W is for Wasted

“I take it you weren’t referring to the S-and-W when you mentioned a second gun.”

“Nope. There was one stray casing, a forty-five caliber, which suggests he and his assailant were both armed and probably struggled for control. The slug was buried in the dirt to one side of the path. All in all, four shots were fired—three from the Glock and one from the forty-five.”

“With his watch and his wallet missing, you think the robber stole his gun as well?”

“Took it or tossed it. We had guys in wet suits wading the lagoon. Water’s shallow for a distance of fifteen feet or so before the bottom falls away. Mud and algae are such that visibility is zilch. We also did a grid search of the surrounding terrain. Location of the two guns may be a function of how well the guy could throw, unless he took them with him.”

“What about Pete’s car keys?”

“In his pocket. We dusted the Fairlane inside and out, but the only prints we identified were his. The shooter might have been reluctant to add grand theft auto to his other offenses.”

“Any chance Pete knew him?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. There were no eyewitnesses and no one heard the shots. Not to speak ill of the dead, but Pete was a bit of a shady character.”

“No need to tell me. I notice I’m feeling more charitable, but that’s because I feel sorry for his wife.”

“I’m with you,” he said. “So what’s this I hear about you and some homeless guy? Is the last name Dace?”

“Randall Terrence Dace. Turns out we’re cousins—fourth, once removed, by marriage—one of those.” I decided not to mention the proximity of his youngest child. If Cheney so much as glanced in her direction, she’d gallop over and fling herself onto his lap, the better to slurp him.

“What happened to him?”

“He drank heavily for years. He was also hooked on prescription meds. When he died, he was fifty-three years old and he looked like an old man. When I saw him at the morgue I had no idea we were related. Turns out I’m his sole heir and executor of his estate.”

“That ought to keep you hopping.”

“Actually, it has. The man left me half a million bucks.”

Casually, Cheney leaned forward. “Are you dating anyone?”

I laughed and he had the good grace to look sheepish.

“That came out wrong. No connection. I was just wondering,” he said.

Robert Dietz popped to mind, but I didn’t know what to make of him. Were we on again or off?

“That’s a tough one,” I said. “I’ll have to think about it and let you know.”

I watched Anna’s departure without moving my head. No point in calling attention to her when Cheney had just declared himself. I kept him company for an additional half hour just in case she was lurking outside.

29

Tuesday morning, I caught my alarm clock one split second before it went off and rolled out from under the covers. The loft felt chilly and I was tempted to crawl right back in. Instead, I pulled on my sweats and laced up my running shoes before I brushed my teeth. I avoided the sight of myself in the mirror. I pulled on a knit hat, which I knew would be too hot once I got into the run. For now it did double duty: to contain my coiffeur and to muffle my ears against the damp morning air.

The three-mile jog satisfied my need for oxygen, for action, for solitude, and for a sense of accomplishment. With daylight savings time in effect until the end of the month, the tag end of my run was accompanied by a spectacular dawn. At the horizon, above the silver band of the Pacific, a wide expanse of brooding gray changed to a dark red, and from that to a matte blue. Within a minute, the atmosphere had lightened and all the rich hues were gone. Gulls rode the air currents, screeching with happiness. The wind was down and the tops of the palms scarcely moved. Slow-motion waves thundered along the sand and the surf, then receded to a hush. By the time the sun was fully up it was 7:06, and I was back in my living room, prepared for a final go-round with the remaining two boxes of Pete’s crap.

Instead of getting cleaned up, I sat down and ate my cereal, put on a pot of coffee, and then washed my bowl and spoon while the coffee-maker gurgled to its conclusion. Still in sweats, I sat on the floor with my coffee cup and made quick work of the first box, which was filled with old catalogs and outdated service manuals for appliances I suspected were long gone. The contents yielded no receipts and no personal correspondence. I did come across a black-and-white newspaper photo of Pete and Ruthie on their wedding day. Saturday, September 24, 1949. They’d have been married forty years when September rolled around again.