W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“So you’re saying he recorded a private conversation.”

“He might have without me knowing it.”

“You didn’t hear the tape yourself?”

“No way. I paid him and that’s the last I saw of him.”

“What happened to the tape?”

“He kept it, I guess . . . if there was one.”

“I got that already. ‘If there was one,’ where is it?”

“He didn’t say anything more about it.”

“He dropped the matter?” I said, my tone incredulous.

“Yes.”

“He let it go and that was the end of it? You’re talking about Pete Wolinsky, is that correct? Because I can promise you Pete never let anything go if there was money to be made.”

“Well, there was this other idea he had. He thought she might have something at work. You know . . . like in her desk—letters or something—so he came up with this plan to go into the lab using her employee badge, which I was supposed to give him.”

This was unexpected. I studied him with interest. “Really. When was this?”

“August 24, but she turned in her notice that day, so all of a sudden it wasn’t any big deal. She quit and that was the end of it. I don’t think she’s talked to Pensky since.”

I said, “Ah.”

“I was sick of the whole thing by then anyway. I figured Pete was feeding me a line of bull and I got tired of playing along.”

“What was your last contact with him?”

“The next morning. I guess he slept in his car all night because the minute Mary Lee went off to work, he was knocking at my door, all rude and aggressive about why hadn’t I handed over her ID. I fired him right then.”

“And that night he was shot to death.”

Willard lifted a hand in protest. “Oh, no. No, no. It wasn’t that night, was it?”

“The twenty-fifth.”

“No connection there. None whatsoever.”

I stared. “I want to talk to your wife.”

“You can’t do that.”

“She and Owen Pensky had a subject under discussion and she’s the only one who knows what it was. Well, no, that’s not quite true. Pensky knew, of course. And Pete knew, didn’t he?”

“How would I know what Pete knew? Now get away from here. I don’t have to talk to you. I only did this to be nice. You have no reason to bother my wife. You want to know what they talked about, call Pensky and ask him.”

“Good idea. I may do that, but I should warn you, if I don’t get answers from him, I’ll be talking to her.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“I don’t need your permission, Mr. Bryce, so if there’s anything you want to ’fess up to, I’d suggest you do it soon.”

I took out a business card, slid it into his shirt pocket, and gave it a pat.

•   •   •

I drove home in a state of suspended animation. I was sorry to learn Mary Lee had quit her job, because she’d no longer have access to sensitive information. By the same token, maybe now that she was free as a bird, she’d be happy to blow the whistle on Reed. If Pete had overheard a discussion about the trial or the patients Reed had lost, it would have put him in the perfect position to collect.

At my desk again, I pulled Pete’s cardboard box into view and removed the lid. His tape recorder was still wedged in at one end where I remembered last seeing it. I removed it from the box and set it on the desk in front of me. I flipped open the lid and checked the cassette he’d left in place. I could see the bulk of the tape had progressed from the left spindle to the right side of the cassette. I pressed rewind and watched the spindles go round and round until they came to a stop.

I closed my eyes briefly, wondering if there were truly angels up in heaven. Only one way to find out . . .

I pressed play.

The first conversation I picked up was clearly unrelated to my interests. It dawned on me, too late of course, that I should have made a note of where the tape was before I’d so blithely run it back. I played and stopped my way through fifty minutes of other people’s business, some of which was downright embarrassing. Finally, I heard a woman’s voice and a phrase or two that made my ears perk up. Again, I had to back-and-forth until I caught the beginning of the segment.

The sound quality was decent, but the recorder had picked up only half the conversation. A woman, sounding harried, said, “It’s me. I don’t have much time, so let’s make this quick. What’s happening on your end?”