“Hi, my name is Kinsey Millhone,” I said, trying not to sound too chirpy. “I’m a local private investigator working on a case that may connect to the death of Alfie Toth.”
Pause. “In what way?”
“Well, I’m not sure yet. I’m not asking for confidential information, but could you give me an update? The last mention in the paper was back in January.”
Pause. This was like talking to someone on a time delay. I could have sworn he was taking notes. “What’s the nature of your interest?”
“Ah. Well, that’s tricky to explain. I’m working for the wife-I guess I should make that the widow-of a sheriff’s investigator up in Nota Lake. Tom Newquist. Did you know him by any chance?”
“Name doesn’t sound familiar.”
“He drove down last June to talk to Alfie Toth, but by the time he reached the Gramercy, Toth had moved out. They might have connected later-I’m not sure about that yet-but I’m assuming this was part of an ongoing investigation.”
“Uh-unh.”
“Do you have any record of Newquist’s contacting your department?”
“Hang on.” He sounded resigned, a man who couldn’t be accused later of thwarting the public’s right to know.
He put me on hold. I listened to the mild hissing that signals one’s entrance into telephone hyperspace. I sent up a little prayer of thanks that I wasn’t being subjected to polka music or John Philip Sousa. Some companies patch you into news broadcasts with the volume pitched too low and you sit there wondering if you’re flunking some bizarre hearing test.
Detective Boyd clicked back in. He apparently had the file open on the desk in front of him as I could hear him flipping pages. “You still there,” he asked idly.
“I’m here.”
“Tom Newquist didn’t get in touch with us when he was here, but I do show we’ve been with Nota Lake.”
I said, “Really. I wonder why he didn’t let you know he was coming down.”
“Gosh, I don’t know. That’s a stumper,” he said blandly.
“If he’d gotten in touch, would there be a note of it?’
“Yes ma’am.”
I could see how this was going to go. I was on a fishing expedition and Detective Boyd was responding only to direct questions. Anything I didn’t ask, he wasn’t going to volunteer. Somehow I had to snag his interest and inspire his cooperation. “Why don’t I tell you my problem,” I said conversationally. “His widow’s convinced her husband was deeply troubled about something.”
“Uh-unh.”
I could feel my frustration mount. How could this man be so pleasant and so completely obtuse at the same time? I switched gears. “Was Alfie Toth wanted for some crime at the time of his death?”
“Not that I’m aware of. He’d just finished serving time on a conviction for petty theft.”
“The desk clerk at the Gramercy says a plainclothes detective came in with a warrant for his arrest.”
“Wasn’t one of ours.”
“You don’t show any outstanding warrants?”
“No ma’am, I don’t.”
“But there must have been some connection or Tom Newquist wouldn’t have bothered to drive all the way down here.”
“I’ll tell you what. If this is just a question of satisfying Mrs. Newquist’s curiosity, I can’t see any reason to share information. Why don’t you talk to Nota Lake and see what they have to say. That’d be your best bet.”
“Are you telling me you have information?”
“I’m telling you I’m not going to reveal the substance of an ongoing investigation to any yahoo who asks. You have knowledge of the facts-something new to contribute-we’d be happy to have you come in.”
“Has there been a resolution to the case?”
“Not so far.”
“The newspapers indicated that this was being investigated as a homicide.”
“That’s correct.”
“Do you have a suspect?”
“Not at this time. I wouldn’t say that, no.”
“Any leads?”
“None that I’m willing to tell you about,” he said.
“You want to make a trip out here, I could maybe have you talk to the watch commander, but as far as giving out information by phone, it ain’t gonna fly. I don’t mean to cast aspersions, but you could be anyone. . . a journalist.”
“God forbid,” I said. “Surely you don’t think I’m anyone that low.”
I could hear him smile. At least he was enjoying himself. He seemed to think about it briefly and them he said, “Let’s try this. Why don’t you give me your number and if anything comes up I’m at liberty to pass along, I’ll be in touch.”
“You’re entirely too kind.”
Detective Boyd laughed. “Have a good day.”
FOURTEEN
Olga Toth opened the door to her Perdido condominium wearing a bright yellow outfit that consisted of form-fitting tights and a stretchy cotton tunic, ciched at the waist with a wide white bejewled plastic belt. The fabric clung to her body like a bandage that couldn’t quite conceal the damage time had inflicted on her sixty-year-old flesh. Her knee-high boots looked to be size elevens, white vinyl alligator with a fancy pattern of stichwork across the instep. She’d had some work done on her face, probably collagen injections given the plumpiness of her lips and the slightly lumpy appearance of her cheeks. Her hair was a dry-looking platinum blond, her brown eyes heavily lined, with a startling set of eyebrows drawn in above. I could smell the vermouth on her breath before she said a word.
I’d driven the thirty miles to Perdido in the midst of a drizzling rain, that sort of fine spray that required the constant flip-flop of windsheild wipers and the fiercest of concentration. The roadway was slick, the blacktop glistening with a deceptive sheen of water that made driving hazardous. Under ordinary circumstances, I might have delayed the trip for another hour or two, but I was worried the cops would somehow manage to warn Alfie’s ex-wife of my interest, urging her to keep her mouth shut if I knocked on her door.
The address I’d been given was just off the beach, a ten-unit complex of two-story frame townhouses within view of the Pacific. Olga’s was on the second floor with an exterior stairway and a small sheltered entrance lined with potted plants. The woman who answered the door bell was older than I’d expected and her smile revealed a dazzling array of caps.
“Mrs. Toth?”
She said, “Yes?” Her tone conveyed a natural optimism, as though, having sent in all the forms, having held on to the matching numbers that established her eligibility, she might open the door to someone bearing the keys to her new car or, better yet, that oversized check for several million bucks.
I showed her my card. “Could I talk to you about your ex-husband?”
“Which one?”
“Alfie Toth.”
Her smile faded with disappointment, as though there were better ex-husbands to inquire about among her many. “Honey, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but he’s deceased so if you’re here about his unpaid bills, the line forms at the rear.”
“This is something else. May I come in?”
“You’re not here to serve process,” she asked, cautiously.
“Not at all. Honest.”
“Because I’m warning you, I put a notice in the paper the day we separated saying I’m not responsible for debts other than my own.”
“Your record’s clean as far as I’m concerned.”
She studied me, considering, and then stepped back. “No funny business,” she warned.
“I’m never funny,” I said.
I followed her through the small foyer, watching as she retrieved a martini glass from a small console table. “I was just having a drink in case you’re interested.”
“I’m fine for now, but thanks.”
We entered a living room done entirely in white; trampled-looking, white nylon cut-pile carpeting, white nylon sheers, white leatherette couches, and a white vinyl chair. There was only one lamp turned on and the light coming through the curtains had been subdued by the rain. The room felt damp to me. The glass-and-chrome coffee table bore a large arrangement of white lilies, a pitcher of martini’s, several issues of Architectural Digest, and a recent issue of Modern Maturity. Her eye fell on the latter about the same time mine did. She leaned forward impatiently. “That belongs to a friend. I really hate those things. The minute you turn fifty, the HARP starts hounding you for membership. Not that I’m anywhere close to retirement age,” she assured me. She poured herself another drink, adding olives she plucked from a small bowl nearby. She licked her fingertips with enthusiasm. “Olives are the best part,” she remarked. Her nails, I noticed, were very long and pink, thick enough to suggest acrylics or poorly done silk overlays.
“What sort of work do you do?” I asked.
She motioned me into a seat at one end of the couch while she settled at the other end, her arm stretched out along the back. “I’m a cosmetologist and if you don’t mind my saying so-“