L is for Lawless (Kinsey Millhone 12)

"Sure." I took a card from my bag and handed it to him.

He tucked the card in his pocket. "Good enough."

I listened to him clatter down the outside stairs. I stood there, wondering how long I could decently wait before I locked up and fled. I could feel my stomach squeeze in the same curious twist of anxiety and excitement I experience when I've entered someone's premises illegally. My presence here was legitimate, but I felt I was engaging in an illicit act somehow. Below, I heard Babe and Bucky chatting as they locked the house and opened the garage door beneath me. I moved to the window and peered down, watching as the car emerged, seemingly from beneath my feet. The car looked like a Buick, 1955 or so, green with a big chrome grille across the front. Bucky was peering back over his shoulder as he reversed down the driveway, Babe talking at him nonstop, her hand on his knee.

I should have left as soon as the car turned out of the drive, but I thought about Henry and felt honor-bound to make at least a pretense of searching for something relevant. I don't mean to sound cold-hearted, but Johnny Lee meant absolutely nothing to me, and the notion of mucking through his possessions was giving me the creeps. The place was depressing, airless and hot. Even the silence had a sticky feel to it.

I spent a few minutes wandering from one room to the next. The bathroom and the kitchen contained nothing of significance. I returned to the main room and scouted the periphery. I pushed aside the curtain covering the closet opening. Johnny's few clothes were hanging in a dispirited row. His shirts were soft from frequent washings, threadbare along the collar, with an occasional button missing. I checked all the pockets, peered into the shoe boxes lined up on the shelf. Not surprisingly, the shoe boxes contained old shoes.

The chest of drawers was full of underwear and socks, T-shirts, fraying handkerchiefs; nothing of interest hidden between the stacks. I sat down at his small desk and began to open drawers systematically. The contents were innocuous. Bucky had apparently removed the bulk of the old man's files: bills, receipts, canceled checks, bank statements, old income tax returns. I got up and checked some of the packed cardboard boxes, pulling back the flaps so I could poke through the contents. I found most of the relevant financial detritus in the second box I opened. A quick examination showed nothing startling. There were no personal files at all and no convenient manila envelopes filled with documents that pertained to past military service. Then again, why would he keep war-related memorabilia for forty-some-odd years? If he changed his mind about applying for VA benefits, all he had to do was supply them with the information he probably carried in his head.

The third box I looked into contained countless books about World War II, which suggested a lingering interest in the subject. Whatever his own contribution to the war, he seemed to enjoy reading other people's accounts. The titles were monotonous, except for the few punctuated with exclamation points. Fighter! Bombs Away! Aces High! Kamakazi! Everything was "Strategic." Strategic Command. Strategic Air Power over Europe. Strategic Air Bombardment. Strategic Fighter Tactics. I dragged the desk chair closer to the box and sat down, pulling out book after book, holding each by the spine while I riffled through the pages. I'm always doing silly shit like this. What did I imagine, his discharge certificate was going to drop in my lap? The truth is, most investigators have been trained to investigate. That's what we do best, even when we don't feel enthusiastic about the task at hand. Give us a room and ten minutes alone and we can't help but snoop, poking automatically into other people's business. Minding one's own business isn't half the fun. My notion of heaven is being accidentally locked in the Hall of Records overnight.

I scanned several pages of some fighter pilot's memoirs, reading about dogfights, bailouts, flames spurting from tailguns, Mustangs, P-40s, Nakajima fighters, and V formations. This war stuff was full of drama, and I could see why men got hooked on the process. I'm a bit of an adrenaline junkie myself, having picked up my "habit" during two years on the police force.

I lifted my head, hearing the chink of footsteps on the outside stairs. I checked my watch: it was only 10:35. Surely it wasn't Bucky. I rose and crossed to the doorway, peering out. A man, in his sixties, had just reached the landing.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"Is Bucky up here?" He was balding, the white hair around his pate clipped close. Mild hazel eyes, a big nose, dimple in his chin, his face lined with soft creases.

"No, he's out at the moment. Are you Chester?"

He murmured, "No, ma'am." His manner suggested that if he'd worn a cap, he would have doffed it at that point. He smiled shyly, exposing a slight gap between his two front teeth. "My name's Ray Rawson. I'm an old friend of Johnny's… uh, before he passed away." He wore chinos, a clean white T-shirt, and tennis shoes with white socks.