J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

“I work for the company that insured his life. His wife just collected half a million bucks, and if Wendell’s not dead, they want their money back.” I could see her hand tremble slightly, not from fear, but from the weight of the gun. I thought it was time to take action.

I let out a piercing shriek and whacked her mightily across the wrist, using my arms as a sledgehammer like the guys do in the movies. I suspect it was the shriek that made her loosen her grip. The gun flipped up like a pancake and then hit the deck, clattering across the floor of the cockpit. I pushed Renata backward, knocking her off balance while I snatched it up. She went down on her backside. Now I held the gun. She scrambled to her feet, and her hands came up. I liked this better, though I was just as baffled as she had been about what to do. I’m capable of violence when I’m under attack, but I wasn’t going to shoot her while she stood there, staring me in the face. I just had to hope she didn’t know that. I assumed an aggressive stance, feet spread, gun held with both hands, my arms stiff. “Where’s Wendell? I need to talk to him.”

She made a little squeaking sound in her throat. A fiery patch formed around her nose, and then her whole face screwed up as she started to weep.

“Cut the crap, Renata, and give me the information or I will shoot your right foot on the count of five.” I aimed at her right foot. “One. Two. Three. Four—”

“He’s at Michael’s!”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. You’re too kind,” I replied. “I’ll leave the gun in your mailbox.”

She shuddered involuntarily. “Keep it. I hate guns.”

I tucked the gun in my waistband at the small of my back and hopped nimbly to the dock. When I looked back at her, she was clinging weakly to the mast.

I left my business card in her mailbox and tucked another one in her door. Then I drove to Michael’s.

19

I could see lights on in the rear. I bypassed the doorbell and walked around to the backyard, peeking in every window I passed. The kitchen revealed nothing except counter surfaces piled with dirty dishes. Cardboard moving boxes still formed the bulk of the furnishings, the crumpled paper now massed like a cloud bank in the corner. When I reached the master bedroom, I saw that Juliet, in a grip of home decorating tips, had draped hand towels over tension rods, effectively obscuring my view. I returned to the front door, wondering if I’d be forced to knock like a mere commoner. I tried the knob and discovered to my delight that I could walk right in.

The television set in the living room had gone on the blink. In lieu of a color picture, there was a display of dancing lights equal to an aurora borealis. The sound that accompanied this remarkable phenomenon suggested tough guys with guns and a thrilling car chase. I peered toward the bedrooms, but I couldn’t hear much above the squealing of car brakes and the firing of Uzis. I took out Renata’s gun, pointing it like a flashlight as I eased my way cautiously to the back of the house.

The baby’s bedroom was dark, but the door to the master bedroom was open a crack and light slanted into the hall. I gave the door a little push with the barrel of my gun. It swung back with a creak, the hinge singing on its pin. Before me, on a rocking chair, Wendell Jaffe was sitting with his grandson in his lap. He made a sharp, startled sound. “Don’t shoot the baby!”

“I’m not going to shoot the baby. What’s the matter with you?”

Brendan was grinning at the sight of me, flailing his arms in a vigorous nonverbal greeting. He wore a flannel sleeper with blue bunnies, and his back end was bulky with a disposable diaper. His blond hair was still damp from a recent bath. Juliet had brushed it up in a delicate question mark on top. I could smell the baby powder halfway across the room. I put the gun away, tucking it in my blue jeans at the small of my back. This is not a cool place to carry, and I was perfectly aware that I risked shooting myself in the butt. On the other hand, I didn’t want the gun shoved down in my handbag, where it would be even less accessible than it was wedged up against my rear.

As family reunions go, this didn’t seem to be that good. So far, Brendan was the only one who was having any fun. Michael stood to one side, leaning against the chest of drawers, his expression withdrawn. He studied Wendell’s class ring, which he seemed to use like a meditation, turning it on his finger. I’ve seen professional tennis players do that, focusing on the strings of a tennis racket to maintain concentration. Michael’s sweatshirt, soiled jeans, and mud-caked boots suggested that he hadn’t cleaned up after work. I could still see the ridge in his hair where he’d worn his hard hat that day. Wendell must have been waiting when he walked in the door.