W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

for two hundred bucks and that included that rickety rolling chair of his. I couldn’t even give away that piece-of-shit typewriter, so I tossed it in the trash.”
    “Too bad. That was a collector’s item.”
    “Liar,” she said.
    Dietz smiled. “What about his file cabinets?”
    “You’re looking at ’em. I took those for my own use.”
    “All we’re interested in is the contents. She needs his business records for tax purposes.”
    “It’s all in boxes.”
    “Mind if we take a look?”
    “Actually, I do mind. He died owing me a bundle. I thought you were here to haggle over his back rent. Isn’t that what you said?”
    “Words to that effect.”
    “Think of his files as collateral.”
    “In other words, if his wife wants them back she’ll have to come up with the ransom money.”
    “Why would she not? Somebody’s gotta pay me. I got fifteen boxes of his crap.”
    “All worthless,” Dietz said.
    “Must have some value or why would you be here?”
    “We thought we might take it all off your hands and save you a trip to the dump.”
    She stared at him, her eyes narrowing with amusement. “You’d have to have a signed authorization. Otherwise, I can’t be handing over his private papers. I’m sure there’s a law against that.”
    Dietz smiled. “Signed authorization. I’m happy you mentioned it.”
    He took out his wallet and removed four one-hundred-dollar bills, which he fanned out for her inspection. “These are signed by the secretary of the Treasury, James Baker. Remember him? Reagan’s old chief of staff.”
    He held the bills up.
    She made no move. She lifted the cigarette to her lips, inhaled, and let the smoke drift upward across her face. She glanced at me. “Where’d you find this guy?”
    “I needed a bodyguard.”
    “Don’t we all,” she said with a bawdy laugh.
    Dietz added two more hundreds. “Last chance,” he said.
    She reached out and removed the cash from his hand as daintily as a feral cat accepting a morsel of food.
    “In there,” she said, using her cigarette to point toward the room down the hall.

27
    PETE WOLINSKY
    August 1988, Two Months Earlier
    Pete and the good doctor Reed ran into difficulties deciding where to meet. On the phone, prior to their get-together, the two had settled on a price: four thousand dollars for Pete’s services, which was stunning when you considered it was an hour’s work at best. Pete insisted on half up front and the balance once the job was done. He was surprised at how little argument Linton Reed put up but decided he was unaccustomed to bargaining, especially in touchy matters such as this. Pete’s first thought was to ask for six, but he didn’t want to push. Four was very reasonable for what the man was getting.
    Pete had roughed out a plan and he was eager to test the idea. The problem was Linton didn’t want to be seen with him, which meant the university was out. Too great a risk of running into someone who’d recognize Dr. Reed and wonder why he was deep in conversation with a fellow who looked like Ichabod Crane. They couldn’t meet at Pete’s office. He scarcely dared go there himself. The property manager had offices in the same building, and Pete was still kicking himself that he’d bought into the arrangement. They’d talked about connecting up in one of the parking lots at the beach, but again, the setting was too public and Reed had nixed the idea. Pete thought Reed was being melodramatic. He doubted the good doctor’s comings and goings would interest anyone.
    They finally agreed to meet on the sea wall that jutted out from the marina. Mid-August and it was late in the day. The sun had faded and the wind was blustery. Lines of spray shot up as each incoming wave crashed against the rocky barrier. This was an unpleasant place for Pete, whose bones often ached with the damp. The only virtue of the location was that the setting was so miserable that no one else was there.
    Linton Reed stood with his hands jammed down in the pockets of his dark overcoat, looking out toward the islands, barely visible in the haze. “What’s your proposal?”
    “Couple of questions about security measures before I get into it. The lab’s in Southwick Hall, is that correct?”
    Linton nodded tersely.
    “You have a guard in the lobby?”
    Linton focused on him. “I hope you’re not thinking of going into the lab.”
    “Just answer my questions and I’ll tell you what I’m thinking when I know what’s up.