Sue Grafton - U Is For Undertow

The business district was low-key, with wide streets and few structures over two stories high. Hale Brandenberg was on the second floor of a chunky office building. At ground level, to the right, there was a real estate company, its front windows papered with photographs of houses for sale; on the left, a title company. A glass-paneled door between the two opened onto a wide carpeted staircase. The directory posted on the wall showed his suite number as 204.

I went up the stairs, marveling at the proportions of the place. The windows in the upper hallway were huge and the ceilings were easily twenty feet high. A race of giants could have moved in and had headroom to spare. The corridor was dead quiet. I counted eight offices, each entrance marked by a transom above the door, the old-world equivalent of air-conditioning. I was taking a chance he’d be out, but when I tapped on his door and then opened it to stick my head in, he was sitting on the floor in the middle of his one-room suite, rubbing saddle soap into one of two worn leather-upholstered chairs.

His office was sparsely furnished-leather-top desk, the two leather chairs, and a bank of filing cabinets. His windows, like those in the corridor, were big and bare, spotlessly clean, revealing an uninterrupted expanse of blue sky. I caught sight of a patch of green across the street, trees just leafing out.

“Housekeeping chores,” he said, explaining his homely activity.

“So I see. Mind if I come in?”

He was a rangy-looking man somewhere in his sixties, with a thin face and a cleft in his chin. His fair hair, cropped short, was threaded with gray. He wore faded jeans and cowboy boots, a Western-cut shirt, and a string tie. He looked like he’d be happier outdoors, preferably on horseback. He’d finished conditioning one of the leather chairs and was working on the second. The sections he’d finished looked darker and more supple. “If you’re looking for Ned, he’s across the hall.”

“I’m looking for you, if you’re Hale Brandenberg.”

“You selling something?”

“No.”

“Serving papers?”

“I’m looking for information.”

“Come on in and have a seat. You can use my desk chair since it’s the only one available. You mind if I work while we talk?”

“Fine with me,” I said. Taking advantage of his offer, I circled his desk and sat. His swivel chair was upholstered where mine was not, but I felt at home anyway because the squeaks were similar. As I watched, I was struck by a sense of familiarity. “I know you. Don’t I know you?”

“I get that a lot. People tell me I look like the Marlboro Man.”

I laughed. “You do.”

He moved his rag across the tin of saddle soap, which he applied to the chair arm with a circular motion. “You have a name?”

“Oh, sorry. Kinsey Millhone. I’m a PI from Santa Teresa. Are you sure we haven’t met? I could swear I’ve run into you. Maybe a professional meeting?”

“I don’t do those. Do you socialize up here?”

“I hardly socialize anywhere.”

“Nor do I. So what can I do for you?”

“Does my name ring a bell?”

He took his time answering. “Possibly, though the context escapes me. Refresh my memory.”

“You worked for my grandmother once upon a time. Cornelia Kinsey.”

He moved from the side of the chair to the back, the leather looking almost wet as he rubbed in the saddle soap. “What makes you think I worked for her?”

“I have the invoices.”

“Mrs. Kinsey still alive?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss her business without her consent.”

“Admirable.”

“You said you’re a PI. You must find yourself in the same boat every now and then.”

“As a matter of fact, it happened in the last two weeks.”

“Then I don’t have to spell out the ethical implications. She paid for the information. It belongs to her.”

“Don’t you think the statute of limitations has run out where I’m concerned?”

“Depends on what you want to know.”

I opened the manila envelope and dumped the letters on his desk. “Know what these are?”

“Not from down here. You want to hold something up where I can see it?”

I picked up a handful of letters, which I fanned out and held in view. “Some of these were sent to my Aunt Gin and some to me. All of them were returned unopened. Well, except the first. It looks like Aunt Gin read that one before she put it back in the mail to Grand.”

“You steal them?”

“No, but I would have, given half a chance. A cousin of mine came across them when she was going through my grandfather’s files. I figured the letters are mine since they’re addressed to me.”

“You’d have to take that up with an attorney. I’m not well versed in the laws governing intellectual property,” he said. “What happened to Virginia Kinsey?”

“She died fifteen years ago.”

“Ah. Well, I’m sorry to hear.”

“I was the sole beneficiary of her estate, which means her letters are mine as well.”

“You won’t catch me arguing the point.”

“Did you know her?”

“I met her in the line of duty, so to speak.”

“You want to hear my theory?”

“I can’t prevent you from voicing an opinion.”

“In the two or three years after my parents’ death, my grandmother was hell-bent on gaining custody of me. It’s all in the letters. I’m guessing you were hired to investigate my Aunt Gin in hopes of impugning her parenting ability.”

Hale Brandenberg said nothing. His rag went around and around while he squinted in the manner of a man who’s accustomed to working with a cigarette in one corner of his mouth. His was a type I’d run across before. The rugged outdoor sort. His humor was dry and understated, and his persona had a comforting appeal.

“No comment?” I asked.

“Don’t think so. I understand your interest, but the same principle applies. You want the information, talk to your granny.”

“She’s in her nineties and losing it, from what I hear. I doubt she’d remember what you did for her.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m free to discuss it with you.”

“Mr. Brandenberg, in less than a month, I’ll be thirty-eight years old. I’m not up for adoption so I don’t see what difference it could possibly make if you confirmed what I’ve said.”

He smiled faintly. “The name’s Hale and you have a point. At your age, I’m sure the court would take your wishes into consideration before making a decision about placement.”

“That’s safely nonresponsive. What if I ask about process instead of content?”

“You can try.”

“What happened to the written reports? I’ve got invoices but nothing else.”

“There weren’t any.”

“How so?”

He smiled. “I’d have to cite confidentiality again.”

“Were you supposed to grab me and run?”

“Oh, god no. I wouldn’t have hired out if that was the point.”

I sorted through the invoices. “She paid you close to four thousand dollars.”

“I put in a lot of hours.”

“Doing what?”

He was quiet and I could see him brooding.

I said, “Look. This is all ancient history. There’s nothing at stake. Whatever Grand’s intentions, she couldn’t have succeeded because here I sit.”

He was quiet for a moment more. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” Surprised, I said, “Sure. I’d like that.”

I pictured a coffee shop, but Hale had something else in mind. We went into the lobby of an office building three doors down. In one corner, there was a coffee cart, complete with wee containers of half-and-half, sugar packets, stirring sticks, and freshly baked cinnamon buns. He glanced at me. “Have you had lunch?”