Free J is for Judgment by Sue Grafton Page A

rack, two large cans of crushed tomatoes on the counter, a package of frozen corn and one of black-eyed peas. “I’m making vegetable soup,” he called out. “You can join me for supper.”
    I raised my voice so he could hear me room to room. “I’ll say ‘yes,’ but I gotta warn you you’re risking a cold. I came back with a real doozie. What are you doing back there?”
    Henry reappeared, bringing a stack of fresh hand towels into the kitchen with him. “Folding laundry,” he said. He tucked the towels in a drawer, keeping one out for current use. He stopped and squinted at me. “What’s that on your elbow?”
    I checked the skin on my forearm. The self-tanning lotion had darkened decidedly. My elbow now looked as if it had been swabbed with Betadine in preparation for surgery. “That’s my Tan in a Can. You know I hate to sunbathe. It’ll wash off in another week. At least, I’m
assuming
it will. What’s been happening around here? You seem cheerier than I’ve seen you in months.”
    “Sit down, sit down. You want a cup of tea?”
    I took a seat on his rocker. “This is fine,” I said. “I’ll only stay a minute. I took some medication for my nose and I can barely stand up. I’m thinking to crawl back in bed for the day.”
    Henry took out a can opener and began to crank open the two tins of crushed tomatoes, which he dumped into the kettle. “You’ll never guess what happened. William’s moved in with Rosie.”
    “You mean for good?”
    “I hope. I finally understood that what he did with his life was simply none of my business. I kept thinking I had to save him. It was all so inappropriate. It’s a bad match, but so what? Let him discover that for himself. In the meantime, it was making me crazy to have him underfoot. All that talk about sickness and death, depression and palpitations and his diet. My God. Let him ‘share’ that with her. Let them bore each other senseless.”
    “Sounds like the perfect attitude. When did he move out?”
    “Over the weekend. I helped him pack. I even pitched in and moved some of his boxes. It’s been heaven ever since.” He flashed me a smile as he pickedup the celery and pulled the stalks apart. He rinsed three ribs, then took a knife from the rack and began to dice them. “Go on and hit the sack. You look exhausted. Pop back over here at six and I’ll feed you some soup.”
    “I may take a rain check,” I said. “With luck, I’ll sleep straight through.”
    I let myself into my apartment and staggered up to the loft, where I pulled my shoes off and buried myself in my quilt.
    My phone rang thirty minutes later and I dragged myself up from the drug-induced depths of sleep. It was Rupert Valbusa. He’d had a brief chat with Lieutenant Whiteside, who’d impressed upon him the importance of getting the composite done. He was going out of town for the next five days, but if I was free, he’d be in his studio for another hour. Inwardly I groaned, but I really had no choice. I made a note of the address, which was not far from me in an industrial/commercial area just off the beach. A former Bekins warehouse on lower Anaconda Street had been converted to a complex of artists’ studios available for lease. I put my shoes on and did what I could to make myself presentable. I grabbed my car keys, a jacket, and the photographs of Wendell.
    Outside, the air was damp with the breezes coming off the ocean. As I drove along Cabana Boulevard, I could see patches of pale blue where the cloud cover was breaking up. By late afternoon we might have an hour of sunshine. I parked on a narrow tree-lined side street, locked my VW, and walked around the warehouse to the north side, entering the building through adoor flanked by two impressive metal sculptures. The interior corridors had been painted stark white, hung with framed works of the artists currently in residence. The ceiling in the hallway rose three stories to the roof, where a series of slanted windows