L is for Lawless (Kinsey Millhone 12)

"They're sure he was really in the service?"

"As far as I know."

I felt an expression of skepticism cross my face. "I can talk to Bucky if you want, but it's not really an area I know anything about. If I'm hearing you right, the Air Force isn't really saying that he wasn't there. All they're saying is they can't identify him from the information Bucky's sent."

"Well, that's true," Henry said. "But until they locate his records, there isn't any way they can process the claim."

I was already beginning to pick at the problem as if it were a knot in a piece of twine. "Wasn't it called the Army Air Force back in those days?"

"What difference would that make?"

"His service records could be kept somewhere else. Maybe the army has them."

"You'd have to ask Bucky about that. I'm assuming he's already tried that line of pursuit."

"It could be something simple… the wrong middle initial, or the wrong date of birth."

"I said the same thing, but you know how it is. You look at something so long and you don't even really see it. It probably won't take more than fifteen or twenty minutes of your time, but I know they'd be glad to have the input. Chester's out here from Ohio, wrapping up some details on his father's probate. I didn't mean to volunteer your services, but it seems like a worthy cause."

"Well, I'll do what I can. You want me to pop over there right now? I've got the time if you think Bucky's home."

"He should be. At least he was an hour ago. I appreciate this, Kinsey. It's not like Johnny was a close friend, but he's been in the neighborhood as long as I have and I'd like to see him treated right."

"I'll give it a try, but this is not my bailiwick."

"I understand, and if it turns out to be a pain, you can dump the whole thing."

I shrugged. "I guess that's one of the advantages in not being paid. You can quit any time you want."

"Absolutely," he said.

I locked my front door while Henry headed toward the garage, and then I waited by the drive while he backed the car out. On special occasions he drives a five-window coupe, a 1932 Chevrolet with the original bright yellow paint. Today, he was taking the station wagon to the airport since he'd be returning with three passengers and countless pieces of luggage. "The sibs," as he called them, would be in town for two weeks and tended to pack for every conceivable emergency. He eased to a stop and rolled down the window. "Don't forget you're joining us for dinner."

"I didn't forget. This is Lewis's birthday, right? I even bought him a present."

"Well, you're sweet, but you didn't have to do that."

"Oh, right. Lewis always tells people not to buy a present, but if you don't, he pouts. What time's the celebration?"

"Rosie's coming over at five forty-five. You can come any time you want. You know William. If we don't eat promptly, he gets hypoglycemic."

"He's not going with you to the airport?"

"He's being fitted for his tux. Lewis, Charlie, and I get fitted for ours this afternoon."

"Very fancy," I said. "I'll see you later."

I waved as Henry disappeared down the street and then let myself out the gate. The walk to the Lees' took approximately thirty seconds – six doors down, turn the corner, and there it was. The style of the house was hard to classify, a vintage California cottage with a flaking stucco exterior and a faded red-tile roof. A two-car garage with dilapidated wooden doors was visible at the end of the narrow concrete drive. The scruffy backyard was now the home of a half-dismantled Ford Fairlane with a rusted-out frame. The facade of the house was barely visible, hidden behind unruly clusters of shoulder-high grass. The front walk had been obscured by two mounds of what looked like wild oats, brushy tops tilting toward each other across the path. I had to hold my arms aloft, wading through the weeds, just to reach the porch.

I rang the bell and then spent an idle moment picking burrs from my socks. I pictured microscopic pollens swarming down my gullet like a cloud of gnats, and I could feel a primitive sneeze forming at the base of my brain. I tried to think about something else. Without even entering the front door, I could have predicted small rooms with rough stucco arches between, offset perhaps by ineffectual attempts to "modernize" the place. This was going to be pointless, but I rang the bell again anyway.

The door was opened moments later by a kid I recognized. Bucky was in his early twenties. He was three or four inches taller than I am, which would have put him at five nine or five ten. He wasn't overweight, but he was as doughy as a beer pretzel. His hair was red gold, parted crookedly in the center and worn long. Most of it was pulled back and secured in some scraggly fashion at the nape of his neck. He was blue eyed, his ruddy complexion looking blotchy under a four-day growth of auburn beard. He wore blue jeans and a dark blue long-sleeved corduroy shirt with the tail hanging out. Hard to guess what he did for a living, if anything. He might have been a rock star with a six-figure bank account, but I doubted it.