W Is for Wasted

any suggestion that he was in a relationship with Mary Lee Bryce. That theory had been knocked flat. I set the folder aside, placing it on top of the one that contained Dietz’s surveillance notes and his photographs.
    Next layer down, I came across a thick cross-section of signed contracts, surveillance logs, typed reports, and confidential client information from the old Byrd-Shine days, material Pete shouldn’t have had in his possession. I couldn’t imagine how he’d managed to get his hands on the files or why he’d held on to them all these years.
    Tucked in one end of the same box, I found a pen mike and a handful of tape cassettes, along with his tape recorder, crude and clunky looking by today’s standards. I checked the window in the lid, where I could see a cassette still in place. The Sony Walkman had been his pride and joy. I remembered running into him years before when he’d first bought it. He was excited about the technology, which he considered cutting edge. He’d given me a lengthy demonstration, crowing with delight. At this point, the device seemed ancient. New cassette recorders were half this size.
    Pete had a penchant for illegal wiretaps. He was a big fan of planting mikes behind picture frames and slipping listening devices in among the potted ferns. I guess we all have our preferences. I put the tape recorder where it had been, replaced the lid on the box, and marked it with a big X. I’d chat with Ruthie and explain why I wasn’t returning it. Even a decade later, Byrd-Shine business was confidential. The contents should either be shredded or permanently consigned to my care.
    I did a cursory search of another five boxes before I lost heart. Dietz was right. I wasn’t getting paid, so why bust my butt? I suppose I’d been hoping to find a fat manila envelope filled with spare cash, but apparently among the treasures Pete clung to, money wasn’t one. It wasn’t noon yet, but I was hungry. I was also grubby enough that I longed for another shower. There’s something about used paper and old storage containers that leaves you feeling chalky around the edges. I trotted myself up the spiral stairs, stripped down, and started my day all over again, emerging from the hydrotherapy feeling happier. I swapped out my sooty jeans for fresh and pulled on a clean turtleneck. I knew Rosie’s would be open for lunch, so I grabbed my shoulder bag and a denim jacket and headed out. I was in the process of locking my door when I spotted William out of the corner of my eye.
    He was sitting bolt upright in an Adirondack chair, wearing his customary three-piece suit, starched white dress shirt, and a dark tie, carefully knotted. He had his face tilted up to absorb the October sunshine, and his hands rested on the cane he’d propped between his highly polished wingtip shoes.
    “Hey, William. What are you doing out here?”
    “I came to visit Ed.”
    “Is he here?”
    William opened his eyes and looked around. “He was a minute ago.”
    We both did a quick survey, but there was no cat to be seen.
    “Where’s Henry? I’m assuming you’ve met his houseguest.”
    “Anna’s your cousin, isn’t she?”
    “A cousin of sorts. She lives in Bakersfield unless she’s decided on a permanent change of residency. I take it they’re off someplace.”
    “A beauty-supply shop. They’ll be back in a bit. You don’t care for her?”
    “I don’t. Thanks to her I got stuck with a huge bar bill and then she tried bumming a ride with me. I had no intention of driving her down here so what does she do? She takes a bus and now she’s moved in next door. Don’t you think that’s pushy?”
    “Very. I don’t like pushy people.”
    “Neither do I.”
    I pulled over a lightweight aluminum lawn chair and sat down next to him. “How’s your back doing these days?”
    “Better. I appreciate your concern. Henry’s bored with the subject and Rosie thinks I’m faking it,” he said. “Actually, now that I have you here, there’s something we ought to chat about.”
    “Sure. What’s up?”
    “I just returned from a visitation and service at Wynington-Blake.” His tone had shifted at the mention of the mortuary.
    “I’m sorry. Was this for a friend of yours?”
    “No, no. I never met the man. I came across his obituary while I was waiting for my last physical therapy appointment. Gentleman named Hardin Comstock. Ninety-six years old and he was allotted one line. No mention of his parents or his