U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“I think so. I’m pretty sure I would.” He hesitated. “If I do, what should I do? Should I, like, follow him or maybe get the number off his license plate?”

“The plate number, sure, but I don’t want you tagging around after the guy. He’ll think you’re a stalker. In any event, the chances of your spotting him again seem remote.”

“True. Anyway, I feel better now that I’ve told you.”

“Good. Is there anything else?”

He looked up, fixing me with those solemn brown doggie eyes. “I know my sister was there. I saw her talking to you.”

“She’s a reporter. That’s what she does. She managed to buttonhole anyone who’d give her the time of day. So what?”

I could see him arranging his words with care.

Blinking, he said, “A long time ago, I caused big trouble in my family. Diana likes to tell people what I did because she’s still furious with me. She acts like she’s being a good citizen, warning people about the kind of person I am, but it’s really her way of sticking a knife in my gut.”

“Sutton, it’s no big deal. You told me you were estranged so it’s not like you were hiding anything.”

“In a way, I was. I should have filled in the rest.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“I was just thinking that after talking to her, you probably don’t believe a word I say and I don’t blame you. But you were polite and you listened just now and I appreciate it. If there’s ever a way I can return the kindness, will you let me know?”

“Of course. Don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks.”

He hesitated and then stuck his hands back in his pockets and started walking to his car.

When he turned with a half-wave, I felt a fleeting moment of dread. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

He waved again and then got into his car. How could I have known then that within days, he’d be laid out on a coroner’s slab with a bullet hole between the eyes?

14

My encounter with Sutton left me with a load of guilt. If he’d been good at reading minds, he wouldn’t have thanked me for being polite, because in truth, he’d annoyed the shit out of me. I couldn’t decide if it was attention he wanted or emotional support, but I was unprepared to give either. Even with his collection of wounded birds, he seemed lonely and at loose ends. I didn’t like feeling sorry for him because it clouded my judgment. Here I was bending over backward, trying to compensate for feeling one-up while he was one-down. Somehow he had me hooked in when I should have been moving on.

On the drive home, I operated by rote, rerunning the conversation so I could test the elements. Light-haired and not too tall? Spare me. I hadn’t paid attention to the smattering of looky-loos who’d parked on the berm and it was way too late now for a mental review. A dog was a dog and even if Sutton was right about the guy, what difference did it make? I could understand his plaintive desire to persuade. He had no credibility. I tried to imagine myself in a position where any observation I made was automatically deemed false. Talk about feeling helpless and small. While I was no more inclined to believe him, I decided to set the subject aside without prejudice.

Once in my neighborhood, I scanned for a parking place and found a spot close to the corner of Albanil and Bay. I shut the engine down, locked my car, and walked the half-block to my apartment. I caught sight of a woman ahead of me standing by my gate. She was in her mid-seventies and probably physically imposing in her prime. I pegged her at six feet. Given the customary shrinkage of age, she must have been six-three or six-four in her youth. Her face was gaunt, though her bearing suggested she was accustomed to carrying substantial weight. She wore slacks that rode low on her hips and a crisply ironed white shirt with a lavender cardigan over it. I suspected her clunky running shoes were more for comfort than for speed. Her hair was iron gray, braided, and wrapped around her head in a thin chain. She had a leather purse over one arm and she held a scrap of paper with a note jotted on it, which made me wonder if she was lost.

“Can I do something for you?”

She didn’t look at the paper, but I could see it tremble slightly. “Are you Miss Millhone?”

“Yes.”

“I’m hoping you can help me.”

“I can certainly try.”

“I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. Something was sent to you by mistake and I need to have it back.”