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Robert Dietz came back into my life on Wednesday, January 8. I remember the date because it was Elvis Presley’s birthday and one of the local radio stations had announced it would spend the next twenty-four hours playing every song he’d ever sung. At six A.M. my clock radio blared on, playing “Heartbreak Hotel” at top volume. I smacked the Off button with the flat of my hand and rolled out of bed as usual. I pulled on my sweats in preparation for my morning run. I brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and trotted down the spiral stairs. I locked my front door behind me, moved out to the street where I did an obligatory stretch, leaning against the gatepost in front of my apartment. The day was destined to be a strange one, involving as it did a dreaded lunch date with Tasha Howard, one of my recently discovered first cousins. Running was the only way I could think of to quell my uneasiness. I headed for the bike path that parallels the beach.
Ah, January. The holidays had left me feeling restless and the advent of the new year generated one of those lengthy internal discussions about the meaning of life. I usually don’t pay much attention to the passing of time, but this year, for some reason, I was taking a good hard look at myself. Who was I, really, in the scheme of things, and what did it all add up to? For the record, I’m Kinsey Millhone, female, single, thirty-five years old, sole proprietor of Kinsey Mill-hone Investigations in the southern California town of Santa Teresa. I was trained as a police officer and served a two-year stint with the Santa Teresa Police Department before life intervened, which is another tale altogether and one I don’t intend to tell (yet). For the last ten years, I’ve made a living as a private investigator. Some days I see myself (nobly, I’ll admit) battling against evil in the struggle for law and order. Other days, I concede that the dark forces are gaining ground.
Not all of this was conscious. Much of the rumination was simmering at a level I could scarcely discern. It’s not as if I spent every day in a state of unremitting angst, wringing my hands and rending my clothes. I suppose what I was experiencing was a mild form of depression, triggered (perhaps) by nothing more complicated than the fact it was winter and the California sunlight was in short supply.
I started my career investigating arson and wrongful-death claims for California Fidelity Insurance. A year ago, my relationship with CFI came to an abrupt and ignominious halt and I’m currently sharing space with the law firm of Kingman and Ives, taking on just about anything to make ends meet. I’m licensed, bonded, and fully insured. I have twenty-five thousand dollars in a savings account, which affords me the luxury of turning down any client who doesn’t suit. I haven’t refused a case yet, but I was strongly considering it.
Tasha Howard, the aforementioned first cousin, had called to offer me work, though the details of the job hadn’t yet been specified. Tasha is an attorney who handles wills and estates, working for a law firm with offices in both San Francisco and Lompoc, which is an hour north of Santa Teresa. I gathered she divided her time just about equally between the two. I’m normally interested in employment, but Tasha and I aren’t exactly close and I suspected she was using the lure of business to insinuate herself into my life.
As it happened, her first call came on the day after New Year’s, which allowed me to sidestep by claiming I was still on vacation. When she called again on January 7, she caught me off guard. I was at the office in the middle of a serious round of solitaire when the telephone rang.
“Hi, Kinsey. This is Tasha. I thought I’d try you again. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“This is fine,” I said. I crossed my eyes and pretended I was gagging myself with a finger pointed down my throat. Of course, she couldn’t see that. I put a red eight on a black nine and turned up the last three cards. No play that I could see. “How are you?” I asked, perhaps a millisecond late.
“Doing well, thanks. How about you?”
“I’m good,” I said. “Gee, your timing’s uncanny. I was just picking up the phone. I’ve been making calls all morning and you were next on my list.” I often use the word gee when I’m lying through my teeth.
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “I thought you were avoiding me.”
I laughed. Ha. Ha. Ha. “Not at all,” said I. I was about to elaborate on the denial, but she plowed right on. Having run out of moves, I pushed the cards aside and began to tag my blotter with a little desktop graffiti. I block-printed the word BARF and gave each of the letters a three-dimensional cast.
She said, “What’s your schedule like tomorrow? Can we get together for an hour? I have to be in Santa Teresa anyway and we could meet for lunch.”
“I can probably do that,” I said with caution. In this world, lies can only take you so far before the truth catches up. “What sort of work are we talking about?”
“I’d rather discuss it in person. Is twelve o’clock good for you?”
“That sounds fine,” I said.
“Perfect. I’ll make reservations. Emile’s-at-the-Beach. I’ll see you there,” she said, and with a click she was gone.
I put the phone down, set the ballpoint pen aside, and laid my little head down on my desk. What an idiot I was. Tasha must have known I didn’t want to see her, but I hadn’t had the nerve to say so. She’d come to my rescue a couple of months before and though I’d repaid the money, I still felt I owed her. Maybe I’d listen to her politely before I turned her down. I did have another quick job in the works. I’d been hired to serve two deposition subpoenas in a civil case for an attorney on the second floor of our building.
I went out in the afternoon and spent thirty-five bucks (plus tip) on a legitimate salon haircut. I tend to take a pair of nail scissors to my own unruly mop about every six weeks, my technique being to snip off any tuft of hair that sticks out. I guess I must have been feeling insecure because it wouldn’t ordinarily occur to me to pay real bucks for something I can do so handily myself. Of course, I’ve been told my hairstyle looks exactly like a puppy dog’s backside, but what’s wrong with that?
The morning of January 8 inevitably arrived and I pounded along the bike path as if pursued by wild dogs. Typically, I use my jog as a way to check in with myself, noting the day and the ongoing nature of life at the water’s edge. That morning, I had been all business, nearly punitive in the energy I threw into the exercise. Having finished my run and my morning routine, I skipped the office altogether and hung around my place. I paid some bills, tidied up my desk, did a load of laundry, and chatted briefly with my landlord, Henry Pitts, while I ate three of his freshly baked sticky buns. Not that I was nervous.
As usual, when you’re waiting for something unpleasant, the clock seems to leap forward in ten-minute increments. Next thing I knew I was standing at my bathroom mirror applying cut-rate cosmetics, for God’s sake, while I emoted along with Elvis, who was singing “It’s Now Or Never.” The sing-along was taking me back to my high school days, not a terrific association, but amusing nonetheless. I hadn’t known any more about makeup in those days than I do now.
I debated about a new outfit, but that’s where I drew the line, pulling on my usual blue jeans, turtleneck, tweed blazer, and boots. I own one dress and I didn’t want to waste it on an occasion like this. I glanced at the clock. It was 11:55. Emile’s wasn’t far, all of five minutes on foot. With luck, I’d be hit by a truck as I was crossing the street.
Almost all of the tables at Emile’s were occupied by the time I arrived. In Santa Teresa, the beach restaurants do the bulk of their business during the summer tourist season when the motels and bed-and-breakfast establishments near the ocean are fully booked. After Labor Day, the crowds diminish until the town belongs to the residents again. But Emile’s-at-the-Beach is a local favorite and doesn’t seem to suffer the waxing and waning of the out-of-town trade.
Tasha must have driven down from Lompoc because a sassy red Trans Am bearing a vanity license plate that read TASHA H was parked at the curb. In the detective trade, this is what is known as a clue. Besides, flying down from Lompoc is more trouble than it’s worth. I moved into the restaurant and scanned the tables. I had little appetite for the encounter, but I was trying to stay open to the possibilities. Of what, I couldn’t say.
I spotted Tasha through one of the interior archways before she spotted me. She was seated in a small area off the main dining room. Emile had placed her by the front window at a table for two. She was staring out at the children’s play equipment in the little beach park across the street. The wading pool was closed, emptied for the winter, a circle of blue-painted plaster that looked now like a landing pad for a UFO. Two preschool-age children were clambering backward up a nearby sliding board anchored in the sand. Their mother sat on the low concrete retaining wall with a cigarette in hand. Beyond her were the bare masts of boats slipped in the harbor. The day was sunny and cool, the blue sky scudding with clouds left behind by a storm that was passing to the south of us.
A waiter approached Tasha and they conferred briefly. She took a menu from him. I could see her indicate that she was waiting for someone else. He withdrew and she began to peruse the lunch choices. I’d never actually laid eyes on Tasha until now, but I’d met her sister Liza the summer before last. I’d been startled because Liza and I looked so much alike. Tasha was cut from the same genetic cloth, though she was three years older and more substantial in her presentation. She wore a gray wool suit with a white silk shell showing in the deep V of the jacket. Her dark hair was streaked with blond, pulled back with a sophisticated black chiffon bow sitting at the nape of her neck. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of oversized gold earrings that glinted when she moved. Since she did estate planning, she probably didn’t have much occasion for impassioned courtroom speeches, but she’d look properly intimidating in a skirmish nonetheless. Already I’d decided to get my affairs in order.
She caught sight of me and I saw her expression quicken as she registered the similarities between us. Maybe all the Kinsey girl cousins shared the same features. I raised a hand in greeting and moved through the lunch crowd to her table. I took the seat across from hers, tucking my bag on the floor beneath my chair. “Hello, Tasha.”
For a moment, we did a mutual assessment. In high school biology, I’d studied Mendel’s purple and white flowering peas; the crossbreeding of colors and the resultant pattern of “offspring.” This was the very principle at work. Up close, I could see that her eyes were dark where mine were hazel, and her nose looked like mine had before it was broken twice. Seeing her was like catching a glimpse of myself unexpectedly in a mirror, the image both strange and familiar. Me and not me.
Tasha broke the silence. “This is creepy. Liza told me we looked alike, but I had no idea.”
“I guess there’s no doubt we’re related. What about the other cousins? Do they look like us?”
“Variations on a theme. When Pam and I were growing up, we were often mistaken for each other.” Pam was the sister between Tasha and Liza.
“Did Pam have her baby?”
“Months ago. A girl. Big surprise,” she said dryly. Her tone was ironic, but I didn’t get the joke. She sensed the unspoken question and smiled fleetingly in reply. “All the Kinsey women have girl babies. I thought you knew.”
I shook my head.
“Pam named her Cornelia as a way of sucking up to Grand. I’m afraid most of us are guilty of trying to score points with her from time to time.”
Cornelia LaGrand was my grandmother Burton Kinsey’s maiden name. “Grand” had been her nickname since babyhood. From what I’d been told, she ruled the family like a despot. She was generous with money, but only if you danced to her tune—the reason the family had so pointedly ignored me and my aunt Gin for twenty-nine years. My upbringing had been blue collar, strictly lower middle-class. Aunt Gin, who raised me from the age of five, had worked as a clerk/typist for California Fidelity Insurance, the company that eventually hired (and fired) me. She’d managed on a modest salary, and we’d never had much. We’d always lived in mobile homes—trailers, as they were known then—bastions of tiny space, which I still tend to prefer. At the same time, I recognized even then that other people thought trailers were tacky. Why, I can’t say.
Aunt Gin had taught me never to suck up to anyone. What she’d neglected to tell me was there were relatives worth sucking up to.
Tasha, likely aware of the thicket her remarks were leading to, shifted over to the task at hand. “Let’s get lunch out of the way and then I can fill you in on the situation.”
We dealt with the niceties of ordering and eating lunch, chatting about only the most inconsequential subjects. Once our plates had been removed, she got down to business with an efficient change of tone. “We have some clients here in Santa Teresa caught up in a circumstance I thought might interest you. Do you know the Maleks? They own Malek Construction.”
“I don’t know them personally, but the name’s familiar.” I’d seen the company logo on job sites around town, a white octagon, like a stop sign, with the outline of a red cement mixer planted in the middle. All of the company trucks and job-site Porta Potti’s were fire engine red and the effect was eye-catching.
Tasha went on. “It’s a sand and gravel company. Mr. Malek just died and our firm is representing the estate.” The waiter approached and filled our coffee cups. Tasha picked up a sugar pack, pressing in the edges of the paper rim on all sides before she tore the corner off. “Bader Malek bought a gravel pit in 1943. I’m not sure what he paid at the time, but it’s worth a fortune today. Do you know much about gravel?”
“Not a thing,” I said.
“I didn’t either until this came up. A gravel pit doesn’t tend to produce much income from year to year, but it turns out that over the last thirty years environmental regulations and land-use regulations make it very hard to start up a new gravel pit. In this part of California, there simply aren’t that many. If you own the gravel pit for your region and construction is booming—which it is at the moment—it goes from being a dog in the forties to a real treasure in the 1980s, depending, of course, on how deep the gravel reserves are and the quality of those reserves. It turns out this one is on a perfect gravel zone, probably good for another hundred and fifty years. Since nobody else is now able to get approvals . . . well, you get the point I’m sure.”
“Who’d have thunk?”
“Exactly,” she said and then went on. “With gravel, you want to be close to communities where construction is going on because the prime cost is transportation. It’s one of those backwater areas of wealth that you don’t really know about even if it’s yours. Anyway, Bader Malek was a dynamo and managed to maximize his profits by branching out in other directions, all building-related. Malek Construction is now the third-largest construction company in the state. And it’s still family owned; one of the few, I might add.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I’ll get to that in a moment, but I need to back up a bit first. Bader and his wife, Rona, had four boys—like a series of stepping-stones, all of them two years apart. Donovan, Guy, Bennet, and Jack. Donovan’s currently in his mid-forties and Jack’s probably thirty-nine. Donovan’s the best of the lot; typical first child, steady, responsible, the big achiever in the bunch. His wife, Christie, and I were college roommates, which is how I got involved in the first place. The second son, Guy, turned out to be the clunker among the boys. The other two are okay. Nothing to write home about, at least from what Christie’s said.”
“Do they work for the company?”
“No, but Donovan pays all of their bills nonetheless. Bennet fancies himself an ‘entrepreneur,’ which is to say he loses great whacks of money annually in bad business deals. He’s currently venturing into the restaurant business. He and a couple of partners are opening a place down on Granita. Talk about a way to lose money. The man has to be nuts. Jack’s busy playing golf. I gather he’s got sufficient talent to hit the pro circuit, but probably not enough to earn a living at it.
“At any rate, back in the sixties, Guy was the one who smoked dope and raised hell. He thought his father was a materialistic, capitalistic son of a bitch and told him so every chance he could. I guess Guy got caught in some pretty bad scrapes—we’re talking criminal behavior—and Bader finally cut him off. According to Donovan, his father gave Guy a lump sum, ten grand in cash, his portion of the then-modest family fortune. Bader told the kid to hit the road and not come back. Guy Malek disappeared and he hasn’t been seen since. This was March 1968. He was twenty-six then, which would make him forty-three now. I guess no one really cared much when he left. It was probably a relief after what he’d put the family through. Rona had died two months before, in January that same year, and Bader went to his attorney with the intention of rewriting his will. You know how that goes: ‘The reason I have made no provision for my son Guy in this will is not due to any lack of love or affection on my part, but simply because I have provided for him during my lifetime and feel that those provisions are more than adequate—blah, blah, blah.’ The truth was, Guy had cost him plenty and he was sick of it.
Excerpted from M is for Malice by .
Copyright © 1996 by Sue Grafton.
Published in 1996 by Henry Hold and Company, LLC.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.