J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

“I’ll go get him,” she said, putting me on hold. In her absence, I was treated to the weather report on a local radio station.

After a pause Brown picked up the line, sounding just as cranky and impatient as he had when I talked to him the first time. His manner would have been perfect for a bill collector. “Yes?”

“Hi, Lieutenant Brown. This is Kinsey Millhone.”

“It’s Harris,” he said shortly.

“Oh, sorry, Harris. I thought maybe I could catch you before you left this morning, but I must have missed you. Something unavoidable has come up, and I’m going to have to give you a rain check on lunch. Can I call you later in the week and maybe set something up then?”

His disposition improved, which was really worrisome when you consider I was bowing out of lunch with no advance notice whatsoever. “No problem,” he said. “Just give me a call when it suits.” Casual, good-natured.

A little warning bell went off, but I soldiered on. “Thanks. I really appreciate this, and I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Don’t worry about it. Oh. Tell you what, though. I was hoping to have a quick chat with Wendell’s ex-partner. I figure he might know something. Have you had any luck reaching him?”

I nearly blurted out the information, but I caught myself. Ah. Got it. This guy was hoping to jump the gun, bypassing me, so he could get to Wendell himself. I raised my voice. “Hello?” I let two seconds pass. “Helllooo.”

“Hello?” he repeated back to me.

“Are you there? Hello?”

“I’m here,” he yelled.

“Could you speak up? I can’t hear you. We have a terrible connection. What’s wrong with this phone? Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you fine. Can you hear me?”

“What?”

“I said do you happen to know how I can contact Carl Eckert? I can’t seem to find out where he’s living these days.”

I banged the mouthpiece on the little shelf the telephone company provides in any public booth. “Hellllooo! I can’t hear you!” I sang, “Hello?” Then, as if annoyed, I said, “Well, goddamn it!” And slammed the receiver down.

I picked it up again once the connection was broken. I stayed where I was, my face averted, pretending to converse with animation while I kept an eye on the restaurant entrance. Moments later I saw him come out, cross the parking lot, and get into a battered Ford. I might have followed him, but to what end? At this point, I couldn’t believe he was going any place interesting. The man wouldn’t be that tough to connect with again, especially since I had a piece of information he was hoping to get.

As I opened my car door, I could see the hostess watching me through the plate glass window. I debated about going back with some cock-and-bull story, anything to forestall her tipping him off to my deception. On the other hand, I didn’t want to make more of the incident than I had to. He probably only went in there every two or three months. Why call attention to a matter I wanted her to forget?

I went back to my office, circling the block endlessly until I found a parking place. I’m afraid to calculate how much time I waste this way on any given day. Sometimes I pass Alison or Jim Thicket, the paralegal, driving in the other direction, as intent as I am on ferreting out a space. Maybe Lonnie would win a big case and sport us all to a little lot of our own. I finally broke down and pulled into the public parking garage beside the library. I’d have to keep an eye on the clock and fetch my car again before the first free ninety minutes ran out. God forbid I should pay a buck an hour for parking if I didn’t have to.

As long as I was close, I ducked into the minimart and bought myself a bag lunch. The weather report I’d picked up while on hold was full of cagey meteorological phrases, citing lows and highs and percentages. From this I gathered the weatherperson didn’t know any better than I did what would happen next. I walked over to the courthouse and found an unoccupied spot under shelter. The sky was overcast, the air faintly chilly, trees still dripping with rain from the night before. For the moment it was clear, and the grass in the sunken garden smelled like a soggy bouquet garni.

A white-haired female docent led a group of tourists through the big stone-and-stucco archway toward the street beyond. I used to lunch here with Jonah in the days of our “romance.” Now it was difficult to remember just what the attraction was about. I ate my lunch, then gathered up my crumpled papers and my empty Pepsi can, depositing the paper bag in the nearest waste container. As if on cue, I saw Jonah moving toward me across the saturated courthouse lawn. He looked surprisingly good for a man who probably wasn’t very happy: tall and trim, with a wash of silver showing in his dark hair just above his ears. He hadn’t seen me yet. He walked with his head down, a brown bag visible in one hand. Though I was tempted to flee, I found myself nearly rooted in place, wondering how long it would take for him to realize I was standing there. He lifted his face and looked at me without a hint of recognition. I waited, motionless, feeling oddly ill at ease. When he was ten feet away, he stopped in his tracks. I could see the tiny flecks of wet grass plastered to his shoes. “I don’t believe it. How are you?”