“Oh, wait a minute. The IRS does list Byrd-Shine in the document request, now you mention it. Hold on.”

I heard papers rattling, and then she said, “I can’t find the reference now, but it’s in here somewhere. You don’t need to bother Dietz, but could you check the box you have? I don’t need much; I’m guessing a few old bank statements would suffice. If I can hand over anything, it would be a show of good faith, which is about all I have to offer.”

“I’ll inventory the contents as soon as possible.”

“No big hurry. I’m driving up to Lompoc this coming weekend to celebrate my birthday with a friend—”

“I didn’t know it was your birthday. Happy birthday!”

“Thanks. We’re not doing much . . . just hanging out . . . but I haven’t seen her since Pete died and I thought it’d be nice to get away.”

“Absolutely. When do you get back?”

“Sunday afternoon, which gives you some wiggle room. Even if I called the IRS today, I doubt I’d get in right away. They must have a waiting list a mile long,” she said. “Oh. And while you’re at it, keep this in mind: Pete had a habit of tucking stray documents between the pages of other files. Sometimes he’d hide money, too, so don’t toss out any hundred-dollar bills.”

“I remember the wad of cash he buried in the bag of birdseed.”

“That was something, wasn’t it? He claimed the system was designed to fool the bad guys. He could remember where he’d put all the bits and pieces, but he wouldn’t explain his strategy. Anyway, I’m sorry to trouble you with this. I know it’s a pain.”

“Not a big deal. Fifteen or twenty minutes tops.”

“I appreciate that.”

“In the meantime, you better talk to a tax expert.”

“Ha! I can’t afford one.”

“Better that than getting hosed.”

“Good point. My neighbor’s an attorney. I’ll ask him who he knows.”

We chatted briefly of other matters and then we hung up. Once again, I found myself brooding about Pete Wolinsky, which I was doing more often than I care to admit. In the wake of his death, it became clear how irresponsible he’d been, leaving Ruthie with little more than a mess on her hands. His business files, such as they were, had been relegated to countless dusty and dilapidated cardboard boxes, stacked ten deep and eight high in their two-car garage, filling the interior to capacity. In addition, there were piles of unpaid bills, dunning notices, threats of lawsuits, and no life insurance. Pete had carried a policy that would have netted her a handsome sum, but he’d let the premiums lapse. Even so, she adored him, and who was I to judge?

To be fair about it, I suppose you could call him a good-hearted soul, as long as you included an asterisk referring to the small print below. As a perfect example, Pete had told Ruthie he was taking her on a cruise on the Danube for their fortieth wedding anniversary coming up the following year. He’d intended to surprise her, but he couldn’t help revealing the plan in advance. The real surprise came after his death, when she found out he was paying for the trip with money he’d extorted in a blackmail scheme. She asked for the deposit back and used the refund to satisfy some of his creditors, and that was that. In the meantime, she wasn’t hurting for income. Ruthie was a private-duty nurse, and her services were much in demand. From the schedule I’d seen taped to her refrigerator door, she worked numerous shifts and could probably name her price regardless of the going rate.

As for the banker’s box, I’d put a big black X on the lid and shoved it under the desk in my studio apartment, so the task would have to wait until I got home. I’d been meaning to inspect the contents in any event. If, as I anticipated, the old files were inactive or closed, I’d send them to a shredding company and be done with it.

I’d no more than hung up when the phone rang again. I reached for the handset, saying, “Millhone Investigations.”

There was a pause, and a woman said, “Hello?”

I said, “Hello?”

“Oh, sorry. I was expecting a machine. May I speak to Ms. Millhone?”

Her tone was refined, and even through the phone line I could smell money on her breath. “This is she,” I said.

“My name is Hallie Bettancourt. Vera Hess suggested I get in touch with you about a personal matter.”

“That was nice of her. She had an office next door to mine at California Fidelity Insurance, where I worked once upon a time,” I said. “I take it you’re a friend of hers?”