old-fashioned hinge-type. Door-sized inserts were centered in each. Garage apartments. Literally.
Skidmore said, “This one,” and led me to the unit on the left. The door-within-a-door was deadbolted.
“Illegal,” he said, “converting the garage. You won’t tell on me, Marlowe, will you?”
“Cross my heart.”
Smiling, he shuffled keys. Then turned serious and stopped.
“What is it, Richard?”
“Wouldn’t it smell- if she was… you know.”
“Depends, Richard. You never can tell.”
Another smile. Shaky. He fumbled with the keys.
“One thing I’m curious about,” I said. “If you thought I was here to dun Kathy for money, why’d you let me in?”
“Simple,” he said. “Material.”
Kathy Moriarty’s home was a twenty-by-twenty room that still reeked of automobile. The floor was wheat- colored linoleum squares; the walls were white plasterboard. The furniture was a twin-size mattress on the floor, sheet crumpled at the foot, revealing sweat-stained blue ticking. Wooden nightstand, round white Formica table, and three metal chairs padded at seat and back with dollops of yellow Hawaiian-print plastic. One of the far corners contained a hot plate on a metal stand; the other, a Fiberglas water closet no bigger than an airplane latrine. Above the hot plate a single bracket shelf held a few dishes and kitchen utensils. On the opposite wall was a makeshift closet frame of white PVC tubing. A few outfits, mostly jeans and shirts, hung from the horizontal tube.
Kathy Moriarty hadn’t spent her sister’s money on interior decorating. I had an idea where the funds had gone.
Skidmore said, “Oh, man.” The skin beneath his stubble was white and one hand was atop his head, snarled in hair.
“What is it?”
“Either someone’s been here or she’s packed out on me.”
“What makes you say that?”
He waved his hands, suddenly agitated. The kid with the poor attention span, struggling to make himself clear.
“This wasn’t the way it looked when she was here. She had luggage- lots of suitcases, a backpack… this big trunk that she used for a coffee table.” He looked around and pointed. “Right there. And there was a pile of books right on it- next to the mattress.”
“What kinds of books?”
“I don’t know- I never checked… but one thing I’m sure of: It didn’t look this way.”
“When’s the last time you saw it look any different?”
The hand in his hair clawed and gathered a clump. “Just before I saw her drive away- when would that be? Maybe five weeks. Or six, I don’t know. It was at night. I brought her some mail, and she was sitting with her feet up on the chest. So the chest was there- that’s for sure. Five or six weeks ago.”
“Any idea what was in the chest?”
“No. For all I know it was empty- but why would anyone take an empty trunk, right? So it probably wasn’t. And if she packed out, why would she leave her clothes and her dishes and stuff?”
“Good thinking, Richard.”
“Very weird.”
We entered the room. He stood back and I began circling. Then I saw something on the floor next to the mattress. Fleck of foam. Couple more. Bending down, I ran my hand along the side of the mattress. More foam fell out. My fingers searched and I found the wound: straight as a seam, surgically neat, barely noticeable even from up close.
“What?” said Skidmore.
“It’s been slit open.”
“Oh, man.” He moved his head from side to side, flapping his hair.
He stayed in place while I got down on my knees, spread the lips of the slit, and peered inside. Nothing. I looked around the rest of the room. Nothing.
“What?” said Skidmore.
“Is the mattress yours or hers?”
“Hers. What’s going on?”
“Looks like someone’s been curious. Or maybe she was hiding something inside. Did she have a TV or stereo?”
“Just a radio. That’s gone, too! But this isn’t about burglary, is it?”
“Hard to tell.”
“But you suspect
“I don’t know enough to suspect anything, Richard. Is there something you know about her that makes
“No,” he said in a loud, tight voice. “She was a lonely dyke who kept to herself- I don’t know what else you expect me to tell you!”
“Nothing, Richard,” I said. “You’ve been a big help. I appreciate the time.”
“Yeah. Sure. Now can I close up? Gotta go call a locksmith, put on a new bolt.”
We left the garage. Once outside, he pointed to the driveway and said, “That’ll take you out.”
I thanked him again and wished him luck on his private-eye essay.
He said, “Cancel that one,” and went inside the house.
33
The first pay phone I found was at a mall on Santa Monica Boulevard. The shopping center was brand-new- empty storefronts, the lot freshly tarred. But the booth had a lived-in smell. Gum clots and cigarette butts littered the floor. The directory had been ripped off its chain.
I called Boston Information and asked for the number of the
A man answered, “GALA.” I heard voices in the background.
“I’d like to speak to someone on the
“Advertising or editorial?”
“Editorial. Someone who knows Kathy- Kate Moriarty.”
“Kate doesn’t work here anymore.”
“I know that. She’s living in L.A., which is where I’m calling from.”
Pause. “What’s this about?”
“I’m an acquaintance of Kate’s and she’s been missing for over a month. Her family’s concerned, so am I, and I thought someone in Boston might be able to help us out.”
“She’s not here, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’d really like to talk to someone on the staff who knows her.”
Another pause. “I’d better take your name and number.”
I gave him both and said, “That’s an answering service. I’m a clinical psychologist- you can check me out in an American Psychological Association directory. You can also call Professor Seth Fiacre over at Boston U.’s psych department. I’d appreciate hearing back as quickly as possible.”
“Well,” he said, “it may not be that quick. You’ll need to talk to the
