J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. I guessed he’d been recently promoted from his job as headwaiter because he held his left arm at an angle, a ready rack for some wine towel he no longer had to tote.

“I’m looking for Carl Eckert. Is he here tonight?”

I saw his gaze flick downward, taking in my scruffy boots, the long skirt, the vest, shoulder bag, and my ill-cut hair, which the sea wind had tossed into moplike perfection. “Is he expecting you?” His tone suggested he’d expect invading Martians first.

I held out a discreetly folded five-dollar bill. “Now he is,” I said.

The fellow slipped the bill in his pocket without checking the denomination, which made me wish I had given him a single. He indicated a gentleman sitting at a window table by himself. I had plenty of time to study him as I crossed the room. I put him in his early fifties, still of an age where he’d be referred to as “youthful.” He was silver-haired and stocky. His once handsome face had gone soft now along the jawline, though the effect was still nice. While most of the men in the bar were dressed casually, Carl Eckert wore a conservative dark gray herringbone suit, with a light gray shirt and navy wool tie with a grid of light gray. I wound my way among the tables, wondering what the hell I was going to say to him. He saw me headed in his direction and focused on me as I drew within range. “Carl?”

He smiled at me politely. “That’s right.”

“Kinsey Millhone. May I join you?”

I held out my hand. He half rose from his chair and leaned forward courteously, shaking hands with me. His grip was aggressive, the skin on his palm icy cold from his drink. “If you like,” he said. His eyes were blue, and his gaze was unyielding. He gestured toward a chair.

I placed my handbag on the floor and eased onto the seat adjacent to his. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“That depends on what you want.” His smile was pleasant but fleeting and never really reached as far as his eyes.

“It looks like Wendell Jaffe is alive.”

His expression shifted into neutral and his body went still, animation suspended as if from a momentary power loss. For a split second it flashed on me that he might have been in touch with Wendell since his disappearance. He was apparently willing to take my word for it, which saved all the bullshit Dana’d put me through. He assimilated the information, sparing me additional expressions of shock or surprise. There was no hint of denial or disbelief. He seemed to shift into gear again. He reached in his jacket pocket smoothly and took out a pack of cigarettes, his way of stalling until he could figure out what I was up to. He shook several cigarettes into view and held the pack out for my selection.

I shook my head, refusing.

He put a cigarette between his lips. “Will it bother you if I smoke?”

“Not a bit. Go ahead.” Actually I abhor smoking, but I wanted some information and I didn’t think it was the time to voice my prejudice.

He struck a paper match and cupped his hands around the flame. He gave the match a shake and dropped it in the ashtray, easing the pack of matches back into his pocket again. I smelled sulfur and that first whiff of smoldering tobacco that to me smells like no other. Early mornings on the road, I catch the same scent drifting through the room vents in those hotels where the smokers aren’t properly segregated from the rest of us.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked. “I’m about to order another round myself.”

“I’d like that. Thanks.”

“What’ll it be?”

“Chardonnay would be fine.”

He held his hand up for the waiter, who moved over to the table and took the order. Eckert was having Scotch.

Once the waiter disappeared, his attention came back to me and he focused his gaze. “Who are you? A cop? Narc? IRS, what?”

“I’m a private detective, working for California Fidelity on the life insurance claim.”

“Dana just collected on it, didn’t she?”

“Two months ago.”

A group of guys in the bar burst into sudden harsh laughter, and it forced Eckert to lean forward to make himself heard. “How did all this business come to light?”

“A retired CF insurance agent spotted him in Mexico last week. I was hired to fly down the next day to verify the report.”

“And you actually verified that it was Wendell?”

“More or less,” I said. “I never met Mr. Jaffe, so it’d be hard for me to swear it was him.”

“But you did see him,” he said.