I closed the front door, which I left unlocked as I continued my walk-about. In the bathroom, I tried the taps and was delighted to find running water. I opened the toilet lid and discovered the little present left by the former tenant. I pushed the lever and was rewarded with a vigorous flushing. Despite the absence of toilet paper, a working commode is always an asset to a hard-boiled private eye.
I left by way of the back door and went out to the street. I strolled to the corner, where I turned right and returned to my car. I opened the trunk and hauled out a folding camp stool suitable for golf or tennis matches if I were the sort who attended sporting events. I opened the driver’s-side door, leaned across the seat, and flipped open the glove compartment. I removed my binoculars, locked the car, and then checked the parking signs to make sure the Honda wouldn’t be towed away while I was on the job.
Before I returned to the empty house, I went into the convenience store and picked up a turkey sandwich sealed in cellophane. The sell-by date wasn’t coming up for another two days, so I figured I was safe. I opened the glass-fronted refrigerated case and chose a bottle of lemon-flavored iced tea. I added a two-pack of one-ply toilet paper and paid for the items at the cash register in front.
I entered the empty house a second time by way of the back door, tested the toilet, which was still in good working order, then went out onto the front porch and assembled my temporary campsite. I opened the folding canvas stool and positioned it close to the trellis, set my bag of supper items to one side, and then trained my binoculars on the house at 401. I cursed myself when I realized I’d neglected to bring anything to read, which was probably just as well. This left me with no choice but to sit and stare through the X’s of the trellis until I spotted my subject or gave up my quest for the day. As time passed, to amuse myself, I divided the total hours on the job into the two hundred dollars I’d been paid. In calculating my hourly rate, I couldn’t help but notice a steep decline as time went on.
This is what I saw: a woman I took to be Pauline Fawbush fetched the mail from the box and then settled on the porch in the floral upholstered chair and read her People magazine. Pauline appeared to be in her late seventies, and I was guessing she was Geraldine’s mother and Christian’s grandmother. She was occupied for forty-five minutes, after which she returned to the house and came out moments later with her manicure kit. Oh, boy. I watched her paint her fingernails with a shade of polish called Love’s Flame, the label clearly visible through my binoculars.
At 5:00, a glossy black limousine appeared from my right, turned the corner onto Trace, and pulled into the Satterfield driveway. The driver was a middle-aged woman in a black pantsuit with a white dress shirt and a black bow tie. The rim on the license plate read PRESTIGE TRANSPORTATION SERVICES INC. From that, I surmised she was a driver for a limousine company, a guess I later verified through other sources.
She went into the house. I spotted her moments later in the kitchen, which was on the Dave Levine side of the street at the rear. Pauline joined her, and the two occupied themselves with preparing the evening meal. As they chopped at waist level, I couldn’t identify any of the foodstuffs. I was about to pass out from boredom. Not that carrots would have been exciting. I ate my sandwich, which was better than I had any reason to expect. My neck hurt, I was cold, my butt was sore, and I was cranky. My right leg had fallen asleep. My hourly rate continued to drop precipitously. Ninety-two cents an hour isn’t even close to minimum wage. I saw the porch light go on.
It was fully dark when I saw a fellow approach from the right on foot. He went into the house. In the murky light, I’d only caught a flash of him, but I recognized Christian Satterfield from his photograph. I waited another thirty minutes before I packed up my gear and decamped.
I drove to the office and let myself in. I hauled out my portable Smith Corona and placed it on my desk. I removed the top of the hinged case and set it to one side. Then I pulled out a few sheets of letterhead stationery along with a few pieces of blank paper that I used to compose a rough draft of my report, laying out the information in that faux-neutral language that infuses a professional summary of a job when it’s done. The report was short, but covered the information my client had requested: Christian’s current address, a home phone, and visual confirmation that he was in Santa Teresa and had entered the premises on at least this one occasion. My guess was that he’d gone back to living with his mom, but I might have been wrong about that.
I reread the report, editing a line here and there. Then I rolled a sheet of stationery into the typewriter and made a proper job of it. I ran off two copies of the report on my new secondhand copy machine, signed the original, and folded it in thirds. The two copies I placed in the file folder I’d created for that purpose. I cranked a number 10 envelope into the machine and typed Hallie Bettancourt’s name and the post office box she’d provided. I affixed a stamp, snapped the lid onto the Smith Corona, and tucked it under the desk. Then I grabbed my shoulder bag and the report, turned out the lights, and locked up.
On my way home, I stopped by the post office, where I pulled up at the curb and tossed the envelope into the collection box.
6
The rest of the week went by, the days filled with the sort of do-nothing business not worth mentioning. I should have savored the mindless passage of time, but how was I to know? Monday, March 13, I went into the office as usual and diddled around until noon, taking care of clerical matters. I was halfway out the door on my way to lunch when the telephone rang. I hesitated, tempted to let the machine record the caller so I could be on my way. Instead, I reversed direction and dutifully picked up.
“Millhone Investigations.”
Ruthie laughed. “I love that. ‘Millhone Investigations.’ So businesslike. This is Ruthie. I was afraid you’d left for lunch.”
“I was just on my way out. How was your trip north?”
“Good. Actually, it was great. I enjoyed myself,” she said. “I was wondering if you’d had a chance to check the contents of that box.”
Box?
I said, “Shit! I forgot. I’m sorry. Honestly, I blanked on it.”
“Well, I hate to nag, but I called the IRS agent this morning and he was Johnny-on-the-spot. My appointment’s tomorrow afternoon at one.”
“That was quick,” I said. “Which IRS office, local or Los Angeles?”
“He’s coming to the house. I thought I’d have to make the trip downtown, but he says it’s just as easy for him to stop by.”
“Accommodating of him.”
Somewhat sheepishly, she said, “I confess I was sucking up to him. I’m playing the ‘poor widder woman’ with a lot of ‘woe is me’ thrown in. I can’t believe he fell for it.”
“You gotta work with what you have.”
“I’ll say. Tell you the truth, he frightened me with all his talk of interest and penalties.”
“How much does Pete owe?”
“That’s what the agent is trying to determine. He says failing to pay taxes is one thing. Failing to file is a federal offense. It’s not like he wants to get me in hot water; just the opposite. If I come up with any documentation at all, he thinks he can get the issue resolved in my favor.”
“What issue? Is he talking about personal or professional?”
“Professional, but not the 1988 returns. He dropped that idea. I told him Pete had one client this entire past year, so he shifted gears. Now he’s focused on Byrd-Shine.”
“That’s ridiculous. Pete wasn’t a partner in the agency. He wasn’t even a full-time employee. It was all contract work. Who bothers to hang on to old 1099s?”
“I’m just repeating what he said. I don’t want to argue with the man when I’m trying to pass myself off as a conscientious citizen. Pete swore he had access to all the old records, but they weren’t close at hand.”
“When did he talk to Pete?”
“A year ago, I guess. He says Pete assured him he had the paperwork in storage, but it was a hassle to get to and that’s why he was dragging his feet.”
“It does sound like him.”
“Doesn’t it? He never did anything he could put off.”
I said, “Here’s what seems weird: as broke as he was, why would he shell out money for a storage unit?”
“Hadn’t thought of that. You think he lied?”
“Not my point. I’m saying if he’d rented a self-storage unit, you’d have heard about it by now unless he paid a year in advance. Otherwise, the renewal would have come up, don’t you think?”
“True. I guess he might have stuck the paperwork in the attic. I mean, we don’t really have an attic, but we have the equivalent.”
“Which is what?”
“Junk room might be the kindest way to describe it. Most of it’s mine from when my mother died and we had to clean out her house. Always possible Pete shoved a box or two in there. It would be easy to overlook.”
“Sounds like it’s worth a try.”
“I’ve been meaning to do it anyway. I could use the space. Enough about my mess. I better let you get to lunch.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll do a quick search and get back to you within the hour. Will you be there?”
“I’ve got errands to run, but it shouldn’t take me long. I’m not crazy about the idea of your using work time for this. Why don’t you drop the box at my place and I can tackle the job? Play my cards right and I can probably talk the IRS guy into lending a hand. I could swear he was moments away from volunteering.”
“Well, aren’t you the charmer? He’s really falling all over himself. So what’s this guy’s name? If I get audited, I’ll be sure to ask for him.”
“George Dayton, like the city in Ohio. You sure you won’t change your mind about bringing the box to me?”
“No, no. I’ll take care of it. I should have done it a week ago.”
“Well, I thank you. Let me know what you find.”
• • •
I decided I might as well grab lunch at home, thus combining feed-time with the task I’d forgotten. As I rounded the corner of the studio, I spotted Henry standing to one side of the yard in a white T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. He has the long, lean lines of a distance runner, though I’ve never seen him engaged in formal exercise. He’s a man in constant motion, who keeps his intellect sharp by way of crossword puzzles and other tests of memory and imagination. The genetic code for all of the Pitts kids has tapped them for long lives. His brothers William and Lewis share Henry’s lean build. Charlie and Nell, now ninety-seven and ninety-nine years old, respectively, are constructed along sturdier lines, but enjoy the same extended longevity. Charlie’s hearing has dimmed, but the lot of them are smart, energetic, and mentally acute.
I crossed to Henry’s side and looked down, noting he’d dug a twelve-inch-deep hole in the lawn, into which he’d inserted a measuring stick. The cat sat nearby, staring attentively into the hole, hoping something small and furry would appear.
Henry picked up his watering can, filled the hole with water, and took a quick look at his watch.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
“I’m measuring soil perk. This dirt has heavy clay content, and I need to find out how fast the water drains.”
I studied the water in the hole. “Not very.”
“I’m afraid not.” He glanced at me with a wry smile. “I made a discovery today. You know how Ed’s been getting out?”
“No clue.”
“Dryer vent. The tubing came loose and I spotted the hole when I was crawling through the bushes checking water lines.”
“You close it up?”
“I did. He’ll probably find another way out, but for now he’s housebound.”
Apparently, Henry hadn’t noticed the cat at his feet, and I made no mention of him.
On a side table next to one of his Adirondack chairs, I spotted an oversize paper edition of Grissom’s Gray Water Guide.
“I see you got your book.”
“Came in Friday’s mail. I’ve been reading up on the difference between separate flow and collection plumbing.”
“What’s that about?”
“Reuse efficiency, among other things. I’ve set up separate flows, but now I’m not sure that’s the best choice. Grissom’s talking about maintenance and troubleshooting, which hadn’t occurred to me. This fellow’s not a fan of the slapdash.”
“Sounds like you need a plumber.”
“Might,” he said. “My house and yard are small, so I was hoping to minimize the cost, but there’s no point in building a system that doesn’t do the job.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to ask an expert.”
“I’ll give someone a call,” he said. He continued to stare at the water in the hole, which was, so far, stationary. He shook his head, disheartened.
“Yoo-hoo, Henry. Excuse me . . .”
Both of us turned to see a small round face rising like a moon above the wood-plank fence that separated Henry’s driveway from the house next door. Henry lifted a hand in greeting.
“Edna. Good to see you. This is Kinsey.”
“How do,” she said. “I heard voices and wondered if there was a problem.”
Her face was framed by a thin braid she wore wound around her head. Her teeth, even at a distance, looked like a replacement set. She had thin shoulders and thin arms that she rested on the fence support. Her dress was black with tiny white dots and a wide white collar edged with lace. Under her collar, a red grosgrain ribbon was tied in a perky bow. I was surprised she was tall enough to peer over the fence.
“She’s standing on a box,” Henry said, half under his breath. And to her, “I’m explaining my water conservation plans.”
“I hope you’ll share the information,” she said. “Our water bill’s been going up. I wish someone had told us how expensive it is living here. It’s been a shock.”
“Where were you before?” I asked.
“Perdido. My husband worked for the city. He took early retirement because of an injury. He receives his social security and disability checks, of course, but his pension doesn’t go as far as we thought, and now we’re feeling the pinch. Are you Henry’s daughter?”
“His tenant. When he built his new garage, he converted the old one into a rental unit.”
She blinked. “Well, that’s a wonderful idea. Our garage is sitting empty. Joseph isn’t allowed to drive, and I’m much too nervous on the road these days. With gas prices so high, it made sense to sell our car. A tenant would be a nice way to add to our income.”
“I doubt you can get the necessary permits,” Henry said. “Zoning laws have changed, especially with drought conditions getting worse. The city’s tough on new construction.”
“I don’t know what we’re to do,” she said. “If an item’s not on sale, I have to take it off the list. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be clipping coupons.”
“I do that as well,” he said. “I make a game of it, seeing how much I can save from week to week.”
“Sometimes I serve chili with chopped onions over corn bread as our main meal of the day. Fine as far as it goes, but eighty-nine cents for a can of chili beans is too much,” she said. “So-called ‘land of plenty,’ and here you have little kids and old folks going hungry. It’s not right.”
“If you need to go to the market, I’ll be happy to give you a lift the next time I go,” Henry said, riding right over her complaints.
Her small face creased with a tremulous smile. “That would be wonderful. I have one of those wire carts, but it’s too far with my bad ankle.”
“You put a list together. I’ll be making a trip in the next couple of days.”
She turned to look at the house as though in
response to a sound. “Joseph’s calling,” she said. “I best go see what he needs. Nice meeting you, Miss.”
“You too,” I said.
She disappeared, and moments later we could see her struggle as she climbed her back porch stairs, clinging to the rail.
“Bit of a sad sack,” I remarked.
Belatedly, he frowned. “Aren’t you home early?”
“I promised Ruthie I’d look for Pete’s financial information. She’s got an IRS audit tomorrow and any relevant documents would be a blessing. I doubt I’ll find ’em, but I said I’d try. There are some old Byrd-Shine files I need to sort through anyway.”
“You need help?”
“Nah. It’s one box. I should have done it days ago, but I forgot.”
He glanced back at the hole. “Water’s still sitting there.”
“Bummer,” I said. “Anyway, I told Ruthie I’d get back to her within the hour. Will I see you later at Rosie’s?”
“I’m attending an adult education water conservation workshop at seven, but I’ll stop by afterward.”
I headed for my front door. I glanced back, noting that Ed the cat had taken himself inside and now sat on Henry’s high bathroom windowsill, his mouth moving mutely in what I took to be a plaintive cry to be let out.
“You just stay where you are. I’m not letting you out,” Henry said.
7
I sat down at my desk and dragged the banker’s box out of the knee-hole space. The lid was askew because the files were jutting up above the rim. It looked like someone had jammed the lid into place, trying to force a fit. Half the file tabs were bent and mangled in consequence. I lifted the box, using the handhold on either end, and set it on my desk.