Alphabet: X by Sue Grafton

Author:Sue Grafton
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi
Published: 2015-08-24T23:00:00+00:00

22

I thought about Pete as I walked the half block home. Sometimes I turn to Henry for counsel and advice, but not in this case. I’d erred, and it was up to me to make amends. I’d misjudged Pete Wolinsky; not entirely, but in certain essentials. Even then, if you’d asked me what sort of man he was, I’d have said he was a crook, someone who chose self-interest over honesty and never hesitated to coax a few bucks from a deal if he could manage it. I did take note that even as I was exonerating him, I continued to condemn him in equal measure, proof positive that our prejudices are nearly impossible to scotch.

The best I could manage for the moment was to concede he could be guilty of bad deeds and still retain a basic goodness at the core. Pete had done what he thought was right, which was to tell Ben Byrd that Morley was corrupt. The Byrd-Shine agency was dissolved, and while Ben never spoke to Morley again, he’d damned Pete in the bargain. I’d damned him as well, thinking myself clever for not revealing my true opinion. All the time Pete knew what I thought of him and yet he’d borne my disdain without complaint. Ruthie, too, had been aware of my scorn, and while she’d challenged my views, she’d continued to offer me her friendship. I was going to have to do something, wasn’t I? As Taryn Sizemore predicted, I now felt compelled to pick up where Pete left off and finish the job for him.

And what was that job? Pete was in possession of the mailing pouch, which he’d gone to some lengths to conceal. As nearly as I could tell, the contents were intended for Lenore’s daughter, and I was curious why he hadn’t handed them over to her. I was hesitant to complete delivery until I understood what was going on. Twenty-eight years had passed, and April would want to know what the delay was about. What was I supposed to tell her when I had no clue? I’d have to drive to Burning Oaks and unearth the story before I did anything else.

I’d just made an impromptu trip to Beverly Hills and the last thing I wanted to do was hit the road again, but if Pete had driven to Burning Oaks, I’d have to do the same. While I continued to whine internally, I was outwardly preparing for the inevitable. I hauled out my map of California, spread it on my kitchen counter, and decided on a route. This was a two-hour drive at best on winding back roads, which were my only choice. I’d take the 101 south as far as the 150 and then head east. Where the 150 met Highway 33, I’d drive north and east on an irregular path that would deposit me in Burning Oaks.

I retrieved my overnight case from the car and replenished my supply of sundries. This time I packed a

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