At 7:00, I felt him kiss me lightly on the forehead, and after that the door closed softly. By the time I’d stirred myself awake, he was gone.
20
I got up at 9:00 and spent Sunday taking care of personal chores. I cleaned my place, did laundry, went to the supermarket, and had a nice visit in the afternoon with my landlord, who was sunning himself in the backyard. For a man of eighty-one, Henry Pitts has an amazing set of legs. He also has a wonderful beaky nose, a thin aristocratic face, shocking white hair, and eyes that are periwinkle blue. The overall effect is very sexy, electric, and the photographs I’ve seen of him in his youth don’t even half compare. At twenty and thirty and forty, Henry’s face seems too full, too unformed. As the decades pass, the pictures begin to reveal a man growing lean and fierce, until now he seems totally concentrated, like a basic stock boiled down to a rich elixir.
“Listen, Henry,” I said, plunking down on the grass near his chaise. “You live entirely too idle a life.”
“Sin and degradation,” he said complacently, not even bothering to open his eyes. “You had company last night.”
“A sleep-over date. Just like our mamas warned us about.”
“How was it?”
“I’m not telling,” I said. “What kind of crossword puzzle did you concoct this week?”
“An easy one. All doubles. Prefixes—‘bi,’ ‘di,’ ‘bis,’ ‘dis.’ Twin. Twain. Binary. Things like that. Try this one: six letters, ‘double impression.’ ”
“Already, I give up.”
“ ‘Mackle.’ It’s a printer’s term. Kind of a cheat but the fit was so nice. Try this. ‘Double meaning.’ Nine letters.”
“Henry, would you quit that?”
“ ‘Ambiguity.’ I’ll leave it on your doorstep.”
“No, don’t. I get those things in my head and I can’t get ’em out.”
He smiled. “You run yet?”
“No, but I’m on my way,” I said, hopping up again. I crossed the grass, glancing back at him with a grin. He was putting suntan oil on his knees, which were already a gorgeous shade of caramel. I wondered how much it really mattered that there was a fifty-year difference in our ages. But then again, I had Charlie Scorsoni to think about. I changed clothes and did my run. And thought about him.
Monday morning, I went in to see Con Dolan at Homicide. He was talking on the phone when I got there, so I sat down at his desk. He was tipped back in his chair, feet jammed against the edge of the desk, the receiver laid loosely against his ear. He was saying, “uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh,” looking bored. He scanned me with care, taking in every detail of my face, as though he were memorizing me all over again, running me through a computer file of known felons, looking for a match. I stared back at him. In moments, I could see the young man in his face, which was sagging now and worn, pouches beneath his eyes, hair slicked down, cheeks turning soft at the jawline as though the flesh were beginning to warm and melt. The skin on his neck had collapsed into a series of fine folds, reddened and bulging slightly over his starched shirt collar. I feel an ornery kind of kinship with him, which I never can quite identify. He’s tough, emotionless, withdrawn, calculating, harsh. I’ve heard he’s mean, too, but what I see in him is the overriding competence. He knows his business and he takes no guff and despite the fact he gives me a hard time whenever he can, I know he likes me, though grudgingly. I saw his attention sharpen. He focused on what was being said to him and it made his temper climb.
“All right now, you listen here, Mitch, because I’ve said all I intend to say. We’re getting down to the short strokes on this and I don’t want you fuckin’ up my case. Yeah, I know that. Yeah, that’s what you said. I just want it clear between us. I gave your boy all the breaks I mean to give so either he cooperates or we can put him right back where he was. Yeah, well you talk to him again!”
Con dropped the phone down from a height, not exactly slamming it but making his point. He was done. He looked at me through a haze of irritation. I put the manila envelope on his desk. He put his feet on the floor.
“What is this?” he said snappishly. He peered in through the flap, removing the letter I’d found in Libby Glass’s effects. Even without knowing what it was, he held it by the edges, his eyes raking the contents once and then going back again with caution. He glanced up at me sharply. He tucked it back in the envelope.
“Where’d you get it?”
“Libby Glass’s mother kept all her stuff. It was shoved in a paperback book. I picked it up Friday. Can you have it checked for fingerprints?”
The look he gave me was cold. “Why don’t we talk about Sharon Napier first?”
I felt a spurt of fear, but I didn’t hesitate. “She’s dead,” I said, reaching for the envelope. He smacked his fist down on it and I drew my hand back. We locked eyes. “A friend of mine in Vegas told me,” I said. “That’s how I knew.”
“Horseshit. You drove up there.”
“Wrong.”
“God damn it, don’t lie to me,” he snapped.
I could feel my temper flare. “You want to read me my rights, Lieutenant Dolan? You want to hand me a certification of notification of my constitutional rights? Because I’ll read it and sign it if you like. And then I’ll call my attorney, and when he gets down here, we can chat. How’s that?”
“You’ve been on this business two weeks and somebody shows up dead. You cross me up and I’ll have your ass. Now you give it to me straight. I told you to keep out of this.”
“Uh-uh. You told me to keep out of trouble, which I did. You said you’d like a little help making the connection between Libby Glass and Laurence Fife and I gave you that,” I said, indicating the manila envelope.
He picked it up and tossed it in the trash. I knew it was just for effect. I tried another tack.
“Come on, Con,” I said. “I had nothing to do with Sharon Napier’s death. Not in any way, shape, or form. What do you think? That I’d run up there and kill somebody who might be of help? You’re crazy! I never even went to Vegas. I was down at the Salton Sea talking to Greg Fife and if you doubt my word, call him!” I shut my mouth then and stared at him hotly, letting this bold admixture of truth and utter falsehood penetrate his darkened face.
“How’d you know where she was?”
“Because I spent a day and a half on a trace through a Nevada P.I. named Bob Dietz. I was going to drive to Vegas after I talked to Greg. I put a call through first and found out somebody’d put a bullet in her. How do you think I feel about that? She might have filled in a few blanks for me. I’ve got it tough enough as it is. This goddamn case is eight years old, now give me a break!”
“Who knew you intended to talk to her?”
“I don’t know that. If you’re implying that somebody killed her to keep her from talking to me, I think you’re wrong but I couldn’t swear to that. She was stepping on a lot of toes up there from what I hear. And don’t ask me the particulars because I don’t know. I just hear she was treading on somebody’s turf.”
He sat and stared at me then and I guessed that I must have hit a vein. The rumors my friend in Vegas had passed on must have lined up with whatever the Las Vegas Police Department had turned up. I was personally convinced that she’d been killed to shut her mouth, that someone had followed me and had gotten to her just in time, but I was damned if I was going to have a finger pointed at me. I couldn’t see what purpose it would serve and it would only prevent me from getting on with my own inquiries. I still wasn’t entirely easy about the fact that someone else had probably tipped off the Las Vegas PD about the shooting. One more minute in her apartment and I’d have been in a real jam, which might have closed down my investigation for good. Whatever regret I felt for my involvement with her death wasn’t going to be expiated by my being caught up in the aftermath.
“What else have you found out about Libby Glass?” he asked me then, his tone shifting slightly along with the subject.
“Not a lot. Right now, I?
??m still trying to make a few pieces fall into place, and so far I’m not having much luck. If that letter really was written by Laurence Fife, then at least we can nail that down. Frankly, I hope it wasn’t, but Nikki seems to think the writing is his. There’s something about it that doesn’t sit well with me. Can you let me know if the prints match?”
Con pushed impatiently at a stack of files on his desk. “I’ll think about that,” he said. “I don’t want us to get buddy-buddy over this.”
“Believe me, we will never be close friends,” I said, and for some reason his expression softened slightly and I almost thought he might smile.
“Get out of here,” he said gruffly.
I went.
I got in my car and left the downtown area, taking a left on Anaconda down to the beach. It was a gorgeous day—sunny and cool, with fat clouds squatting on the horizon. There were sailboats here and there, probably planted by the Chamber of Commerce to look picturesque for the tourists who straggled along the sidewalk taking snapshots of other tourists who were sitting in the grass.
At Ludlow Beach, I followed the hill upward and then branched off onto the steep side street where Marcia Threadgill lived. I parked and got out my binoculars, scanning her patio. All of her plants were present and accounted for and they were all looking healthier than I liked. There was no sign of Marcia or the neighbor she feuded with. I wished she would move so I could take pictures of her lugging fifty-pound cartons of books down to a U-Haul van. I’d even settle for a glimpse of her coming back from the grocery store with a big double bag of canned goods ripping across the bottom from the weight. I focused in on her patio again and noticed for the first time that there were actually four plant hooks screwed into the wooden overhang of the patio above. On the hook at the near corner was the mammoth plant I’d seen before, but the other three hooks were empty.
I put the binoculars away and went into the building, pausing at the landing between the second and third floors. I peered down through the stair railing. If I situated myself correctly, I’d be able to focus my camera at just the right angle to pick up a nice view of Marcia’s front door. Having ascertained that much, I went out to my car again and drove to the Gateway supermarket. I hefted a few houseplants potted in plastic and found one that was just right for my purposes— twenty-five pounds of sturdy trunk with a series of vicious swordlike leaves protruding at intervals. I picked up some prettied gift ribbons in a fire-engine red and a get-well card with a sentimental verse. All of this was taking up precious time that I would have preferred devoting to Nikki Fife’s business, but I have my rent to account for and I felt like I owed California Fidelity for at least half a month.
I went back to Marcia’s apartment and parked in front. I checked my camera, tore open the packaged ribbons, and stuck several of them to the plastic pot in a jaunty fashion and then tucked the card down inside with a signature scrawled on it that even I couldn’t read. I hoisted plant, camera, and myself with a slightly thudding heart up the steep concrete stairs, into the building, and up to the second floor. I set the plant down near Marcia’s doorsill and then went up to the landing, where I checked my light meter, set up the camera, and adjusted the focus on the lens. Nice angle, I thought. This was going to be a work of art. I trotted back down, took a deep breath, and rang Ms. Threadgill’s bell, racing back up the stairs again at breakneck speed. I picked up the camera and checked the focus again. My timing was perfect.
Marcia Threadgill opened her front door and stared down with surprise and puzzlement. She was wearing shorts and a crocheted halter and in the background the voice of Olivia Newton-John boomed out like an audible lollipop. I hesitated a moment and then peered over the rail. Marcia was leaning over to extract the card. She read it, turned it over, and then studied its face again, shrugging with bewilderment. She glanced down the stairwell as though she might catch sight of the delivery person. I began to click off pictures, the whir of the thirty-five-millimeter camera obscured by the record being played too loudly. Marcia padded back to her doorsill and bent casually from the waist, picking up twenty-five pounds of plant without even bothering to bend her knees as we’ve all been instructed to in the exercise manuals. As soon as she’d trucked the plant inside, I raced back down the stairs and out to the street, focusing again from the sidewalk below just as she appeared on the patio and placed the plant up on the rail. She disappeared. I backed up several yards, attaching the telephoto lens, waiting then with my breath held.
Back she came with what must have been a kitchen chair. I clicked off some nice shots of her climbing up. Sure enough, she picked up the plant by the wire, heaving it up to shoulder height, muscles straining until she caught the wire loop on the overhead hook. The effort was such that her halter hiked up and I got a nice shot of Marcia Threadgill’s quite large bosom peeping out. I turned away just in time, I suspect, catching only the inkling of her quick look around to see if anyone else had spotted her exposure. When I glanced back casually she was gone.
I dropped the film off to be developed, making sure it was properly dated and identified. Still photographs were not going to be much good to us, especially without a witness to corroborate my testimony as to the date, time, and circumstance, but the pictures might at least persuade the claims manager at California Fidelity to pursue the case, which was the best I could hope for at this point. With his authorization, I could go back with a video outfit and a real photographer and pick up some footage that would stand up in court.
I should have known he wouldn’t see it that way. Andy Motycka is in his early forties and he still bites his nails. He was working on his right hand that day, trying to gnaw off what remained of his thumb. It made me nervous just to look at him. I kept expecting him to rip loose a big triangle of flesh at the corner of his cuticle. I could feel my face set with distaste and I had to stare just over his shoulder to the left. Before I was even halfway through my explanation, he was shaking his head.
“Can’t do it,” he said bluntly. “This chick doesn’t even have an attorney. We’re supposed to get a signed release from the doctor next week. No deal. I don’t want to mess this one up. Forty-eight hundred dollars is chicken feed. It’d cost us ten grand to go into court. You know that.”
“Well, I know, but—”
“But nothing. The risk is too great. I don’t even know why Mac had you check this one out. Look, I know it frosts your ass, but so what? You set her off and she’ll go straight out and hire a lawyer and next thing you know, she’ll sue us for a million bucks. Forget it.”
“She’ll just do it again somewhere else,” I said.
Andy shrugged.
“Why do I waste my time on this shit,” I said, voice rising with frustration.
“Beats me,” he said conversationally. “Let me see the pix, though, when you get ’em back. Her tits are huge.”
“Screw you,” I said and moved on into my office.
21
There were two messages on my answering service. The first was from Garry Steinberg. I called him back.
“Hey, Kinsey,” he said when I’d been put through.
“Hi, Garry. How are you?”
“Not bad. I’ve got a little piece of information for you,” he said. I could tell from his tone that he was feeling satisfied with himself, but what he said next still took me by surprise.
“I looked up that job application on Lyle Abernathy this morning. Apparently he worked for a while as an apprentice to a locksmith. Some old guy named Fears.”
“A locksmith?”
“That’s right. I called the guy this morning. You’d have loved it. I said Abernathy had applied for a job as a security guard and I was doing a background check. Fears hemmed and hawed some and finally said he’d had to fire the kid. Fears was getting a lot of complaints about missing cash on jobs where Lyle had worked and he began to suspect he was involved in petty thievery. He never could prove it, but he couldn’t afford to take the chance, so he let Lyle go.”
/> “Oh God, that’s great,” I said. “That means Lyle could have gotten into the Fifes’ house anytime he wanted to. Libby’s too.”
“It looks that way. He worked for Fears for eight months and he sure picked up enough information to give it a try, judging from what Fears said. Unless they had burglar alarms or something like that.”
“Listen, the only security system they had in effect was a big German shepherd that got hit by a car six weeks before Laurence Fife died. He and his wife and kids were away when the dog was killed.”
“Nice,” Garry said. “Nothing you could prove after all this time, but it might put you on the right track at any rate. What about the application? You want a copy?”
“I’d love it. What about Fife’s accounts?”
“I’ve got those at my place and I’ll look at ’em when I can. It’s a lot of stuff. In the meantime, I just thought you might want to know about that locksmith stint.”