He returned to the office, waited for his copy machine to warm up, and photocopied the new itinerary and the second set of tickets, which he intended to cancel in a day or two. On the set he had, he changed the relevant dates, neatly typing the new number over the old, and photocopied the copies, satisfied that the result would pass superficial examination. Anyone with a knowledge of forgery techniques would spot the clumsy effort, but he was confident Willard had no such expertise.
He slid the file folder into the box he was packing. No point in leaving sensitive papers in view since his landlady used a master key to get in on occasion, to poke around. Soon Pete would be forced to run his business from his home. For now, he was pleased. He’d effectively run up close to three thousand dollars’ worth of travel expenses without ever leaving the state. Truly, he was a man who loved his work.
7
At 4:50, Henry left the house, carrier in hand, to retrieve the cat from the veterinarian’s office. I took the opportunity to retreat to my studio. Once inside, I set my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool and stood there, trying to decide what to do with myself. There was no point in going back to the office. It was technically closing time and I’d already goofed off most of the day. Since new clients were temporarily in short supply, I had no paper searches, no phone calls, and no reports to write. It was too early to worry about supper and much too early for a glass of wine. Rosie’s was still closed, which meant that I’d be fending for myself in any event. I’d just about worked through my repertoire of sandwiches and I was down to my last can of soup.
More from boredom than dedication, I scoured the kitchen sink, put the few clean dishes away, and wiped down the counters. I found a cache of dust rags and made short work of all the surfaces in my living room—desk, end tables, windowsills, and shutters. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled along the baseboards, rag in hand, sweeping away dust and soot. On a prior occasion, this was how I’d discovered that my studio was bugged and from that point on, I’d added baseboards to my must-do list.
As was usually the case during one of my Cinderella moments, I wondered what other kick-ass private eyes were doing at this hour. Probably blasting paper targets at the shooting range or practicing their martial arts moves, busting bricks in half with their bare hands. I’m never going to be that tough. What I lack in brute force I make up for in persistence and sheer cunning. I’d been behaving myself of late, which wasn’t really my style. Being a good girl has such a low adrenaline quotient I might as well take a nap.
I put away the cleaning rags, then hauled out the vacuum cleaner, plugged it in, and began the process of mowing my shag carpet. The vacuum was sounding shrill and there didn’t seem to be any suction. Specks remained untouched and the shag itself showed none of those satisfactory tracks that speak of a job well done. I flipped off the power and turned the machine on its back to have a look. This was pointless, as I’m no more knowledgeable about the workings of a vacuum cleaner than I am about the internal combustion engine.
When I heard someone knocking at my door, I assumed it was Henry wanting to properly introduce the cat. I crossed to the front door and peered out the porthole. Felix was standing on my porch, looking off across the yard. He was wearing yet another short-sleeve shirt, this one polyester with a Polynesian motif—parrots, thatch-roofed huts, palm trees, hula girls, and surf in garish yellows and blues.
I opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
I knew I sounded accusatory, but I was dismayed by his showing up at my residence.
He didn’t actually shuffle his feet, but he shifted his weight, looking down at my welcome mat, where I could still see the mouse parts the cat had left.
“I seen your car out front and thought you might be home.” His shorts were the sort that basketball players wear, a flabby black material, extending well below his knees. The fabric was perforated with tiny holes that were probably meant for ventilation in the heat of hard play.
“How did you know where I lived?”
He glanced over his shoulder and then down again, anything to avoid making eye contact. It was the first time it occurred to me that Felix might be slow. It was also possible he was stoned or drunk. I made a mental note to find out the nature and extent of his substance abuse.
He lifted one shoulder. “Other day you said you jogged, so I waited until you went by this morning and followed you home.”
“You saw me this morning? I didn’t see any of you.”
“I was down at that bathhouse when you run by. I left the shelter early because I was curious where you lived. Dandy and Pearl stayed in and had breakfast. They won’t hardly miss a meal. Bacon, eggs, and biscuits the church ladies cook up. I watched you turn around and I fell in behind when you passed the second time.”
“Why would you do that? This is my home. You want to talk to me, you don’t show up here. You go to my office like everyone else.”
“Something I thought you should know.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“Pearl knows who stole Terrence’s backpack.”
I stared at him briefly while I sorted through my responses. I was offended at the intrusion, but I wasn’t sure he understood the concept of personal boundaries. At the same time, it wasn’t my place to lecture him about social norms. More to the point: my curiosity took precedence. “You want to come in?”
“Naw. That’s okay. I’m fine out here.”
“Well, it’s chilly and I don’t want to stand around letting the heat out.”
I stepped back and he inched his way into my living room. He exhibited no interest in the place. He scarcely lifted his gaze from the floor, so I took heart that he probably wasn’t casing the joint. I closed the door behind him and gestured at one of my canvas director’s chairs. Sitting was apparently outside his comfort zone.
Since he remained standing, I followed suit. “What’s the story?”
“Pearl was at the liquor store and she saw one of them fellas that hang out at the off-ramps with cardboard signs. She saw this one guy toting Terrence’s backpack plain as day. She recognized it from the frame and even the same color bungee cords. She knew where he was headed. Bums have this hobo camp up the hill from the bird refuge? She waited ’til he was out of sight and then followed him and hid in the bushes to have her a look—”
“Pearl hid in the bushes and no one spotted her?”
“I guess not. She said there was no sign of Terrence’s cart, probably because they couldn’t have drug it up the hill. But she saw his cookstove and waterproof bags where he kept his gear. Also, his camo box.”
“Camo as in camouflage?”
“Like different color spots painted on to look like leaves. She’s wanting to get his stuff back, but there’s too much to haul even if I help out.”
I said, “Uhn-hun.”
“She said she just wisht she knew someone with a car and right away I thought about you.”
I said, “Ah.”
“She was wondering what you’d think about lending her a hand.”
“I’d think it was dumb. Pearl can’t stand me so why would I help her?”
“She said please.”
“She did not. I’d bet you a dollar she doesn’t even know you’re here.”
“Naw, not really. Way I figure it, she couldn’t ast no one at Harbor House and you’re the only other person we know that has a vehicle.”