As it turned out, it wasn’t Jonah I spoke to but Lieutenant Bower. She kept me waiting for fifteen minutes, sitting on a little two-person bench in what I suppose would be referred to as the lobby at the police station. Under the watchful gaze of the officer at the desk, I shifted in my seat and stared at the rack of crime prevention pamphlets. I also eavesdropped shamelessly while six whining drivers came to complain about their traffic tickets. Finally, Lieutenant Bower peered around the door from the Investigative Division. “Miss Millhone?”
I’d never met Betsy Bower, but I’d been curious about her. The name suggested someone perky and blond, a former varsity cheer-leader with terrific thighs and no brains. To my dismay, Lieutenant Bower was the least perky woman I’d had the pleasure to meet. She was the, police equivalent of an Amazon: statuesque, eight inches taller than I, and probably fifty pounds heavier. She had dark hair that she wore skinned straight back, and little round, gold-rimmed glasses. She had a flawless complexion. If she wore makeup at all, it was artfully done. When she spoke, I caught sight of endearingly crooked teeth, which I realized later might have explained her reluctance to smile. It was also possible she didn’t like me and longed to squash me like a bug.
I followed her into a small cubicle with two wooden chairs and a scratched wooden table that had a tendency to wobble if you tried to rest your arm on it, pretending to be relaxed. She had nothing with her -no pen, no legal pad, no file, no notes. She looked directly at me, offering a few brisk sentences after which it was my turn. Somehow I had the feeling she’d remember every word I said. More likely our conversation was being recorded surreptitiously. I would have done a furtive feel-check for wiring along the underside of the table, but I was worried about the wads of old chewing gum and dried boogers parked there.
She said, “We appreciate your coming in. I understand you were hired by the estate to locate Guy Malek. Can you tell me how you went about that?” Her gaze was watchful, her manner subdued.
The question caught me by surprise. I felt a sudden flash of fear, color rising in my cheeks as if I’d just emerged from a tanning booth. I stalled like a little airplane with a tank full of bad fuel. Too late, I realized I should have prepared for this. Ordinarily, I don’t lie to police officers because that would be very naughty, wouldn’t it? At heart, I’m a law-and-order type. I believe in my country, the flag, paying taxes and parking tickets, returning library books on time, and crossing the street with the light. Also, I’m inclined to get tears in my eyes every time I hear the National Anthem sung by somebody who really knows how to belt it out. Right then, however, I knew I was going to have to do a little verbal tap dance because how I “went about” finding Guy Malek wasn’t exactly legitimate. Neither Darcy Pascoe nor I had any business dipping into CFI’s computer system to do a DMV check on a matter completely unrelated to an insurance claim. I’d probably violated some kind of civil ordinance or penal code number something-something. At the very least, the two of us were in serious breach of company policy, department regulations, common decency, and proper etiquette. This might well go down on my permanent record, something my elementary school principal had threatened me with every time I fled school with Jimmy Tait in the fifth and sixth grades. I didn’t think what I’d done was a jailable offense, but I was, after all, sitting at the police station and I did have my private investigator’s license to protect. Since I’d now hesitated a conspicuous five seconds, I thought it was wise to launch in on something.
I said, “Ah. Well. I met with Donovan, Bennet, and Jack Malek last Wednesday. In the course of those conversations, I was given Guy Malek’s date of birth and his Social Security number. So late in the day on Thursday, I went over to the DMV offices and asked the clerk if there was any record of a driver’s license in Guy Malek’s name. The information that came back was that his license had been surrendered in 1968, but that he’d been issued a California identification card. His mailing address was listed in Marcella, California. I reported that to Tasha Howard, the attorney for the estate, and to Donovan Malek, who authorized me to drive up to Marcella to verify the address. Marcella’s a small town. I wasn’t there ten minutes before I got a line on Guy. Frankly, I didn’t think he should come down here.”
“Why is that?”
Hey, as long as my butt wasn’t on the line, I didn’t care who I ratted out here. “His brothers were upset at having to give him a share of their father’s estate. They felt he’d been paid all the monies he was entitled to. There was the issue of a second will, which came up missing when the old man died. Bennet was convinced his father had disinherited Guy, but since that will was never found, the prior will was the one being entered into probate.” I did a little detour at that point, giving Lieutenant Bower the gist of the business about Max Outhwaite, whose letter to the Dispatch had set all the adverse publicity in motion. She didn’t leap up with excitement, but it did serve to distract her (I hoped), from the issue of my illegal computer access.
She took me through a series of questions related to the Maleks’ attitude toward Guy, which I characterized as hostile. I told her about the outburst I’d witnessed between Donovan and Bennet. She asked me a number of pointed questions about Jack’s statements regarding Guy, but I honestly couldn’t think of anything he’d said that suggested a homicidal bent. In our initial conversation, he’d expressed bitterness at Guy’s defection, but that had been almost eighteen years ago, so I wasn’t convinced it was relevant. Though I didn’t say so to her, I’d pegged Jack as the family mascot, someone harmless and doglike, trained to distract others with his antics. I didn’t feature him as a prime player in any ongoing domestic drama.
“When did you last talk to Guy?” she asked.
“He called Monday night. He needed a break so I drove over to the house and met him near the side gate. I was glad to hear from him. I’d been worried because I knew the media had picked up the story. Peter Antle, the pastor of his church up north, had been trying to get in touch with him. The house was literally under siege and it wasn’t possible to get a call through. I’d driven over there once before, hoping to make contact, and I’d just about given up.”
“Why were you so interested in talking to him?”
“Largely, because Peter and his wife, Winnie, were concerned.”
“Aside from that.”
I stared at her, wondering what she had in mind. Did she think I was romantically involved? “You never met Guy,” I said, stating it as fact and not a question.
“No.” Her face was without animation. Her curiosity was professional and had an analytic cast to it. That was her job, of course, but I found myself struggling to articulate his appeal.
“Guy Malek was a beautiful man,” I said in a voice suddenly fragile. Inexplicably, I found myself pricked by grief. My eyes stung with tears. I could feel my face get puffy and my nose turn hot. It seemed odd that in Henry’s company I’d felt nothing while there, but in the face of Betsy Bowers’s cold authority, all my unprocessed sorrow was surfacing. I took a deep breath, trying to cover my emotions. I was avoiding her eyes, but she must have picked up on my distress because she produced a tissue from somewhere that suddenly appeared in my field of vision. I took it with gratitude, feeling vulnerable and exposed.
Within moments, I was fine. I have strong self-control and managed to get my emotions back in the box again. “Sorry. I’m not sure where that came from. I really haven’t felt much sorrow since I heard about his death. I should have guessed it was down there. He was a good person and I’m really sorry he’s gone.”
“I can understand that,” she said. “Would you care for some water?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s funny-I really only saw him three times. We talked on the phone, but we weren’t exactly best friends. He seemed boyish, a young soul. I must have a weakness for guys who never quite manage to grow up. I’d already given Donovan an invoice and I figured my job was done. Then Guy called on Saturday. Donovan had called him, urging him to come down so they could talk about the will. Personally, I didn’t think the visit was such a hot idea, but Guy was determined.”