W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do. You have a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”

“I don’t need a better idea. I never asked for any of this in the first place.”

Pete lapsed into silence. He knew from past experience that once you persuaded somebody to cross the line the first time, it didn’t take much to talk ’em into doing it again. Willard wasn’t nearly as scrupulous as he pretended.

Willard’s face had darkened to that brooding look, triggered by his insecurities. “Actually, anything she has at work, I’d never know about.”

“Exactly. And you can’t go there yourself because if she woke up she’d know you were gone. Aside from that, you’d be too conspicuous thumping across campus on that one leg of yours.”

For some reason, Willard laughed at that and Pete knew he’d won.

•   •   •

Pete’s next meeting with Linton Reed took place in the parking lot at Ludlow Beach, roughly across the street from the Santa Teresa City College running track. It had taken some arguing, but the good doctor had finally agreed to the spot. Pete arrived first and got out of his Ford Fairlane, crossing a patch of grass to one of the picnic tables. Beyond the wide expanse of lawn, the beach extended for another five or six hundred yards. Beyond, the Pacific Ocean stretched for twenty-six miles until the islands peeked up at the horizon.

By way of a prop, Pete had bought himself an oversize container of coffee, still too hot to sip. He heard a car and turned as the doctor pulled in, driving a turquoise Thunderbird. For a man worried about being seen, the car couldn’t be more conspicuous. Linton locked his car and approached casually with a copy of the Santa Teresa Dispatch under his arm.

Pete waited until he sat down on the far side of the table, neither of them making eye contact. Linton made a show of opening the paper as though he’d arrived solely for this purpose.

“Let me know when you have a minute,” Pete said.

“I’m listening.”

Pete said, “Somebody’s going to think we’re sweet on each other. Why else would you come over to my table and sit down?”

“Don’t mock me. Let’s just get on with it.”

“I take it we’re on or you wouldn’t have called again.”

“What do you think?” Linton said, snappishly.

Pete noticed that he’d neatly sidestepped consent. If Pete were caught, he could honestly say he hadn’t agreed to anything.

Pete said, “If we’re on, I want what was promised. The map for starters.”

Linton took a folded sheet of typing paper from his pocket and handed it to Pete. Pete opened it and made a quick study of the drawing Linton had done, showing the location of the building that housed the research lab in relation to the campus parking lots, some of which were designated for staff or employees only. There was apparently no restriction on vehicular ingress and egress.

Linton had marked the first point at which a card needed to be swiped. He’d also drawn the layout of the lobby with a series of directional arrows from the door to the elevators. Nice. If Pete were passing himself off as someone who knew his way around, he couldn’t be blundering down the wrong hall. The lab occupied the entire second floor. Linton had also roughed out the interior offices, marking his desk, the desk where Mary Lee Bryce worked, and a few other significant landmarks.

“Looks good,” Pete said. “You have the other business?”

Linton took out a thick envelope and placed it on the table without making visual reference to it. Then he got up and walked away.

Pete took the envelope and slid it into the inner pocket of his sport coat. He’d count the cash later to make sure it was all there before he tucked it away for safekeeping. Linton was right about the risk. Pete wasn’t nearly as sanguine as he appeared to be. The very notion of what he had to do made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He had no confidence the plan would work, but with the two grand in his pocket and two more on tap, what choice did he have?

He waited a day and then he called Willard and suggested the night of August 24 as the date he’d need the ID.

“Why then?”

“Middle of the week. Nothing else going on. Seems as good a date as any.”

“Students will be back on campus by then.”

“So what? I’m doing this at night. All you have to do is wait until she’s asleep and put the ID outside the door. Nothing to it.”

Willard seemed to concede the point, but he wasn’t happy. Pete eased the conversation along without giving him an opportunity to protest. It wouldn’t pay to argue because Pete’s position was weak and he didn’t want Willard to think about it too much.