Tony's confusion was clear and so was the anger that accompanied it. "I don't want this," he said. "Why give it to me? Megan Smith died too, you know, and so did that other guy, Doug. Are they gettin' money too, or just me?"
"Just you, as far as I know."
"Take it back then. I don't want it. I hate that old bastard." He tossed the check on the table and gave it a push.
"Look. Now just wait and let me say something first. It's your choice. Honestly. It's up to you. Your aunt was offended by the offer and I understand that. No one can force you to accept the money if you don't want it. But just hear me out, okay?"
Tony was staring off across the room, his face set.
I lowered my voice. "Tony, it's true John Daggett was a drunk, and maybe he was a totally worthless human being, but he did something he felt bad about and I think he was trying to make up for it. Give him credit for that much and don't say no without giving it consideration first."
"I don't want money for what he did."
"I'm not done yet. Just let me finish this."
His mouth trembled. He made a dash at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, but he didn't get up and walk away.
"People make mistakes," I said. "People do things they never meant to do. He didn't kill anyone deliberately..."
"He's a fuckin' drunk! He was out on the fuckin' street at fuckin' nine in the morning. Dad and Mom and Hilary..." His voice broke and he fought for control. "I don't want anything from him. I hate his guts and I don't want his crummy check."
"Why don't you cash it and give it all away?"
"No! You take it. Give it back to him. Tell him I said he could get fucked."
"I can't. He's dead. He was killed Friday night."
"Good. I'm glad. I hope somebody cut his heart out. He deserved it."
"Maybe so. But it's still possible that he felt something for you and wanted to give you back some of what he took away."
"Like what? It's done. They're all dead."
"But you're not, Tony. You have to find a way to get on with life..."
"Hey! I'm doing that, okay? But I don't have to listen to this bullshit! You said what you had to say and now I want to go home."
He got up, radiating rage, his whole body stiff. He moved swiftly toward the rear entrance, knocking chairs aside. I snatched up the check and followed.
When I reached the parking lot, he was kick-boxing the remaining glass out of the smashed window of my car. I started to protest and then I stopped myself.
Oh why not, I thought. I had to replace the damn thing anyway. I stood and watched him without a word. When he was done, he leaned against the car and wept.
Chapter 15
* * *
By the time I got Tony home again, he was calm, shut down, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. I pulled up in front of the house. He got out, slammed the door, and headed up the path without a word. I was reasonably certain he wouldn't mention his outburst to his aunt and uncle, which was fortunate as I'd sworn I could talk to him without his getting upset. I was, of course, still in possession of Daggett's check, wondering if I'd be toting it around for life, trying in vain to get someone to take it off my hands.
When I got back to my place, I spent twenty minutes unloading my VW. While I tend to maintain an admirable level of tidiness in the apartment, my organizational skills have never extended to my car. The back seat is usually crowded with files, law books, my briefcase, piles of miscellaneous clothing – shoes, pantyhose, jackets, hats, some of which I use as "disguises" in the various aspects of my trade.
I packed everything in a cardboard box and then proceeded around to the backyard where the entrance to my apartment is located. I opened the padlock on the storage bin attached to the service porch and stowed the box, snapping the padlock into place again.
As I reached my door, a dark shape loomed out of the shadows. "Kinsey?"
I jumped, realizing belatedly that it was Billy Polo. I couldn't distinguish his features in the dark, but his voice was distinctly his own.
"Oh Jesus, what are you doing here?" I said.
"Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I wanted to talk to you."
I was still trying to recover from the jolt he'd given me, my temper rising belatedly. "How'd you know where to find me?"
"I looked you up in the telephone book."
"My home address isn't in the book."
"Yeah, I know. I tried your office first. You weren't in, so I asked next door at that insurance place."
"California Fidelity gave you my home address?" I said. "Who'd you talk to?" I didn't believe for a minute that CF would release that kind of information to him.
"I didn't get her name. I told her I was a client and it was urgent."
"Bullshit."
"No, it's the truth. She only gave it to me because I leaned on her."
I could tell he wasn't going to budge on the point, so I let it pass. "All right, what is it?" I said. I knew I sounded cranky, but I didn't like his coming to my place and I didn't believe his tale about how he found out where it was.
"We're just gonna stand around out here?"
"That's right, Billy. Now get on with it."
"Well, you don't have to get so huffy."
"Huffy! What the hell are you talking about? You loom up out of the dark and scare me half to death! I don't know you from Jack the Ripper so why should I invite you in?"
"Okay, okay."
"Just say what you have to say. I'm beat."
He did some fidgeting around... for effect, I thought. Finally, he said, "I talked to my sister, Coral, and she told me I should be straight with you."
"Oh goody, what a treat. Straight about what?"
"Daggett," he mumbled. "He did get in touch."
"When was this?"
"Last Monday when he got to town."
"He called you?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"How'd he know where you were?"
"He tried my mom's house and talked to her. I wasn't home at the time, so she got his number and I called him back."
"Where'd he call from?"
"I don't know for sure. Some dive. There was all this noise in the background. He was drunk and I figured he must have parked himself in the first bar he found."
"What time of day was this?"
"Maybe eight at night. Around in there."
"Go on."
"He said he was scared and needed help. Somebody called him down in Los Angeles and told him he was dead meat on account of a scam he pulled up in prison just before he got out."
"What scam?"
"I don't know all the details. What I heard was his cellmate got snuffed and Daggett helped himself to a big wad of cash the guy had hidden in his bunk."
"How much?"
"Nearly thirty grand. It was some kind of drug deal went sour, which is why the guy got killed in the first place. Daggett walked off with the whole stash and somebody wanted it back. They were comin' after him. At least that's what they told him."
"Who?"
"I don't want to mention names. I got a fair idea and I could find out for sure if I wanted to, but I don't like puttin' my neck in a noose unless I have to. The point is I shined him on. I wasn't going to help that old coot. No way. He got himself in a hole, let him get himself out. I didn't want to be involved. Not with those guys after him. I'm too fond of my health."
"So what happened? You talked on the phone and that was it?"
"Well, no. I met him for a drink. Coral said I should level with you about that."
"Really," I said. "What for?"
"In case something came up later. She didn't want it to look like I was holding out."
"So you think they caught up with him?"
"He's dead, ain't he?"
"Proving what?"
"Don't ask me. I mean, all I know is what Daggett said. He was on the run and he thought I'd help."
"How?"
"A place to hide."
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"When did you meet with him?"
"Not till Thursday. I was tied up."
"Pressing social engagements, no doubt."
"Hey, I was looking for work. I'm on parole and I got requirements to meet."
"You didn't see him Friday?"
"Uh-uh. I just saw him once and that was Thursday night."
"What'd he do in the meantime?"
"I don't know. He never said."
"Where'd you meet him?"
"At the bar where Coral works."
"Ah, now I see. She got worried I'd ask around and somebody'd say they saw you with him."
"Well, yeah. Coral don't like me to mess with the law, especially with me on parole anyway."
"How come it took the bad guys so long to catch up with him? He's been out of prison for six weeks."
"Maybe they didn't figure it was him at first. Daggett wasn't the brightest guy, you know. He never did nothin' right in his life. They prob'bly figured he was too dumb to stick his hand in a mattress and walk off with the cash."
"Did Daggett have the money with him when you talked to him?"
"Are you kidding? He tried to borrow ten bucks from me," Billy said, aggrieved.
"What was the deal?" I asked. "If he gave the money back, they'd let him off the hook?"
"Probably not. I doubt that."
"So do I," I said. "How do you think Lovella figures into this?"
"She doesn't. It's got nothing to do with her."
"I wouldn't be too sure about that. Somebody saw Daggett down at the marina last Friday night, dead drunk, in the company of a trashy-looking blonde."
Even in the dark, I could tell Billy Polo was staring at me.
"A blonde?"
"That's right. She was on the young side from what I was told. He was staggering, and she had to work to keep him on his feet."
"I don't know nothin' about that."
"Neither do I, but it sure sounded like Lovella to me."
"Ask her about it then."
"I intend to," I said. "So what happens next?"
"About what?"
"The thirty thousand, for starters. With Daggett dead, does the money go back to the guys who were after him?"
"If they found it, I guess it does," he said, uncomfortably.
"What if they didn't find it?"
Billy hesitated. "Well, I guess if it's stashed somewhere, it'd belong to his widow, wouldn't it? Part of his estate?"
I was beginning to get the drift here, but I wondered if he did. "You mean Essie?"
"Who?"
"Daggett's widow, Essie."
"He's divorced from her," Billy said.
"I don't think so. At least not as far as the law is concerned."
"He's married to Lovella," he said.
"Not legally."
"You're shittin' me."
"Come to the funeral tomorrow and see for yourself."
"This Essie has the money?"
"No, but I know where it is. Twenty-five thousand of it, at any rate."
"Where?" he said, with disbelief.
"In my pocket, sweetheart, in the form of a cashier's check made out to Tony Gahan. You remember, Tony, don't you?"
Dead silence.
I lowered my voice. "You want to tell me who Doug Polokowski is?"
Billy Polo turned and walked away.
I stood there for a moment and then followed reluctantly, still pondering the fact that he had my home address. Last time I'd talked to him, he didn't even buy the fact that I was a private investigator. Now suddenly he was seeking me out, having confidential chats about Daggett on my front step. It didn't add up.
I heard his car door slam as I reached the street. I hung back in the shadows, watching as he swung the Chevrolet out of a parking place four doors down. He gunned it, speeding off toward the beach. I debated about whether to pursue him, but I couldn't bear the thought of lurking about outside Coral's trailer again.
Enough of that stuff. I turned back and let myself into my apartment. I kept thinking about the fact that my car was broken into, my handbag stolen, along with all of my personal identification. Had Billy Polo done that? Is that how he came up with my home address? I couldn't figure out how he'd tracked me to the beach in the first place, but it would explain how he knew where to find me now.
I was sure he was maneuvering, but I couldn't figure out what he'd hoped to get. Why the yarn about Daggett and the bad guys in jail? It did fit with some of the facts, but it didn't have that nice, untidy ring of truth.
I hauled out a stack of index cards and wrote it all down anyway. Maybe it would make sense later, when other information came to light. It was 10:00 by the time I finished. I pulled the white wine out of the refrigerator, wiggled the cork loose, and poured myself a glass. I stripped my clothes off, turned the lights out, and toted the wine into the bathroom where I set it on the window sill in the bathtub and stared out at the darkened street. There's a streetlight out there, buried in the branches of a jacaranda tree, largely denuded now by the rain. The window was half opened and a damp slat of night wind wafted in, chilly and secretive. I could hear rain begin to rattle on my composition roof. I was restless. When I was a young girl, maybe twelve or so, I wandered the streets on nights like this, barefoot, in a raincoat, feeling anxious and strange. I don't think my aunt knew about my nocturnal excursions, but maybe she did. She had a reckless streak of her own and she may have honored mine. I was thinking a lot about her, of late, perhaps because of Tony. His family had been wiped out in a car accident, just as mine had, and he was being raised now by an aunt. Sometimes, I had to admit to myself... especially on nights like this... that the death of my parents may not have been as tragic as it seemed. My aunt, for all her failings, was a perfect guardian for me... brazen, remote, eccentric, independent. Had my parents lived, my life would have taken an altogether different route. There was no doubt of that in my mind. I like my history just as it is, but there was something else going on as well.
Looking back on the evening, I realized how much I'd identified with Tony's kicking my car window out. The rage and defiance were hypnotic and touched off deep feelings of my own. Daggett's funeral was coming up the next afternoon and that touched off something else... old sorrows, good friends gone down into the earth. Sometimes I picture death as a wide stone staircase, filled with a silent procession of those being led away. I see death too often to worry about it much, but I miss the departed and I wonder if I'll be docile when my turn comes.
I finished my wine and went to bed, sliding naked into the warm folds of my quilt.
Chapter 16
* * *
The dawn was accompanied by drizzle, dark gray sky gradually shading to a cold white light. Ordinarily, I don't run in the rain, but I hadn't slept well and I needed to clear away the dregs of nagging anxiety. I wasn't even sure what I was worried about. Sometimes I awaken uncomfortably aware of a low-level dread humming in my gut. Running is the only relief I can find short of drink and drugs, which at 6:00 A.M. don't appeal.
I pulled on a sweat suit and hit the bike path, jogging a mile and a half to the recreation center. The palm trees along the boulevard had shed dried fronds in the wind and they lay on the grass like soggy feathers. The ocean was silver, the surf rustling mildly like a taffeta skirt with a ruffle of white. The beach was a drab brown, populated by sea gulls snatching at sand fleas. Pigeons lifted in a cloud, looking on. I have to admit I'm not an outdoor person at heart. I'm always aware that under the spritely twitter of birds, bones are being crunched and ribbons of flesh are being stripped away, all of it the work of bright-eyed creatures without feeling or conscience. I don't look to Nature for comfort or serenity.
Traffic was light. There were no other joggers. I passed the public restrooms, housed in a cinderblock building painted flesh pink, where two bums huddled with a shopping cart. One I recognized from two nights before and he watched me now, indifferently. His friend was curled up under a cardboard comforter, looki
ng like a pile of old rags. I reached the turnaround and ran the mile and a half back. By the time I got home, my Etonics were soaked, my sweat pants were darkened by the drizzle, and the mist had beaded in my hair like a net of seed pearls. I took a long hot shower, optimism returning now that I was safely home again.
After breakfast, I tidied up and then checked my automobile insurance policy and determined that the replacement of my car window was covered, after a fifty-dollar deductible. At 8:30, I started soliciting estimates from auto glass shops, trying to persuade someone to work me in before noon that day. I zipped myself into my all-purpose dress again, resurrected a decent-looking black leather shoulder bag that I use for "formal" wear and filled it with essentials, including the accursed cashier's check.
I dropped the car off at an auto glass shop not far from my office and hoofed it the rest of the way to work. Even with low-heeled pumps, my feet hurt and my pantyhose made me feel like I was walking around with a hot, moist hand in my crotch.
I let myself into the office and initiated my usual morning routines. The phone rang as I was plugging in the coffeepot.
"Miss Millhone, this is Ramona Westfall."
"Oh hello," I said. "How are you?" Secretly, my stomach did a little twist and I wondered if Tony Gahan had told her about his freak-out at the Clockworks the night before.
"I'm fine," she said. "I'm calling because there's something I'd like to discuss with you and I hoped you might have some time free this morning."
"Well, my schedule's clear, but I don't have a car. Can you come down here?"
"Yes, of course. I'd prefer that anyway. Is ten convenient? It's short notice, I know."
I glanced at my watch. Twenty minutes. "That's fine," I said. She made some good-bye noises and clicked off. I depressed the line and then put a call through to Barbara Daggett at her mother's house to verify the time of the funeral. She was unavailable to come to the phone, but Eugene Nickerson told me the services were at 2:00 and I said I'd be there.
I took a few minutes to open my mail from the day before, posting a couple of checks to accounts receivable, then made a quick call to my insurance agent, giving her the sketchy details about my car window. I'd no more than put the phone down when it rang again.