W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“By all means,” I said.

I grabbed my shoulder bag from the backseat and dug through the contents for my penlight, which I flicked on. I closed the car door and walked around to the rear, where the three of us convened. I popped open the trunk and removed the backpack. I handed it off to her, then reached for the duffel and set it on the pavement between us.

Pearl flipped the backpack upside down. The frame was constructed of hollow lengths of aluminum tubing, each of the four ends capped with a rubber shoe. Pearl removed one and turned the frame right side up again. She gave it a couple of shakes and I heard the tinkle of metal on pavement. I shone the light down on the long flat key that had fallen out of the frame. She leaned over with effort and picked it up. I held out my hand and she placed it in my palm. I studied it in the beam of my penlight.

The key to Dace’s safe deposit box had notches of varying depths along one side. I turned it over. No bank name, no address, and no box number. “This is blank.”

Pearl said, “Of course it is. You find that, they don’t want you to walk in and claim stuff that ain’t yours.”

I said, “You couldn’t do that anyway. To get into a safe deposit box, they ask for your ID and your signature, which has to match the one they keep on file.”

“No kidding?” Felix said. “Even if the box is yours for real and you got the key and everything? That don’t seem right.”

“I don’t suppose either one of you knows where Terrence did his banking.”

Pearl said, “Nope. Though you gotta figure it’s somewhere in walking distance. That limp of his, he couldn’t go far.”

“Unless he took a cab,” I said.

“Good point.”

I offered her the key. “You might as well keep this. You worked hard enough for it.”

“Hey, no. You hang on to it. Once you figure out where the box is, you can let us know. I’m curious why he’d keep his valuables in a bank when that’s exactly where a bank robber’s going to hit first.”

She set the backpack aside and loosened the mouth of the canvas duffel. She peered in and then upended it, shaking out the contents. A wad of old clothes tumbled out, drab, worn, and smelling of mildew. I flashed a beam across the pile. The only exception to the whole raggedy-ass collection was a neatly folded cotton shirt with a button-down collar and long sleeves, the fabric a brightly colored green-and-yellow plaid. When she picked up the shirt, a pair of glasses and a photo ID fell out.

“That’s Charles,” she said. “Terrence’s friend who died.”

“What was Terrence doing with his stuff?”

“Keepsake. Terrence had a sentimental streak and that was really all the fella had.”

The remaining items were a washed-out gray, cheap goods he probably plucked from a garbage can or a Salvation Army bin.

“What kind of world is it that when life ends all that’s left looks like junk?” she asked. She picked up the plaid shirt and rolled it around the glasses and ID, which she shoved back into the duffel, followed by everything else. I was waiting for further comment, but she was staring off down the street. I didn’t think we’d netted much for the risk we’d taken.

“That’s everything?” I asked.

“Pretty much.”

“So now what?”

She said, “You want, we can put our heads together while we have us a bite to eat. QP with Cheese would really hit the spot.”

I stared at her with interest. “What a truly fine idea.”

•   •   •

Pearl and Felix settled into a booth near a window looking out onto the side street where the Mustang was parked. I stood in line waiting my turn, then placed our order, paid the tab, and watched while our meal was assembled: three QPs with Cheese, two Big Macs, three large orders of fries, and three Cokes. The Big Macs were for them, though I’d have been willing to suck on the paper wrappers if they offered me the chance. I crossed to the table with the tray and distributed the food. I noticed Pearl kept the backpack beside her, the canvas duffel tucked between her feet.

We ate without saying much, each of us intent on the fragrant blend of meat and cheese, grilled to a fare-thee-well, tucked in a soft bun, and liberally doused with the ketchup we squeezed from little plastic envelopes. I’d picked up extra salt packets, and we spared ourselves nothing in the way of additives, preservatives, and sodium chloride.

I let Felix bus the table, after which we returned to the car and got in. “Where should I drop you?”