Kinsey and Me (9 page)

She was one of those liars who blush from lack of practice.

I kept my tone of voice mild. “What about the insurance? Did you put in a claim?”

She looked at me blankly, and I had the feeling I’d taken her by surprise on that
one. She said, “You know, it never even occurred to me. But of course he probably
would have it insured, wouldn’t he?”

“Sure, if the gun’s worth that much. What company is he with?”

“I don’t remember offhand. I’d have to look it up.”

“I’d do that if I were you,” I said. “You can file a claim, and then all you have
to do is give the agent the case number.”

“Case number?”

“The police will give you that from their report.”

She stirred restlessly, glancing at her watch. “Oh, lordy, I’m going to have to give
him his medicine. Was there anything else you wanted to ask while you were here?”
Now that she’d told me a fib or two, she was anxious to get rid of me so she could
assess the situation. Avery Lamb had told me she never reported it to the cops. I
wondered if she’d call him up now to compare notes.

“Could I take a quick look at his collection?” I said, getting up.

“I suppose that’d be all right. It’s in here,” she said. She moved toward a small
paneled den, and I followed, stepping around a suitcase near the door.

A rack of six guns was enclosed in a glass-fronted cabinet. All of them were beautifully
engraved, with fine wood stocks, and I wondered how a priceless Parker could really
be distinguished. Both the cabinet and the rack were locked, and there were no empty
slots. “Did he keep the Parker in here?”

She shook her head. “The Parker had its own case.” She hauled out a handsome wood
case from behind the couch and opened it for me, demonstrating its emptiness as though
she might be setting up a magic trick. Actually, there was a set of barrels in the
box, but nothing else.

I glanced around. There was a shotgun propped in one corner, and I picked it up, checking
the manufacturer’s imprint on the frame. L. C. Smith. Too bad. For a moment I’d thought
it might be the missing Parker. I’m always hoping for the obvious. I set the Smith
back in the corner with regret.

“Well, I guess that’ll do,” I said. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“No trouble. I wish I could be more help.” She started easing me toward the door.

I held out my hand. “Nice meeting you,” I said. “Thanks again for your time.”

She gave my hand a perfunctory shake. “That’s all right. Sorry I’m in such a rush,
but you know how it is when you have someone sick.”

Next thing I knew, the door was closing at my back and I was heading toward my car,
wondering what she was up to.

I’d just reached the driveway when a white Corvette came roaring down the street and
rumbled into the drive. The kid at the wheel flipped the ignition key and cantilevered
himself up onto the seat top. “Hi. You know if my mom’s here?”

“Who, Jackie? Sure,” I said, taking a flier. “You must be Doug.”

He looked puzzled. “No, Eric. Do I know you?”

I shook my head. “I’m just a friend passing through.”

He hopped out of the Corvette. I moved on toward my car, keeping an eye on him as
he headed toward the house. He looked about seventeen, blond, blue-eyed, with good
cheekbones, a moody, sensual mouth, lean surfer’s body. I pictured him in a few years,
hanging out in resort hotels, picking up women three times his age. He’d do well.
So would they.

Jackie had apparently heard him pull in, and she came out onto the porch, intercepting
him with a quick look at me. She put her arm through his, and the two moved into the
house. I looked over at the old man. He was making noises again, plucking aimlessly
at his bad hand with his good one. I felt a mental jolt, like an interior tremor shifting
the ground under me. I was beginning to get it.

I
DROVE THE TWO
blocks to Lisa Osterling’s. She was in the backyard, stretched out on a chaise in
a sunsuit that made her belly look like a watermelon in a laundry bag. Her face and
arms were rosy, and her tanned legs glistened with tanning oil. As I crossed the grass,
she raised a hand to her eyes, shading her face from the winter sunlight so she could
look at me. “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”

“I have a question,” I said, “and then I need to use your phone. Did Rudd know a kid
named Eric Barnett?”

“I’m not sure. What’s he look like?”

I gave her a quick rundown, including a description of the white Corvette. I could
see the recognition in her face as she sat up.

“Oh, him. Sure. He was over here two or three times a week. I just never knew his
name. Rudd said he lived around here somewhere and stopped by to borrow tools so he
could work on his motorcycle. Is he the one who owed Rudd the money?”

“Well, I don’t know how we’re going to prove it, but I suspect he was.”

“You think he killed him?”

“I can’t answer that yet, but I’m working on it. Is the phone in here?” I was moving
toward the kitchen. She struggled to her feet and followed me into the house. There
was a wall phone near the back door. I tucked the receiver against my shoulder, pulling
the appraisal slip out of my pocket. I dialed Avery Lamb’s gun shop. The phone rang
twice.

Somebody picked up on the other end. “Gun shop.”

“Mr. Lamb?”

“This is Orville Lamb. Did you want me or my brother, Avery?”

“Avery, actually. I have a quick question for him.”

“Well, he left a short while ago, and I’m not sure when he’ll be back. Is it something
I can help you with?”

“Maybe so,” I said. “If you had a priceless shotgun—say, an Ithaca or a Parker, one
of the classics—would you shoot a gun like that?”

“You could,” he said dubiously, “but it wouldn’t be a good idea, especially if it
was in mint condition to begin with. You wouldn’t want to take a chance on lowering
the value. Now, if it’d been in use previously, I don’t guess it would matter much,
but still I wouldn’t advise it—just speaking for myself. Is this a gun of yours?”

But I’d hung up. Lisa was right behind me, her expression anxious. “I’ve got to go
in a minute,” I said, “but here’s what I think went on. Eric Barnett’s stepfather
has a collection of fine shotguns, one of which turns out to be very, very valuable.
The old man was hospitalized, and Eric’s mother decided to hock one of the guns in
order to do a little something for herself before he’d blown every asset he had on
his medical bills. She had no idea the gun she chose was worth so much, but the gun
dealer recognized it as the find of a lifetime. I don’t know whether he told her that
or not, but when she realized it was more valuable than she thought, she lost her
nerve and put it back.”

“Was that the same gun Rudd took in trade?”

“Exactly. My guess is that she mentioned it to her son, who saw a chance to square
his drug debt. He offered Rudd the shotgun in trade, and Rudd decided he’d better
get the gun appraised, so he took it out to the same place. The gun dealer recognized
it when he brought it in.”

She stared at me. “Rudd was killed over the gun itself, wasn’t he?” she said.

“I think so, yes. It might have been an accident. Maybe there was a struggle and the
gun went off.”

She closed her eyes and nodded. “Okay. Oh, wow. That feels better. I can live with
that.” Her eyes came open, and she smiled painfully. “Now what?”

“I have one more hunch to check out, and then I think we’ll know what’s what.”

She reached over and squeezed my arm. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not over yet, but we’re getting there.”

W
HEN
I
GOT
back to Jackie Barnett’s, the white Corvette was still in the driveway, but the old
man in the wheelchair had apparently been moved into the house. I knocked, and after
an interval, Eric opened the door, his expression altering only slightly when he saw
me.

I said, “Hello again. Can I talk to your mom?”

“Well, not really. She’s gone right now.”

“Did she and Avery go off together?”

“Who?”

I smiled briefly. “You can drop the bullshit, Eric. I saw the suitcase in the hall
when I was here the first time. Are they gone for good or just for a quick jaunt?”

“They said they’d be back by the end of the week,” he mumbled. It was clear he looked
a lot slicker than he really was. I almost felt bad that he was so far outclassed.

“Do you mind if I talk to your stepfather?”

He flushed. “She doesn’t want him upset.”

“I won’t upset him.”

He shifted uneasily, trying to decide what to do with me.

I thought I’d help him out. “Could I just make a suggestion here? According to the
California penal code, grand theft is committed when the real or personal property
taken is of a value exceeding two hundred dollars. Now that includes domestic fowl,
avocados, olives, citrus, nuts, and artichokes. Also shotguns, and it’s punishable
by imprisonment in the county jail or state prison for not more than one year. I don’t
think you’d care for it.”

He stepped away from the door and let me in.

The old man was huddled in his wheelchair in the den. The rheumy eyes came up to meet
mine, but there was no recognition in them. Or maybe there was recognition but no
interest. I hunkered beside his wheelchair. “Is your hearing okay?”

He began to pluck aimlessly at his pant leg with his good hand, looking away from
me. I’ve seen dogs with the same expression when they’ve done potty on the rug and
know you’ve got a roll of newspaper tucked behind your back.

“Want me to tell you what I think happened?” I didn’t really need to wait. He couldn’t
answer in any mode that I could interpret. “I think when you came home from the hospital
the first time and found out the gun was gone, the shit hit the fan. You must have
figured out that Eric took it. He’d probably taken other things if he’d been doing
cocaine for long. You probably hounded him until you found out what he’d done with
it, and then you went over to Rudd’s to get it. Maybe you took the L. C. Smith with
you the first time, or maybe you came back for it when he refused to return the Parker.
In either case, you blew his head off and then came back across the neighbors’ yards.
And then you had another stroke.”

I became aware of Eric in the doorway behind me. I glanced back at him. “You want
to talk about this stuff?” I asked.

“Did he kill Rudd?”

“I think so,” I said. I stared at the old man.

His face had taken on a canny stubbornness, and what was I going to do? I’d have to
talk to Lieutenant Dolan about the situation, but the cops would probably never find
any real proof, and even if they did, what could they do to him? He’d be lucky if
he lived out the year.

“Rudd was a nice guy,” Eric said.

“God, Eric. You
all
must have guessed what happened,” I said snappishly.

He had the good grace to color up at that, and then he left the room. I stood up.
To save myself, I couldn’t work up any righteous anger at the pitiful remainder of
a human being hunched in front of me. I crossed to the gun cabinet.

The Parker shotgun was in the rack, three slots down, looking like the other classic
shotguns in the case. The old man would die, and Jackie would inherit it from his
estate. Then she’d marry Avery and they’d all have what they wanted. I stood there
for a moment, and then I started looking through the desk drawers until I found the
keys. I unlocked the cabinet and then unlocked the rack. I substituted the L. C. Smith
for the Parker and then locked the whole business up again. The old man was whimpering,
but he never looked at me, and Eric was nowhere in sight when I left.

The last I saw of the Parker shotgun, Lisa Osterling was holding it somewhat awkwardly
across her bulky midriff. I’d talk to Lieutenant Dolan all right, but I wasn’t going
to tell him everything. Sometimes justice is served in other ways.

non sung smoke

T
HE DAY WAS
an odd one, brooding and chill, sunlight alternating with an erratic wind that was
being pushed toward California in advance of a tropical storm called Bo. It was late
September in Santa Teresa. Instead of the usual Indian summer, we were caught up in
vague presentiments of the long, gray winter to come. I found myself pulling sweaters
out of my bottom drawer and I went to the office smelling of mothballs and last year’s
cologne.

I spent the morning caught up in routine paperwork, which usually leaves me feeling
productive, but this was the end of a dull week and I was so bored I would have taken
on just about anything. The young woman showed up just before lunch, announcing herself
with a tentative tap on my office door. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, with
a sultry, pornographic face and a tumble of long dark hair. She was wearing an outfit
that suggested she hadn’t gone home the night before unless, of course, she simply
favored low-cut sequined cocktail dresses at noon. Her spike heels were a dyed-to-match
green and her legs were bare. She moved over to my desk with an air of uncertainty,
like someone just learning to roller-skate.

“Hi, how are you? Have a seat,” I said.

She sank into a chair. “Thanks. I’m Mona Starling. I guess you’re Kinsey Millhone,
huh?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Are you really a private detective?”

“Licensed and bonded,” I said.

“Are you single?”

I did a combination nod and shrug that I hoped would cover two divorces and my current
happily
un
married state.

“Great,” she said, “then you’ll understand. God, I can’t believe I’m really doing
this. I’ve never hired a detective, but I don’t know what else to do.”

“What’s going on?”

She blushed, maybe from nervousness, maybe from embarrassment, but the heightened
coloring only made her green eyes more vivid. She shifted in her seat, the sequins
on her dress winking merrily. Something about her posture made me downgrade her age.
She looked barely old enough to drive.

“I hope you don’t think this is dumb. I . . . uh, ran into this guy last night and
we really hit it off. He told me his name was Gage. I don’t know if that’s true or
not. Sometimes guys make up names, you know, like if they’re married or maybe not
sure they want to see you again. Anyway, we had a terrific time, only he left without
telling me how to get in touch. I was just wondering how much it might cost to find
out who he is.”

“How do you know he won’t get in touch with you?”

“Well, he might. I mean, I’ll give him a couple of days, of course. All I’m asking
for is his name and address. Just in case.”

“I take it you’ll want his phone number, too.”

She laughed uneasily. “Well, yeah.”

“What if he doesn’t want to renew the acquaintance?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t bother him if he felt that way. I know it looks like a pickup, but
it really wasn’t. For me, at any rate. I don’t want him to think it was casual on
my part.”

“I take it you were . . . ah,
intimate
,” I said.

“Un-uhn, we just balled, but it was incredible and I’d really like to see him again.”

Reluctantly, I pulled out a legal pad and made a note. “Where’d you meet this man?”

“I ran into him at Mooter’s. He talked like he hung out there a lot. The music was
so loud we were having to shout, so after a while we went to the bar next door, where
it was quiet. We talked for hours. I know what you’re going to say. Like why don’t
I let well enough alone or something, but I just can’t.”

“Why not go back to Mooter’s and ask around?”

“Well, I would, but I, uh, have this boyfriend who’s really jealous and he’d figure
it out. If I even look at another guy, he has this incredible ESP reaction. He’s spooky
sometimes.”

“How’d you get away with it last night?”

“He was working, so I was on my own,” she said. “Say you’ll help me, okay? Please?
I’ve been cruising around all night looking for his car. He lives somewhere in Montebello,
I’m almost sure.”

“I can probably find him, Mona, but my services aren’t cheap.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “That’s fine. I have money. Just tell me how much.”

I debated briefly and finally asked her for fifty bucks. I didn’t have the heart to
charge my usual rates. I didn’t really want her business, but it was better than typing
up file notes for the case I’d just done. She put a fifty-dollar bill on my desk and
I wrote out a receipt, bypassing my standard contract. As young as she was, I wasn’t
sure it’d be binding anyway.

I jotted down a description of the man named Gage. He sounded like every stud on the
prowl I’ve ever seen. Early thirties, five-foot-ten, good build, dark hair, dark mustache,
great smile, and a dimple in his chin. I was prepared to keep writing, but that was
the extent of it. For all of their alleged hours of conversation, she knew precious
little about him. I quizzed her at length about hobbies, interests, what sort of work
he did. The only real information she could give me was that he drove an old silver
Jaguar, which is where they “got it on” (her parlance, not mine) the first time. The
second time was at her place. After that, he apparently disappeared like a puff of
smoke. Real soul mates, these two. I didn’t want to tell her what an old story it
was. In Santa Teresa, the eligible men are so much in demand they can do anything
they want. I took her address and telephone number and said I’d get back to her. As
soon as she left, I picked up my handbag and car keys. I had a few personal errands
to run and figured I’d tuck her business in when I was finished with my own.

M
OOTER’S IS ONE
of a number of bars on the Santa Teresa singles’ circuit. By night, it’s crowded and
impossibly noisy. Happy hour features well drinks for fifty cents and the bartender
rings a gong for every five-dollar tip. The tables are small, jammed together around
a dance floor the size of a boxing ring. The walls are covered with caricatures of
celebrities, possibly purchased from some other bar, as they seem to be signed and
dedicated to someone named Stan, whom nobody’s ever heard of. An ex-husband of mine
played jazz piano there once upon a time, but I hadn’t been in for years.

I arrived that afternoon at two, just in time to watch the place being opened up.
Two men, day drinkers by the look of them, edged in ahead of me and took up what I
surmised were habitual perches at one end of the bar. They were exchanging the kind
of pleasantries that suggest daily contact of no particular depth. The man who let
us in apparently doubled as bartender and bouncer. He was in his thirties, with curly
blond hair, and a T-shirt reading
BOUNCER
stretched across an impressively muscular chest. His arms were so big I thought he
might rip his sleeves out when he flexed.

I found an empty stool at the far end of the bar and waited while he made a couple
of martinis for the two men who’d come in with me. A waitress appeared for work, taking
off her coat as she moved through the bar to the kitchen area.

The bartender then ambled in my direction with an inquiring look.

“I’ll have a wine spritzer,” I said.

A skinny guy with a guitar case came into the bar behind me. When the bartender saw
him, he grinned.

“Hey, how’s it goin’? How’s Fresno?”

They shook hands and the guy took a stool two down from mine. “Hot. And dull, but
Mary Jane’s was fine. We really packed ’em in.”

“Smirnoff on the rocks?”

“Nah, not today. Gimme a beer instead. Bud’ll do.”

The bartender pulled one for him and set his drink on the bar at the same time I got
mine. I wondered what it must be like to hang out all day in saloons, nursing beers,
shooting the shit with idlers and ne’er-do-wells. The waitress came out of the kitchen,
tying an apron around her waist. She took a sandwich order from the guys at the far
end of the bar. The other fellow and I both declined when she asked if we were interested
in lunch. She began to busy herself with napkins and flatware.

The bartender caught my eye. “You want to run a tab?”

I shook my head. “This is fine,” I said. “I’m trying to get in touch with a guy who
was in here last night.”

“Good luck. The place was a zoo.”

“Apparently, he’s a regular. I thought you might identify him from a description.”

“What’s he done?”

“Not a thing. From what I was told, he picked up a young lady and ran out on her afterward.
She wants to get in touch with him, that’s all.”

He stood and looked at me. “You’re a private detective.”

“That’s right.”

He and the other fellow exchanged a look.

The fellow said, “Help the woman. This is great.”

The bartender shrugged. “Sure, why not? What’s he look like?”

The waitress paused, listening in on the conversation with interest.

I mentioned the first name and description Mona’d given me. “The only other thing
I know about him is he drives an old silver Jaguar.”

“Gage Vesca,” the other fellow said promptly.

The bartender said, “Yeah, that’s him.”

“You know how I might get in touch?”

The other fellow shook his head and the bartender shrugged. “All I know is he’s a
jerk. The guy’s got a vanity license plate reads
STALYUN
if that tells you anything. Besides that, he just got married a couple months back.
He’s bad news. Better warn your client. He’ll screw anything that moves.”

“I’ll pass the word. Thanks.” I put a five-dollar bill on the bar and hopped down
off the stool, leaving the spritzer untouched.

“Hey, who’s the babe?” the bartender asked.

“Can’t tell you that,” I said, as I picked up my bag.

The waitress spoke up. “Well, I know which one she’s talking about. That girl in the
green-sequined dress.”

I
WENT BACK TO
my office and checked the telephone book. No listing for Vescas of any kind. Directory
Assistance didn’t have him either, so I put in a call to a friend of mine at the DMV
who plugged the license plate into the computer. The name Gage Vesca came up, with
an address in Montebello. I used my crisscross directory for a match and came up with
the phone number, which I dialed just to see if it was good. As soon as the maid said
“Vesca residence,” I hung up.

I put in a call to Mona Starling and gave her what I had, including the warning about
his marital status and his character references, which were poor. She didn’t seem
to care. After that, I figured if she pursued him, it was her lookout—and his. She
thanked me profusely before she rang off, relief audible in her voice.

That was Saturday.

Monday morning, I opened my front door, picked up the paper, and caught the headlines
about Gage Vesca’s death.

“Shit!”

He’d been shot in the head at close range sometime between two and six
A.M.
on Sunday, then crammed into the trunk of his Jaguar and left in the long-term parking
lot at the airport. Maybe somebody hoped the body wouldn’t be discovered for days.
Time enough to set up an alibi or pull a disappearing act. As it was, the trunk had
popped open and a passerby had spotted him. My hands were starting to shake. What
kind of chump had I been?