Sue Grafton - T Is For Trespass

Compton had nothing but complaints about his tenants, who were sorry sunza-bitches (his words, not mine). According to him, at the time he’d purchased the property, the units were already overcrowded and ill used. He’d made a few repairs, slapped a coat of paint on the exterior, and raised all the rents. This had driven out the least desirable of the occupants. Those who remained were quick to bellyache and slow to pay.

The tenants in question were the Guffeys, husband and wife, Grant and Jackie respectively. The previous month, Compton had written them a nasty letter about their failure to pay, which the Guffeys had ignored. They were already two months in arrears and perhaps intent on garnering another rent-free month before responding to his threats. I crossed the dead grass, went around the corner of the building, and up a flight of outside stairs. Apartment 18 was on the second floor, the center one of three.

I knocked. After a moment the door was opened to the length of the burglar chain and a woman peered out. “Yes?”

“Are you Jackie?”

A pause. “She’s not here.”

I could see her left eye, blue, and medium-blond hair caught up on rollers the size of frozen orange juice cans. I could also see her left ear, which had sufficient small gold hoops stuck through the cartilage to mimic a spiral-bound notebook. Compton had mentioned the piercings in his description of her, so I was reasonably certain this was Jackie, lying through her teeth. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“What makes you ask?”

Now I was the one who hesitated, trying to decide on my approach. “Her landlord asked me to stop by.”

“What for?”

“I’m not authorized to discuss the matter with anyone else. Are you related to her?”

A pause. “I’m her sister. I’m from Minneapolis.”

The best thing about lying are the flourishes, I thought. I myself am a world-class practitioner. “And your name is?”

“Patty.”

“Mind if I write that down?”

“It’s a free country. You can do anything you want.”

I reached into my shoulder bag and found a pen and a small lined notebook. I wrote “Patty” on the first page. “Last name?”

“I don’t have to tell.”

“Are you aware that Jackie and her husband haven’t paid rent for the past two months?”

“Who cares? I’m visiting. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Well, maybe you could pass along a message from the guy who owns the place.”

I handed her the eviction notice, which she took before she realized what it was. I said, “That’s a three-day pay or quit. They can pay in full or vacate the premises. Tell ’em to pick one.”

“You can’t do that.”

“It’s not me. It’s him and he warned them. You can remind your ‘sister’ of that when she gets home.”

“How come he doesn’t have to live up to his side of the deal?”

“As in what?”

“Why should they be prompt when the son of a bitch takes his time about making repairs, assuming he gets to them at all. She’s got windows won’t open, drains backed up. She can’t even use the kitchen sink. She has to do all the dishes in the bathroom basin. Take a look around. The place is a dump and you know what the rent is? Six hundred bucks a month. It cost a hundred and twenty dollars to get the wiring fixed or they’d’ve burned the building down. That’s why they haven’t paid, because he won’t reimburse ’em for the money they spent.”

“I can sympathize, but I can’t give you legal advice even if I had any to offer. Mr. Compton’s acting within his rights and you’ll have to do that, too.”

“Rights, my ass. What rights? I stay here and put up with his crap or I have to move out. What kind of deal is that?”

“The deal you signed before you moved in,” I said. “You want your side heard, you can join a tenants association.”

“Bitch.” She slammed the door in my face, at least so far as she could manage with the burglar chain in place.

I got back in my car and headed for the notary’s office, so I could dot all my i’s and cross my t’s.

When I got back to the office after lunch, the message light was blinking on my answering machine. I pushed the Play button.

A woman said, “Hello? Oh. I hope this is the right number. This is Dewel Greathouse. I’m calling in regard to a flyer I found in my door yesterday? The thing is, I’m almost sure I’ve seen that gentleman. Could you give me a call when you get this? Thanks. Oh. I can be reached at…” She rattled off the number.

I snatched up a pen and a pad of paper, and jotted down what I remembered, then replayed the message to verify the information. I punched in the number, which rang half a dozen times.

The woman who finally answered was clearly out of breath. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Greathouse? Is that Dewel, or did I misunderstand the name?”

“That’s right. Dewel with a D. Hang on a second. I just ran up a flight of steps. Sorry.”

“Not a problem. Take your time.”

Finally, she said, “Whew! I was on my way back from the laundry room when I heard the phone. Who’s this?”

“Kinsey Millhone. I’m returning your call. You left a message on my machine in response to one of the flyers I distributed in your neighborhood.”

“I sure did. I remember now, but I don’t believe you gave your name.”

“Sorry about that, but I appreciate your calling.”

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why are you looking for this gentleman? I wouldn’t want to get anyone in trouble. The flyer said something about an accident. Did he hit someone?”

I went back through my explanation, making it clear that the man didn’t cause or contribute to the accident. I said, “He was more the Good Samaritan. I’m working for an attorney who’s hoping he can give us a report of what went on.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that’s all right then. I don’t know that I can be much help, but when I read the description, I knew exactly who you meant.”

“Does he live in the area?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve seen him sitting at the bus stop at Vista del Mar and Palisade. You know the one I mean?”

“At City College?”

“That’s it, only on the opposite side.”

“Okay. Right.”

“I’ve noticed him because that’s my street and I pass him as I’m driving home. I have to slow to make the turn and I’m looking in that direction.”

“How often do you see him?”

“Couple of afternoons a week for the past year I’d say.”

“And this is since last May?”

“Oh yes.”

“Can you tell me which days of the week?”

“Not offhand. I moved to my apartment in June of ’86 after I took a new part-time job.”

“What sort of work do you do?”

“I’m in the service department at Dutton Motors. What’s nice is I’m only ten minutes from work, which is why I took this apartment to begin with.”

“What time of day, would you say?”

“Midafternoon. I get home at two fifty pretty much without fail. I’m just half a mile away so it doesn’t take me long once I’m on the road.”

“You know anything about him?”

“Not really. It’s mostly what you said. He’s got thick white hair and he wears a brown leather jacket. I only see him in passing so I really couldn’t guess age or eye color or anything like that.”

“You think he works in the neighborhood?”

“That’d be my guess. Maybe as a handyman or something of that nature.”

“Could he be employed at City College?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” she said, sounding skeptical. “He looks too old to be a student. I know a lot of older people are going back to school, but I’ve never seen him with a backpack or briefcase. All the college kids I see carry something of the sort. Books at the very least. If you want to talk to him, you might catch him at the bus stop.”