J is for Judgement

You're entirely welcome. . . . You too."
    She replaced the receiver and gave the telephone cord a little looping flap, pulling the length of it toward her. She extinguished the cigarette in an ashtray on her desk and then moved into the living room, smoke still trailing from her mouth. I took a quick moment to scan the room. In the small slice of family room that I could see, there were miscellaneous items of baby paraphernalia: a playpen, a high chair, a wind-up swing guaranteed to put an infant to sleep if it didn't generate a lot of puking first.
    "You'd never guess I'm a grandma," she said with irony when she caught my eye.
    I had placed my business card on the coffee table, and I saw her glance at it again with curiosity. I tucked in a hasty question before she had a chance to quiz me. "Are you moving? I saw the boxes on the porch. It looks like you're all set."
    "Not me. My son and his wife. They've just bought a little house." She leaned over and picked up the card. "Excuse me, I'd like to know what this is about. If it has to do with Brian, you'll need to talk to his attorney. I'm not at liberty to discuss his situation."
    "This is not about Brian. It's about Wendell."
    Her gaze became fixed. "Have a seat," she said, indicating a nearby chair. She sat down on the edge of the couch, pulling an ashtray in closer to her. She lit another cigarette, her movements brisk, dragging deeply as she arranged both her lighter and the pack of Eve l00's on the table in front of her. "Were you acquainted with him?"
    "Not at all," I said. I perched on a chrome-and-gray-leather director's chair that squawked beneath my weight. Sounded like I'd made a rude butt noise as a joke.
    She blew two streams of smoke from her nose. "Because he's dead, you know. He's been gone for years. He got into trouble and he killed himself."
    "That's why I'm here. Last week, the California Fidelity agent who sold Wendell his life insurance policy..."
    "Dick What's --- his-name . . . Mills."
    "That's correct. Mr. Mills was vacationing in a little Mexican resort and spotted Wendell in a bar."
    I She burst out laughing. "Oh, sure, right."
    I stirred uncomfortably. "It's true."
    She cut the power on the smile by half. "Don't be silly. What are we talking here, a seance or something? Wendell's dead, my dear."
    "As I understand it, Dick Mills did quite a bit of business with him. I gather he knew Wendell well enough to make the initial 10. I'm handling the follow-up."
    She continued to smile, but it was all form and no content. She blinked at me with interest. "He actually talked to him? You'll have to forgive my skepticism, but I'm having a problem with this. The two of them had a conversation?"
    I shook my head. "Dick was on his way to the airport at the time, and he didn't want Wendell to catch sight of him. As soon he got home, he called one of the CF vice-presidents, who turned around and hired me to fly down there. At this point, the identification isn't positive, but the chances are good. It looks like he's not only alive, but headed back to the area."
    �I don't believe it. There's been some mistake." Her tone was emphatic, but her expression suggested she was waiting for the punch line, a half smile flickering. I wondered how many times she'd played the scene in her head. Some police detective or an FBI agent sitting in her living room, giving her the news that Wendell was alive and well. . . or that his body had finally been recovered. She'd probably lost track of what she wanted to hear. I could see her struggle with a number of conflicting attitudes, most of which were bad.
    Agitated, she took a drag of her cigarette and then blew out a mouthful of smoke, her mouth curling up in a parody of mirth as she tried on a new reaction. "Let me hazard a guess here. I'll bet there's money involved. A little payoff, is that it?"
    "Why would I do that?" I asked.
    "What's the point, then? Why tell me about it? I couldn't care less."
    "I was hoping you'd let me know if Wendell tried to get in touch."
    "You think Wendell would try to get in touch with me? This is dumb. Don't be ridiculous."
    "I don't know what to tell you, Mrs. Jaffe. I can understand how you feel. . . ."
    "What are you talking about? The man is dead! Don't you get it? He turned out to be a con artist, a common crook. I've had trouble enough dealing with all the people he cheated. You're not going to turn around now and tell me he's still out there," she snapped.
    "We think he faked his