X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

He pointed at me, like he was calling on me in class. “Can you tell me where you were?”

“At the grocery store obviously; the Alpha Beta market on Old Coast Road in Montebello.” I was only adding the details to show I had nothing to hide. My righteous tone sounded bogus, but that might have had more to do with the look he was giving me.

“We’re wondering how that particular bill ended up in your hands.”

“I was hired to do a job and I was paid in cash,” I said. “That bill was phony?”

“Not quite. Six months ago, the Alpha Beta chain initiated use of a device that counts, sorts, and bands currency. It’s also programmed to spot counterfeits and capture serial numbers. The machine tagged the bill as marked, and the store manager tracked it to the cashier who took it in trade. She doesn’t usually work that shift, so she remembered the transaction.”

“Suzanne,” I said, supplying her name.

“What kind of job did you do?”

“None of your business.”

“Hired by whom?” he asked, not the least bit perturbed.

I hesitated. “I’m not sure I should tell you my client’s name. Give me a minute to think about it.”

“I can do that. When were you hired?”

“That same night. So you’re telling me that bill was marked?”

“Not literally marked. We recorded serial numbers on a stack of cash that changed hands two years ago in the course of a felony.”

“What felony?”

“I’ll get to that in a bit. I have a few questions first, if you don’t object.”

“I might object. I don’t know yet. Why don’t you ask and I’ll tell you what I can?”

He opened his notebook, flipping to a blank page, and clicked the tip of a ballpoint pen into place. “Let’s go back to your client’s name.”

I went through a hasty internal debate. If I’d been working for an attorney in a civil or criminal matter, the question of confidentiality would have been clear-cut. In my dealings with Hallie Bettancourt, there were no legal issues at stake. The information I’d been hired to find seemed uncomplicated on the face of it. If Hallie paid me with tainted cash, the act might or might not have been intentional. Therefore what? My recollection of the ethical niceties was as follows: No privilege exists between the investigator and a third party, nor does it exist in communications outside the scope of the reason for legal representation.

So how did that apply to the current circumstance? Was I at liberty to blab her business to this nice plainclothes police detective? Ordinarily, I’m protective of clients, but in this case, I thought a police inquiry took precedence.

“Hallie Bettancourt,” I said. I paused to spell her name for him and watched him make a note of it before I went on. “Now it’s my turn to ask. We’ll trade off. You ask me and then I’ll ask you.”

“Fair enough. Go ahead.”

“You said ‘felony.’ So what was the crime?” I watched him deciding how forthcoming he should be, the same debate he’d gone through moments before.

Finally, he said, “Nineteen eighty-seven, a painting was stolen from a wealthy Montebello resident. His collection was uninsured and the painting in question was valued at one-point-two million.”

“Yikes.”

“That was my reaction. He was in a white-hot sweat to get the painting back and decided to offer a reward. We opposed the plan, but you can only push people so far, and he ended up winning the argument. He posted the reward, and shortly afterward, someone contacted him, claiming to know the painting’s whereabouts.”

“Which ‘someone’ would be happy to confide as soon as the arrangements were made,” I said. “How much was the reward?”

“Fifteen grand. The caller was a ‘she’ in this case,” he said. “The woman insisted on the reward being bumped from fifteen to twenty-five grand; five thousand of it in hundred-dollar bills and the rest in smaller denominations.”

“More like ransom.”

“Exactly. My turn now, isn’t it?”

I conceded the point with a careless wave of my hand.

He checked his notes. “Aside from that Monday, how many times did you meet with your client?”

“First and only time. She lives up on Sky View in Montebello, off Winding Canyon Road. The old Clipper estate, in case you’re about to ask.” I gave him the house number and watched him make a note. “I can’t believe I missed this whole ransom thing.”