L Is for Lawless

really saying he wasn't there," I said. "They're saying they can't identify him from the information you submitted. There must be a hundred John Lees. Probably more."
    "With his exact date of birth and his Social Security number? Come on. You think this stuff isn't on computer? All they have to do is type it in. Press Enter. Boom, they got him. So why would they deny it?"
    "What makes you think they have all this data on computer?" I said, just to be perverse. This was hardly the issue, but I was feeling argumentative.
    "What makes you think they don't?" I barely suppressed a groan. I was hating this conversation, but I couldn't find any way to get out of it. "Come on, Chester. Let's don't do this, okay?"
    "You asked the question. I'm just answering."
    "Oh, forget it. Have it your way. Let's say he
was
a spy, just for the sake of argument. That was forty-some-odd years ago. The man is
dead
now, so why does anybody give a shit?"
    "Maybe they don't care about
him.
Maybe they care about something he has. Maybe he took something that belongs to them. Now they want it back."
    "You are making me crazy. What
it?"
    "
How do I know? Files. Documents. This is just a hunch."
    I wanted to lay my little head on the table and weep from frustration. "Chester, this makes no sense."
    "Why not?"
    "Because if that's the case, why call attention to it? Why not just pay you the three hundred bucks? Then they can come out at their leisure and look for this
thing…
this whatever you think he has. If he's been in hiding all these years… if they've
really
been looking and now they know his whereabouts, why arouse your suspicions by refusing to pay some dinky little three-hundred-dollar claim?"
    "Four hundred and fifty with interment thrown in," he said.
    I conceded the arithmetic. "Four fifty, then," I said. "The same question applies. Why cock around?"
    "Hey, I can't explain why the government does what it does. If these guys were so bright, they'd have tracked him down years ago. The VA application was the tip-off, that's all I'm saying."
    I took a deep breath. "You're jumping to conclusions."
    He stubbed out his cigarette. "Of course I'm jumping. The question is, am I right? The way I see it, the boys finally got a lock on him, and that's the result." He tipped his head in the direction of the garage apartment. "Here's the only question I got… did they find what they came for or is it still hidden somewhere? I'll tell you something else. This Rawson fellow could be part of it."
    This time I groaned and put my head in my hands. This was making my neck tense, and I massaged my trapezius. "Well, look. It's an interesting hypothesis and I wish you a lot of luck. All I offered was to see if I could locate a set of dog tags or a photograph. You want to turn this into some kind of spy ring, it's not my line of work. Thanks for the sandwich. You're a genius with bologna."
    Chester's gaze suddenly shifted to a spot just behind me. There was a sharp rap at the back door, and I felt myself jump.
    Chester got up. "Police," he said under his breath. "Just act normal."
    He moved toward the door to let the guy in while I turned and squinted at him. Act
normal.
Why wouldn't I act normal? I
am
normal.
    On the back step, I could hear the uniformed police officer's murmured introduction. Chester ushered him into the kitchen. "I appreciate your coming out. This is my neighbor, Kinsey Millhone. Officer Wettig," he said, using this phony Mr. Good Citizen tone of voice.
    I glanced at the officer's name tag. P. Wettig. Paul, Peter, Phillip. This was not anyone I knew from my dealings with the department. Gutierrez and Pettigrew had always handled this beat. Despite my skepticism, Chester's conspiracy theory was apparently having an effect, because I was already wondering if his 911 call had been intercepted and an impostor sent instead. Wettig was probably in his late forties, looking more like a lounge singer than a uniformed patrolman. He wore his blond hair long, pulled into a little pigtail in back; brown eyes, short blunt nose, round chin. I pegged him at six three, weighing in at 210. The uniform looked authentic, but wasn't he a little
old
to be a beat cop?
    "Hi. How are you?" I said, shaking hands. "I expected to see Gerald Pettigrew and Maria Gutierrez."
    Wettig's look was neutral, his tone of voice bland. "They split up. Pettigrew's on Traffic now, and Maria moved over to the county sheriff's department."
    "Really. I hadn't heard that." I glanced