel chair while I studied it covertly out of the corner of my eye. As a “Female” Detective, I found myself vaguely bothered by the damn thing. I didn’t like the intimate acquaintance with the details and I couldn’t help but wonder at the motivation. The tone was ingenuous, but the maneuver had been effective. Suddenly, Guy Malek’s private business had been given a public audience.
I placed the letter in the Malek file, turning it over to my psyche for further consideration.
I spent the rest of the morning at the courthouse, taking care of other business. As a rule, I’m working fifteen to twenty cases concurrently. Not all of them are pressing and not all demand my attention at the same time. I do a number of background checks for a research and development firm out in Colgate. I also do preemployment investigations, as well as skip traces for a couple of small businesses in the area. Periodically, I’m involved in some fairly routine snooping for a divorce attorney down the street. Even in a no-fault state, a spouse might hide assets or conceal the whereabouts of communal items, like cars, boats, planes, and minor children. There’s something restful about a morning spent cruising through the marriage licenses and death records in pursuit of genealogical connections, or an afternoon picking through probated wills, property transfers, and tax and mechanics’ liens at the county offices. Sometimes I can’t believe my good fortune, working in a business where I’m paid to uncover matters people would prefer to keep under wraps. Paper stalking doesn’t require a PI to slip into a Kevlar vest, but the results can be just as dangerous as a gun battle or a high-speed chase.
My assignment that Monday morning was to probe the financial claims detailed in a company prospectus. A local businessman had been approached to invest fifty thousand dollars in what looked like a promising merchandising plan. Within an hour, I’d found out that one of the two partners had filed for personal bankruptcy and the other had a total of six lawsuits pending against him. While I was about it, I did a preliminary search for Max Outhwaite, starting with voter registration and working my way through local tax rolls. I crossed the street to the public library and tried the reference department. Under that spelling, there were no Outhwaite’s listed in the local phone books and none in the city directories going back six years. This meant nothing in particular as far as I could see. It did suggest that “Max Outhwaite” was a nom de plume, but under certain circumstances, I could relate to the maneuver. If I wanted to call an issue to the attention of the local paper, I might conceivably use a fake name and a phony address. I might be a prominent person, reluctant to have myself associated with the subject in question. I might be a family member, eager to get Guy in trouble, but unwilling to take responsibility. Writing such a letter was hardly a crime, but I might feel guilty nonetheless and not want the consequences blowing back on me.
For lunch I bought a sandwich and a soft drink from a vending machine and sat on a stretch of lawn out behind the courthouse. The day was hot, the treetops buffeted by dry winds coming off the desert. The branches of the big evergreens planted close to the street seemed to shimmer in the breeze, giving off the scent of pitch. I leaned back on my elbows and turned my face up to the sun. I can’t say I slept, but I gave a good impression of it. At one o’clock, I roused myself and went back to the office where I began to type up my findings for the cases I’d worked. Such is the life of a PI these days. I spend more time practicing my skills with a Smith-Corona than a Smith Wesson.
TWELVE
My run that morning had been unsatisfactory. I’d done what needed doing, dutifully jogging a mile and a half down the bike path and a mile and a half back, but I’d never developed any rhythm and the much-sought-after endorphin rush had failed to materialize. I’ve noticed on days when the run isn’t good, I’m left with an emotional itch that feels like anxiety, in this case compounded by mild depression. Short of drink and drugs, sometimes the only remedy is to exercise again. I swear this is not a compulsion on my part so much as a craving for relief. I drove over to Harley’s Beach and found a parking spot in the shelter of the hill. The lot was nearly empty, which surprised me somehow. Usually, there’s an assortment of tourists and beachcombers, joggers, lovers, barking dogs, and parents with small children. Today, all I spotted was a family of feral cats sunning themselves on the hillside above the beach.
I staggered across an expanse of loose, dry sand until I reached the hard pack at the water’s edge. I would have pulled off my shoes and socks, rolling up my pant legs so I could jog in the surf; however someone had recently given me a small book about tide pools. I’d leafed through with interest, imagining myself in the role of inquisitive naturalist, poking among the rocks for tiny crabs and starfish (though their undersides are completely disgusting and gross). Until I read this colorful, informative pamphlet, I’d had no idea what strange, ugly beasties existed close to shore. I’m not the kind of person who sentimentalizes nature. The outdoors, as far as I can see, is made up almost entirely of copulating creatures who eat one another afterward. To this end, almost every known animal has developed a strategy for luring others within range. Among life forms in the sea-some quite minuscule-the tactic involves thorny parts or pincers or tiny three-jawed mouths or trailing stingers or vicious suckers with which they latch on to one another, causing painful death and dismemberment, all in the name of nourishment. Sometimes the juice is slurped out of the victim long before death occurs. The starfish actually takes out its own stomach, enfolds its live prey, and digests it outside its body. How would you like to put your bare foot down on that?
I ran in my shoes, splashing through the surf when the waves came close. Soon my wet jeans clung to my legs, the heavy fabric cold against my shins. My feet were weighted as though with stones and I could feel the sweat begin to soak through my shirt from the labor of the run. Despite the damp breeze coming off the ocean, the air felt oppressive. For the third day in a row, Santa Ana winds were blasting in from the desert, blowing down the local canyons, pulling moisture from the atmosphere. The mounting heat collected, degree by degree, like a wall of bricks going up. My progress felt slow and I forced myself to focus on the sand shimmering ahead of me. Since I had no way to measure distance, I ran for time, jogging thirty minutes north before I turned and jogged back. By the time I reached Harley’s Beach again, my breathing was ragged and the muscles in my thighs were on fire. I glowed to a trot and then geared down to a walk as I returned to my car. For a moment, I leaned panting against the hood. Better. That was better. Pain was better than anxiety any day of the week and sweat was better than depression.
Home again, I left my soggy running shoes on the front steps. I padded upstairs, peeling out of my damp clothes as I ascended. I took a hot shower and then slipped into a pair of sandals, a T-shirt, and a short cotton skirt. It was now close to four and there was no point returning to the office. I brought in the mail and checked for phone messages. There were five: two hang-ups; two reporters who left numbers, asking me to get back to them; and a call from Peter Antle, the pastor of Guy’s church. I dialed the number he’d left and he picked up so fast I had to guess he’d been waiting by the phone.
“Peter. I got your message. This is Kinsey in Santa Teresa.”
“Kinsey. Thanks for being so prompt. Winnie’s been trying to call Guy, but she can’t seem to get through. The Maleks have the answering machine on and nobody’s picking up. I don’t know what Guy’s plans are, but we thought we’d better warn him. There are reporters camped out at the gas station across from his place. We have people knocking on the church door and a pile of messages for him.”
“Already?”
“That was my reaction. Frankly, I don’t understand how this got out in the first place.”
“Long story. I’m still in the process of looking into it. I know the family was contacted by the local newspaper first thing this morning. The reporter here had had a letter delivered to him at the paper. I guess something similar was sent to the L.A. Times. I haven’t seen the news yet, but I have a feeling it’s going to get bigger before it goes away.”