W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)
• • •
Saturday morning, I drove the Mustang to the car wash to be detailed in preparation for Drew’s taking possession. Miguel, who was doing the work, said it’d take an hour and a half. That was fine with me. My schedule was clear and I had time to spare. I told him I’d be in the waiting room, which was replete with two metal folding chairs and a wall-mounted display of car accessories for sale. I took out my paperback and settled in to read. This was a Robert Parker novel in which Spenser and Hawk busted up bad guys so often it cheered me no end.
Ten minutes went by and Miguel appeared. He might have been nineteen, remarkably poised for a guy who was working so hard to grow a mustache with so little to show for it. Miguel’s auto-detailing business was called Detailing by Miguel. He wore a black T-shirt with the company name emblazoned on it in red.
He stood with his arms crossed, his hands pressed into opposite armpits. “You want me to leave the gun under the seat or put it somewhere else?”
I ran the sentence through my head, diagraming the parts of speech as I recited it to myself. I keep my H&K in my briefcase, which I knew full well I’d moved from the trunk of the car to the studio before I’d left home. “I don’t have a gun in the car.”
“Lady, I don’t mean to be fresh, but you do now.”
“I do?”
I slid the book into my bag and followed him out the back door and across the lot, passing the two lanes where cars were lined up to be vacuumed in preparation for a wash. He ran his one-man enterprise under a temporary awning that shielded him from the sun while he rubbed paste wax onto auto exteriors. With mine, he was still in the process of prepping the interior. The driver’s-side door stood open and his Shop-Vac was close by. He pointed and stepped back, saying, “I didn’t touch it.”
I leaned into the backseat and angled myself so I could see what he was talking about. On the floor under the driver’s-side seat there was a .45-caliber semiautomatic handgun nestled up against the rail.
I stared at it for a moment and then backed up a step so I could pull myself upright. I left the car door open. I glanced at Miguel and said, “Hang on.”
I hadn’t put the gun under the seat. That much I knew. The only .45-caliber semiautomatic I’d heard mentioned of late was one of two guns missing in Pete Wolinsky’s shooting death two months before. Cheney had mentioned it Monday night when he showed up at Rosie’s. I had no way to calculate how many thousands of semiautomatics were floating around in the world. The number must have been astronomical, so what were the chances of that particular gun having been used in the robbery that ended Pete’s life?
I hadn’t parked the Mustang anywhere near the bird refuge in months. The closest I’d come was the night I’d trundled along at two miles an hour, negotiating the access road along the property line at the back of the zoo. That was the unfortunate occasion when, having suffered a psychotic break, I’d agreed to run interference for Felix and Pearl in their mission to retrieve Dace’s stolen backpack from the Boggarts’ campsite. Those two locations, the strip of parking spaces near the lagoon and the hobo camp up the hill, were perhaps a quarter of a mile apart. Handguns, as a rule, don’t hump from place to place of their own accord. Handgun migration is almost entirely the result of human intervention. But no one had been in the backseat of my Mustang except for Felix that same night.
Miguel said, “You okay?”
“I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”
I remembered stumbling onto the scene, having waded through the shrubs to warn them that the big Boggart’s arrival was imminent. While Pearl was stomping the makeshift incinerator, Felix had overturned a metal footlocker and the contents were strewn across the ground at his feet. At the moment I caught sight of him, he picked up an item and shoved it into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. From that distance and as quickly as he moved, I hadn’t identified the object, but later, when he blasted the Boggart with a can of pepper spray, I assumed that’s what it was. He’d even admitted stealing the can of pepper spray from them.
Had the Boggarts stumbled across the .45 at the scene of the crime? The bird refuge was part of their turf, so the idea wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Cheney had speculated that the whereabouts of both missing firearms was the function of how far the guy could throw. If he’d tossed one gun in the lagoon and hurled the second one into the dark, it was possible one of the Boggarts had spotted it by day. If that were the case, and if Felix had managed to steal it from them, then the savage beating he’d taken made a sudden twisted sense. That was “if” piled upon “if,” but that’s sometimes how these things work.