T is for Trespass (Kinsey Millhone 20)

Charlotte plowed right on. “Did you talk to him yourself? No. Did he call you to complain? I bet not. How do you know she’s not making it up?”

“She didn’t make it up.”

“You really don’t want to hear the truth, do you?”

“You’re the one who doesn’t want to listen.”

Charlotte picked up her handbag and let herself out the back door without another word. She didn’t slam the door, but there was something in the way she shut it that spoke of finality.

In the wake of her departure, none of us could think of a thing to say.

William broke the silence. “I hope I didn’t cause a problem.”

I nearly laughed because it was so obvious he had.

Henry said, “I hate to think what might have happened if you hadn’t brought it up. I’ll talk to Gus myself and see if I can persuade him that he and his house aren’t in jeopardy.”

William stood and reached for his own overcoat. “I should go. Rosie will be setting up for lunch.” He started to say something more but must have thought better of it.

Once he was gone the silence lingered. Henry’s chopping had slowed. He was preoccupied, probably replaying the argument in his head. He’d remember the points he scored and forget hers.

“You want to talk about it?” I asked.

“I think not.”

“You want company?”

“Not at the moment. I don’t mean to be rude about it, but I’m upset.”

“If you change your mind, you know where I am.”

I went back to my place and got out my cleaning supplies. Scrubbing bathrooms has always been my remedy for stress. Drink and drugs before noon on Saturday was too sordid to contemplate.

In the unlikely event that I hadn’t been exposed to enough conflict for one day, I decided to pay a visit to the Guffeys out in Colgate. Richard Compton had left a message the day before on my office machine, indicating that the Guffeys still hadn’t paid their rent. He’d gone into court Friday morning and filed a Complaint of Unlawful Detainer, which he wanted me to serve. “You can add it to your invoice. I’ve got the paperwork right here.”

I might have argued the point, but he’d given me a lot of work of late, and Saturday is a good day for catching people at home. “I’ll swing by your house on the way out there,” I said.

19

I fired up my trusty Mustang and made the detour to Compton’s house on the Upper East Side. Then I headed north on the 101. Deadbeats tend to be centrally located. Certain neighborhoods and certain enclaves, being run-down and cheap, apparently attract like-minded individuals. Perhaps some people, even those in the crudest circumstances, were still living beyond their means and therefore got sued, served, and summoned to court by those to whom they were indebted. I could imagine a population of the fiscally irresponsible exchanging tricks of the trade: promises, partial payments, talk of checks in the mail, bank errors, and lost envelopes. These were the people who imagined they were somehow exempt from accountability. Most matters that passed through my hands spoke of those who felt entitled to swindle and deceive. They cheated their employers, stiffed their landlords, and blew off their bills. Why not? Going after them took time and money and netted their creditors little. People without assets are bulletproof. You can threaten all you like, but there’s nothing to collect.

I circled the four-building complex, checking the space in the carport assigned to Apartment 18. Empty. Either they’d sold their vehicle (assuming they had one to begin with) or they were out on a happy Saturday jaunt. I continued around the block and pulled up across the street from their apartment. I took a paperback mystery novel from my shoulder bag and found my place. I read in the peace and quiet of my car, glancing up at intervals to see if the Guffeys had come home.

At 3:20, sure enough, I heard a car rattling and coughing like an old crop duster on approach. I looked up in time to see a banged-up Chevrolet sedan turn down the alleyway and into the Guffeys’ carport. The vehicle resembled many I’ve seen advertised by vintage-car nuts who buy and sell “classic” cars composed entirely of rust and dings. Dismantled, the parts were worth more than the whole. Jackie Guffey and a man I pegged as her husband came around the corner of the building with their arms loaded with bulging plastic bags from a nearby discount store. Their failure to pay their rent must have given them lots of extra cash to spend. I waited until they’d disappeared into the apartment and then I got out of my car.

I crossed the street, climbed the stairs, and knocked on their door. Alas, no one deigned to respond. “Jackie? Are you in there?”