J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

“You had no further interest.”

“That’s right.”

I shook my head, confused. “I don’t get this. Why would Carl Eckert pay you that much? If you want to get right down to it, why would he pay you at all? Was it blackmail?”

“Of course it wasn’t blackmail. Jesus Christ, I’m a cop. He didn’t pay me a cent. He made good on my losses. I invested a hundred grand and that’s what I got back. To the nickel,” he said.

“Did you tell Carl Eckert about Wendell turning in the money?”

“Sure I did. Wendell was going to the cops that night. I’d already talked to Carl. He was supposed to stop by with the money Friday morning, so I knew he had it with him. I wanted to make sure I had the money in my pocket before old looney tunes Wendell started blabbing. What a dope he was.”

“Why do you say ‘was’?”

“Because he’s gone again, right? You just said so yourself.”

“Maybe getting your money back wasn’t enough.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

I shrugged. “You might have wanted him dead.”

He laughed. “You’re really stretching for that one. Why would I want him dead?”

“The way I heard it, he ruined your relationship with your kids. Your marriage broke up. Your wife died shortly after that.”

“Oh, hell. My marriage was lousy to begin with, and she was sick for years. Losing the money was what pissed my kids off. Once I slipped ‘em each twenty-five grand under the table, they warmed right up.”

“Nice kids.”

“At least I know where I stand,” he said dryly.

“You’re telling me you didn’t kill him.”

“I’m telling you I didn’t have to. I figured Dana Jaffe would do that once she found out about this other woman. It’s enough he’d abandon her and the kids, but to do it over some little piece of fluff like that? Seems a bit much.”

Since my apartment is only a block from the ocean, I left my car parked in front and walked back to the marina. I loitered outside the locked gate leading down to Marina 1. I could have climbed around the outside as I’d done with Renata, but there was enough foot traffic at that hour to wait for someone with a key. The day was turning grim. I didn’t think it would rain, but the clouds were a thick, brooding gray and the sea air was chilly. These Santa Teresa summers are really such a treat.

Finally a guy came along in shorts and a sweatshirt. He had his card key in hand and he unlocked the gate. He even held it for me when he saw that I was interested in sliding through.

“Thanks,” I said, falling into step with him as he proceeded along the walkway. “You know Carl Eckert, by any chance? He owns the boat that was stolen Friday morning.”

“I heard about that. Yeah, I know Carl by sight. I think he went down to get it, as a matter of fact. I saw him motor out in his dinghy a couple of hours ago.” The guy took the second left turn onto the line of slips marked D. I continued on to J, which was on the right-hand side. Sure enough, Eckert’s slip was still empty, and there was no way to predict just what time he’d get back.

It was nearly one o’clock, and I’d never had lunch. I walked back to my place and brought my typewriter in from the car. I made myself a sandwich—hot hard-boiled egg, sliced across a slathering of Best Foods mayo. Whole-wheat bread, lots of salt, a vertical cut. Rules are rules. I hummed to myself, licking my fingers as I set up my Smith-Corona. I ate at my desk, typing intermittently in between big gooey bites. I worked my way through a pack of index cards, reducing everything I knew to three-by-five notes. I sorted them into various categories and tacked them on the bulletin board hanging over my desk. I turned on my desk lamp. I got myself a diet Pepsi at one point. As if it were some kind of board game, I played and replayed the same set of cards. I didn’t even know what I was doing, just looking at the information, arranging and rearranging, hoping I’d see a pattern emerge.

The next time I looked at my watch it was 6:45. I felt anxiety stir. I’d meant to spend only a couple of hours at my desk, making use of the time until Eckert got back. I shoved a few bucks in my jeans pocket and grabbed a sweatshirt, pulling it over my head as I went out the door. I half trotted back to the marina, through that artificial twilight that gloomy weather generates. I caught up with a woman going down the ramp toward Marina 1. She glanced at me idly as she unlocked the gate. “Forgot my key,” I murmured as I followed her in.

The Lord was back in its slip, shrouded in blue canvas covers. The cabin was dark, and there was no sign of Eckert. There was an inflatable dinghy bobbing in the water behind it, attached by a line. I stared at it for a while, exploring the possibilities. I walked back to the yacht club, which was blazing with lights. I pushed in through the glass doors and went up the stairs.