W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

He walked half a block to a UPS outlet and used their Xerox machine to run off multiple copies of the travel documents, which he slid into a blank manila envelope. Later that day, having picked up his retainer from Willard, he drove into Colgate for the second time and parked across the street from the travel agency. He waited until he saw Sabrina emerge, ostensibly to run an errand. As soon as she was out of sight, he went in and conferred with the other travel agent, expressing embarrassment that his plans had changed. She wasn’t the least bit curious. At his request, she rescheduled the flights for the Memorial Day weekend, departing on Thursday, the twenty-sixth, returning late on Monday, the thirtieth. She applied the money he’d paid for the first tickets to the second, and he applied the difference in fares to the credit card he’d used earlier. Expense was no issue. He wouldn’t be paying the card off in any event. He voiced his appreciation, but her gaze had already moved to the customer coming in the door.

He returned to the office, waited for his copy machine to warm up, and photocopied the new itinerary and the second set of tickets, which he intended to cancel in a day or two. On the set he had, he changed the relevant dates, neatly typing the new number over the old, and photocopied the copies, satisfied that the result would pass superficial examination. Anyone with a knowledge of forgery techniques would spot the clumsy effort, but he was confident Willard had no such expertise.

He slid the file folder into the box he was packing. No point in leaving sensitive papers in view since his landlady used a master key to get in on occasion, to poke around. Soon Pete would be forced to run his business from his home. For now, he was pleased. He’d effectively run up close to three thousand dollars’ worth of travel expenses without ever leaving the state. Truly, he was a man who loved his work.

7

At 4:50, Henry left the house, carrier in hand, to retrieve the cat from the veterinarian’s office. I took the opportunity to retreat to my studio. Once inside, I set my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool and stood there, trying to decide what to do with myself. There was no point in going back to the office. It was technically closing time and I’d already goofed off most of the day. Since new clients were temporarily in short supply, I had no paper searches, no phone calls, and no reports to write. It was too early to worry about supper and much too early for a glass of wine. Rosie’s was still closed, which meant that I’d be fending for myself in any event. I’d just about worked through my repertoire of sandwiches and I was down to my last can of soup.

More from boredom than dedication, I scoured the kitchen sink, put the few clean dishes away, and wiped down the counters. I found a cache of dust rags and made short work of all the surfaces in my living room—desk, end tables, windowsills, and shutters. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled along the baseboards, rag in hand, sweeping away dust and soot. On a prior occasion, this was how I’d discovered that my studio was bugged and from that point on, I’d added baseboards to my must-do list.

As was usually the case during one of my Cinderella moments, I wondered what other kick-ass private eyes were doing at this hour. Probably blasting paper targets at the shooting range or practicing their martial arts moves, busting bricks in half with their bare hands. I’m never going to be that tough. What I lack in brute force I make up for in persistence and sheer cunning. I’d been behaving myself of late, which wasn’t really my style. Being a good girl has such a low adrenaline quotient I might as well take a nap.

I put away the cleaning rags, then hauled out the vacuum cleaner, plugged it in, and began the process of mowing my shag carpet. The vacuum was sounding shrill and there didn’t seem to be any suction. Specks remained untouched and the shag itself showed none of those satisfactory tracks that speak of a job well done. I flipped off the power and turned the machine on its back to have a look. This was pointless, as I’m no more knowledgeable about the workings of a vacuum cleaner than I am about the internal combustion engine.

When I heard someone knocking at my door, I assumed it was Henry wanting to properly introduce the cat. I crossed to the front door and peered out the porthole. Felix was standing on my porch, looking off across the yard. He was wearing yet another short-sleeve shirt, this one polyester with a Polynesian motif—parrots, thatch-roofed huts, palm trees, hula girls, and surf in garish yellows and blues.

I opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

I knew I sounded accusatory, but I was dismayed by his showing up at my residence.

He didn’t actually shuffle his feet, but he shifted his weight, looking down at my welcome mat, where I could still see the mouse parts the cat had left.