M Is for Malice

but I don't think we should take his word for it."
    "It's worth pursuing," Dietz said. "As stories go, it's not bad."
    "What do you mean, 'it's not bad'? I think it's fabulous. I mean, talk about a motive for murder. It's the best lead we've had –"
    "The only lead," he pointed out.
    I ignored the obvious. "On top of that, we have Outhwaite, who seems to tie right back to them:"
    "Shouldn't be too hard to track down the name Maddison with two d's. Even if they're not local, they had to come from somewhere."
    "Donovan says the father died around Thanksgiving of 1967 and Patty followed, probably in May or June of 1968. The mother died five years later, but that's as much as I know. You may not find Claire at all. He says she moved back to the East Coast and married. He does remember reading about her death in the local paper, so there must have been a notice in the Dispatch. Maybe she kept her maiden name?"
    "I'll get on it first thing."
    "You will? I can't believe you're volunteering. I thought you hated doing this stuff."
    "Good practice. It's nice to keep a hand in. This way I know I haven't lost my touch," he said. "We might try the newspaper morgue if we can get Katzenbach's cooperation. They might have old clips on the Maddisons along with the obits."
    "That's a sexy suggestion."
    "I'm a sexy guy," he said.
    When we got home, I changed into my sweats in preparation for jogging. I had slept through my usual six A.m. run and I was feeling the effects. I left Dietz in the living room with his leg propped up, icing his bum knee while he flipped from channel to channel, alternately watching CNN, talk shows, and obscure sporting events. I headed out the front door, thankful for the opportunity to spend time alone.
    There was scarcely any breeze coming off the ocean. The late-afternoon sun had begun to fade, but the daylong baked beach was still throwing off heat saturated by the smell of kelp and brine. The fronds of the palm trees looked like construction paper cutouts, flat dark shapes against the flat blue sky. I lengthened my stride, running at a pace that felt good. The stiffness and fatigue gradually gave way to ease. My muscles became liquid and sweat trickled down my face. Even the burning in my chest felt good as my body was flooded with oxygen. At the end of the run, I flung myself down on the grass, where I lay panting. My mind was a blank and my bones were washed clean. Finally, my breathing slowed and the run – generated heat in my body seeped out. I did a series of stretches and then roused myself. As I headed for home, I could feel the return of the Santa Ana winds lofting down the mountainside. I showered and changed clothes, throwing on a T-shirt and jeans.
    Dietz and I had dinner up at Rosie's. William was working behind the bar again. At the age of eighty-seven, this was like a whole new career for him. Since their marriage, the two of them had settled into a comfortable routine. More and more, Rosie seemed to be turning management over to him. She'd always maintained tight control of the day-to-day operation, but William had persuaded her to pay decent wages and as a consequence, she'd been able to hire better employees. And she'd begun to delegate responsibility, which gave her more time to spend with him. William had given up some of his imaginary illnesses and she'd surrendered some of her authoritarianism. Their affection for each other was obvious and their occasional spats seemed to blow over without incident. Dietz was talking to William about Germany, but I was only half attentive, wondering if the two of us would ever reach an accommodation. I pictured Dietz at eighty-seven, me a comparatively youthful seventy-two; retired from the stresses of private-eye work, riddled with arthritis; bereft of our teeth. What would we do, open a private detective school?
    "What are you thinking? You look odd," he said.
    "Nothing. Retirement."
    "I'd rather eat my gun."
    At bedtime, Dietz offered to hobble up the spiral stairs. "My knee's killing me again so I'm probably not much good except for company," he said.
    "You're better off downstairs. My bed's not big enough, especially with that knee of yours. I'd just lie there worrying I'd bump you wrong."
    I left him below opening up the sofa bed while I ambled up the stairs, talking to him over the rail.
    "Last chance," he said, smiling up at me.
    "I'm not sure it's smart getting used to you."
    "You should take advantage while you can."
    I paused, looking