W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

before he gets down to it.
    “Okay, so after that little verbal skirmish, he decides not to argue the point. We all troop into the bedroom, where he opens the bed table drawer. Sure enough, there’s a gun. Obviously not the Ruger because Jonah’s holding that in an evidence bag. First thing Wray says is, ‘That’s not my gun.’
    “So we ask if he recognizes the gun and he says of course not, he never saw it in his life. So then we go back and quiz him as to his whereabouts the night of August 25. Turns out he was on location in North Carolina, where his company’s shooting a film. We show him the Ruger, which he identifies as his. Now we’re making progress. We ask how he acquired it. He says he bought it two years ago after a rash of home invasions in Los Angeles where he was living. Both he and his wife had themselves safety-certified before he made the purchase. After that they took shooting lessons. Very conscientious, and we’re quick to compliment him for being such a good citizen. We ask him when’s the last time he or his wife handled the Ruger, and he names the occasion, which was maybe five months back. They went target shooting and he cleaned the gun afterward.”
    I leaned forward. “He can prove he was out of town?”
    “No question. And please remember, this is coming out of left field, so he’s had no time to prepare.”
    “Okay, so the gun is his, but he was gone. Now what?”
    “There’s a kicker.”
    “I hope it’s good.”
    “I don’t know how good it is, but it’s interesting. I take that back—it’s good and it’s interesting.”
    I made that rolling-hand gesture hoping to speed him along.
    “Once we tell him the semiautomatic in the drawer might be the one used in a shooting death, he’s practically begging us to get the damn thing out of his house. We bag and tag and go back to the station, where we run the serial numbers. And you know what we find?”
    “The gun’s not registered.”
    “It is registered. You want to guess who to?”
    “Cheney, would you quit this? Either tell me or don’t tell me, but don’t play games. Whose gun was it?”
    “Pete Wolinsky’s.”
    •   •   •
    I told Cheney I’d walk home. He had to get back to work and I needed the air. Nothing made sense. How had Pete’s Glock 17 ended up in some stranger’s bed table drawer? What was that about? We’d gone through the story a second time. Once the gun was identified as Pete’s, the Wrays were invited downtown for further conversation and they couldn’t have been more cooperative. Both agreed to have their prints rolled. Sanford Wray didn’t know Pete Wolinsky. He’d never even heard the name. Nor had his wife, Gail. Neither had a criminal history. Both husband and wife were out of state the night Pete was killed. Their home security system had been activated and there were no reports of an alarm. Jonah asked them to make a list of everyone who’d had access to the house in their absence and they’d given it to him on the spot. Not that many, as it turned out. House cleaners, Wray’s personal assistant, a couple of family members who were coming in at Jonah’s request. In the meantime, Ballistics was now in possession of both the Ruger and the Glock 17, and they’d determine which slugs had been fired from which gun.
    It was almost dark by the time I reached home. I’d left lights on for myself, but Henry’s place was dark. I figured he was up at Rosie’s, so I did a turnabout and walked the half block. I was itchy with anxiety, but I wasn’t up to a social visit unless we could talk in private. Rosie’s front windows were plastered with the usual beer and liquor ads, but a quick peek revealed Anna sitting at the table with Henry. Except for the boobs, I wasn’t jealous of her, but she was getting on my nerves.
    Walking back to my place, I passed an unfamiliar turquoise Thunderbird, which I imagined was one of Rosie’s patrons taking up valuable parking space. I let myself into my studio and flipped off the porch light. I sat down at my desk, gathered my index cards, secured them with a rubber band, and tossed them into my bottom drawer. With Cheney and Jonah on it, my notes were beside the point. The sole remaining keepsake, if you want to think of it as such, was Pete’s cardboard box that I was using as a footrest. I still believed I was right. Given my particular personality disorder, once I get on a thought track, I have trouble getting off.
    I felt a