J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

Titus stood up and put on his jacket. “I’ll leave this to you,” he said to Mac. And to me, “We appreciate the fact that you’re so conscientious, Kinsey. If we’re ever interested in having someone go out and establish the company’s liability to the tune of half a million dollars, you’d be the first investigator we’d think of, I’m sure. Thank you for coming in. We’ll look for your report first thing Monday morning.”

After he left, Mac and I sat in silence for a moment, not looking at each other. Then I got up and walked out myself.

I hopped in my car and headed for Perdido. I had to know. There was no way in the world I was going to let this one go. Maybe they were right. Maybe he’d run off. Maybe he’d been faking every shred of concern for his ex-wife and his kids, for his grandson. He was not a tower of strength. As a man, he possessed neither scruples nor a sense of moral purpose, but I couldn’t make my peace with events as they stood. I had to know where he was. I had to understand what had happened to him. He was a man with far more enemies than friends, which didn’t bode well for him, which seemed ominous and unsettling. Suppose somebody had killed him. Suppose the whole thing was a setup. I’d already been paid off with a check and a handshake. My time was my own, and I could do as I pleased. Before this day was over, I was going to have some answers.

Perdido’s population is roughly ninety-two thousand. Happily, some small percentage of the citizens had called Dana Jaffe the minute news about the finding of the Lord came to light. Everybody likes to share the misery of others. There’s a breathless curiosity, mixed with dread and gratitude, that allows us to experience misfortune at a satisfying distance. I gathered Dana’s phone had been ringing steadily for more than an hour by the time I arrived. I hadn’t wanted to be the one to tell her about Wendell’s possible defection. News of his death would have cheered her no end, but I thought it unfair to share my suspicions when I had no proof. Without Wendell’s body, what good would it do her? Unless she killed him herself, of course, in which case she already knew more than I did.

Michael’s yellow VW was parked in the driveway. I knocked on the front door, and Juliet let me in. Brendan slept heavily against her shoulder, too tired to protest the discomfort of a vertical rest.

“They’re in the kitchen. I have to get him down,” she murmured.

“Thanks, Juliet.”

She crossed the room and went upstairs, probably grateful for the excuse to escape. Some woman was in the process of leaving a telephone message in her most solemn tone. “Well, okay, hon. Anyway, I just wanted you to know. If there’s anything we can do, you just call us now, you hear? We’ll talk to you soon. Bye-bye now.”

Dana was sitting at the kitchen table, looking pale and beautiful. Her silver-blond hair looked silky in the light, gathered at the nape of her neck in a careless knot. She wore pale blue jeans and a long-sleeved silk shirt in a shade of steel blue that matched her eyes. She stubbed out a cigarette, glancing up at me without comment. The smell of smoke lingered in the air, along with the faint smell of sulfur matches. Michael was pouring coffee for her from a newly made pot. Where Dana seemed numb, Michael seemed to be in pain.

I’d been around so much lately that no one questioned my unsolicited presence on the scene. He poured a mug of coffee for himself and then opened the cabinet and took out a mug for me. A carton of milk and the sugar bowl were sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. I murmured a thank-you and sat down. “Anything new?”

Dana shook her head. “I can’t believe he did it.”

Michael leaned against the counter. “We don’t know where he is, Mom.”

“And that’s what drives me insane. He makes just enough of an appearance to screw us up and then he’s off again.”

“You talked to him?” I asked.

A pause. She dropped her gaze. “He stopped by,” she said, her tone faintly defensive. She shifted on her chair, reached for the pack of cigarettes, and lit another one. She’d look old before her time if she didn’t knock that off.

“When was this?”

She frowned. “I don’t know, not last night, but the night before. Thursday, I guess. He went to Michael’s to see the baby afterward. That’s how he got the address.”

“You have a long talk with him?”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘long.’ He said he was sorry. He’d made a hideous mistake. He said he’d do anything to have the five years back. It was all bullshit, but it sounded good and I guess I needed to hear it. I was pissed, of course. I mean, I said, ‘Wendell, you can’t do this! You can’t just waltz back in after everything you’ve put us through. What do I care if you’re sorry? We’re all sorry. What horseshit.’”