J is for Judgement

came toward the door, wiping his hands on the towel. I was standing against the light, so I figured he really couldn't see much of me until he got up close.
    He peered at the screen. "Can I help you?"
    "Hi. Remember me?" I said. I suspected he'd been a cop so long he'd never forget a face, though he probably recognized me without being able to recall the context. What added another layer of confusion was the fact we'd chatted on the phone within the last few days. If he knew my voice, I didn't think he'd attach it to the hooker on the balcony in Viento Negro, but it would nag at him.
    "Refresh my memory."
    "Kinsey Millhone," I said. "We were supposed to have lunch."
    "Oh, right, right, right. Sorry. Come on in," he said. He unhooked the screen door and held it open, his expression attentive. "We've met, haven't we? I know your face from some place."
    I laughed sheepishly. "Viento Negro. The hotel balcony. I said the boys sent me up, but I'm afraid I was fibbing. I was really looking for Wendell, the same as you."
    He said, "Christ." He walked away from the door. "I got chicken on the stove. You better come on back here."
    I eased the screen shut behind me, taking in the room at a glance as I passed through. Scruffy linoleum on the floor, big overstuffed chairs from the thirties, shelves piled haphazardly with books. Not only messy, but not clean. No curtains, no table lamps, a fireplace that didn't function.
    I reached the kitchen and peered in. "It looks like Wendell Jaffe's disappeared again."
    Harris Brown was back at the stove, skillet lid held aloft while a cloud of steam escaped. A glass pie plate full of seasoned flour sat on the edge of the stove. The surface of the unused griddle looked as though snow had fallen on it where he'd trailed the pieces from the pie plate to the skillet. If he stuck me in the neck with the fork he held, it would look like I'd been bitten by a snake. He poked at the pieces. "Really. I hadn't heard. How'd he manage that?"
    I stayed where I was, leaning against the door frame. The kitchen was the one room that seemed to get all the sunlight. It was also cleaner than the rest of the house. The sink had been scoured. The refrigerator was round- shouldered, old and yellowing, but it wasn't smudged with prints. The shelves were open, filled with mismatched crockery. "I don't know," I said. "I thought you might tell me. You talked to him the other day."
    "Says who?"
    "His girlfriend. She was there when he called you back."
    "The infamous Mrs. Huff," he said.
    "How'd you find her?"
    "That was easy. You told me her name in our first telephone conversation."
    "Ah, that's right. I bet I even mentioned she lived in the Keys. I'd forgotten."
    "I don't forget much," he said, "though I notice age is catching up with me."
    Inwardly I was gritched. The man seemed too casual. "I talked to Carl last night. He told me he paid the hundred grand he owed you."
    "That's right."
    "Why'd you quarrel with Wendell?"
    He turned over some chicken pieces, mahogany brown with a spice-speckled crust. Looked done to me, but when he stuck it with his fork, blood-tinged liquid oozed out of the joint. He lowered the flame and replaced the lid. "I quarreled with Wendell before I got the money. That's why I laid into Eckert and made him drive down that night."
    "I don't understand the connection."
    "Wendell tells me he's going to blow the whistle. He wants to 'clear his conscience' before he goes to jail. What a crock of shit. I can't believe it. He's going to tell 'em about the money he and Eckert have been hoarding. The minute he says it, I know that's the end of it. I'm finished. By the time the court gets done, I'll never see a cent. I get straight on the horn to Eckert and tell him he better get himself down here with the cash in hand. I mean, pronto."
    "Why hadn't you pressed for the money before?"
    "Because I thought it was gone. Eckert claimed the two of them had blown every penny. Once I heard I Wendell was alive, I threw the whole story out the window. I put the screws to Eckert, and it turns out they had a bundle. Wendell only took a million or so when he left. Eckert had the rest. Can you believe that? He'd had it the whole time, just taking out what he needed.
    �He was clever, I'll say that. He lived like a pauper, so who would have guessed?"
    "Weren't you a party to the lawsuit?"
    "Well, sure, but that kind of money won't survive intact. You know what I'd get? Maybe ten cents on the dollar, and that's if