P is for Peril (37 page)

Mariah laughed. “I know, but I keep hoping I can talk you into it.”

“No, thanks. Nice doing business with you. It was fun,” I said, and hung up. I lifted my eyes from my drawing to find Richard Hevener standing at my door, wearing a black raincoat and black cowboy boots.

I felt the icy-hot sensation of a bad sunburn, a stinging heat on my skin that chilled me to the bone. I had no idea how long he'd been there and I couldn't remember for the life of me if I'd mentioned his name or Tommy's in the final moments of my conversation. I didn't think I'd used hers.

I said, “Hello,” trying to sound unconcerned.

“What's this?” He pulled an envelope from his pocket and tossed it toward the desk. My letter whicked through the air and landed in front of me.

I could feel my heart begin to thump. “I feel bad about that. I probably should have called, but it seemed so awkward somehow.”

“What's going on?”

“Nothing. It's just not going to work.”

“ ‘It 's not going to work.' Just like that.”

“I don't know what else to say. I don't want the space. I thought I did, but now I don't.”

“You signed a lease.”

“I know and I apologize for the inconvenience—”

“It's not a matter of inconvenience. We have an agreement.” His tone was light but unrelenting.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to honor the terms of the lease you signed.”

“You know what? Why don't you talk to my attorney about that. His name is Lonnie Kingman. He's right down the hall.”

Ida Ruth appeared in the hall behind him. “Everything okay?”

Richard flicked a look at her and then looked back at me. He said, “Everything's fine. I'm sure we'll find the perfect solution to the little problem we have.”

He backed out of the room. I watched him turn in her direction, careful not to touch her as he passed. He moved out of my line of sight, but Ida Ruth continued to stare. “What's with him? Is he nuts or what? He seems off.”

“You don't know the half of it. If he shows up again, call the cops.”

I locked my office door and placed a call to Mariah's Texas number, leaving another message on her answering machine. I wasn't sure how soon she'd check back, but I really didn't like the direction this was starting to take.

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 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.