I drove to the office and let myself in. I hauled out my portable Smith Corona and placed it on my desk. I removed the top of the hinged case and set it to one side. Then I pulled out a few sheets of letterhead stationery along with a few pieces of blank paper that I used to compose a rough draft of my report, laying out the information in that faux-neutral language that infuses a professional summary of a job when it’s done. The report was short, but covered the information my client had requested: Christian’s current address, a home phone, and visual confirmation that he was in Santa Teresa and had entered the premises on at least this one occasion. My guess was that he’d gone back to living with his mom, but I might have been wrong about that.
I reread the report, editing a line here and there. Then I rolled a sheet of stationery into the typewriter and made a proper job of it. I ran off two copies of the report on my new secondhand copy machine, signed the original, and folded it in thirds. The two copies I placed in the file folder I’d created for that purpose. I cranked a number 10 envelope into the machine and typed Hallie Bettancourt’s name and the post office box she’d provided. I affixed a stamp, snapped the lid onto the Smith Corona, and tucked it under the desk. Then I grabbed my shoulder bag and the report, turned out the lights, and locked up.
On my way home, I stopped by the post office, where I pulled up at the curb and tossed the envelope into the collection box.
6
The rest of the week went by, the days filled with the sort of do-nothing business not worth mentioning. I should have savored the mindless passage of time, but how was I to know? Monday, March 13, I went into the office as usual and diddled around until noon, taking care of clerical matters. I was halfway out the door on my way to lunch when the telephone rang. I hesitated, tempted to let the machine record the caller so I could be on my way. Instead, I reversed direction and dutifully picked up.
“Millhone Investigations.”
Ruthie laughed. “I love that. ‘Millhone Investigations.’ So businesslike. This is Ruthie. I was afraid you’d left for lunch.”
“I was just on my way out. How was your trip north?”
“Good. Actually, it was great. I enjoyed myself,” she said. “I was wondering if you’d had a chance to check the contents of that box.”
Box?
I said, “Shit! I forgot. I’m sorry. Honestly, I blanked on it.”
“Well, I hate to nag, but I called the IRS agent this morning and he was Johnny-on-the-spot. My appointment’s tomorrow afternoon at one.”
“That was quick,” I said. “Which IRS office, local or Los Angeles?”
“He’s coming to the house. I thought I’d have to make the trip downtown, but he says it’s just as easy for him to stop by.”
“Accommodating of him.”
Somewhat sheepishly, she said, “I confess I was sucking up to him. I’m playing the ‘poor widder woman’ with a lot of ‘woe is me’ thrown in. I can’t believe he fell for it.”
“You gotta work with what you have.”
“I’ll say. Tell you the truth, he frightened me with all his talk of interest and penalties.”
“How much does Pete owe?”
“That’s what the agent is trying to determine. He says failing to pay taxes is one thing. Failing to file is a federal offense. It’s not like he wants to get me in hot water; just the opposite. If I come up with any documentation at all, he thinks he can get the issue resolved in my favor.”
“What issue? Is he talking about personal or professional?”
“Professional, but not the 1988 returns. He dropped that idea. I told him Pete had one client this entire past year, so he shifted gears. Now he’s focused on Byrd-Shine.”
“That’s ridiculous. Pete wasn’t a partner in the agency. He wasn’t even a full-time employee. It was all contract work. Who bothers to hang on to old 1099s?”
“I’m just repeating what he said. I don’t want to argue with the man when I’m trying to pass myself off as a conscientious citizen. Pete swore he had access to all the old records, but they weren’t close at hand.”
“When did he talk to Pete?”
“A year ago, I guess. He says Pete assured him he had the paperwork in storage, but it was a hassle to get to and that’s why he was dragging his feet.”
“It does sound like him.”
“Doesn’t it? He never did anything he could put off.”
I said, “Here’s what seems weird: as broke as he was, why would he shell out money for a storage unit?”
