D is for Deadbeat (16 page)

I had to laugh. “For sure,” I said. The “bar maid” set two Cokes on the counter and I paid her. “I have to get back to my date.”

“Nice seeing you,” he said. “You ought to come in sometime and talk to me.”

“Maybe I'll do that,” I said. I smiled at him, mentally shaking my head. Flirtatious little shit. I moved over to the table where Tony was sitting. I handed him a Coke and sat down.

“You know that guy?” Tony asked cautiously.

“Who, Mike? Yes, I know him.”

Tony's eyes strayed to Mike and back again, resting on my face with something close to respect. Maybe I wasn't such a geek after all.

“Did your uncle tell you what this is about?” I asked.

“Some. He said the accident and that old drunk.”

“You feel okay discussing it?”

He shrugged by way of reply, avoiding eye contact.

“I take it you weren't in the car,” I said.

He smoothed the front of his hair to the side. “Uhuh. Me and my mom got into this argument. They were going to my granny's for this Easter egg hunt and I didn't want to go.”

“Your grandmother's still in town someplace?”

He shifted in his chair. “In a rest home. She had a stroke.”

“She's your mother's mother?” I didn't care particularly about any of this. I was just hoping the kid would relax and open up.

“Yeah.”

“What's it like living with your aunt and uncle?”

“Fine. No big deal. He comes down on my case all the time, but she's nice.”

“She said you were having some problems at school.”

“So?”

“Just curious. She says you're very smart and your grades are in the toilet. I wondered what that was about.”

“It's about school sucks,” he said. “It's about I don't like people butting into my fuckin' business.”

“Really,” I said. I took a sip of Coke. His hostility was like a sewer backing up and I thought I'd give the efflux a chance to subside. I didn't care if he cussed. I could outcuss him any day of the week.

When I didn't react, he filled the silence. “I'm trying
to get my grades pulled up,” he said somewhat grudgingly. “I had to take all this bullshit math and chemistry. That's why I didn't do good.”

“What's your preference? English? Art?”

He hesitated. “You some kind of shrink?”

“No. I'm a private investigator. I assumed you knew that.”

He stared at me. “I don't get it. What's this got to do with the accident?”

I took out the check and laid it on the table. “The man responsible wanted me to look you up and give you this.”

He picked the check up and glanced at it.

“It's a cashier's check for twenty-five thousand dollars,” I said.

“What for?”

“I'm not really sure. I think John Daggett was hoping to make restitution for what he did.”

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.

 

 

 

 

 

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 CFI 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.”

“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.”