W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

self-conscious hand to my own black turtleneck, wondering if anyone would notice the match.
    He’d taken me in with a glance. I was the same as I’d always been, but I wondered if he saw a difference. I caught Henry’s gaze flicking from me to Dietz and back. He seemed to hold himself in suspension, removing his personhood while Dietz and I sorted ourselves out.
    I said, “How was the trip?”
    “Good. Fast. Can’t believe I didn’t get a ticket.” His tone was pleasant, but he didn’t meet my eyes. What was that about?
    “You still have the Porsche? I expected to hear your car rumbling from half a block away.”
    “Still here. I thought about a new one, but mine’s only ten years old.”
    Henry said, “How about a drink? Black Jack on the rocks?”
    Dietz smiled. “Good memory.”
    “Have a seat,” Henry said.
    “Just let me freshen up.”
    “Sure thing. Bathroom’s that way.”
    Dietz left. Henry and I exchanged a look, wondering what had prompted the nine-hour drive. There wasn’t time to discuss the matter, so we went about our business, leaving it up to Dietz to explain himself. His usual style was to jump right in.
    By the time he emerged from the bathroom, a scant four minutes had passed. Henry had dropped ice cubes into a highball glass and poured whiskey neat. “Water?”
    “Perfect as is. Thanks.”
    Dietz sat down. As though coaxed, Ed jumped down from the rocker and jumped up into Dietz’s lap. He did this without appearing to crouch and spring. He seemed to levitate. Four paws on the floor . . . airborne, straight up . . . four paws in Dietz’s lap, as neat as you please. Ed studied Dietz at close range, the two eye to eye. Dietz ran an idle hand along the cat’s head and the cat arched against his palm. Dietz scratched behind one ear. Daintily, Ed curled up in his lap, prepared to nap with his head on his paws. Henry took note of Ed’s vote of approval. I had to suppress the urge to roll my eyes. A conspiracy of men and Ed was leading the charge. What had I ever done to him?
    We chatted while we ate, skipping from topic to topic, avoiding anything significant. The longer this went on, the more tense I felt. I didn’t know if Dietz was delaying so he could talk to me alone or if he was setting the stage for a showdown. I thought it was better to have Henry on hand while I heard him out. I felt guilty, but I didn’t know what I’d done. Dessert out of the way, Henry inquired whether either of us wanted coffee. I declined and Dietz shook his head in the negative as well.
    I looked at Dietz. “So what’s up?”
    The smile he turned on me was set and I could see now how angry he was. Not a hot anger, but the cold flat kind that’s all the more dangerous because it’s been driven underground.
    “I was hoping you’d tell me,” he said. “You recommended me to a guy who turned out to be a deadbeat. I did the work and submitted a report. That was June 15. No response. I billed again July and he called, which was nice of him. He claimed the client was a slow pay and if he didn’t get the money that week, he’d pay me himself and collect from the client after the fact. Sounded good to me, so I waited. Still nothing. I bill again in August and the mail bounces back. Big block letters: ‘Return to Sender.’ I try calling and the number’s a disconnect. I can’t get through to you, so here I am.”
    He stared at me and I stared back.
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.
    “Wolinsky. Pete. The PI.”
    “Well, it’s no wonder you never heard from him. He’s dead.”
    “Since when?”
    “August 25. He was shot during a robbery attempt and died at the scene.”
    “Would’ve been nice if you’d let me know.”
    I squinted. “Why would I do that?”
    “Because you gave him my name and he subbed out a job to me.”
    “I didn’t give Pete your name.”
    “Yes, you did. That was the first thing he said.”
    “He said I sent you? When was this?”
    “May. A week before Memorial Day. He said he ran into you downtown and asked if you knew a Nevada PI. You suggested me.”
    “I haven’t talked to Pete in years. I’d never give him your name or number for any reason at all. The man’s a scumbag.”
    “He said he worked with you at Byrd-Shine.”
    “He did not! He never worked at Byrd-Shine. I had nothing to do with giving him your number.”
    “Well, if you didn’t send him, who did?”
    “How would I know?”
    “I only agreed because