T is for Trespass (Kinsey Millhone 20)

“Are you Vinnie Mohr?”

He withdrew. There was a brief silence and then a muffled reply. “Depends on who’s asking.”

“My name’s Millhone. I have papers for you.”

“What kind of papers?” His tone was dull but not belligerent. Fumes were already wafting through the ragged hole: bourbon, cigarettes, and Juicy Fruit gum.

“It’s a restraining order. You’re not supposed to abuse, molest, threaten, stalk, or disturb your wife in any way.”

“Do what?”

“You have to stay away from her. You can’t contact her by phone or by mail. There’s a hearing next Friday and you’re required to appear.”

“Oh.”

“Could you show me some ID?”

“Like what?”

“A driver’s license would suffice.”

“Mine’s expired.”

“As long as it bears your name, address, and likeness, that’s good enough,” I said.

“Okay.” There was a pause and then he pressed his license against the hole. I recognized the cleft chin, but the rest of his face was a surprise. He was not a bad-looking guy-a bit squinty through the eyes, but I couldn’t afford to be judgmental as the photo on my driver’s license makes me look like I top the list of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted.

I said, “You want to open the door or should I put the papers through the hole?”

“Hole, I guess. Man, I don’t know what she said, but she’s a lying bitch. Anyways, she drove me to it, so I’m the one should be filing papers on her.”

“You can tell the judge your side of it in court. Maybe he’ll agree,” I said. I rolled the papers into a cylinder and pushed them through the hole. I could hear paper crackle on the other side as the document was unfurled.

“Hey, come on now! Dang. I never did what’s wrote here. Where’d she get this? She’s the one hit me, not the other way around.” Vinnie was assuming the “victim” role, a time-honored move for those who hope to claim the upper hand.

“Sorry I can’t help you, Mr. Mohr, but you take care.”

“Yeah. You, too. You sound cute.”

“I’m adorable. Thanks for your cooperation.”

In the car again, I logged the time I’d spent and the mileage on my car.

I drove back into downtown Santa Teresa and parked in a lot near a notary’s office. I took a few minutes to fill out the affidavit of service, then went into the office, where I signed the return and had it notarized. I borrowed the notary’s fax machine and made two copies, then walked over to the courthouse. I had the documents file-stamped and left the original with the clerk. One copy I retained and the other I’d return to Lonnie for his files.

Once in my office again, I found a call from Henry waiting on my machine. The message was brief and required no reply. “Hi, Kinsey. It’s a little after one and I just got home. The doctor popped Gus’s shoulder back in, but they decided to admit him anyway, at least for tonight. No broken bones, but he’s still in a lot of pain. I’ll go over to his house first thing tomorrow morning and do some cleaning so it won’t be so disgusting when he gets home. If you want to pitch in, great. Otherwise, no problem. Don’t forget cocktails after work today. We can talk about it then.”

I checked my calendar, but I knew without looking that Tuesday morning was clear. I diddled at my desk for the rest of the afternoon. At 5:10, I locked up and went home.

A sleek black 1987 Cadillac was parked in my usual spot in front so I was forced to cruise the area until I found a stretch of empty curb half a block away. I locked the Mustang and walked back. As I passed the Cadillac, I noted the license plate, which read I SELL 4 U. The car had to be Charlotte Snyder’s, the woman Henry’d dated off and on for the past two months. Her real estate success was the first thing he’d mentioned when he’d decided to pursue the acquaintance.

I went around to the rear patio and let myself into my studio apartment. There were no messages on my home machine and no mail worth opening. I took a minute to freshen up and then crossed the patio to Henry’s place to meet the latest woman in his life. Not that he’d had many. Dating was new behavior for him.

The previous spring, he’d been smitten with the art director on a Caribbean cruise he took. His relationship with Mattie Halstead hadn’t worked out, but Henry had bounced back, realizing in the process that female companionship, even at his age, wasn’t such a terrible idea. A number of other women on the cruise had taken a shine to him and he’d decided to contact two who were living within geographic range. The first, Isabelle Hammond, was eighty years old. She was a former English teacher, still the subject of legend at Santa Teresa High School when I attended some twenty years after she retired. She loved to dance and she was passionate about reading. She and Henry had gone out on several occasions, but she’d quickly decided the chemistry was off. Isabelle was looking for sparks, and Henry, while flinty, had failed to ignite her flame. This she told him straight out, greatly offending him. He believed men should do the wooing, and, further, that courtship should proceed with courtesy and restraint. Isabelle was cheerfully aggressive and it soon became clear the two of them were ill-suited. In my opinion, the woman was a nincompoop.