Kinsey and Me (17 page)

As I eased up on his left, I saw him lean on the accelerator, cutting to his right.
He hit the shoulder of the road, his tires spewing out gravel as he widened the gap
between us. He was bypassing stalled cars, hugging the shrubbery as he flew down the
berm. I was right behind him, keeping as close to him as I dared. My car wasn’t very
swift, but then neither was his van. I jammed my accelerator to the floor and pinned
myself to his tail. He was watching me steadily in his rearview mirror, our eyes meeting
in a deadlock of determination and grit.

I spotted the maintenance crew just seconds before he did; guys in bright orange vests
working with a crane, which was parked squarely in his path. There was no way for
him to slow in time and no place else to go. His van plowed into the rear of the crane
with a crash that made my blood freeze as I slammed on my brakes. I was luckier than
he. My VW came to a stop just a kiss away from death.

Like a nightmare, we repeated all the horror of the first wreck. Police and paramedics,
the wailing of the ambulance. When I finally stopped shaking, I realized where I was.
The road crew was replacing the big green highway sign sheared in half when Caroline
Spurrier’s car had smashed into it. Terry Layton died at the very spot where he killed
her.

Caroline’s smile has shifted back to impishness in the photograph above my desk. I
keep it there as a reminder, but of what I couldn’t say. The brevity of life perhaps,
the finality of death—the irony of events that sometimes connect the two.

a little missionary work

S
OMETIMES YOU HAVE
to take on a job that constitutes pure missionary work. You accept an assignment not
for pay, or for any hope of tangible reward, but simply to help another human being
in distress. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a licensed private eye, in business for
myself, so I can’t really afford professional charity, but now and then somebody gets
into trouble and I just can’t turn my back.

I was standing in line one Friday at the bank, waiting to make a deposit. It was almost
lunchtime and there were eleven people in front of me, so I had some time to kill.
As usual, in the teller’s line, I was thinking about Harry Hovey, my bank-robber friend,
who’d once been arrested for holding up this very branch. I’d met him when I was investigating
a bad-check case. He was introduced to me by another crook as an unofficial “expert”
and ended up giving me a crash course in the methods and practices of passing bad
paper. Poor Harry. I couldn’t remember how many times he’d been in the can. He was
skilled enough for a life of crime, but given to self-sabotage. Harry was always trying
to go straight, always trying to clean up his act, but honest employment never seemed
to have much appeal. He’d get out of prison, find a job, and be doing pretty well
for himself. Then, something would come along and he’d succumb to temptation—forge
a check, rob a bank, God only knows what. Harry was hooked on crime the way some people
are addicted to cocaine, alcohol, chocolate, and unrequited love. He was currently
doing time in the Federal Correctional Institution in Lompoc, California, with all
the other racketeers, bank robbers, counterfeiters, and former White House staff bad
boys.

I had reached the teller’s window and was finishing my transaction when Lacy Alisal,
the assistant bank manager, approached. “Miss Millhone? I wonder if you could step
this way. Mr. Chamberlain would like a word with you.”

“Who?”

“The branch vice president,” she said. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“Oh. Sure.”

I followed the woman toward Mr. Chamberlain’s glass-walled enclosure, wondering the
whole time what I’d done to deserve this. Well, okay. Let’s be honest. I’d been thinking
about switching my account to First Interstate for the free checking privileges, but
I didn’t see how he could have found out about
that
. As for my balances, I’d only been overdrawn by the teensiest amount and what’s a
line of credit for?

I was introduced to Jack Chamberlain, who turned out to be someone I recognized from
the gym, a tall, lanky fellow in his early forties, whose workouts overlapped mine
three mornings a week. We’d exchange occasional small talk if we happened to be doing
reps on adjacent machines. It was odd to see him here in a conservative business suit
after months of sweat-darkened shorts and T-shirts. His hair was cropped close, the
color a wiry mixture of copper and silver. He wore steel-rimmed glasses and his teeth
were endearingly crooked in front. Somehow, he looked more like a high school basketball
coach than a banking exec. A trophy sitting on his desk attested to his athletic achievements,
but the engraving was small and I couldn’t quite make out the print. He caught my
look and a smile creased his face. “Varsity basketball. We were state champs,” he
said, as he shook my hand formally and invited me to take a seat.

He sat down himself and picked up a fountain pen, which he capped and recapped as
he talked. “I appreciate your time. I know you do your banking on Fridays and I took
the liberty,” he said. “Someone told me at the gym that you’re a private investigator.”

“That’s right. Are you in the market for one?”

“This is for an old friend of mine. My former high school sweetheart, if you want
the truth,” he said. “I probably could have called you at your office, but the circumstances
are unusual and this seemed more discreet. Are you free tonight by any chance?”

“Tonight? That depends,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“I’d rather have her explain it. This is probably going to seem paranoid, but she
insists on secrecy, which is why she didn’t want to make contact herself. She has
reason to believe her phone is tapped. I hope you can bear with us. Believe me, I
don’t ordinarily do business this way.”

“Glad to hear that,” I said. “Can you be a bit more specific? So far, I haven’t really
heard what I’m being asked to do.”

Jack set the pen aside. “She’ll explain the situation as soon as it seems wise. She
and her husband are having a big party tonight and she asked me to bring you. They
don’t want you appearing in any professional capacity. Time is of the essence, or
we might go about this some other way. You’ll understand when you meet her.”

I studied him briefly, trying to figure out what was going on. If this was a dating
ploy, it was the weirdest one I’d ever heard. “Are you married?”

He smiled slightly. “Divorced. I understand you are, too. I assure you, this is not
a hustle.”

“What kind of party?”

“Oh, yes. Glad you reminded me.” He removed an envelope from his top drawer and pushed
it across the desk. “Cocktails. Five to seven. Black tie, I’m afraid. This check should
cover your expenses in the way of formal dress. If you try the rental shop around
the corner, Roberta Linderman will see that you’re outfitted properly. She knows these
people well.”

“What people? You haven’t even told me their names.”

“Karen Waterston and Kevin McCall. They have a little weekend retreat up here.”

“Ah,” I said, nodding. This was beginning to make more sense. Karen Waterston and
Kevin McCall were actors who’d just experienced a resurgence in their careers, starring
in a new television series called
Shamus, P.I.
, an hour-long spoof of every detective series that’s ever aired. I don’t watch much
TV, but I’d heard about the show and after seeing it once, I’d found myself hooked.
The stories were fresh, the writing was superb, and the format was perfect for their
considerable acting talents. Possibly because they were married in “real” life, the
two brought a wicked chemistry to the screen. As with many new shows, the ratings
hadn’t yet caught up with the rave reviews, but things looked promising. Whatever
their problem, I could understand the desire to keep their difficulties hidden from
public scrutiny.

Jack was saying, “You’re in no way obligated, but I hope you’ll say yes. She really
needs your help.”

“Well. I guess I’ve had stranger requests in my day. I better give you my address.”

He held up the signature card I’d completed when I opened my account. “I have that.”

I soon learned what “cocktails five to seven” means to the very rich. Everybody showed
up at seven and stayed until they were dead drunk. Jack Chamberlain, in a tux, picked
me up at my apartment at six forty-five. I was decked out in a slinky beaded black
dress with long sleeves, a high collar, and no back—not my usual apparel of choice.
When Jack helped me into the front seat of his Mercedes, I shrieked at the shock of
cold leather against my bare skin.

Once at the party, I regained my composure and managed to conduct myself (for the
most part) without embarrassment or disgrace. The “little weekend retreat” turned
out to be a sprawling six-bedroom estate, decorated with a confident blend of the
avant-garde and the minimalist: unadorned white walls, wide, bare, gleaming expanses
of polished hardwood floor. The few pieces of furniture were draped with white canvas,
like those in a palatial summer residence being closed up for the season. Aside from
a dazzling crystal chandelier, all the dining room contained was a plant, a mirror,
and a bentwood chair covered with an antique paisley shawl. Très chic. They’d probably
paid thousands for some interior designer to come in and haul all the knickknacks
away.

As the party picked up momentum, the noise level rose, people spilling out onto all
the terraces. Six young men, in black pants and pleated white shirts, circulated with
silver platters of tasty hot and cold morsels. The champagne was exquisite, the supply
apparently endless so that I was fairly giddy by the time Jack took me by the arm
and eased me out of the living room. “Karen wants to see you upstairs,” he murmured.

“Great,” I said. I’d hardly laid eyes on her except as a glittering wraith along the
party’s perimeters. I hadn’t seen Kevin at all, but I’d overheard someone say he was
off scouting locations for the show coming up. Jack and I drifted up the spiral stairs
together, me hoping that in my half-inebriated state, I wouldn’t pitch over the railing
and land with a splat. As I reached the landing, I looked down and was startled to
see my friend Vera in the foyer below. She caught sight of me and did a double take,
apparently surprised to see me in such elegant surroundings, especially dressed to
the teeth. We exchanged a quick wave.

The nearly darkened master suite was carpeted to a hush, but again, it was nearly
empty. The room was probably fifty feet by thirty, furnished dead-center with a king-sized
bed, a wicker hamper, two ficus trees, and a silver lamp with a twenty-five-watt bulb
on a long, curving neck.

As Jack ushered me into the master bathroom, where the meeting was to take place,
he flicked me an apologetic look. “I hope this doesn’t seem too odd.”

“Not at all,” I said, politely—like a lot of my business meetings take place in the
WC.

Candles flickered from every surface. Sound was dampened by thick white carpeting
and a profusion of plants. Karen Waterston sat on the middle riser of three wide,
beige marble steps leading up to the Jacuzzi. Beside her, chocolate brown bath towels
were rolled and stacked like a cord of firewood. She was wearing a halter-style dress
of white chiffon, which emphasized the dark, even tan of her slender shoulders and
arms. Her hair was silver-blond, coiled around her head in a twist of satin ropes.
She was probably forty-two, but her face had been cosmetically backdated to the age
of twenty-five, a process that would require ever more surgical ingenuity as the years
went by. Jack introduced us and we shook hands. Hers were ice cold and I could have
sworn she wasn’t happy to have me there.

Jack pulled out a wicker stool and sat down with his back to Karen’s makeup table,
his eyes never leaving her face. My guess was that being an ex–high school sweetheart
of hers was as much a part of his identity as being a former basketball champ. I leaned
a hip against the marble counter. There was a silver-framed photograph of Kevin McCall
propped up beside me, the mirror reflecting endless reproductions of his perfect profile.
To all appearances, he’d been allowed to retain the face he was born with, but the
uniform darkness of his hair, with its picturesque dusting of silver at the temples,
suggested that nature was being tampered with, at least superficially. Still, it was
hard to imagine that either he or Karen had a problem more pressing than an occasional
loose dental cap.

“I appreciate your coming, Miss Millhone. It means a lot to us under the circumstances.”
Her voice was throaty and low, with the merest hint of tremolo. Even by candlelight,
I could see the tension in her face. “I wasn’t in favor of bringing anyone else into
this, but Jack insisted. Has he explained the situation?” She glanced from me to Jack,
who said, “I told her you preferred to do that yourself.”

She seemed to hug herself for warmth and her mouth suddenly looked pinched. Tears
welled in her eyes and she placed two fingers on the bridge of her nose as if to quell
their flow. “You’ll have to forgive me . . .”

I didn’t think she’d be able to continue, but she managed to collect herself.

“Kevin’s been kidnapped. . . .” Her voice cracked with emotion and she lifted her
dark eyes to mine. I’d never seen such a depth of pain and suffering.

At first, I didn’t even know what to say to her. “When was this?”

“Last night. We’re very private people. We’ve never let anyone get remotely close
to us. . . .” She broke off again.

“Take your time,” I said.

Jack moved over to the stair and sat down beside her, putting an arm protectively
around her shoulders. The smile she offered him was wan and she couldn’t sustain it.

He handed her his handkerchief and I waited while she blew her nose and dabbed at
her eyes. “Sorry. I’m just so frightened. This is horrible.”

“I hope you’ve called the police,” I said.

“She doesn’t want to take the risk,” Jack said.

Karen shook her head. “They said they’d kill him if I called in the police.”

“Who said?”

“The bastards who snatched him. I was given this note. Here. You can see for yourself.
It’s too much like the Bender case to take any chances.” She extracted a piece of
paper from the folds of her long dress and held it out to me.

I took the note by one corner so I wouldn’t smudge any prints, probably a useless
precaution. If this was truly like the Bender case, there wouldn’t be any prints to
smudge. The paper was plain, the printing in ball-point pen and done with a ruler.