W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

Having never heard Mary Lee Bryce’s voice, I had no idea if I was hearing it now.

Her phonemate said something that the recorder didn’t pick up. Then she said, “Not yet. I know where they are. I just can’t get to them. I’m trying to track the one guy down but it’s tough. Can’t you use the information I already gave you?”

I heard nothing while the person she was talking to said a few words. I didn’t even know if it was a woman or a man. Guess it could have been a dog. Arf, arf.

“Owen, I know that! How do you think I spotted it in the first place? The pattern’s there. What I don’t have is proof. Meantime, I’m walking on eggshells . . .”

Ah, Owen Pensky and Mary Lee Bryce. How lovely to have you here. Carry on.

She said, “I hope not. You don’t understand how ruthless he is. It’s fine as long as I’m in the lab, but I can’t get anywhere near the clinic.”

A question from Owen.

Her reply: “The lab’s in Southwick. The clinic’s in the Health Sciences Building.”

I stopped the tape and scribbled as much as I remembered. I pressed play again. This was like a two-character radio drama. Mary Lee to Owen, Owen to Mary Lee, except that his comments were a blank. She might have been talking to herself.

“Because that’s where the subjects are seen for follow-up.”

Whatever Owen said in answer was met with derision: “Oh, right,” said she. “Talk about a red flag.”

And a moment later, “I figured you’d appreciate the finer points.”

There was an exchange about a journal published in Germany.

I listened, squinting, but couldn’t see the relevance, so I moved past that bit and concentrated on the next.

Mary Lee said, “‘Too bad’ is right. What he’s doing here is worse. With the grant he got, he can’t afford to fail.”

Silence.

“Nuhn-uhn. He has no clue I’m onto him. Otherwise, he’d have found a way to get rid of me before now. I mentioned his ripping me off because it’s indicative of his . . .”

I stopped the tape again and wrote down what I’d heard. My Aunt Gin had refused to let me take secretarial courses in high school and I was royally pissed off about it now. If I’d been able to take shorthand, I could have made quick work of this. I pressed play again. I missed a garbled sentence or two, but I could have sworn she’d mentioned Glucotace.

“I have his password, but that’s it so far.”

Owen responded, silently.

“It was written on a piece of paper in his desk drawer. How’s that for clever?”

Again, a pause for her response.

“Because I saw the printout before he shredded it.”

I pressed stop and play until I heard her say, “Not Stupak’s, Linton’s. These guys are always circling the wagons. Any hint of trouble, they close ranks. Shit. Gotta go. Bye.”

I could see how the deal had gone down. Pete had persuaded Willard to plant a pen mike and this is what it had netted him. If the call had been recorded with a phone bug, both sides of the conversation would have been audible. As for the content, he must have recognized the value of what he’d heard. Given the way his mind worked, how could he not? That’s when he must have done his homework, picking up background on Linton Reed and information on Glucotace. I assumed he set up an appointment with Reed afterward so the two could have a cozy heart-to-heart talk.

What I couldn’t see was where I might go with this. Linton Reed was wily. He was a cool customer and all he had to do was sit tight. Whatever he’d been up to at work, he was never going to be caught out. If Pete was onto him and had hit him up for money, how would the facts come to light? Pete was dead. The tape would never be admissible in a court of law. Now what?

33

Late Friday afternoon, my curiosity finally got the better of me. I drove to Colgate and parked outside the apartment complex where Willard and Mary Lee lived. I knocked, this time hoping to catch her at home instead of him. She opened the door and regarded me briefly without saying a word.

She was small. Her face was a perfect oval, her features fine. Her red hair was straight, chin-length and cut jaggedly. Her forehead was high. A fine haze of red freckles gave her complexion a ruddy hue. Pale brows, blue eyes with no visible lashes. Very red lips. She was a slip of a thing, so delicately built that it made her feet look too big for her slender frame. “You’re the private detective who was here.”

“Yes.”

Her smile was pained. “You’ll be happy to know Willard told me everything. Full confession.”