B Is for Burglar

  "Hi, Julia. This is Kinsey out in California."

  "Just a minute, dear, and I'll turn the television down. I'm watching my program."

  "You want me to call you back in a bit? I hate to interrupt."

  "No, no. I'd prefer talking to you. Hold on."

  Some moments passed and I heard the volume of the background noise reduced to silence. Julia was apparently creeping back to the phone as fast as she could. I waited. Finally she picked up the receiver again. "I kept the picture on," she said, out of breath, "though it just looks like one big blur from across the room. How are you?"

  "Frustrated at the moment," I said. "I'm running out of things to do, but I wanted to ask you about Elaine's cat. I don't suppose you've seen Mingus in the last six months, have you?"

  "Oh goodness, no. I hadn't even thought about him. If she's gone, he'd have to be missing too, I suppose."

  "Well, it looks that way. The building manager here says she left that night with what looked like a cat carrier, so if she actually got to Florida, I'm assuming she'd have had him with her."

  "I'd be willing to swear he never got here any more than she did, but I could check with vets and kennels in the area," Julia said. "Maybe she boarded him out for some reason."

  "Could you do that? It would really save me some time. I don't know that you'll turn up anything, but at least we'll know we tried. I'm going to see if I can trace the taxicab she took and find out if she had the cat with her when she went to the airport. Did Pat Usher ever mention him?"

  "Not that I recall. She's gone, you know. Moved out lock, stock, and barrel."

  "Oh, really? Well, I'm not surprised, but I would like to know where she is. Could you get her forwarding address from the Makowskis? I'll call you back in a day or two, but don't you dare call Pat yourself. I don't want her to know you're involved. I may need you to do some more snooping later and I don't want your cover blown." I added, "How are things with you otherwise?"

  "Oh, I'm fine, Kinsey. You needn't worry about me. I don't suppose you'd consider a partnership after we wrap this one up."

  "I've had worse offers in my day," I said.

  Julia laughed. "I'm going to start reading Mickey Spillane just to get in shape. I don't know a lot of rude words, you know."

  "I think I've got us covered on that score. I'll talk to you later. Let me know if you come up with anything startling in the meantime. Oh – and I'm shipping you a contract for your signature. We might as well do this right."

  "Roger. Over and out," she said and hung up.

  I left my vintage VW in the parking lot behind the office and walked over to the Tip Top Cab Company on Delgado. The business office is located in a narrow strip of stores best noted for their liquidation sales: a constant round of discount shoes, car stereos, lunch counters, and motorcycle shops with an occasional beauty salon or a "fast-foto" establishment. It is not a desirable location. The one-way street runs the wrong way.

  The parking lot is too small and apparently the owner of the building, while not exacting outrageous rents, is also content to let the premises languish under worn paint and tatty carpeting.

  Tip Top was jammed between a Humane Society Thrift Shop and a Big N' Tall Men's Shop with a suit in the window designed for the steroid enthusiast. The office itself was long and narrow, partitioned across the middle with a plywood wall with a door cut into it. The place was furnished like some kid's hideout, complete with two broken-down couches and a table with one short leg. There were drawings and hand-lettered signs Scotch-taped to the walls, trash piled up in one corner, dog-eared copies of Road and Track magazine in an irregular tier by the front door. The bucket seat from a car was propped against the far wall, tan upholstery slashed in one spot and mended with old Band-Aids covered with stars. The dispatcher was perched on a stool, leaning one elbow on a counter as littered as a workbench. He was probably twenty-five with curly black hair and a small dark mustache. He wore chinos, a pale blue T-shirt with a faded decal of the Grateful Dead, and a visor that made his hair stick up on the sides. The shortwave radio squawked incomprehensibly and he took up the mike.

  "Seven-oh," eh said, his eyes immediately focusing on the map of the city affixed to the wall above the counter. I saw a butt-filled ashtray, an aspirin bottle, a cardboard calendar from Our Lady of Sorrows Church, a fan belt, plastic packets of ketchup, and a big penciled note that read "Has Anybody Seen My Red Flash Lite?" Tacked to the wall there was a list of addresses for customers who'd passed bad checks and those in the habit of calling more than one cab to see who could get there first.

  There was a short burst of squawking and the dispatcher moved a round magnet from one part of the map to another. It looked like he was playing a board game all by himself.

  He rotated toward me on the stool. "Yes ma'am."

  I held out my hand. "I'm Kinsey Millhone," I said. He seemed slightly disconcerted at the notion of shaking hands, but he covered himself and gamely obliged.

  "Ron Coachello."

  I took out my wallet and showed him my identification. "I wonder if you could check some records for me."

  His eyes were very dark and bright and his look said that he could check anything he wanted if it suited him. "What's the skinny?"

  I gave him the Reader's Digest condensed version of the tale, complete with Elaine Boldt's local address and the approximate time the taxi'd been there. "Can you go back to January ninth of this year and see if Tip Top picked up the fare? It might have been City Cab or Green Stripe. I've got some questions for the driver."

  He shrugged. "Sure. It might take a day. I got that stuff at home. I don't keep it down here. Why don't I give you a call, or better yet, you buzz me back? How's that?"

  The phone rang and he took a call, logging it in. Then he took up the mike and pressed the button. "Six-eight." He cocked his head, listening idly. There was static, then a squawk.

  "Four-oh-two-nine Orion," he said and clicked off. I gave him my card. He glanced at it with curiosity as if he'd never known a woman with a business card before. The radio suddenly came to life again and he turned back, taking up the mike. I waved to him and he waved back over his shoulder at me.

  I went through exactly the same procedure with the other two cab companies, which were fortunately within walking distance of one another. By the time I repeated the same story twice more I felt like I was suffering from a bad case of tongue flop.

  When I got into the office, there was a message from Jonah Robb on my machine.

  "Ah, yeah, Kinsey. This if Officer Robb on that... ah... issue we discussed. I wonder if you could give me a call sometime... ah... this afternoon and we'll find a way to get together on it. It's now Friday and it's... ah... twelve-ten P.M. Talk to you soon. Okay. Thanks." The number he left was for the police station, with the extension for Missing Persons.

  I called him back, identifying myself as soon as he came on the line. "I understand you have some information for me."

  "Right," he said. "You want to stop by my place later on?"

  "I could do that," I said. I took down his address and we settled on 8:15, bypassing dinner. I didn't think we should get into any little domestic numbers at this point. I thanked him for his help and rang off.

  I couldn't for the life of me think of anything else to do on the case that afternoon so I locked the office and headed for home. It was only 1:20 and since I'd accomplished so little at work, I felt morally obliged to be useful at my place. I washed the cup and saucer and plate that were sitting in the sink and left them in the rack to dry until I needed them again. I put a load of towels in the washer and then scoured the bathroom and kitchen sinks, took out the trash, and vacuumed a path around the furniture. Now and then, I actually move things and suck up all the woofies underneath, but today it was sufficient to have a few vacuum-cleaner tracks here and there and the apartment smelling of that peculiar cross between hot machine oil and cooked dust. I do love tidiness. When you live by yourself, you can either get all p
iggy or pick up as you go, which is what I prefer. There's nothing more depressing than coming home at the end of a long day to a place that looks like it's just been tossed by the mob.

  I changed into my sweat pants and did three miles with energy to burn. This was one of those rare days when the run seemed inexplicably grand.

  I came home, showered, washed my hair, napped, got dressed, sneaked in a little grocery shopping, and then I sat down at my desk and worked on note cards while I drank a glass of white wine and ate a warm, sliced-hard-boiled-egg sandwich with loads of Best Food's mayo and salt, nearly swooning at the taste.

  At eight, I snatched up a jacket, my handbag, and my key pick and hopped in my car, heading over to Cabana Boulevard, the wide avenue that parallels the beach. I turned right. Jonah lived in an odd little tract of houses off Primavera, maybe a mile away. I passed the marina, then Ludlow Beach, glancing to my left. Even in the gathering twilight, I could identify the big trash bin where death had almost caught up with me two weeks before. I wondered how long it would take before I could pass that area without unconsciously glancing left, without taking just that one peek at the place where I'd thought my life would end. The beach seemed to glow with the last light of day and the sky was a silver gray layered with pink and lavender, deepening to dark magenta where the near hills intersected the view. Out on the ocean, the islands retained a magical hot gold light where lingering rivulets of sunlight formed a shimmering pool.

  I went up the hill, passing Sea Shore Park, turning right then into a tangle of streets across the boulevard. The proximity to the Pacific meant too much chill fog and corrosive salt air, but there was an elementary school close by. For Jonah, who had had a family to support on a cop's salary, the neighborhood was affordable, but by no means grand.

  I found the street number I was looking for and pulled into the driveway. The porch light was on and the yard looked well kept. The house was a ranch-style stucco painted slate blue with dark blue trim. I guessed there would be three bedrooms with maybe a patio in back. I rang the doorbell and Jonah came to the door. He wore jeans and an L. L. Bean Oxford-cloth dress shirt with a pink pinstripe. He carried a beer bottle loosely by the neck, motioning me in with a glance at his watch.

  "God, you're prompt," he said.

  "Well, you're not far away. I just live at the bottom of the hill."

  "I know. You want me to take that?"

  He was holding his hand up for the jacket, which I shed and handed to him, along with my handbag. He tossed both unceremoniously into a chair.

  For a minute neither of us could think of anything to say. He took a sip of beer. I put my hands in my back pockets. Why did this feel so awkward? It reminded me of those awful junior-high-school dates where you got driven to the movies by somebody's mother and you never knew what to talk about.

  I glanced around. "Nice house," I remarked.

  "Come on. I'll show you around."

  I followed while he talked back over his shoulder at me.

  "It was a shit heap when we first moved in. The guy'd been renting it out to these weirdos who kept a ferret in the closet and never flushed the toilet because it was against their religious beliefs. You've probably seen 'em around town. Barefoot with these red and yellow rags around their heads and outfits like something out of the Old Testament. He said they hardly ever paid their rent, but every time he came to hassle them about it, they'd start humming and hold his hand, making significant eye contact. You want some wine? I bought you some high-class stuff – no twist-off cap."

  I smiled. "I'm flattered."

  We detoured into the kitchen and he opened a bottle of white wine for me, pouring it into a wineglass that still had the price tag on the bottom. He grinned sheepishly when he saw it.

  "All I had was plastic glasses the kids used to use in the backyard," he said. "This is the kitchen."

  "I kind of figured that."

  It was a nice house. I don't know what I expected, but someone had made good choices. The whole place had a stripped-down feeling: bare, gleaming wood floors, furniture with simple lines, clean surfaces. Why had Camilla left this? What else was she looking for?

  He showed me three bedrooms, two baths, a deck out back and a small yard enclosed by a vine-covered stucco wall.

  "I'll tell you the truth," he said. "When she walked out, I packed up all her stuff and had the Salvation Army come take it away. I wasn't going to sit around looking at her little artsy-fartsy geegaws. I kept the kids' rooms intact. Maybe she'll get tired of them like she got tired of me and send them back, but her stuff I don't need. She was royally irritated when she heard, but what was I supposed to do?" He shrugged, standing there holding the beer bottle by the neck.

  His face was beginning to take form now that I'd seen him twice. Before, I'd only registered qualities like "bland" and "harmless." I'd been aware of the extra weight he carried, a personality made up of something nice mixed with something droll. He was direct and I responded to that, but he also had a trait I'd noticed in certain cops before: bemused self-assurance, as if he were looking at the world from a long way back but it was all okay with him. Clearly, Camilla still loomed large in his life and he smiled every time he talked about her, not with affection, but to cover his wrath. I thought he needed to go through a few more women before he got down to me.

  "What is that? What's that look?" he asked.

  I smiled. "Beware of dog," I said. I'm not sure if I was talking about him or me.

  He smiled too, but he knew what I meant. "I got the stuff in here."

  He pointed toward the dining-room table in an alcove just off the living room.

  I sat down in a hot circle of light, feeling like a glutton with a napkin tucked under my chin and a knife and fork upright in each fist. Along with the reports he'd Xeroxed, he'd also managed to slip me some duplicate photographs. I was going to see the after math of the crime with m own eyes and I could hardly wait.

  Chapter 14

  * * *

  I read through everything quickly, just to get an overview, and then I went back and noted the details that interested me. The official version of the story, as much as I knew it, and the interviews with Leonard Grice, his sister Lily, neighbors, the fire inspector, and the first police officer on the scene more or less spelled out events in the same way I'd been told. Leonard and Marty were scheduled to go out for their traditional Tuesday-night dinner with Leonard's widowed sister, Mrs. Howe. Marty wasn't feeling well and canceled out at the last minute. Leonard and Lily went out as planned and got back to the Howes' at about nine P.M., at which point a call was put through to Marty to let her know they were home. Both Mr. Grice and his sister spoke to Marty and she finally terminated the call in order to respond to a knock at the door. According to both Lily and Leonard, they had a cup of coffee and chatted for a bit. He left at approximately ten o'clock, arriving at Via Madrina twenty-some minutes later to find that his house had burned. By then, the blaze had been brought under control and his wife's body was being removed from the partially destroyed residence. He collapsed and was revived by paramedics at the scene. Tillie Ahlberg was the one who'd spotted the smoke and she'd turned in an alarm at 9:55. Two units had responded within minutes, but the blaze was such that entry couldn't be effected through the front door. Firemen had broken in through the rear, extinguishing the fire after thirty minutes or so. The body was discovered in the entryway and removed to the morgue. Identification had been established by full-mouth X rays supplied by Marty's local dentist and through an examination of stomach contents. She'd apparently mentioned to Leonard on the phone that she'd fixed herself some canned tomato soup and a tuna sandwich. The empty cans were found in the kitchen wastebasket. The time of death had more or less been fixed in a narrow framework between the time of the telephone call and the time the fire alarm had been turned in.

  I read through the autopsy report, mentally summing up a lot of technical details. The pathologist reported no carbon granules deposited in the bro
nchial passages or lungs and no carbon monoxide in the blood or other tissues. It was therefore determined that she had been dead when the fire broke out. Additional lab tests had revealed no alcohol, chloroform, drugs, or poisons in the system. The cause of death was attributed to multiple skull fractures apparently caused by repeated blows with a blunt instrument. Because of the nature of the wounds, the pathologist estimated the object to be some four to five inches in width, speculating that it might have been a two-by-four wielded with great force, a baseball bat, or some kind of club, possibly metal. The murder weapon had never been found. Unless, of course, it was a big old board burned up in the fire, but there was no evidence to support that possibility.

  The arson investigators didn't seem to have any doubts that the fire had been deliberately set. Lab tests showed traces of kerosene in the floorboards. Charring patterns throughout the house had borne this out. They'd seen the same blackened splash marks and the same liquid trails that I'd spotted when I went through the house earlier. They'd also used some sophisticated methods of verifying the point of origin and the course the fire had taken as it burned. Leonard Grice had been questioned about the kerosene and he said he'd been storing a quantity in the basement for use in two lamps and a cooking stove that he and Marty took on camping trips, which accounted for the intruder's having had access to a flammable liquid. It looked as if the burglar had come with a weapon in hand, but without any intention of burning the place down. The fire was apparently an afterthought, a hastily concocted plan to conceal the bludgeoning of Marty Grice. So far there was nothing to suggest that anybody knew she'd be there, so the cops were having a hard time imagining that the murder had been planned in advance.

  There was no evidence that a time-delay device had been employed, which ruled out the possibility that Grice had rigged the fire before he left. Grice's nephew, Mike, had been questioned and cleared. He'd been seen by numerous impartial witnesses in a hangout called The Clockworks in downtown Santa Teresa during the critical period when experts speculated that the fire had been set. There were no other suspects and no other witnesses. Any other hard evidence including fingerprints had been destroyed by the fire. Elaine Boldt's name was on a list of persons to be interviewed and there was a note that Lieutenant Dolan had contacted her by telephone on the fifth. He'd made an appointment to see her on January 10, but she'd never appeared. According to the information I had, she'd left for Florida the night before.