W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

She handed over the car keys and left us to our task. Judging from surface dust and the ribbons of ratty tape coming loose here and there, the majority of the boxes had sat untouched for years. We left those alone and focused on the ones that were clean, intact, and closest to the door. As far as I could tell, Pete had no system. His approach was to dump cartons willy-nilly wherever he found room. Dietz hauled a couple of lawn chairs from the assortment of old furniture, which allowed us to sit in reasonable comfort while we searched.

“She’s a beautiful woman,” Dietz said. “She had more faith in the guy than he deserved.”

“Pete was a piece of work,” I said. “Homeliest man you ever laid eyes on. I have no idea what she saw in him.”

“What’s your take on the story about his putting money aside for a cruise?”

“Pete’s belief was if you expressed your desires, they’d manifest themselves. His phrase was ‘putting it out to the Universe.’ I’m not sure that entailed actual savings.”

We settled down to work. Most of Pete’s files were unmarked. Where folders were labeled, the tag might be scratched through with a subsequent name written over it in ink. Sometimes the label was gone or had nothing to do with the contents. There was no visible order to the folders he’d shoved into a particular box. Catalogs, old letters, unpaid bills, and unopened mail would be dumped unceremoniously into the same container. This forced us to sort page by page, doing a quick read as we went along. Dietz’s method was to put a stack of folders upright on his lap, pick his way through, and then return them to the box. I left the files where they were and hunched over each box, pulling out one folder at a time. Most were junk, but we didn’t dare toss anything because it wasn’t our job. Who knew what Ruthie might consider worth keeping?

After we’d labored an hour, I sat back. “This is pointless. We’re being optimistic thinking he’d even bother with anything so organized as ‘accounts receivable.’ More likely, he kept his cash in an old coffee can.”

“Sounds about right.”

For a moment, we sat and contemplated the disorder. Dietz said, “Let’s try his car. He might not have unloaded all of the boxes he’d brought.”

“Like the idea,” I said.

We restacked the boxes we’d searched and then angled our way across the garage, stepping over and around the jumble until we reached the door. A gate in the fence opened into the alley. Pete’s Ford Fairlane was parked in a wide place probably meant to accommodate trash cans. Those were now lined up against the shrubs, lids sitting like little caps on top of bulging black trash bags. There were no cardboard boxes in the backseat and none in the trunk. We found a bag of birdseed and a gun-cleaning kit, but that was it. No accounts payable, no accounts receivable, no contracts, and no recent correspondence. Certainly no caches of money tucked away. So much for our fishing expedition, which was disappointing, but not entirely fruitless. At least we’d written off a handful of dead ends. The glove compartment was jammed. I emptied it, piling the contents on the passenger seat, but there was nothing of significance as far as I could see. Gasoline receipts and parking tickets, plus paper trash of every conceivable sort. I returned all the miscellany and used brute force to get the glove compartment closed.

•   •   •

At 4:00, Dietz dropped me at my place while he returned to the hotel to shower. He said he’d be back to pick me up at 7:00. In an earlier conversation, he’d mentioned Emile’s for drinks and dinner, but he hadn’t mentioned it since. As I got out of the car, I leaned in the window. “What’s the dress code?”

“Wear what you have on.”

I looked down at my filthy hands and my sooty jeans and decided against. “I look like shit.”

“No, you don’t. You look cute.”

I watched him drive away, and I then passed through the gate and around to the rear patio, where I let myself into the studio. The first thing I did was to sit down at my desk. The bulky package Dace had mailed to himself had been sitting there since the volunteer had handed it over to me.

I pulled the mailer closer and turned it over. There was a tag at one end of the padded envelope and I tore the strip open along the length. Inside were medical charts for three patients: Terrence Dace, Charles Farmer, and a man named Sebastian Glenn. All three charts were fat with lab work, doctor’s notes, and medical reports. How had Dace managed to get his hands on them?

I took the bundle upstairs with me. I stood in the loft trying to think where I might stash the contents for safekeeping. I cleared the footlocker at the near end of my bed, removing a pile of heavy sweaters to make room for it. I closed the trunk and placed the stack of sweaters on top. Maybe Dandy would have some idea what Dace had in mind.