O Is for Outlaw

  Once she departed, Teddy turned his attention to me. I could see the box on the seat beside him. He noticed my glance. “I can see you’re curious. Wanna peek?”

  I said, “Sure.”

  I made a move toward the box and Teddy put a hand out, saying, “Gimme five bucks first.” Then he laughed. “You shoulda seen the look on your face. Come on. I’m teasing. Help yourself.” He hefted the box and passed it across the table. It was maybe three feet square, awkward but not heavy, the cardboard powdery with dust. The top had been sealed, but I could see where the packing tape had been cut and the flaps folded back together. I set the box on the seat beside me and pulled the flaps apart. The contents seemed hastily thrown together with no particular thought paid to the organization. It was rather like the last of the cartons packed in the moving process: stuff you don’t dare throw out but don’t really know what else to do with. A box like this could probably sit unopened in your basement for the next ten years, and nothing would ever stimulate a search for even one of the items. On the other hand, if you felt the need to inventory the contents, you’d still feel too attached to the items to toss the assortment in the trash. The next time you moved, you’d end up adding the box to the other boxes on the van, gradually accumulating sufficient junk to fill a … well, a storage bin.

  I could tell at a glance these were articles I wanted. In addition to the grade school souvenirs, I spotted the high school diploma he’d mentioned, my yearbook, some textbooks, and, more important, file after file of mimeographed pages from my classes at the police academy. Thirty bucks was nothing for this treasury of remembrances.

  Teddy was watching my face, trying to gauge the dollar signs in my reaction. I found myself avoiding eye contact lest he sense the extent of my interest. Stalling, I said, “Whose storage space was it? I don’t believe you mentioned that.”

  “Guy named John Russell. He a friend of yours?”

  “I wouldn’t call him a friend, but I know him,” I said. “Actually, that’s an in-joke, like an alias. ‘John Russell’ is a character in an Elmore Leonard novel called Hombre.”

  “Well, I tried to get ahold of him, but I didn’t have much luck. Way too many Russells in this part of the state. Couple of dozen Jonathans, fifteen or twenty Johns, but none were him because I checked it out.”

  “You put some time in.”

  “You bet. Took me couple hours before I gave it up and said nuts. I tried this whole area: Perdido, LA County, Orange, San Bernardino, Santa Teresa County, as far up as San Luis. There’s no sign of the guy, so I figure he’s dead or moved out of state.”

  I took a sip of my coffee, avoiding comment. The addition of milk and sugar made the coffee taste like a piece of hard candy.

  Teddy tilted his head at me with an air of bemusement. “So you’re a private detective? I notice you’re listed as Millhone Investigations.”

  “That’s right. I was a cop for two years, which is how I knew John.”

  “The guy’s a cop?”

  “Not now, but he was in those days.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed that … I mean, judging from the crap he had jammed in that space. I’da said some kind of bum. That’s the impression I got.”

  “Some people would agree.”

  “But you’re not one of ’em, I take it.”

  I shrugged, saying nothing.

  Teddy studied me shrewdly. “Who’s this guy to you?”

  “What makes you ask?”

  “Come on. What’s his real name? Maybe I can track him down for you, like a missing persons case.”

  “Why bother? We haven’t spoken in years, so he’s nothing to me.”

  “But now you got me curious. Why the alias?”

  “He was a vice cop in the late sixties and early seventies. Big dope busts back then. John worked undercover, so he was always paranoid about his real name.”

  “Sounds like a nut.”

  “Maybe so,” I said. “What else was in the bin?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Most of it was useless. Lawnmower, broken-down vacuum cleaner. There was a big box of kitchen stuff: wooden rolling pin, big wooden salad bowl, must have been three feet across the top, set of crockery bowls—what do you call it? That Fiesta Ware shit. I picked up a fair chunk of change for that. Ski equipment, tennis racquets, none of it in prime condition. There was an old bicycle, motorcycle engine, wheel cover, and some car parts. I figure Russell was a pack rat, couldn’t let go of stuff. I sold most of it at the local swap meet; this was yesterday.”

  I felt my heart sink. The big wooden bowl had belonged to my Aunt Gin. I didn’t care about the Fiesta Ware, though that was hers as well. I was wishing I’d had the option to buy the wooden rolling pin. Aunt Gin had used it to make sticky buns—one of her few domestic skills—rolling out the dough before she sprinkled on the cinnamon and sugar. I had to let that one go; no point in longing for what had already been disposed of. Odd to think an item would suddenly have such appeal when I hadn’t thought of it in years.

  He nodded at the box. “Thirty bucks and it’s yours.”

  “Twenty bucks. It’s barely worth that. It’s all junk.”

  “Twenty-five. Come on. For the trip down memory lane. Things like that you’re never going to see again. Sentimental journey and so forth. Might as well snap it up while you have the chance.”

  I removed a twenty from my handbag and laid it on the table. “Nobody else is going to pay you a dime.”

  Teddy shrugged. “So I toss it. Who cares? Twenty-five and that’s firm.”

  “Teddy, a dump run would cost you fifteen, so this puts you five bucks ahead.”

  He stared at the money, flicked a look to my face, and then took the bill with an exaggerated sigh of disgust with himself. “Lucky I like you or I’d be pissed as hell.” He folded the twenty lengthwise and tucked it in his pocket. “You never answered my question.”

  “Which one?”

  “Who’s this guy to you?”

  “No one in particular. A friend once upon a time … not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Oh, I see. I get it. Now, he’s ‘a friend.’ Inneresting development. You musta been close to the guy if he ended up with your things.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He tapped his temple. “I got a logical mind. Analytical, right? I bet I could be a peeper just like you.”

  “Gee, Teddy, sure. I don’t see why not. The truth is I stored some boxes at John’s while I was in the middle of a move. My stuff must have gotten mixed up with his when he left Santa Teresa. By the way, which storage company?”

  His expression turned crafty. “What makes you ask?” he said, in a slightly mocking tone.

  “Because I’m wondering if he’s still in the area somewhere.”

  Teddy shook his head, way ahead of me. “No go. Forget it. You’d be wasting your time. I mean, look at it this way. If the guy used a phony name, he prob’bly also faked his phone number and his home address. Why contact the company? They won’t tell you nothin’.”

  “I’ll bet I could get the information. That’s what I do for a living these days.”

  “You and Dick Tracy.”

  “All I’m asking is the name.”

  Teddy smiled. “How much’s it worth?”

  “How much is it worth?”

  “Yeah, let’s do a little business. Twenty bucks.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m not going to pay you. That’s ridiculous.”

  “So make me an offer. I’m a reasonable guy.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “All I’m saying is you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”

  “There can’t be that many storage companies in the area.”

  “Fifteen hundred and eleven, if you take in the neighboring counties. For ten bucks, I’ll tell you which little town it’s in.”

  “No way.”

  “Come on. How else you going to find out?”

  “I’m sure I can think o
f something.”

  “Wanna bet? Five says you can’t.”

  I glanced at my watch and slid out of the seat. “I wish I could chat, Teddy, but you have that appointment and I have to get to work.”

  “Whyn’t you call me if you change your mind? We could find him together. We could form us a partnership. I bet you could use a guy with my connections.”

  “No doubt.”

  I picked up the cardboard box, made a few more polite mouth noises, and returned to my car. I placed the box in the passenger seat and then slid in on the driver’s side. I locked both doors instinctively and blew out a big breath. My heart was thumping, and I could feel the damp of perspiration in the small of my back. “John Russell” was the alias for a former Santa Teresa vice detective named Mickey Magruder, my first ex-husband. What the hell was going on?

  2

  I slouched down in my car, scanning the parking lot from my position at half mast. I could see a white pickup parked at the rear of the lot, the truck bed filled with the sort of buckets and tarps I pictured essential to a roofing magnate. An oversized toolbox rested near the back of the cab, and an aluminum extension ladder seemed to be mounted on the far side with its two metal antislip shoes protruding about a foot. I adjusted the rearview mirror, watching until Ted Rich came out of the coffee shop wearing his baseball cap and brown windbreaker. He had his hands in his pants pockets and he whistled to himself as he walked to the pickup and fished out his keys. When I heard the truck rumble to life, I took a moment to lean sideways out of his line of sight. As soon as he passed, I sat up again, watching as he turned left and entered the line of traffic heading toward the southbound freeway on-ramp.

  I waited till he was gone, then got out of the VW and trotted to the public phone booth near the entrance to the parking lot. I placed his business card on the narrow metal shelf provided, hauled up the phone book, and checked under the listings for United States Government. I found the number I was looking for and dug some loose change from the bottom of my shoulder bag. I inserted coins in the slot and dialed the number for the local post office branch printed on Rich’s business card. The phone rang twice and a recorded message was activated, subjecting me to the usual reassurances. All the lines were busy at the moment, but my call would be answered in the order it was received. According to the recording, the post office really appreciated my patience, which shows you just how little they know about yours truly.

  When a live female clerk finally came on the line, I gave her the box number for Overhead Roofing, possibly known as Ted’s Roofs. Within minutes, she’d checked the rental agreement for his post office box and had given me the corresponding street address. I said thanks and depressed the plunger. I put another coin in the slot and punched in the phone number listed on the business card. As I suspected, no one answered, though Rich’s machine did pick up promptly. I was happy to hear that Ted Rich was Olvidado’s Number 1 certified master installer of fire-free roofing materials. The message also indicated that May was weatherproofing month, which I hadn’t realized. More important, Teddy wasn’t home and neither, apparently, was anyone else.

  I returned to the car, fished an Olvidado city map from the glove compartment, and found the street listed on the ledger. By tracing the number and the letter coordinates, I pinpointed the location, not far from where I sat. Oh, happiness. I turned the key in the ignition, put the car in reverse, and in less than five minutes I was idling in front of Teddy’s house, whence he operated his roofing business.

  I found a parking spot six doors down and then sat in the car while my good angel and my bad angel jousted for possession of my soul. My good angel reminded me I’d vowed to reform. She recited the occasions when my usual vile behavior had brought me naught but grief and pain, as she put it. Which was all well and good, but as my bad angel asserted, this was really the only chance I was going to have to get the information I wanted. If Rich had “shared” the name of the storage company, I wouldn’t have to do this, so it was really all his fault. He was currently on his way to Thousand Oaks to give an estimate on some guy’s roof. The round-trip drive would take approximately thirty minutes, with another thirty minutes thrown in for schmoozing, which is how men do business. The two of us had parted company at ten. It was now ten-fifteen, so (with luck) he wouldn’t be back for another forty-five minutes.

  I removed my key picks from my shoulder bag, which I’d left on the backseat under the pile of assorted clothes I keep there. Often in the course of surveillance work, I use camouflage garments, like a quick-change artist, to vary my appearance. Now I pulled out a pair of navy coveralls that looked suitably professional. The patch on the sleeve, which I’d had stitched to my specifications, read SANTA TERESA CITY SERVICES and suggested I was employed by the public works department. I figured from a distance the Olvidado citizens would never know the difference. Wriggling around in the driver’s seat, I pulled the coveralls over my usual jeans and T-shirt. I tugged up the front zipper and tucked my key picks in one pocket. I reached for the matching clipboard with its stack of generic paperwork, then locked the car behind me and walked as far as Ted Rich’s gravel drive. There were no vehicles parked anywhere near the house.

  I climbed the front steps and rang the doorbell. I waited, leafing through the papers on the clipboard, making an official-looking note with the pen attached by a chain. I rang again, but there was no reply. Quelle surprise. I moved to the front window, shading my eyes as I peered through the glass. Aside from the fact that there was no sign of the occupant, the place had the look of a man accustomed to living by himself, an aura epitomized by the presence of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle in the middle of the dining room.

  Casually, I glanced around. There was no one on the sidewalk and no hint of neighbors watching from across the way. Nonetheless, I frowned, making a big display of my puzzlement. I checked my watch to show that I, at least, was on time for our imaginary appointment. I trotted down the front steps and headed back along the driveway to the rear of the house. The backyard was fenced, and the shrubbery had grown up tall enough to touch the utility wires strung along the property line. The yard was deserted. Both sectional doors of the two-car garage were closed and showed hefty padlocks.

  I climbed the back porch steps and then checked to see if any neighbors were busy dialing 9-1-1. Once assured of my privacy, I peeped in the kitchen window. The lights were off in the rooms within view. I tried the door handle. Locked. I stared at the Schlage, wondering how long it would take before it yielded to my key picks. Glancing down at knee height, I noticed that the bottom half of the door panel boasted a sizable homemade pet entrance. Well, what have we here? I reached down, gave the flap a push, and found myself staring at a section of kitchen linoleum. I thought back to Ted Rich’s reference to his divorce and the death of his beloved pooch. The opening to the doggie door appeared to be large enough to accomodate me.

  I set the clipboard on the porch rail and got down on my hands and knees. At five feet six inches and 118 pounds, I had only minor difficulties in my quest for admittance. Arms above my head, my body tilted to the diagonal, I began to ease myself through the opening. Once I’d succeeded in squeezing my head and shoulders through the door, I paused for a quick appraisal to assure myself there was no one else in residence. My one-sided view was restricted to the chrome-and-Formica dinette set, littered with dirty dishes, and the big plastic clock on the wall above. I inched forward, rotating my body so I could see the rest of the room. Now that I was halfway through the doggie door, it dawned on me that maybe I should have asked Rich if he’d acquired a new mutt. To my left, at eye level, I could see a two-quart water bowl and a large plastic dish filled with dry dog food. Nearby, a rawhide bone sported teeth marks that appeared to have been inflicted by a creature with a surly disposition.

  Half a second later, the object of my speculation appeared on the scene. He’d probably been alerted by the noise and came skidding around the corner to see what was up. I’m not dog orient
ed by nature and I hardly know one breed from the next, with the exception of Chihuahuas, cocker spaniels, and other obvious types. This dog was big, maybe eighty pounds of lean weight on a heavily boned frame. What the hell was he doing while I was ringing the bell? The least he could have done was barked properly to warn me off. The dog was a medium brown with a big face, thick head, and a short, sleek coat. He was heavy through the chest and he had a dick the size of a hairy six-inch Gloria Cubana. A ruff of coarse hair was standing up along his spine, as though from permanent outrage. He stopped in his tracks and stood there, his expression a perfect blend of confusion and incredulity. I could almost see the question mark forming above his head. Apparently, in his experience, few human beings had tried to slither through his private entrance. I ceased struggling, to allow him time to assess the situation. I must not have represented any immediate threat because he neither lunged nor barked nor bit me cruelly about the head and shoulders. On the contrary, he seemed to feel that something was required of him in the way of polite behavior, though I could tell he was having trouble deciding what would be appropriate. He made a whining sound, dropped to his belly, and crept across the floor to me. I stayed where I was. For a while, we lay face-to-face while I suffered his meaty breath and he thought about life. Me and dogs always seem to end up in relationships like this.

  “Hi, how’re you,” I said finally, in what I hoped was a pleasant tone (from the dog’s perspective).

  He put his head down on his paws and shot me a worried look.

  I said, “Listen, I hope you don’t mind if I slide on in, because any minute your neighbor’s going to look out the window and catch sight of my hineybumper hanging out the doggie door. If you have any objections, speak now or forever hold your peace.”