I headed north on the 101 to the off-ramp at Little Pony Road, a distance of three to four miles in light traffic. I found myself reviewing that phone conversation with Mariah, the easy banter between us at the Hevener boys' expense. I was almost positive I hadn't tipped my hand. In the meantime, I had no idea what Richard had in mind for me, but I figured his "perfect solution" lay somewhere on a continuum between small claims court and death. I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, flicking a quick look at any car that pulled up even with mine. Laguna Plaza is an aging L-shaped strip mall, much classier than some, but a far cry from the massive retail stadiums being built these days. No glass-enclosed atrium planted with full-sized trees, no food court, no second and third tiers with escalators running in between. I pulled my VW into a slot directly in front of Mail More, a franchise that boasted private mailbox rentals, mail receiving and forwarding, copy machines, a notary public, custom business cards, rubber stamps, and twenty-four-hour access, seven days a week.
The interior was divided into two large areas, each with an entrance, and separated from each other by a glass wall and lockable glass door. The space on the right contained a counter, the copiers, office supplies, and a clerk to assist with the packaging and mailing services. Through a doorway in the rear wall, I could see banks of flat cardboard boxes in assorted sizes, continuous rolls of bubble wrap, wrapping paper, and bins of Styrofoam packing fill.
The clerk was gone, but she'd left a note on the counter: CLOSED FOR PERSONAL EMERGENCY. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. BACK MONDAY. TIFFANY. If she was anything like Jeniffer, the personal emergency consisted of a tanning session and a pedicure. I said, "Yoo hoo" and "Hello" type things to cover my ass while I took the liberty of walking around the counter to inspect the backroom. Not a soul in sight. I returned to the front and stood for a moment, feeling thoroughly annoyed. Anyone could waltz in and steal the office supplies. What if I had a package to ship or a critical need for a notary public?
I crossed to the glass wall and peered into adjoining space: a veritable cellblock of mailboxes, numbered and glass-fronted, floor to head height, with a slot on the far wall for the mailing of letters and small packages. This was the section open twenty-four hours a day. I pushed through the glass door. I followed the numbers in sequence and found box 505-fifth tier over, five down from the top. I leaned over and looked through the tiny beveled glass window. No mail in evidence, but I was treated to a truncated view of the room beyond where I could see a guy moving down the line, distributing letters from a stack in his hand. When he reached my row, I knocked on the window of 505.
The fellow leaned down so his face was even with mine.
I said, "Can I talk to you? I need some help out here."
He pointed to my right. "Go down to the slot."
We both moved in that direction, he on his side of the boxes, me on mine. The slot was at chest height. This time, I leaned close, catching a glimpse of mail piled in the bin beneath. The guy was much taller than I and the difference in our heights forced him not only to bend, but to tilt his head at an unnatural angle. He said, "What's the problem?"
I took out a business card and stuck it through the slot so he could see who I was. "I need information about the party renting box 505."
He took my card and studied it. "What for?"
"It's a murder investigation."
"You have a subpoena?"
"No, I don't have a subpoena. If I did, I wouldn't need to ask."
He pushed the card back at me. "Check with Tiffany. That's her department."
Her department? There were two of them. What was he talking about? "She's gone and the note says she won't be back until Monday."
"You'll have to come back then."
"Can't. I have a court appearance. It won't take half a second," I said. "Please, please, please?"
He seemed vexed. "What do you want?"
"I just need a peek at the rental form to see who's renting it."
"Why?"
"Because the man's widow thinks he might have been receiving pornographic material at this address and I don't think it's true. All I want to know is who filled out the form."
"I'm not supposed to do that."
"Couldn't you make an exception? It could make a really big difference. Think of all the grief she'd be spared."
I could see him staring at the floor. He appeared to be forty, way too old for this line of work. I could well imagine his debate. On one hand, the rules were the rules, though I personally doubted there was any kind of policy to cover my request. He wasn't a federal employee and his job didn't require a security clearance. Executive mail-sorter. He'd be lucky to earn fifty cents an hour over the minimum wage. I I said, "I just talked to the police and told them I'd be doing this and they said it was fine." No response.
"I'll give you twenty bucks."
"Wait right there."
He disappeared for what felt like an interminable length of time. I pulled the twenty from my wallet, folded it lengthwise, bent it, and balanced it on the lip of the slot, thinking he might be morally dainty, shying away from a direct hand-to-hand bribe. While I waited, I kept my back to the wall, my attention fixed on the entrance. I entertained a brief fantasy of Richard Hevener crashing his sports car through the plate glass window, squashing me up against the wall like a dead person. In movies, people were always diving out of the path of runaway trains as they plowed into stations, flinging themselves sideways as jumbo jets smashed into airline terminals, or buses went berserk and jumped the curb. How, in real life, did one prepare for such a leap? "Lady?"
I looked back. The guy had reappeared and the twenty I'd left in the slot was gone. He had the rental form with him, but he held it behind his back, apparently uneasy about letting go of it. I waited until his face was on a plane with mine and tried asking him some easy questions, just to get him in the mood. This is called private-eye foreplay. "How's this done? Someone comes in and pays the fee for the coming year?"
"Something like that. It can also be done by mail. We put a notice in the box when the annual fee comes up."
"They pay in cash?"
"Or personal check. Either way."
"So you might never actually see the person renting the box?"
"Most of them we don't see. We don't care who they are as long as they pay the money when it's due. I notice some renters have fancy stationery done up, acting like this is their corporate office with individual suites. It's a laugh, but it's really all the same to us."
"I'll bet. Can you push the form through the slot so I can see it better? This is a legitimate investigation. I'm really serious about that."
"Nope. I don't want you touching it. You can look for thirty seconds, but that's the best I can do."
"Great." What kind of world is this-you bribe a guy with twenty bucks and he still has scruples?
He held the card up on his side, angled so I could see it. He was checking his watch, counting off the seconds. Big deal. Little did this fellow know that as a kid my prime talent was the game played at birthday parties wherein the mother of the birthday girl put a number of articles on a tray, which she then covered with a towel. All the little partygoers clustered around. Mrs. Mom would lift the towel for thirty seconds, during which we were allowed to look, committing all the items to memory. I always won this game, primarily because it was always the same old stuff. A bobby pin, a spoon, a Q-tip, a cotton ball. I would use my thirty seconds to make note of any new or unexpected object. The only sad part of this contest was the prize itself, usually a plastic jar full of bubble syrup with the blower inside.
The rental form was a no-brainer and I assimilated the information in the first two seconds. The signature on the bottom line appeared to be Dow's, but he hadn't written in the data on the lines above. The printing was Leila's, complete with the angled t's and puffy i's. Well, well, well.
I said, "One more tiny thing. Would you spit on your finger and run it across the signature?"
"Why?"
This guy was worse than a four-year-old. "Because I'm wondering if it was done with a pen or a copier."
Frowning, he licked his index finger and rubbed the signature. No ink smear. He said, "Hnh."
"What's your name?"
"Ed."
"Well, Ed. I appreciate your help. Thanks so much."
I returned to my car and sat for a minute, considering the implications. Working backward, I had to conclude that Leila'd intercepted the rental renewal notice when it arrived with its request for the annual fee. Crystal had told me the Mid-City Bank statements were routed to the P.O. box. Very likely Leila had notified the bank, perhaps typing the request on a sheet of Pacific Meadows letterhead, forging Purcell's signature or affixing a photocopy, and asking that the statements for that account be mailed to 505. I let my gaze stray across the store front, thinking how easily she could have stopped by the Mail More when she was up from school.
I started my car, backed out of the parking place, and headed for the exit. When I reached the street, I realized the Laguna Plaza branch of the Mid-City Bank was located on the opposite corner. Even from this distance, I could see the ATM she'd used to drain the account. All she really needed was the bank card and pin number for the account, which Dow probably left in his desk at home.
True to my word, when I got back to the office, I put a call through to Jonah.
"Lieutenant Robb."
"This is Kinsey. If you don't scrutinize my methods, I'll tell you what I found out. I swear I didn't mess with anything. I left it all in place."
"I'll bite."
I explained my trip to the Mail More, leaning heavily on Leila's behavior while glossing over mine.
Jonah didn't say much, but I could tell he was taking notes. "You better give me the location of the P.O. box."
"The Mail More at Laguna Plaza. The number's 505."
"I'll check it out," he said. "Devious."
I said, "Very," on the assumption he was talking about her.
"Any idea where she is now?"
"I heard she was up at Lloyd's, but maybe I should check it out. Leila's got a friend named Paulie, some gal she met in Juvie… this was a year ago July, I think. Paulie's been in trouble before. It crossed my mind the two of them might be planning to take off. It might be interesting to track Paulie's history and see what she's done."
He told me he'd check into it, and I hung up. I was already feeling guilty. The last thing Crystal needed was to have her only daughter brought up on charges of grand theft.
I went out to my car again and made the trip up to Lloyd's. I had questions to ask him, anyway, and this would give me an excuse. If Leila decided to take off, there wasn't much I could do, but it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on her.
Approaching his A-frame, I could see that lights were on. I pulled up to the driveway, parked the car, and got out. Lloyd was working in the small unattached garage. He'd raised the hood on his convertible and his hands were dark with grease. He looked over at me without reaction, as though my arrival at his doorstep was an everyday occurrence. I had no idea what he was doing to the guts of the engine-something manly no doubt. He wore cutoffs and a well-worn sweatshirt. Flip-flops on his feet. I could see a smudge on one lens of his glasses. He no longer wore the earring with the skull and crossbones.
"You're Millhone," he remarked as much to himself as to me.
"And you're Lloyd Muscoe."
"Glad we got that straight."
"I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop in. I hope you don't mind. Is Leila here?"
He smiled slightly to himself. "Depends on what you want."
I studied the exposed engine, which looked like it was made entirely of parts that would explode. I'd learned to pump my own gas. It was my big automotive triumph. "What's wrong with the car?"
"Nothing that I know of except that it's old and tired. I'm changing the oil, putting in new spark plugs, stuff like that."
"A tune-up."
"Of sorts. I'm taking off in a couple days." He reached in and removed a little knotty thing and wiped it clean with a rag before he put it back. He adjusted something down among the major organs.
"Where to?"
"Vegas. I thought I'd ask Crystal if I could take Leila with me. What d'you think?" He wasn't actually consulting me, just making conversation while he went about his business.
"I can't believe she'd say yes."
"Never know with her. She's tired of Leila's problems."
"That doesn't mean she'd kick her out," I said. I waited for a beat and when he said nothing, I went on. "You think it'd be good for Leila, moving her again?"
"At least over in Vegas she behaved herself. She hates that school she's in. Bunch of spoiled, rich debutantes. What a fuckin' waste."
"She seems to hate everything."
He shook his head. "She needs handling, that's all. Someone like me who won't let her get away with all the shit she pulls."
"Limits and boundaries."
"That's what I said."
"She gets that at Fitch and so far, it hasn't helped."
"Too much carrot. Not enough stick."
"How does Leila feel about it?"
He looked at me sharply. "Feeling doesn't have anything to do with it. She's headstrong and lazy. Leave it up to her and all she'd do is lie around watching TV. Crystal's too busy trying to be her best friend. Doesn't work that way. Kid needs a parent, not a pal."
I kept my mouth shut. Crystal wasn't going to let her go, but I wasn't there to argue with him.
His tone of voice turned wry. "You ever going to get around to telling me why you came?"
"Sure. I could do that," I said. "I understand Purcell came up here to talk to you about four months ago. I was wondering why."
"He'd heard a rumor Crystal was having an affair. He assumed it was me. Too bad I couldn't up and confess. I'd have taken a certain satisfaction shoving that in his face."
"It wasn't you."
"I'm afraid not."
"How long were you married to her?"
"Six years."
"Bad years? Good?"
"I thought they were good, but like they say, the husband's the last to know."
"I've heard your relationship was volatile."
He paused and leaned on the fender while he wiped his hands. "We had chemistry. Stone and flint. We'd come together and the sparks would fly. What's wrong with that?"
"She didn't have sparks with Purcell?"
"Are you kidding? The way I heard it, he liked the kinky stuff. That must have been the shock of her life. Here she marries the guy thinking he's the answer to her prayers. Turns out he drinks like a fish and can't get it up unless she wears high-heeled boots and beats his ass with a whip. It doesn't surprise me she'd cheat. I might have slapped her around, but I never did that stuff."
"Was she faithful to you?"
"Far as I know. I don't put up with any shit on that score."
"How'd you get along with Purcell?"
"Considering he walked off with my wife, we did fine."
"You remember where you were?"
He smiled, shaking his head. "The night he took a dive? I already went through that. The cops were here yesterday."
"What'd you tell them?"
"Same thing I'm telling you. I was working that Friday, the night of the twelfth. I had a gig driving cabs-it's on the company books. Leila was here with her friend Paulie, watching videos. Crystal picked her up Sunday morning as usual. You can ask her yourself if you don't believe me."
I watched him for a moment. "What happened to the earring?"
"Took it out for an interview I had a few months back. Didn't want the guy to think I was a fruit."
"You get the job?"
"No."
"Is that why you're going back to Vegas, to change your luck?"
"Here's my theory. Things get bad? Think about the last place you were happy and go there."
In a fit of guilt, I devoted all of Friday to other clients. Nothing exciting went down, but at least it paid the bills.
The memorial service for Dr. Dowan Purcell took place at 2:00 Saturday afternoon in the Presbyterian Chapel on West Glen Road in Montebello. I donned my black all-purpose dress and black flats and presented myself at 1:45. The sanctuary was narrow, with high stone walls, a beamed ceiling, and fifty pews divided into two sections of twenty-five. Outside, the day was damp and gray and the six stained-glass windows, done in tints of deep scarlet and indigo, reduced most of the available light to a somber gloom. I don't know much about the Presbyterian faith, but the atmosphere alone was enough to put me off predestination.
Despite the fact the mourners were assembled by invitation only, the crowd was sizeable and filled the chapel to capacity. Crystal's friends sat on one side, Fiona's on the other. For some, the decision seemed easy. Dana and Joel, for instance, took their seats without hesitation, studiously avoiding Dow's second wife out of loyalty to his first. Those I judged to be mutual acquaintances seemed torn, consulting one another surreptitiously before they slid into a pew. While the stragglers were being seated, an unseen organist worked her (or his) way through a selection of dolorous tunes, the funereal equivalent of Top Forty Dirges. I used the time to contemplate the brevity of life, wondering if Richard Hevener intended to shorten mine. Mariah, when she'd called back, didn't seem that alarmed. Her theory was the Hevener boys would never risk another murder so soon after the first. This was not a comfort.
Crystal had arranged things in haste and it felt about like that. I guess organizing a funeral is like planning any other social event. Some people have a flair for it, some people don't. What made this one odd was the absence of a casket, a crematory urn, or even floral sprays. The announcement in the paper had suggested that, in lieu of flowers, a charitable donation should be made in Dr. Purcell's name. There wasn't even a photograph of him.
In the matter of seating, I'd suffered a bit of conflict. Crystal had asked me to attend, but since I was still technically in Fiona's employ, I felt fiscally obliged to sit on her side of the church. I'd settled on the aisle in the last pew, affording myself a panoramic view. Fiona's older daughter, Melanie, had flown in from San Francisco and she walked her mother down the aisle as solemnly as a father giving away his daughter in marriage. Fiona was dressed, not surprisingly, in black; a two-piece wool suit with big rhinestone buttons on the jacket and the skirt cut midcalf. Her curls had been subdued under a black velvet cloche and she wore a veil suggestive of the Lone Ranger's mask. I saw her press a tissue to her mouth, but she might have been blotting her lipstick instead of holding back tears. Mel's hair, like her mother's, was dark, though the style was quite severe; hennaed and blunt cut with dense, unforgiving bangs. She was taller and more substantial, in an austere charcoal pantsuit and black ankle boots.
Blanche followed them down the aisle in a voluminous maternity tent. She moved slowly, both hands framing her belly as though holding it in place. She walked as carefully as someone whose soup is threatening to slop out of the bowl. Her husband, Andrew, accompanied her, his pace slowed to hers. She'd left the children at home, which was a mercy on us all.
Mrs. Stegler, from Pacific Meadows, sat just in front of me; brown suit, brown oxfords, and her mop of red curls. There were also numerous doctor types in dark suits and several elderly people I took to be Dr. Purcell's former geriatric patients.
On the other side of the aisle, Crystal and Leila were ushered to their seats in the first pew on the left. Crystal wore a simple black sheath, her tumble of blond hair giving her a look of elegant dishevel-ment. She looked tired, her face pinched, dark circles under her eyes. Leila had forsworn the outlandish in favor of the strange: a black latex tube top matched with a black sequined skirt. Her short white-blond hair stood out from her head as though charged with static electricity. Jacob Trigg, in a coat and tie, swung into the church on his forearm crutches. He eased into a seat on Fiona's side, near the rear. Anica Blackburn appeared and smiled at me briefly before she took her seat in the pew across from mine. There was the usual rustle and murmuring, an occasional cough. I checked my program, wondering how Crystal managed to get it printed up so fast. Altogether, we were looking at a scattering of hymns, a doxology, two prayers, a soloist singing Ave Maria, followed by the eulogy, and two more hymns.
A latecomer arrived, a woman with medium-blond hair whom I recognized belatedly as Pepper Gray, my favorite nurse. I watched her shrug out of her coat and tiptoe halfway down the aisle, where she paused while a fellow rose to let her into the pew. She walked as if she was still wearing crepe-sole shoes.
The minister appeared in a robe like a judge, accompanied by his spiritual bailiff, who intoned the corollary of a courtroom "All rise." We stood and sang. We sat and prayed. While all heads were bowed, I occupied my thoughts by reflecting on the state of my pantyhose and my unruly soul. I don't know why pantyhose can't be designed to stay in place. As for the state of my soul, my early religious training would have to be considered spotty at best, consisting as it did of sequential expulsions from a variety of church Sunday schools. My aunt Gin had never married and had no offspring of her own. After I was so rudely thrust into her care by the death of my parents, she fell headlong into parenting without any experience, making up the rules as she went along. From the outset, she labored under the misguided notion that children should be told the truth, so I was regaled with lengthy and unvarnished replies to the simplest of questions, the one about the origin of babies being my earliest.
My most unfortunate Sunday-school experience came that first Christmas in her care when I was five and a half years old. She must have felt some obligation to expose me to religious doctrine so she dropped me off at the Baptist church down the block from our trailer park. The lesson that Sunday morning was about Mary and Joseph, of whom I instantly disapproved. As nearly as I could tell, poor baby Jesus had been born to a couple of deadbeats, with no more sense than to birth him in a shed. When my Sunday-school teacher, Mrs. Nevely, began to explain to my little classmates how Mary came to be "with child," I was apparently the only one present who knew how far off the mark she was. Up shot my hand. She called on me, pleased at my eagerness to make a contribution. I can still remember the change that came over her face as I launched into the doctrine of conception according to Aunt Gin.
By the time Aunt Gin came to fetch me, I'd been set out on the curb, a note pinned to my dress, forbidden to say a word until she arrived to take me home. Fortunately, no blame attached. She made me a "sammich" of white bread and butter, filled with halved Vienna sausages out of a can. I sat on the trailer porch step and ate my picnic lunch. While I played croquet by myself in her tiny side yard, Aunt Gin called all her friends, spoke in low tones, and laughed quite a lot. I knew I'd made her happy, but I wasn't quite sure how.
When the minister finally stepped up to the pulpit, he made the sort of generic remarks that were safe for any but the most depraved decedent. The service finally ended and people began to file out of the church. I lingered near the door, hoping to catch Fiona before she left the premises. I wanted to set up a time to chat with her so we could sort out the details of our relationship. I finally caught sight of her, leaning heavily against Mel, who walked in tandem with her. Melanie must have known who I was because she shot me a warning glance as she guided her mother down the steps and out to the parking lot.
Anica touched me on the arm. "Are you coming back to the house? Some people are stopping by."
"Are you sure it's okay? I don't want to intrude."
"It's fine. Crystal told me to ask. We're at the beach."
"I'd like that."
"Good. We'll see you there."
The parking lot emptied slowly. The crowd dispersed as though from a movie theater, people pausing to chat while departing vehicles inched by. I returned to my car and joined the thinning stream. The overcast had lightened and a pale hint of sun seemed to filter through the clouds.
The beach house was only two miles from the church on surface roads. I must have been one of the last to arrive because the gravel berm on Paloma Lane was completely lined with expensive cars. I grabbed the first spot I saw, locked my car, and walked the rest of the way to the house. I sensed the crotch of my pantyhose had slipped to midthigh. I hoisted the suckers back into place by giving a little jump. For ten cents, I'd peel 'em off and toss 'em in a bush.
As I turned into Crystal's driveway, I saw the same vintage auto I'd seen at Pacific Meadows. Cautiously, I paused and scrutinized the area, noting that I was protected from view. The entire rear facade of Crystal's beach house was windowless and the roadway behind me was momentarily empty. I circled the vehicle, checking the manufacturer's emblem affixed to the right front fender. A Kaiser Manhattan. Never heard of it. All four doors were locked and a quick look into the front and backseats revealed nothing of interest.
The front door had been left ajar and the sounds spilling out were not unlike an ordinary cocktail party. Death, by its nature, reshapes the connection between family members and friends. Survivors tend to gather, using food and drink as a balm to counteract the loss. There is usually laughter. I'm not quite sure why, but I suspect it's an integral part of the healing process, the mourner's talisman.
There were probably sixty people present, most of whom I'd seen at the church. The French doors stood open to the deck and I could hear the constant shushing of the surf beyond. A gentleman in a cropped white jacket walked by with a tray, pausing to offer me a glass of champagne. I thanked him and took one. I found a place near the stairs and sipped champagne while I searched for the man with the mustache and thick silver hair.
Jacob Trigg came up behind me, pausing as I had at the edge of the crowd. Many of the mourners were already engaged in animated conversations and the thought of breaking into any given threesome was daunting. Trigg said, "You know these people?"
"No, do you?"
"A few. I understand you were the one who found Dow."
"I did and I'm sorry he died. I was hoping he'd gone off to South America."
"Me, too." Trigg's smile was bleak.
"Did Dow ever mention money missing from his savings account?"
"I know he was aware of it. The bank manager became concerned and sent him a copy of the statement with a query attached. Dow thanked him, said he knew what it was and he'd take care of it. In truth, it was the first he'd heard. Initially, he figured it had to be Crystal since the statements were being routed to her P.O. box."
"Did he ask her?"
"Not about the money, but about the post-office box. She told him she'd dumped it about a year ago. He didn't want to press the issue until he'd looked into it. It almost had to be someone in the house because who else would have access to the bank card and the pin number for that account?"
"Who'd he suspect?"
"Crystal or Leila, though it could have been Rand. He'd obviously narrowed it down, but he wouldn't say a word until he knew for sure. He and Crystal clashed over Leila so many times, she'd threatened to walk out. If he'd had a problem with Leila, he'd have handled it himself. Of course, when it came to Rand, Crystal was just as fierce. Why take that on? There'd have been hell to pay there, too."
"How so?"
"He's the only one she trusted with Griff. Without Rand, where's her freedom? Dow was in a bind any which way it went."
"Why not close the account?"
"I'm sure he did."
"Did he ever figure out who it was?"
"If so, he never told me."
"Too bad. With his passport missing, the cops figured he might have left of his own accord. I wonder why Crystal didn't fill them in."
"Maybe she didn't know. He might have decided pursuing it wasn't worth the risk."
"He'd let someone walk off with thirty thousand bucks?"
"Dad?"
Both of us turned. A woman with a thick blond braid halfway down her back stood behind us. She was in her forties, no makeup, in a long cotton sweater, a peasant skirt, and sandals. She looked like the sort who never shaved her legs, but I didn't want to check. She was too smart to wear pantyhose, so I gave her points for that. Mine were sinking again. Any moment, they'd slip down as far as my knees and I'd have to start hobbling, taking little mincing steps wherever I went.
"This is my daughter, Susan."
"Nice meeting you," I said. We shook hands and the three of us stood chatting for a while before she took his arm.
"I hope you don't mind if we go. This is all a bit rich for my blood," she said.
"She thinks I'm tired, which I am," Trigg confessed. "We'll talk again soon."
"I hope so."