My quest for law and order began in the first grade when I ventured into the cloakroom and surprised a classmate snitching a chocolate bar from my Howdy Doody lunch box. The teacher appeared at that very moment and caught the child with my candy in hand. I anticipated due process, but the sniveling little shit burst into tears, claiming I’d stolen it from her. She received no punishment at all while I was reprimanded for leaving my seat without raising my hand and asking to be excused. My teacher turned a deaf ear to my howls of protest. From that singular event, my notion of fair play was set, and, in sum, it is this: the righteous are struck down while the sticky-fingered escape. I’ve labored all my life to see that justice plays out the other way around.
That particular Monday morning, I was paying my bills, feeling oh-so virtuous, as why would I not? I’d written and signed all the pertinent checks and felt only slightly anxious about the drain on my funds. I’d addressed and sealed the return envelopes. As I licked and placed stamps, I was humming with satisfaction and looking forward to lunch. When the phone rang, I lifted the handset and anchored it against my shoulder, saying, “Millhone Investigations.”
“Hi, Kinsey. This is Ruthie. Did I catch you at an okay time?”
“Sure. What’s going on?”
“Well, I’m fit to be tied. I swear, about the time I think I’m through the worst of it, something else comes up. Today I got this official-looking letter from the IRS. Pete’s being audited, of all things. I’m supposed to call to set up an appointment.”
“Can’t you tell them he’s dead?”
“I could, but that’s probably what triggered the audit in the first place.”
Ruthie Wolinsky had been widowed some seven months before, in August of 1988, when her husband was shot to death in what looked like a robbery gone wrong. I’d made Pete Wolinsky’s acquaintance ten years prior. Like me, he was a private detective, who’d worked for an agency called Byrd-Shine Investigations. I’d apprenticed with Ben Byrd and Morley Shine when I was racking up the hours I needed for licensing. Pete was a contemporary of theirs. Both of my bosses swore he was once a top-notch detective, but at the point where our paths intersected, he’d fallen on hard times. By then, he was a man so morally bent, I marveled he managed to find work anywhere. While I disliked him, I was then twenty-seven years old and newly employed and didn’t feel it was my place to make my thoughts known. Besides which, no one asked and I doubt they’d have listened if I’d volunteered my views.
I’d thought the world of the two seasoned detectives, and I still conducted business in the time-honored ways they’d taught me. Unfortunately, Ben and Morley had quarreled bitterly and the partnership had been dissolved. They went their separate ways, setting up independent agencies. I was already out on my own by then and never heard the details of their falling-out. Whatever the dispute, it had nothing to do with me, so I shrugged it off. Now both were deceased and I assumed the past was dead and buried along with them. As for Ruthie, over the years I’d seen her from time to time, but we didn’t become friends until shortly after Pete was killed.
I pondered the historical context while she went on to describe the latest crisis, saying, “Sorry to bother you with this, but let me read you what it says. They’re asking for ‘Schedule C gross receipts. Year-end papers and reports, including worksheets reconciling books and records for the tax years 1986 and 1987.’” She continued in a singsong voice. “‘In addition, please provide any and all business records, files, expenses, and receipts for the period 1975 through 1978.’”
“Are you kidding me? That goes back fifteen years. I thought after seven you could throw that crap out.”
“I guess not, at least according to this. Our accountant retired last year, and I’m having a devil of a time getting through to the fellow who took over for him. I was hoping when you and Dietz went through Pete’s boxes, you might have come across our old tax returns.”
Robert Dietz was the Nevada private investigator whose help I’d enlisted during the period just after Pete was killed. Much more to the story, of course, but I made a point of putting it out of my mind. “I don’t think so. I can’t swear to it, but the whole point was tracking down his accounts, so anything with a dollar sign attached we shoved in plastic bags, which we handed over to you.”
“Too bad,” she said. “I’ve searched those bags twice and there’s zilch.”
“You want me to try again? It’s always possible we missed a box.”
“That’s just it. I don’t have them. All those cartons are gone.”
“Where?”
“The dump. A junk dealer taped a flier to my door. He must have been cruising the area, scaring up work. The notice said for fifty bucks in cash, he’d clean out my garage and haul the mess away. I jumped at the chance. I’ve wanted to park my car under cover for years, but there was never any room. Now I’m looking at an audit and what am I supposed to do? I’m just sick about this.”
“I don’t know what to suggest. I can double-check, but if we’d come across tax returns, we’d have set them aside. I did keep one box, but those are confidential files from the old Byrd-Shine days. I have no idea how they ended up in Pete’s hands.”