His look was pained. “You don’t trust me?”
“Sure I do, but let’s not tempt fate.”
“You’re tough.”
“I’m a realist. Your car or mine?”
“Mine’s in the shop. You can drop me off there afterward and I’ll pick it up.”
4
Santa Teresa Jewelry and Loan is located two doors down from a gun shop on lower State Street. There’s a gas station across the street and a tattoo parlor around the corner. The area is short on tourists and long on bums, perfect for urban renewal if the city ever gets around to it. The pawnshop itself is narrow, wedged between a thrift shop and a package liquor store. Pinky held the door for me and I went in.
Inside, the air carried the faint scent of alcohol, which stirred when the door closed behind us. A percentage of the cash out on loan probably traveled next door to the liquor store, where the exchange rate was keyed to red wine of the lowest denomination. A green neon sign with the three-ball symbol for a pawnshop sputtered at a speed that would cause seizures in the unsuspecting.
To my right, high up on the wall, fifteen hocked paintings had been mounted, artfully arranged around a security camera, angled on the two of us. This allowed me to view myself in full color as seen from above, me checking out the camera while the camera checked me. In my jeans and turtleneck I looked like a homeless person down on her luck. Below the paintings, shelves held an assortment of power tools, air tools, hand tools, nail guns, and socket wrench sets. The lower shelves were crowded with secondhand electronics: clocks, headphones, stereo speakers, turntables, radios, and big clunky television sets with screens the size of the windows in airplanes.
On the left, a row of guitars hung behind the counter, along with enough violins, flutes, and horns to constitute a small-town orchestra. A series of glass display cases ran the length of the shop, holding tray after tray of rings, watches, bracelets, and coins. Dispirited household items—a child’s bone-china tea set, a ceramic vase, a cut-crystal figurine, and four graduated teak nesting bowls—sat together on a shelf. There were no books, no weapons, and no articles of clothing.
This was where once-cherished items came to roost, sentiment surrendered for cash. I pictured a constant round-robin of relinquishment and redemption, items converted into currency and then claimed again as personal fortunes improved. People moved, people died, people retired into nursing homes where there was so little space that much of what they owned had to be sold, given away, or abandoned at the curb.
The place was doing better business than I’d expected. One man took down a wall-mounted leaf blower that he examined for some time before he carried it to the counter to purchase. A second man browsed the electronics while a third at the rear labored to affix his signature to a document with a shaky hand. Of the four employees I counted, two greeted Pinky by name.
The woman who stepped forward to assist him was middle-aged, with wavy red-gold hair that she parted on the side. A two-inch-wide swath of gray hair showed at the roots. Her eyeglasses were framed in thick black plastic that seemed too emphatic for her fair coloring. She wore slacks and a white cotton blouse with a bow at the collar, apparently meant to disguise the width of her neck, which put her in a league with weight lifters given to heavy steroid use. She winked at him, held up a finger, and then retired to the back room. She returned moments later with a padded tray covered in black velvet.
“This is June,” he said of her and then nodded at me. “Kinsey Millhone. She’s a private detective.”
We shook hands. “Nice meeting you,” I said.
“Same here.”
Pinky watched as she untied a ribbon and opened two cloth flaps. In the center was the ring, which to me looked small and unremarkable. Then again, Pinky never claimed it was a family heirloom, at least not in his family. The diamond was the size of a wee rhinestone stud, not that I owned anything so grand.
He smiled at me shyly. “You want to try it on?”
“Sure.” I slipped it on my finger and held it to the light, turning it this way and that. “Gorgeous.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” I said, practicing my lying skills.
Shortly after that we got down to business. I handed over the $225 in cash while the two of them dealt with the paperwork.
Afterward I drove Pinky to the car-repair shop, which was six blocks away. As I pulled over to the curb, I peered past him through the passenger-side window. There was no sign of activity. The doors to the service bays were down and the office was dark. “Are you sure someone’s there?”
“Doesn’t look like it, does it? I must have misunderstood.”
“You want me to drop you off at your place?”
“No need. I’m up on Paseo. It’s an easy walk.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s right on my way.”
I drove eight blocks north on Chapel until I reached Paseo, where I hung a left. He pointed to a dark gray frame duplex and I slowed to a stop. There was no room to park so he got out while the engine idled. He closed the car door and waved me on. I wiggled my fingers at him in the rearview mirror by way of a farewell, though he was gone by then.
I returned to the office, where I donned a pair of rubber gloves and gave the premises a thorough going-over. Then I went back to my place and started a load of laundry. As a youngster, I was taught that Saturday was for chores and you couldn’t go out to play until your room was clean. The critical lessons in life hold sway whether you like it or not.
At 5:30, I put on my windbreaker, slid my paperback novel down in my shoulder bag, locked the studio, and walked the half block to Rosie’s. Another woman approached the entrance at the same time I did and we reached for the door simultaneously. When our eyes met, I pointed at her. “You’re Claudia.”
She smiled. “And you’re Kinsey Millhone. Twelve pairs of size small high-cut briefs.”
“I can’t believe you remembered.”
“You were just in yesterday.”
I held the door, allowing her to pass in front of me. Her hair was coal black, shiny, and carelessly arranged. Her eyes were bright brown and her gaze was direct. She was probably in her late forties and stylishly put together. She wore a two-button designer jacket, well-cut slacks, and a crisp white shirt. Working for Nordstrom’s gave her access to the latest fashions, as well as an employee discount.
I said, “You must live close by. I can’t think why else you’d frequent the place.”
She smiled. “Actually, we live on the upper east side. Drew’s the manager at the Ocean View Hotel. We meet here on nights when he’s working late and only has a short dinner break. I got off work early and decided to come in and wait for him. What about you?”
“I’m half a block down. I’m here two or three nights a week when I’m too lazy to cook.”
“Same for me. Nights he’s not home, I tend to graze,” she said. “You want to join me for a drink?”
“Sure, I’d like that. I’ve been dying to find out what happened to the shoplifter.”
“I’m glad you were there when Mr. Koslo showed up.”
“Absolutely. I loved every minute of it. What are you drinking?”
“Gin and tonic.”
“I’ll be right back.”
William had seen me come in, and by the time I reached the bar he’d already poured me a glass of bad Chardonnay. I waited until he’d made Claudia’s gin and tonic and then carried both drinks to the table and sat down. I wasn’t sure how much Claudia was at liberty to disclose about store business, but I took up the conversation where we’d left it, behaving as though the matter was open for discussion.
I said, “I thought I was seeing things when she slid those pajamas in her bag.”
“What nerve! I thought she was acting odd the minute she showed up, so I kept an eye on her. Shoplifters always think they’re cool, but they tend to telegraph their intent. I’d just finished ringing up a customer when you came up and told me what was going on.
When I called Security, Ricardo picked her up on the monitor and notified Mr. Koslo. He sent me to wait by the second-floor escalator in case she came down. Ordinarily he’d have handled the situation on his own, but there was an occasion not too long ago where a female customer accused him of using excessive force. It wasn’t true, of course, but since then, he’s made a point of having a witness on hand.”
“I heard the alarm go off but I never saw the follow-up. Was she arrested?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” she said. “He caught up with her in the mall and asked her to accompany him into the store. She played dumb, like she had no idea what he wanted with her. They usually start out pretending to cooperate, so she did as he asked though she protested the whole time.”
“About what? She had the stolen items right there.”
“He didn’t ask her to open the shopping bag until they reached the security offices. No one wants to subject a customer to public embarrassment in case it turns out to be a bad stop. Once in private, he had her empty the contents of her bag and out came the two pairs of pajamas and . . . oops, no receipt. Then he asked her to open her purse and there was the lace teddy, again with no evidence she’d paid. Completely baffling to her.”
“I can’t believe she had the gall to deny it.”
“That’s the standard MO. Did you ever see the surveillance tape that shows the nurse’s aide stealing money from an elderly patient? Once in a while they run it on one of those true-crime shows. You can see the aide clear as day. She gets into the woman’s purse and takes the cash, which she stops to count before sticking it in her pocket. When the police showed her the tape, she sat right there with the detective, swearing up and down she didn’t do it.”
“Falsely accused.”
“You got it. Same thing here. At first she was all innocence. Then—well, talk about irate! She was a loyal Nordstrom’s customer. She’d been shopping there for years. She couldn’t believe he’d accuse her of stealing when she did no such thing. He said he hadn’t accused her of anything. He was just asking her to account for the items in her possession. She said she certainly hadn’t stolen them. Why would she do that when she had money in her wallet? She insisted she intended to buy the items, but then changed her mind. She had an appointment and she was in a hurry so she ended up leaving the store without realizing she hadn’t returned the items to the display.
“Mr. Koslo didn’t say a word. He just let her run on because he knew he had her on tape. She went from huffy to belligerent, full speed ahead, yelling about her rights. She was going to contact her attorney. She’d sue the store for slander and false arrest. He was polite, but he didn’t budge an inch. She broke down at that point and started sobbing. You’ve never seen anyone so pitiful in your life. She just about got down on her knees, begging him to let her go. The tears were the only part of the whole performance I thought was sincere. When that didn’t work, she tried to bargain her way out. She offered to pay for the items and said she’d sign a conditional release. She also swore she’d never come in again. On and on it went.”
“She used the phrase ‘conditional release’?”
“She did.”
“Sounds like she’s an old hand at this—or how’d she know the term?”
“Oh, she knew what notes to hit. Not that it did any good. Mr. Koslo had already told Ricardo to call the police, so he said she might as well calm down and save her arguments for the judge. That set off a whole new round of weeping and wailing. I didn’t see the end of it because I went back to the floor when the officer arrived. Ricardo told me by the time they put her in the cop car, she was white as a sheet.”
“Were you aware she was working with someone else?”
Claudia seemed taken aback. “You’re not serious. There were two of them?”
“Absolutely. You might have noticed her partner without realizing who she was. A younger woman in a dark blue dress.”
Claudia shook her head. “Don’t think so.”
“When I first saw them they were standing together, chatting. I mistook her for a sales clerk. I assumed the younger one was a Nordstrom’s employee and the older a customer. Then I realized the second woman had a shopping bag of her own, so I figured they were both customers making idle conversation.”
“Probably deciding what to take.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. After that they split up, and by the time your security guy arrived, the other woman had gone off to the ladies’ room. She was on her way back when she caught sight of her friend stepping onto the escalator with Mr. Koslo hard on her heels. She knew exactly what was going on. She went straight back to the ladies’ room and locked herself in a stall. Then she clipped the price tags off the articles she’d cribbed and tossed ’em in the trash. I went in there right afterward, and when I saw what she’d done, I made a beeline for the fire stairs and followed her, but not fast enough. She managed to peel out of the parking garage before I got a look at her license plate.”
“Funny you should mention the tags. Ricardo told me the cleaning crew found tags when they were picking up trash. The supervisor turned them over to Mr. Koslo and he included them in his report. I think both he and Ricardo assumed it was the same woman.”
“Well, if he needs a corroborating witness, I’d be happy to oblige.”
“I doubt he’ll take you up on it, but if the DA files charges, you can talk to him.”
“I just hope the one woman gets nailed, even if her pal got away.”
“You and me both.”
At that point Claudia’s husband arrived, and after a brief introduction, I excused myself. I returned to the bar and when I asked for a second glass of wine, William caught sight of the skid marks across my right palm. “What happened to you?”
I looked down and made a wry face, holding up my hand to show him the full effect. “I fell while I was chasing a thief.”
I gave him the short version of the incident and then, since there was so little in it to recommend my private detecting skills, changed the subject. “I was sorry to hear about Nell’s tumble. Have you talked to her?”
“Not yet. I had a call from Henry when he arrived at the house. He said his flight was uneventful and he was going to the hospital as soon as he dropped his bag.”
“I’m glad he made it with no problems. How’s she doing?”
“Fair, at least from what I’ve been told. The head of the femur was broken off and the shaft was in pieces, probably the result of osteoporosis.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me—at ninety-nine years old. Henry told me about the pin they put in.”
His tone turned from somber to gloomy. “Let’s just hope it ends there. If she’s immobilized for any length of time, her muscles will atrophy and she’ll develop bedsores. Next comes pneumonia and after that . . .” He fixed me with a bleak look and let the sentence trail off.
“I’m sure they’ll get her up within a day. Isn’t that the current thinking?”
“One can only hope. You know the theory about bad things coming in threes.”
“There was something else bad?”
“I’m afraid so. I received a call from my doctor with the results of my latest blood tests. My blood sugar’s elevated. The doctor said fifty percent of people in the same range end up with diabetes in five years.”
From somewhere under the bar he pulled out a piece of paper and placed it in front of me, pointing at the relevant column. Normal for glucose was 65–99. His was 106. I had no idea if that put him in the danger zone, but he seemed to think so.
I said, “Wow. What’s the doctor suggesting?”
“Nothing. He did mention that stress hormones are sometimes responsible for an inappropriate elevation of blood glucose. I went straight to my Merck Manual and looked it up.” He gazed upward, apparently quoting directly. “‘Diabetic amyotrophy is found characteristically in elderly men, producing a predominant muscle weakness around the hip and upper leg.’”
“And you have that?”
>
“I’ve been experiencing a weakness off and on this past month, which is why I went to see him in the first place. After a thorough examination, he was at a loss. He had absolutely no idea what was wrong with me.” He leaned forward. “I saw him write ‘etiology unknown’ on my chart. It was chilling. My Merck says the absence of a precise diagnostic marker for diabetes mellitus ‘continues to be a problem.’ ‘Onset tends to be abrupt in children,’ it says, ‘Insidious in older patients.’ I shudder to think of the word ‘insidious’ applied to me.”
“But surely there’s something you can do for yourself. What about dietary changes?”
“He gave me a pamphlet, which I haven’t had the heart to read. In addition to muscle weakness, I’ve been having stomach problems.”
“Henry mentioned that last night.”
He lifted his brows. “Of course, abdominal tenderness is another indicator for diabetes, as is fruity breath.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and blew. I thought he’d offer me a sniff, which I was prepared to decline. “Fortunately, it hasn’t come to that, but I am urinating more frequently. I’m up half the night.”
“Don’t tell me about the stream,” I said, hastily. “I thought that was related to your prostate.”
“That was my first thought as well. Now I’m not so sure.”
Mentally, I squinted, trying to judge the truth value of his claim. I knew he believed it, but was there foundation in fact? One of these days, despite his tendency to dramatize, William was going to be afflicted with something real. “Do you have a family history of diabetes?” I asked.
“How would I know? There are only five of us left. The sibs and I take after our mother’s side of the family. Her maiden name was Til-mann, hardy German stock. Our grandmother on our father’s side was a Mauritz by birth. There were five other brothers and sisters who carried her genetic line. They all died within days of each other in the influenza epidemic of 1917. Who knows what health problems they’d have developed had they lived?”