"Nope, but Pappy used to fool around with locks now I think of it. He got a kick out of it. He liked to take a lock out of a door and file a key to fit."
"I never saw him do that," Bucky said.
"This is when I was a kid. He worked for a locksmith during the Depression. I remember him telling me what a hoot it was. He had this collection of old locks – probably close to a hundred of them – but I haven't seen them for years."
I turned the key over in my hand. The design was ornate, the handle scalloped, with a hole in the other end like a skate key. Viewed straight on, the bit was shaped almost like a question mark. "The lock and keyhole would be odd looking, to say the least. You don't remember anything like it around here?"
Chester's mouth pulled down. "Not me. What about you guys? You know the place better than I do at this point."
Bucky shook his head, and Babe gave a little shrug.
I held the key out to Bergan Jones. "Any ideas?"
Jones smiled slightly, snapping down the locks on his toolbox. "Looks like a gate key. One of those big old iron jobs like they have on estates." He turned to Chester. "You want me to bill you on this?"
"I'll write you a check. Come on down to the kitchen and we'll take care of it. You probably gathered by now my pappy died a few months back. We're still trying to get his affairs sorted out. The safe came as a surprise. People ought to leave instructions. What the hell this is and who's supposed to get that. Anyways, we do appreciate your help."
"That's what I'm in business to do."
The two men departed, leaving Bucky, Babe, and me to contemplate the key. Bucky said, "Now what?"
"I have a friend who knows a lot about locks," I said. "He might have a suggestion about what kind of lock this might fit."
"Might as well. Won't do us any good otherwise."
Babe took the key and inspected it, frowning. "Maybe Pappy kept it because he liked the way it looked," she said. "It's neat. It's old-timey." She handed it to Bucky, who passed it back to me.
"Yeah, but why bother to keep it in a fireproof safe? He could have stuck it in a drawer. He could have wore it on a chain around his neck," he said.
"If you don't object, I'll see what my local expert has to say."
"Fine with me," Bucky said.
I slipped the key in my jeans pocket without mentioning the fact that my local expert was the burglar who'd also given me the set of key picks I carry in my handbag.
Walking back to my place, I found myself reviewing the entire sequence of events. I have to confess the past twenty-four hours had piqued my curiosity. It wasn't necessarily Chester's spy theory, which still seemed farfetched. What bothered me were the vague, unanswered questions surfacing in the old man's life. I like order and tidiness; no clutter and no dust bunnies hidden under the bed.
As soon as I got home, I sat down at my desk, pulled out a pack of index cards, and started making notes. It was amazing how many details I could actually recall once I began committing them to paper. When I'd exhausted the subject, I pinned the cards up on the corkboard that hangs above my desk. I put my feet up on the desk and leaned back in my swivel chair with my hands locked behind my head and studied the whole collection. Something wasn't right, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I shifted some cards around and pinned them up in a new configuration. It was something I'd read. Burma. Something about Chennault and the American Volunteer Group. For the moment the truth eluded me, but I knew it was there. I thought about nailing down the unit he'd served in. Was that really the issue here, or was there something else at stake? In scanning Johnny's books, I'd seen several AVG fighter pilots mentioned by name. One or more of those guys had to be alive today. Couldn't they provide a way to pinpoint Johnny's fighter group? It'd be a pain in the ass, and I sure wasn't going to do it, but I could at least steer Chester in the right direction. I'd have to check back through the books and see if I could find the reference, but what the hell, I wasn't doing anything else. Besides, once I start worrying a knot, I can't let go of it.
I put in a call to my burglar friend, whose number had been disconnected. Rats. Later in the morning I'd try the Santa Teresa Police Department. Detective Halpern in Major Crimes would probably know where he was.
5
By ten a.m. I found myself back at Bucky's. I knocked on the door, but after several minutes went by and nobody answered, I headed down the driveway toward the back. The miscellaneous collection of cardboard boxes had been shoved to one side to make the driveway passable. The garage door on the left was standing open and the Buick was missing. Maybe the three of them had gone out to breakfast. The other half of the two-car garage was piled high with junk, an impenetrable mountain of boxes, old furniture, appliances, and lawn care equipment.