B is for Burglar (26 page)

I called a locksmith and made an appointment to have her come out later in the day to change all the locks. I could replace the window glass myself. I did some quick measurements and then headed out to the street. Fortunately, no one had broken into my car, but I didn't like the idea that someone might try that too. I took my .32 out of the glove compartment and tucked it into the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back. I was going to have to lock it in my office file cabinet and leave it there for the time being. I was relatively certain that my office was secure. Since I'm on the second floor with a balcony right out in plain view, I didn't think anyone would risk a break-in from that vantage point. The building is kept locked at night and the door from the hallway is solid oak two inches thick with a double-key dead bolt that could only be breached if the lock itself were cored out with a power saw. Still, I was feeling apprehensive when I pulled into the parking lot behind the office and I ended up taking the back stairs two at a time. I didn't relax until I unlocked the office door and saw for myself that no one had been there.

I put the gun away and took out the file on Elaine Boldt. I typed up additional notes, bringing everything up to date. Inwardly, I was still fuming that someone had been in my apartment. I should have called the police and reported it, but I didn't want to stop for that. I tried to concentrate on the matter at hand. I had a lot of unanswered questions and I wasn't even sure which ones
mattered at this point. Why, for instance, had Pat Usher closed up shop so abruptly in Boca after my first trip down there? I had to guess that once she knew I was looking for Elaine, she'd had to scuttle her plans. I was assuming, of course, that she'd headed to Santa Teresa and that it was she who'd broken into Tillie's apartment and stolen that stack of bills. But to what end? The bills had continued to arrive and if pertinent information might be gleaned from inspecting them, all we had to do was wait for the next batch.

Then I had Mike's account of what he saw on the night of his aunt's murder. I still wasn't sure how that fit in, if indeed it did. The fact remained that his estimate of the time of Marty Grice's death differed by thirty minutes from the time her husband and sister-in-law claimed they'd spoken to her. Were Leonard and Lily in cahoots?

There was still the minor matter of May Snyder next door who'd reported the sound of hammering at the Grices' house that night. Orris swore she was deaf and had it all confused with something else, but I wasn't quite willing to write her off like that.

When the phone rang, I jumped, snatching up the receiver automatically. It was Jonah. He didn't even bother to identify himself. All he said was, “I've got a response from the DMV in Tallahassee. You want to take a look?”

“I'll be right there,” I said and hung up, heading out.

 

 

Jonah was waiting for me in the small reception area as I came into the police station and he walked me through
the locked doors to the corridor leading back to Missing Persons.

“How'd you get the information so fast?” I asked. He held the gate open for me and I passed into the bullpen, where he had his desk.

He smiled faintly. “That's why cops are so much better at this business than private eyes,” he said. “We've got access to information you can't even touch.”

“Listen,
I
was the one who put in the original request! It's public record. I can't get it as fast as you can, but I was on the right track and you know it.”

“Don't get so hot,” he said. “I was just ragging you.”

“Very cute. Lemme see it,” I said, holding my hand out. He passed me a computer printout, a magnetic image of a driver's license issued to Elaine Boldt in January, with the Florida condominium address. I stared at the picture of the woman staring back at me and uttered a quick, involuntary “ah!” I knew the face. It was Pat Usher: same green eyes, same tawny hair. There were a few glaring differences. I'd seen her after an automobile accident, when her face was still a bit bruised and swollen. The resemblance was clear enough, though. Hot damn.

“I got her,” I said. “Hey wow, I got her!”

“Got who?”

“I don't really know yet. She calls herself Pat Usher, but she probably made that up. I'll bet you money Elaine Boldt is dead. Pat had to know that or she never would have had the nerve to apply for a driver's license in Elaine Boldt's name. She's been living in Elaine's apartment ever since she disappeared. She's used her
credit cards and probably helped herself to any bank accounts. Shit. Let's run a check on her through NCIC. Can we do that?” The National Crime Information Center might well turn up identification on Pat Usher in seconds.

“Computer's down. I just tried. I'm surprised you didn't ask me to do that before.”

“Jonah, I didn't have the right data before. I had a name but no numerical identifier. Now I've got a birthdate. Can I have a copy of this?”

“That's yours,” he said mildly. “I've got one for my files. What makes you think the birthdate is legitimate?”

“I'm just crossing my fingers on that. Even if she faked a name, it'd make sense for her to use her own birthdate. She might be forced to fabricate a lot of other stuff so why falsify this? She's smart. She wouldn't work harder than she had to.”

I studied the printout, turning it toward the light. “Look at that. They marked the box that says ‘corrective lenses.' Terrific. She has to wear glasses when she drives. It's great, isn't it? Look at all the information we have. Height, weight. God, she looks tired in this picture. And look how fat she is. Check the
bags
underneath her eyes. Oh boy, you should've heard her when I talked to her down there. So
smug
.  . . .”

He'd perched himself up on the edge of the desk and he was smiling at me, apparently amused by my excitement. “Well, I'm glad I could help,” he said. “I'm gonna be out of town for a couple of days so it's lucky that came through when it did.”

For the first time, I really focused on his face. His
smile was slightly fixed and his posture had a self-conscious quality. “You're taking some time off?” I asked.

“Well yeah, something like that. Camilla's got a problem with one of the kids and I thought I better go straighten it out. It's no big deal, but you know how it is.”

I looked at him, computing backward from what he'd said. Camilla had called and snapped her fingers. He was taking off like a shot. The kids, my foot. “What's going on?” I said.

He gestured casually and told me some long tale about bed-wetting and nightmares and visits to a child psychiatrist who'd recommended a session with the whole family. I said, uh-huh, uh-huh, not even tuning into which girl it was. I'd forgotten what their names were. Oh yeah, Courtney and something.

“I'll be back on Saturday and I'll give you a buzz. Maybe we can go back up and shoot some,” he said and smiled again.

“Great. That'd be fun,” I said, smiling back. I almost suggested that he bring a blowup of Camilla for a target, but I kept my mouth shut. I felt a tiny little moment of regret, which amazed me no end. I hadn't even gone to bed with this man . . . hadn't even
thought
of it. (Well, hardly.) But I'd forgotten what it's like with married men, how married they are even when the ex is somewhere else . . .
especially
when the ex is somewhere else. I didn't think she'd filed papers yet, which made the whole thing much simpler. He was running out of frozen dinners anyway, and by now she'd probably figured out how slim the choices were out there in Singlesland.

I suddenly felt myself growing self-conscious too. “Well. I better get on with this. Thanks a lot. You've been a big help.”

“Hey, anytime,” he said. “Spillman's gonna be on the desk while I'm gone if you need anything. I'll brief him so he knows the scoop, but I want you to take care of yourself.” He pointed a finger at me as though it were a gun.

“Don't worry about it. I don't take chances if I don't have to,” I said. “I hope things work out up north. I'll talk to you when you get back.”

“Absolutely. Let's do that. Good luck.”

“Same to you. Tell the kids I said hi.”

That was dumb. I'd never met them and I couldn't think what the other one's name was in any event. Sarah?

I pushed through the gate.

“Hey, Kinsey?”

I looked back.

“Where's that hat of yours? I liked that. You should wear it all the time.”

I smiled and waved and went on out. I didn't need advice on how to dress.

 

 

 

 

It was midmorning and I was suddenly starving to death. I left my car in front of the police station where it was parked and walked over to a little hole-in-the-wall called The Egg and I. I ordered my standard breakfast of bacon, scrambled eggs, toast, jelly, and orange juice, with coffee throughout. It's the only meal I'm consistently fond of as it contains every element I crave: caffeine, salt, sugar, cholesterol, and fat. How can one resist? In California, with all the health nuts around, the very act of eating such a meal is regarded as a suicide attempt.

I read the paper while I ate, catching up on local events. I had just gotten down to the second piece of rye toast when Pam Sharkey walked in with Daryl Hobbs, the manager at Lambeth and Creek. She caught sight of me and I waved. I didn't give it everything I had. It was a casual offhand wave to indicate that I was a good joe and wasn't going to lord it over her just because I bested her last time we met. Her expression faltered and she broke off eye contact, passing my table without a word. The snub was so pronounced that even Daryl seemed
embarrassed. I was puzzled, but not cut to the quick, shrugging to myself philosophically. Maybe the aerospace engineer had turned out to be a jerk.

When I finished breakfast, I paid the check and retrieved my car, popping over to the office to drop off the data I'd picked up from Jonah. I was unlocking my door when Vera stepped out into the corridor from California Fidelity.

“Can I talk to you?” she said.

“Sure. Come on it.” I pushed the office door open and she followed me in. “How are you?” I said, thinking this was a social call. She tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, looking at me through the big pale bluetinted lenses that made her eyes seem large and grave.

“Uh, listen. Just a word to the wise,” she said uncomfortably. “All hell's broken loose over that Leonard Grice business.”

I blinked at her. “Like what?”

“Pam Sharkey must have called him after you talked to her. I don't know what she said to him, but he's all up in arms. He'd hired an attorney who fired off a letter to CFI threatening to sue us within an inch of our lives. We're talking millions.”

“For what?”

“They're claiming slander, defamation of character, breach of contract, harassment. Andy's livid. He says he had no idea you were involved. He says you weren't authorized by California Fidelity or anybody else to go out there and ask questions . . . blah, blah, blah. You know how Andy gets when he's on his high horse. He wants to see you the minute you come in.”

“What
is
this? Leonard Grice hasn't even filed a claim!”

“Guess again. He submitted forms first thing Monday morning and he wants his money right now. The lawsuit was filed on top of that. Andy's over there processing papers as fast as he can and he's pissed. He's told Mac he thinks we should terminate the whole arrangement with you after the jeopardy you put us in. The rest of us think he's being a complete horse's ass, but I thought you should know what's going on.”

“What's the total on the claim itself?”

“Twenty-five grand for the fire damage. That's the face value on the homeowner's policy and he has his losses itemized down to the penny. The life insurance isn't at issue. I think he's already collected some dinky little policy on her life—twenty-five hundred—and our records show he was paid that months ago. Kinsey, he's out for bear and you're it. Andy's looking for someone to point a finger at so Mac doesn't point a finger at him.”

“Shit,” I said. I couldn't think of anything else to say. The last thing in the world I needed right now was a dressing down by Andy Montycka, the CFI claims manager. Andy's in his forties, conservative and insecure, a man whose prime obsessions are biting his fingernails and not making waves.

“You want me to tell him you haven't come in?” she asked.

“Yeah, do that for me, if you would. Just let me check my phone messages and I'll disappear,” I said. I unlocked the file and took out the folder on Elaine Boldt, looking back at Vera. “I'll tell you something, Vera. This
is hot. Leonard Grice has had six months to file a claim, but he hasn't lifted a finger. Now, all of the sudden, he's putting pressure on the insurance company to pay off. I'd like to know what prompted him.”

“Hey, I gotta scoot before they come looking for me,” Vera said. “Just don't cross Andy's path today or you'll pay for it.”

I thanked her for the warning and told her I'd be in touch. She eased out into the hallway again, closing the door behind her. Belatedly, I felt my cheeks flush and my heart begin to thump. I got sent down to the principal's office once in first grade for passing notes in class and I've never recovered from the horror of it. I was guilty as charged, but I'd never been in trouble in my life. There I was, a timid little child with skinny legs, so stricken with fear that I left the school and went home in tears. My aunt marched me right back and read everybody out while I sat on a little wooden chair in the hall and prayed for death. It's hard to keep passing myself off as a grown-up when a piece of me is still six years old and utterly at the mercy of authority.