X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

“Doesn’t sound like such a bad deal.”

“It wasn’t. More importantly, I made my peace with it. End of story. Until Pete showed up.”

“To do what?”

She thought about that briefly. “Look, I’m not unwilling to help, but I have to protect myself. If you’ll give me your phone number, I’ll get back to you when I’ve decided what to do.”

“Works for me,” I said. I pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “I hope you’ll see your way clear.”

14

I left my car parked on the street and crossed to Sneaky Pete’s. The meeting with Taryn Sizemore had been promising, but she’d have to decide how far she could trust me before we could continue our conversation. I didn’t object to her wrestling with her conscience as long as she ponied up in the end. In the meantime, I wasn’t going to pass up the consolation of a hot, gooey spiced salami sandwich.

The place was sparsely populated, a mere sprinkling of patrons. The jukebox was dark and the television set turned off. I’d hoped to run into Con Dolan, but there was no sign of him. The bartender was reading the paper, which he’d laid flat on the bar in front of him. I ordered a sandwich and a Diet Pepsi. He conveyed the food order to the kitchen and then popped the top on the Pepsi can and passed it across the bar to me along with a glass of ice. I carried both to a two-top near the front window. I took out a pen and my index cards and took notes on everything I could remember from the conversation with Ms. Sizemore. I took out the sheet of graph paper on which Pete had meticulously encoded the list of names. I put Henry’s breakdown beside the original and studied the number-to-letter translation. Taryn had identified two names on the list: Lenore Redfern, Ned’s first wife, and Phyllis Joplin, his second. She was apparently acquainted with the name Shirley Ann Kastle, though she hadn’t trusted me sufficiently to fill me in. When the sandwich arrived, I set my pen aside and ate with full attention to the gustatory joys at hand.

•   •   •

I was home by 7:15. Henry’s kitchen was dark, and I assumed he was up at Rosie’s. I let myself in and checked for messages, but there was no winking red light. Ruthie’s appointment with the IRS had been scheduled for 1:00, and I was hoping she’d call to fill me in. I’d done what I could to help, and while she wasn’t obligated to report, it would have been nice. On impulse, I leaned across the desk, picked up the handset, and punched in her number. She picked up after three rings.

“Hey, Ruthie. It’s Kinsey. How’d it go today?”

“How did what go?”

“Your appointment. I left a message earlier.”

“I didn’t have any messages.”

“Are you sure your machine’s not on the blink? I called to ask how it went with the IRS.”

“Oh. He never showed.”

“You can’t be serious! After the horseshit he put you through?”

Abruptly, Ruthie said, “Is there a chance you could get over here? Something’s come up.”

“I can do that. Are you okay? You sound odd.”

“Someone’s been in my house. The police just left, and I don’t want to be here by myself.”

“Shit. Why didn’t you say so? Absolutely. I’ll be right there.”

•   •   •

I didn’t break any speed laws, but I’ll admit I slid through two stop signs and a yellow light that turned red while I was still under it. Ruthie’s house was only ten blocks away, so it didn’t take me long to get there. When I pulled up in front, there were so many lights on, the place looked like it was on fire. In rooms downstairs and up, every lamp and overhead fixture was ablaze. I could see Ruthie standing at the front window, peering from behind the sheers. When she spotted my car, she disappeared from sight. I didn’t even have to knock because the door opened before I reached it. She grabbed my hand and pulled me inside as though I might be pursued by demons. Her face was pale and her hands were icy.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing, but I’m freaked out.” She twisted the key in the dead bolt on the front door and moved through the hall to the kitchen. I followed, looking over my shoulder in the same furtive manner she displayed.

She pointed to a seat at the kitchen table where she’d set an open bottle of wine and two glasses, one half full and a second one empty. I settled in the chair while she poured wine for me as though I’d need to fortify myself. She pushed the glass in my direction, picked hers up and drained it.