B is for Burglar (4 page)

“That's the same coat she was wearing when you saw her last?”

“Yes, indeed. A twelve-thousand-dollar lynx fur coat with a matching hat.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Oh, it's beautiful. I'd give my eyeteeth to have a coat like that.”

“Can you remember anything else about her departure that night?”

“I can't say that I do. She was carrying some sort of luggage—I guess a carry-on—and the cab driver brought down the rest.”

“Do you remember what cab company?”

“I really didn't pay much attention at the time, but she usually called City Cab or Green Stripe, sometimes Tip Top, though she didn't like them much. I wish I could be more help. I mean, if she left here on her way to Florida and never got there, where did she end up?”

“That's what I want to know,” I said.

I gave Tillie what I hoped was a reassuring smile, but I was feeling uneasy.

I went back to the office and did a quick calculation of the expenses I'd run up so far; maybe seventy-five bucks for the time spent with Tillie and the time going through Elaine's apartment, plus the time in the library and on the telephone and the long-distance charges. I've known P.I.s who conduct entire investigations on the phone, but I don't think it's smart. Unless you're dealing with people face-to-face, there are too many ways to be deceived and too many things to miss.

I called a travel agent and got myself booked round-trip to Miami. The fare was ninety-nine bucks each way if I flew in the dead of night and didn't eat, drink, or go to the john. I also reserved a cheap rental car on the far end.

My plane didn't leave for hours yet, so I went home and got in a three-mile jog, then stuck a toothbrush and toothpaste in my purse and called it packing. At some point, I was going to have to track down Elaine's travel agent and find out what airline she had taken and whether perhaps she'd booked herself through to Mexico or the Caribbean. In the meantime, I hoped I could catch Elaine's friend in Florida before she flew the coop, taking with her my only link to Elaine's whereabouts.

 

 

 

 

It was still dark when the plane touched down in Miami at 4:45
A.M.
The airport was sparsely populated at that hour, the lighting as subdued as a funeral home's. In the baggage claim area, stacks of abandoned suitcases were piled together in shadowy glass-fronted cabinets. All the airport shops were closed. Travelers slept here and there on the unyielding plastic seats, resting their heads on bulging canvas totes, their jackets hunched up over their shoulders. The intercom paged a passenger to the white courtesy telephone, but the name was garbled and I didn't think anyone would respond. I had only managed to sleep for about an hour on the plane and I felt rumpled and out of sorts.

I picked up my rental car and a sheet map and by 5:15 was headed north on U.S. 1. Twenty miles to Fort Lauderdale, another fifteen to Boca Raton. Dawn was turning the sky a pearly translucent gray and clouds were piled up like heads of cauliflower in a roadside stand. The land on either side of the highway was flat, with white sand creeping up to the edges of the road.
Patches of saw grass and stunted cypress cut into the horizon and Spanish moss hung from the trees like tattered rags. The air was already moist and balmy and the streaks of orange from the rising sun hinted at a hot day to come. To kill some time, I stopped at a fast-food place and ate some brown and yellow things that I washed down with a carton of orange juice. All of it tasted like something the astronauts would have to reconstitute.

By the time I reached the community where Elaine Boldt had her Florida condominium, it was nearly seven o'clock and the sprinkler system was sending out jets of water across the closely clipped grass. There were six or seven buildings of poured concrete, each three stories high, with screened-in porches punctuating the low clean lines. Hibiscus bushes added touches of bright red and pink. I circled through the area, driving slowly along the wide avenues that curved back as far as the tennis courts. Each building seemed to have its own swimming pool cradled close and there were already people stretched out on plastic chaise lounges sunning themselves. I spotted the street number I was looking for and pulled into a small parking lot out in front. The manager's apartment was on the ground floor, the front door standing open, the screen door secured against the onslaught of big Florida bugs that were already making warning sounds in the grass.

I knocked against the aluminum frame.

“I'm right here.” It was a woman's voice, disconcertingly close.

I cupped one hand, shading my eyes so that I could see who I was talking to through the screen door.

“Is Mr. Makowski here?”

The woman seemed to materialize on the other side, her face level with my knees.

“Hold on. I've been doing my sit-ups and I can't get to my feet yet. Lord, that hurts.” She hauled herself into a kneeling position, clinging to the arm of a chair. “Makowski's off fixing the toilet in 208. What can I do you for?”

“I'm trying to get in touch with Elaine Boldt. Do you have any idea where she might be?”

“You that investigator who called from California?”

“Yes, that's me. I thought I should talk to someone down here and see if I could get a lead on her. Did she leave a forwarding address?”

“Nope. I wish I could help you out, but I don't know much more than you do. Here, come on in.” She lurched to her feet and held the screen door open. “I'm Charmaine Makowski, or what's left of her. Do you exercise?”

“Well, I jog, but that's about it,” I said.

“Good for you. Don't ever do sit-ups. That's my advice. I do a hundred a day and it always hurts.” She was still winded, her cheeks tinted pink from the effort. She was in her late forties, wearing a bright yellow sweat suit, her belly protruding in pregnancy. She looked like a ripe Florida grapefruit.

“You got it,” she said. “Another one of life's little jokes. I thought it was a tumor 'til it started to kick. Know what that is?”

She was pointing to a bump just below her waist. “That's what a belly button looks like turned inside out. It's embarrassing. Makowski and I didn't think we could
have any kids. I'm almost fifty and he's sixty-five. Oh hell, what difference does it make? It's more fun than menopause, I guess. Have you talked to that woman up in 315? Her name is Pat Usher, but you probably know that. She claims Elaine let her sublet, but I doubt that.”

“What's the story on that? Mrs. Boldt never talked to you about the arrangement?”

“Nope. Not a word. All I know is this Usher woman showed up a few months ago and moved in. At first nobody objected because we all just figured it was a two-week visit or something like that. People in the building can have any kind of company they want for short periods of time, but the rules say you can't sublet. Prospective buyers are screened real carefully and if we allowed sublets it would just be an invitation for any Tom, Dick, or Harry to move in here. The whole community would start to deteriorate. Anyway, after a month, Makowski went up to have a little chat with her and she claims she paid Elaine for six months and doesn't intend to move. It's driving Makowski around the bend.”

“Does she have a signed lease?”

“She has a receipt showing she's paid Elaine some money, but it doesn't say for what. Makowski's had her served with an eviction notice, but she's taking her sweet time getting out. You haven't met her yet, I take it.”

“I'm just on my way up. Do you know if she's in?”

“Probably. She doesn't go out much except to the pool to work on her tan. Tell her ‘drop dead' from the management.”

 

_____

 

Three-fifteen was located on the third floor in the crook of the L-shaped building. Even before I rang the bell, I had the feeling that I was being inspected through the fish-eye spy hole in the middle of the door. After a moment, the door opened to the width of the burglar chain, but no face appeared.

“Pat Usher?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Kinsey Millhone. I'm an investigator from California. I'm trying to locate Elaine Boldt.”

“What for?” Her tone was flat, guarded, no lilt at all and no graciousness.

“Her sister's been trying to get in touch with her to sign a legal document. Can you tell me where she is?”

There was a cautious silence. “Are you here to serve me papers?”

“No.” I took out the photostatic copy of my license and passed it through the crack. The license disappeared smoothly, like a bank card being sucked into an instant-cash machine. After an interval, it came back.

“Just a minute. I'll see if I can find her address.”

She left the door ajar, still secured by the chain. I felt a little flash of hope. Maybe I was making progress. If I could track Elaine down in another day or two, I'd feel pretty smug, which sometimes counts as much as money whatever business you're in. I waited, staring down at the welcome mat. The letter
B
was defined in dark bristles, surrounded by bristles in a lighter shade. Did they have enough mud in Florida to justify a mat like that? It was coarse enough to rip the bottom of your shoe off. I glanced to my left. Just off the balcony, I could see palm
trees with little beaded skirts near the top. Pat Usher was back, still talking through the crack.

“I must have thrown it out. She was in Sarasota last I heard.”

Already, I was tired of talking to the door and I felt a surge of irritation. “Do you mind if I come in? It's about the settlement on somebody's estate. She could pick up two or three thousand dollars if I can just get her signature.” Appeal to greed, I thought. Appeal to the secret yearning for a windfall. Sometimes I use it as a ploy when I am tracking down a deadbeat who's run out on a bill. This time it was even true, so my voice had this wonderful sincere ring to it.

“Did the manager send you up here?”

“Come on, would you quit being paranoid? I'm looking for Elaine and I want to talk to you. You're the only person so far who seems to have any idea where she is.”

Silence. She was pondering this as though it were anI.Q. test and she could pad the results. I had to struggle with the urge to bite. This was the only lead I had and I didn't want to blow it.

“All right,” she said reluctantly, “let me get some clothes on first.”

When she finally opened the door, she was wearing a float, one of those gauzy print caftans you slip over your head when you're too lazy to put on your underpants. She had adhesive tape across her nose. Her eyes were puffy and circled with bruises that were fading from blue to green. She had a strip of clear tape under each eye and her tan had dimmed to a sallow hue that made her look like she had a mild case of hepatitis.

“I was in a car accident and broke my nose,” she said. “I don't like for people to see me like this.”

She moved away from the door, the caftan sailing out behind her as though there were a breeze. I followed her in, closing the door behind me. The place was done in rattan and pastels and smelled faintly of mildew. Sliding glass doors on one side of the living room opened out onto the screened-in porch, beyond which there were only lush green treetops visible and clouds piling up like a bubble bath.

She took a cigarette out of a lead crystal box on the coffee table and lit it with a matching table lighter that actually worked. She sat down on the couch, propping her bare feet up on the edge of the table. Her soles were gray.

“Sit down if you want.”

Her eyes were an eerie, electric green, tinted by contact lenses I had to guess. Her hair was a tawny shade, with a luster I've never been able to coax out of mine. She stared at me with interest now, her manner fairly amused. “Whose estate is it?”

She had this way of asking certain questions with no tilt at the end, soliciting information by making flat statements that I was supposed to respond to. Odd. It made me wary somehow and I found myself taking care with what I said.

“A cousin, apparently. Someone in Ohio.”

“Isn't it a bit radical to hire a private detective so you can hand out three thousand bucks?”

“There are other inheritors involved,” I said.

“You have some kind of form you want her to sign.”

“I want to talk to her first. People are worried because they haven't heard from her. I'd like to include something in my report about where she's been.”

“Oh my God, now we got a report. She was restless. She's been traveling. What's the big deal?”

“Do you mind if I ask you about your relationship with her?”

“No, I don't mind. We're friends. I've known her for years. She came down to Florida this time and she wanted some company.”

“When was this?”

“Middle of January. Something like that.” She paused, watching the ash on her cigarette. Her eyes came up to mine again, her expression remote.

“And you've been staying here ever since?”

“Sure, why not? I'd just lost the lease on my place and she said I could move in.”

“Why'd she take off?”

“You'd have to ask her that.”

“When did you last hear from her?”

“Two weeks ago, something like that.”

“And she was in Sarasota then?”

“That's right. Staying with some people she met.”

“Can you tell me who?”

“Look, she wanted me to keep her company, not baby-sit. It's none of my business who she hangs out with, so I don't ask.”

I felt as if we were playing a parlor game that I couldn't possibly win. Pat Usher was having a better time than I was too, and I resented that. I went at it again. Was it Mrs. Peacock in the library with the rope?

“Can you tell me anything else you think might help?”