W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page B

name, an ID number, and a photo likeness.
    She pushed the card across the counter. “Hi, Ken. Could you check to see if I have mail?”
    She leaned on the counter and peered over the edge. On the desktop below there was a ceramic mug full of toothbrushes, still sealed in cellophane packaging. “Can I have one of those?”
    By way of reply, he held up the mug and watched as she selected a red toothbrush and put it in her fanny pack. He said, “I heard you were sick. Feeling better?”
    She made a face. “I was in the hospital two days. I passed a kidney stone—little bitty thing about the size of a grain of sand—and I’m puking my guts out and shrieking like a banshee. The ER doc thinks I’m faking to score a few Vicodin and that pissed me off. I raised a stink until the other doc signed an order to have me admitted. I finally got a shot of Demerol, no thanks to the asshole who turned me down.”
    “But you’re okay now?”
    “I’d feel better if my check came in. I got two bucks left to my name.”
    He took her ID card and turned away, using his feet to scoot himself from the counter to a metal file cabinet behind him. He put the ID on top and began a finger stroll through the files. After a moment he said, “Nope. Not today.”
    “Can you go through the bin? Might be a big manila envelope with some other paperwork. They said it went out Tuesday, so it should be here.”
    He leaned down to a large white plastic United States Postal Service bin, where oversize and bulky packages were lined up. He took his time, looking at the name on each piece.
    “Sorry.” He rolled himself back to the counter and returned her ID. “Did you talk to Lucy? She was looking for you.”
    “I saw her Thursday, but not since. What’d she want?”
    “No idea. You might take a look at the board and see if she left you a note.”
    She stepped away from the counter and disappeared around the corner at the far end where the bulletin board was apparently mounted on the wall.
    Ken turned his attention to me. “What can I do for you?”
    I toyed with the notion of a ruse, but I couldn’t see the point. “I’m looking for information about a fellow named Terrence. I don’t have his last name, but I’m hoping you’ll know who I mean. He died a couple of days ago.”
    “We can’t give out information about our clients. The social worker might help, but she’s not here today.”
    “What about Dandy or Pearl?”
    His expression remained neutral, as though even acknowledging the existence of a client would violate protocol. “Can’t help. You’re welcome to come in and take a look.”
    Surprised, I said, “Really? You don’t mind if I walk around?”
    “This isn’t a private club. Anyone can join,” he said.
    “Thanks.”
    I circled the common room, which was spacious enough to accommodate the twenty-five people present without any suggestion of crowding. There was a big television set in one corner, but the screen was dark. There was a lone bookcase in evidence, the shelves lined side to side with an ancient-looking set of encyclopedias. One fellow had commandeered a couch for napping purposes, and he was curled up with a jacket over him. There were a few ongoing conversations, but in the main people weren’t doing much. An exception was the two women who sat at either end of a Naugahyde couch with knitting projects. One unraveled row after row of a pink sweater, which shrank in her hands, reduced to a lap full of kinked yarn. The other woman struggled with size-19 needles and a ball of thick green wool. The article she was knitting was impossible to identify, something with bumps and irregular edges and holes where stitches had gotten away from her. I don’t knit often these days, but I’m acquainted with the perils. The same aunt who browbeat me into memorizing the rivers of the world by length (the Nile, the Amazon, the Yangtze, the Mississippi-Missouri, the Yenisey, the Yellow, on and on) also taught me to knit and