W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery) by Sue Grafton Page B

his line of work, it didn’t pay to be too fastidious. As long as he delivered the goods, his clients looked the other way. Most made a point of not inquiring too closely about his methods. For years he’d sidestepped the Business and Professions Codes that governed the practices of private investigators. By his reckoning, he’d violated most of them anyway, so why get all prissy at this point? His clients didn’t seem to care what he did as long as nothing blew back on them. So far he hadn’t been caught , which was, after all, the point. As long as he wasn’t apprehended in the course of an illegal act, he wasn’t subject to censure. He was immune from threats of having his license yanked since he hadn’t operated with a valid PI license for some years. Those who hired him understood that whatever their needs, fees would be paid in cash before he embarked on a job and little would be committed to paper. A contract was sealed by gentlemen’s agreement, confirmed by a handshake, and accompanied by a nod and a wink.
    Once in Colgate proper, he turned off the main street onto Cherry Lane, leaning forward to catch house numbers. The address he was searching for turned out to be a twelve-unit apartment complex, built during the fifties by the look of it, not shabby but with the glum air of postwar construction. He found a parking spot, locked the car, and walked back to the entrance. An iron gate opened into a spacious courtyard partly shaded by young trees. Now he pictured a schoolteacher or the general manager of a fast-food restaurant, though why either would be home at this hour was anybody’s guess. Maybe the problem was a business dispute or a slip-and-fall claim, something involving an insurance company, which would allow him to pump up his bill into the four-figure range. Pad his hours, pad expenses, exaggerate the difficulty of the job, and then string it out.
    Apartment 4 was on the ground floor near the rear of the building. He rang the bell and then turned to do a quick survey of the premises. No kids’ toys in evidence and no swimming pool. In the central grassy area, a set of metal lawn chairs and a glider had been arranged in a conversational grouping that suggested an occasional gathering of the residents. These were probably the kind of folks who looked after one another. Always admirable, he thought. The shrubs needed pruning and the flower beds were riddled with weeds, but the basic landscaping design was good.
    The door opened and when he turned to face his prospective client, he made quick work of covering his surprise. The fellow had had the crap knocked out of him at some point, though Pete guessed the injury wasn’t recent. Willard Bryce had propped himself upright using a pair of lightweight aluminum forearm crutches with rubber handgrips and vinyl-coated contoured arm cuffs. His left leg was intact, but the right was half gone, his pant leg empty from the knee down. There was also something about his pelvic area that suggested irreparably crushed bones. There were no visible scars in evidence, so there was no way to guess what had happened to him.
    His red hair was clipped close to his skull and his light blue eyes seemed faded under pale ginger brows. His eyelids had a pinkish cast as though itchy from an allergy. His upper lip and chin were shaded with a two-day growth of facial hair. He was thin. His dress shirt was open at the collar, exposing a bony, hairless chest. He’d rolled his sleeves up above his elbows, and his pale arms were hairless as well.
    The young man held out his right hand, saying, “I’m Willard Bryce, Mr. Wolinsky. I appreciate your coming out.”
    “Happy to oblige,” Pete said. He shook Bryce’s hand, watching Bryce’s reaction to his own appearance, which usually netted him second looks. Pete was very tall and stooped, with disproportionately long arms, legs, fingers, and feet. He suffered a curvature of the spine and his breastbone dipped inward. He was