The entrance to the Civic Center opened into a wide corridor that served as a lobby, currently undergoing renovations. File cabinets and storage units had been moved into the uncarpeted space. The walls were lined with panels of some unidentified wood. The ceiling was a low gridwork of acoustical tiles. Portions of the hallway were marked off with traffic cones strung together with tape, hand-lettered signs pointing to the current locations of several displaced departments.
I found the sheriffs substation, which was small and consisted of several interconnecting offices that looked like the “Before” photos in a magazine spread. Fluourescent lighting did little to improve the ambience, which was made up of a hodgepodge of technical manuals, wall plaques, glossy paneling, office machines, wire baskets, and notices taped to all the flat surfaces. The civilian clerk was a woman in her thirties who wore running shoes, jeans, and an M.I.T. sweatshirt over white turtleneck. Her name tag identified her as Margaret Brine. She had chopped-off black hair, oval glasses with black frames, and a dusting of freckles under her powder and blush. Her teeth were big and square with visible spaces between.
I took out a business card and placed it on the counter. “I wonder if I might talk to Rafer LaMott.’.’
She picked up my card, giving it a cursory look. “Will he know what this is about?”
“The coroner suggested I talk to him about Tom Newquist.”
Her gaze lifted to mine. “Just a minute,” she said. She disappeared through a door in the rear that I assumed led into other offices. I could hear a murmur, and moments later Rafer LaMott appeared, shrugging himself into a charcoal brown sport coat. He was an African American in his forties, probably six feet tall, with a caramel complexion, closely cropped black hair, and startling hazel eyes. His mustache was sparse, and he was otherwise clean-shaven. The lines in his forehead resembled parallel seams in a fine-grained leather. The sports coat he wore over black gabardine pants looked like cashmere. His shirt was pate beige, his tie a mild brown with a pattern of black paperclips arranged in diagonal lines up and down the length.
He had my card in his hand, reading out the information in a slightly cocky tone. “Kinsey Millhone, P.I. from Santa Teresa, California. What can I help you with?”
I could feel a prickly sensation at the back of my neck. His expression was non-committal. Technically, he wasn’t rude, but he certainly wasn’t friendly and I sensed from his manner he was not going to be much help. I tried a public smile, nothing with any sincerity or warmth. “Selma Newquist hired me. She has some questions about Tom.”
He regarded me briefly and then moved through the gate at one end of the counter. “I have to be some place, but you can follow me out. What questions?”
I had no choice but to trot along beside him as he headed down the hall toward a rear entrance. “She says he was upset about something. She wants to know what it was.”
He pushed the door open and passed through, picking up his pace in a manner that suggested mounting agitation. I caught the door as it swung shut and passed through right after him. I had to two-step to keep up. He pulled his car keys from his pocket as he descended the steps. He walked briskly across the parking lot and slowed when he reached a nondescript, white compact car, which he proceeded to unlock. As he opened the car door, he turned to look at me. “Listen, here’s the truth and no disrespect intended. Selma. was always trying to pry Into Tom’s business, always pressing him for something just in case the poor guy had a fleeting thought of his own. The woman comes equipped with emotional radar, forever scanning her environment, trying to pick up matters of no concern to her. Repeat that and I’ll deny it so you can save your,, breath.”
“I have no intention of repeating it. I appreciate your candor-”
“Then you can appreciate this,” he said. “Tom never said a word against her, but I can tell you from
FIVE
I got in my car and headed back to Selma’s, still completely unenlightened. I couldn’t tell if Rafer knew something or if he was simply annoyed at Selma’s hiring a private detective. Oddly enough, I found his rudeness more inspirational than daunting. Tom had died without much warning, out on the highway with no opportunity to clean up his business. For the moment, I was operating on the assumption that Selma’s intuition was correct.
I left my car out in front and crossed the lawn to the porch. Selma’d left a note taped to the door saying she’d be over at the church until noon. I tried the door, which was unlocked, so I didn’t need the key she’d given me the night before. I let myself in, calling a hello as I entered in case Brant was on the premises. There was no call in response, though several lights in the house were on. I took a few minutes to move through the empty rooms. The house was one story and most of the living space was laid out on one floor. Just off the kitchen, I found a set of stairs leading down to the basement.
I flipped on the light and descended halfway, peering over the rail. I could see woodworking equipment, a washer and dryer, a hot-water heater, and various odds and ends of furniture, including a portable barbecue and lawn chairs. A half-open door on the far wall led to the furnace room. There appeared to be ample storage. I’d nose around later, going through the cardboard boxes and built-in cabinets.
I returned to Tom’s office and sat down at his desk, wondering what secrets he might have kept from view. What I was looking for-if, indeed, there was anything-didn’t have to be related to Tom’s work. It could have been anything: drink, drugs, pornography, gambling, an affair, an affinity for young boys, a tendency to cross-dress. Most of us have something we’d prefer to keep to ourselves. Or maybe there was nothing. I didn’t like to admit it, but Rafer’s attitude toward Selma was already having an effect. I’d resisted his view, but a small touch of doubt was beginning to stir.
I abandoned Tom’s desk, feeling restless and bored. So far, I hadn’t turned up one significant scrap of paper. Maybe Selma was nuts and I was wasting my time. I went out to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. I opened the refrigerator and stared at the contents while I pretended to quench my thirst. I closed the refrigerator door and checked the pantry. All the stuff she’d brought back from the store looked alarming; artificial and imitation products of the Miracle Whip variety. There was a plate of what looked like raisin oatmeal cookies on the counter, with a note that said “Help yourself.” I ate several. I left the glass in the drainboard and wandered into the hall. The phone seemed to ring every fifteen minutes, but I let the machine pick up messages. Selma was much in demand, but it was all charity-related work-the church bazaar, a fund-raising auction for the new Sunday school wing.
I turned my attention to the master bedroom. Tom’s clothes were still hanging in his half of the closet. I began to go through his pockets. I checked the top shelf, his shoe boxes, dresser drawers, his change caddy. I found a loaded Colt .357 Magnum in one bed table drawer, but there was nothing else of importance. The remaining content of the drawer was that embarrassing assortment of junk everyone seems to keep somewhere: ticket stubs, match books, expired credit cards, shoelaces. No dirty magazines, no sex toys. I looked under the bed, slid a hand along under the mattress, peeked behind picture frames, tapped with a knuckle across the walls in the closet, pulled up a corner of the rug, looking for hidden panels in the floor.
In the master bath, I checked the medicine cabinet, the linen closet, and the hamper. Nothing leaped out at me. Nothing seemed out of place. For a while, in despair, I stretched out on the master bedroom floor, breathing in carpet fumes and wondering how soon I could decently quit.
I went back into the den, where I finished going through the remaining junk on his shelves. Aside from feeling virtuous for cleaning out his desk drawers, I’d acquired absolutely no insights about Tom Newquist’s life. I checked his credit card receipts for the past twelve months, but neither his Visa nor his MasterCard showed anything unusual. Most activity on the card could easily be matched to his desk calendar. For instance, a series of hotel and restaurant charges the previous February were related to a seminar he’d attended in Redding, California. The man was systematic. I gave him points for that. Any work-related charges to his telephone bill were later invoiced to his work and reimbursed accordingly. He didn’t pad his account by so much as a penny. There was no pattern of outlandish expenses and nothing to suggest any significant or unexplained outlay of cash.