“Too bad,” she said. “I’ve searched those bags twice and there’s zilch.”

“You want me to try again? It’s always possible we missed a box.”

“That’s just it. I don’t have them. All those cartons are gone.”

“Where?”

“The dump. A junk dealer taped a flier to my door. He must have been cruising the area, scaring up work. The notice said for fifty bucks in cash, he’d clean out my garage and haul the mess away. I jumped at the chance. I’ve wanted to park my car under cover for years, but there was never any room. Now I’m looking at an audit and what am I supposed to do? I’m just sick about this.”

“I don’t know what to suggest. I can double-check, but if we’d come across tax returns, we’d have set them aside. I did keep one box, but those are confidential files from the old Byrd-Shine days. I have no idea how they ended up in Pete’s hands.”

“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?