J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

“No, but we had a photograph that went out when Jaffe first disappeared. We can probably adjust that one upward for age. What kind of cosmetic work has he had done, could you say?”

“I’d guess chin implant and cheeks, and he’s maybe had his nose refined. From the pictures I was given, it looks like his nose used to be broader across the bridge. Also, his hair is snowy white now, and he’s bulked up to some extent. Aside from that, he looks pretty fit. Nobody I’d want to tangle with.”

“Tell you what. I’ll give you Rupert’s number and you two can work out your own arrangements. He doesn’t come in on a regular basis, just when we need him to work something up. Soon as he’s done, we can issue a ‘be on the lookout.’ I can contact Perdido County Sheriff’s Department, and in the meantime I’ll call the local FBI offices. They may want to distribute a bulletin of their own.”

“I’m assuming there’s still an arrest warrant outstanding.”

“Yes, ma’am. I ran a check before I picked up the telephone. The feds may want him, too. We’ll just have to see what kind of luck we have.” He gave me Rupert Valbusa’s telephone number, then added, “The sooner we can get this in circulation, the better.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

I tried Rupert’s number and got his machine. I left him my name, my home telephone number, and a message, encompassing the bare bones of the case. I suggested an early morning meeting if his schedule permitted and asked him to get back to me to confirm. I hauled out the telephone book and checked the white pages under Eckert. There were eleven of them listed, along with two variations: one Eckhardt and one Eck-hart, which I didn’t think were correct. I tried all thirteen numbers but couldn’t stir up a “Carl” among them.

I dialed Information in Perdido/Olvidado. There was only one Eckert listed and that was under the name Frances, whose tone was one of polite caution when I told her I was looking for Carl.

“There’s no one here by that name,” she said.

I could feel myself cock an ear, like a dog picking up a signal pitched beyond human hearing. She hadn’t said she didn’t know him. “Are you related to Carl Eckert, by any chance?”

There was a moment of silence. “He’s my ex-husband. May I ask what this is about?”

“Sure. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator up here in Santa Teresa, and I’m trying to track down some of Wendell Jaffe’s old friends.”

“Wendell?” she said. “I thought he was dead.”

“Looks like he’s not. In fact, I’ve been trying to contact old friends and acquaintances on the off chance he might be getting in touch. Is Carl still in the area?”

“Actually, he’s up in Santa Teresa, living on a boat.”

“Really,” I said. “And you’re divorced?”

“You bet. I divorced Carl four years ago when he started doing time. I had absolutely no intention of being married to a jailbird.”

“I can’t say I blame you.”

“I’d have done it if anybody blamed me or not. What a smooth-talking skunk he turned out to be. You find him, you can tell him I said so. There’s no love lost between us.”

“Do you happen to have a work number for him?”

“Of course. I give his number to everyone, especially his creditors. It gives me great pleasure. Now, you’ll have to catch him during the day,” she went on to caution me. “There’s no telephone on the boat, but he’s usually there by six every evening. Most nights he has supper at the yacht club and then hangs around until midnight.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Oh, he’s very well known. Anyone could point him out. You just go on over there and ask for him by name. You can’t miss him.”

“What about the name of the boat and the slip number in case he’s not at the club?”

She gave me both the marina and the slip numbers. “The boat’s called the Captain Stanley Lord. It was Wendell’s,” she said.

“Really. How did Carl end up with it?”

“I’ll let him tell you that,” she said, and hung up.

I did a few odds and ends and then decided to pack it in for the day. I’d felt crummy to begin with, and the antihistamine I’d taken earlier was knocking me for a loop. Since there wasn’t much else going on, I thought I might as well go home. I hiked the two blocks to my car and headed over to State Street, where I hung a left. My apartment is tucked away on a shady side street just a block off the beach. I found a parking place close by, locked the VW, and let myself in the front gate.