W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“I think we should do something,” I said.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Let’s get out of here.”

He folded the paper and put his bare feet on the floor, feeling around for his loafers. “I’m game, though I’d prefer to have a plan.”

“I’m thinking we should take a look at Pete’s office. Maybe he actually has a partner with a shitload of cash. You can collect and be on your way.”

“I didn’t say I was leaving.”

“But you will.”

“You have a bad attitude.”

“I know, but it’s the only one I have.”

•   •   •

We took Dietz’s car to avoid the wear and tear on my spare tire. The drive into town was a simple matter of taking Cabana to State and hanging a left. Pete’s office was on Granita in a building that had seen better days. We found street parking in a small lot nearby. The neighborhood was funky. The entire block would doubtless be bought someday soon, razed, and replaced with a more lucrative concern: a parking garage, a condominium complex, a hotel of a modest chain. Pete’s ground-floor office was marked A.

The agency had apparently never been graced with a sign hanging out front. The names Able and Wolinsky were still lettered on the plate-glass window in black and gold decals that had largely flaked and fallen away. In the lower right-hand corner a For Lease sign had been propped with a contact number. There was no realtor or property manager mentioned by name. Dietz jotted down the phone number while I peered through the glass.

The office consisted of one large room with a closet. I was guessing he had access to the executive restroom, located down the hall and open to the public. His space was bare of furniture. The closet door stood open, revealing an empty hanging rod and a few makeshift shelves. There was a second door in the middle of the back wall that probably opened into an interior corridor. Knowing Pete as I did, I imagined a number of hasty departures when circumstances warranted his absenting himself on short notice. As this was Sunday, the offices on either side of his were closed.

“You want to track down the property manager?” Dietz asked.

“I’d rather see if Pete’s wife is available.”

•   •   •

I remembered Pete’s home address from the days when the Byrd-Shine agency was still in business. While I was accruing my training hours, I also made coffee and ran errands for the two. If Pete was late turning in a report, I’d be sent over to pick up the paperwork. The Wolinsky house was ten blocks away; a story and a half of white frame with a small recessed porch barely large enough for the two dusty white wicker chairs arranged to one side. Two sets of double windows sat one above the other. A single diamond-shaped pane to the right suggested attic space. The window frames and the trim pieces around the front door were painted dark blue. An enormous eucalyptus tree in the front yard was leaning drunkenly to one side where the edge of the porch prevented its upright growth.

I twisted the handle on the mechanical doorbell. The resultant response mimicked an alarm clock going off. Ruthie Wolinsky opened the door. I hadn’t seen her for many years, but she looked much the same—tall, very slim, with long thinning hair brushed away from her face. She wore a long-sleeve white lace blouse and a long denim skirt with boots. She was easily sixty years old, and while the headband might have looked incongruous on anyone else, it was perfect on her. Her hair color had shifted from mild brown to gray with much of the original shade still in evidence. Her brows were pale over mild green eyes. Soft lines defined her elongated face with its high forehead. When she saw me, recognition flickered, but it had been far too long for her to recall my name.

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Pete and I were professional acquaintances years ago.”

“I remember you,” she said as her gaze shifted to Dietz.

“This is my colleague, Robert Dietz.”

Her gaze returned to mine. “You know Pete was shot to death in August.”

“I heard about that and I’m sorry.” Already, I admired the straightforward manner in which she conveyed the information. No euphemisms; no attempt to soften the facts.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

Dietz said, “I’m a Nevada PI. I did some work for Pete last May—a four-day surveillance in a Reno hotel. There’s a balance outstanding on the account.”

“You’ll have to get in line with everyone else. Pete died without a penny to his name. His creditors are still swarming out of the woodwork.”