O is for Outlaw (Kinsey Millhone 15)

He flashed a look in my direction and then stared out the windshield, his face shutting down. "Why's that? "

"You know Mickey Magruder."

He seemed to assess me and then looked out the side window, his tone dropping into a range somewhere between sullen and defensive. "I didn't have nothing to do with that business in L.A."

"I know. I thought we'd figure out what happened, just the two of us. Your friends call you Carlin?"

"It's Duffy. I'm not a fruit," he said. He looked at me slyly. "You're a lady cop, ain't you?"

"I used to be. Now I'm a private eye, working for myself.""What d'you want with me?"

"I'd like to hear about Mickey. How'd the two of you connect?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"Why shouldn't you?"

"I don't know nothin'."

"Maybe you know more than you think."

He considered that, and I could almost see him shift gears. Duffy was the sort who didn't give anything away without getting something in return. "You married?

"Divorced.

"Tell you what. Let's pick us up a six-pack and go back to your place. We can talk all you want."

"If you're on parole, an alcohol violation's the last thing you need."

Duffy looked at me askance. "Who's on parole? I done my bit and I'm free as a bird."

"Then let's go to your place. I have a roommate and I'm not allowed to bring in guests at this hour."

"I don't have a place."

"Sure you do. You're living in the maintenance shed at Bernie Himes's nursery."

He kicked at the floorboard, running an agitated hand through his hair. "Goddang! Now, how'd you know that?"

I tapped my temple. "I also know you're Benny Quintero's brother. Want to talk about him?"

I had by then passed the entrance to the nursery, heading across the freeway toward the mountains.

"Where you goin'?"

"To the liquor store," I said. I pulled into a convenience mart in a former gas station. I took a twenty from my shoulder bag and said, "It's my treat. Get anything you want."

He looked at the bill and then took it, getting out of the car with barely suppressed agitation. I watched him through the window as he went into the place and began to cruise down the aisles. There was nothing I could do if he cruised right out the side door and took off on foot. He probably decided there wasn't much point. All I had to do was drive over to the nursery and wait for him there.

The clerk at the counter kept a careful eye on Duffy, waiting for him to shoplift or maybe pull a gun and demand the contents of the cash drawer. Duffy removed two six-packs of bottled beer from the glassfronted cooler on the rear wall and then paused on one aisle long enough to pick up a large bag of chips and a couple of other items. Once at the counter, he paid with my twenty and tucked the change in his pants pocket.

When he got back in the car, his mood seemed improved. "You ever try licorice and beer? I got us some Good and Plentys and a whole bunch of other shit. "

"I can hardly wait," I said. "By the way, what's the accent, Kentucky?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'll bet it's Louisville, right?"

"How'd you know?"

"I have an instinct for these things."

"I guess so."

Having established my wizardry, I drove back over the freeway, turned right onto the side street, and pulled into the lot for the nursery. I parked in front of the gardening center, which was closed at this hour and bathed in a cold fluorescent glow. I locked my car, hefted my bag to my shoulder, and followed Carlin Duffy as he made his way down the mulch-covered path. This was like walking into a deep and well organized woods, wide avenues cutting through crated and evenly spaced trees of every conceivable kind.

Most were unrecognizable in the dark, but some of the shapes were distinctive. I could identify palms and willows, junipers, live oaks, and pines. Most of the other trees I didn't know by name, rows of shaggy silhouettes that rustled in the wind.

Duffy seemed indifferent to his surroundings. He trudged from one darkened lane to the next, shoulders hunched against the night air, me tagging along about ten steps behind. He paused when we reached the shed and fumbled in his pocket for his keys. The exterior was board-and-batten, painted dark green. The roofline was flat, with only one window in view. He snapped open the padlock and stepped inside. I waited until he'd turned on a light and then followed him in. The shed was approximately sixty feet by eighty, divided into four small rooms used to house the two forklifts, a mini-tractor, and a crane that must have been pulled into service for the planting of young trees. Anything more substantial would have required larger equipment, probably rented for the occasion.