W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“Such a grouch,” I said.

Dietz was dropping files back into the banker’s box he’d placed in front of him. “What time is it?”

I checked my watch. “Ten fifteen. Why?”

“I told Nick I’d be back in time to take him to lunch.”

“It’s the middle of the morning. We have eight boxes to go!”

“Not me. I’ve had it.”

“I don’t want to do this on my own.”

“Then don’t. Nobody’s paying you.”

“Come on. Don’t you have any curiosity at all about who else he might’ve been working for? Suppose he had half a dozen other clients who were all set to pay?”

“He didn’t. That Bryce fellow was the only one.”

“But suppose there was another one?”

“What if there was? If I’d done business with Pete and heard he’d been shot dead, I’d count myself lucky and lay low.”

Dietz hauled himself to his feet. I extended my hand and he pulled me into an upright position.

He stepped into the kitchenette to wash his hands. Mine were as filthy as his, but I planned to go on working, so there wasn’t any point in being dainty.

He picked up his car keys, looking way too cheerful for my taste. “I’ll check with you later. Why don’t you plan on having dinner with us?”

“You better chat with Nick first. He may have other ideas.”

“You think?”

“Dietz, so far he hasn’t been here one full day. He came to talk to you about his plans and from what you’ve said, he hasn’t even told you the whole story yet. You need to pay attention to these things.”

“How complicated could it be?”

I would have laughed, but he hadn’t meant to be funny. I said, “Forget about tonight. Find out what’s on his mind and we’ll get together some other time.”

Once he was gone, I turned my attention to the remaining eight boxes, which I confess didn’t have quite the same appeal. Doing a tedious chore in the company of a friend makes the labor seem less onerous. These files had been packed haphazardly without the benefit of Pete’s casual organizational skills. This was the work of his landlady, who was already annoyed with his bounced checks and probably not that sorry to hear about his unhappy fate. On the other hand, I was feeling slightly more charitable about the man. He might have been a skunk, but he wasn’t a malicious skunk; just someone with a tendency to deceive. Nothing wrong with a lie or two when the situation demanded it.

I sat down again and started to work. Ruthie was right about his being a pack rat. In the next box I tackled, the topmost file caught my attention. I opened the folder and had a quick look, leafing through photocopies of various articles related to a diabetes study and some to an NIH grant for a clinical trial being run out at UCST. All of it pertained to Linton Reed—the clinical trial, his educational background, his CV, and numerous scientific papers that made reference to a drug called Glucotace. I was curious about Pete’s sudden passion for medical matters. When I knew him, he seldom pursued a subject unless he smelled some monetary benefit. Clearly his interest in Linton Reed went beyond any suggestion that he was in a relationship with Mary Lee Bryce. That theory had been knocked flat. I set the folder aside, placing it on top of the one that contained Dietz’s surveillance notes and his photographs.

Next layer down, I came across a thick cross-section of signed contracts, surveillance logs, typed reports, and confidential client information from the old Byrd-Shine days, material Pete shouldn’t have had in his possession. I couldn’t imagine how he’d managed to get his hands on the files or why he’d held on to them all these years.

Tucked in one end of the same box, I found a pen mike and a handful of tape cassettes, along with his tape recorder, crude and clunky looking by today’s standards. I checked the window in the lid, where I could see a cassette still in place. The Sony Walkman had been his pride and joy. I remembered running into him years before when he’d first bought it. He was excited about the technology, which he considered cutting edge. He’d given me a lengthy demonstration, crowing with delight. At this point, the device seemed ancient. New cassette recorders were half this size.

Pete had a penchant for illegal wiretaps. He was a big fan of planting mikes behind picture frames and slipping listening devices in among the potted ferns. I guess we all have our preferences. I put the tape recorder where it had been, replaced the lid on the box, and marked it with a big X. I’d chat with Ruthie and explain why I wasn’t returning it. Even a decade later, Byrd-Shine business was confidential. The contents should either be shredded or permanently consigned to my care.