“You did mention money.”
“So I did. Clever me,” he said.
As it turned out, the real estate company that handled Pete’s lease was in the same building, one floor up. We passed the empty office again on our way to the entrance and couldn’t help but notice the For Lease sign had been removed. Inside we could see a painter at work on the interior walls; drop cloths, a ladder, and all the attendant paraphernalia.
Dietz said, “Hope she’s got a new tenant. That might make her receptive to a negotiation.”
A woman came close on our heels as Dietz pushed open the glass door to the lobby. We entered and Dietz paused to hold the door for her. She was short and round, dressed in a business suit and spike heels, a ribbon of perfume streaming in her wake.
We crossed to the elevators and he pushed the button for the second floor. We got in, the doors closed, and the three of us rode up in silence. I watched her fumble in her purse, apparently looking for a pack of cigarettes, which she found. She shook one loose and put it between her teeth, where it tilted at a jaunty angle while she searched for a light. Her lipstick was bright red and she wore a matching shade of polish on her short blunt-cut fingernails.
When the doors opened on 2, she got off the elevator, firing up her cigarette while she walked. Smoke rose above her head and drifted back at us. Dietz paused to study the directional arrows, indicating which office numbers were to the left and which to the right. “Two-thirteen’s the one we want,” he said. We ended up turning left as she had.
Meanwhile, the woman had stopped in front of an office door, topped with half a panel of opaque glass.
As we caught up with her, Dietz said, “Are you Letitia?”
“I wondered when you’d figure that out. You’re my nine-thirty appointment.”
“I am, indeed,” he said.
“I pictured you alone. Who’s your friend?”
“This is Kinsey. She’s a private eye like me. You two should get along fine. She’s tough as nails.”
Letitia removed the cigarette from her lips, appraising me with a long look as she unlocked and opened the door. She placed her bag on a desk and crossed to the window, where she opened the Venetian blinds. I was hoping she’d grace us with fresh air, but I guess she didn’t want to dilute the effect of all the secondhand smoke.
The office consisted of two adjoining rooms with a short hall leading to what I was guessing was a third room with the door currently shut. It was unclear how many people the company employed. The furniture wasn’t arranged to accommodate a receptionist and boss or even two equal partners. Too many chairs and not enough working space. I counted three phones, two of which were unplugged. Most of the surfaces, including the windowsills, were stacked with office supplies. Ten mismatching file cabinets had been jammed into a space better suited for eight. The last two were angled so none of the drawers would open to the full.
When Letitia removed her coat, I could see that what I’d thought was a business suit was really a wool skirt and matching vest with big mother-of-pearl buttons down the front. The fit was tight and I was betting she was in denial about the extra thirty pounds she’d gained the day she reached menopause. The skirt waist had inched up her midriff, which shortened the hem to a coquettish three inches above her knees. The lapels on her vest no longer met in the front, but that might have been due to the size of her breasts, which threatened to topple her.
In her smoke-husky voice, she said to Dietz, “How’d you get tied up with Pete Wolinsky? You know he’s a deadbeat.”
“That’s our Pete,” Dietz said, equably. “On the other hand, his wife’s a lovely woman who’s now facing the mess he left.”
That netted him no response.
Dietz allowed his gaze to skirt the room. “What happened to his office furniture? Ruthie intended to have it moved to the house.”
“And I was supposed to know this how? She hasn’t even bothered to get in touch.”
“A call from you might not have been out of line. She had a lot on her mind.”
“I sold his stuff for two hundred bucks and that included that rickety rolling chair of his. I couldn’t even give away that piece-of-shit typewriter, so I tossed it in the trash.”
“Too bad. That was a collector’s item.”
“Liar,” she said.
Dietz smiled. “What about his file cabinets?”
“You’re looking at ’em. I took those for my own use.”
“All we’re interested in is the contents. She needs his business records for tax purposes.”
“It’s all in boxes.”
“Mind if we take a look?”
“Actually, I do mind. He died owing me a bundle. I thought you were here to haggle over his back rent. Isn’t that what you said?”
“Words to that effect.”
“Think of his files as collateral.”
“In other words, if his wife wants them back she’ll have to come up with the ransom money.”
“Why would she not? Somebody’s gotta pay me. I got fifteen boxes of his crap.”
“All worthless,” Dietz said.
“Must have some value or why would you be here?”
“We thought we might take it all off your hands and save you a trip to the dump.”
She stared at him, her eyes narrowing with amusement. “You’d have to have a signed authorization. Otherwise, I can’t be handing over his private papers. I’m sure there’s a law against that.”
Dietz smiled. “Signed authorization. I’m happy you mentioned it.”
He took out his wallet and removed four one-hundred-dollar bills, which he fanned out for her inspection. “These are signed by the secretary of the Treasury, James Baker. Remember him? Reagan’s old chief of staff.”
He held the bills up.
She made no move. She lifted the cigarette to her lips, inhaled, and let the smoke drift upward across her face. She glanced at me. “Where’d you find this guy?”
“I needed a bodyguard.”
“Don’t we all,” she said with a bawdy laugh.
Dietz added two more hundreds. “Last chance,” he said.
She reached out and removed the cash from his hand as daintily as a feral cat accepting a morsel of food.
“In there,” she said, using her cigarette to point toward the room down the hall.
27
PETE WOLINSKY
August 1988, Two Months Earlier
Pete and the good doctor Reed ran into difficulties deciding where to meet. On the phone, prior to their get-together, the two had settled on a price: four thousand dollars for Pete’s services, which was stunning when you considered it was an hour’s work at best. Pete insisted on half up front and the balance once the job was done. He was surprised at how little argument Linton Reed put up but decided he was unaccustomed to bargaining, especially in touchy matters such as this. Pete’s first thought was to ask for six, but he didn’t want to push. Four was very reasonable for what the man was getting.
Pete had roughed out a plan and he was eager to test the idea. The problem was Linton didn’t want to be seen with him, which meant the university was out. Too great a risk of running into someone who’d recognize Dr. Reed and wonder why he was deep in conversation with a fellow who looked like Ichabod Crane. They couldn’t meet at Pete’s office. He scarcely dared go there himself. The property manager had offices in the same building, and Pete was still kicking himself that he’d bought into the arrangement. They’d talked about connecting up in one of the parking lots at the beach, but again, the setting was too public and Reed had nixed the idea. Pete thought Reed was being melodramatic. He doubted the good doctor’s comings and goings would interest anyone.