W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

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Wednesday morning, having worked my way through my usual routine, I went into the office, where I put on a pot of coffee and opened the mail from the day before. Despite the fact that business was nonexistent, I’m happier at my desk than just about anyplace else. I took out my index cards, intending to jot down a few notes, when the phone rang.

It was Aaron Blumberg returning my Monday-morning call with apologies for taking so long.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I know you’ve been busy. I figured you’d get back to me when you had the chance. Have you heard from Sacramento?”

“Not a peep,” he said. “What about you? Anything on your end?”

“Actually, I’ve picked up quite a bit,” I said. I gave him a quick summary of the blanks I’d filled in, including the dead man’s full name and the fact that he’d lived in Bakersfield for some years. I also told him about Dandy, Pearl, and Felix as my source for much of the information. “According to the scuttlebutt, Dace was sentenced to life in prison, but no one seems to know what he did or why he was released. I’d love to find out what that’s about.”

“Me and thee both. Give me the name again.”

“Last name, Dace. First initial, R—but I don’t know what it stands for. Richard, Robert. His beach buddies are convinced he had money because he went to the trouble to draw up his last will and testament with the three of them serving as witnesses. I didn’t see the document among his effects, but you might try his sleeping bag in case he sewed it into the lining or something of the sort. I have what they claim is the key to his safe deposit box, so that’s another possibility, and probably a better bet.”

“I’ll take a look at his sleeping bag,” he said. “You know where he was incarcerated?”

“Soledad, though I take it that was a subject he didn’t care to discuss.”

“Nice. I’ll pull up his criminal history on my computer. Date of birth?”

“Don’t have that. You worked in Kern County not that long ago. Seems like Bakersfield PD or the sheriff’s department could fill you in.”

“I’ll see what my buddies have to say. You know where he did his banking?” In the background, I could hear Aaron tapping out a note to himself on his computer.

“I don’t, but I was just setting out on a scouting mission if that’s okay with you. I know bankers can be tight-lipped, but I’m hoping someone will at least confirm a customer relationship. It’ll help if I can drop your name into the conversation like I’ve been officially blessed.”

“Do that. Once we know which bank we’re dealing with, I’ll see if we need a court order to get into the box. Did you find out what he was doing with your phone number?”

“He was hoping to contact family in the area and needed an intermediary. I was recommended by a pal of mine named Pinky Ford. You remember him from the warehouse shoot-out last May?”

“Oh, man, do I ever,” he said. “You did good. R. Terrence Dace from Bakersfield. I’ll get back to you as soon as I get a line on him.”

•   •   •

Once in my car, I went back to the beach and began driving the surface streets, starting from the point where Terrence pitched his tent. I’d decided Pearl was right about his doing his banking business in walking distance. While he could have taken a cab, it was money he probably wouldn’t have wanted to spend. A man who won’t pay for shelter isn’t likely to pay for taxi rides.

There were five banks in Montebello, another twelve in downtown Santa Teresa. Nine were scattered over a six-block strip of State Street and another three on Santa Teresa Street, which runs parallel to State. Once I plotted my course, I began with the closest financial institution and worked my way outward.

Doing a canvass of any kind can be tedious unless you’re in the proper frame of mind. I took a Zen-like approach. This was the job I’d assigned myself. It wasn’t about finding the right answer; it was about patience and diligence. I surrendered to the process, ascribing the same importance to this work as to anything else I did.

This is the gist of the conversation I initiated in every bank I entered. First, I’d ask the nearest teller if I could see the bank manager, who was usually visible at his desk in a modest glass cubicle or maybe seated at a nondescript desk on the floor. After I introduced myself to the manager or assistant manager, I’d show my current driver’s license and a photostat of my investigator’s license, and then hand over my business card. I’d mention R. Terrence Dace and ask if he’d been a customer. I’d explain that the key to a safe deposit box had been found among his effects. I’d toss Aaron Blumberg’s name out at the first opportunity, indicating that the coroner’s investigator would make arrangements to open the box in the presence of a bank officer once we knew where the deceased did his banking. Mention of the coroner’s investigator worked like magic. Operating on my own, I doubted anyone would have given me the time of day.