W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

perfect position to collect.
    At my desk again, I pulled Pete’s cardboard box into view and removed the lid. His tape recorder was still wedged in at one end where I remembered last seeing it. I removed it from the box and set it on the desk in front of me. I flipped open the lid and checked the cassette he’d left in place. I could see the bulk of the tape had progressed from the left spindle to the right side of the cassette. I pressed rewind and watched the spindles go round and round until they came to a stop.
    I closed my eyes briefly, wondering if there were truly angels up in heaven. Only one way to find out . . .
    I pressed play.
    The first conversation I picked up was clearly unrelated to my interests. It dawned on me, too late of course, that I should have made a note of where the tape was before I’d so blithely run it back. I played and stopped my way through fifty minutes of other people’s business, some of which was downright embarrassing. Finally, I heard a woman’s voice and a phrase or two that made my ears perk up. Again, I had to back-and-forth until I caught the beginning of the segment.
    The sound quality was decent, but the recorder had picked up only half the conversation. A woman, sounding harried, said, “It’s me. I don’t have much time, so let’s make this quick. What’s happening on your end?”
    Having never heard Mary Lee Bryce’s voice, I had no idea if I was hearing it now.
    Her phonemate said something that the recorder didn’t pick up. Then she said, “Not yet. I know where they are. I just can’t get to them. I’m trying to track the one guy down but it’s tough. Can’t you use the information I already gave you?”
    I heard nothing while the person she was talking to said a few words. I didn’t even know if it was a woman or a man. Guess it could have been a dog. Arf, arf.
    “Owen, I know that! How do you think I spotted it in the first place? The pattern’s there. What I don’t have is proof. Meantime, I’m walking on eggshells . . .”
    Ah, Owen Pensky and Mary Lee Bryce. How lovely to have you here. Carry on.
    She said, “I hope not. You don’t understand how ruthless he is. It’s fine as long as I’m in the lab, but I can’t get anywhere near the clinic.”
    A question from Owen.
    Her reply: “The lab’s in Southwick. The clinic’s in the Health Sciences Building.”
    I stopped the tape and scribbled as much as I remembered. I pressed play again. This was like a two-character radio drama. Mary Lee to Owen, Owen to Mary Lee, except that his comments were a blank. She might have been talking to herself.
    “Because that’s where the subjects are seen for follow-up.”
    Whatever Owen said in answer was met with derision: “Oh, right,” said she. “Talk about a red flag.”
    And a moment later, “I figured you’d appreciate the finer points.”
    There was an exchange about a journal published in Germany.
    I listened, squinting, but couldn’t see the relevance, so I moved past that bit and concentrated on the next.
    Mary Lee said, “‘Too bad’ is right. What he’s doing here is worse. With the grant he got, he can’t afford to fail.”
    Silence.
    “Nuhn-uhn. He has no clue I’m onto him. Otherwise, he’d have found a way to get rid of me before now. I mentioned his ripping me off because it’s indicative of his . . .”
    I stopped the tape again and wrote down what I’d heard. My Aunt Gin had refused to let me take secretarial courses in high school and I was royally pissed off about it now. If I’d been able to take shorthand, I could have made quick work of this. I pressed play again. I missed a garbled sentence or two, but I could have sworn she’d mentioned Glucotace.
    “I have his password, but that’s it so far.”
    Owen responded, silently.
    “It was written on a piece of paper in his desk drawer. How’s that for clever?”
    Again, a pause for her response.
    “Because I saw the printout before he shredded it.”
    I pressed stop and play until I heard her say, “Not Stupak’s, Linton’s. These guys are always circling the wagons. Any hint of trouble, they close ranks. Shit. Gotta go. Bye.”
    I could see how the deal had gone down. Pete had persuaded Willard to plant a pen mike and this is what it had netted him. If the call had been recorded with a phone bug, both sides of the conversation would have been audible. As for the content, he must have recognized the value of what he’d heard. Given the way his