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Authors: Sue Grafton
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up.”
“Shouldn’t be that hard,” he said. “Meanwhile, what are the chances of you coming by and working with our police artist on a composite? We just hired a kid named Rupert Valbusa. He’s a whiz at this stuff.”
“Sure. I could do that,” I said. Mentally I was calculating the worrisome issue of Wendell’s likeness suddenly being plastered everywhere. “California Fidelity doesn’t want him scared off.”
“I understand, and believe me, we don’t either. I know a lot of people with a vested interest in seeing this guy picked up,” Whiteside said. “You have any recent pictures of him?”
“Just some black-and-white photographs Mac Voorhies provided, but those are six and seven years old. What about you? There’s not a mug shot, is there?”
“No, but we had a photograph that went out when Jaffe first disappeared. We can probably adjust that one upward for age. What kind of cosmetic work has he had done, could you say?”
“I’d guess chin implant and cheeks, and he’s maybe had his nose refined. From the pictures I was given, it looks like his nose used to be broader across the bridge. Also, his hair is snowy white now, and he’s bulked up to some extent. Aside from that, he looks pretty fit. Nobody I’d want to tangle with.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give you Rupert’s number and you two can work out your own arrangements. He doesn’t come in on a regular basis, just when we need him to work something up. Soon as he’s done, we can issue a ‘be on the lookout.’ I can contact Perdido County Sheriff’s Department, and in the meantime I’ll call the local FBI offices. They may want to distribute a bulletin of their own.”
“I’m assuming there’s still an arrest warrant outstanding.”
“Yes, ma’am. I ran a check before I picked up the telephone. The feds may want him, too. We’ll just have to see what kind of luck we have.” He gave me Rupert Valbusa’s telephone number, then added, “The sooner we can get this in circulation, the better.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
I tried Rupert’s number and got his machine. I left him my name, my home telephone number, and a message, encompassing the bare bones of the case. I suggested an early morning meeting if his schedule permitted and asked him to get back to me to confirm.I hauled out the telephone book and checked the white pages under Eckert. There were eleven of them listed, along with two variations: one Eckhardt and one Eckhart, which I didn’t think were correct. I tried all thirteen numbers but couldn’t stir up a “Carl” among them.
I dialed Information in Perdido/Olvidado. There was only one Eckert listed and that was under the name Frances, whose tone was one of polite caution when I told her I was looking for Carl.
“There’s no one here by that name,” she said.
I could feel myself cock an ear, like a dog picking up a signal pitched beyond human hearing. She hadn’t said she didn’t
know
him. “Are you related to Carl Eckert, by any chance?”
There was a moment of silence. “He’s my ex-husband. May I ask what this is about?”
“Sure. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator up here in Santa Teresa, and I’m trying to track down some of Wendell Jaffe’s old friends.”
“Wendell?” she said. “I thought he was dead.”
“Looks like he’s not. In fact, I’ve been trying to contact old friends and acquaintances on the off chance he might be getting in touch. Is Carl still in the area?”
“Actually, he’s up in Santa Teresa, living on a boat.”
“Really,” I said. “And you’re divorced?”
“You bet. I divorced Carl four years ago when he started doing time. I had absolutely no intention of being married to a jailbird.”
“I can’t say I blame you.”
“I’d have done it if anybody blamed me or not. What a smooth-talking skunk he turned out to be. Youfind him, you can tell him I said so. There’s no love lost between us.”
“Do you happen to have a
“Shouldn’t be that hard,” he said. “Meanwhile, what are the chances of you coming by and working with our police artist on a composite? We just hired a kid named Rupert Valbusa. He’s a whiz at this stuff.”
“Sure. I could do that,” I said. Mentally I was calculating the worrisome issue of Wendell’s likeness suddenly being plastered everywhere. “California Fidelity doesn’t want him scared off.”
“I understand, and believe me, we don’t either. I know a lot of people with a vested interest in seeing this guy picked up,” Whiteside said. “You have any recent pictures of him?”
“Just some black-and-white photographs Mac Voorhies provided, but those are six and seven years old. What about you? There’s not a mug shot, is there?”
“No, but we had a photograph that went out when Jaffe first disappeared. We can probably adjust that one upward for age. What kind of cosmetic work has he had done, could you say?”
“I’d guess chin implant and cheeks, and he’s maybe had his nose refined. From the pictures I was given, it looks like his nose used to be broader across the bridge. Also, his hair is snowy white now, and he’s bulked up to some extent. Aside from that, he looks pretty fit. Nobody I’d want to tangle with.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give you Rupert’s number and you two can work out your own arrangements. He doesn’t come in on a regular basis, just when we need him to work something up. Soon as he’s done, we can issue a ‘be on the lookout.’ I can contact Perdido County Sheriff’s Department, and in the meantime I’ll call the local FBI offices. They may want to distribute a bulletin of their own.”
“I’m assuming there’s still an arrest warrant outstanding.”
“Yes, ma’am. I ran a check before I picked up the telephone. The feds may want him, too. We’ll just have to see what kind of luck we have.” He gave me Rupert Valbusa’s telephone number, then added, “The sooner we can get this in circulation, the better.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
I tried Rupert’s number and got his machine. I left him my name, my home telephone number, and a message, encompassing the bare bones of the case. I suggested an early morning meeting if his schedule permitted and asked him to get back to me to confirm.I hauled out the telephone book and checked the white pages under Eckert. There were eleven of them listed, along with two variations: one Eckhardt and one Eckhart, which I didn’t think were correct. I tried all thirteen numbers but couldn’t stir up a “Carl” among them.
I dialed Information in Perdido/Olvidado. There was only one Eckert listed and that was under the name Frances, whose tone was one of polite caution when I told her I was looking for Carl.
“There’s no one here by that name,” she said.
I could feel myself cock an ear, like a dog picking up a signal pitched beyond human hearing. She hadn’t said she didn’t
know
him. “Are you related to Carl Eckert, by any chance?”
There was a moment of silence. “He’s my ex-husband. May I ask what this is about?”
“Sure. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator up here in Santa Teresa, and I’m trying to track down some of Wendell Jaffe’s old friends.”
“Wendell?” she said. “I thought he was dead.”
“Looks like he’s not. In fact, I’ve been trying to contact old friends and acquaintances on the off chance he might be getting in touch. Is Carl still in the area?”
“Actually, he’s up in Santa Teresa, living on a boat.”
“Really,” I said. “And you’re divorced?”
“You bet. I divorced Carl four years ago when he started doing time. I had absolutely no intention of being married to a jailbird.”
“I can’t say I blame you.”
“I’d have done it if anybody blamed me or not. What a smooth-talking skunk he turned out to be. Youfind him, you can tell him I said so. There’s no love lost between us.”
“Do you happen to have a
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