W Is for Wasted (14 page)

By the time I’d dressed and eaten my cereal, I was feeling better. Talking through the problem with Henry had helped me put it in perspective. I was making things too complicated. The trip to Bakersfield was a necessary element in my responsibilities as executor of Dace’s estate. It was a mistake to overthink the task. I had no clue what kind of reception I’d get. The best tack was to go with an open heart and deal with whatever came to pass. Looking back, I can’t believe I was able to say this to myself with a straight face.

My clothes were still warm from the dryer as I packed my duffel. I was eager to hit the road, but I had matters to tend to first. When the Santa Teresa County Clerk-Recorder’s Office opened at 8:00, Burke Benjamin and I were the only two people in line. I presented myself, paperwork in hand, paid the fees, filed the petition for probate, and submitted the original of Dace’s will. I could have strung out the process, waiting to file until I returned from Bakersfield, but I knew I’d reached the point of no return and I liked the sense that forward motion was inevitable. The clerk assigned a case number and gave me a court date that fell in the middle of December, which meant I had ample time to take care of the busywork. Burke made sure I had certified copies of all the necessary documents. At her suggestion, I picked up forms to fill out for the notice I’d need to have published in the
Santa Teresa Dispatch
. Burke said she’d cover anything that came up in my absence.

I made a quick stop at the office to pick up the mail that had come in the day before. I sat down at my desk and took care of a detail or two. Mostly, I tidied up so if I ran off the road and died, my survivors would think my desk was always neat. At 9:00, I put in a call to Mr. Sharonson at Wynington-Blake Mortuary, asking him to retrieve R. T. Dace’s body from the coroner’s office and move him to the funeral home. I could tell Mr. Sharonson was on the verge of rolling out condolences, but I pretended I had another call coming in on my one-line phone and thus made short work of it.

Before I hit the road, I stopped at the house to let Henry know I was on my way. He was out somewhere, but he’d left a hinged wicker picnic basket on my doorstep. I lifted the flap and saw that he’d packed me a sandwich, an apple, some potato chips, and six chocolate chip cookies. He’d also tucked in a map of Bakersfield. Ed, the cat, had contributed a parting gift as well. He’d caught and killed a mole, graciously leaving me the head, which he’d licked clean of fur right down to the bone. I was on the road by 9:30.

The die, as they say, was cast.

PETE WOLINSKY

June 1988, Four Months Earlier

Friday morning, June 17, a lengthy typewritten report arrived in the mail, postmarked Reno, Nevada. The report itself was dated June 15, 1988, and covered the surveillance on Mary Lee Bryce during her stay at the conference hotel over the Memorial Day weekend. The bill attached was for three thousand dollars plus change. The cash expenditures and credit card charges were neatly itemized with all the relevant receipts attached. Pete ran the total himself and found it to be correct. The PI hadn’t fudged by a penny, which Pete found hard to believe.

Pete hadn’t wanted to do the legwork himself because he didn’t have the money to fly to Reno. He’d canceled the second set of round-trip plane tickets he’d paid for, though he realized he’d forgotten to turn them in for his refund, which the travel agent assured him would be forthcoming. He had no intention of shelling out any of the twenty-five hundred bucks Willard had paid. Once the cash was safely tucked away, Pete contacted Con Dolan, now retired from the STPD and always up for a chat. He mentioned needing to sub out a job and Dolan had said he’d get back to him with a contact name shortly. Once Dolan passed along the contact numbers, Pete made the call and laid out his problem. While the fellow didn’t seem wild about the work, he agreed to do it, quoting what Pete considered an exorbitant fee. Pete asked the PI to include an invoice when the work was done and he submitted his report. As this was a matter between two professionals, a verbal agreement was sufficient.

Pete laid the report on his desk, pressing the pages flat, and then leaned close enough for the typeface to come into focus. His eyesight was getting worse. The last time he’d seen an optometrist, he was told he might be helped by corrective surgery, but the procedure sounded risky to him and the expense made the option unlikely. He followed the lines of print with his finger so he wouldn’t lose his place.

The report came as a surprise. There was no indication whatever that Mary Lee Bryce was spending time with Dr. Linton Reed for romantic purposes or any other kind. Apparently, they attended most of the same symposia and were both present for many of the papers being presented. She was in the audience for the one given by Dr. Reed, but she didn’t appear to hang on his every word. The two never sat together and barely even spoke. They shared no meals, didn’t meet for drinks, and their rooms were not only on different floors, but at opposite ends of the hotel. When their paths did cross, they maintained the appearance of civility, but that was about it. The Nevada PI had even snapped photos in which Mary Lee Bryce and Dr. Reed were both in the same frame, their body language attesting to their mutual disinterest if not mutual disdain. This didn’t constitute proof of any kind, but it was telling.

What surfaced instead was the fact that Mary Lee Bryce met twice with a reporter named Owen Pensky, who worked for the
Reno Gazette-Journal
. She and Pensky had met in the hotel bar Thursday night, heads bent together briefly over drinks. The second assignation was a late supper on Sunday after the official conference sessions were wrapped up for the day. The two were apparently engaged in a lively discussion, and while there were no displays of affection, their interest in each other was clear. Pete studied the series of black-and-white photographs of the two, candid shots that were surprisingly clear given the use of a telephoto lens, which often distorted images or rendered them grainy.

Even more titillating were the additional documents attached. Secondary sources revealed that Mary Lee Bryce, whose maiden name was Jacobs, was a classmate of Pensky’s at Reno High School, the two having graduated in the class of 1973. Included with the written report were photocopies of the relevant pages of the yearbook, showing the two at various school activities. Mary Lee Jacobs and Owen Pensky were both members of the debate team and both worked for the school paper, which was called
The Red and Blue
. While it wasn’t clear that they were boyfriend and girlfriend, they had many interests in common. How many times had Pete heard tales of high school classmates reconnecting at reunions years after having parted company? Nothing more potent than old fantasies suddenly given new life.

The Nevada investigator had done some extracurricular digging into Pensky’s background and turned up newspaper accounts of a scandal of major proportions. Two years before, Owen Pensky had been working for the
New York Times
as a feature writer. He’d already made quite a reputation for himself when he was accused of lifting passages from the work of another journalist. The charge of plagiarism gave rise to an investigation that uncovered evidence that Pensky was also guilty of inventing sources for certain features he’d published. Every article he’d ever written became suspect. He’d been fired and he’d left New York in disgrace. After ten months scrambling for employment, he’d finally managed to pick up work at one of the Reno papers, a low point for a fellow who’d been everybody’s darling such a short time before.

Pete sat back and thought about this unexpected turn of events, wondering what to make of it. It wasn’t necessarily the case that Mary Lee Bryce and Owen Pensky were having an affair. Maybe this was just a matter of two old friends catching up while the one was in town for professional reasons. Whatever the truth, there had to be a way to play it for maximum effect. The first move would be to spread the facts over more than one document. No point in turning over everything at once. It would be a kindness to let Willard digest the discovery by degrees. Pete went through the photographs and selected two from the Reno High School yearbook, the
RaWaNe
.

As a senior, Mary Lee Jacobs was petite, a redhead with pale brows and an expression that suggested perpetual anxiety. Owen Pensky looked like the typical high school dork—black-rim glasses, bad haircut, his neck barely big enough to hold up his head. In some ways, Mary Lee Bryce and Owen Pensky seemed well suited for each other since both projected insecurity. Pete himself had been an outcast in his teen years, so he didn’t fault either one in that regard. He couldn’t help but wonder if Pensky was dishonest by nature or if he’d taken up cheating to compensate for a lack of self-confidence.

Odd that Mary Lee had ended up married to a man whose coloring was so much like her own. She and Willard were close enough in appearance to be brother and sister instead of husband and wife. Pete wondered how Willard’s unfortunate accident had factored into the overall equation. The wreck that killed his best friend and resulted in the loss of his own leg dated back to his youth, which meant he was already on crutches when he and Mary Lee first met. Some women were drawn to the physically impaired; witness his own wife’s attraction to him.

He swiveled his chair and scooted closer to a rolling typewriter table and removed the cover from his manual Remington Streamliner. He’d bought the machine in 1950, and aside from a few minor repairs, it had served him handily ever since. He opened his desk drawer and removed two sheets of stationery and placed a carbon between them, then rolled them into the carriage and began the laborious job of retyping the report on his own letterhead. He made minor adjustments so the language would sound more like his own.

Despite his two-fingered-typing technique, he was fast and accurate. Even so, the job took him the better part of an hour. The Nevada investigator was very detail oriented and he spared nothing in his passion for spelling out the minutia. This allowed Pete to pick and choose his facts while he converted the report to his own personal style. By judicious editing, he could easily fashion a follow-up report and charge for that as well.

The relationship between Mary Lee Bryce and this Pensky fellow certainly cried out for further study. If he could talk Willard into extending their agreement, he could submit a second round of paperwork without actually having to do anything. The report itself offered no interpretation or speculation about the nature of the relationship. Pete liked the neutral tone, which seemed crisp and professional, one he might have adopted himself if he’d elected to do the work. He’d offer Willard a verbal summary first in which he’d set the stage. Properly prepared, Willard would be eager to authorize additional surveillance.

Pete took the finished report, made a copy for his files, and attached the photocopies of both sets of round-trip tickets with the relevant adjustments made to reflect how thoroughly he’d done his work. The Nevada PI had spent four nights at the same convention hotel where Mary Lee Bryce had been. Pete made a copy of the bill, whited out the other fellow’s name and credit card information, typed his own into the blank, and photocopied the bill for a second time. He leaned close to the page, inspecting the results, and decided it would be fine and dandy for his purposes. Willard would be too busy hyperventilating over the contents to pay attention to expenses. Generously, Pete discounted his fees by twenty percent, which he noted at the bottom of the page.

He tucked the paperwork in the half-filled banker’s box and shoved it in the knee hole under his desk. He put a call through to Willard. Pete had scarcely identified himself when Willard jumped on him with both feet.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” he’d snapped. “I should have heard from you weeks ago. As much money as I paid, I expected you to be prompt.”

“Now, let’s just hold on a minute, son. I’m not some pal of yours, doing you a personal favor. You hired me to do a job and I went far above and beyond. Your tone is a hair accusatory for a man who’ll benefit mightily from my being such a thoroughgoing professional. Most investigators would be content to leave well enough alone. I went the extra mile. Let’s not even talk about the twenty percent discount I accorded you in appreciation for your business. I guess none of what I uncovered is of interest.”

He could picture Willard’s eyelids turning a brighter shade of pink. Willard probably wasn’t accustomed to being backed into a corner and it took him a few seconds to collect himself.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested,” he murmured.

“You sounded pretty hot under the collar if you want my take on it.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been a wreck waiting to hear from you. That’s all I was trying to say.”

“You like, I can drop my report in the mail to you without further ado. You might find it more instructive if I go over it in person, but that’s entirely your choice.”

“‘Instructive’ meaning what?”

“There’s reality and then there’s facts. I’m saying there’s a difference that I’d be happy to clarify. I should point out you could have called me at any point during these past two weeks and I’d have told you the same thing. I had the information in hand. What’s taken the additional time is the verification supplied by an out-of-state colleague purely as a courtesy to me. Do you want to take a look at it or not?”

“Of course. I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn. Mary Lee came home jumpier than I’ve ever seen her. I tried talking to her, but she shut me down. I have no idea what’s going on.”

“The good news is I’m now in a position to fill in some blanks. I won’t say my report’s definitive, but it’s a start. I can stop by later this afternoon.”

“That won’t work. She’s been leaving the lab early, practically barricading herself in the bedroom to make phone calls. You’d have to be here by three and you can’t stay long.”

“Might make more sense if we conduct our business off-site. Why don’t I pick you up and we’ll go somewhere else?”

“What if she comes home while I’m out?”

“Leave her a note. Tell her you’re having coffee with a friend and don’t specify the gender. Want my opinion, you’d benefit from creating an air of mystery around yourself. She’s doubtless taking you for granted and that won’t help your cause.”

•   •   •

Pete picked up Willard at the prearranged spot, a block and a half from the Bryces’ apartment. He liked the cloak-and-dagger aspects of the meeting. He’d wanted to put Willard in the proper frame of mind, talking him through the findings before he surrendered the written account. Willard was having none of it, already impatient at having had to wait this long. He held out his hand, snapping his fingers twice as though Pete were a dog. Pete had no choice but to pass him the manila envelope.

He drove south on the 101 while Willard removed the report and read it. Pete was uncomfortably aware of Willard’s mounting distress. He took the off-ramp at the bird refuge, where he pulled into the abbreviated parking strip twenty-five feet from the water’s edge. As a goodwill gesture, he’d picked up a bag of assorted doughnuts and two oversize cups of coffee he hoped would pacify Willard’s angst. He experienced a twinge of guilt when Willard saw the photographs, almost as though he’d betrayed the man himself.

Once Pete shut down the engine, they sat in the car. Pete was quiet, looking out at the saltwater lagoon where a passel of ducks squatted on the muddy shore. Certain times of the year, the lagoon threw off an aroma of rotten eggs. Pete didn’t know how any of the nearby businesses could survive. Across from the parking lot, there was a restaurant, an athletic facility, and a bar called CC’s, the Caliente Café, where the off-duty cops hung out. Today the odor wasn’t too bad. The lagoon smelled faintly dank with a secondary aroma of soggy vegetation and bird doo-doo.

Willard held the papers loosely in his lap. “This is embarrassing.”

“I wouldn’t take that attitude. At least you know your instincts were good. Only difference is Dr. Reed’s not the one you should be worried about. From the information I managed to dig up, this is a former high school classmate. Fellow named Owen Pensky.”

Willard’s expression was a curious mix of perplexity and gloom.

Pete said, “I don’t mean to suggest a course of action. That’s your decision. I will say if it was me, I’d push this. Right now you really don’t know what’s going on.”

“Why’s she even talking to the guy? I don’t understand.”

“That’s because you don’t have all the information. If I might make a recommendation, your next move would be to put a tap on the line.”