Q R S T

four SUE GRAFTON novels

Q is for Quarry
R is for Ricochet
S is for Silence
T is for Trespass

Table of Contents

Q is for Quarry

R is for Ricochet

S is for Silence

T is for Trespass

Q IS FOR QUARRY

SUE GRAFTON

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

While inspired by a real case, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Q IS FOR QUARRY

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2002 by Sue Grafton.

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 9781101360644

BERKLEY®
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO

Bill Turner and Deborah Linden
Bob and Nancy Failing
and
Susan and Gary Gulbransen.
Thank you for making this one possible.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of the following people: Steven Humphrey; Dr. Robert Failing; Retired Sergeant Detective Bill Turner and Retired Chief Deputy Bruce Correll, Criminal Investigations Division; Sergeant Bob Spinner, Forensics Science Unit, and Diana Stetson, Jail Administration and Custody Operations, Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Department; retired Coroner’s Investigator Larry Gillespie, Santa Barbara County Coroner’s Office; Betty Pat Gatliff, Forensic Sculptor; John Mackall, Attorney-at-Law; Lucy Thomas and Nadine Greenup, Reeves Medical Library, and Anna Bissell, R.N., O.C.N., Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital; Martin Walker, M.D.; Robert Sorg, Bob’s Canvas Shop; Chuck Nation, Nation’s Auto Upholstery; Linda Perkins, DeBrovy’s Custom Canvas; Richard Madison; Anita Donohue, Julian Ranch; Lamar and Cheri Gable; Jay Schmidt; Maggie Harding; and Joe B. Jones.

Special thanks, also, to Joe Mandel, Gregory Spears, and Chris Kovach for the use of their names.

Q IS FOR QUARRY

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Author’s Note

1

It was Wednesday, the second week in April, and Santa Teresa was making a wanton display of herself. The lush green of winter, with its surfeit of magenta and salmon bougainvillea, had erupted anew in a splashy show of crocuses, hyacinths, and flowering plum trees. The skies were a mild blue, the air balmy and fragrant. Violets dotted the grass. I was tired of spending my days closeted in the hall of records, searching out grant deeds and tax liens for clients who were, doubtless, happily pursuing tennis, golf, and other idle amusements.

I suppose I was suffering from a mutant, possibly incurable form of spring fever, which consisted of feeling bored, restless, and disconnected from humanity at large. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private detective in Santa Teresa, California, ninety-five miles north of Los Angeles. I’d be turning thirty-seven on May 5, which was coming up in four weeks, an event that was probably contributing to my general malaise. I lead a stripped-down existence untroubled by bairn, pets, or living household plants.

On February 15, two months before, I’d moved into new offices, having separated myself from my association with the law firm of Kingman and Ives. Lonnie Kingman had purchased a building on lower State Street, and though he’d offered to take me with him, I felt it was time to be out on my own.

That was my first mistake.

My second was an unfortunate encounter with two landlords in a deal that went sour and left me out in the cold.

My third office-related error was the one I now faced. In desperation, I’d rented space in a nondescript cottage on Caballeria Lane, where a row of identical stucco bungalows were lined up at the curb like the Three Little Pigs. The block—short, narrow, and lined with cars—ran between Santa Teresa Street and Arbor, a block north of Via Madrina, in the heart of downtown. While the price was right and the location was excellent—in easy walking distance of the courthouse, the police station, and the public library—the office itself fell woefully short of ideal.

The interior consisted of two rooms. The larger I designated as my office proper; the smaller I was using as a combination library-and-reception area. In addition, there was a galley-style kitchen, where I kept a small refrigerator, my coffeepot, and my Sparkletts water dispenser. There was also a small fusty half-bath with a sorrowful-looking toilet and sink. The whole of it smelled like mildew, and I suspected at night wee creatures scuttled around the baseboards after all the lights were turned off. By way of compensation, the building’s owner had offered unlimited cans of an off-brand paint, and I’d spent the better part of a week rolling coats of white latex over the former pulsating pink, a shade reminiscent of internal organs at work. He’d also agreed to have the rugs cleaned, not that anyone could tell. The beige high-low, wall-to-wall nylon carpeting was matted from long wear and seemed to be infused with despair. I’d arranged and rearranged my desk, my swivel chair, my file cabinets, sofa, and assorted artificial plants. Nothing dispelled the general air of weariness that infected the place. I had plenty of money in savings (twenty-five thousand bucks if it’s anybody’s business) so, in theory, I could have held out for much classier digs. On the other hand, at three fifty a month, the space was affordable and satisfied one of my basic principles in life, which is: Never, never, never to live beyond my means. I don’t want to be compelled to take on work to meet my overhead. The office is meant to serve me, not the other way around.

Since the bungalows on either side of mine were vacant, I was feeling isolated, which may account for a newfound ambivalence about my single status in a world of married folk. Except for two brief failed marriages, I’d been unattached for most of my natural life. This had never bothered me. More often than not, I rejoiced in my freedom, my mobility, and my solitude. Lately, circumstances had conspired to unsettle my habitual content.

Earlier that week, I’d encountered my friend Vera with her husband, (Dr.) Neil Hess. I was sneaking in a late-afternoon jog on the bike path at the beach when I’d spotted them sauntering along ahead of me. Vera was a former employee of California Fidelity Insurance, for which I’d also worked. She’d met Neil, decided he was too short for her, and tried passing him off on me. I knew at a glance they were smitten with each other, and despite protests to the contrary, I’d persuaded her that he was her perfect match, which had turned out to be true. The two of them were accompanied that afternoon by their eighteen-month-old son in his stroller and a grinning golden retriever pup, frolicking and prancing, tugging at his leash. Vera—massive, lumbering, milky, and serene—was clearly expecting again, apparently in mere days, judging by her swollen state. We paused to chat and I realized that in the three and a half years since I’d last seen her, my life hadn’t changed a whit. Same apartment, same car, same work, same boyfriend in absentia in a relationship that was going no place. The revelation generated a prolonged pang of regret.

Meanwhile, Henry, my beloved landlord, was off cruising the Caribbean in the company of his siblings and his sister-in-law, Rosie, who owns the tavern half a block from my apartment. I’d been bringing in his mail, watering his houseplants once a week and his yard every couple of days. Rosie’s restaurant would be closed for another five days, so until the three of them returned home, I couldn’t even have supper in familiar surroundings. I know all of this sounds ever so faintly like whining, but I feel morally obliged to tell the truth.

That Wednesday morning, I’d decided my attitude would greatly improve if I quit feeling sorry for myself and got my office squared away. To that end, I’d gone to a thrift store and purchased two additional (used) file cabinets, an upright wooden cupboard with assorted pigeon holes, and a funky painted armoire to house my accumulation of office supplies. I was perched on a low stool surrounded by cartons I hadn’t unpacked since I’d moved into Lonnie’s office three and a half years before. This felt a little bit like Christmas in that I was discovering items I’d long forgotten I had.

I’d just reached the bottom of box number three (of a total of eight) when I heard a knock at the door. I yelled “I’m here!” When I turned, Lieutenant Dolan was standing on the threshold, his hands sunk in the pockets of his tan raincoat.

“Hey, what are you doing here? It’s been months.” I got up and dusted my hand on the seat of my jeans before extending it to him.

His grip was strong and warm, his smile almost sheepish, as pleased to see me as I was to see him. “I ran into Lonnie at the courthouse. He said you’d rented this place so I thought I’d pop in.”

“That’s great. I appreciate the visit.”

“I see you’re getting settled.”

“About time. I moved in February fifteenth and haven’t done a thing.”

“I hear business is slow.”

“It is—at least the kind of jobs I like.”

I watched while Con Dolan made a circuit of the room. He seemed ill at ease and covered his discomfort by wading through a steady stream of small talk. He chatted idly about Lonnie, the weather, and miscellaneous matters while I made what I hoped were the appropriate responses. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted, but I assumed he’d get down to his purpose in due course. He’d never been the type to drop in unannounced. I’d known him for ten years, the greater portion of which he’d headed up the homicide unit of the Santa Teresa Police Department. He was currently out on a medical disability, sidelined by a series of heart attacks. I’d heard he was eager to return to work full-time. According to the scuttlebutt, his chances ran somewhere between slim and none.

He paused to check out the inner office, glanced into the half-bath, and then circled back in my direction. “Lonnie said you weren’t crazy about the place and I can see your point. It’s grim.”

“Isn’t it? I can’t figure it out. I know it needs something, but I can’t think what.”

“You need art.”

“You think so?” I let my gaze trace the bare white walls.

“Sure. Get yourself some big travel posters and some double-sided tape. It’d perk the place right up. Failing that, you might at least wipe the dust off the artificial plants.”

He was in his early sixties and his cardiac problems had left his complexion looking sour. The usual bags under his eyes had turned a dark smokey shade, making his whole face seem sunken in circulatory gloom. He was apparently marking the time away from the department by shaving every other day, and this wasn’t the one. His face had tended to be pouchy in the best of times, but now his mouth was pulled down in a permanent expression of malcontent. Just my kind of guy.

I could tell he was still smoking because his raincoat, when he moved, smelled of nicotine. The last time I remembered seeing him he was in a hospital bed. The visit had been awkward. Up to that point, I’d always been intimidated by the man, but then I’d never seen him in a cotton hospital nightie with his puckered butt on display through a slit down the back. I’d felt friendlier toward him since. I knew he liked me despite the fact his manner in the past had alternated between surly and abrupt.

I said, “So what’s up? I can’t believe you walked all the way over here to give me decorating tips.”

“Actually, I’m on my way to lunch and thought you might join me—if you’re free, that is.”

I glanced at my watch. It was only 10:25. “Sure, I could do that. Let me get my bag and my jacket and I’ll meet you out in front.”

We took off on foot, walking to the corner, where we turned right and headed north on Santa Teresa Street. I thought we’d be going to the Del Mar or the Arcade, two restaurants where guys from the PD gravitated for lunch. Instead, we soldiered on for another three blocks and finally turned into a hole-in-the-wall known as “Sneaky Pete’s,” though the name on the entrance sign said something else. The place was largely empty: one couple at a table and a smattering of day drinkers sitting at the far end of the bar. Dolan took a seat at the near end and I settled myself on the stool to his left. The bartender laid her cigarette in an ashtray, reached for a bottle of Old Forrester, and poured him a drink before he opened his mouth. He paused to light a cigarette and then he caught my look. “What?”

“Well, gee, Lieutenant Dolan, I was just wondering if this was part of your cardiac rehabilitation.”

He turned to the bartender. “She thinks I don’t take very good care of myself.”

She placed the glass in front of him. “Wonder where she got that?”

I pegged her in her forties. She had dark hair that she wore pulled away from her face and secured by tortoiseshell combs. I could see a few strands of gray. Not a lot of makeup, but she looked like someone you could trust in a bartenderly sort of way. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ll have a Coke.”

Dolan cocked his thumb at me. “Kinsey Millhone. She’s a PI in town. We’re having lunch.”

“Tannie Ottweiler,” she said, introducing herself. “Nice to meet you.” We shook hands and then she reached down and came up with two sets of cutlery, encased in paper napkins, that she placed in front of us. “You sitting here?”

Dolan tilted his head. “We’ll take that table by the window.”

“I’ll be there momentarily.”

Dolan tucked his cigarette in his mouth, the smoke causing his right eye to squint as he picked up his whiskey and moved away from the bar. I followed, noting that he’d chosen a spot as far from the other drinkers as he could get. We sat down and I set my handbag on a nearby chair. “Is there a menu?”

He shed his raincoat and took a sip of whiskey. “The only thing worth ordering is the spicy salami on a kaiser roll with melted pepper jack. Damn thing’ll knock your socks off. Tannie puts a fried egg on top.”

“Sounds great.”

Tannie appeared with my Coke. There was a brief time-out while Dolan ordered our sandwiches.

As we waited for lunch, I said, “So what’s going on?”

He shifted in his seat, making a careful survey of the premises before his gaze returned to mine. “You remember Stacey Oliphant? He retired from the Sheriff’s Department maybe eight years back. You must have met him.”

“Don’t think so. I know who he is—everybody talks about Stacey—but he’d left the department by the time I connected up with Shine and Byrd.” Morley Shine had been a private investigator in partnership with another private eye named Benjamin Byrd. Both had been tight with the sheriff’s office. They’d hired me in 1974 and trained me in the business while I acquired the hours I needed to apply for my license. “He must be in his eighties.”

Dolan shook his head. “He’s actually seventy-three. As it turns out, being idle drove him out of his mind. He couldn’t handle the stress so he went back to the SO part-time, working cold cases for the criminal investigations division.”

“Nice.”

“That part, yes. What’s not nice is he’s been diagnosed with cancer—non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. This is the second time around for him. He was in remission for years, but the symptoms showed up again about seven months ago. By the time he found out, it’d progressed to stage four—five being death, just so you get the drift. His long-term prognosis stinks; twenty percent survival rate if the treatment works, which it might not. He did six rounds of chemo and a passel of experimental drugs. Guy’s been sick as a dog.”

“It sounds awful.”

“It is. He was pulling out of it some and then recently he started feeling punk. They put him back in the hospital a couple of days ago. Blood tests showed severe anemia so they decided to transfuse him. Then they decided while he was in, they might as well run more tests so they can see where he stands. He’s a pessimist, of course, but to my way of thinking, there’s always hope.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am. I’ve known him close to forty years, longer than I knew my wife.” Dolan took a drag of his cigarette, reaching for a tin ashtray on the table next to us. He tapped off a fraction of an inch of ash.

“How’d the two of you hook up? I thought he worked north county. You were PD down here.”

“He was already with the SO when our paths first crossed. This was 1948. I was from a blue-collar background, nothing educated or intellectual. I’d come out of the army with an attitude. Cocky and brash. Two years I knocked around, not doing anything much. I finally got a job as a pump jockey at a gas station in Lompoc. Talk about a dead end.

“One night a guy came in and pulled a gun on the night manager. I was in the backroom cleaning up at the end of my shift when I figured out what was going on. I grabbed a wrench, ducked out the side door, and came around the front. Guy was so busy watching to make sure my boss didn’t call the cops, he never saw me coming. I popped him a good one and knocked him on his ass. Stacey was the deputy who arrested him.

“He’s only ten years older than me, but he’s the closest thing to a mentor I ever had. He’s the one talked me into law enforcement. I went to college on the G.I. Bill and then hired on with the PD as soon as a job opened up. He even introduced me to Grace, and I married her six months later.”

“Sounds like he changed the course of your life.”

“In more ways than one.”

“Does he have family in the area?”

“No close relatives. The guy never married. A while back, he was dating someone—if that’s what you want to call it at our advanced age. Nice gal, but somehow it didn’t work out. Since Grace died, the two of us have spent a fair amount of time together. We go hunting and fishing any chance we get. Now that I’m out on medical, we’ve done a lot of that of late.”

“How’s he dealing with all of this?”

“Up and down. Too much time on his hands and not a lot to do except brood. I can’t tell you how many times I heard that one: guy retires after thirty years and the next thing you know he gets sick and dies. Stacey doesn’t say much about it, but I know how his mind works. He’s depressed as hell.”

“Is he religious?”

“Not him. He claims he’s an atheist, but we’ll see about that. Me, I always went to church, at least while Gracie was alive. I don’t see how you face death without believing in something. Otherwise, it makes no sense.”

Dolan glanced up just as Tannie appeared with two large plates loaded with freshly made sandwiches and fries, plus two orders for the other table. Dolan interrupted his story to have a chat with her. I occupied myself with banging on the ketchup bottle until a thick drool of red covered the southeast corner of my fries. I knew he was leading up to something, but he was taking his sweet time. I lifted the top of the kaiser roll and salted everything in sight. Biting in, I could feel the egg yolk oozing into the bun. The combination of spicy salami and snappy pepper-hot jack cheese turned out to be the food equivalent of someone hollering Hot Damn! on the surface of my tongue. I made one of my food moans. Embarrassed, I looked up at them, but neither seemed to notice.

When Tannie finally left, Dolan stubbed out his cigarette and paused for an extended bout of coughing so fierce it made his whole body shake. I pictured his lungs like a set of black cartoon bellows, wheezing away.

He shook his head. “Sorry about that. I had a bad cold a month ago and it’s been hard to shake.” He took a swallow of whiskey to soothe his irritated throat. He picked up his sandwich and continued his story between bites, taking up exactly where he’d left off. “While Stacey’s been laid up, I’ve been doing what I can to get his apartment cleaned. Place is a mess. He should be out of the hospital tomorrow and I didn’t want him coming home to the sight of all that crap.”

He set his sandwich down to light another cigarette, rolling it over to the corner of his mouth while he pulled out a cylinder of papers he’d tucked into his breast coat pocket. “Yesterday, I went through a pile of papers on his kitchen table. I was hoping to come across the name of a friend I could contact—somebody to cheer him up. Stace could use a little something to look forward to. Anyway, there was nothing of that nature, but I did find this.”

He placed the curling sheaf on the table in front of me. I finished my sandwich in one last bite and wiped my hands on a napkin before I reached for the papers. I knew at a glance it was a copy of a Sheriff’s Department file. The cover page was marked 187 PC, indicating it was a homicide, with a case number following. The pages were held together with fasteners, sixty-five or seventy sheets in all, with a set of handwritten notes inserted at the back. I returned to the cover page.

Victim: Jane Doe

Found: Sunday, August 3, 1969

Location: Grayson Quarry, Highway 1, Lompoc

Under “Investigating Officers,” there were four names listed, one of them Stacey Oliphant’s.

Dolan leaned forward. “You can see he was one of the original investigating officers. Stace and me were the ones who found the body. We’d taken a Jeep up there and parked off the side of the road to go deer hunting that day. I guess there’s a gate across the road now, but the property was open back then. The minute we got out, we picked up the smell. We both knew what it was—something dead for days. Didn’t take us long to find out exactly what it was. She’d been flung down a short embankment like a sack of trash. This is the case he was working when he got sick. It’s always bugged him they never figured out who she was, let alone who killed her.”

I felt a dim stirring of memory. “I remember this. Wasn’t she stabbed and then dumped?”

“Right.”

“Seems odd they never managed to identify her.”

“He thought so, too. It’s one of those cases really stuck in his craw. He kept thinking there was something he’d overlooked. He’d go back to it when he could, but he never made much progress.”

“And you’re thinking what, to have another go at it?”

“If I can talk him into it. I think it’d make a world of difference in his attitude.”

I leafed through the photocopies, watching the progression of dates and events. “Looks like just about everything.”

“Including black-and-white prints of the crime scene photographs. He had another couple of files but this is the one caught my eye.” He paused to wipe his mouth and then pushed his plate aside. “It’d give him a lift to get back into this and see about developing some information. He can act as lead detective while we do the legwork.”

I found myself staring. “You and me.”

“Sure, why not? We can pay for your time. For now, all I’m suggesting is the three of us sit down and talk. If he likes the idea, we’ll go ahead. If not, I guess I’ll come up with something else.”

I tapped the file. “Not to state the obvious, but this is eighteen years old.”

“I know, but aside from Stacey’s interest, there hasn’t been a push on this since 1970 or so. What if we could crack it? Think what that’d do for him. It could make all the difference.” It was the first time I’d seen any animation in his face.

I pretended to ponder but there wasn’t much debate. I was sick of doing paperwork. Enough already with the file searches and the background checks. “Stacey still has access to the department?”

“Sure. A lot of folks out there think the world of him. We can probably get anything we need—within reason, of course.”

“Let me take this home and read it.”

Dolan sat back, trying not to look too pleased. “I’ll be over at CC’s from six until midnight. Show up by eight and we can swing over to St. Terry’s and bring Stacey up to speed.”

I found myself smiling in response.

2

I spent the early part of the afternoon in my new office digs, hammering away on my portable Smith-Corona. I typed up two overdue reports, did my filing, prepared invoices, and cleaned off my desk. I started in on the bills at 3:00 and by 3:35 I was writing out the final check, which I tore from my checkbook. I tucked it in the return envelope, then licked the flap so carelessly I nearly paper-cut my tongue. That done, I went into the outer office and moved all the unpacked boxes back into the closet. Nothing like a little motivation to get the lead out of your butt.

My supper that night consisted of a peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwich, accompanied by Diet Pepsi over ice. I ate in my minuscule living room, curled up on the sofa tucked into the window bay. In lieu of dinnerware, I used a fold of paper toweling that doubled as a dainty lip wipe when I’d finished my meal. With spring on the move, it was not quite dark out. The air was still chilly, especially once the sun went down. Through the partially opened window, I could hear a distant lawn mower and the occasional fragment of conversation as assorted people walked by. I live a block from the beach on a side street that provides overflow parking when Cabana Boulevard gets jammed.

I slid down comfortably on my spine, my sock feet on the coffee table, while I settled in to work. I went through the file quickly at first, just to get the lay of the land. A detective named Brad Crouse was lead investigator on the case. The other investigating officers, aside from Stacey Oliphant, were Detective Keith Baldwin, Sergeant Oscar Wallen, Sergeant Melvin Galloway, and Deputy Joe Mandel. A lot of manpower. Crouse had typed the bulk of the reports, using multiple carbons, which Stacey had apparently then photocopied from the old murder book. Judging from the number of strikeovers, I had to guess Detective Crouse had not been first in his class in secretarial school. I fancied if I put my ear to the page, I’d pick up the churlish echoes of his long-ago curses embedded in the lines of print.

It’s odd going through an old file, like reading a mystery novel where you spoil the ending for yourself by peeking ahead to the very last page. The final document, a letter from a soils expert in San Pedro, California, was dated September 28, 1971, and indicated that the sample submitted by the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department would be impossible to distinguish from samples taken from similar deposits across the state. Sincerely. So sorry. End of the line for you, bub. I went back to the beginning and started reading again, this time taking notes.

According to the first officer at the scene, the girl’s body had been rolled over the edge of an embankment, coming to rest about fifteen feet down, some fifty feet from the highway. Con Dolan and Stacey Oliphant had spotted her at approximately 5:00 P.M. on that Sunday—1700 hours if you’re talking military time, as this report did. She was lying on her left side on a crumpled canvas tarp, her hands bound in front of her with a length of white plastic-coated wire. She was wearing a dark blue Dacron blouse, white cotton pants with a print of dark blue daisies with a dot of red in each center. There was a leather sandal on her right foot; the matching sandal was found in the brush a short distance away. Marks in the dirt suggested she’d been dragged across the grass near the road. Even from the top of the slope, Dolan and Oliphant could see numerous stab wounds in her chest. It was also apparent her throat had been slashed.

Oliphant had made immediate CB contact with the Lompoc PD. Because the location was in the county, two on-duty sheriff’s deputies were dispatched to the scene. Deputy Joe Mandel and Sergeant Melvin Galloway arrived twenty minutes after the initial call. Photographs were taken of the decedent and of the surrounding area. The body was then removed to a Lompoc mortuary, pending arrival of the coroner. Meanwhile, the deputies searched the vicinity, took soil samples, bagged the tarpaulin along with a nearby broken shrub and two pieces of shrub stem that appeared to be stained with blood.

On Tuesday, August 5, 1969, Mandel and Galloway returned to the crime scene to take measurements—the distance from the highway to the spot where the body had been found, the width of the blacktop, the location of the stray sandal. Sergeant Galloway took additional photos of the various areas, showing the embankment, damaged shrubs, and drag marks. There were no crime scene sketches, but perhaps they’d become separated from the rest of the file in the intervening years.

I took a minute to sort through the photographs, which were few in number and remarkably uninformative: eight black-and-white prints, including one of the roadway, one of an officer pointing at a broken shrub, one of the embankment where the body was found, and four of the body from a distance of fifteen feet. There were no close-ups of Jane Doe’s face, no views of her wounds or the knotted wire with which her hands had been bound. The tarp was visible beneath her, but it was difficult to judge how much of the body, if any, had been covered. Times have changed. Current practice would have dictated fifty such photographs along with a video and a detailed crime-scene sketch. In the same envelope, I found an additional five photographs in faded color showing the girl’s sandals, pants, shirt, bra, and panties laid out on what looked like a sheet of white paper.

The autopsy had been performed on August 4, 1969, at 10:30 A.M. I squinted, inferred, surmised, and otherwise faked my way through the report, deciphering enough of the technical talk to figure out what was being said. Because her body was in a state of advanced decomposition, the measurements were estimates. The girl’s height was calculated at 63 to 65 inches, her weight at 120 to 125 pounds. Her eyes were blue, her hair dyed a reddish blond that showed dark roots. In the left earlobe she wore a thin gold-wire circle with a horseshoe configuration. In her right earlobe she wore a similar gold-wire loop with a bent clip in its lower end. Her facial characteristics were indistinguishable due to skin slippage, gas crepitation, and decomposition. Examination of the body showed eight deep stab wounds in the middle of the back below the shoulder blade area; two stab wounds at the base of the neck on either side; five stab wounds between her breasts; and a large stab wound under the left breast, which had penetrated the heart. There was considerable maggot activity. Because of decomposition, the pathologist was unable to ascertain the presence of any scars or identifying marks. There were no skeletal fractures or deformities, no visible injuries to the external genitalia. Her fallopian tubes and ovaries were unremarkable and her uterine cavity was empty. Cause of death was listed as multiple stab wounds of the neck, chest, heart, and lungs.

At the conclusion of his exam, the pathologist removed Jane Doe’s fingers, the nails of which she had painted with silver polish. These were tagged by an officer and turned over for shipping to the FBI Identification Division in Washington, D.C. Films taken of her upper and lower jaws showed multiple metallic restorations. She also suffered from what is commonly referred to as buckteeth, with one crooked eyetooth on the left side. A dentist, consulted later, suggested that extensive dental work had probably been done in the two years before her death—that being 1967 through 1968. He judged her to be in her late teens to early twenties. A forensic odontologist, examining the maxilla and mandible at a later date, narrowed the girl’s age to fifteen years, plus or minus thirty-six months, noting that she probably died before she reached the legal age of eighteen.

On Wednesday, August 6, Sergeant Galloway submitted the following clothing and evidence to the deputy in charge of the property room:

1. One navy blue, full-length, puffed-sleeve blouse of Dacron-voile material—make unknown—blood-stained.

2. One pair home-sewn female white pants with blue flowers with red centers—size unknown.

3. One pair bikini panties, pink—size medium, Penney’s label.

4. One black bra, size 38A, Lady Suzanne label.

5. One pair female brown leather sandals—buckle type, with four brass links on leather straps. Size 7½. With gold letters “MADE IN ITALY” on inner sole.

6. One soiled canvas tarpaulin with blood and miscellaneous stains.

The dead girl’s earrings, a clipping of her hair, and the plastic-coated wire taken from her wrists were also booked into evidence.

The Sheriff’s Department must have sent the essential information about the deceased to other law enforcement agencies, because a series of follow-up reports over the next several weeks covered all manner of missing persons believed to match the description of Jane Doe. Three stolen automobiles were recovered in the area, one containing assorted articles of women’s clothing in the rear seat. This turned out to be unrelated, according to handwritten notes entered at a later date. The second vehicle, a 1966 red Mustang convertible with Arizona plates, reported stolen from an auto upholstery shop in Quorum, California, was subsequently returned to its rightful owner. The third stolen vehicle, a red 1967 Chevrolet, was tied to a homicide in Venice, California. The driver was subsequently arrested and later convicted of that crime.

A vagrant was picked up for questioning but released. There was also a report of a twenty-five-year-old employee who’d absconded with $46.35 in currency and change stolen from a service station owner outside the town of Seagate. The caretaker at a nearby state beach park was contacted and questioned about any persons he might have seen in the area. He reported nothing unusual. In three separate incidents, hitchhikers were picked up for questioning, but none of them were held. This was the summer of 1969 and there was a steady stream of hippies migrating north along this route. Hippies were generally regarded with suspicion, assumed to be high on drugs, which was probably the case.

At 10:30 A.M. on August 6, 1969, Detective Crouse interviewed a clerk named Roxanne Faught, who worked at a minimart on Highway 101. She’d contacted the Sheriff’s Department after reading about the murder in the papers and reported that on Friday, August 1, she’d seen a young girl who matched the description of Jane Doe. Miss Faught stated that the girl had helped herself to coffee and a doughnut, which she was unable to pay for. Faught paid for them herself, which is why the incident stuck in her mind. Earlier she’d noticed this same girl hitchhiking north, however she was gone when Faught left work at 3:00 P.M. The girl in the minimart carried no luggage and had no wallet or purse. Several other people contacted the department with leads, but none of these panned out.

As the days went on, calls came in reporting vehicles of various makes, models, and descriptions that had been seen near the quarry both before and after the body was discovered. As with any investigation, delving into the one crime seemed to bring a number of peripheral crimes into focus: loitering, trespassing, public drunkenness, petty theft—all of which turned out to be immaterial to the case. It was clear that many local citizens were busy remembering odd and freakish incidents that had occurred in the weeks prior to the homicide. For all anyone knew, one of these reports might hold a vital clue about the girl who’d been murdered or the person, or persons, who’d killed her.

Every phone call, every out-of-state inquiry, and every rumor was dutifully tracked down. At the end of each report, there was a list appended, giving the names, addresses, and phone numbers of those who’d been interviewed. The managers of the JCPenney stores in Lompoc and Santa Teresa were contacted with regard to the article of clothing that bore the Penney’s label, but it was learned that the item was available at any store in the chain. In the end, the girl remained unidentified, and as autumn rolled into winter, new leads diminished. The stained canvas tarp bore no identifying labels. The plastic-coated wire was submitted to the crime lab for analysis. The lab determined that wiring of that nature “would most probably be utilized in low-voltage-amperage conditions where little or no tension would be exerted on its length and where maximum protection from abrasion and moisture was required, perhaps an auto light system, or small low-voltage lighting equipment.” By December of 1970, the intervals between reports had lengthened and new information had dwindled.

Stacey had worked the case at various times during the following years. He’d consolidated the list of witnesses, and it looked as though he’d arranged them in order of their importance, at least from his perspective. Many had been eliminated because the information they’d provided was too vague or their suggestions too far-fetched. In some cases, it was clear from later file entries that their questions and concerns were not relevant to the investigation. He’d followed up on every call in which a missing girl had been reported. In one instance, dental records were not a match for Jane Doe’s. In another, the police advised the Sheriff’s Department that the girl in question was a chronic runaway and had returned home within days. In a third case, the mother of the subject called and informed investigating officers her daughter was alive and well. Stacey had even tried using telephone numbers listed in the reports in hopes of contacting persons whose information seemed pertinent, but many numbers were out of service or had been reassigned to other parties. Having reached the last of the reports, I went through again, consigning the pertinent dates to a stack of blank index cards, converting the facts from their narrative form to disconnected bits of information that I’d analyze later.

When I finally closed the file and looked at my watch, it was only 7:15—still early enough to catch up with Dolan at CC’s. I pulled on my shoes, grabbed my jacket and shoulder bag, and headed out to my car.

The Caliente Café—or CC’s, as it’s known—is a neighborhood bar that offers an extensive menu of American dishes with Spanish surnames. The food was probably the management’s attempt to keep the patrons sufficiently sober to drive home without incurring any DUIs. The surrounding property had undergone a transformation since my last visit two years before. The restaurant is housed in an abandoned service station. The gasoline pumps and below-ground storage tanks had been removed at the time of the conversion, but the contaminated soil had simply been blacktopped over and the resulting quarter acre of tarmac was used to provide patron parking. As time went on, the neighbors had begun to complain about the virulent seepage coming up from the ground—a chemical molasses fierce enough to darken the soles of your shoes. In the thick of summer heat, the asphalt became viscous and smelled like oolong tea—which is to say, smoldering tires. In winter, the surface seized up, buckling and cracking to reveal a mealy substance so caustic it generated nosebleeds. Stray cats were subject to wracking coughs on contact. Wandering dogs would suddenly stagger in circles as though in the grip of neurological dismay. Naturally, the owner of the property wasn’t interested in paying the hundreds of thousands of dollars required to excavate this hellishly befouled soil, but the EPA had finally stepped in, and now the parking lot had been uprooted in an effort to remove all the contaminated dirt. In the process, numerous Chumash Indian artifacts had been uncovered, and the site was suddenly embroiled in a dispute among several parties: the tribe, the landowner, the city, and the archaeologists. So complex was this litigation that it was impossible to tell who was siding with whom.

It was a testimony to loyal patrons that for months they’d continued to tromp across this malodorous earth, endured delays and inconveniences, suffered picketers, public warnings, posted notices, fumes, muddy shoes, and the occasional pratfall just to get to their daily drinks. The parking lot was now fenced off and the path to the front door consisted of a narrow walkway of two-by-four planks laid out end to end. Approaching the establishment, I felt like a gymnast teetering on the balance beam before an ill-timed dismount.

The red neon sign that hung above the entrance still hissed and sizzled like a backyard bug light, and the air wafting out smelled of cigarette smoke and corn tortillas fried in last week’s lard. A shrieking duet of blender motors was accompanied by castanets of clattering ice cubes being whirled together with tequila and margarita mix. The Caliente Café opens at 6:00 every morning and doesn’t shut down until 2:00 A.M. Its further virtue is that it’s located just outside the city limits and thus provides an ever-present refuge for off-duty police officers who need to unwind at the end of a hard day—or after lunch, or after breakfast.

As I crossed the threshold, I confess I was hoping to run into a Santa Teresa vice cop named Cheney Phillips. Our long acquaintance had never progressed as far as romance—he had a girlfriend, for one thing—but one could always hope. Rumor had it the two of them had split up, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to put in an appearance.

Part of what sparked my interest was the fact I hadn’t heard from Robert Dietz in months. He’s a semiretired private eye who worked as my bodyguard in 1983 when a cut-rate hit man was hired to rub me out. Our connection since then has been intense and sporadic, with long, inexplicable intervals between visits. Only two weeks before, I’d called him in Carson City, Nevada, and left a message on his machine. So far, he hadn’t bothered to call me back, which meant he was either out of the country or had moved on to someone new. Though I was crazy about Dietz, I’d never thought of him as my beau, my steady, my significant other, or my main squeeze (whatever the hell that is). Oh sure, Dietz and I had fooled around some over the past four years, but there was no commitment between us and no promises on either part. Naturally, I was irked at his neglect, even though I was equally at fault.

I caught sight of Dolan at the bar. He was wearing a worn brown leather bomber jacket. I paused for a moment to scope out the crowd and saw his gaze slide in my direction. Dolan’s been a cop for too many years not to keep an eye on his surroundings, perpetually scanning faces in hopes of a match for one of the mug shots that had once crossed his desk. Off duty or on, no cop can resist the notion of a wholly unexpected felony arrest.

He raised a hand in greeting and I steered a course toward him, threading my way among parties waiting for tables. The stools on either side of him were occupied, but he gave the guys a look and one of them stood up to make room for me. I placed my shoulder bag at my feet and perched on the stool next to his. The ashtray in front of him was thick with butts, and it didn’t take any of my highly developed detecting skills to note the number of cigarettes he’d smoked, including the one he was in the process of lighting from the still lit. He was drinking Old Forrester and he smelled like a Christmas fruitcake, minus the dried maraschino cherries. He was also snacking on a plate of poppers: batter-fried jalapeño peppers filled with molten cheese. I thought I’d avoid pointing out the continuing error of his ways. There’s nothing more obnoxious than someone calling attention to our obvious failings.

I said, “I thought I might run into Cheney Phillips. Have you seen him?”

“I think he’s in Vegas on his honeymoon.”

“His honeymoon? I thought the two of them broke up.”

“This is someone new, a gal he met in here five or six weeks ago.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Afraid not. Anyway, forget him. He’s not your type anyway.”

“I don’t have a type. Of course, I don’t have a boyfriend either, but that’s beside the point.”

“Have a popper.”

“Thanks.” I took one and bit into it, experiencing the spurt of melted cheese before the heat of the jalapeño set my tongue aflame. The jukebox came to life, and I peered over my shoulder as the strains of a country-western melody line-danced its way across the room. The Wurlitzer was ancient, a chunky, round-bodied contraption with a revolving rainbow of hues, bubbles licking up along its seams.

I turned my attention back to Dolan, trying to figure out how much he’d had to drink. He wasn’t slurring his words, but I suspected he was so conditioned by his own alcoholic intake that he’d show no signs of drunkenness even if he fell off his stool. I wasn’t sure if he’d been drinking continuously since lunchtime or had gone home for a nap between cocktails. A glance at the clock showed it was only 7:35, but he might have been sitting there since 4:00 P.M. I didn’t look forward to working with the man if he was going to be pie-eyed from day to day. His constant smoking didn’t appeal to me, either, but there was nothing I could do about it so the less said the better. “How’s Stacey doing? Have you talked to him yet?”

“I called him at six and said we’d stop by to see him. Guy’s sick of being poked and prodded, really wants out of there. I guess they’ll release him tomorrow once the test results are back.”

“Did you tell him your idea?”

“Briefly. I said we’d fill him in when we got there. What’d you think about the case?”

“I really love all that stuff. I usually don’t have the chance to see police reports up close.”

“Procedure hasn’t changed that much the past twenty years. We’re better at it now—more thorough and systematic, plus we got new technology on our side.”

The bartender ambled our way. “What can I get for you?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

Dolan lifted his whiskey glass, signaling for a refill.

“Aren’t we on our way to see Stacey?”

“Right now?”

“Well, there’s no point in getting into this if he’s not going to agree.”

I could see Dolan debate his desire for the next drink versus his concern for his friend. He pushed his glass back, reached for his wallet, and pulled out a handful of bills, which he tossed on the bar. “Catch you later.”

I grabbed my bag and followed him as he headed for the door.

“We’ll take my car,” he said.

“What if you want to stay longer than I do? Then I’m stuck. Let’s take both cars and I’ll follow. That way, I can peel off any time it suits.”

We wrangled a bit more but he finally agreed. I was parked half a block down, but he dutifully waited, pulling out just ahead of me as I came up on his left. His driving was surprisingly sedate as we cruised out the 101 in our minimotorcade. I knew if he got stopped and breathalyzed, he’d easily blow over the legal limit. I kept an eye out for cops, half-forgetting that Dolan was a cop himself.

Once close to St. Terry’s, we found street parking within two cars of each other on the same block of Castle. It was now fully dark and the hospital was lit up like a lavish resort. We went in through the rear entrance and took the elevator to 6 Central, the oncology floor. The lights had been dimmed, and the wide, carpeted corridor muffled our footsteps. Three spare IV poles and two blood pressure monitors were clustered against the wall, along with a linen cart and a multitiered meal cart filled with trays from the dinner served earlier. I caught sight of a few visitors, but there was none of the lively interplay between patients and family members. Getting well takes work and no one wants to waste energy on superficial conversation. Passing the nurses’ station, Dolan gave a nod to the clerk at the desk.

Stacey was in a private room, looking out on a darkened residential street. He seemed to be sleeping, his hospital bed elevated at a forty-five-degree angle. Poking out from under his red-knit watch cap were wisps of ginger-colored hair. Two get-well cards were propped upright along the wide windowsill, but there was nothing else of a personal nature. The television screen was blank. On his rolling bed table, there were a pile of magazines and a paper cup filled with melting ice.

Dolan paused in the doorway. Stacey’s eyes came open. He waved and then pushed himself up on the bed. “I see you made it,” he said, and then to me, “You must be Kinsey. Nice to meet you.” I leaned forward and shook his hand. His grip was strong and hot, almost as though he were metabolizing at twice the normal rate.

While Dolan went about the business of rounding up chairs from opposite corners of the room, I said, “I believe you knew the guys who trained me—Morley Shine and Ben Byrd.”

“I knew them well. Both good men. I was sorry to hear about Morley’s murder. That was a hell of a thing. Have a seat.”

“Thanks.”

Dolan offered me one chair and settled in the other. While the two of them chatted, I studied Stacey. He had small mild blue eyes, pale brows, and a long, deeply creased face. His color was good, though it looked as though he hadn’t shaved for days. He seemed to be in good spirits and he spoke with all the vigor of an active man.

After some preliminary conversation, Dolan brought the subject around to the Jane Doe investigation. “I gave Kinsey the file to read. We thought we should talk about where we go from here. The doc still talking about letting you out tomorrow?”

“Looks that way.”

The two of them chatted about the case while I kept my mouth shut. I don’t know why I’d expected Stacey to resist Dolan’s proposition, but he didn’t seem at all opposed to our resurrecting the case. He said to Dolan, “Speaking of which, Frankie Miracle got out. His parole officer, Dench Smallwood, called me and said Frankie found a place in town. By now, he probably has legitimate employment.”

“That’d be a first.”

I said, “How does Frankie Miracle fit in? I remember his name from the file.”

Dolan said, “He got picked up in Lompoc August 1, two days before Jane Doe’s body was found. We always figured he was good for it, though he denied it.”

Stacey spoke up. “He killed his girlfriend in Venice, July 29, during a meth binge. He stabbed the woman umpteen times, then he helped himself to her car and all her credit cards and started driving north. She was found a couple days later when neighbors complained about the smell.”

“Dumb-ass signed her name to the charge slips every time he stopped for gas,” Dolan said. “You’d think someone would notice a ‘Cathy Lee Pearse’ with no boobs, a mustache, and a two-day growth of beard.” He shifted in his chair and then rose to his feet. “You two go on and get acquainted. Time for me to step outside and grab a smoke.”

Once Dolan left, I said, “You have a theory why Jane Doe was never identified?”

“No. We expected a quick match, someone who’d recognize her from the description in the papers. All I can think is she wasn’t reported missing. Or maybe the missing-persons report got buried in the paperwork on some cop’s desk. There’s probably an explanation, but who knows what it is? By now, it’s unlikely we’ll ever find out who killed her, but there’s a possibility we can get her ID’d and returned to her folks.”

“What are the chances?”

“Not as bad as you might think. Once enough time passes, people are more willing to speak up. We might tweak someone’s conscience and get a lead that way.” He hesitated, taking a moment to smooth the edges of his sheet. “You know, Con’s wife, Gracie, died a while back.”

“He mentioned that.”

“It hit him hard at the time, but he seemed to be pulling out of it. But ever since he got sidelined with this heart condition, the guy’s been in a funk. As long as Gracie was alive, she seemed to keep him in check, but now his smoking and booze consumption are out of control. I’ve been trying to find a way to get him back on track, so the minute this came up, I jumped on it.”

“You’re talking about Jane Doe?”

“Right. I was happy you agreed to help. It’ll give him a lift. He needs to work.”

I smiled with caution, listening for any hint of irony in his tone. Apparently, he didn’t realize Dolan had voiced the very same concerns about him.

When Dolan returned, he stood looking expectantly from me to Stacey. “So what’s the game plan? You two have it all worked out?”

“We were just talking about that. Kinsey wants to see the crime scene before we do anything else.”

I said, “Right.”

Dolan said, “Great. I’ll set that up for tomorrow.”

3

Dolan picked me up at my place at 10:00 in his 1979 Chevrolet, Stacey in the backseat. He did an expert parallel parking job and got out of the car. He wore a dark blue sweatshirt and a pair of worn blue jeans. The exterior of the Chevy was a mess. By day, I could see that the once-dark brown paint had oxidized, taking on the milky patina of an old Hershey’s bar. The back bumper was askew, the left rear fender was crumpled, and a long indentation on the passenger side rendered the door close to inoperable. I managed to open it by means of a wrenching maneuver that made the metal shriek in protest. Once seated, I hauled, trying to get it shut again. Dolan circled the car, shoved the door shut, and secured the lock by bumping it with his hip.

I said, “Thanks.” Already, I was worried about his prowess at the wheel.

He leaned in the open window and held his hand out to Stacey. “Give me your gun and I’ll lock ’em in the trunk.”

Stacey winced audibly as he torqued to one side, slipping his gun from his holster and passing it to Dolan. Dolan went around to the rear and tucked the guns in the trunk before he got in on his side.

The car’s upholstery was a dingy beige fabric that made it difficult to slide across the seat. I remained where I was as though glued in place. I turned so I could look at Stacey, who was sitting in the backseat with a bed pillow wedged behind him. His red knit watch cap was pulled down almost to his brows. “Threw my back out,” he said by way of explanation. “I was moving boxes last week. I guess I should have done like Mother taught me and lifted with my knees.”

Dolan’s hiking boots were muddy, and waffle-shaped droppings littered the floor mat on his side. He adjusted the rearview mirror to talk to Stacey’s reflection. “You should have left those for me. I told you I’d take care of ’em.”

“Quit acting like a mother hen. I’m not helpless. It’s a muscle pull, that’s all; my sciatica acting up. Even healthy people get hurt, you know. It’s no big deal.”

In the harsh light of day, I could see that, despite the transfusion, his skin had gray undertones, and the smudges beneath his pale brows made his eyes appear to recede. He was dressed for the outdoors, wearing brown cords, hiking boots, a red-plaid wool shirt, and a fisherman’s vest.

“You want to sit up here?”

“I’m better off where I am. I’m never quite sure when I’m going to need to lie down.”

“Well, just let me know if you want to switch places.”

I tugged at my seat belt, which was hung up somewhere. I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to get the mechanism to release a sufficient length of belt so I could clip it into place. Meanwhile, Dolan put the car in gear. The engine coughed and died twice, but finally sputtered back to life, and we were under way. The interior smelled of nicotine and dog. I didn’t picture Dolan as the doggy type, but I didn’t want to ask. The floorboards were strewn with gas receipts, discarded cigarette packs, and assorted cellophane bags that had once contained potato chips, cheese-and-cracker sandwiches, and other heart-healthy snacks.

We gassed up at a service station adjacent to the freeway and then he eased the car out into the traffic, heading north on the 101. As soon as we were settled at a steady speed, Dolan punched in the car lighter and reached for the pack of Camels he had resting on the dash.

Stacey said, “Hey! Have mercy. You’ve got a cancer patient back here.”

Dolan again angled the rearview mirror so he could see Stacey’s face. “That doesn’t seem to stop you from smoking that pipe of yours.”

“The pipe’s purely recreational. At the rate you smoke, you’ll be dead before me.”

Dolan said, “Nuts,” but left the pack where it was.

Stacey tapped me on the shoulder. “See that? The guy looks after me. You’d never guess that about him.”

Dolan’s smile barely registered, but it softened his face.

After the town of Colgate, the railroad tracks and the highway ran parallel to the ocean. To the north, the Santa Ynez Mountains loomed dark and gray, dense with low-growing vegetation. There were scarcely any trees, and the contours of the foothills were a rolling green. Much of the topography was defined by massive landslides, sandstone and shale debris extending for miles. Dolan and Stacey conducted a conversation that consisted of fishing and hunting stories—endless accounts of all the creatures they’d shot, hooked, trapped, and snagged; gutted, skinned, and toted home. This, with men, passes for a load of fun.

We sped past the state beach park, where camping sites consisted of adjacent oblongs of asphalt that looked suspiciously like parking spaces. I’d seen campers and RVs lined up like piano keys while the occupants set out aluminum picnic tables and chairs, stoking up their portable barbecues in areas much smaller than the yards they had at home. The children would gorge on hot dogs and potato chips, frolic in the ocean, and then bed down in the car, hair sticky, their bodies infused with residual salt like little cod fillets. For Dolan and Stacey, the sight of the line of campers triggered a recollection of another unsolved homicide—two teens shot to death on an isolated stretch of beach. After that, they spent time pointing out the various locations where past homicide victims had been dumped. Santa Teresa County had provided a number of such spots.

A few miles beyond Gull Cove, Dolan took the turnoff and headed west on California 1. I found myself lulled by the passing countryside. Here the hills were undulating, dotted with shaggy masses of the dark green oaks that marched across the land. The skies were pale blue with only the faintest marbling of clouds. The air smelled of the hot, sun-dried pastures sprinkled with buttercups, where occasional cattle grazed.

The two-lane road wound west and north. From time to time, the route cut through irregular, high-arching rock beds. On one of these stretches, thirty-two years before, a mammoth boulder tumbled down the slope, shattering the windshield of my parents’ car as we passed. I was sitting in the rear, playing with my paper doll, scowling because I’d just bent her left cardboard leg at the ankle. I felt a flash of uncontrollable five-year-old rage because her foot looked all crookedy and limp. I was just setting up a howl when one of my parents made a startled exclamation. Perhaps the falling rock was briefly visible on descent, bouncing in a jaunty shower of smaller rocks and dirt. There was no time to react. The force of the boulder smashed through the windshield, crushing my father’s head and chest, killing him instantly. The vehicle veered right, careening out of control, and crashed against the rocky hill face.

The impact flung me forward, wedging me against the driver’s seat. From this confining cage of crumpled metal, I kept my mother company in the last, long moments of her life. I understand now how it must have felt from her perspective. Her injuries were such that there was no way she could move without excruciating pain. She could hear me whimper, but she had no way to know how badly I was hurt. She could see her husband was dead and knew she was not far behind. She wept, keening with regret. After a while, she was quiet, and I remember thinking that was good, not knowing she’d left her body and floated off somewhere.

Dolan swerved to avoid a ground squirrel that had skittered across the pavement in front of us. Instinctively, I put a hand out to brace myself and then I focused on the road again, disconnecting my emotions with all the skill of a vivisectionist. It’s a trick of mine that probably dates back to those early years. I tuned into the conversation, which I realized belatedly had been directed at me.

Dolan was saying, “You with us?”

“Sure. Sorry. I think I missed that.”

“I said, this guy, Frankie Miracle, we talked about last night? He got picked up on a routine traffic stop outside Lompoc. The schmuck had a busted taillight, and when the officers ran the plate, the vehicle came up stolen and wanted by the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. Galloway reads him his rights and throws him in the hoosegow. Meanwhile, the car’s towed to the impound lot. When Galloway sits down to write his report, he reads the APB, indicating the registered owner’s the victim of a homicide. He goes back over to the jail and tells Frankie he’s under arrest for murder and reads him his rights again. Two days after that, Stacey and I go deer hunting and come across the girl.”

“Yeah, if it wasn’t for the taillight, Frankie could’ve been in Oregon and we might not’ve tied him to the situation here.”

“What about the weapon? I don’t remember any mention of it.”

“We never found the knife, but judging from the wounds, the coroner said the blade had to be at least five inches long. Rumor has it, Frankie carried something similar, though he didn’t have it on him when we picked him up.”

Stacey said, “He probably tossed it or buried it. Country up there is rugged. Search and Rescue came through and did a grid search but never turned up anything.” He leaned forward and tapped Con on the shoulder, pointing to a side road going off on our right a hundred yards ahead. “That’s it. Just beyond this bridge coming up.”

“You think? I remember it was farther down, along a stretch of white three-board fence.”

“Oh. Maybe so. You could be right about that.”

Dolan had slowed from forty miles an hour to a cautious fifteen. The two peered over at a two-lane gravel road that cut back at an angle and disappeared from view. It must not have looked familiar because Stacey said, “Nuh-uhn. Try around the next bend. We could have passed it already.” He turned and stared out the rear window.

In the end, Dolan made a U-turn and we circled back, making a second slow pass until they settled on the place. Dolan pulled onto a secondary lane, gravel over cracked asphalt, that followed the contours of a low-lying hill. Directly ahead of us, I could see where the road split to form a Y. A locked gate barred access to the property with its No Trespassing signs. On the near side of the gate and to the right, a Jeep was parked.

“Where’s Grayson Quarry?” I asked, referring to the crime scene as designated on the official police reports.

“Around the bend to the right about a quarter of a mile,” Dolan said. As he edged over on the berm and set the handbrake, an elderly gentleman in jeans, cowboy boots, and a leather hat emerged from the Jeep. He was small and wide, with a full-sized Santa belly pushing at the buttons of his western-style shirt. He approached our car, walking with a decided limp. Dolan cut the engine and got out on his side.

Stacey murmured, “That’s Arne Johanson, the ranch foreman. I called and he agreed to meet us to unlock the gate.”

By the time Stacey eased out of the backseat, I’d emerged from the passenger side and shoved the car door with one hip. Now that Dolan was in the open air, he lit a cigarette.

Stacey moved toward the old man and shook his hand. I noticed he was making an effort to appear energetic. “Mr. Johanson. This is nice of you. I’m Stacey Oliphant with the County Sheriff’s Department. You probably don’t remember, but we met in August of ’69 back when the body was found. This is Lieutenant Con Dolan from Santa Teresa PD. He’s the fellow who was with me. Two of us were up here to hunt when we came across the girl.”

“I thought you looked familiar. Good seeing you.”

“Thanks. We appreciate your help.”

The old man’s gaze drifted in my direction. He seemed puzzled at the sight of me. “Like to see some ID if it’s all the same to you.” This was directed at the guys though his eyes remained on me.

Stacey moved his jacket aside to expose the badge attached to his belt. His badge specified that he was retired, but Johanson didn’t seem to notice and Stacey didn’t feel compelled to call it to his attention. Dolan rolled his cigarette to one corner of his mouth and took out a leather bifold wallet with his badge, which he held up. While Johanson leaned forward and studied it, Dolan took out a business card and handed it to him. Johanson tucked the card in his shirt pocket and glanced at me slyly.

“She’s with us,” Dolan said.

I was perfectly willing to show him a copy of my license, but I liked Dolan’s protectiveness and thought I’d leave well enough alone. This time, when the old man’s eyes returned to mine, I looked away. I pegged him as a throwback, some old reprobate who believed women belonged in the kitchen, not out in the “real” world going toe to toe with men. He had to be in his eighties. His eyes were small, a watery blue. His face was sun-toughened, deeply creased, and bristling with whiskers that showed white against his leathery skin. He shifted his attention to Dolan’s cigarette. “I’d watch that if I was you. It’s fire country up here.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Johanson took out a set of keys and the four of us walked over to the metal rail gate with its ancient padlock. His stride had a rocking motion that suggested an old injury. Maybe in his youth he’d worked the rodeo circuit. He selected a key, turned it in the padlock, and popped it off the hasp. He pushed the sagging gate aside, forcing it back to a point where it was anchored in the grass. The four of us passed through, Dolan and Stacey leading while I tagged behind them and Johanson brought up the rear.

“It was two cops who found her, coming here to hunt,” he said, having either missed or forgotten the reference Stacey’d made to their prior meeting.

Dolan grunted a response, which didn’t seem to discourage the old man’s garrulousness. “We got wild boar on the property. Owner lets hunters come in now and then to cull the herd. Boars is aggressive. I’ve had ’em turn and charge right at me, gash a hole in my leg. Mean sons a bitches, I can tell you that. Peckers like razor blades is what I heard. Mating season, the female sets up a squeal brings the hair right up on the back of your neck.”

“Actually, Lieutenant Dolan and I were the ones who found the body. We’d come up to hunt.”

“You two. Is that right? Well, I’ll be. I could’ve swore I knowed you from someplace.”

“We’re all a bit older.”

“I can testify to that. I’m eighty-seven year old myself, born January 1, nineteen double ought. Broke a hip here a while back when my horse fell on me. It hadn’t healed too good. Nowadays, they can take out the old joint and put another in its place. This gimpyness don’t straighten out, I might get me a brand-new one. Say, what’s this all about now, anyway? I’m not entirely clear.”

Stacey said, “Sheriff’s Department is going over some old files, taking another look. We’re reworking this case in hopes of resolving it.”

“And you come up here why?”

“We wanted to see the crime scene so the reports would make more sense. Those old crime scene photographs don’t tell how the area’s laid out, relative distances, things of that sort.” This again from Stacey. So far I hadn’t said a word.

Johanson’s eyes strayed to my face with the same thinly veiled curiosity. “I can understand that. I brung my son down here when they was hauling her body out of the ravine. He was fourteen and thought it was just fine and dandy hitchin’ rides every time he had to go someplace. I wanted him to see where he could end up.”

“You have a son that young?” I said, trying not to sound too surprised.

The old man grinned, showing blackened and crooked teeth. “Got two,” he said. “I been married five time, but I never had kids until this last go-round. Youngest boy’s thirty-two yesterday. I got him workin’ on the ranch. Other boy’s a bum. I guess I have to think of it as fifty percent success instead of fifty percent failed.”

Dolan dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed the ember thoroughly with his heel. “You think that’s what happened to her? Someone offered her a ride and ended up stabbing her to death?”

“That’d be my guess. You know they never did figure out who she was. Pitiful, you ask me. All these years, her mom and dad never knowed what happened to her. Prob’ly still think she’s comin’ home and there she was laid out with her throat cut ear to ear.”

Stacey said, “Identifying the girl is part of what we hope to accomplish.”

Dolan was already firing up his second cigarette. “We appreciate your time, Mr. Johanson. I’m sure you’re busy and we don’t want to keep you. Thanks for meeting us.”

“Happy to oblige. You needn’t bother about me. I’ll just tag along ’til you’re done and lock the gate again.”

“We won’t be long. We’ll be happy to lock the gate after us when we leave.”

“I don’t mind the wait.”

Stacey and Dolan exchanged a glance, but neither said another word as they trudged the remaining distance to the edge of the ravine.

Johanson trailed along after us. “Wadn’t any gate here back then. I figure the feller must have cruised all up and down, looking for a place to dump her, and chosen this. He must not have knowed about the quarry. Lot of traffic on this road any time of day; fellers heading to the mine. Bad weather’s different. Operation closes down if things get too bad.”

“I’m surprised she wasn’t found by one of the Grayson employees,” Stacey remarked.

“Because she smelt?”

“That’s right.”

“Might’ve been for all I know. Lot of them boys are Mexican. Called ’em ‘wetbacks’ in those days. Made a point not to bring attention to theirself, especially where the law’s concerned. Probably thought it was a dog if they caught wind of her at all. I’m sure the last thing occurred to them was some young girl been kilt.”

Dolan’s response was noncommittal, perhaps in hopes of squelching further conversation. Ignoring Johanson, he scrambled a few steps down the embankment. The ground seemed soft, though the surface was powdery with dust. He anchored himself with his right foot on the downside of the slope and stood with his hands in his jeans pockets studying the undergrowth. “She was right about here. A lot more brush in the area back then.”

“We cut that back on account of the fire department,” Johanson said. “They come out usually twicet a year. Owner won’t clear brush without a threat. Too cheap.”

“With the fire danger up here, you can’t ignore the brush,” Stacey said, ever so polite.

“No, sir. That’s what I say. You’ll find a few more trees. Back when that girl was throwed down there, that ’un and this one wasn’t here. Both black acacias. Grow like weeds. I’d cut ’em down myself, but owner won’t hear of it. Now, oaks I don’t touch. Couldn’t pay me to fell one unless it’s eat out by rot.”

Dolan and I were both ignoring the man. I watched Dolan as he scrambled back out of the ravine and stood scanning the portion of Highway 1 that was visible from where we stood. “My guess is he backed in and opened the trunk of the car. He probably used the painter’s tarp to drag the body the short distance from there to here. The tarp was heavily soiled on one side and you could see a path through the underbrush where it’d been flattened by the weight.”

“Kids used to pull in here for petting parties,” Johanson said. “Monday mornings, ground’d be littered with rubbers, limp as snake skins. That’s why we put in the gate, to keep cars out.”

I looked at Stacey. “Was she wrapped in the tarp?”

“Partially. We believe he killed her somewhere else. There were blood stains in the grass, but nothing to suggest the volume you’d’ve seen if she bled out. He probably used the tarp to keep the stains off the interior of the trunk.”

Dolan said, “If we’d had some of this new high-tech equipment back then, I bet we’d have found plenty. Hair, fiber, maybe even prints. Nothing neat about this killing. He just happened to get lucky. Nobody saw the murder and nobody spotted him when he toppled her down the slope.”

Johanson perked up. “Neighbor down the road—this is C. K. Vogel—I don’t know if you remember this, but C. K. seen a light-colored VW van on the particular morning of July 28 up along that road over there. Painted all over with peace symbols and psychedelic hippie signs. Said it was still there eleven o’clock that night. Curtains on the winders. Dim light inside. It was gone the next morning, but he said it struck him as odd. I believe he phoned it in to the Sheriff’s Department after the girl was found.”

Dolan’s skepticism was unmistakable, though he tried to be civil—not an easy task for him. “Probably unrelated, but we’ll look into it.”

“Said he seen a convertible as well. Killer could’ve drove that. Red, as I recollect, with an out-of-state license plate. If I was you, I’d make sure to have a talk with him.”

I said, “Thanks for the information. I’ll make a note.”

Johanson looked at me with interest. Suddenly, he seemed to get it: I was a police secretary, accompanying the good detectives to spare them the tedium of all the clerical work.

The breeze shifted slightly, blowing Dolan’s smoke in my face. I moved upwind.

“Something I forgot to mention about Miracle,” Stacey said. “When we went back to the impound lot and searched Frankie’s car, we found soil samples in the floor mats that matched the soil from the embankment. Unfortunately, the experts said it was impossible to distinguish this sample from samples in other quarries throughout the state. West Coast has the most extensive marine deposits in the world.”

“I saw that report. Too bad,” I said. “What’d Frankie say when you questioned him?”

“He gave us some long garbled tale of where he’d been. Claimed he’d been hiking in the area, but it was nothing we could confirm.”

Dolan said, “He was higher than a kite the day they picked him up. Grass or coke. Arrest sheet doesn’t say. He’s a meth freak is what I heard.”

“Everyone under thirty was higher than a kite back then,” I said.

Mr. Johanson cleared his throat, having been excluded from the conversation too long to suit him. “Being’s as you’re here, you might want to see the rest of the property. This is the last ranch of its size. Won’t be long before they tear down the old house. Probably build subdivisions as far as the eye can see.”

My impulse was to decline, but Dolan seemed to spark to the idea. “I’m in no hurry. Fine with me,” he said. He gave Stacey a look. Stacey shrugged his assent and then checked for my response.

I said, “Sure. I don’t mind. Are we finished here?”

“For now. We can always come back.”

Johanson turned toward his Jeep. “Best take the Jeep. Road’s all tore up from heavy rains we had a while back. No point throwing up dust and gravel on that fancy car of yours.”

I thought he was being snide. I checked for Dolan’s reaction, but he was apparently in agreement with the old man’s assessment.

We piled in the Jeep, Stacey in the front seat, Dolan and me climbing into the rear. The seats were cracked leather, and all the glassine windows had been removed. Johanson started the engine and released the emergency brake. The vehicle’s shocks were gone. I reached up and grabbed the roll bar, clinging to it as we began to lurch and bang our way up the deeply rutted gravel road. Like me, Stacey was clinging to the Jeep frame for stability, wincing with pain from the jolts to his injured back.

The grass on either side of us was rough. A hillside rose on our left and then leveled out at the top, forming a mesa where numerous pieces of heavy equipment sat. Much of the remaining ground was stripped and terraced, broad fields of rubble unbroken by greenery. “That’s the quarry,” Johanson said, hollering over the rattle and whine of the moving vehicle.

I leaned forward, directing my comments toward the back of his head. “Really? That looks like a gravel pit. I pictured limestone cliffs.”

“Different kind of quarry. These is open pit mines. Grayson Quarry goes after the DE. That’s diatomaceous earth. Here, I’ve got a sample. Take a look at this.” One eye on the road, he leaned down and removed a chunk of rock from the floor of the Jeep, then passed it across the seat to me. The rock was a rough chalky white, about the size of a crude round of bread with irregular gouges in the crust. I passed it on to Lieutenant Dolan, and he hefted it as I had, finding it surprisingly light.

I said, “What’d you say this was?”

“Diatomaceous earth. We call it DE.”

I felt a tingle of uneasiness run down my spine as his explanation went on. “DE’s a deposit made up mainly of siliceous shells of diatoms. This whole area was underwater oncet upon a time. The way they tolt me, marine life fed on diatoms, which is these colonies of algae. Now it’s pulverized and used as an abrasive, sometimes as an absorbent.”

Stacey raised his voice against the crunch of the tires over gravel. “I used to use it to filter beer when I was making it at home.”

The road began to climb and the Jeep labored upward, finally rounding a bend. The old house came into view—massive, dilapidated, Victoriana under siege. Clearly, the structure had once been regal, but weeds and brush were creeping up on all sides, consuming the yard, obscuring the broken lines of wood fence. Years of neglect had undermined the outbuildings so that all that remained now were the rough stone foundations and occasional piles of collapsed and rotting lumber.

The house itself was a two-story white frame, flanked by a one-story wing on either side of the facade. There were four porches visible, providing shade and sheltered ventilation so that doors and windows could be left open to the elements. A porch wrapped around the house at the front, with a second porch stacked on top. A widow’s walk encircled the roof. The numerous paired windows were narrow and dark, many of the panes sporting the sort of tattered holes that rock throwers make when they score a hit.

Johanson waved at the house, scarcely slowing his speed. “Been empty for years. I’m in the gardener’s cottage on ’tother side of the barn,” he yelled.

I found myself averting my gaze as we passed the house and headed for a compound of structures I spotted in a shady area ahead. Barn, toolshed, greenhouse. There were arbors of grapevines as gnarly as rope. Weathered wooden tables were arranged under the trellises. I had the sensation of cold blowing down on the back of my neck.

Johanson pulled up in front of a ramshackle frame cottage. Beyond, I could see a raw wood barn that listed to one side, and beyond that there were endless stretches of three-board wood fence.

I leaned forward again and laid a hand on Johanson’s shoulder. “Excuse me, who’d you say owns this?”

He killed the engine before he turned. “Miz LeGrand. I guess I should say Miz Kinsey to be accurate. She’s a widder woman, must be ninety-some by now. Married to Burton Kinsey, the fella who leased the quarry from her pappy. He made his fortune off the mine, though the whole of it was rightly hers oncet the old man died….”

I’d ceased to listen and the silence in my head seemed as profound as temporary deafness. He was talking about my maternal grandmother, Cornelia Kinsey, born Cornelia Straith LeGrand.

4

Friday morning, I arose at 5:59, switching off the alarm a moment before the clock radio was set to burst into song. I stared up at the skylight above my bed. No rain. Shit. I didn’t feel like exercising, but I made a deal with myself: I’d do the jog and skip the gym. I leaned over and scooped up the sweats I’d left folded on the floor. I wriggled into pants and top. I sat up and tugged on a pair of crew socks, shoved my feet into my Sauconys, and had my key tied to the laces before I’d left my bed. It occurred to me that if I just made it my habit to sleep in my sweats and crew socks, it would be a lot more efficient. All I’d need were my running shoes and I’d be ready to go. I went into the bathroom and availed myself of the facilities, after which I brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and then used my wet hands to comb the sleep-generated peaks and valleys from my hair. I trotted down the spiral stairs, checked the thumblock on the front door and pulled it shut, then rounded the studio to the gate.

The neighborhood was quiet and the air felt damp. I walked half a block down and one block over, crossing Cabana Boulevard to the bike path that parallels the beach. I began to jog, feeling sluggish, aware of every footfall and every jolt to my frame. With me, jogging is seldom a subject for debate. I get up and do the run, unless it rains, of course, and then I burrow in my bed. Otherwise, five mornings a week, I shake off the sleep and hit the road before I lose my nerve, knowing that whatever I’m feeling at the outset of a run will be gone by the time I reach the end. The gym I can do without, though I’d been good about lifting weights for the past several months.

The sunrise had already presented itself in a dazzling light show that left the sky a broad and unblemished blue. The surf looked forbidding, a silt-churning cold, applauded only by the sea lions who waited offshore, barking their approval. I ran a mile and a half down to the Cabana Recreation Center, did a U-turn, and then ran the mile and a half back, finally slowing to a brisk walk as I headed for home.

I’d been resisting the urge to ponder events from the day before, but I could feel my thoughts stray. Dolan and Stacey had both caught the name “Kinsey” as soon as Johanson mentioned it, but my expression must have warned them to keep any observations to themselves. I had said little or nothing while the ranch foreman showed us through the barn, the old orchards, and the greenhouse, which was largely abandoned. Most of its panes were intact. The air was humid and smelled of mulch, peat moss, compost, and loam. In that protected environment, alien vines and opportunistic saplings had flourished, creating a towering jungle that pushed against the glass on all sides, threatening to break through. The minute we walked into the space, I knew I’d been there before. Cousins I’d discovered in the course of a previous investigation had sworn I’d been at Grand’s house when I was four years old. I had only the scantiest recollection of the occasion, but I knew my parents must have been there, too. The three of them—my father, my mother, and her sister Virginia—had been banished from the family after my parents eloped. My father was a mailman, thirty-five years old. My mother, Rita Cynthia Kinsey, was an eighteen-year-old debutante whose mother was convinced she was destined for someone better than Randy Millhone. Instead, my mother ran off with him, thumbing her nose at the entire Kinsey clan. Virginia sided with the newlyweds. Thereafter, all three were cast into the Kinsey family equivalent of the Outer Darkness.

Despite being exiled, my parents apparently made secret visits to the ranch whenever my grandparents were away. Rumor had it there were numerous contacts with the three remaining sisters, but I only knew of two occasions. On the first, there was an incident in which I’d fallen off a porch and hurt my knee. I did remember the sight of the scrape with its alternating stripes of dirt and blood, which smelled like iron. I could also remember the searing pain when my mother dabbed at the abrasion with a cotton ball that seemed to hiss on my skin. She and I took turns blowing on the wound, huffing and puffing to dry the medication and thus ease its sting. On the only other drive to Lompoc I remembered, my parents were killed before we ever arrived. My grandmother had known of my existence since the day I was born. I was still smarting from the fact she’d never bothered to make contact.

Walking the property with Arne Johanson, I’d dreaded the idea of entering the house, and I’d been hoping to avoid it when I realized Stacey’s breathing had become labored and much of the color had drained from his face. I laid a hand on his arm and called, “Con?”

Dolan turned and looked back. Stacey shook his head, making one of those gestures meant to assure us we needn’t worry about him. Johanson had forged on ahead and he was still chattering about the ranch when Dolan caught up with him. “Mr. Johanson? Sorry to cut this short, but I’ve got a meeting coming up in town and we have to get back.”

“This won’t take long. You don’t want to miss the house.”

“Maybe another day. We’ll take a rain check.”

“Well. I guess that’s that then. Whatever you say.”

Within minutes, he’d delivered us to Dolan’s car and we were back on the highway. The drive home had been low-key, with Stacey slumped on the backseat, the red knit cap pulled down to shield his eyes.

“Are you all right, Stace?” I asked.

“Walking wore me out. It’s my damn back again. I’ll be better in a bit.” In the absence of animation, his face looked old.

Dolan readjusted the rearview mirror, keeping one eye on Stacey and one on the road. “I told you not to come.”

“Did not. You said the fresh air’d be good. Said I ought to take advantage while I was up to it.”

I said, “You warm enough?”

“Quit worrying.”

I turned my attention to Lieutenant Dolan. “What’s next?”

Stacey answered before he could. “We’ll meet at my place tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock suit?”

“Fine with me,” I said.

Dolan said, “Sounds good.”

We dropped Stacey first. He lived close to downtown Santa Teresa, five blocks from my office, in a small pink stucco rental house perched above a pink cinder-block wall. Dolan had me wait in the car while he retrieved Stacey’s gun from the trunk and then followed him up the six stairs to the walkway that skirted the place. I could see how tightly Stacey had to grip the railing in order to pull himself up. The two disappeared, moving toward the rear. Dolan was gone for ten minutes, and when he returned to the car, he seemed withdrawn. Neither of us said a word during the drive to my apartment. I spent the remainder of Thursday afternoon taking care of personal errands.

Having finished my jog, I walked the block between the beach and my place. When I reached my front door, I picked up the morning paper as I let myself in. I tossed the Dispatch on the kitchen counter and started a pot of coffee. As soon as it began to trickle through the filter, I went up the spiral stairs to take my shower and get dressed.

I was halfway through my bowl of Cheerios, sitting at the counter, when the telephone rang. I dislike interruptions at breakfast, and I was tempted to wait and let the answering machine pick up. Instead, I leaned over and grabbed the handset from the wall-mounted phone. “Hello?”

“Hello, Kinsey. This is Tasha, up in Lompoc. How’re you?”

I felt my eyes close. This was one of my cousins, Tasha Howard, the only member of the family I’d ever dealt with at any length. She’s an estate attorney with offices in Lompoc and San Francisco.

I’d met her sister, Liza, a couple of years before, and during our one and only conversation discovered hitherto unplumbed depths of disaffection in my otherwise placid frame. My reaction was probably only a side effect of the fact that Liza was telling me things I didn’t want to hear. For one thing, she told me, in the giddiest manner possible, that my mother was regarded as an idol among her living nieces and nephews. While this was meant as flattery, I felt it dehumanized the woman whom I’d never really known. I resented their prior claim, just as I resented the fact that my pet name for our aunt Virginia, that being “Aunt Gin,” was a term already in wide use among these same family members. So, too, was the penchant for peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwiches, which I’d assumed was a secret link between my mother and me. Granted, my reaction was less than rational, but I was left feeling diminished by the idle tales Liza told.

Tasha was okay. She’d bailed me out of a jam once and on another occasion she’d hired me for a job. That hadn’t turned out well, but the fault wasn’t hers.

Belatedly, I said, “Fine. How are you?” We always have conversations that sound like they’re punctuated by transatlantic delays.

“I’m good, thanks. Listen, it looks like Mother and I will be coming down your way to shop and we wondered if you were free. We can have lunch if you like, or maybe get together for drinks later in the afternoon.”

“Today? Ah. Thanks for asking, but I just started work on a case and I’m completely tied up. Maybe another time.” I hoped I didn’t sound as insincere as I felt.

“Must be a busy time of year.”

“Feast or famine,” I said. “It’s the nature of the beast.” I was really trying my best not to be prickly with her. Even in the briefest of conversations, we often manage to butt heads on the subject of family relationships. She favors closer ties while I favor none.

“I suspect you’d refuse no matter what.”

“Not at all.” I let a silence fall.

We breathed in each other’s ears until she said, “Well. Mother will be down again on Tuesday. I know she’s anxious to talk to you. Are you still in the office on Capillo?”

“Actually, I’m not. I’ve rented a bungalow on Caballeria. I just moved in a couple of months ago.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“Great. That’s fine. Not a problem.”

“I don’t want you to take offense, but I hope you’ll be polite.”

“Gee, Tasha, I’ll try to behave myself. It’ll be a struggle, of course.”

I could hear the smile in her voice. “You have to give me credit for persistence.”

“Right. Duly noted. I have you down for that.”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

“That’s my dry sense of humor.”

“Why are you such a pain in the butt? Couldn’t you try meeting me halfway?”

“I don’t understand why you insist on pursuing me.”

“For the same reason you insist on rebuffing me. Being pig-headed is a family trait.”

“I’ll give you that. It still pisses me off that Grand thinks she could treat my parents like shit and then waltz in years later and make it all evaporate.”

“What’s that got to do with us? Pam and Liza and I didn’t do anything to your parents or Aunt Gin. Why should we be held accountable for Grand? Yes, she behaved badly. Yes, she’s a bitch, but so what? Maybe your mother and Aunt Gin delivered tit-for-tat. At the time your parents died, we were only kids. We didn’t know what was going on and neither did you. It seems ridiculous to nurse such bad feelings. To what end? We’re family. You’re stuck with us whether you like it or not.”

“So far, I’ve done very well without ‘family.’ So why can’t you drop the subject and get on with life?”

“Why can’t you?” She paused, trying to gain control of herself. “I’m sorry. Let’s try again. I don’t understand why every time I call we get into these wrangles.”

“We don’t get into wrangles every time.”

“Yes, we do.”

“No, we don’t!”

“Name one conversation when we didn’t come to blows.”

“I can name three. You hired me for a job. We had lunch together that day and we got along fine. Since then, we’ve chatted on the phone two or three times without bickering.”

“That’s true,” she said, reluctantly, “but I’m always aware of the anger percolating just under the surface.”

“So what? Look, Tasha, maybe in time we’ll find a way to settle our differences. Until then, we’re not going to get anywhere arguing about whether or not we’re arguing. I don’t claim to be rational. I’m nuts. Why don’t you let it go at that?”

“Okay. Enough said. We just wanted you to know we’re still interested. We hoped yesterday’s visit to the ranch would provide an opening.”

“Ah, that. How’d you find out?”

“Arne Johanson called Pam. He said he saw someone who looked so much like your mother, it gave him goose bumps. I was surprised you’d even step a foot on the family ranch.”

“I wouldn’t have if I’d known.”

“Oh, I’ll bet.”

“That aside, I do recognize what it costs you to keep in touch. I don’t mean to be quite so belligerent.”

“No apologies necessary.”

“Uh, Tasha? That wasn’t an apology.”

“Skip it. I got that. My mistake,” she said. “The point is, I’m a lawyer. I deal with belligerence on a daily basis.”

“I thought you did estate planning. How could anyone get belligerent about that? It sounds so dull.”

“Shows what you know. Anytime you talk money, there’s the potential for folks to get nasty. Nobody wants to talk about dying and nobody wants to give up control of the family purse. When it comes to the beneficiaries, there’s usually an undercurrent of entitlement,” she said, and then hesitated. “On a related topic, you probably heard there’s talk of razing the Manse.”

“The ‘Manse’? Is that what it’s called? I thought a manse had something to do with Presbyterians.”

“It does. Our great-great-grandfather Straith was a Presbyterian minister. In those days, the Church didn’t have the money to build a parsonage so he paid for it himself. I think he intended to deed it over to the Church when he died, but cooler heads prevailed. At any rate, the house is a mess. It’d be cheaper, at this point, to tear it down.”

“I take it Grand doesn’t want to spend the money to bring the old place back.”

“Right. She’s tried to enlist the support of a couple of historic-preservation groups, but no one’s interested. The location’s remote and the house itself is a hybrid. Turns out it’s not even a good example of its kind.”

“Why not leave it as it is? It’s her land, isn’t it?”

“It’s hers for now, but she’s ninety years old and she knows none of her heirs has the money or the passion for undertaking the job. Besides, she’s got another house in town. She hardly needs two.”

“That’s right. I remember now. Liza told me most of the family live within blocks of her.”

“We’re a cozy bunch,” she said, dryly. “Meanwhile, she’s got all kinds of developers sniffing around. Mostly local vintners with an eye on the slopes. Turns out the soil’s perfect. Plus, she gets a lot of coastal fog, which means a longer growing period.”

“How much land does she have?”

“Twenty-three thousand acres.”

There was a silence while I tried to compute what she’d just said. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m serious.”

“I had no idea.”

“Doesn’t matter for now because she’ll never sell. Great-Granddaddy made her promise she’d keep it just as it is. The issue won’t get sticky until she goes.”

“Hasn’t she put the estate in some kind of trust?”

“Nope. Most of those old trusts were established in the thirties—people in the east who’d had wealth in the family for generation after generation. Out here, all we had were ranchers, down-to-earth types much more likely to form limited family partnerships. At any rate, nothing’s going to happen as long as she’s alive,” she said. “Meanwhile, if you change your mind about that drink just give me a call. You still have my number?”

“I better take it down again.”

Once I hung up, I had to sit down and pat my chest. I’d actually ended up entertaining a few warm feelings about her. If I didn’t watch myself, I was going to end up liking the woman and then where would I be?

On my way over to Stacey’s, I popped by the office to make sure all was in order. I opened a window briefly to let in a little fresh air and checked my machine for messages. I took care of a few routine matters and then locked up again. I left my car where it was and walked the five blocks to his house, arriving in advance of Con Dolan. Stacey’d left his front door open and his screen unlatched. I knocked on the frame. “Hey, Stacey? It’s me. Mind if I come in?”

He responded with a muffled “Make yourself at home.”

I stepped inside and closed the screen door behind me. The floors were bare of carpeting, and the windows had no curtains or drapes, so my very presence seemed to set up an echo. I could smell coffee being brewed, but otherwise the place felt unoccupied. The room was stripped down, as though someone were moving in or out with the job only partially completed. The interior of the house couldn’t have been more than eight hundred square feet, most of which was visible from where I stood. The space was divided into living room, kitchen, a bedroom, and a bath, though the door to that was closed. The floor was linoleum, printed in a pattern of interconnected squares and rectangles, blue on gray with a line of mauve woven in at intervals. The woodwork was stained dark; the walls covered with yellowing paper. In places I could see tears that revealed the wall coverings from three lifetimes down; a small floral print covered by a layer of pinstripes that, in turn, covered blowsy bouquets of faded cabbage roses.

Under the windows to my right, there was a mattress, neatly made up with blankets. A TV set rested on the bare floor nearby. To my left, there was an oak desk and a swivel chair. There was not much else. Six identical cardboard boxes had been stacked against the far wall. All were sealed with tape and each bore a hand-printed label that listed contents. A closet door stood open, and I could see that it had been emptied of everything except two hangers.

I tiptoed to the kitchen door and peered in at a small wooden table and four mismatched chairs. A Pyrex percolator sat on the stove, a low blue flame under it. The clear glass showed a brew as dark as bittersweet chocolate. The doors to all the kitchen cabinets stood open, and many shelves were bare. Stacey was obviously in the process of wrapping and packing glassware and dishes into assorted cardboard boxes. A heavy ream of plain newsprint lay on the counter, wide sheets that must have measured three feet by four. He was clearly dismantling his house, preparing his possessions for shipping to an unknown location.

“See anything you like, it’s yours. I got no use for this stuff,” Stacey said, suddenly behind me.

I turned. “How’s your back?”

Stacey made a face. “So-so. I’ve been sucking down Tylenol and that helps.”

“You’ve been busy. Are you moving?”

“Not exactly. Let’s say, I may be going away and wanted to be prepared.” Today his watch cap was navy blue. With his bleached brows and his long, weathered face, he looked like a farmer standing in a fallow field. He wore soft, stone-washed jeans, a pale blue sweatshirt, and tan sheepskin boots.

“You own this place?”

“Rent. I’ve been here for years.”

“You’re organized.”

“I’m getting there. I don’t want to leave a mess for someone else to clean up. Con’s the one who’ll come in.” The unspoken phrase after I’m dead hung in the air between us.

“Con told me they were trying new drugs.”

Stacey shrugged. “Clinical trials. An experimental cocktail designed for people with nothing left to lose. Percentages aren’t good, but I figure, what the hell, it might help someone else. Some survive. That’s what the bell curve’s all about. I just think it’s foolish to assume I’m one.”

Con Dolan knocked at the front door and then let himself in, appearing half a second later in the kitchen doorway. He carried a brown paper grocery bag in one hand and a smaller white bag in the other. “What are you two up to?”

Stacey put his hands in his pockets and shrugged casually. “We’re talking about running away together. She’s arguing for San Francisco so we can cross the Golden Gate Bridge. I’m holding out for Vegas and topless dancing girls. We were just about to toss a coin when you came in.” Stacey moved toward the stove, talking to me over his shoulder. “You want coffee? I’m out of milk.”

“Black suits me fine.”

“Con?”

Dolan held up a white sack spotted with grease. “Doughnuts.”

“Good dang deal,” Stacey said. “We’ll retire to the parlor and figure out what’s what.”

Con took his two bags into the living room while Stacey produced a tower of nested Styrofoam cups and poured coffee in three. He returned to the counter and picked up the pile of newsprint and a marker pen. “Grab those paper towels, if you would. I’m out of napkins and the only kind I’ve seen are those economy packs. Four hundred at a crack. It’s ridiculous. While you’re at it, you can nab that sealing tape.”

I picked up the roll of tape and my coffee cup, while Dolan returned to grab two of the kitchen chairs. Then he came back and picked up the two remaining cups of coffee, which he placed on the desktop in the living room. He reached into the larger of the two bags and hauled out three wide black three-hole binders. “I went over to the copy shop and made us each one. Murder books,” he said, and passed them out. I flashed on my early days in elementary school. The only part of it I’d loved was buying school supplies: binder, lined paper, the pen-and-pencil sets.

Stacey taped two sheets of blank newsprint to the wall, then unfolded a map of California and taped it to the wall as well. There was something of the natural teacher in his manner. Both Dolan and I helped ourselves to doughnuts and then pulled up chairs. Stacey said, “I’ll take the lead here unless someone objects.”

Con said, “Quit being coy and get on with it.”

“Okay then. Let’s tally what we know. That’ll show us where the gaps are. For now, you probably think we have a lot more gaps than we have facts in between, but let’s see what we’ve got.” He uncapped the black marker and wrote the name “Victim” at the top of one sheet and “Killer” at the top of the next. “We’ll start with Jane Doe.”

I pulled a fresh pack of index cards from my shoulder bag, tore off the cellophane, and started taking notes.

5

He printed rapidly and neatly, condensing the information in the file as we talked our way through. “What do we have first?” He lifted his marker and looked at us. Like any good instructor, he was going to make sure we supplied most of the answers.

Dolan said, “She’s white. Age somewhere between twelve and eighteen.”

“Right. So that means a date of birth somewhere between 1951 and 1957.” Stacey made the requisite note near the top of the paper.

“What about the estimated date of death?” I asked.

I thought Dolan would consult the autopsy report, but he seemed to know it by heart. “Dr. Weisenburgh says the body’d been there anywhere from one to five days, so that’d be sometime between July 29 and August 2. He’s retired now, but I had him go back over this and he remembered the girl.”

“All right.” Stacey wrote the DOD on the paper under Jane Doe’s date of birth. He went on writing, this time dictating to himself. Rapidly, we went through the basics: height, weight, eyes, hair color.

Dolan said, “Report says blond, though it was probably a dye job. There was some suggestion of dark roots.”

I said, “She had buckteeth and lots of fillings, but no orthodontic work.”

Stacey’s mouth pulled down. “Maybe we should stop and have a chat about that.”

Dolan shook his head. “They didn’t do braces much when I was growing up. My family was big—thirteen kids—and we all had crooked teeth. Look here. Bottoms buckled up, but these top guys are good.” He turned to me. “You have braces as a kid?”

“Nope.”

“Nor did I,” Stacey said. “Well. I’m glad we got that out of the way. So what’s that tell us, the buckteeth?”

“Well, I’d say most kids with a severe overbite have already seen an orthodontist by the time they’re ten,” Dolan said. “My niece has three kids, so I know they start early—sometimes do the work in two or three stages. If this gal was going to have braces, she should’ve been in ’em by the time she died.”

“Maybe her family didn’t have the money,” I suggested.

“That could be. Anything else?”

“Cavities like that, you’re talking poor diet, too. Candy. Soda pop. Junk food,” Dolan said, with a quick look at me. And then to Stacey, “Not to sound like a snoot, but kids from your basic middle-to upper-class families usually don’t have rotten teeth like that.”

I said, “Think about the toothaches.”

Stacey said, “She did get ’em fixed. Matter of fact, the forensic odontist thinks all the fillings went in about the same time, probably in the year or two before she died.”

I said, “That must have cost a bundle.”

“Think of all the novocaine shots,” Dolan said. “You’d have to sit there for hours with that drill screaming in your head.”

“Knock it off. You’re making my palms sweat. I’m phobic about dentists in case you haven’t heard. Look at this,” I said, showing him my palms.

Stacey frowned. “They ever circulate a chart of her amalgam fillings?”

Dolan said, “Not that I know. I’ve got a copy in here. Might come in handy if we think we got a match. We do have the maxilla and mandible.”

I looked over at him. “Her jaws? After eighteen years?”

“We have all ten fingers, too.”

Stacey made a note on the paper. “Let’s see if we can get the coroner’s office to run another set of prints. Maybe we’ll get a hit through NCIC.”

“I can’t believe she’ll show up, given her age at the time of death,” Dolan said.

“Unless she got arrested for shoplifting or prostitution,” I said, ever the optimist.

“Problem is, if she got arrested as a juvenile, her records would be sealed and probably purged by now,” he said.

I raised a hand. “You were talking about why she was never recognized; suppose she was from out of state, some place back East? I get the impression the news story didn’t get nationwide attention.”

“Story probably didn’t rate a mention beyond the county line,” Dolan said.

“Let’s move on to her clothes. Any ideas there?” Stacey asked.

I said, “I thought it was interesting her pants were homemade. If you add that to the issue of poor dental hygiene, it sounds like low income.”

Stacey said, “Not necessarily. If her mom made her the clothes, it’d suggest a certain level of caring and concern.”

“Well, yeah. There is that. Those flowered pants were distinct. Dark blue daisies with a red dot on a white background. Someone might remember the fabric.”

Dolan said, “I’d like to go back and look at that statement the minimart clerk made about the hippie girl who came in. What’s the woman’s name, Roxanne Faught? We ought to track her down again and see if she has anything to add.”

Stacey said, “I talked to her twice, but you’re welcome to try. Is that store still open?”

“As far as I know. It was closed for a while, so it might have changed hands. You want me to take a drive up there?” Dolan asked.

“Let me do that. I can go this afternoon,” I said.

“Good. Meanwhile, what else? What about sizes?”

We spent several minutes working through those details. This time Dolan flipped back through the pages, looking for the list of clothing booked into property. “Here we go. Shoe size—7½. Panty size—medium. Bra size was 38A.”

I said, “That means she’s got a fairly large torso, but a small cup size. Barrel-chested. Girls like that tend to look top-heavy, even if they’re thin.”

Dolan turned a page. “Says here her ears were pierced. ‘Through the left earlobe is a gold-colored wire of a “horseshoe” configuration. Through the right earlobe a gold-colored wire with a bent clip in its lower end.’ People might remember that, too.”

Stacey added that to the list and then said, “Is that it?”

I raised my hand. “She wore nail polish. Silver.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Not that I remember.”

Dolan got to his feet. “In that case, if you’ll excuse me. I gotta have me a smoke.”

At lunchtime, I volunteered to make a trip to the nearest market and pick up the makings for sandwiches, but they’d apparently gotten wind of my peanut-butter-and-pickle fetish and voted to go out for Chinese. We took Con’s car and made the crosstown trip to the Great Wall, with its pagoda facade and a gilded statue of the Buddha sitting over the front door. In the parking lot, I waited while Stacey and Con tucked their guns in the trunk of Con’s car. The three of us went in.

The interior walls were painted the requisite Chinese red with red Naugahyde banquettes and round white paper lanterns strung like moons around the perimeter. Stacey didn’t have much appetite, but Con seemed more than willing to make up for it. I was starving as usual. We ordered pot stickers and spring rolls, which we dunked in that pale Chinese mustard that cleans out your sinuses. We moved on to Moo Shu Pork, Kung Pao Chicken, and Beef with Orange Peel along with a dome of white rice. Con and I drank beer. Stacey had iced tea.

While we ate, the guys speculated about the killer, a matter in which I deferred to them: I have no formal training in homicide investigation, though I’ve encountered a few bodies in the course of my career. Given the nature of the murder, they theorized that the perpetrator was most likely male, in part because women tend to be repelled by close-contact blood-and-gore killings. In addition, the multiple stab wounds suggested a brutality more commonly associated with men.

“Hey, these days, women can be brutes,” Con said.

“Yeah, but I can’t see a woman hefting that body into the car trunk and hauling it out again. A hundred twenty-five pounds is a lot of dead weight.”

“As it were,” Dolan said. “You think this was planned?”

“If it was, you’d think he’d’ve worked out a plan for disposing of the body. This guy was in a hurry, at least enough of one that he didn’t stop to dig a grave.” He was making notes on a napkin and the pen made occasional rips in the paper while the ink tended to spread.

Con opened his packet of chopsticks and pried the two wooden sections apart, rubbing one on the other to smooth away any tiny wooden hairs. He doused both his chicken and his beef with enough soy sauce to form a shallow brown lake in which his rice grains swam like minnows. “I’m surprised he didn’t pick a dump site more remote.”

“That stretch of road looks isolated if you don’t know any better. No houses in sight. He probably didn’t have a clue about the quarry traffic running up and back.”

“I’m with you on that. Forensics says the wire he used to bind her wrists was torn off something else so he must have grabbed whatever came to hand. Guy was making shit up as he went along.” I watched as Dolan formed a pincer with his chopsticks and tried picking up a chunk of chicken, which he couldn’t get as far as his mouth.

“Question is, did he target that girl in particular, or was he trolling for a victim and it was just her bad luck?”

Con said, “I think it was a fishing expedition. He might’ve tried five or six gals and finally one said yes.” He shifted to a scooping technique, using his chopsticks like a little shelf onto which he pushed the bite of chicken. He got the hunk as far as his lower lip. Nope. I saw him shake his head. “I don’t think we’re dealing serial. This feels like a one-off.” He tried again, this time lunging, his lips extended like an anteater’s as he lifted his chopsticks. He captured a snippet of orange peel before the rest fell back onto his plate.

I grabbed a fork from the next table and handed it to him.

Stacey made a doodle on the napkin, which by now was completely tattered. “Hang on. Let’s back up a second. Age-wise, it seems to me like she’s bound to be closer to the high end—sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and up, instead of the twelve, thirteen end of the spread. Young girl like that, somebody’s going to report she’s gone, regardless of whether she leaves voluntarily or stomps out in a huff. You’re a parent, you might shrug and not think too much about it, but when she doesn’t come home, you’re going to worry. You call around and find out her friends haven’t seen her either and you’re going to call the cops. If she’s twenty and disappears, it might not raise any flags at all.”

“Right. She could’ve had a history of taking off. This might have been one more in a long string of disappearances.”

Dolan pushed his plate aside. “As long as we’re making wild-ass guesses, here’s another one. I don’t think she’s local. Killer didn’t get into any facial mutilation so he must not’ve been worried someone would know who she was. He didn’t know how long she’d be lying there. Suppose she’s found the same day and they run a description of her in the paper? She’s local, somebody’s going to add two plus two and figure it out fast.”

I said, “What if she’s from another country altogether? England or Spain. There are probably plenty of places where dental care didn’t rank that high in those days. It might also explain why she wasn’t reported missing.”

Dolan said, “A missing-persons report might’ve gone through Interpol and never reached us. It’s worth checking. Maybe they have something on file.”

“There’s a note in there somewhere—woman claims she saw a hitchhiker who fit the girl’s description outside of Colgate. This was a couple of hours before the clerk in the Gull Cove minimart saw that hippie girl on August 1. Could be she was working her way up the coast,” Stacey said.

Dolan reached for his black binder with its incident reports already marked with torn scraps of paper. He turned a few pages and checked the marginal notes he’d written in a surprisingly wee hand. “You’re thinking about Cloris Bargo. She says July 29, four-thirty in the afternoon, she saw a young white female, five foot two to five foot three, age sixteen to seventeen, navy blouse, flowered slacks, long blondish hair, leaning against the base of the Fair Isle overpass. Bargo saw a vehicle stop and pick her up, heading north on the 101.”

“That’s worth another look. If Jane Doe was thumbing rides, we might backtrack and see if we can figure out her point of origin, maybe rough out a timeline.” Stacey reached for his map of California and unfolded it, flapping and spreading the unwieldy sheet across the tabletop. “If she came from the south, she’d have traveled the 405 as far as the 101,” he said. “The main arteries from Arizona into California are Highways 15 from Las Vegas, Nevada, the 40 from Kingman, Arizona, the 10 from Phoenix, and 8 coming up from Yuma. Starting from anywhere else, she’d have taken a different route.”

Dolan pushed his plate away. “You’re never going to pin that one down. She could have come from anywhere. On the other hand, you talk about July 29. That’s the same day Frankie Miracle killed his girlfriend and hit the road. If Jane Doe was thumbing rides, he could’ve picked her up.”

We left the subject at that point and moved on to other things.

After lunch, Con dropped me at the office, where I caught up with the notes on my index cards and then spent a few minutes doing digital research, which is to say, walking my fingers through the telephone book. My job was to verify reports about the young hippie girl, hitching rides in the period between July 29 and August 1. Con was going to hit the phones and track down the whereabouts of Frankie Miracle’s former cellmates, while Stacey searched out his legal skirmishes in previous years. We agreed to meet that night at CC’s to share what we’d learned.

I had a prior address for Roxanne Faught, but nothing for Cloris Bargo. As it turned out, luck was on my side and starting with the obvious paid off for once. A check of the white pages revealed one Bargo, not Cloris, but a sister who didn’t even bother to quiz my purposes before she gave me the current phone number and the Colgate address. Shame on her. I could have been a stalker or a bill collector.

I checked my city map and drew a bead on my destination—a tract of middle-class homes just beyond the Fair Isle off-ramp, where Cloris Bargo had seen the girl. I locked the office, fired up the VW, and took Capillo Avenue as far as the 101.

The day was mild and hazy, the landscape muted, as though washed with skim milk. I rolled down my car windows and let the speed-generated wind blow my hair to a fare-thee-well. Traffic was light and the trip to Colgate took less than six minutes.

I took the off-ramp at Fair Isle and headed toward the mountains, counting the requisite number of streets before I turned left on York. The house I was looking for was halfway down on the left side of the street. This was a neighborhood of “starter” homes, but most had undergone major renovation since the sixties when the area had been developed. Garages had become family rooms; porches had been enclosed; second stories had been added; and the storage sheds in the rear had been enlarged and attached. The lawns were well established and the trees had matured to the point where the sidewalks buckled in places where the roots were breaking through. The children, mere toddlers when their parents had moved in, were grown and gone now, coming back to the neighborhood with children of their own.

I pulled up in front of a two-story white stucco house with a frame addition on the left and an elaborate new entrance affixed to the front that involved arches, a rustic wooden gate, climbing roses, and a profusion of hollyhocks, hydrangeas, and phlox. I let myself through the gate and climbed the porch steps. The front door stood open and the screen was on the latch. From the depths, I could smell something simmering; fruit and sugar. The radio in the kitchen was tuned to a call-in show, and I could hear the host berating someone in argumentative tones. I placed a hand on the screen, shading my eyes so I could see the interior. The front door was lined up exactly with the back door so my view extended all the way to the rear fence that separated two yards. I called, “Hullo?”

A woman hollered, “I’m out here! Come around back!”

I left the porch and trotted along the walkway that skirted the house on the right. As I passed the kitchen window, I glanced up and saw her standing at the open window. She must have been near the sink because she leaned forward and turned off the tap as she peered down at me. Through the screen, she looked thirty-five, a guess I upgraded by ten years once I saw her up close.

I paused. “Hi. Are you Cloris Bargo?”

“Was before I got married. Can I help you with something?” She turned on the water again and her gaze dropped to whatever dish or utensil she was scrubbing.

“I need some information. I shouldn’t take more than five or ten minutes of your time.” It was weird having a conversation with someone whose face was two feet higher. I could nearly see up her nose.

“I hope you’re not selling anything door-to-door.”

“Not at all. My name’s Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private detective. Your name came up in connection with a case I’m working for the Sheriff’s Department.”

She focused on me fully, her gaze sharpening. “That’s a first. I never heard of the Sheriff’s Department hiring outside help.”

“This guy’s a retired north county detective reactivating an old murder case—that young girl stabbed to death back in 1969.”

She put something in the dish rack, dried her hands on a towel, and then reached for the radio and turned it off. When she made no other comment, I said. “Mind if I come in?”

She didn’t extend an invitation, but she made a gesture that I interpreted as consent. I continued down the walkway to the rear of the house, where the concrete drive widened, forming a parking pad. On the right, a clothesline had been strung between a wooden pole and a bolt secured to the side of the garage. White sheets flapped lazily in the breeze. The backyard was nicely landscaped; the flower beds bordered with prefabricated foot-high sections of white picket fence. Someone had recently put in flats of pansies and petunias, now drooping from the transplant process. A sprinkler head attached to a hose sent a fan of water back and forth across the grass. The outdoor furniture had seen better days. The hollow aluminum frames were pitted in places, and the woven green-and-white nylon webbing was faded and frayed. In the far corner, I could see a large expanse of tilled ground with several young tomato plants, a row of newly planted peppers, and five empty bean poles, like teepees, waiting for the emerging tendrils to take hold. I saw no sign of kids or pets.

I climbed six steps to the porch. She was waiting at the back door, holding it open for me. She stepped back and I entered. Her attitude had shifted in the brief time it’d taken me to circle the house. The set of her jaw now seemed stubborn or tense. There was something in her manner that made me think I’d best provide concrete proof of my identity. I handed her a business card.

She took it and placed it on the counter without reading it. She was trim and petite, in tan Bermuda shorts, a white T-shirt, no makeup, bare feet. Her dark hair was chin length and anchored behind her ears with bobby pins.

“Nice flowers,” I said.

“My husband takes care of those. The vegetables are mine.”

The heat in the kitchen felt like South Florida in June—not yet oppressive, but a temperature that made you think seriously about leaving the state. Two big stainless steel pressure cookers fitted with racks sat on burners over matching low blue flames. The lids were lined up on the counter nearby, their little pressure cooker caps resting on the windowsill. Freshly sterilized lids, seals, ladles, and tongs were laid out on white sackcloth towels like surgical instruments. A third kettle contained a dark red liquid, as viscous as glue. I picked up the rich, hot perfume of crushed strawberries. I counted twelve pint-capacity Mason jars lined up on the kitchen table in the middle of the room. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“That’s all right.” She returned to the sink. Everything about her smacked of Midwestern farm values—the canning, the sheets on the line, the truck garden, the unadorned face.

“You remember the case?”

“Vaguely.”

I noticed she didn’t ask to have her memory refreshed, so I volunteered the help. “A sheriff’s deputy took a report from you. According to his notes, you spotted a girl hitchhiking near the Fair Isle off-ramp July 29, 1969.”

“You mentioned the date before.”

I ignored the minor reprimand. “You indicated seeing a vehicle stop and pick her up. Turns out she fit the description of the murder victim found in Lompoc a couple of days later.”

Cloris Bargo’s expression was modified by the appearance of two swatches of pink, like blusher applied by a department store cosmetologist. “You want iced tea? I can fix you some. It’s already made.”

“That’d be great.”

She opened one of the kitchen cabinets and took down a burnished blue aluminum tumbler, which she filled with ice cubes. She poured the tea from a fat glass pitcher she kept in the refrigerator. I knew she was stalling, but I wanted to give her room to declare herself. Something was going on, but I wasn’t sure what. She handed me the glass.

I murmured, “Thanks,” and took a big healthy swallow before I realized it was heavily presweetened. I could feel my lips purse. This was equivalent to that noxious syrup you have to drink before blood draws designed to diagnose conditions you hope you don’t have.

She leaned against the counter. “I made it up.”

I set the tumbler aside. “Which part?”

“All of it. I never saw the girl.”

“No hitchhiker at all?”

She shook her head. “I’d met the deputy—the one who wrote up the report. I was new in California. My family hadn’t been here six months. I hardly knew a soul. There’d been a prowler in our neighborhood, and this deputy was sent out to talk to us. He’d gone house to house, asking if anyone had seen anything strange or unusual. I was off work. I’d just had an emergency appendectomy and I was still recovering. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been home. We ended up having a long talk. I thought he was cute.” She stopped.

“Take your time,” I said.

“A week later, the paper mentioned his name in reference to the murder investigation. I’d never told a lie in my life, but I picked up the phone and called the Sheriff’s Department and asked for him. Once he got on the line, I said the first thing that came to mind.”

“Your claim that you’d seen a girl whose description matched the victim’s was completely false,” I said, hoping I’d misunderstood.

“I just said that. A lot of people must have called in with information that didn’t pan out. All I wanted was a chance to talk to him again.”

I was silent for a moment, thinking, Shit, shit, shit. “Did it work?”

She shrugged. “I married him.”

“Well, that part’s good, at any rate.”

Her eyes strayed to the window. I saw a car pass along the driveway, cruising toward the rear. I looked back at her.

She lowered her voice. “Do me a favor.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t mention this to my husband. I never told him the truth.”

“He doesn’t know?”

She shook her head.

“Would it really matter to him after eighteen years?”

I heard the car door slam shut and her husband’s hard-soled shoes tap-tapping across the pavement between the garage and the back porch. There was a pause while he checked his pansies and petunias. In my opinion, they needed watering. He apparently agreed. I heard the shriek and squawk of the faucet handle when he turned off the water, moved the sprinkler, and turned the water on again. He continued toward the back door while she went on rapidly. “Every time someone asks how we met he tells them the story of how I took the time to call in the report. He admired I was such a conscientious citizen. Says it’s one of my best traits. He claims he fell in love with me on the phone. Then he said it seemed like fate since he’d seen me in person just the week before. He thinks I’m different. A cut above, he says.”

“Tricky.”

“You bet.”

The back door opened. Her husband came in, pausing to wipe his feet on the mat before he entered. Nice-looking guy. He was in his fifties with steel gray hair and blue eyes, his lineage probably Dutch or Scandinavian. He was tall and lean in a well-knit frame, without an ounce of fat. He wore street clothes—tan dress pants, a dark blue dress shirt, and a tie with a pattern of blue and tan. He had his badge on his belt. I wondered what his job was after twenty years with the SO. He’d already removed his gun and his holster, which he’d probably locked in the trunk of his car. “What’s tricky?”

“Getting the pectin just right,” she said without batting an eye. Having lied to him once, she was apparently an old hand at this.

“I’m Kinsey.”

“Joe Mandel. Don’t let her fool you. She makes the best strawberry preserves you ever ate.”

“I’ll bet.”

His face was creased, hair thinning as age began to take its toll. He looked athletic, and I assumed he was fast on his feet, still capable of tangling with the bad guys when circumstances required it. “Looks like a science lab in here. You two cooking up trouble?”

“More or less,” I said.

He exhibited no particular curiosity about who I was or what I was doing in the kitchen with his wife. He leaned over, bussed her on the cheek, and patted her arm. “I’m going to change and do some yard work. We’ll go to Sizzler tonight, get you out of this heat. You need help?”

“I’m fine, sweetie. Thanks.”

“Nice meeting you,” he said, with a quick smile at me.

I smiled and raised a hand in response. Cloris watched him depart, her expression fading from warmth to something more subdued.

“He seems nice.”

“He is nice. That’s why I married him. He’s decent. It would never occur to him to lie to me.”

“Why don’t you tell him, then?”

“Why don’t you mind your own business? I can handle this myself.”

6

The drive from Santa Teresa to Lompoc takes an hour by car, but I stopped at Gull Cove, which marks the halfway point. In my heart of hearts, I knew why I’d volunteered for this part of the job. Aside from the fact I needed time alone, I was flirting with the notion of going back to Grand’s old house. Like a newly reformed drunk, I’d sworn off with conviction just the day before and now found myself thinking maybe one more quick visit wouldn’t do any harm.

I reached the Gull Cove minimart at 2:00 P.M. The business had been housed in an enormous shambling structure covered with cedar shingles, an appealing mix of modern and traditional, with a few Cape Cod elements thrown in for good measure. The building had also housed a twenty-four-hour diner, a curio shop, and a tiny two-station beauty salon. Even at a distance, it was clear the entire place had been closed down. I could see windows boarded over, and the asphalt parking lot was cracked and faded to a chalky gray. The surrounding grass was a dull brown with assorted weeds and wildflowers growing to knee height. On the hillside behind the building, a lone tree had died and stood now like a scarecrow, its twisted branches raised toward the sky as though to beckon birds. The population of Gull Cove was pegged at one hundred, but I couldn’t for the life of me spot so much as one.

I parked my car near the front steps and got out. The wide wooden deck creaked under my feet. A notice posted on the main door announced that the complex was closed for renovations. Someone had drawn a Happy Face in pencil with the mouth turned down. Someone else had written “WHO CARES?” in ballpoint pen. A third party, perhaps human, had taken a big dump near the padlocked door. I peered through the minimart’s front window, which was dusty and streaked where winter rains had hammered at the plate glass. The interior was stripped; not one fixture, counter, or display case remained. It looked like the renovations would be going on for some time.

I turned and stared at the road. The Gull Cove complex was the only commercial structure for miles, a hundred feet from the highway and a natural stopping-off point for travelers who needed to take a break. It was easy to see why someone thumbing a ride might get dropped off in passing. Perhaps after doughnuts and coffee, our Jane Doe found a lift as far as Lompoc, which had turned out to be the end of the line for her.

I went back to the car and checked my notes, looking for Roxanne Faught’s last known address: Q Street in Lompoc, thirty minutes to the north. Seemed like a long way for her to travel for a clerking job. I fired up the engine and hit the road again, heading north, the Pacific Ocean on my left. Today the swells were low and without chop, the color a darker reflection of the blue sky above. Idly, I thought about Grand’s house. It was possible I’d catch a glimpse of the place if I happened to pass that way. Surely, it was visible from the highway if you knew where to look. I turned on the car radio to distract myself.

I reached the outskirts of Lompoc. The town is flat and compact, a one-story panorama of wide streets and small houses. A constant wind blows off the ocean, funneled by the rolling hills that cradle the town. Three miles to the north is Vandenberg Village and beyond that, Vandenberg Air Force Base. The entire valley is given over to horse farms and cattle ranches, much of the agricultural land planted to fields of commercial flowers, many of them grown for seeds. Though I had no idea what I was looking at, I could see stretches of bright yellow and vibrant pink. Beyond them were acres of what appeared to be baby’s breath. Many farms were being sold to real estate developers; the sweet peas, poppies, and larkspurs being crowded out by crops of three-bedroom houses in neatly planted rows.

The town itself boasts the Lompoc Municipal Pool and a substantial civic center along with all the standard businesses: the Viva Thrift Shop, banks, attorneys’ offices, automotive and plumbing supplies, retail stores and gas stations, coffee shops, pharmacies, and medical complexes. Lompoc is a base town with neighborhoods of temporary residents whose military careers will always move them from place to place like pieces on a game board. It was hard to see what people did for amusement. There wasn’t a bowling alley, a concert hall, or a movie house in sight. Maybe local culture consisted of everyone renting videotapes of last year’s money-losing movies.

Q Street wasn’t hard to find, coming as it did between P and R. The address was on the left side of the street, and I slowed as I approached. The house, resting on cinderblocks, was an oblong wooden box covered with sheets of asphalt siding imprinted to look like dark red brick. A porch, stretched across the front, sagged in the middle. Two white-washed tires served as makeshift planters from which pink geraniums spilled. An old white claw-foot tub had been upended and half-buried in the yard. A blue-robed plaster Madonna stood in the shelter of the porcelain rim. I pulled in at the curb and got out.

An old man in overalls was in the front yard bathing a dog. The man looked ninety, if a day, and was still staunchly constructed. He’d strung a garden hose through the half-opened kitchen window, and I assumed the other end was attached to the faucet. As I crossed the grass, he paused in his work, releasing the hose nozzle, shutting off the stream of water. He had a square, jowly face, a lumpy nose, and a straight, nearly lipless mouth. His hair was slicked back, plastered down with pomade, and even then, so thin I could see through to his scalp. His skin was mottled brown from sun damage, interspersed with patches of red. His blue eyes were vivid dots under pale, sparse brows. The air smelled like wet dog hair and a pungent flea soap. A medium-sized pooch of no determinate breed stood knee-deep in a galvanized tub. He looked skinny and frail with his coat plastered to his frame, thinned to transparency. Dead fleas, like pepper, seasoned the flesh underneath. The dog trembled, whining, and wouldn’t quite meet my eyes. I kept my gaze averted so as not to embarrass him.

The old man said, “Help you?” His voice was surprisingly high-pitched for a man his size.

“I hope so. I’m looking for Roxanne Faught and this is the only address I have. Any idea where she is?”

“Ought to. I’m her dad,” he said. “And who might you be?”

I showed him my card.

He squinted and then shook his head. “What’s that say? Sorry, but I don’t have my specs on me.”

“I’m a private investigator from Santa Teresa.”

“What do you want with Roxanne?”

“I need information on an old case. Apparently, a girl came into the Gull Cove minimart when Roxanne was working there in 1969. I’d like to ask her some questions about the incident.”

He squeezed the hose nozzle and the spray of water showered like a light rain over the dog’s back and haunches. “That the one got killed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well. I guess that’s all right then. I know a sheriff’s deputy came by a couple times asking the very same thing.”

“You’re talking about Stacey Oliphant, the guy I’m working with. Is your daughter still in the area?”

“Close enough. How about this. I’ll go give a call and see if she’s willing to talk to you. Otherwise, there’s no point.”

“That’d be great.”

He laid the hose aside, lifted the dog from the tub, and set him on the grass. The dog gave one of those profound total-body shakes, flinging water in all directions until his coat stood out in spikes. The old man picked up a heavy towel and gave the dog a vigorous rub, then swaddled him in the towel, and handed him to me. “This’s Ralph.”

Since I was hoping to curry favor, I took the dog without protest. I could feel warm doggie bathwater seeping from the towel through my shirt front. Ralph lay in my arms, a damp bundle of bones, as trusting as a baby, his eyes pinned on mine. His tongue flopped out the side of his mouth, and I could swear he smiled. I jiggled him a bit, which he seemed to enjoy. I really don’t understand how animals persuade human beings to behave like this.

The old man reappeared, closing the door carefully. He made his way down the steps. He wasn’t quick on his feet, but he seemed to get the job done. He had a scrap of paper in his hand. “She’s home right now and said it’s okay to give you this.”

I handed the dog over and took the paper, glancing down at the phone number and address. “Thanks.”

“It’s a little house off the highway. You go down here about ten blocks until you hit North Street and then turn right. Once you get to Riverside you turn right again. She’s about five blocks down.”

Roxanne Faught had turned her front porch into an outdoor room, with pale sisal carpet, a dark green painted porch swing, two white wicker rockers, occasional tables, and a double-sided magazine rack, one half stuffed with issues of People and the other with copies of Better Homes and Gardens. Five terra-cotta pots of bright orange marigolds lined the edge of the porch. When I arrived, she was sitting on the swing with a bottle of beer and a freshly lit cigarette. The house itself was white frame and completely nondescript. There were windows and doors in all the proper places, but nothing that made the house distinct. Roxanne was in her sixties and attractive, though the creases in her face were exaggerated by all the makeup she wore. Her hair was, in the main, a coppery blond, showing gray at the roots where four inches of new growth formed a wide band. Her brows were plucked to thin arches and her dark eyes were lined in black. The smoking had darkened her teeth, but they were otherwise straight and uniform, suggesting caps. She wore a long-sleeve navy T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up, jeans, and tennis shoes without socks. She took a sip of beer and pointed at me with the bottle. “You have to be the one Pop just called about. Come on up and have a seat.”

“Kinsey Millhone. I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. I wasn’t sure where you were living so I started with him.”

“I’ve been in town all my life. I guess I don’t have much sense of adventure. My great-aunt died and left me just enough money to get the house paid off. I can survive without working if I watch my step.” She paused and picked up a strand of two-toned hair, which she studied critically. “You can see I quit going to the beauty shop. Cheaper to color it myself, when I get around to it. I can’t give these up,” she said, gesturing with her cigarette. “I smoked so long I’m probably doomed, anyway. Might as well enjoy.” She coughed once, loosening something deep in her chest. “What can I help you with? Pop says you’re here about that girl got killed, what was it, twenty years ago?”

“Just about. Eighteen in August.”

“You know what’s interesting about her? She’s got a grip on folks. Here she is dead all that time and she still has people out there wondering who she is and how to get her back where she belongs.”

“And who killed her,” I added.

“Yeah, well good luck on that. You got your work cut out. Sit, sit, sit. Can I get you a beer?”

“I’m doing fine right now, thanks.” I settled on one of the white wicker rockers, which creaked under my weight. “I can see where you’d want to spend the day out here, watching traffic go by. Nice.”

“That’s the thing about retirement. People keep asking me, don’t you miss work? Well, no way, José. I could go the rest of my life and never leave this porch. I’m so busy as it is I can’t figure out how I ever had time for a job. Between housework and errands, there’s half the day gone right there.”

“What else do you do?”

“Read. I work in the yard, play bridge with some gals I’ve known for years. How about you? You like the work you do?”

“I’m not that crazy about being stuck indoors, but the field work’s fun.”

“So now. What can I tell you that you don’t already know?”

“One thing I was curious about. Gull Cove is thirty miles south. Seems like a long way to drive for work you could have found in town.”

Roxanne coughed again, clearing her throat. As with other smokers I’ve known, her coughing was habitual and didn’t seem to warrant a remark. “That’s easy. I was diddling the owner. That’s how I got hired.” She laughed. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. He moved on to someone else and I got fired. Big surprise. My fault entirely. It’s like Pop used to say, ‘Don’t shit in your own Post Toasties, Roxanne.’”

“Live and learn.”

“You got that right. Anyway, I was working seven to three. This was summer and hotter than blue blazes, even with the breeze coming in off the ocean. You know the place at all?”

“Actually, I stopped off there on the drive up.”

“Then you’ve seen for yourself. Not a shade tree in sight; building stuck there on the side of the hill. By August the sun’s hot enough to boil water. Anyway, this was a Friday morning. I remember because I got paid once a week and I had bills up to here. So I’m working away—it’s just me by my lonesome. Business was never heavy and I could handle it myself. This gal comes in. She’s checking the aisles, walking up and down like she has some shopping to do. Then I see her move to the rear where we had a coffee machine and a self-serve case of deli sandwiches and sweets. Customers would serve themselves, then come to the register to pay once they had everything they needed. We kept tables and chairs outside on the deck and most of ’em would take their purchases out there and watch the ocean while they ate. You had to look over the four lanes of traffic whizzing by on the road, but you could see it all the same. Different every day. I never got tired of the sight myself. Any rate, she helped herself to a cup of coffee and a doughnut and had both of them scarfed down by the time she got to the front. She’d tossed the cup somewhere in back, maybe thinking I wouldn’t notice she’d just had her fill. Next thing I know, she’s halfway out the door. I rang up the charges and then I caught up with her. That’s when she told me she was broke. Well, hell, I thought. I’ve been broke in my day and I don’t begrudge anyone some brew and a bite to eat, so I told her I’d take care of it. She said, ‘Thanks. I mean that.’ Those were her exact words. ‘Thanks. I mean that.’ And off she went. Couldn’t have taken more than four minutes all told, and I’m talking from the time she came in.”

“I’m surprised you remembered her at all.”

“Somebody tries to run out without paying? You better believe I remembered. Especially when she turned up dead.” She paused to stub out one cigarette and light another. “Pardon my manners. I hope this doesn’t bother you. Do you smoke?”

“No, but we’re outside and I’m upwind. What else do you recall? Anything in particular?” I wondered how anyone could remember so brief an encounter after so much time had passed.

“Like what? Ask me questions. It’s easier that way.”

“How old would you say?”

“Twenties.”

“Not in her teens?”

“Could have been. She was a good-sized girl.”

“You mean fat?”

“I wouldn’t say fat, but she was big. Big wrist bones, big feet. Had what Pop would call good child-bearing hips.”

“You remember her clothes?”

“Oh lord, I think I gave that sheriff’s detective all this same information at the time. Why don’t you ask him?”

“I thought I’d go back over and see if anything new comes to light,” I said.

“Pants and a blousy shirt—you know, big sleeves.”

“Belt?”

She feigned irritation, giving me a mock cross look. “You get right down to the nitty-gritty, don’t you? Scars, moles, other identifying marks? What do you want? I only saw the girl up close once.”

“Sorry. I take it she wasn’t wearing a belt.”

“Don’t think so.”

I could feel her withdraw and knew I needed to pull her back. “What about her shoes?”

“I’d say boots if I had to guess.”

“It’s not multiple choice. Just whatever comes to mind. Take the pants. Were they patterned or plain?”

She brightened. “Now, that I do know. It’s what I told the cops back then. Daisies.”

“You remember the color?”

She shrugged. “Daisy colored. You know, yellow and white. Probably some green in there someplace. Is that important?”

“I’m just groping around. What about the shirt?”

“Plain. I hope you don’t intend to ask me every little thing.”

I smiled. “Really, I don’t. Was the shirt dark or light?”

“Dark blue voile.”

“Which is what? Sorry, but I don’t know the term.”

“I’m not sure myself, but I know that’s right because I went back and looked it up.”

“You kept notes?”

“I kept the clipping from the paper. It’s in the other room.”

I could hear a dim alarm bell ring. What I was getting was rehearsed. “Did you get the impression she was local or on the road?”

“Traveling, definitely. I saw her hitchhiking earlier when I was coming in to work. I’m sure she hadn’t eaten in a while. She wolfed her food right down.”

“She could have been stoned,” I said.

“Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. She probably was, come to think of it. That might explain where her money went. She spent it all on dope.”

“Just a possibility. I wonder how far she managed to travel without funds. Or do you think she had the money and just didn’t choose to spend it on food?”

“Hard to say. If I hadn’t volunteered to pay, she’d have tennis-shoed the place so I’d’ve been stuck either way. Bet she panhandled, too. Your age, you probably don’t remember those days.”

“Actually, I do. I was in my late teens.”

“Point is, all those hippies hung out, cadging any change you had. Smoking these big fat joints. I forget now what they called ’em. Thumbs, I think. Me, I wasn’t into that. Well, maybe a little grass, but never any LSD.”

I murmured a response and then said, “Was she wearing jewelry?”

“Nope. Don’t think so.”

“No watch or bracelet? Maybe earrings?”

“Oh. I remember now. No earrings. Her left earlobe was torn through. Like somebody’d grabbed a hoop and ripped it right off.”

“Was the injury recent?”

“Nope. It was all healed up, but it was definitely split.”

“What about her fingernails?”

“Bitten to the quick. Nearly made me sick. She wasn’t all that clean, and she’d picked at her cuticles until they bled. You ever see that? Nails so short the fingertips look all puffy. It’s enough to make you lose your lunch.”

“And you’re sure you’d never seen her around town before.”

“Not before and not since.”

“How’d you happen to get in touch with the Sheriff’s Department?”

“I didn’t ‘happen’ to do anything. I read about the body in the paper and remembered she’d been in. Like I said before, the incident stuck in my mind because she tried to pull a fast one.”

“What made you so sure it was the same girl?”

“Who else could it’ve been?”

“Ah. Well, this has been a big help. I appreciate your time.” I reached out to shake her hand.

She complied reluctantly. “Don’t you believe me? I notice you didn’t take notes.”

“I got it all up here,” I said, tapping my head.

Once back in my car, I checked my road map. Roxanne was still on the porch looking out at me, probably wondering at the delay. Maybe she thought I was finally taking notes, recording the bullshit recollections she’d constructed over the years. I didn’t think she’d lied. She’d simply told her story too often. By now, she was either vamping like crazy or remembering someone else. I folded the map in half, trying to gauge how far I might be from the ranch. If I continued south on Riverside and made a dogleg right, I’d hit the road that angled south and east, connecting with Highway 101 just about at Gull Cove. According to the map, the road was called Calle LeGrand, presumably named after my great-grandfather LeGrand, whose twenty-three thousand acres filled a sizeable chunk of the area. Twisting hairlike blue lines indicated creeks running through the land.

I started the VW and waved at Roxanne once as I pulled away. The last I saw of her she was sitting on the porch swing, a fresh cigarette in hand, taking yet another sip of beer.

I picked up Calle LeGrand and followed the road south, through low rolling gold hills that would turn as green as Ireland when the rains returned. In the areas where there were no structures in sight, I fancied I was looking through the eyes of the early settlers, marveling at the acres of untouched land, bare and silent except for the cries of birds. I missed the turn to the ranch and had to circle back when I realized I’d gone too far. On the return, I saw the side road where Stacey and Dolan and I had met Arne Johanson. The gate now stood open and a haze of dust on the gravel road suggested that a vehicle had recently passed that way.

I turned in, driving slowly, my attention drawn to the gulley where Jane Doe’s body had been found. I could see now that a section of the road angled off to the left, ending in a cul-de-sac, and I remembered the passing reference to the VW van that was seen parked in the turnaround. Also, a red convertible with out-of-state plates. Offhand, I couldn’t remember the name of the fellow who’d called it in, but the report might bear revisiting, as Arne had suggested. Somebody Vogel. I’d have to look it up. I eased the car up the hill, following the route Arne had taken in his Jeep. I was really hoping the No Trespassing signs didn’t apply to me.

The house came into view, looking like something in an old horror film. I parked in the driveway and approached with a curious mix of anxiety and excitement. Bare wooden trellises affixed to the porch rails at intervals suggested that roses or morning glories might have climbed there once. Now the beds were overgrown. I climbed the front porch stairs, which seemed remarkably sound. The house, though a shambles, had been built to last. I remembered talk at some point of moving the house into the city limits, restoring it as a possible tourist attraction. I could see where the city would be reluctant to make a claim. Even the idea of renovating the house in situ would be an expensive proposition. To what end?

I tried the front door and to my surprise I found it unlocked. I pushed it open and went in, assaulted by the dense smell of soot and mildew. I spent the next thirty minutes wandering from floor to floor, sometimes awed at the grandeur that remained. High ceilings, the sweeping staircase in the foyer, all the marble and mahogany still gracing the rooms. A large butler’s pantry opened into a vast kitchen with servants quarters built on behind. A second staircase led up to the second floor from there. I could feel memory stir. Vague images, shapeless and filled with shadows, moved at the edge of my vision. I could hear sounds, talking and laughing in another room, without being able to distinguish the words.

I was standing on the wide second-floor landing when I heard someone walking in the hall below. From the bottom of the stairs, someone called, “Kinsey?”

For one wonderful moment, the voice was my mother’s and she’d returned from the dead.

7

I crossed to the banister and peered over the railing. Tasha stood in the stairwell, looking up. “I saw your car parked outside.”

“I’ll come down.”

I descended the stairs, embarrassed that I’d been caught poking around the house uninvited. She’d taken a seat on the third step up, leaning against the wall. I settled on the same step, sitting close to the rail.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“Arne saw your car pull in and called me. My office isn’t that far.” She was dressed in lawyer clothes: a crisp navy-blue pantsuit with a white silk shell under the two-button jacket. She wore pearls. I’d always heard you could tell real pearls from fake by running them across your teeth, but I wasn’t clear what information that was meant to impart. I thought it’d be rude to ask if I could bite her necklace. She had dark eyes, delicately enhanced with a smoky eyeliner, a straight nose where mine was ever so faintly bumpy from having been broken twice. Her dark hair was tastefully highlighted with blond and pulled into a rope at the nape of her neck. I could see a bow of red chiffon peeking into view from the hair clip behind.

It’s odd to see someone you know looks like you. The face we see in the mirror is always reversed so that our impression of ourselves is flipped left to right. If you stand in front of a mirror and put your right index finger against your right cheek, the mirror will tell you you’re touching left to left. The only way you can see yourself as you appear to others is to hold a mirror to the mirror and check your image in that. What I saw now of Tasha was what others saw of me. Already, I liked her face a lot better than mine. I usually ignore my own looks, not from distaste, but from a sense of despair. So many women have mastered an arsenal of beauty products: foundation, powder, blusher, eye shadow, pencils for lining their eyes, brows, and lips. As a rule, I avoid makeup, having little experience with the selection and application process.

It was clear at a glance that Tasha knew her stuff. I couldn’t identify all the kinds of goop on her face, but she’d tinted herself with care. Her skin had a healthy glow, her cheeks showed a hint of pink, and her eyes looked enormous because her lashes were so thick. I could see her assessing me while I assessed her. We smiled at the same time, which only furthered the notion we were looking at ourselves. We had identical teeth.

She said, “After our telephone conversation, I had a long talk with Mom. Her version of events is different.”

“Oh, really. How so?”

“She says your parents made that trip to meet with Grand and Granddaddy in hopes of a reconciliation. They were killed on the way. Grand blamed herself. Aunt Gin blamed her, too. Mom says Grand tried to keep in touch, but Gin was having none of it. Finally, Grand gave up, but only after years of trying to make contact.”

“Bullshit. I don’t believe it.”

“I’m not asking you to believe. I’m telling you what Mother said.”

“Well, of course she’d say that. She’s still tied into Grand. How can you afford to think ill of someone who has the power to pull the rug out from under you? You’d do just about anything to see them as good no matter what they’ve done.”

“Kinsey, if you really want to find out what went on back then, you can’t start by rejecting the messages you don’t want to hear. There are two sides to every story. That’s why we have the courts. To settle disputes.”

“Oh, right. Compare this to litigation. That’ll win you points,” I said. “Most people can’t stand lawyers. I’m one of the few with any respect for the trade.” I stopped. I stared down at the floor for a moment and then shook my head. “I’m sorry. Forget it. I didn’t mean to get into it with you again.”

Tasha smiled slightly. “I told you we couldn’t talk without hassling.”

“You set me off.”

“That’s not my intent.”

“I know. The hard part is that neither of us has any concrete proof. We can do this ‘Did too! Did not!’ routine until the cows come home. It’s Grand’s word against Aunt Gin’s, or my mother’s word against your mom’s. There is no fact of the matter.”

“Probably not. Just keep an open mind. That’s really all I ask.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that. My mind’s been made up since the day I met Liza. I wasn’t interested then and I’m probably not interested now.”

“At least you use the word ‘probably.’ That’s progress, isn’t it? You used to be adamant. Now you’re obdurate.”

“Which means what?”

“Resistant, but less flinty. It’s a big improvement.”

The comment seemed patronizing, but I shrugged it off. Why take offense when she might not have actually meant it that way? I said, “It feels like unfinished business and that bothers me. Regardless of how it comes out, I’d like to think I’m doing the right thing.”

“That works both ways. We’re having to go back and revisit the past, which is good for all of us. The point is, we have time to work this out.”

“Thirty-two years of it so far.”

“So what’s thirty-two more? We can’t settle a long-standing quarrel in a few casual talks.” She glanced at her watch and then rose. “I have to get back to work. Did you finish the tour?”

I pulled myself up. “Essentially. I hoped I’d remember something, but I’m drawing a blank.” The two of us paused simultaneously to brush off the backs of our pants.

We crossed to the front door, our shoes making scratching sounds in the grit that had accumulated on the marble floor. She said, “What do you think of the place?”

“It must have been beautiful in its day.”

Tasha turned back, letting her eyes travel across the foyer and up the stairs. “You know Grand moved out shortly after Aunt Rita’s death.” Rita Cynthia Kinsey was my mother’s maiden name.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Granddaddy Kinsey was fit to be tied, but she finally got her way. That’s when they bought the house in town. You remember him at all?”

I shook my head.

“Maybe I can find some family photographs.”

“I’d like that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen pictures of anyone. Aunt Gin discounted sentiment as a form of sniveling. She refused to let either of us sink to such depths.”

“She was tough.”

“That she was.”

“Well. I better go.”

“Me, too,” I said. “I do have one request. I know you’ve already talked to your mother about me, but please don’t bring Grand into this.”

“My lips are sealed.”

It was 4:35 by the time I reached Santa Teresa. I made a stop at the public library, leaving my car in the adjacent four-story parking structure. My conversation with Roxanne Faught had raised unsettling questions, namely, what did she know and when did she know it? I wondered if there was any way to check. I trotted down the carpeted stairs to the periodicals room, where I asked the reference librarian for the microfilm records of the Santa Teresa Dispatch from the week of August 3, 1969. Since the body was found that Sunday, I didn’t expect the news to hit the paper for another day or two. Once I had the box of film in hand, I sat down at the machine and unreeled the strip, which I threaded under the lens, catching the sprocket holes. I hand-cranked it until the strip caught properly and then pressed a button and watched the Sunday paper speed by in a blur. My eyes picked up a remarkable amount of information on the fly. I bypassed the sports, the business section, and the classified ads. I slowed now and then just to see what was going on. The oil spill off the Santa Teresa coast was in its 190th day. Funny Girl and Goodbye Columbus were playing at the local movie theater along with Planet of the Apes. There was talk that Don Drysdale’s fourteen-year pitching career might be coming to an end because of a recurrent injury, and a Westinghouse 2-Speed Automatic Washer was selling for $189.95.

When I reached Monday’s paper, I slowed to a dead stop and scanned it page by page. On Monday, August 4, five column inches were devoted to the discovery of the body near the Grayson Quarry in Lompoc. Con Dolan and Stacey Oliphant were both mentioned by name, but there was little to report. The next day, August 5, in a column called “North County Events,” I caught the second squib. By then the autopsy had been done and the cause of death was detailed. The same few physical traits were noted—hair and eye color, height and weight—in hopes of identifying the girl. I cranked the reel forward, through Wednesday and Thursday of the same week. Thursday’s paper included a brief follow-up, with the same information I’d read in the initial account. Both gave a brief description of the girl’s clothing, detailing the dark blue voile blouse and the daisy-patterned pants. Neither article specified the color of the pants. I knew from police reports that the daisies were dark blue, a red dot at each center, on a ground of white, but if you relied strictly on this data, it would be natural to assume the daisies were “daisy-colored,” as Roxanne Faught had so aptly summed it up. Factoring in her certainty about the torn earlobe, the big feet, the big-boned wrists, and the closely bitten nails, I doubted the girl she’d dealt with was actually our Jane Doe. It was always possible, of course. Eyewitness testimony is notoriously shaky, easily influenced, subject to subtle modification with each telling of the tale. Roxanne had admitted she’d gone back to reread the very clippings I was looking at myself. I didn’t wholly discount what she said, but I wondered at its relevance to our investigation. Stacey had hoped to establish a time line, working backward from Roxanne’s encounter to Cloris Bargo’s sighting of the girl hitchhiking outside Colgate. Now Cloris had recanted and I suspected Roxanne’s observations were too tainted to be of use. I fast-forwarded. That same week, on August 9, five people, including film and television actress Sharon Tate, were found slain in a Bel Air home. Two days later, Leno and Rosemary LaBianca were discovered murdered in a manner similar to the Tate slayings. I tracked forward again, but there was no further mention of Jane Doe. I jotted a few notes on my index cards and then made copies of the news stories, paid for them at the counter, and returned to my car.

It was just after 5:00, and Con was doubtless at CC’s, knocking back Happy Hour drinks on a two-for-one deal. For my sake, I hoped he hadn’t been at it long. I spotted his car as soon as I pulled up in front, but the area was otherwise deserted. Across the street at the bird refuge, two women in sweats were just starting a walk, chatting with animation. Closer to the water, a mother looked on placidly as her five-year-old child fed day-old bread to the gulls under a sign that read: PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE BIRDS.

I went into CC’s, pausing in the doorway to let my eyes adjust. A plank of daylight had fallen in the open door, enhancing the contrast between CC’s and the outside world. The place was dark. There was no one in the front room except the bartender and a waitress engaged in intimate conversation. Stacey and Dolan were seated in a booth in the rear. Stacey got up when I appeared. He was looking better today. I said, “Hi. Am I late?”

“Not at all,” Dolan said. Both had glasses in front of them. Dolan’s contained whiskey dark enough to pass for iced tea. Stacey’s was empty except for the ice cubes and a wad of freshly squeezed lime. Dolan hauled himself to his feet just as Stacey sat down. “What can I get you?”

“Water’s fine for now. I may switch later.”

“I’ll take another Tanqueray and tonic.”

Dolan frowned. “You just had one. I thought the doc didn’t want you mixing meds with booze.”

“Or else what, I drop dead? Don’t worry. I’ll take full responsibility. I’d be doing myself a favor.”

Dolan gestured impatiently and then moved off to the bar. I slid into the booth and put my shoulder bag on the seat beside me.

He said, “How’d your day go?”

“So-so. I’ll tell you about it as soon as he gets back.”

Stacey reached into his vest pocket and removed a pipe and a tobacco pouch, then filled the bowl. He fished around in another pocket for a pipe pick and tamped down the tobacco before he took out a wooden kitchen match and slid the head along the underside of the table. I waited while he puffed at the pipe. The smoke was sweet-smelling, like a meadow full of dried hay.

I said, “You’re as bad as he is.”

Stacey smiled. “On the other hand, suppose I only have a few months left? Why deny myself? It’s all in your perspective.”

“I guess it is.”

We engaged in idle chitchat until Dolan returned, bearing a tray with my water and two fresh drinks for them. He’d added napkins, a bowl of popcorn, and a tumbler of nuts.

“Look at this guy, buying dinner for us,” Stacey said.

“Hey, I got class. More than I can say for you.”

The air was cool and free of cigarette smoke, which Dolan corrected for as soon as he sat down. I didn’t bother to complain. Stacey’s pipe tobacco and Dolan’s cigarette smoke masked the faint whiff of noxious gases from the excavation site outside. Dolan helped himself to a handful of nuts, popping them in his mouth one by one while he looked at me. “What’d you get?”

“You’re not going to like it.” I went on with a summary of my travels, starting with Cloris Bargo and the lie she’d told.

Stacey said, “I talked to her twice myself and she never said a word about that.”

“It’s my charm and finesse.”

“Well, shit. I didn’t realize she was married to Joe Mandel. He worked with us on this.”

“I know. I remembered the name.”

Dolan said, “I can’t believe she was blowing smoke up our skirts. She actually admitted that?”

“Well, yeah. She said at the time she couldn’t see the harm.”

Stacey said, “Let’s leave that one alone. No sense butting into their business. I tell you what we might do though is ask Joe if he could locate Jane Doe’s effects for us. It’d be good to take a look. Might spark an idea. I’ll make a call and clear it with the sheriff. Don’t think he’d object, but you never know about these things.” He made a note to himself and turned back to me. “What else?”

“After I left her, I drove on up to Lompoc, stopping off at Gull Cove, which is closed, by the way.” I laid out my conversation with Roxanne Faught, what she’d said, and where the story she’d told me varied from what we knew. I gave them copies of the news clippings to demonstrate my point. “I think she lifted the details from these, which means we can’t rely on her. I believe she encountered someone, but it wasn’t necessarily our Jane Doe.”

“Too bad. It sounds like a dead end,” Dolan said.

Stacey said, “Dead ends are a given. That’s how these things go. We’re bound to run into a few along the way. All that tells us is to back up and look somewhere else. Lucky we found out about it now before we wasted any more time on it.”

“Knocks our hitchhiking theory all to hell,” Dolan said.

“Maybe so, maybe not. She could have gone to Lompoc by train or bus and hitched a ride from there.”

I said to Dolan, “What about the vehicles seen in the area? Any way to check those out?”

“Johanson said something about a hippie van. We could track down that guy—what’s his name…”

“Vogel.”

“Right, him. Why don’t we see what he remembers.”

“It’s a long shot,” I said.

“So’s everything else we’ve come up with so far.”

Stacey let that remark pass, still fixating on his original point about where the girl had come from. “Another possibility is she bummed a ride to Lompoc with a friend, someone she stayed with ’til she hit the road again.”

Dolan made a sour face. “Would you quit obsessing? We went over that before. If she’d had friends in the area, they’d have wondered what happened as soon as she disappeared.”

“Not if she’d told ’em she was on her way north. Suppose she stays in Lompoc a couple nights and then leaves for San Francisco. She goes out the door, has a run-in with the Devil, and ends up dead.”

“They’d still put two and two together as soon as the story broke.”

Stacey stirred irritably. “We’re not going to find answers to every question we ask.”

“So far we haven’t found answers to anything,” I remarked.

Stacey waved that aside. “Maybe our mistake is assuming she’s from somewhere else. Suppose she’s local? Someone kills her and then makes up a story explaining where she’s gone. That’s why she wasn’t reported missing. It’s part of the cover-up.”

Dolan was shaking his head.

“What’s wrong with that?”

Dolan sat back in the booth. “No one exists in a vacuum. She must’ve had family and friends. She worked, went to school. She did some damn thing. Somebody must have wondered. Essentially, this girl dropped off the face of the earth and you’re telling me no one noticed? There’s something off about that.”

I said, “But, Dolan, think of all the kids who disappeared in those days. There must be dozens unaccounted for. Families probably still fantasize they’ll show up one day.”

Stacey said, “Why don’t we forget that angle and come at it from the other direction?”

“Which is what?” I asked.

“What we talked about before, assume Frankie killed her and see if we can find a way to make it stick.”

“Based on what? Make that leap and we could end up spinning our wheels,” I said.

“We’re doing that anyway. The exercise is only pointless if it turns out we’re wrong. What do you say, Con?”

“I’m with you on that one. We’d be no worse off. I’ve always thought Frankie had a hand in it.”

Stacey turned to me. I said, “You’re the boss.”

“My thought exactly. Let me show you what I got.”

He opened a manila folder and removed two connected sheets of computer paper with perforated edges. I peered at the pale print. There, in abbreviated form, was Frankie Miracle’s criminal history, starting with his first arrest in Venice, California, in January of 1964. Stacey picked up the paper and began to rattle off the long string of his offenses. “I love this guy. Look at this. 1964. Kid’s twenty-one years old, arrested for drunkenness and resisting arrest. Fined twenty-five bucks and put on a year’s probation. Well, okay. No problem. His first contact with the law…”

“That we know of,” Dolan said.

Stacey smiled. “That’s right. But boys will be boys. They’re not going to execute the lad for public drunkenness. In May that same year, he was arrested for burglary and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Probably screwed a thirteen-year-old. That’d be about his speed. Put on probation. In February of ’65, he was arrested for another burglary. He pleaded guilty; sentence was sixty days in jail and probation. Judge is really cracking down on him,” he said, tongue in cheek. “June 1965. Burglary again. This time, his probation’s revoked and he’s sentenced to state prison, six months to fifteen years; released after serving six months. December 1965. Drunk and disorderly, assault, and marijuana possession. Admitted for psychiatric evaluation and treatment of drug and alcohol dependency.” Stacey snorted derisively. “The guy’s a creep. We all know that. April 1966—burglary and escape. November 1966—robbery, kidnapping, attempted rape. This time they threw in assault and possession of a dangerous weapon. March 1967—another burglary. Oh, and here’s a good one. I can’t believe this guy’s back on the street. In January 1968, Frankie abducted a woman from a supermarket parking lot. He was later arrested on charges of kidnap, assault, robbery, oral copulation, sodomy, and attempted murder. You better believe she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since she ran into him. January 1969—attempted kidnap, statutory rape, contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Now we’re getting down to business. In March 1969, he was picked up on charges of armed robbery, assault, and attempted murder. Case dismissed. Cops probably beat a confession out of him, and the public defender had the whole thing thrown out. Sometime in June, he met a sixteen-year-old girl named Iona Mathis. He was married to her briefly—six months I think. About as long as some of his jail time, as it turns out. Which brings us to Venice, California, late July, when Frankie killed Cathy Lee Pearse.” Stacey shook his head. “God bless the courts. If they’d done their job right, they could have saved her life.”

I said, “How’d he manage to get away with all that shit?”

“Easy,” Dolan said. He stubbed out one cigarette and fired up the next. “He knew how to work the system. Every time he was charged with multiple crimes, he’d plead guilty to one in exchange for the others being dropped. You haven’t met Frankie. He can be as charming as all get out. He had judges and prosecutors bending over backwards, trying to give him a chance to straighten up and fly right.”

Stacey returned the report to the manila folder. “Lot of times he was sentenced to state prison under the old indeterminate sentence system. Other times he was released on automatic parole. Longest he ever went between crimes was this period between March of ’67 and January of ’68.”

Dolan said, “Bet you a dollar he just didn’t get caught. He hasn’t gone that long between crimes since he started out.”

“Probably right about that. If you look at the pattern, you can see the stakes go up. Violence escalates. The stretch between crimes starts getting shorter and shorter until he killed Cathy Lee. For that one, he only served seventeen years on a life sentence so he’s still lucking out. If I were her parents, I’d be pissed as hell.”

I said, “What else do we have?”

Dolan pulled a battered notebook from his jacket pocket and began to leaf through the pages. He clicked his ballpoint pen. “Frankie’s cellmates. Turns out there were twelve altogether, but half the last known addresses are incorrect. We got two in state prison and one serving time in a federal prison camp in Yankton, South Dakota. I know the whereabouts of three for sure: Lorenzo Rickman, Pudgie Clifton, and John Luchek.”

Stacey said, “Scratch Luchek. He was killed in a two-car accident in 1975. Drunk hit him head on.”

“Right. That’s the information I have.” Dolan drew a line through the name. “Rickman’s out on parole. Word has it he’s been a real good boy of late, working as an auto mechanic at a place out in Colgate. I got the name here somewhere. Stacey’ll stop by Monday to have a chat with him. Which leaves Clifton, who’s currently at the tail end of ninety days on a misdemeanor possession. I picked up mug shots on all these guys in case you need something to refresh people’s memories. I mixed in some unrelated photos so we can’t be accused of biasing the witnesses—assuming we find a few.”

“Let’s be optimistic. It doesn’t cost anything,” Stacey said.

Dolan passed one pack of photos to me and one to Stacey, who said, “We’ll let Kinsey talk to Pudgie. He’s the type who’d respond to her feminine wiles.”

“Like I got some.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself.”

Dolan said, “That leaves Frankie.”

“You and I can draw straws, but let’s hold off on that until we contact the other two.” Stacey winced and then stood up abruptly, saying, “Shit! Hang on a sec.”

Dolan said, “What’s wrong?”

Stacey groaned, then sucked in air through his teeth, his face tense. “Damn back’s seizing up. Jeez, that hurts. Pain’s shooting all the way down my leg.”

“What’s the doctor say?”

“How do I know? This ain’t Death at my door. I told you—I pulled a muscle. I can’t call the oncologist for every little thing.” He leaned sideways, stretching. After a moment, he stood upright, taking a long, slow, deep breath.

“Better?”

“Much. Sorry to interrupt. Damn thing caught me by surprise.”

“Would you quit the self-diagnosis and call the guy?”

“The doctor’s a woman, you sexist prick. You ought to give some serious thought to the assumptions you make.”

“Quit the bullshitting, Stace. This is all a big smokescreen. You keep acting like you’ve only had the back pain for the past two days when you’ve complained of it for weeks. You should have had the docs take a look while you were in the hospital.”

“It wasn’t hurting me then.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You know what? This is called ‘denial.’ This is you trying to minimize a problem that could be damn serious. Hell, give me the gal’s name and I’ll call her myself.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Then you call.”

“I will. I was going to do that.”

“Now.”

“Con, cut it out! It’s past five. She’s probably left for the day.”

“Then call the service, leave CC’s number, and have her paged. We can wait. You don’t call her, I will. I’m sick of hearing you bellyache.”

“You don’t even know her name.”

“I’ll find out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Quit arguing. Maybe she’ll give you some Valium to help you sleep at night.”

Stacey shook his head. “I hate making a fool of myself because of you.” Despite his grumbling and protests, he did go off to find a phone.

Dolan and I sat without looking at each other. I didn’t like the sound of it any more than he did. Finally, I said, “Are the two of you okay? You seem testy.”

“We’re fine. He’s just pissing me off. It’s not about his back. The man’s depressed. He thinks the cancer’s spread and that’s why he doesn’t want to get it checked.”

“I missed that, I guess. He seemed fine as far as I could tell. I mean, aside from his back.”

“That’s because he puts on an act for your benefit. You should’ve heard him before you showed. The shit’s wearing him down. If he’d had a gun on him, he’d have blown his brains out. He’s that close.” Dolan held up his thumb and index finger a quarter of an inch apart.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am. He wasn’t even going to do the chemo until I talked him into it. As far as he’s concerned, this is the end of the line so why play it out? Get the damn thing over with is his attitude.”

“But suppose the cancer’s moved into his bones?”

“Now, damn it, don’t you start. Don’t be so negative.”

“I’m just saying I can understand where he’s coming from.”

“Well, keep your opinion to yourself.”

“My opinion’s not relevant. He can do anything he wants. It’s his life.”

“Wrong. He could use a pep talk. He needs someone to make him realize how selfish it is.”

“To kill himself? How so?”

“People who commit suicide are the ultimate narcissists. What makes him think everything revolves around him? I’m in this, too. Thirty years down the drain and all because he’s a cowardly damn chickenshit and won’t see this through.”

“But what if he’s terminal? I don’t understand what you want.”

“I want him to think about someone else for a change.”

“If you don’t get to think about yourself when you’re dying, when do you?” I said.

Stacey reappeared moments later and we dropped the conversation. He declined to sit, remaining by the table with his fists pressed into the small of his back.

Dolan fired up another cigarette, pausing to cough into his fist. “What’d she say?”

Stacey waved the cigarette smoke away from his face. “She’ll see me first thing tomorrow morning; maybe take an X-ray or do a CT scan.”

“What’s the matter with her? Did you tell her how bad it is? She should see you right now and find out what the hell’s going on.”

“Goddammit. Quit nagging. This isn’t an emergency so lay off that stuff. Anyway, I’m tired and it’s time to go home. I can’t be sitting here drinking all night like some I could name.”

“Sit down. You haven’t had dinner yet. You have to eat. It’s my treat.”

“I got food at my place. You two stay. I can get a cab.”

“I’ll take you,” I said. “My car’s right outside.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can manage on my own.”

“Really, I don’t mind. I need to get home myself.”

I reached for my shoulder bag and took out the keys. Stacey was already moving toward the door as I slid out of the booth.

Dolan stubbed out his cigarette. “I’ll take care of it.”

In the end, we left at the same time; Stacey in Dolan’s car and me in mine. I watched Dolan turn off, heading toward the freeway. I took a right on Cabana Boulevard and followed the road as it wound along the beach. It was not quite dark, but a fog was rolling in off the ocean, enveloping the shore. I parked in Henry’s driveway. He’d be home tomorrow in the late afternoon. I let myself into his place where I did a quick tour, making sure all was in order. No broken water pipes, no power outages, and no sign of disturbances. For a moment, I stood in his kitchen, drinking in the lingering scent of yeast and cinnamon—Henry’s home-baked sweetrolls. Surely, I could survive one more day.

I was home minutes later, safely tucked away for the night. 5:56 on a Friday evening and I had no plans. I made an olive-and-pimento-cheese sandwich on whole-wheat bread, which I cut into quarters. I poured myself a glass of wine and settled on the couch where I took up the Jane Doe file and started back at page one. Sometimes you work because there’s nothing else to do.

8

At 1:35 that morning, I was awakened from a sound sleep: Dolan on the phone, calling from the ER at St. Terry’s.

“Stacey’s back got worse after I dropped him off. He called me at midnight and asked me to bring him in. They took one look at him and rounded up the doc on call. I’m waiting to hear what the fellow has to say.”

“You want me to come over?”

“Hang on a second.” He put a hand over the mouthpiece and conducted a muffled conversation with someone else, then returned to the line. “I’ll call you back in a bit. Soon as I find out what’s going on.”

I replaced the handset, now wide awake. If Dolan intended to phone again, there was really no point in going back to sleep. I flipped on the light and fumbled for my running shoes. Given my new efficiency measures, I was fully suited up in sweats and crew socks. I needed only brush my teeth and run wet hands through my mop and I was ready to go.

I parked on a side street across from the hospital emergency entrance. I love the town at that hour. Traffic is sparse, the streets are empty, most businesses are shut down. The temperature had dropped into the forties and the lights in the emergency room looked inviting. Apparently, the usual weekend traumafest hadn’t gotten under way as yet, because the front desk was deserted and all was quiet. I found Dolan reading a magazine in the reception area. He rose when he saw me.

Without even thinking, I gave his cheek a buss. “How’s he doing?”

“They’re in the process of admitting him. I could have saved you a trip. I tried calling you back, but I guess you’d already left by then.”

“Don’t worry about it. I was up anyway. What now? Will they let you see him again?”

“They gave him something for the pain and he’s out of it. He probably won’t know the difference, but I’ll feel better if I do. After that, I thought I’d make a run over to his place and pick up some of his things. Toothbrush and comb, stuff like that.”

“Why don’t I find us a cup of coffee? There’s bound to be a vending machine on the premises somewhere.”

We sat together for half an hour, sipping treacherous-smelling lukewarm coffee from thick paper cups with handles like flat-folded butterfly wings. He said, “What were you doing home? I was all set to leave a message. I figured you’d be out on a date.”

“People don’t date anymore; at least I don’t,” I said.

“Why not? What’s wrong with it? How else are you going to meet someone?”

“I don’t want to meet anyone. I’m fine, thanks so much. What about you? You’re single. Are you dating these days?”

“I’m too old.”

“Me, too,” I said, peering over at him. “How long ago did your wife die?”

“Ten months today.” He was silent for a moment. “I’ll tell you what’s been hard. She bugged me for years to go on a cruise. I hated the whole idea. Tahiti. Alaska. She’d bring me color brochures full of these pictures of happy couples, all of ’em thirty years old, standing on the deck, holding champagne flutes. Sunset. Romance. Inside’d be a picture of this mountain of food you could stuff yourself with twenty-four hours a day. Just the sight of it’s enough to make your ulcers perforate. I hate being cooped up, and I was worried I’d be stranded with a bunch of fools. Does that sound unreasonable?”

“You think it was a cruise she wanted or just a trip someplace?”

Dolan turned and gave me a look. “I never thought to ask.”

I got back to my place at 2:45 A.M. and then slept restlessly until 10:00. The Santa Teresa County Jail is housed in a 25,000-square-foot building, two-stories, 120 beds, designed to be staffed by only two corrections officers, one of whom monitors the state-of-the-art security panel with its bank of television screens.

Still feeling half-dead from lack of sleep, I pulled the VW into one of the slots out front and went through the main entrance doors, where I picked up a copy of the visitation request form. I filled in my name and gave it to the clerk at the counter, then hung out in the lobby area while the word went down to Pudgie that he had a visitor. I could picture his puzzlement, as I was reasonably certain he’d never heard of me. Curiosity (or boredom) must have gotten the better of him because the clerk returned and said he’d agreed to see me. She gave me the booth number where I could meet him.

Ten of us entered the elevator: two lone women and three mothers with assorted small kids. I pressed DOWN, wondering if I looked like the sort of person who’d have a boyfriend in jail. The elevator descended by inches while we all secretly worried about getting stuck. Once the doors opened on the floor below, we spilled into a room that was probably twenty feet by twenty. Molded beige and gray plastic armchairs, chunky and square, were arranged in a double row down the middle of the room, with additional seats around the perimeter. The floor was a glossy beige vinyl tile. The walls were cinder block, painted a matte two-tone beige. A posted sign read KEEP FEET OFF WALL, though there was nothing to suggest how one might accomplish violating such a…well, feat. In the visitors room, eight stationary stools, with a handset at each place, were lined up on either side of a large glass-enclosed aisle. I sat down and placed my shoulder bag at my feet. I rested my elbows on the counter, feeling as if I were seated at the lunch counter of an old five-and-dime.

I knew from the police report that Pudgie was born Cedric Costello Clifton in 1950, the same year I was. He had a birthday coming up, June 7, so I’d aced him by a month and two days. The door opened on the jail side and a few inmates straggled in on the other side of the glass, hands linked behind their backs, a requirement any time they were moved from place to place. Pudgie appeared and took a seat on a stool that was a match for mine. His face was moon-shaped, and he wore glasses with big round frames perched on a surprisingly dainty nose. His facial hair was disorganized—rough mustache and a beard that ran from patchy to thick as it drifted across his cheeks. There were miscellaneous whiskers scattered almost to his eyes. His dark hair looked jangled, a texture that on a woman would be attributed to a bad home permanent. He wore the usual jail garb: a white T-shirt, blue cotton elastic-waisted pants, and rubber shoes. I’ve seen similar outfits on surgical residents in the corridors of St. Terry’s. He was bulky through the shoulders, his chest and biceps bulging from years of pumping iron. The hair on his left forearm only partially masked an entire gallery of elaborate tattoos: a spiderweb, a skull wearing a sombrero, and a graphically portrayed sex act. There was also a big-breasted woman with flowing black tresses whose torso was laid out between his elbow and wrist. His right arm seemed to be bare of art. He studied me for a long time. Through sheer effort, I held his gaze without breaking eye contact. Finally, he lifted the handset on his side of the glass and said, “Hey, how you doin’?”

I held the handset loosely against my ear. “I’m good, Mr. Clifton. How about yourself?”

“I’m doing okay. I know you?”

“My name’s Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator. I appreciate your seeing me.”

“Why don’t you skip the ‘mister’ shit and tell me what you want.” Behind the round lenses of his glasses, his eyes were a mild hazel under ill-kempt brows.

“I was wondering if you’d answer a few questions.”

A slight smile appeared. “About what?”

“Something that happened in 1969.”

“Why ask me?”

“This isn’t about you. It’s about someone else.”

“Goody. And who’s that?”

“You remember being arrested in Lompoc in August of ’69?”

“Yeah.” He replied with all the caution of someone who’s not quite sure what he’s agreeing to.

“You gave the officer a home address in Creosote, California. Can you tell me where that is? I never heard of it.” I’d looked it up on the map, but in the manner of a polygraph, I thought I’d start with baseline questions, whose truth value was easily verified.

“Little town out near Blythe. Two miles this side of the Arizona line.”

“How’d you end up in Lompoc?”

“I was traveling to San Francisco. I had a buddy who’d just come back from six months living on the streets up there. He told me you could buy dope right out on Haight. ’Ludes, grass and hash, peyote, acid. Free sex and free clinics to treat crabs and the clap if you picked up a dose. Sounded like a good deal to me. Still does, come to think of it. Anymore, you lay a hand on a chick, she blows the whistle on you.”

I glanced at the sheet of paper I’d taken from my bag, though I knew what it said. “According to this, you were picked up for vagrancy and possession of an illegal substance.”

He loosened up at that, face creasing into a smile. Apparently, he’d made an entire career out of substance abuse and denial. “What a crock of shit that was. I’m standing on the side of the road, thumbing a ride, when this cop car comes by. Couple rednecks in uniform. Fuckin’ pigs. These two pull over and pat me down. Turns out I had some pot on me. One fuckin’ joint. And for this I’m locked up. I should’ve sued for harassment and false arrest.”

“You’d hitchhiked?”

“I’se nineteen years old. You don’t have a car, that’s what you do.”

“We’re interested in anyone who might have seen a young girl hitchhiking in the area. Seventeen, eighteen years old. Dyed blond hair, blue eyes. She was probably five foot three, a hundred twenty-five pounds.”

“That’s half the girls I knew. All of ’em looked like that except the ones porked up on grass. Ever notice that? Girls’d smoke too much dope and munch themselves up to twice their normal weight. Either that or all the fat ones were on the street in those days, hoping to get laid. Who else would have ’em?”

“That’s a wholesome attitude.”

Pudgie laughed at that, genuinely amused while I was not.

I said, “Can we get back to the subject?”

“Which is what now? I forget.”

“The girl I described.”

“Sure. What’d she do?”

“She didn’t do anything. Her body was found dumped off the side of the road.”

His attitude shifted slightly. “Sorry to hear that. You never said she was dead or I wouldn’t have smarted off.”

“The point is, she had no ID and her body was never claimed. We’d like to find out who she is.”

“Yeah, but 1969? Why worry about it now after all these years?”

“It’s someone’s pet project. Couple of guys I work with. What about you? What happened when you got out of jail?”

“I had to call my old man to come pick me up. He was royally pissed. Soon as we got home, the shit-head threw me out; flung my clothes in the yard and broke my dinner plate on the porch. Fucking drama queen. Had to make a big scene, make sure all the neighbors knew he’d busted my ass.”

“At least he was willing to drive all the way from Creosote.”

“Yeah, but not before I’d spent the worst three days of my life in a cell with a bunch of freaks,” he said and shrugged. “Worst until then. I’ve seen a lot worse since.”

“You remember Lorenzo Rickman or Frankie Miracle?”

He snorted. “Lorenzo? What kind of name is that? What’s the guy, some kind of fruit?”

“You shared a cell with those two and a guy named John Luchek. You remember him?”

“Not especially. I guess. Any reason I should?”

“What about Rickman?”

“Is this about him? Mean, it’d be nice if I knew what you were going for.”

“We’ll get to that. Did the two of you talk?”

“Jail’s a bore. You talk just to keep from going out of your gourd. Food stinks, too, until you get used to it. Here, it’s not bad; you know, heavy on the starch. Macaroni and cheese tastes like library paste. You ever eat that stuff?”

I wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the jail cuisine or library paste. I’d dined on both, but I didn’t think that was any of his business. I wasn’t here to compare exotic foods. “What about Frankie? You have a conversation with him?”

“Must have. Why not? I’m a friendly little fuck. Course, I probably wouldn’t recognize those guys now if I saw ’em on the street.”

“Would it help if you saw pictures?”

“Might.”

I shifted the handset from my right ear to my left, tucking it between my cheek and shoulder so I could free my hands. I removed assorted mug shots from the file folder and placed them by twos against the glass in front of him. There were twelve in all; names, aliases, and personal data, wants and warrants carefully blocked out. Pudgie subjected the black-and-white photos to the same careful scrutiny he’d lavished on me. He pointed to Frankie. “That one? That’s Frankie. I remember him. Coked up and jumpy. He talked up a storm until the high wore off.”

“What about the others?”

“Maybe him. I’m not sure.” He pointed to Lorenzo Rickman, his memory better than he realized.

“Anyone else?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Did Frankie talk about his arrest?”

“What, you mean the chick he whacked? I guess he cut her up bad and then he fucked it up big time.”

“Like what?”

“Stole her car, for one thing. What’s he think? The cops aren’t going to put out a fuckin’ APB? Then he takes her credit card and uses that to pay for his entire escape. He left a paper trail a mile wide. Guy’s dumb as he is mean. You kill a girl, you ought to have more sense.” He stopped and stared. “I bet you know all this stuff, right? What’s the story, is he out?”

“You’re full of questions.”

“How can I help if you won’t say what you’re after?”

“Did he indicate how long he’d been in Lompoc before his arrest?”

Pudgie smiled. “I don’t get your fascination with a little puke like him.”

“I’m not fascinated with anything, except the truth.”

“Hey, come on. Tell me the game and I can play for keeps.”

I broke off eye contact. “Well, thanks for your time. Actually, I think that’s it.” I pinned the handset against my ear again while I gathered the mug shots and tucked them in the folder.

“Wait! Don’t go. We’re not done yet. Are we done?”

I paused. “Oh, sorry. I was under the impression you’d told me everything you knew. I didn’t want to waste your time.”

“It’s like this: I might remember more if we could sit and chat awhile. You know, small talk and like that. Ask another question. Maybe it’ll stimulate my brain.”

I smiled at him blandly, getting to my feet. “Why don’t you get in touch if you think of anything useful?”

“About what exactly? At least put me in the ballpark here.”

“I’m not going to feed you lines. If you don’t know anything, that’s fine. We’ll let it go at that.”

“Naw, now don’t get mad. How’s this? I’ll think real hard. Meanwhile, you come back later and bring a carton of smokes.”

“I’m not buying you cigarettes. Why would I do that?”

“It’s the least you can do, compensation for my time.”

I glanced at my watch. “Four minutes’ worth.”

“Smoking helps me think.”

I adjusted my shoulder bag, the handset still at my ear. “Bye now.”

He said, “Okay. Skip the carton. Three packs. Any kind except menthol. I really hate those things.”

“Buy your own,” I snapped.

“I’m out tomorrow. I can pay you back.”

“Quit while you can. That’s my advice.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Millhone. I’m in the book. If you can read.” I returned the handset to the cradle.

“I love you,” he mouthed.

“Yeah, right. I love you too.”

He winked and wiggled his tongue, a gesture I pretended not to see.

On my way home from the jail, I stopped at the supermarket to pick up items for Henry’s return. Traffic permitting, he was due back in town sometime between five and six. He’d left his car in long-term parking at the Los Angeles airport. I’d offered to take them down, but Henry, ever independent, had preferred driving himself. He and Rosie and William had flown to Miami, where they were joined by their older sister, Nell, age ninety-seven, and brothers Lewis and Charles, ages ninety-five and ninety, respectively. This morning, after two weeks in the Caribbean, they’d dock in Miami and three of them would catch a plane to L.A. while the three older siblings returned to Michigan.

I loaded my shopping cart with milk, bread, bacon, eggs, orange juice, bananas, onions, carrots, a four-pound roasting chicken, new potatoes, and fresh asparagus, along with salad mix and a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, Henry’s beverage of choice. Briefly I considered fixing dinner for him myself, but my repertoire is limited and I didn’t think pouring skim milk over cold cereal was that festive. Shopping done, I stopped at a corner kiosk a block from the market and bought a bouquet of zinnias and dahlias, a mass of orange and yellow with a ribbon tied around the stems. I could feel my energy lifting the closer I got to home, and by the time I unloaded groceries in Henry’s kitchen and put away the perishables, I was humming to myself. I arranged the flowers in a silver coffee server and set them in the middle of the kitchen table.

I did a quick circuit of the house. His answering machine was blinking, but I figured he could pick up any messages as soon as he came in. I went into his cleaning closet and hauled out the vacuum cleaner, a dust mop, a sponge mop, and some rags. I made a second circuit of the house, dusting and vacuuming. All I needed were the singing mice to keep me company. After that, I scrubbed the kitchen and bathroom sinks and ran the sponge mop across the kitchen floor until it gleamed. Then I went home and took a serious world-class nap.

I woke at 5:25, at first reluctant to leave the cozy swaddling quilt in which I’d wrapped myself. It was still light outside. The spring days were getting longer, and we’d soon have the equivalent of an extra half-day at our disposal. People getting off work still had time to walk the dog or to sit on the front porch with a drink before supper. Mom could take a moment to read the paper. Dad could mow the lawn or wash the family car.

I pushed the covers back and moved into the bathroom, where I peered out the window, angling my face so I could catch a glimpse of Henry’s back door. The kitchen light was on and I was energized by the idea that he was home. I put on my shoes, washed my face, tidied my bed, and trotted down the spiral stairs. I went out, locking the door behind me, noting with satisfaction that Henry’s station wagon was now sitting in the drive where I’d parked the day before yesterday.

He had his back door open, the screen door latched but unlocked. There was no immediate sign of him, but I knocked on the frame and heard his “Yoo hoo” coming at me from the hall. He appeared half a second later in his usual T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. Before he could get the door open, his wall phone rang. He motioned me in and then snatched up the receiver. He had the briefest of conversations and then said, “Let me switch to the other phone. Hang on a minute. Don’t go away.” He held out the handset and whispered, “Be right back. Help yourself to a glass of wine.”

I took the phone, waiting while he went into the bedroom and picked up in there. As soon as I knew he was on the line, I replaced the handset in the wall-mounted cradle. He’d already opened a bottle of Chardonnay, which sat in a frosty cooler with a stemmed glass close by. I poured myself half a glass of wine. I could smell chicken baking and I peered through the oven window. The plump hen I’d bought was already turning brown, surrounded by onions, carrots, and rosy new potatoes. He’d set the kitchen table for four, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before William and Rosie popped in. It’d take them a day or two to get the tavern up and running. I wondered if Rosie’s Hungarian dishes would take on the flavors of the Caribbean. I tried to imagine her pork stew gussied up with coconut, pineapple, and plantains.

Henry returned to the kitchen moments later and poured a drink of his own. He looked tanned and fit, his cheeks wind-burned, his eyes a lustrous blue. William and Rosie arrived at that point, William in a straw boater, Rosie with a tote made of woven fibers that looked like a cross between corn husks and grass. William was two years Henry’s senior and blessed with the same silky white hair and the same lean frame. To my mind, he isn’t quite as handsome as Henry, but he looks good nonetheless. William is a recovering hypochondriac who still can’t resist a good story about inexplicable illness and sudden death. Rosie, by way of contrast, is stocky and solid, bossy, opinionated, insecure, humorless, and generous at heart. The tropical sun had rendered her dyed red hair a singular salmon hue, but she was otherwise unchanged. While Henry took out lettuce and tomatoes, I asked the newlyweds how they’d liked the cruise.

Rosie made a face. “I din’t like the food. Too blend. No taste and what there was is no good.”

William poured them each a glass of wine. “You ate more than I did! You were gluttonous.”

“But I din’t enjoy. That’s what I’m say. Is forgettable. I don’t remember nothing I ate.”

“You forgot that pineapple pie? Delicious! Extraordinary. You said so yourself.”

“I make twice as good if I want, which I don’t.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that, but you were there to be pampered. The point of the whole vacation was not having to cook.”

“What about activities? What’d you do with yourselves all day?”

William pulled out a chair for Rosie and then took a seat at the table. “It was terrific. Wonderful. We docked at various ports, maybe seven in all. When we weren’t off seeing the sights, we had lectures and movies, swimming, shuffleboard, aerobics—you name it. They even had a bowling alley. At night, there was gambling and ballroom dancing. Bridge, chess tournaments. Never an idle moment. We had a ball.”

“Good for you. That sounds great. How about the other sibs? Did they enjoy it?”

William said, “Well, let’s see now. Charlie finally got his hearing aids adjusted and he’s a changed man. You can hardly shut him up. Used to be he kept to himself since he never had a clue what anyone was saying to him. He and Nell played bridge and beat the socks off their opponents.”

“And Lewis?”

“You put him around a bunch of women and he’s happy as a clam. Men were outnumbered ten to one. He was the cock of the walk.”

Rosie held up an index finger. “Not quite.” She gave Henry a sly smile. “Tell what you did.”

“No, no. Unimportant. Enough about us. What about you, Kinsey? What are you working on? Something interesting I’m sure.”

“Come on, Henry. You haven’t finished telling me about the trip. I’ve never been on a cruise. I really want to know what it was like.”

“Just what William said. Little bit of everything. It was nice,” he said, busy with oil and vinegar and his whisk.

Rosie leaned forward, her tone confidential. “He’s pose for calendar and now all the old womens calling him night and day.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said over his shoulder to her.

“What kind of calendar?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. The crew thought it’d be a good way to commemorate the trip. They do this all the time. It’s nothing. Just a joke.”

Rosie nodded, lifting one brown-penciled brow. “The ‘nothing’ I agree. Is what he’s wearing. Our Mr. February, Kings of Heart.”

“He wasn’t wearing nothing,” William said. “You make it sound like he was nude when he was no such thing.”

She reached in her tote and pulled out a glossy calendar filled with color photographs. “I heve right here. You take a look and see for yourself. The man’s got no clothes. Only underpents.” She flipped to the month of February and turned the page so I could see it. The candid shot showed Henry on the upper deck, leaning against the rail with his back to the ocean. A distant palm-dotted island was visible to his right. He wore red shorts, no shoes, a white dress shirt hanging loose and unbuttoned down the front. A captain’s hat was tilted forward at an angle. His grin was unaffected, showing a flash of white teeth against the tan of his face. The effect was rakish, the perfect combination of charisma and sex appeal. Henry, in the kitchen with us, blushed from ear to ear.

“Ooo, I love this. I have to have a copy of my own,” I said.

“Is yours. You keep. I heve more for ladies in the neighborhood.”

“Thanks.” I flipped through the pages, checking the other entrants. While some of the photographs showed moderately attractive men—all octogenarians, by the look—not one was as dashing as Henry. I laughed with pleasure. “I never knew you were so photogenic. No wonder the phone’s ringing. You look fabulous.”

“The phone’s not ringing,” he said.

At that moment, the phone did, in fact, ring.

“I get,” Rosie said, heaving herself to her feet.

“No, you won’t. That’s what machines are for.”

We waited out the three additional rings until Henry’s answering machine kicked in. From the other room, we heard the outgoing message, followed by the usual beep. “Henry? This is Bella, ‘ma petite belle.’ Remember me? I promised I’d call you so here I am. I just wanted to say how disappointed I was we didn’t have a chance to visit again before you left the ship. You bad boy. When you have a chance, you can reach me at…”

Dinner was punctuated by two additional calls, which Henry ignored. He kept his eyes on his plate, cutting his chicken with a concentration he rarely lavished on his food. The third time the phone rang, he left the table and went into the living room, where he turned off the ringer and lowered the volume on the answering machine. None of us said a word, but Rosie and William exchanged a look as she smirked at her plate. I could see her shoulders shake, though she pretended to cough, a napkin pressed to her lips.

“It’s not funny,” Henry snapped.

9

With Stacey back in the hospital for a second time in five days, I volunteered to take the Monday interview with Lorenzo Rickman. Dolan had offered to do it, but I knew he was eager to be on hand when the doctors talked to Stacey about this latest round of tests. As it turned out, my chat with Rickman was brief and unproductive. We stood in the service bay of an import repair shop that smelled of gasoline fumes, motor oil, and new tires. The floor, work benches, and all available countertops were littered with a jumble of tools and equipment, parts, manuals, blackened spark plugs, cracked cylinder heads, valves, fan belts, drive shafts, alternators, and exhaust manifolds.

Rickman was in his late thirties with an angular face and a neck that appeared too thin to hold his head upright. His dark hair was receding, a few feathers combed down on his forehead to form a fringe of sparse bangs. A beard, closely trimmed, ran along the line of his jaw, and he stroked it reflexively with fingers blackened by oil. His uniform probably wasn’t any different than the outfits he’d worn in prison, except for the machine-embroidered name above his left shirt pocket. He made a show of being cooperative, but he had no memory of incarceration with Frankie Miracle.

He shook his head. “Can’t help. Name doesn’t ring a bell. I was only in jail the one night. First thing the next morning, a friend of mine bailed me out, but only after I promised to join AA. I’ve been on the wagon—well, more or less—ever since.” He smiled briefly while he smoothed his hair toward his forehead. “I still get in trouble with the law, but at least I’m clean and sober—condition of my parole. Right now, I do, you know, five, six meetings a week. Not that I like hanging out with dudes hyped up on coffee and cigarettes, but it sure beats incarceration.” He put his hands in his back pockets and then changed his mind and crossed his arms, fingers drifting back to his beard, which he stroked with his thumb.

“What about the other guys in the cell that night? You remember anything about them?”

“Nope. Sorry. I was eighteen years old, drunk and stoned the night they picked me up. My second or third blackout, I forget which. Third, I think. I could’ve been in with Charlie Manson and you couldn’t prove it by me.”

I tried priming the pump, claiming we had a witness who was there at the same time and said Frankie’d bragged about a killing. This generated no response. I handed him the packet of photographs, which he shuffled through carelessly. He shook his head and handed them back. “Look like a bunch of thugs.”

I tucked the photos in my bag. “I know this is none of my business, but what’d you do to warrant a prison sentence?”

His fingers became still and then he pulled at a thatch of beard growing under his chin. “What makes you ask?”

“No reason. I’m just curious.”

“I don’t really care to say.”

“Ah. My fault. Sorry. It’s your business, of course. I didn’t mean to step on your toes.” I gave him my card, offering the standard line. “Thanks for your time. If you think of anything, will you let us know?”

“Sure.”

“Can I ask one more thing? You think you’re out for good?”

He considered my question and then smiled to himself. “I doubt it.”

I stopped off at the hospital on my way into town. Stacey was back on 6 Central, in another private room located down the hall from the room he’d had before. When I glanced in, his bed was empty. Beside it, a wide window looked out on a view of the ocean, maybe two miles away, across the shaggy treetops. An occasional glimpse of a red-tile roof punctuated the thick expanse of green. The room was airy; spacious enough to accommodate a forty-eight-inch round table and four captain’s chairs, where I found Dolan sitting with a tattered copy of Road & Track.

“Oh, hi. Where’s Stace?”

“In X-ray. He should be back in a bit.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Don’t know yet. What’d Rickman say?”

“Regrettably, not much.” I filled him in on my conversation. “I think we can safely write him off. Probably Pudgie as well. He’s cagey, but dumb, and I don’t trust the combination. So now what?”

Dolan set his magazine aside. He wore a dark blue windbreaker and a Dodgers baseball cap. “Stacey never got a chance to call Joe Mandel to see if he can lay hands on Jane Doe’s effects. Soon as he’s got a minute, he’s going to do that. Meantime, we thought you might have a phone chat with this C. K. Vogel fellow that Arne was talking about. You might try Directory Assistance—”

“Dolan, this is what I do for a living.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“I’ll go down to the lobby and find a public phone. You want anything while I’m there?”

“I don’t suppose they sell Camels in the gift shop.”

“I don’t suppose they do.” When I got to the door, I hesitated. “What was Rickman in prison for?”

Lieutenant Dolan picked up his magazine and wet his index finger. He turned the page, paying close attention to a full-page ad for a fuel additive that required the presence of a blonde in a bathing suit. “Well, let’s see. Molestation, sodomy, oral copulation, lewd and lascivious acts with a child. I’m surprised he wasn’t killed in prison. As a rule, inmates don’t have a lot of tolerance for guys like that.”

Geez, I’d been picturing a bit of B&E.

I took the elevator down and made my way through the maze of corridors to the lobby. I found a bank of public phone kiosks outside the front entrance, sheltered by a marquee that extended from the lobby door to the passenger loading ramp. While I looked on, a young nurse’s aide helped a new mother out of a wheelchair and into a waiting van. I couldn’t see the baby’s face, but the bundle wasn’t much bigger than a loaf of bread. I scrounged around in the bottom of my bag and came up with a handful of coins. Lompoc was in the same area code as Santa Teresa, so I knew it wasn’t going to require much. I dialed Directory Assistance while the young husband loaded flower arrangements into the back of the van, along with a cluster of bobbing pink and silver helium balloons.

I got C. K. Vogel’s number and made a note of it before I dialed. When he picked up on his end, I identified myself. Judging from the sound of his voice, he was in his eighties and possibly in the midst of an afternoon nap. I said, “Sorry to disturb you.”

“No, no. Don’t worry about that. Arne called on Friday and said someone might be in touch. You want to know about the van I saw, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. It is.”

“Tell you the truth, I didn’t say much at the time. I had a brother-in-law worked for the Sheriff’s Department—this was my sister Madge’s husband, fella named Melvin Galloway. He’s since died. Two of us never did get along. He’s a damn know-it-all. Had an opinion about everything and hear him tell it, he’s always right. I couldn’t abide the man. Might not sound Christian, but it’s the truth. I told him twice about that van, but he pooh-poohed the idea, said if he stopped to track down every half-assed theory the John Q. Public volunteered, he wouldn’t get anything else done. Not that he did much to begin with. He’s the laziest son of a gun I ever came across. After ’while, I figured I’d done what I could and said to hell with him. What struck me afterward was not the hippie van so much as that other car I saw. Snappy-looking red convertible with Arizona plates.”

“Arne mentioned the red car, but I got the impression it was the van you thought was suspicious. Did I get that wrong?”

“No, ma’am. I noticed the van on account of the paint job—peace symbols and that sort, in the wildest colors imaginable. It was parked right there in that fork in the road when I first became aware of it.”

“I know the location.”

“Reason the other car caught my attention was because I later read in the paper they recovered a stolen car matching that description.”

“You remember the make?”

“I don’t, but I saw that car on three occasions. First time near the quarry, just a little piece down the road, and the second time over town. I was driving to the doctor’s office to have a cyst removed and passed the wrecker pulling it up out of the ravine, all banged up. Looked like whoever took the car let the handbrake loose and pushed it down a hill into a bunch of brush. Must have hit a goodly number of trees on the way, judging from all the scratches and dents. Wasn’t spotted for a week, but the fella where I take my car for repairs was the one the Sheriff’s Department called when they needed it towed. I saw it at the repair shop the next day when I was having work done on my carburetor. That was the third time. Never saw it again after that.”

“I remember mention of a stolen car. Was there anybody in it when you saw it the first time?”

“No, ma’am. It was setting on the side of the road just inside the entrance to your grandma’s property. Top down, sun beating hard on those fine black leather seats. I slowed as I went by because I wondered if someone’d had engine trouble and had wandered off to get help. I didn’t see a note on the windshield so I drove on. Next time I passed, the car was gone.”

“Did you tell Melvin about that one?”

“I told Madge and she told him, but that’s the last I heard. I didn’t want to force my observations on a fella doesn’t want to hear. He’d have pooh-poohed that, too. Trouble with Melvin is he didn’t believe a thing unless it come from him. He’s the type if he didn’t know something, he made it up. If he didn’t feel like doing something, he claimed he did it anyway. You couldn’t pin the man down. Ask him a question, he’d act like he’d been accused of negligence.”

“Sounds like a pain.”

“Yes, he was. Madge, too.”

“Well. I appreciate the information. I’ll mention this to the guys and see if it’s something they want to pursue.” Inwardly, I was still hung up on the fact that he’d mentioned my “grandma.” I never thought of Grand that way. I had a grandmother. How bizarre.

As though reading my mind, he said, “I knew your mama once upon a time.”

“Really.”

“Yes ma’am. You know Arne Johanson worked for the Kinseys from the age of seventeen. He was sweet on her himself, but Rita wouldn’t give him the time of day. He figured it’s because he was too old for her and then she up and marries your dad, the same age as him. He got his nose out of joint, I can tell you that. I told him don’t be ridiculous. In the first place, she was never going to take up with a cowpoke. Second place, she’d rather die than get stuck where she is. She was wild, that one, and pretty as they come. Restless as all get out. She’d have taken up with anyone to get off the ranch.”

“That’s flattering,” I said. In truth, this was the first concrete image I’d ever had of her. In that careless vignette, he’d captured the entire story of her life. My cousins, Liza and Tasha, had spoken of her in ways that seemed larger than life. She’d taken on the aura of family myth, a symbol of that legendary clash of wills. “I understand she and my grandmother didn’t get along.”

“Oh, they tangled, those two. Rita was Cornelia’s pride and joy. I felt sorry for her in a way…”

“Who, my mother?”

“Your grandma. She liked to maintain she didn’t have a favorite among the five girls, but Rita was her firstborn and Cornelia doted on her. You know the story, I suppose.”

“Well, sure. I heard it once,” I said, lying through my teeth. Somehow gossip seems less pernicious if the person telling the tale thinks it’s one you’ve already heard.

“Cornelia married Burton Kinsey when she was seventeen, exactly half his age. That’s one more reason she didn’t want Rita to marry young like she did. She lost three babies in a row, all of them boys and not a one went to term. Rita was the first of her children to survive. Cornelia’s boys were stillborn. Only the girls made it through alive.”

“What was that about?”

“I don’t think the doctors determined the cause. In those days, medicine was largely good luck and guesswork. People died of diabetes until those two fellows discovered insulin in 1923. Folks died of anemia, too, until liver therapy came along in 1934. Think of it. Eating liver was a cure. We forget things like that; forget how ignorant we were and how much we’ve learned.” He stopped to clear his throat. “Well, now. I didn’t mean to run on at the mouth. Trouble with getting old is you lose all the people you tell your stories to. You let me know if that red car turns out to be anything. I’d like to have a laugh at Melvin’s expense after all these years.”

“Thanks for your time. I’ll be in touch.”

I replaced the handset in the cradle and headed for the elevator, which I took to 6 Central. The doors slid open and I stepped off just as Dolan approached, having exited Stacey’s room. He took a seat on a couch positioned under a window. The area wasn’t designated as a waiting room, but it probably served as a getaway for friends and family members who needed a break. He rose when he caught sight of me.

“Don’t get up,” I said. “What are you doing out here? I thought you’d be down the hall with Stace.”

Dolan sat down again on the couch. “The doctors are in there. Oncologist, radiologist, and another specialist nobody bothered to introduce.”

“What’s going on?”

“Beats me. All three had on those long medical faces so the news couldn’t be good. How’d the phone call go? Did you talk to Vogel?” He scooted over on the couch to make room for me. “Here. Have a seat.”

I perched on the near arm and propped my hand on the back of the couch. “For starters, in the small-world department, it turns out C. K. Vogel was Melvin Galloway’s brother-in-law.” I went on, summarizing the information C. K.’d given me about the red convertible.

“He could be confused. Frankie’s car was red.”

“I know, but he was very specific about it’s being a convertible with black leather seats.”

“Let’s run that by Stacey and see what he says. It can’t hurt to check.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the three doctors emerge from Stacey’s room. I pointed in their direction as they rounded the far corner and disappeared. “Looks like they’re done. You want to go down and find out what they said?”

“No. But I will.”

I let Dolan take the lead as we entered Stacey’s room, thinking that if Stace was upset, I could ease out without calling undue attention to myself. He was in bed, having cranked up the head so he could see the view. He had his knit cap off and I was disconcerted by the sight of his bare head. His hair was wispy, a cross between duck down and baby fuzz, scarcely half an inch long. The watch cap had given him an air of manliness. Without it, he was just a sick old man with a scrawny neck and ears that protruded from the bony shell of his skull. He turned from the view with a smile that came close to merriment unless you knew him. “Never let it be said God doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

Dolan said, “Uh-oh.”

“It’s really not too bad. No meningioma or neurofibroma; in other words, there’re no metastatic tumors along my spine. The business with my back’s benign. Probably a herniated disc, which is the result of degenerative changes not uncommon in a man my age. I’m quoting the doc here just in case you think I’ve started talking strange. The treatment of choice is bed rest, which is something I’m already well acquainted with. Analgesics, a mild tranquilizer, possibly Valium as you suggested. That doesn’t work, they go to plan B, which they haven’t laid out as yet. I’m guessing surgery, but they haven’t actually said as much. Doctor did suggest exercises to strengthen my back once the pain subsides. Fair enough. Unfortunately, the very same X-ray that showed my back problem’s no more than a pain in the ass also revealed a lesion. I’m supposed to be in remission, free and clear.”

“What’s he think it is?”

“She, goddammit! And don’t interrupt. I was just getting to that. Doc says it could be scar tissue, it could be the remains of a dying tumor, or it might be our old friend lymphoma cropping up again. They can’t tell from the film. So first thing tomorrow morning, I’m scheduled for a biopsy. Lucky I’m here is how they put it to me. Lucky my back feels like shit, they said. Without back pain, no X-ray. Without the X-ray, this whatever I’ve got would have gone undetected until the next follow-up appointment, which isn’t on the books for months.” He pointed at Dolan. “And don’t say ‘I told you so’ because I don’t want to hear it.”

“I’d never say that—though I’ll admit I did mention it.”

I thought he was pushing his luck, but Stacey laughed.

Dolan said, “So when do you get out?”

“They haven’t told me yet. Meantime, I’m not lying here idle. I put in another call to the Sheriff’s Department. Joe Mandel’s made detective so I’m hoping he’ll let us take a look at the Jane Doe evidence.”

“Kinsey and I can do that.”

“Not without me. You want to keep me alive, you better do what I say.”

“Bullshit. That’s blackmail.”

“That’s exactly right. So tell me about Rickman. I could use a good laugh about now.”

I had dinner that night at Rosie’s, so grateful to have her home I could have kissed the hem of her muumuu. Since the tavern had been closed for two weeks, the smell of beer and cigarette smoke had nearly faded from the air. In her absence, she’d had a cleaning crew come in and scrub the place down. Floors now gleamed, wood surfaces were polished, and the mirror behind the bar reflected the rows of liquor bottles with a sparkle that suggested expensive handblown glass. The crowd that night was light, the usual patrons perhaps still unaware that the restaurant was open for business again.

William stood behind the bar, pulling beers and pouring drinks for the smattering of customers. Henry sat at his usual table, amusing himself with a book of anagrams. At his invitation, I took a seat across from him. I looked over as Rosie emerged from the kitchen with an armload of what appeared to be slim binders. She crossed the room, heading in our direction, clearly pleased with herself. She handed a binder to me and a second to Henry. I thought they might be picture albums, but I opened the front cover and found myself staring at a handwritten menu done in a calligraphic script.

“This is different,” I remarked.

“Is new menu. So I don’t hef to tell every dish what I’m cooking. William wrote by hand and then went to photo copy shop and hed them print. You order anything you want and what you can’t say in Henglish you point.” She stood and looked at us expectantly. Since she’d returned from the cruise, her Henglish seemed to have gotten worse.

Henry surveyed his menu, a curious expression crossing his face. I glanced at mine, running my gaze down the page. The dishes were listed first in Hungarian, complete with letter combinations and accent marks I’d never seen before. Under the Hungarian name for each dish there was the translation in English:

Versenyi Batyus Ponty

Carp in a Bundle

Csuka Tejfeles Tormaval

Pike Cooked in Horseradish Cream

Hamis Oztokany

Mock Venison

Disznó Csülök Káposztával

Pig’s Knuckles and Sauerkraut

I couldn’t wait to see what the crowd of softball rowdies was going to think about this.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Rosie,” Henry said.

“Really,” I said. “I can hardly choose.”

She seemed to wiggle with pleasure, order pad in hand. For a minute I thought she intended to lick her pencil point.

Henry smiled at her blandly. “Why don’t you give us a few minutes? This is a lot to take in.”

“You keep and I come beck.”

“Good idea.”

She moved away from our table and began to circle the room, distributing a menu at each booth and table along the way. Henry stared after her with something close to wonderment. “I guess this is what happens when you take someone on a cruise. She’s come home inspired. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say she was putting on airs.”

I set my menu aside. “That’s the least of our worries. What are we going to do? I don’t want to eat a pig knuckle with sauerkraut. That’s disgusting.”

He looked at his menu again. “Listen to this one. ‘Mazsolas es Gesztenyés Borjunyelv.’ You know what that is? Calf’s Tongue with Chestnuts and Raisins.”

“Oh, that can’t be true. Where do you see that?” I peered over at his menu, hoping it was somehow completely different.

He pointed at an item under a column entitled “Specialities of the House.” “Here’s another one. Lemon Tripe. I forget what that is. Could be stomach or bowel.”

“What’s the big deal with organ meats?”

Rosie had completed her circuit and she now headed back to our table. “I hef idea. I prepare for you special. Big surprise.”

“No, no, no,” Henry said. “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble. We’ll just order from what’s here. My goodness. So many interesting dishes. What are you having, Kinsey?”

“Me? Oh. Well, actually on a night like this, I’d love a nice big bowl of soup and maybe noodles on the side. Could you do that for me?”

“Easy. Of course. I give Shepherd’s Soup. Is already make,” she said, pausing to pencil an elaborate note on her order pad. She turned to Henry.

“I think I’ll hold off for now. I just had a bite before I came over here.”

“Little plate of dumplings? Jellied pork? Is fresh. Very good.”

“Don’t tempt me. Maybe later. I’ll just keep her company for now,” he said.

Rosie pursed her lips and then shrugged to herself. I thought she’d insist, but apparently decided to let him suffer. Neither of us said a word until she’d disappeared.

I leaned forward. “Why didn’t you tell me you were doing that? I could have said the same thing.”

“I blurted out the first thing that occurred to me. You were quick about it, too. Soup and noodles. That’s safe. How can you go wrong?”

My gaze strayed toward the kitchen. Mere seconds had passed, and Rosie was already using her backside to push her way through the swinging kitchen doors into the dining room, bearing a wide tray that held a shallow bowl of steaming soup.

I said, “Oh, geez. Here she comes. I hate service this quick. It’s like eating in a Chinese restaurant. You’re in and out on the street again twenty minutes later.”

She crossed the room, setting the tray on the adjoining table, then placing the bowl in front of me. She tucked her hands under her apron and looked at me. “How you like?”

“I haven’t tried it yet.” I fanned some of the steam toward my face, trying to define the odor. Burnt hair? Dog hide? “Gee, this smells great. What is it?”

She peered at my bowl, identifying some of the diced ingredients. “Is parsnip, ongion, carrot, kohlrabi—”

“I love vegetable soup!” I said, with perhaps more enthusiasm than I’d ordinarily express. I tipped my spoon down into the depths, bringing up a rich cargo of root vegetables.

She was still peering. “Is also head, neck, lungs, and liver of one lamb.”

The spoon was already in the air by then, soup sailing toward my mouth as though of its own accord. As the spoon reached my lips, I caught a glimpse of porous gray chunks, probably minced lobe of lung, along with some floaters of something I was too fearful to ask about. I puckered my lips and made a slurping sound, sucking up the broth while deftly avoiding the little knots of offal. I made insincere Mmm noises.

“I come right beck with noodles.”

“Take your time.”

As soon as she left, I put my spoon down, craning to check all four corners of the room. “I wonder if I have time to scoot to the toilet and put this back where it belongs. She doesn’t even have planters where I can dump the stuff.”

Henry leaned closer to the bowl. “Is that a nostril? Oh no, sorry. It’s probably just a little cross-section of heart valve. Head’s up. Here she comes again.”

Rosie was returning to the table with a dinner-sized plate in hand. I made a big display of stirring my soup and wiping my mouth with a napkin as she set the noodles in front of me. I patted my chest as though overwhelmed, which I was. “This is filling. Really rich.”

I stole an apprehensive look at the dish as she placed it on the table beside my soup bowl, experiencing a flash of relief. “What’s that, manicotti?”

“Is call palacsinta tészta. Like what you call crêpes.”

“Hungarian crêpes. Well, that sounds wonderful. I can do that.”

“I fill with calf’s brains scrembled with egg. Very dainty. You’ll see. I can teach you to make.”

“Okay then, I’ll just chow down,” I said. She stood by the table, as though prepared to monitor my every bite. I leaned to one side, focusing my gaze on the far side of the room. “I think William’s calling you. It looks like he needs help.”

Rosie crossed to the bar where she and William engaged in a baffled conversation. Meanwhile, I’d grabbed up my shoulder bag and I was rooting through the contents. Earlier that day, I’d spotted an outdated grocery list done on a sheet of yellow legal paper. I kept one eye on Rosie while I folded the note paper into a cone, pointed at the bottom with a wide mouth at the top. I turned the pointed bottom up to form a seal. I forked up crepes in rapid succession, ignoring the gnarly bits that fell back on the plate. I folded the top down, wrapped the cone in a paper napkin, and shoved the bundle in my purse.

By the time Rosie glanced in my direction, I was bent over my plate, making fake chewing motions while trying to look entranced. Another couple entered the bar and her attention was distracted. I put a twenty on the table near Henry’s plate. “Tell her I was called away on an emergency.”

Henry pointed to my soup, most of which was still in the bowl. “I’ll have her put that in a jar and bring it over to you later tonight. I know how you hate to see food go to waste.”

10

I was home earlier than I’d intended, concerned that calf brain would leak out of the makeshift container and contaminate the interior of my shoulder bag. As I passed Henry’s garbage can, I removed the bundle from my purse and dumped it. I lifted my head, alerted by the dim ringing of a phone somewhere. I banged down the lid and hurried to my front door, unlocking it in haste. Three rings. Four. I slung my bag on a kitchen chair and snatched up the receiver. My answering machine had already kicked in and I was forced to override my own voice, singing, “It’s me. I’m here. Don’t go away. I’m answering.”

“Kinsey?”

The caller was male and he spoke against the dull murmur of background conversations. I put a hand against one ear. “Who’s this?”

“Pudgie.”

“Well, hi. This is a surprise. I didn’t think I’d hear from you. What’s up?”

“You said call if I thought of something, but you have to promise you won’t let this get back to him.”

I found myself straining to hear. “Back to who?”

“Frankie. You ever meet him?”

“Not yet.”

“He’s a crazy man. You can’t tell it right off because he’s good at faking it…like he’s normal and all, but believe me, you don’t want to mess with him.”

“I didn’t realize you knew him.”

“I don’t, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the guy’s a freak.”

“Is that why you called, to say how nuts he is?”

“Nuhn-uhn. I’ll get to that, but lemme ask you something first. Suppose someone tells him I called you?”

“Come on. I can’t control that. Besides, who’s going to tell? I can promise not a word of this will come from me.”

“You swear?”

“Of course.”

I could hear him cup a hand over the mouthpiece, lips so close to the phone I thought he’d slobber in my ear. “He talked about stabbing some chick to death.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Pudgie. That’s why he went to prison. For killing Cathy Lee Pearse.”

“Not her. Another one. This was after he killed her.”

“I’m listening.”

“He’s bragging about what happens to any bitch tries to cross him. He said he picked up this chick in a bar. She had some dope on her and the two of them got loose. They go out to the parking lot to play grab ass, but she turns all sour on him and starts giving him a hard time, which pisses him off. When she refuses to put out, he offs her and sticks her in the trunk of Cathy Lee’s car. He drives around with her two days, but he’s worried she’ll start to stink, so he dumps her when he gets to Lompoc.”

“Where’d he pick her up?”

“What bar? Don’t know. He never said. He didn’t mention the town, either. I’d guess Santa Teresa. It had to’ve been before he hit Lompoc because that’s where he got caught.”

“What about the dump site? Did he say where that was?”

“Some place outside town where she wouldn’t be found. I guess they managed to nail him on Cathy Lee, but nobody knew about the other one, so he was free and clear on that.”

“What made you suddenly remember? This doesn’t sound like something that would slip your mind.”

“It didn’t ‘slip my mind,’” he said, offended. “You’re the one came to me. I never offered to snitch. I didn’t ‘suddenly’ do anything. I remembered the minute his name came up.”

“Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“We’d only just met. How’d I know I could trust you? I had to think about that.”

“What made you decide to tell me?”

“I probably should’ve kept my mouth shut if it comes right down to it. Frankie’s a bad-ass. Word leaks out and my sorry butt is fried. He’s not a guy you fuck with and expect to live.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Did he say anything else?”

“Not that I remember offhand. Time, I didn’t pay much attention. Jail, everybody brags about stuff like that. It’s mostly bullshit, so I didn’t attach anything to it. I mean, I did, but then that’s the last I ever heard of it. Now you’re saying some girl’s body was dumped and right away I think about him.”

“You’re sure about this.”

“No, I’m not sure. He might’ve made the whole thing up. How the hell should I know? You said call and I did.”

I thought about it briefly. This could be a hustle, though for the life of me, I couldn’t see what Pudgie was getting out of it. “That’s not much to go on.”

“Well, I can’t help you there.”

“How’d he kill her?”

“Knife, I guess. Said he stabbed her, wrapped her up, and stuck her in the trunk. Soon as he got to Lompoc, he pitched her off the side of the road and hightailed it out of there. By the time the cops picked him up he figured he was safe. All they cared about was nailing him for Cathy Lee.”

“Did he know the girl?”

“I doubt it. He didn’t talk like he did.”

“Because I’m curious about his motive.”

“You gotta be kidding. Frankie doesn’t need a motive. She could’ve looked at him funny or called him a pencil dick. If she knew he was on the run, she might’ve threatened to turn him in.”

“Interesting,” I said. “I’ll have to give this some thought. Where are you calling from?”

“A place I hang out in Creosote. My sis drove up from the desert and brought me back to her house.”

“Is there any way I can reach you if I need to get in touch?”

He gave me a number with an area code.

I said, “Thanks. This could be a big help.”

“Where’s Frankie now?”

“I’m not sure. We’ve heard he’s in town.”

“You mean the fucker’s out?”

“Sure, he’s been paroled.”

“You never said that. Oh, shit. You have to swear you won’t tell him where you heard this. And don’t ask me to testify in court because I won’t.”

“Pudgie, you couldn’t testify in court. This is all hearsay. You didn’t see him do anything so quit worrying. I’ll tell the two cops I’m working with, but that’s the end of it.”

“I hope I haven’t made a mistake.”

“Relax. You’re fine.”

“You buy me those cigarettes?”

“No, but I owe you a bunch.”

Dolan picked me up at the office Tuesday morning at 10:00. I’d managed my usual 6:00 A.M. run, after which I’d showered and dressed. I had coffee and a quick bowl of cereal, making it into the office by 8:35. By the time I heard Dolan’s car horn, I’d finished catching up on all the odds and ends on my desk. Dolan had the good grace to toss his cigarette out the window as soon as I got in. Stacey’s biopsy had been scheduled for 7:45, but neither of us wanted to talk about that. After I’d wrenched open the car door on the passenger side and hauled it shut again, I told Dolan about Pudgie’s call.

He said, “Don’t know what to make of it. What do you think?”

“I’d love to believe him, but I’m not sure how credible he is for a jailhouse snitch. He did seem to have a couple of the details right.”

“Like what?”

“Well, he knew she’d been stabbed and he knew she’d been wrapped in something at the time she was dumped.”

“It’s possible he took a flyer, guessing at the fine points to make himself seem important.”

“To me? Why would he care?”

“Because he’s flirting with you. Gave him an excuse to call.”

“Is that it? Well, I’m thrilled.”

“Point is, what he says is useless. It’s all air and sunshine.”

“And hearsay as well.”

“Right.”

The next stop was Frankie’s to see what we could shake loose from him. Dolan had talked to Frankie’s parole officer, Dench Smallwood, who’d given him the address.

On our way across town, Dolan told me he’d gone through the murder book again. Early reports had made reference to three stolen vehicles, one of which was the red 1967 Chevrolet in which Frankie’d been stopped. Melvin Galloway had been asked to follow up on the other two, but gauging from the paperwork, it was impossible to tell what he’d actually done. Miracle was a fugitive and his arrest was a feather in Galloway’s cap. Given his reputation for laziness, the routine aspects of the investigation probably didn’t have much appeal. It was possible he’d simply claimed he’d handled the query when he’d let the matter slide. The red convertible C. K. Vogel had seen turned out to be a 1966 Ford Mustang, owned by a man named Gant in Mesquite, Arizona, just across the California line. Stacey had asked Joe Mandel to run the VIN and license plate to see where the vehicle was now. If Mandel could determine the current whereabouts, it might be worthwhile to track it down and take a look.

The room Frankie rented was located in the rear of a frame house on Guardia Street. We picked our way down the drive, avoiding a cornucopia of spilled garbage from an overturned can. Surrounding orange and red hibiscus shrubs had grown so tall that the narrow wooden porch was cold with shade. Dolan knocked on the door while I stood to one side, as though worried I’d be fired on through the lath-and-plaster wall. Dolan waited a decent interval and knocked again. We were on the verge of departing when Frankie opened the door. At forty-four, he was baby-faced and clean-shaven. He wore a T-shirt and loose shorts, with a sleep mask pushed up on the top of his head. His feet were bare. He said, “What.”

“Mr. Miracle?”

“That’s right.”

Dolan moved his windbreaker aside, exposing the badge on his belt. “Lieutenant Dolan, Santa Teresa Police Department. This is Kinsey Millhone.”

“Okay.” Frankie had mild brown wavy hair and brown eyes. His gaze was direct and tainted with annoyance. I was surprised to see he had no visible tattoos. He’d been in prison for the past seventeen years and I expected him to look as though he’d been rolling naked and wet across the Sunday funnies. He wasn’t overweight by any means, but he looked soft, which was another surprise. I picture prison inmates all bulked up from lifting weights. His eyes caught mine. “I suit you okay?”

I declined a response.

Dolan said, “You have a late night? You seem cross.”

“I work nights, if it’s any of your business.”

“Doing what?”

“Janitorial. The Granger Building on the graveyard shift. I’d give you my boss’s name, but you already have that.”

Dolan smiled slightly. “Matter of fact I do. Your parole officer gave it to me when I talked to him.”

“What’s this about?”

“May we come in?”

Frankie glanced back across his shoulder. “Sure, why not?”

He stepped away from the door and we crossed the threshold. His entire living quarters consisted of one room with a linoleum floor, a hot plate, an ancient refrigerator, an iron bedstead, and little else. In lieu of a closet, he had a rack made of cast iron pipe on which he’d draped his clothes, both dirty and clean. I could see a cramped bathroom through a door that opened off the rear wall. In addition to an ashtray full of butts, there was a tumble of paperback books on the floor by his bed, a mix of mystery and science fiction. The room smelled of ripe sheets and stale cigarette smoke. I’d have killed myself if I were forced to live in a place like this. On the other hand, Frankie was used to prison, so this was probably an improvement.

There was no place to sit so the two of us stood while Frankie crawled back in bed and pulled the sheet across his lap. The ensuing conversation seemed bizarre, like a visit with Stacey in his hospital room. I’d never seen anyone other than the chronically ill opt to be interviewed prone. It suggested a wary sort of self-confidence. He straightened the sheet and folded the top over once. “You can skip the small talk. I’m working again tonight and I need my sleep.”

“We’d like to ask you about the time you spent in Lompoc before you got picked up.”

“What about it?”

“How you got there, what you were doing before your arrest?”

“Don’t remember. I was stoned. I had shit for brains back then.”

“When the officers pulled you over, you were six miles from the spot where a young girl’s body was found.”

“Wonderful. And where was that?”

“Near Grayson Quarry. You know the place?”

“Everybody knows Grayson. It’s been there for years.”

“It seems like quite a coincidence.”

“That I was six miles away? Bullshit. I have family in the area. My dad’s lived in the same house forty-four years. I was on my way to visit.”

“After killing Cathy Lee.”

“I hope you aren’t here coughing up that old hair ball. I’ll tell you one thing, they never should have nailed me for murder one. That was strictly self-defense. She came at me with a pair of scissors—not that I need to justify myself to you.”

“Why’d you run? Hardly the actions of an innocent man.”

“I never said I was innocent. I said—oh hell, why should I tell you? I was in a panic, if you want to know the truth. You do meth, you don’t think straight. Temper runs hot and you think everybody’s after you.”

“No need to be defensive,” Dolan said.

“Please forgive me. I beseech you. People wake me up, I get cranky sometimes.”

Dolan smiled. “You get cranky, you fly off the handle, is that it?”

“You know what? I’ve done my time. Not a mark on my record in seventeen years. Credit for time served, good behavior, the whole shootin’ match. Now I’m out, I’m clean, and I’m gainfully employed so you can go fuck yourself. No offense.”

“Prison did you good.”

“Yes, it did. See that? Rehabilitation works. I’m living proof. Went from bad to good and now I’m free as a bird.”

“Not quite. You’re still on parole.”

“You think I don’t know that? All the fuckin’ rules they lay down? Tell you something, you won’t catch me in violation. I’m way too smart. I’m willing to play fair because I don’t intend to go back in. And I mean, ever.”

“You know the problem with you, Frankie?”

“What’s that, Lieutenant? I’m sure you’ll spell it out in great detail.”

“You may be righteous today, but back then you didn’t know enough to keep your big mouth shut.”

“Come on. What is this?”

“I told you. We have an unsolved homicide with circumstances similar to Cathy Lee’s.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t help you there. I don’t know jack about that. You want anything else, you can talk to my attorney.”

“And who’s that?”

“Haven’t hired one yet, but I’ll let you know. Where’s this horseshit coming from, or is that classified?”

“We got somebody willing to put the ju-ju on you.”

“Ju-ju, my ass. What have you got, some ex-con having lunch on my expense account? I didn’t kill the chick. You’re full of shit.”

“That’s not what our witness says. He says you bragged about it afterward.”

“You’re blowin’ smoke and you know it. You had anything on me, you’d’ve showed up with a warrant instead of this hokey song-and-dance routine.”

Dolan shook his head. “I don’t know, Frankie. I figure you had a hard-on for the girl and when she wouldn’t put out, you lost control of yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Frankie made a gesture like he was whacking off.

“Why don’t you own up to it? You could really help us out.

Show your heart’s in the right place now that you’ve turned over this new leaf.”

Frankie smiled, shaking his head in disbelief. “You think I’d be dumb enough to sit here and confess? To what? You got nothing on me. I don’t even know who the fuck you’re talking about.”

“I’m not here to hassle you.”

“Good, because I’m trying not to lose my cool. You want a urine sample, I’ll piss in a cup. You want to search the place, have at it. Whatever it is, just be quick about it. Otherwise we’re done. Pull the door shut behind you on your way out.” He slid the mask down over his eyes and turned his back to us.

“Well, that was unproductive,” I said when the two of us were back in the car again.

“I wanted you to have a look at him. It’s always best if you know the players firsthand. Besides, it’s good to let him sweat a bit, wondering what we have.”

“That won’t take long. We don’t have anything, do we?”

“No, but he doesn’t know that.”

Dolan was going to go back over to St. Terry’s as soon as he dropped me at the office, but when we pulled onto Caballeria Lane, we caught sight of Stacey sitting on the curb in front of my place, a brown paper bag at his feet. He wore his red knit watch cap, short-sleeve shirt, chinos, and shoes with no socks. His perforated plastic hospital bracelet still encircled his wrist. His arms were bone thin, his skin translucent, like the pale tissue overlay on a wedding invitation. Dolan parked two cars away. While we walked back to Stacey, Dolan took out a pack of cigarettes and his matches and paused to light up. He tossed the match aside and drew deeply, sucking smoke down as though he were using an asthma inhaler. “How’d you get here?”

Stacey shaded his eyes, looking sideways at him. “Called a cab. They do that. Pay ’em money, those guys’ll take you anyplace you want.”

“I didn’t think you’d be released until they ran more tests.”

Stacey waved that notion aside. “Hell with ’em. I got tired of waiting for the doc to pull a thumb out. I packed my things and took a hike. I don’t have time for nonsense. It won’t change anything. Meantime, I got a call from Mandel and he says come on out. He’s pulled the Jane Doe evidence and we can take a look. Speaking of which, what’d our friend Frankie have to say for himself?”

“Don’t change the subject. How’d the biopsy go?”

“Piece of cake. They’ve stuck me so often, it’s like a bug bite.”

“How soon do you get the results?”

Stacey’s hand was so small he managed to ease his bracelet off without breaking it. “Day or so. Who cares? We got work to do. Now give me a hand here. My age, you get down, you can’t get up again. Tell me about Frankie.”

“He’s completely innocent.”

“Of course. We should have known.”

Dolan extended a hand and pulled Stacey to his feet. He seemed to totter fleetingly and then he regained his balance. Dolan and I exchanged one of those looks, which Stacey caught.

“Quit that. I’m fine. I’m tired is all. I’ve been in bed too long.”

The Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department is located near Colgate off El Solano Road in the same general vicinity as the county dump. I guess land out there is cheap and there’s room to expand. Behind the building, I could see rows of black-and-whites, county cars, and assorted personal vehicles belonging to the Sheriff’s Department personnel. The one-story structure is a creamy beige and white stucco, with a series of arches across the front. The main jail is just across the road. We parked and went in the front entrance, letting Stacey lead the way. I could tell he missed working. Just the sight of the facility seemed to give him strength.

To the left, in the tiny lobby, was a counter with a glass partition, probably bulletproof, though it was impossible to tell. The civilian clerk, a woman, looked up when we came in. Stacey said, “We’re here to see Sergeant Detective Joe Mandel.”

She pushed a clipboard across the counter. “He said he’d be right out.”

All three of us signed in and she gave us each a visitor’s badge, which we fastened onto our shirts. There were three chairs available, but we elected to stand. Through the locked glass door, I could already see someone approaching from the far end of the corridor. He pushed the door open from his side and let us in. There were the usual introductions and a round of handshakes. From the flicker in his eyes, I could tell he recognized me from our meeting in his kitchen, but if he thought it odd, he never let on. He knew Stacey well, but I gathered he hadn’t seen Dolan for many years. They exchanged pleasantries as he held the door open and let us into the corridor.

We turned left and followed him down a long hallway, a dogrun of beige carpeting and beige walls, with offices opening up on either side. Joe introduced us to Sergeant Steve Rhineberger, in the Sheriff’s forensics unit. He unlocked a door and showed us into a room that looked like a tract-housing kitchen without the stove. There were counters on three sides and some sort of ventilation apparatus at the rear. A large battered-looking brown paper bag sat on the table in the center of the room.

Sergeant Rhineberger opened a lower cabinet door, tore off a length of white paper from a wide roll inside, and took out a pair of disposable latex gloves. “I asked the coroner’s office to send over the mandible and maxilla. I thought you might want to look at those, too.”

He placed the sheet of protective paper on the table, pulled on the gloves, and then broke the seal on the evidence bag. He removed the folded tarp and various articles of clothing, which he spread on the paper. Mandel removed a handful of disposable gloves from the cardboard dispenser on the counter. He passed a pair to Stacey, a pair to Dolan, and a pair to me. The guys had been chatting about department business, but we all fell into a respectful silence. Eighteen years after the violence of her death, there was only the crackle of white paper and the snap of gloves.

It was strange to look at items I’d only seen before in faded photographs. The shirt and daisy-print pants had been cut from the body and the garments seemed sprawling and misshapen laid out across the tabletop. The fabric was soiled and moist, as though permeated with damp sand. The bloodstains resembled nothing so much as smudges of rust. Her sandals were leather, decorated with brass buckles linked with leather bands. A narrow thong would have separated her big toe from the remaining toes on each foot. The sandals looked new except for faint stains on the sole where her heel and the ball of her bare foot had left indelible marks.

Rhineberger opened a container and removed Jane Doe’s upper and lower jawbones. Her teeth showed extensive dental work, sixteen to eighteen amalgam fillings. When he set the maxilla on the mandible, matching the grooves and worn surfaces where they met, we could see the extent of her overbite and the crooked eyetooth on the left. “Can’t believe nobody recognized her by the description of the teeth. Charlie says it was all probably done a year or two before she died. You can see the wisdom teeth haven’t erupted yet. He says she probably wasn’t eighteen.” He placed the bones back in the container, leaving the lid off.

Her personal effects scarcely covered the tabletop. This was all that was left of her, the entire sum. I experienced a sense of puzzlement that any life could be reduced to such humble remnants. Surely, she’d expected far more from the world—love, marriage, children, perhaps—at the very least a valued presence among her friends and family. Her remains were buried now in a grave without a headstone, its location marked by lot number in the cemetery ledger. In spite of that, she seemed curiously real, given the sparse data we had. I’d seen the black-and-white photograph of her where she lay on the August-dry grass, her face obscured by the angle of her body and the intervening shrubs. Her midriff, a portion of her forearm, and a section of her calf were all that were visible from the camera’s perspective, her flesh swollen, mottled by decomposition as though bruised.

I picked up the plastic bag that contained a lock of her hair, which looked clean and silky, a muted shade of blond. A second plastic bag held two delicate earrings, simple loops of gold wire. The only remaining evidence of the murder itself was the length of thin cable, encased in white plastic, with which her wrists had been bound. The tarp was made of a medium-weight canvas, the seams stitched in red, with metal grommets inserted at regular intervals. It looked like standard-issue—a painter’s drop cloth, or a cover used to shield a cord of firewood from rain. In one corner, there was a red speck that looked like a ladybug or a spot of blood, but on closer inspection I realized it was simply a small square of red stitches, where the thread had been secured at the end of the row. From these few tokens, we were hoping to reconstruct not only her identity but that of her killer. How could she be so compelling that eighteen years later the five of us would assemble like this in her behalf?

Belatedly, I tuned into the conversation. Stacey was laying out our progress to date. Apparently, Mandel had gone back and reviewed the file himself. Like Stacey and Dolan, who’d actually discovered the body, he’d been involved from the first. He was saying, “Too bad Crouse is gone. There aren’t many of us left.”

Dolan said, “What happened to Crouse?”

“He sold his house and moved his family to Oregon. Now he’s chief of police in some little podunk town up there. Last I heard he was bored to tears, but he can’t afford to come back with housing prices here. Keith Baldwin and Oscar Wallen are both retired and Mel Galloway’s dead. Nonetheless, it’s nice to have a chance to revisit this case. You have to think after all these years, we might shake something loose.”

Stacey said, “What’s your take on it? You see anything we missed?”

Mandel thought about that briefly. “I guess the only thing I’d be curious about is this Iona Mathis, the gal Frankie Miracle was married to. She might know something if you can track her down. I hear she came back and sat through the trial with him. She damn near married the guy again she felt so sorry for him.”

Stacey made a pained face. “I don’t get the appeal. I can’t even manage to get married once, and I’m a law-abiding citizen. You have an address on her?”

“No, but I can get you one.”

11

Dolan dropped me off at the office before he took Stacey home. Stacey’s energy was flagging and, in truth, mine was, too. As I unlocked the door, I noticed a Mercedes station wagon parked in the narrow driveway that separated my bungalow from the next in line. The woman in the driver’s seat was working on a piece of needlepoint, the roll of canvas resting awkwardly against the steering wheel. She looked up at me and waved, then set her canvas on the seat beside her. She got out of the car, reached into the rear seat, and pulled out a shopping bag, saying, “I was beginning to think I’d missed you.”

I waited while she locked the car door and headed in my direction. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember how I knew her. I placed her in her early sixties, trim, attractive, nicely dressed in a lightweight red wool suit. Her hair was medium length, tinted a deep auburn shade and brushed loosely off her face.

I hesitated on the threshold, still scrambling through my bag of memories, trying to connect a name to the face. Who was this? A neighbor? A former client? “Are you waiting for me?”

She smiled, showing a row of square even teeth. Before she managed to say another word, I felt a silvery note of fear pluck at the base of my spine, like a sandcrab picking its way erratically across guitar strings. She held out her hand. “I’m your aunt Susanna.”

I shook hands with her, trying to compute the term “aunt.” I knew the meaning but couldn’t for the life of me figure out what to do with it.

“Tasha’s mother,” she added. “I hope I didn’t catch you at bad time. She did tell you I’d stop by, didn’t she? How embarrassing for me if she forgot.”

“Sure. Of course. Sorry I drew a blank, but I was thinking of something else. Come on in and have a seat. You want coffee? I was just about to put a pot on for myself.”

She followed me through the front door and into the inner office. “Thank you. I’d like that.” She set down her shopping bag and took a seat in the client chair across the desk. Her eyes were hazel like mine. The air around her was scented with cologne. The fragrance suggested citrus—grapefruit, perhaps—very fresh and light.

“How do you take it?”

“I’m not fussy. Black’s fine.”

“It’ll take me a minute.”

“I’m in no hurry,” she said.

I excused myself and went through the outer office and into the kitchen, where I leaned against the counter and tried to catch my breath. I’d been faking composure since the moment she’d announced herself. This was my aunt, my mother’s sister. I was acquainted with Tasha and Liza, the oldest and youngest of Susanna’s three daughters. The third girl, Pam, I’d heard about but never met. My introduction to the family had been thoroughly disconcerting as I’d known nothing of their existence. A fluke in an investigation three years previously had turned them up like a nest of spiders in the pocket of an old overcoat. In the absence of my parents and Aunt Gin, Susanna had to be one of my closest living relatives.

I patted myself on the chest. This was so bizarre. I don’t remember my mother and I’ve never had a concrete image of her. Even so, I sensed the kinship. All the Kinsey women bore a strong resemblance to one another, at least from what I’d heard. I certainly looked like Tasha, and she’d told me that she and her sister Pam looked enough alike to be mistaken for twins. I looked much less like Liza, but even there, no one could deny the similarities.

I picked up the coffeepot and filled it with water, which I poured into the reservoir of the machine. Filter paper, coffee can. I couldn’t see my hands shake, but the counter near the coffeemaker became gritty with grounds. I grabbed a sponge, dampened it, and wiped the surface clean. I set the pot in the machine and flipped the button to ON. I didn’t trust myself to talk to her, but I couldn’t hang out here until the coffee was done. I took a couple of mugs from the cabinet and set them on the counter. If I’d had brandy on the premises, I’d have downed a slug right then.

I walked back to my office, trying to remember what “normal” felt like so I could imitate the state. “It’ll be ready in a minute. Hope you didn’t have to wait for me long. I was tied up on business.”

She smiled, watching me take my seat across the desk from her. “Don’t worry about that. I’m always capable of amusing myself.” She was pretty; a straight nose, only the slightest touch of makeup to smooth out the palette of her complexion. I could see sun damage or faded freckles and a series of fine lines etched around her eyes and mouth. The red suit was becoming, the jacket set off by the white shell underneath. I could understand where Tasha had developed her taste in clothes.

She held up a finger. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I brought you something.” She leaned down and reached into her shopping bag, coming up with a black-and-white photograph in a silver frame. She held it out and I took it, turning it over so I could see what it was. “That’s me with your mother the day of her coming-out party, July 5, 1935. I was nine.”

“Ah.” I glanced down, but only long enough to take in a flash of the eighteen-year-old Rita Cynthia Kinsey in a long white dress. She was leaning forward, laughing, her arms around her youngest sister. My mother looked unbelievably young, with dark curly hair falling across her shoulders. She must have worn dark red lipstick because the black-and-white photo made her mouth look black. Susanna was done up in a long frothy dress that looked like a miniature version of Rita’s.

I felt my face get hot, but I kept it averted until the rush of feeling passed. The pain was sharp, like the lid of a box being slammed on my fingertips. I wanted to howl with surprise. By sheer dint of will, I put myself in emotional lockdown. I smiled at Susanna, but my face felt tense. “I appreciate this. I’ve never had a photograph of her.”

“That’s my favorite. I had a copy made so that one’s yours to keep.”

“Thanks. Are there any pictures of my father?”

“I’m sure there are. If I’d thought of it, I could have brought the family album. We have everyone in there. Maybe next time,” she said. “You know, you look like your mother, but then so do I.”

I said, “Really,” but I was thinking, This is all too weird. In my dealings with Tasha, it was easy to keep her safely at arm’s length. We used words to hack at each other, establishing a comfortable distance between us. This woman was lovely. For ten cents, I’d have scampered around the desk and crawled up in her lap. I said, “From what I hear, all the Kinsey women look alike.”

“It’s not the Kinseys so much as the LeGrands. Virginia had some of Daddy’s features, but she was the rare exception. Grand’s features dominate. No surprise there since she dominates everywhere else.”

“Why do you call her Grand?”

She laughed. “I don’t know. We’ve called her that ever since I can remember. She didn’t want to be ‘Mummy’ or ‘Mommy’ or any of those terms. She preferred the nickname she’d always had and that’s how we were raised. Once we got to school, I became aware that other kids called their mothers ‘Mama’ or ‘Mom,’ but by then it would have seemed odd to refer to her that way. Maybe, on her part, it was a form of denial—ambivalence about motherhood. I’m not really sure.”

The smell of coffee began to permeate the air. I didn’t want to leave the room, but I got up and circled the desk. “I’ll be right back.”

“You want help?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Just yell if you need me.”

“Thanks.”

Back in the kitchen, I was businesslike, though I noticed, pouring coffee, I was forced to use both hands. How was I going to pass her the mug without spilling coffee in her lap? I took a deep breath and mentally slapped myself around. I was being ridiculous. This was a virtual stranger, a middle-aged woman on a mission of goodwill. I could do this. I could handle it. I’d simply deal with her now and suffer the consequences later when I was by myself again. Okay. I picked up the two mugs, my gaze fixed on the coffee as I walked. I really didn’t spill that much and the rug was so gross it wouldn’t show, anyway.

Once in my office, I placed both mugs on the desk and let her claim hers for herself. I took my seat again and reached for my mug, sliding it toward me across the desk. I wondered briefly if I could just lean down and slurp instead of lifting it to my lips. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course you can, sweetie. What do you want to know?”

Sweetie. Oh dear. Here came the tears, but I blinked them back. Susanna didn’t seem to notice. I cleared my throat and said, “Liza mentioned nephews the first time we met, but that’s the last I’ve heard of them. Arne told me Grand had three sons, all stillborn, but wasn’t there a boy who died in infancy? I thought Liza made reference to that.”

She made that dismissive gesture so familiar to me. I’d used it myself and so had my cousin Liza on the day we met. “She never gets that right. Really, family history isn’t her strong suit. Technically, it’s true. Mother had three boys before Rita was born. The first two were stillbirths. The third lived five hours. All the other boys in the family—nine nephews—are part of the outer circle. Maura’s husband, Walter, has two sisters, and they both have boys. And my husband, John, has three brothers, with seven boys among them. I know it’s confusing, but since most of those peripheral family members also live in Lompoc, they’re included in all the Kinsey gatherings. Grand doesn’t like to share us with our husbands’ families, so at Thanksgiving and Christmas she makes sure her doors are open and the celebrations are so lavish no one can resist. What else do you want to know? Ask me anything you like. That’s why I’m here.”

I thought for a moment, wondering how far I dared go. “I’ve been told you and Aunt Maura disapproved of my mother.” The topic made me feel mean, but that was easier than feeling frail.

“That was Maura and Sarah, both of whom were older than me. Maura was twelve and Sarah fifteen when the ‘war broke out,’ for lack of a better term. Both sided with Grand. I was the baby in the family so I could get away with anything. I just pretended I didn’t know what was going on. I always adored your mother. She was so stylish and exotic. I think I mentioned I was nine when she made her debut. I was always more concerned about my Mary Janes than the larger family issues. I like to think I’m independent, but I’m not the maverick your mother was. She took Grand head on. She never shied away from confrontation. I use diversionary tactics myself—charm, misdirection. For me, it’s more effective to conform on the surface and do as I please when I’m outside Grand’s presence. It might be cowardice on my part, but it makes life easier on everyone, or that’s what I tell myself.”

“But why did Sarah and Maura object to my mother’s marriage? What business was it of theirs?”

“Well, none. It really wasn’t the marriage so much as what that did to the family. Once the battle lines were drawn, Grand was unyielding, and neither your mother nor Virginia would give in.”

“But what was that about? I still don’t get it. It’s not as if my father was a bum.”

“I don’t think Grand had any personal objections to your father. She saw the age difference as a problem. He was what, thirty-five years old to your mother’s eighteen?”

“Thirty-three,” I said.

Susanna shrugged. “Fifteen years. That really doesn’t seem like much. I think Grand’s problem was Rita’s marrying on impulse. Grand did that, too—married Daddy on a whim the day she turned seventeen. He was twice her age, and I think they’d known each other less than a month. I suspect she may have regretted her haste, but divorce wasn’t an option in those days, at least for her. She never likes having to admit she’s wrong so she stuck it out. They were devoted to each other, but I’m not sure how long her infatuation survived. I know it’s an old story, but I suspect Grand was hoping to express an unlived part of her life through Rita.”

“I can understand that. What you’re saying makes sense.”

“What is it that bothers you? That’s part of what I’d like to address.”

“I’m thirty-six years old…thirty-seven in three weeks. I’ve lived all my life without a clue about this stuff. From my perspective, it sure seems like somebody could have let me know. I’ve said this before to Tasha and I don’t mean to harp, but why didn’t anyone ever get in touch? Aunt Gin’s been dead now for fifteen years. Grand didn’t even come down for the funeral, so what’s that about?”

“I’m not here to argue. What you’re saying is true and you’re entirely correct. Grand should have come down here. She should have sent word, but I think she was afraid to face you. She didn’t know what you’d been told. She assumed Virginia turned you against her, against the whole family. At heart, Grand’s a good person, but she’s proud and she’s stubborn—well, face it, she can be impossible sometimes—but Rita was stubborn, too. The two of them were so much alike it would have been comical if it hadn’t been so destructive. Their quarrel tore the family to shreds. None of us have ever been the same since then.”

“But Grand was her mother. She was supposed to be the grownup.”

Susanna smiled. “Just because we’re old doesn’t mean we’re mature. Actually, Grand did reach out. I can remember half a dozen times when she made a gesture toward your parents only to be ignored or refused. From what I understand, your father stayed out of it as nearly as he could. The fight was Rita’s, and while he was certainly on her side, she was the one who kept the game alive. Virginia was even worse. She seemed to relish the split, and I’m really not sure why. She must have had issues of her own. In my experience, any time someone makes such a big deal about autonomy, it’s probably a cover for something else. So, Grand tried to include them, especially after you were born, but they’d have nothing to do with her. If she and Daddy were out of town, the three of them would come to visit and, of course, they’d bring you, but there was always a stealthy feel to it. I remember thinking they enjoyed it, sneaking around behind her back.”

“Why?”

“Because it forced the rest of us to declare ourselves. Every time we welcomed them—which we did on numerous occasions—it put us squarely in their camp. Maura and Sarah felt guilty about deceiving Grand. She’d come home from a trip and none of us would say a word. Sometimes I have to wonder what she knew. She has her network of spies, even to this day, so someone must have told her. She never let on, but maybe that was her way of making sure there was contact even if she couldn’t enjoy it herself.”

I thought about it for a moment, turning her comments over in my mind. “I’d like to believe you, and I guess I do in some ways. I know there are two sides to every story. Obviously, Aunt Gin took it seriously enough to maintain silence on the subject until the day she died. I never knew any of this until three years ago.”

“It must be difficult to cope with.”

“Well, yes. In part because it’s been presented to me as finished business, a done deal. To you, it must be old news, but to me it’s not. I still have to figure out what to do with my piece of it. The breech had a huge impact on how I turned out.”

“Well. You could have done worse than having Virginia Kinsey for a role model. She might have been an odd duck, but she was ahead of her time.”

“That about covers it.”

Susanna looked at her watch. “I really should go. I don’t know about you, but I find conversations like this exhausting. You can only take in so much and then you have to stop and digest. Will you call me sometime?”

“I’ll try.”

“Good. That would make me happy.”

Once she was gone, I locked the office door and sat down at my desk. I picked up the photo of my mother and studied it at length. The picture had been taken at the ranch. The background was out of focus, but she and her sister were standing on a wooden porch with railings like the ones I’d seen at the Manse. By squinting, I could make out a group of people standing to one side, all holding champagne flutes. The young men wore tuxedos and the girls were decked out in long white dresses similar to the one Rita Cynthia wore. In many ways, hair and clothing styles hadn’t changed that much. Given any formal occasion, you could lift these people out of their decade and set them down in ours without dramatic differences. The only vintage note was the white shoes my mother wore with their open toes and faintly clunky heels.

My mother was slim, and her bare shoulders and arms were flawless. Her face was heart-shaped, her complexion smooth and clear. Her hair might have been naturally curly—it was hard to tell—but it had been done up for the occasion, tumbling across her shoulders. She wore a white flower behind one ear, as did Susanna, who was loosely encircled by my mother’s arms. It looked like my mother was whispering some secret that both of them enjoyed. Susanna’s face was turned up to hers with a look of unexpected delight. I could almost feel the hug that must have followed once the picture was snapped.

I placed the frame on my desk, sitting back in my swivel chair with my feet propped up. Several things occurred to me that I hadn’t thought of before. I was now twice my mother’s age the day the photograph was taken. Within four months of that date, my parents would be married, and by the time she was my age, she’d have a daughter three years old. By then my parents would have had only another two years to live. It occurred to me that if my mother had survived, she’d be seventy. I tried to imagine what it would be like to have a mother in my life—the phone calls, the visits and shopping trips, holiday rituals so alien to me. I’d been resistant to the Kinseys, feeling not only adamant but hostile to the idea of continued contact. Now I wondered why the offer of simple comfort felt like such a threat. Wasn’t it possible that I could establish a connection with my mother through her two surviving sisters? Surely, Maura and Susanna shared many of her traits—gestures and phrases, values and attitudes ingrained in them since birth. While my mother was gone, couldn’t I experience some small fragment of her love through my cousins and aunts? It didn’t seem too much to ask, although I still wasn’t clear what price I might be expected to pay.

I locked the office early, leaving the photo of my mother in the center of my desk. Driving home, I couldn’t resist touching on the issue, much in the same way the tongue seeks the socket from which a tooth has just been pulled. The compulsion resulted in the same shudder-producing blend of satisfaction and repugnance. I needed to talk to Henry. He’d offered counsel and advice (which I’d largely ignored) since the Kinseys had first surfaced. I knew he’d be quick to see my conflict: the comfort of isolation versus cloying suffocation; independence versus bondage; safety versus betrayal. It was not in my makeup to imagine emotional states in between. I saw it as all or nothing, which is what made it difficult to risk the status quo. My life wasn’t perfect, but I knew its limitations. I remembered Susanna’s comment about a passion for autonomy serving as a cover for something else. When she’d said it, I’d been too startled to wonder what she meant. She’d been referring to Aunt Gin, whose hard heart I’d assimilated as a substitute for love. Had she been alluding to me as well?

Once I reached my neighborhood, I spotted an Austin Healy parked in my favorite place. I did a U-turn and found a space across the street. I pushed through my squeaking gate and down the driveway to Henry’s backyard. He’d hauled his lawn furniture out of storage, hosed off the chairs, and added a set of dark green cushions with the tags still attached. Two glasses and a pitcher of iced tea rested on a small redwood table, along with a plate of homemade oatmeal cookies with raisins. At first I thought he’d meant them for me, but then I spotted him in the far corner of the yard, showing off his garden to a woman I’d never seen. The tableau bore an eerie similarity to an earlier occasion when a woman named Lila Sams had waltzed into Henry’s life.

He smiled when he saw me, gesturing me over so he could make the introductions. “Kinsey, this is Mattie Halstead from San Francisco. She stopped off to see us on her way to L.A.” And to Mattie, he said, “Kinsey rents the studio…”

“Of course. Nice to meet you. Henry’s talked quite a bit about you.”

“It’s nice meeting you, too,” I said, with a sly glance at him. He’d had his hair trimmed, and I noticed he was wearing a white dress shirt and long pants. I didn’t think he’d ever gotten that spiffed up for a woman before. Mattie was easily his height and just as trim. Her silver hair was cut short and layered in a windblown mop. She wore a white silk shirt, gray slacks, and stylish low-heeled shoes. The jewelry she wore—matching earrings and a bracelet—were custom-made, hammered silver and amethysts.

She regarded me with intelligent gray eyes. “I was afraid he might be away so I called from Carmel when I arrived there last night. I’m taking my time, stopping to see friends as I travel down the coast.”

“Is this business or pleasure?”

“A little bit of both. I’m delivering some paintings to a gallery in San Diego. I could’ve crated them for shipping, but I needed a break.”

“You were on the cruise Henry took?”

“Yes, but I’m afraid that was work. This is my time off.”

“Mattie teaches drawing and painting, and she lectures on art. Nell took her watercolor class and ended up doing quite well.”

“Better than Lewis,” Mattie said, with a smile. “I felt so bad for him. I’ve never seen anyone quite so enthusiastic.”

“He was flirting,” Henry said reprovingly before turning to me. “Why don’t you join us? We were just about to sit down and have a glass of iced tea.”

“I better pass on that, thanks. I’ve got some reading to do and then I thought I’d sneak in a run. My schedule’s been horsed up and I owe myself one.”

“What about supper? We’re heading up to Rosie’s at six.”

“No way. I don’t intend to go until she gets off this kick of hers. Gourmet entrails. Did Henry mention that?”

“He warned me, but I’m actually a fan of liver and onions.”

“Yeah, but the liver of what beast? I won’t risk it myself. You ought to have him do the cooking. He’s terrific.”

She smiled at him. “Maybe another time. I’ve been looking forward to reconnecting with William and Rosie. They were dear.”

“How long will you be here?”

“Just one night. I have a reservation at the Edgewater, my favorite hotel. My husband and I used to come here for anniversaries,” she said. “I’ll take off in the morning as soon as it’s light. With luck, I can avoid the rush-hour traffic through Los Angeles.”

“Well, it’s too bad we won’t have time to chat. Do you plan to stop by on the return trip?”

“We’ll see how it goes. I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

“Maybe you can talk him into cooking for you then.”

I let myself into the apartment, tossed my bag on the kitchen counter, and headed up the stairs. I didn’t have any reading to catch up on and I’d done my three-mile run at six A.M. I told those tiny fibs to make sure Mattie and Henry had some time alone. I peered out the bathroom window, taking in the truncated view of the two of them down below. It was not quite four o’clock. I managed to kill an hour and a half and then thought about where to go for supper that night. I was serious about boycotting Rosie’s until she abandoned her newfound passion for animal by-product cookery. As it was currently Happy Hour, I knew Dolan would be at CC’s. I could have joined him, but I didn’t want to sit and count his drinks while inhaling his secondhand smoke. I returned to the bathroom window and peered down at the backyard. Henry and Mattie were gone, but their two lawn chairs remained, pulled slightly closer together than they’d been when I’d first arrived home. I could see the lights on in his kitchen, so they were probably fortifying themselves with Black Jack on ice before braving Rosie’s food.

Now that the coast was clear, I grabbed my shoulder bag and a jacket and scooted out the front door. I retrieved my car and drove to the McDonald’s on lower Milagra Street. I’m at the drive-through lane so often, the take-out servers recognize my voice and deal with me by name. On impulse, I ordered extras and went to Stacey’s house. In my opinion, there’s no condition in life that can’t be ameliorated by a dose of junk food.

When I knocked on his screen door, I could see him perched on a cardboard carton in the living room. His desk drawers were open and a shredder was plugged into an extension cord that trailed across the room. He motioned me in.

I held up the white bag. “I hope you haven’t eaten supper. I’ve got Cokes, french fries, and Quarter Pounders with cheese. Very nourishing.”

“I don’t have much appetite, but I’ll be happy to keep you company.”

“Fair enough.”

I left the bag on the desk and moved into the kitchen where I found a package of paper plates and a roll of paper towels. I returned to the living room, put the dinnerware on the floor, and hauled over two boxes from the stack against the wall. I sat on one box and used the second as a table that I arranged between us. I unpacked Cokes, two large cartons of fries, packets of ketchup and salt, and a paper-wrapped QP with cheese for each of us. I squeezed ketchup on the fries, salted everything in sight, and then downed my QP in approximately eight bites. “I’m going for the land speed record here.”

Stacey lifted the top of his bun and eyed his burger with misgivings. “I’ve never eaten one of these.”

I paused in the midst of wiping my mouth. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” He tried a cautious bite, which he chewed with suspicion, letting the flavors mingle in his mouth. He wagged his head from side to side. With his second bite, he seemed to get the hang of it, and after that he ate with the same dispatch I did.

I reached into the bag and took out another burger that I passed to him. This time, halfway through, a nearly subliminal moan escaped his lips. I laughed.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked, pointing to the shredder with a french fry.

“Fellow next door,” he said, pausing to swallow his bite. “I’m cleaning out my desk. Can’t quite bring myself to shred my receipts. I don’t intend to file a tax return. I figure I’ll be dead before the IRS catches up with me. Even so, I worry about an audit without the proper paperwork on hand.” He licked his fingers and wiped his mouth. “Thank you. That was great. I haven’t had an appetite for weeks.”

“Happy to help.”

He gathered all the trash and put it back in the bag, then turned and made a free throw, tossing it in the wastebasket. He reached into the bottom drawer and took out a cardboard box filled with black-and-white photographs. He set the box in his lap, picked up a handful, and fed them to the machine.

I watched while six images were reduced to slivers. “What are you doing?”

“I told you. Cleaning out my desk.”

“But those are family photographs. You can’t do that.”

“Why not? I’m the only one left.”

“But you can’t just destroy them. I can’t believe you’d do that.”

“Why leave the job for someone else? At least if I do it, there’s a personal connection.” He sang, “Good-bye, Uncle Schmitty. Bye Cousin Mortimer…” Two more images were converted to confetti in the shredder bin.

I put a hand on his arm. “I’ll take them.”

“And do what? You don’t even know these folks. I can’t identify the better half of ’em myself. Look at this. Who’s he? I swear I never saw this guy before in my life. Must have been a family friend.” He touched the edge of the photo to the shredder teeth and watched it disappear before he picked up the next.

“Don’t shred them. Aren’t those your parents?”

“Sure, but they’ve been dead for years.”

“I can’t stand this. Give me those. I’ll pretend they’re mine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re alone just like me. If I let you take ’em, someone else will end up throwing them in your trash.”

“So what? Come on, Stace. Please.”

He hesitated and finally nodded. “Okay. But it’s dumb.”

He handed me the box of photos, which I placed near my bag out of his reach. I was worried he’d change his mind and shred someone else. He turned his attention to a file folder marked AUTO INSURANCE and fed its contents into the shredder. Idly, he said, “I almost forgot to mention, Joe Mandel called with an address for Iona Mathis. She’s living in the high desert, little town called Peaches.”

“Which is where?”

“Above San Bernardino, off Highway 138. There’s no phone in her name so she might be bunking in with someone else. Did I tell you Mandel got a line on the red Mustang? This guy Gant, the original owner, died about ten years ago, but his widow says the car was stolen from an auto upholstery shop in Quorum, California, where he’d taken it to get the seats replaced. Gant had the car towed back from Lompoc, but it was such a mess he turned around and sold it to the guy whose shop it was stolen from—fellow named Ruel McPhee. According to our sources, the car’s now registered to him. I’ve left him four messages, but so far I haven’t heard back. Con thinks it’s worth a trip down there just to see what’s what.”

“Where’s Quorum? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Well, neither had I, but Con says it’s just south of Blythe near the Arizona line. Now here’s the kicker on that. Turns out Frankie Miracle grew up in Quartzsite, Arizona, which is just a few miles from Blythe in the same neck of the woods. Con wants to take a detour through Peaches and talk to Iona Mathis on his way to Quorum.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning he says. I thought I better warn you in case you want to make up an excuse.”

“Not at all. I’ll go. I could use a change of scene. What about you? Are you feeling up to it?”

“You two go on. I’ll wait and see what the doc has to say. They may want me back in the hospital for the third time this month. Talk about tedious.”

“How’re you holding up?”

“I’m not thrilled with this new development, but I don’t see that I have much choice.”

“I’ll hold good thoughts for you.”

“I could use a few,” he said. He hesitated. “This may be out of line, but I’m wondering if Con’s told you about his wife’s suicide.”

“I knew she had cancer, but he never said a word.”

“That’s why he gets so pissy on the subject. He thinks he could have saved her.”

“Could he?”

“Of course not. When it comes right down to it, you can’t save anyone except yourself. Sometimes, you can’t even do that. Anyway, I thought you should know.”

He smiled to himself for reasons I suspect were unrelated to me. I watched while his army discharge papers disappeared into the shredder with a grinding sound.

12

My packing for the trip took all of five minutes. At most, I figured we’d be gone for two days, which meant a toothbrush, toothpaste, two clean T-shirts, a sweatshirt, two pairs of socks, four pairs of underpants, and the oversized T-shirt I sleep in. I shoved it all into a duffel the size of a bolster pillow. Since I was wearing jeans and my Sauconys, the only other items I’d need were my running sweats, my windbreaker, and my little portable Smith-Corona. Dolan had opted for an early start, which in his terms translated to a 9:30 departure. This gave me time to sneak in a three-mile run, followed by a supersetting weight session at the gym. I was racking up virtue points in case I didn’t have the chance to exercise while I was on the road.

By the time Dolan pulled up, I was sitting on the curb, reading a paperback novel with my shoulder bag, typewriter, and duffel. At my side, I had two rubber-band-bound stacks of index cards in my bag. He must have run his vehicle through a car wash because the exterior was clean and the floorboards were free of gas receipts and discarded fast-food wrappers. Now that we were cohorts, he didn’t feel required to escort me around the car and let me in. I hauled the door open, while he reached over the seat and shoved his suitcase to one side. “You can put your things back there with mine unless you’d rather leave ’em in the trunk.”

“This is fine.” I tucked my Smith-Corona on the floor, tossed my duffel in the rear seat, and got in. I tried hauling the door shut, but the hinges responded sluggishly and refused to budge. Dolan finally reached across me and gave the door a yank. It closed with a thunk. I wrestled with the seat belt, jerking until I’d pulled sufficient length to reach the catch and snap it down. I spotted a fresh pack of cigarettes on the dash. “I hope you don’t intend to smoke.”

“Not with the windows closed.”

“You are so considerate. You have a map?”

“In the side pocket. I thought we’d go the back way. I’d take the 101 to the 405 and hit the 5 from there, but with my bum ticker, I don’t want to risk the freeway in case I die at the wheel.”

“You’re really making me feel good about this.”

Dolan turned onto the 101 heading south while I flapped at the California map and refolded it into a manageable size. By my estimate, Peaches was ninety miles away, roughly an hour and a half. Happily, Dolan didn’t like chitchat any more than I did. I sat and stared out the window, wondering if love would blossom between Henry and Mattie.

The coastline looked smoky. There was a harsh light on the ocean, but the surf was calm, advancing toward the shore in long, smooth undulations. The islands were barely visible twenty-six miles offshore. Steep hills sloped down to the highway, the chaparral a dark mossy green, flourishing after a wet autumn and the long damp winter months.

In many sections of the hillside, the vegetation had been overtaken by thick patches of cactus shaped like Ping-Pong paddles, abristle with thorns. I’ve always thought California prisons could discourage escape by seeding the surrounding landscape with vicious plants. Missing prisoners could be located by their howls of dismay and could spend their stay in solitary confinement picking thorns out of their heiniebumpers.

After twenty minutes, I glanced at Dolan. “You have kids?”

“Naw. Grace used to talk about it, but it didn’t interest me. Kids change your life. We were fine as is.”

“Any regrets?”

“I don’t spend a lot of time on regrets. How about you? Are you planning to have kids?”

“I can’t quite picture it, but I won’t rule it out. I’m not exactly famous for my relationships with men.”

At Perdido, we caught the 126 heading inland. The power lines disappeared. There was a dusting of snow on the distant mountain peaks, an odd contrast to the vivid green in the fields below. In the citrus groves, oranges hung on the trees like Christmas ornaments. The roadside fruit stands were boarded up, but they’d be open for business in another month or so. We passed through two small agricultural communities that hadn’t changed in years. This section of the road was known as Blood Alley: only two lanes wide with an occasional passing lane in which the fiery crashes usually occurred. I kept a close eye on Dolan in the event he was on the verge of conking out on me.

He said, “Quit worrying.”

At Palmdale, we turned east off Highway 14, picking up the 18. Ancient, cranky-looking billboards indicated land for sale. I saw a sign for 213th Street with a dirt road shooting off to a vanishing point. We passed a hand-painted sign that read PAIRALEGALS AVAILABLE: WILLS, CONTRACTS, DIVORCES, NOTER REPUBLIC. According to the map, the road we were on skirted the western border of the Mojave Desert at an altitude of 4,500 feet.

I checked the map again and said, “Wow. I never understood the size of the Mojave. It’s really big.”

“Twenty-five thousand square miles if you include the portions in Nevada, Arizona, and Utah. You know much about the desert?”

“I’ve picked up the occasional odd fact, but that’s about it.”

“I’ve been reading about scorpions. Book claims they’re the first air-breathing animal. They have a rudimentary brain, but their eyesight’s poor. They probably don’t perceive anything they can’t actually touch first. You see two scorpions together, they’re either making love or one of them is being eaten by the other. There’s a lesson in there somewhere, but I can’t figure out what. Probably has to do with the nature of true love.”

I don’t know why, but the information made me smile. We passed a sign that read PEACHES, POP. 897. The town was marked by a scattering of Joshua trees and was notable for its abundance of abandoned businesses. The San Gabriel Mountains loomed on our right, antiqued with snow, which had settled into all the crevices, defining them in white. Timbers formed a windbreak along the crest, while below them, I could see stands of evergreens laden with white. A freak spring storm had left mounds and patches of aging snow on the ground. Five cars had pulled over and parked on the berm where five sets of parents stood by chatting while their respective children played in the drifts. Most of the kids looked underdressed. As with the ocean, they’d frolic in the elements until their teeth were chattering and their lips had turned blue.

We passed a Liquor Mart that sold gas, tires, beer, and sandwiches. There were two cafés, one saloon, and no motels that I could see. There was a cluster of six single-wide trailers surrounded by chain-link fence and two real estate offices in double-wides with empty asphalt parking lots out front. What possessed people to move to Peaches in the first place? It seemed mysterious to me. What dream were they pursuing that made Peaches, California, the answer to their prayers?

Dolan did a U-turn, using the wide apron of gravel beside a service station, its gas pumps missing and its plate glass windows boarded up. The ground glittered with broken glass. Forlorn tatters of plastic wrap were caught in the bushes along the road. He backtracked as far as the enclave of mismatched trailers, which had the letters A, B, C, D, E, and F on small painted signs in front. A sign announced PEACH GROVE MOBILE HOME PARK, which was actually not a “park” so much as two rows of trailers with space remaining in the event a seventh trailer decided to pull in. Dolan nosed his car into a graveled area near a row of battered mailboxes and the two of us got out. I waited while he went through the ritual of tucking his gun in the trunk. “Looks like F’s down that way,” he said.

I followed him along the rutted two-lane dirt drive. “Wonder what she’s doing up here?”

“We’ll have to ask.”

The door to F stood open, with a flimsy sliding screen across the frame to allow fresh air to circulate. A small handmade plaque said NAILS BY IONA with a telephone number too small to read in passing. A faded width of awning formed a covered porch, complete with bright green indoor-outdoor carpeting underfoot. The trailer was old and small. Two women were seated in the kitchenette, one on a banquette and the other on a chrome dinette chair pulled close to a hinged table that was supported by one leg. Both turned to look at us. The younger of the two continued to paint the older woman’s nails.

Dolan said, “Is one of you Iona Mathis?”

The younger said, “That’s me.” She went back to brushing dark carmine polish on the thumbnail of the other woman’s left hand. On the table between them, I could see an orange stick, emery boards, a bottle of cuticle remover, cotton balls, a nail brush, and a plastic halfmoon bowl filled with soapy water. To the right of the older woman, there was a pack of Winstons, with a book of paper matches tucked under the cellophane. The ashtray was filled with butts.

The older woman smiled and said, “I’m Iona’s mom, Annette.”

“Lieutenant Dolan with the Santa Teresa Police Department. This is Miss Millhone. She’s a private detective.”

Iona slid a look at us before she started work on her mother’s index finger. If she was sixteen when she married Frankie, she’d be close to thirty-five now, roughly my age. Oh, hey, I was a little older, but who was keeping track? I tried to put myself in her place, wondering what might persuade me to live here and make my living nipping someone else’s cuticles and massaging their toes. She was just shy of pretty. I watched her with interest through the softening haze of the screen door, trying to figure out where her looks fell short. Her hair was a lustrous brown, wavy, shoulder-length, and in need of a trim. She kept it parted in the center, which made her face look too long. She had full lips, a strong nose, brown eyes, and dark brows that were a shade too thick. She had a mole on her upper lip and one on her left cheek. In many ways, she still looked sixteen—lanky and round-shouldered. Her feet were bare, and she wore faded knee-ripped jeans and an India-print tunic in shades of rust and brown.

Annette leaned toward her daughter and said, “Baby, if you’re not going to ask the man I will.” When Iona made no response, she looked back at Dolan. “Hon, I wish you’d tell us why you’re here because you’re scaring me to death.” Iona’s mother, surely in her fifties, looked closer to thirty-five than Iona did. She had the same strong nose, but she’d had hers surgically reduced to something thinner and more sunken. Her hair, which she wore pulled up in a ponytail, was the same shade of brown, but of a uniformly intense hue that suggested she was dyeing it to cover gray. A sleeveless white knit top emphasized her big boobs, cantilevered over a thick waist and slightly rounded tummy. She wore red shorts and red canvas wedgies. Her toenails had been polished in the same red Iona was using on her fingernails. I thought she’d have been wise to cover more of herself than she had.

Dolan said, “We have a few questions about Iona’s ex. You mind if we come in?”

“Door’s open,” Annette said.

Dolan slid open the screen door and stepped into the trailer, then sidestepped to his left so I’d have room to enter. Once inside, I moved to the right and perched on the near end of the blue plastic-padded bench where Annette was sitting. There was a long padded cushion across the back of the bench, and I was guessing at the presence of a mechanism that would allow the couch to level out into a double bed once the hinged table had been flattened against the wall. Did the two women share the trailer, or did Mom have her own? Dolan and I had agreed that he’d conduct the interview as it was confusing to have questions lobbed from two directions at once. I was there primarily to observe and to take mental notes.

Beyond the kitchenette, I could see a sliding door on the right that I assumed was the bathroom. Dead ahead, I saw the double bed that filled the only bedroom. I’m a sucker for small spaces, and I wouldn’t have minded living in a place like this, though I’d have held out for something clean. I did love the diminutive sink and the half-size oven, the four-burner cooktop, and the wee refrigerator tucked under the counter. It was like a playhouse, designed for dollies, tea parties, and other games of make-believe. I focused my attention on Iona, whose bad posture was probably a side effect of hunching over her table all day.

Annette said, “You haven’t said which ex, but if you’re a police lieutenant, you must be talking about Frank. Her second husband, Lars, never broke the law in his life. He wouldn’t even cross the street without a crosswalk. He drove Iona crazy. Here, she went out and found a fellow as different from Frank as you could possibly get and then it turns out he’s worse. He suffered from that obsessive-compulsive syndrome? Shoot. Everything he did, he had to repeat six more times before he’d allow himself to move on. Getting anything accomplished took hours. I about went insane.” She peered closely at her pinkie. “Baby, I think you got outside the line there. You see that?”

“Sorry.” Iona used her thumb nail to eradicate the line of red that had encroached on Annette’s cuticle.

Dolan said, “Mind if I smoke?”

Annette’s eyes flicked briefly to Lieutenant Dolan’s left hand. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring and it must have occurred to her that he might be a bachelor. “Only if you light one for me,” she said. “Iona has a fit if I mess up a nail before she’s done with all ten.”

Dolan reached over and picked up Annette’s pack of Winstons. He shook one free and placed it between her lips. She rested her hand seductively on his while he lit her cigarette. He then extracted and lit one from his own pack, apparently scorning her brand.

Annette inhaled deeply, blew a stream of smoke upward, and then removed the cigarette and placed it on the ashtray, being careful with her fingertips. “Lord, that tastes good. It just bores me to tears people get so tense about smoking these days. What’s the big whoop-dee-do? It’s no skin off their nose.” Her eyes slid to me. “You smoke?”

“I did once upon a time,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound quite as pious as I felt.

To Dolan, she said, “What’s Frank up to? We haven’t heard from him in years, have we, baby?”

Iona ignored her mother and concentrated on her work.

Dolan said, “You know he’s out on parole.”

Annette made a face as though afflicted by a mildly spasming bowel. “I guess it was bound to happen. I never did care for the man myself. I hope you’re not going to tell us he knows where she is.”

“We talked to him yesterday and he didn’t mention her.”

“Well, thank god for that.”

“Are you worried he’ll make contact?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘worried,’ but I don’t like the idea.”

Dolan focused on Iona. “When did you see him last? Do you remember the date?”

Annette stared at her daughter and when Iona failed to speak up, she said, “Iona, answer the man. What’s the matter with you? I didn’t raise you like that.”

Iona shot a dark look at her mother. “You want me to mess these up or not?”

Annette smiled at Dolan. “She felt sorry for him. Frank’s parents disowned him. His father’s an oral surgeon, makes big bucks cutting on people’s gums, but he’s a stick-in-the-mud. His mother isn’t much better. They had three other boys who did well, so naturally Frank lost out by comparison. Not that he wasn’t a little shit from birth. Iona always said he was sweet, but you couldn’t prove it by me. I thought he was kind of clinging, if you want to know the truth. He certainly became possessive toward the end of their marriage. Six months.”

“Why’d the two of you break up?”

“I don’t have to answer that,” Iona said.

“He ever knock you around?”

This time when Iona declined to answer, Annette seemed happy to fill in. “Only twice that I know of. He was stoned all the time back then—”

“Most of the time, not all, Mom. Don’t exaggerate.”

“Oh, pardon. I stand corrected. He was stoned most of the time and when he was, he got mean. She told him if he didn’t straighten up his act she’d kick his butt out the door. They were living in Venice then, right on one of the canals down there. All these little baby ducks. Didn’t smell so nice, but they were cute as could be. Frank kept on drinking and he refused to budge, so I sent her the money to get out.”

“Is that when he connected with Cathy Lee Pearse?”

“Oh, that was awful, wasn’t it?” Annette said. “I still get the shivers when I stop and think of it. He’d only known her a week before the incident.”

“Is that what you call it, an incident?” Dolan asked. I could tell he was trying to suppress the outrage in his voice.

Iona put the brush back in the polish bottle and screwed the top shut. “You don’t have to take that tone. For your information, Cathy Lee came onto him. She was a gold digger, pure and simple. All moody and temperamental. Frankie said she was violent, especially when she drank, which she’d been doing that night. She turned on him just like that.” Iona snapped her fingers. “Came at him with a pair of scissors, so what was he supposed to do, let her jam the blades through his throat?”

Dolan’s expression was bland. “He could have grabbed her wrist. It seems somewhat excessive to stab her fourteen times. You’d think once or twice would have done the job.”

Iona began to tidy up her work space. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Did you know Cathy Lee yourself?” Dolan was clearly working to maintain the contact now that she’d decided to talk.

“Sure. Frankie’d picked up a job painting this house for a friend of his so we’d moved in next door to her the week before. She was a tease, hanging out in her bikini, shaking her tits at him when he was out in the yard. Frankie felt terrible about what happened. He said he wished he could undo it, but by then it was too late.”

“I heard you went back to him when the case went to trial. What was that about?”

“He needed me, that’s what. Everybody else turned their backs on him.”

“Iona’s just like me. Can’t resist a wounded bird. Lars was the pits. Had to count everything. He was great for chopping onions—one, two, three, four, five…”

“Is that it, Iona? You see Frankie as a wounded bird?”

“He’s a good person when he’s sober and off drugs.”

“Did he ever talk to you about what happened after Cathy Lee was killed?”

“Like what?”

“I’m wondering what he did between the time he killed Cathy Lee and the time the cops picked him up. There’s a two-day gap when we don’t know where he was.”

Iona shrugged. “Beats me. Frankie and I were busted up by then.”

Annette said, “Shortest marriage on record. Divorce took six times longer, didn’t it?”

Iona declined a response, speaking to Dolan instead. “I don’t know what he did or where he went after I moved out.”

“Baby, I thought you said he ended up at your place. ’Member that? You’d moved into that studio apartment in Santa Teresa…”

“Mom.”

“Well, why can’t you tell him that if it’s the truth? Believe me, Lieutenant, Iona knows better than to aid and abet. She fed him a meal and let him stay the night and then said he had to hit the road. I begged her to call the sheriff, but it was no, no, no. She was scared if she turned him in, he’d come back and retaliate.”

“Mother, is there any way you could just shut the fuck up?”

“I’m trying to be helpful. You might think about that yourself. Now what’s this about, Lieutenant?”

“We think he had contact with a young girl hitchhiking in the Lompoc area. It’s possible he picked her up on his way to see his dad.”

“Oh my lord. You don’t mean to tell me he killed someone else?”

“That remains to be seen. Her body was dumped in a quarry on the outskirts of town. Right now, we’re trying to find out who she is.”

Iona stared at him. I thought she was on the verge of volunteering information, but she seemed to catch herself. “Why didn’t you ask him, if you saw him yesterday?”

Dolan smiled. “He said he couldn’t remember. We thought he might’ve said something about her to you.”

Iona focused her attention on her mother’s nails. “First I’ve heard.”

When it was clear she wasn’t going to say more, Dolan glanced at Annette. “I’m curious how the two of you ended up in Peaches.”

She took another drag of her cigarette. “Originally, we’re from a little town out near Blythe. Iona’s grandparents—I’m talking now about my mom and dad—invested in sixty acres; must have been 1946. What we’re sitting on right now is the only parcel left. I was the one had the idea for a trailer park after they passed on. It seemed like a smart move since we already owned the land. We each have our own place and the four other tenants pay rent. I work part-time over at the café Iona has this business, so the two of us get by.”

“What town?” I asked.

She looked at me with surprise, as though she’d forgotten I was there. “Come again?”

“What town are you from?”

“Oh. Little burg called Creosote. You probably never heard of it. Two miles this side of the Arizona line.”

“You’re kidding. I met someone else from Creosote just two days ago. A guy named Pudgie Clifton.”

Iona’s dark gaze strayed to mine.

Annette perked right up. “Oh, Iona’s known Pudgie since elementary school. Isn’t he the fella you dated before Frank?”

“We didn’t date, Mom. We hung out. There’s a big difference.”

“Looked like dating to me. You went off and stayed weekends with him if memory serves.” When Annette reached for her cigarette again, her hand brushed against the edge of the ashtray, dinging her freshly painted nail. “Oh, shit. Now lookit what I’ve done.”

She held her hand out to Iona, who studied the smudge. She wet her index finger and rubbed it lightly on the smear of red polish, effectively smoothing it out.

Dolan said, “You must have known Pudgie well.”

“He mostly messed around with kids from somewhere else.”

“Except for weekends when he went off with you,” he said.

She looked up sharply. “We took some road trips, okay? He liked driving my car. Doesn’t mean I screwed him. We were friends.”

“Did he and Frankie know each other back then?”

“How would I know? I’m not in charge of either one of them.”

There was a tap at the door. “Iona, honey? Sorry to interrupt.” A woman stood on the porchlet, peering in at us.

Iona said, “My next appointment. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. We’ll wait and talk to you when you get off work.”

Annette scooted over from behind the table, her bare thighs creating fart sounds against the plastic seat. I stood up to make room for her while Dolan stepped outside. Annette was already chatting with Iona’s client, wagging her fingers in the air. “Hey, sugar, take a look. This is called Cherries Jubilee. The shade would look gorgeous with your coloring.”

The other woman, in her forties, didn’t seem that excited by the prospect, as her coloring was blah.

Annette clomped down the trailer step on her canvas wedgies and tucked her hand through Lieutenant Dolan’s arm. “Iona won’t be long. I’m working lunch today. Why don’t you walk me over to the Moonlight and have a bite to eat. It’s on me.”

I said, “Great. Let’s do that. What hours do you work?”

She said, “Usually lunchtime on. We’re open from five in the morning until ten at night. The only other restaurant is the Mountain View so people go back and forth, depending on their mood.”

The three of us walked down the rutted driveway and across the two-lane road. Once in the café, we had our pick of the empty tables. Annette said, “It’s mostly drinks and cold sandwiches. I can fry up some burgers if you want something hot.”

“Sounds good to me. How about you, Kinsey?”

“Fine.”

“What about something to drink? We have coffee, tea, Coke, and Sprite.”

Dolan said, “Coke, I guess.”

“Make that two.”

Annette took her place behind the counter. She turned on the gas burner under the griddle, removed two hamburger patties from the refrigerator, and slapped them on the grill. “It’ll just be a minute.”

Dolan said, “Things slow today?”

“Things are slow every day.”

She made a quick return trip with a dish of celery, carrot sticks, and green olives. She’d tucked a bottle of ketchup and a squeeze bottle of yellow mustard in her apron pocket and she placed those on the table as well. By the time she got back to the griddle, the patties were done and she assembled our plates. “I forgot to ask how you wanted these,” she said as she unloaded her tray.

“This is fine,” I said. I was busy doctoring my burger with mustard, ketchup, pickle, and onion. Not up to QP standards, but it would have to do.

Dolan said, “What are the chances she’s been in touch with Frank?”

“You think he might’ve had something to do with that young girl’s death?

“I have no idea. We were hoping Iona could help us fill in some blanks.”

Across the road at the trailer park, we could see a car pull onto the highway, turn left, and speed off with Iona at the wheel. Annette leaned toward the window, frowning slightly to herself. “Wonder what that’s about?”

Dolan bit into his burger. “Guess she doesn’t want to talk to us.”

13

We left the tiny town of Peaches at 2:00, when it finally became apparent Iona wouldn’t return. The ever-loquacious Annette had nattered away, answering every question we asked, though most of the information consisted of her own attitudes. It was clear she was no friend of Frankie’s, and I was reasonably certain she’d told us as much as she knew. Iona, on the other hand, had clearly left the vicinity to avoid being pressed. Annette wanted to believe she was done with Frankie Miracle, but I wasn’t so sure.

From Highway 14, we took Highway 138 as far as the 15, then angled our way down to the eastbound 10, otherwise known as the San Bernardino Freeway. Despite Dolan’s worries about his heart, there is quite literally no other way to get to Blythe. This 175-mile stretch of highway extends from the eastern edges of Los Angeles and crosses the state line into Arizona at Blythe. For close to three hours, Dolan kept his foot pressed to the accelerator while the road disappeared beneath us. The scenery became monotonous, the typical urban sprawl of tract housing, billboards, industrial plants, shopping malls, and railroad tracks. The highway was lined with palms, evergreens, and eucalyptus trees. We passed recreational vehicle “estates,” an RV country club, and an RV resort and spa. This was a long stretch of land where no one intended to put down roots. We stopped once for gas in Orocopia and I picked up a copy of the Mobile Home Gazette; sixteen pages of coupons for discount dinners, cruise specials, golf lessons, custom dentures, and early-bird bingo.

After Palm Springs, the land flattened and the color faded from the landscape. For mile after mile, there was only sand and rock, chaparral, power lines, and passing cars. On either side of the road, at the horizon, the land rose to a fringe of foothills that confined the view. Everything was beige and gray and a pale dusty green. California deserts consist, in the main, of pale soils—fawn, cinnamon, sepia, and pink. We passed the state prison, its presence underlined by signs that advised us not to pick up hitchhikers. The speed limit was seventy, but the landscape was so vast that we scarcely seemed to move. Aside from the Salton Sea to the south of us, the map showed only dry lakes.

I said, “How does anything manage to grow out here?”

Dolan smiled. “The desert’s a marvel of adaptability. California desert has one rainy season where southern Arizona has two. The rest of the year, you have drought. If you had seeds that germinated right after the rains, the young plants wouldn’t survive the hard sun and heat. Lot of seeds are covered with wax that prevents them from absorbing water until a period of time has passed. Once the wax wears off, they germinate, and that’s where the food chain originates. Rabbits and desert rats turn the vegetation into animal flesh and that provides dinner for the predators. Snakes eat the rodents and then the bobcats eat snakes.”

“Very nice,” I said.

“Efficient. Like crime. Everybody’s busy eating someone else.”

He went on in this fashion, regaling me with the mating and egg-laying habits of various desert insects, including the black widow, the brown widow, and the tarantula hawk, until I sang, “I’m getting sick here.” That shut him up.

At Blythe, we turned south, taking the two-lane state road that ran twelve miles to the community of Quorum, population 12,676. On the map, the town was little more than a circle. Dolan slowed as the outlying residential properties began to appear. The houses were plain and the yards were flat. We reached the central business district less than a minute later on a main street six lanes wide. Buildings were low, as though by hugging the ground, the inhabitants could escape the penetrating desert sun. Palm trees seemed to flourish. There were numerous motels along the thoroughfare, most with wistful-sounding names, like the Bayside Motor Court and the Sea Shell Motel. Among the commercial establishments, many seemed travel-related: gas stations, car dealerships, tire sales, car washes, camper shells, and automotive repair. Occasionally, I’d catch sight of a locksmith or a beauty shop, but not much else. Here, as in Peaches, there were numerous boarded-up businesses; signs with the glass punched out, leaving only the frame. Jody’s Café, Rupert’s Auto Radiator, and a furniture store were among those that had failed. Glancing to my right, I could see that even the secondary streets tended to be four lanes wide. There was clearly nothing out here but space.

As we drove through town, we made a brief detour, stopping in at the Quorum Police Department and the Riverside County Sheriff’s substation, which were next door to each other on North Winter Street. I waited in the car while Dolan talked to detectives in both agencies, letting them know he was in the area and what he was working on. Technically, neither visit was required, but he didn’t want to step on any toes. It was smart to lay the groundwork in case we needed local assistance later. When he got back in the car and slammed the door, he said, “Probably a waste of time, but it’s worked in my favor often enough to make it worthwhile.”

It was close to 5:30 by then and the afternoon temperatures were dropping rapidly. Dolan’s plan was to find a motel and then cruise the town, looking for a place to eat. “We can have supper and turn in early, then scout out the auto upholstery shop first thing in the morning.”

“Fine with me.”

Most of the motels seemed equivalent, matching rates posted on gaudy neon signs. We settled on the Ocean View, which boasted a pool, a heated spa, and free TV. We checked in at the desk, and I waited while Dolan gave the clerk his credit card, picking up the tab on two rooms and a key for each of us. We hopped back in the car, driving the short distance so he could park in the slot directly in front of his room. Mine turned out to be right around the corner. We agreed to a brief recess during which we’d get settled.

I let myself into my room. The interior smelled like the Santa Teresa beach, which is to say, faintly of damp and less faintly of mildew. I placed my shoulder bag on the desktop and my duffel on the chair. I christened the facilities, shrugged into my windbreaker, and met Dolan at his door. Not surprisingly, his goal was to find a restaurant with a cocktail lounge attached. Failing that, he’d opt for a decent bar somewhere, after which we could eat pizza in our rooms. We stopped in the motel office, where the desk clerk recommended the Quorum Inn, two blocks down, on High Street. I’d miscalculated the chill in the desert air at night. I walked with my arms crossed, hunched against the brisk wind whipping down the wide streets. The town seemed exposed, laid open to the elements, low buildings the only hope of shelter from the desert winds.

The Quorum Inn was already packed when we arrived: the late-afternoon martini crowd firing up cigarettes, alternating bites of green olives with the mixed nuts on the bar. The walls were varnished pine and the booths were upholstered in red Naugahyde. The free-standing tables were covered with red-and-white checked cloths. Most of the menu choices were either steak or beef. The side dishes were french fries, fried onion rings, and batter-fried zucchini. You could also order a foil-wrapped baked potato smothered in butter, sour cream, bacon, and/or cheese.

We sat at the bar for the first hour while Dolan downed three Manhattans and I sipped at a puckery white wine that I diluted with ice. Once we retired to a table, he asked for a well-done twenty-two-ounce sirloin and I settled for an eight-ounce filet. By 8:00, we were back at the motel, where we parted company for the night. I read for a while and then slept the way you do with a tummy full of red meat and a shitload of cholesterol coursing through your veins.

At breakfast, I had my usual cereal while Dolan had bacon, eggs, pancakes, four cups of coffee, and five cigarettes. When he pulled out the sixth, I said, “Dolan, you have to quit this.”

He hesitated. “What?”

“The booze and cigarettes and fatty foods. You’ll trigger another heart attack and I’ll be stuck doing CPR. Haven’t you read the Surgeon General’s report?”

He gestured impatiently. “Nuts to that stuff! My granddaddy lived to ninety-six and he smoked hand-rolled cigarettes from the time he was twelve until the day he died.”

“Yeah, well I’ll bet he hadn’t had two heart attacks by the time he was your age. You keep ragging on Stacey and you’re worse than he is.”

“That’s different.”

“It is not. You want him alive and that’s exactly what I’m bugging you about.”

“If I’m interested in your opinion, I’ll be sure to ask. I don’t need a lecture from someone half my age.”

“I’m not half your age. How old are you?”

“I’m sixty-one.”

“Well, I’m thirty-six.”

“The point is, I can do anything I want.”

“Nah, nah, nah. I’ll remind you of that next time Stacey threatens to blow his brains out.”

Dolan crushed out his cigarette butt in the ashtray. “I’m tired of jawing. Time to go to work.”

McPhee’s Auto Upholstery was located on Hill Street in the heart of town. We parked across from the shop and took a moment to get our bearings. The morning was filled with flat, clean sunlight. The air felt pleasant, but I was guessing that by afternoon the heat, while dry, would feel oppressive. By the time the sun went down, it’d be as cold as it had been the night before. Behind the shop, we could see a small lot where six cars had been parked, each shrouded in an automobile cover. That part of the property was enclosed by heavy chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The building itself was constructed of corrugated metal with three bays on one side, the doors rolled up to reveal the shop’s interior. It looked like a gas station, surrounded with the usual cracked asphalt. We could see two men at work.

“You really think the car we’re after is the one C. K. saw?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” he said. “We know it was stolen from here.”

“If it was parked near the quarry, then what?”

“Then we’ll see if we can establish a connection between the car and Jane Doe.”

We got out and crossed the street to the front entrance. Under the big plate glass window, a large concrete planter sat empty except for packed dirt. To the right of the shop there was a lumberyard; to the left, a long-distance hauling company with a lot full of tractor rigs and detached semitrailers. This was a commercial neighborhood made up of businesses that catered to customers in pickups and vans.

The showroom was an extension of the shop area out back. The floor was done in black-and-white vinyl tile. Behind a glass case filled with service manuals, there was a metal desk, metal file cabinets, and a Rolodex. The top surface of the glass case was piled high with sample books showing automobile and marine vinyls, “Performance-rated fabrics for heavy-duty application.” Rear and side camper windows in a variety of styles had been mounted on pegboard and hung on the wall. We picked our way through a cluster of bench and bucket car seats still exhibiting their torn upholstery. A display board was set up to show the leather/vinyl match for Ford, GM, Chrysler-Jeep Eagle, Honda, and Toyota interior upholstery. You could order any number of convertible tops, tonneau covers, floor mats, and glass or plastic window curtains.

An open door led from the showroom into the first of the three connecting bays, where one of the two men looked up. I pegged him in his mid-thirties. He was medium height, clean-shaven, his complexion ruddy. His hair had the kind of blond streaks that women pay money for. He wore it parted in the middle with strands falling loosely on either side of his face. Most of his teeth were good. There were creases around his mouth where his smile had made inroads. His hands were dirty, his nails permanently underlined with black like a lady’s French tip manicure in reverse. Blue-plaid flannel shirt, jeans, desert boots. He was built like a high school football player—which is to say, some guy who’d get creamed if he played football today. I tried to decide whether I’d have been attracted to him when I was sixteen. He looked like the type I’d have had a crush on from a distance. Then again, most guys in high school were like that as far as I was concerned.

He was using a crescent wrench and a pair of pliers to dismantle a car seat that was propped up in front of him. The workbench, which extended the length of the wall behind him, was stacked with bolts of vinyl, hoses, coffee cans, sheets of foam rubber, toolboxes, cans of latex paint, tires. Two fans were blowing, thus circulating the smell of synthetics. Beside him there was a garbage bin full of scraps. A second ripped and cracked auto seat sat on a counter nearby. He was smoking a cigarette, but he put it out casually before he spoke to us. “Help you?”

Dolan put his hands in his pants pockets. “We’re looking for Ruel McPhee.”

“That’s my dad. He’s retired. Who are you?”

“Lieutenant Dolan, Santa Teresa Police Department. This is my colleague, Ms. Millhone. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Cornell McPhee. Are you the one who left the phone message?”

“That’s my partner, Detective Oliphant. As a matter of fact, he left four and says your father never called him back.”

“Sorry. I didn’t realize it was urgent. I gave Dad the messages and he said he’d take care of it. I guess it slipped his mind.”

The second man in the shop was older, possibly in his fifties. He’d returned to his work as soon as he figured out the conversation had nothing to do with him.

“Your dad still in town?”

Cornell put down his crescent wrench and wiped his hands on a rag. “Sure. What’s this about?”

“We’re hoping to track down a vehicle stolen from his shop in 1969.”

Cornell’s brow shifted slightly. “That car was recovered. It belonged to a guy in Arizona.”

Dolan smiled briefly. “We know about him. DMV says the car’s now registered to Ruel McPhee.”

“What brought this up again?”

“We’re looking at the possibility of a link between the car and a homicide back then.”

“A homicide?”

“That’s right,” Dolan said. “We’re taking another run at it.”

“I’m still not clear why you want to talk to him.”

“We have a witness who says he saw a red Mustang in the area shortly before the body was found. We’re wondering if the vehicle’s the same one stolen from his shop.”

“You can ask him if you want. He and Mom live on Fell. 1520. It’s just a few blocks away. You go down two blocks, take a left at Ruby. You’ll find Fell five blocks down. You want me to call and make sure he’s there?”

“That’s fine. We can swing by later if he’s out somewhere,” Dolan said. He indicated the seat Cornell was working on. “How long’s it take to do a job like that?”

“Couple of days. Depends on the condition. You have some work you need done?”

“Might.”

“What kind of car?”

“Chevy. 1979.”

“Leather seat?”

“No, cloth.”

Cornell smiled. “Throw a bedspread over it. You’d be better off.”

“That’s my idea. I just wondered what you’d say. Appreciate your help.”

“Sure, no sweat. I wish you luck.”

The house at 1520 Fell was a redbrick ranch with a detached two-car garage on the right-hand side of the drive. Behind the house, at a distance, I caught sight of the rear of an outbuilding that looked like a large storage shed or second garage. A basketball backboard was still planted in concrete on a wide asphalt apron set aside for guest parking. Cornell probably spent his leisure time in high school practicing his free throws. I imagined him lettering in three sports, elected pep king or treasurer of his senior class. A check of the yellow pages had indicated that McPhee’s was the only game in town, so he must be doing well financially even if his job lacked glamour and pizzazz.

Dolan parked at the curb out in front and we made our way along the walk to the porch, where we rang the bell. The door was opened by a girl who was probably six years old, judging by the number of missing teeth. Her hair was still a white blond that would probably darken over time. She wore glasses with pink plastic frames and a pair of barrettes with a row of pink and blue flowers. Her dress was pink-and-blue plaid with rows of white smocking across the bodice.

Dolan said, “Hey there, young lady. Is your grandpa at home?”

“Just a minute.” She shut the door and a moment later her grandmother opened it, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. A mild, vanilla-smelling breeze wafted out from behind her. She was heavy-set and wore small rimless glasses and a knee-length striped apron over a loose floral-print housedress. Her gray hair had a fringe of curls around her face while the rest was cut short. “Yes?”

“Good morning. We’re looking for Ruel McPhee. Cornell, over at the shop, gave us this address.”

“Ruel’s out back. Won’t you come in? I’m Edna, his wife.”

She opened the door for us. We did a round of introductions that included the McPhees’ granddaughter, Cissy, who skipped on ahead of us in her Mary Janes. Edna led us through the house, saying, “We’re about to frost cupcakes for Cissy’s birthday. Six years old today. She’s having a little party with her kindergarten class this afternoon.”

Cissy said, “My grammaw made me this dress.”

Dolan said, “Well, that’s real cute. I like that.”

As usual, I played the silent sidekick, prepared to fly into action if Edna or the child suddenly went berserk.

Cissy had climbed onto a kitchen chair and was now perched on her knees, inspecting the baking project. On the table, there were two muffin tins, each containing twelve freshly baked cupcakes in paper liners with little golden-brown domed heads. I could see the yellow-cake mix box on the counter by the sink where the mixing bowl sat.

The room was decorated in a patriotic flurry of red, white, and blue. The kitchen paper was done in Revolutionary War motif, a repeating pattern of battle scenes, complete with cannons, ships, and soldiers in various heroic poses. The woodwork was white, the counters red, and a window seat built into a side bay was filled with plump pillows and a neatly folded quilt, all in coordinating hues.

Crayon and fingerpaint projects were fixed to the refrigerator with magnets shaped like fruit. There were also school pictures of two additional girls, ages about eight and ten, who might have been Cissy’s sisters. All three had the same blond hair and features reminiscent of Cornell’s. Cissy lowered her face, her nose a mere centimeter from a cupcake.

Edna said, “Cissy, don’t touch. You wait until they’re cool and don’t pick at them. Why don’t you take these nice folks to see Grandpa? I’ll have the frosting ready as soon as you get back.”

That job would be quick. I could see the container of ready-to-use fudge frosting on the table with a photo of a shiny chocolate swirl, like an ocean wave, on the side. As a kid, I’d imagined that’s what real grannies did—sewed and made cakes. Aunt Gin always said, “I’m not the cookie-baking type,” as though that excused her from cooking of any kind. Now I wondered if that’s why I was so bent—because I lacked the homely services she’d so proudly repudiated.

Cissy got down off the chair and took Dolan by the hand. Behind Edna’s back, he shot me a look that said, Help. I trailed after them, crossing a section of grass that butted up against the garages. A side door stood open and Cissy took us that far before scampering back to her post.

Ruel McPhee sat on a wooden desk chair inside the door. A small color TV set had been placed on a crate and plugged into a wall-mounted outlet. He was smoking a cigarette while he watched a game show. Ruel was half the size of his wife, gaunt-faced and sunken-chested, with narrow bony shoulders. He wore a broken-rimmed straw hat pushed back on his head while his bifocals were pulled down on the bridge of his nose. He smelled a teeny, tiny bit like he hadn’t changed his socks this week. Dolan handled the introductions and a quick explanation of why we were there. At the sight of Ruel’s cigarette, Dolan was inspired to take out one of his own.

Ruel was nodding, though his attention was still fixed on the television set. “That was years ago.”

“DMV tells us the vehicle’s registered to you.”

“That’s right. Fella from Arizona brought it over here to have the seats redone. I had it parked behind the shop. Someone must have broken in and hot-wired the ignition because when I came to work Monday morning, it was gone. Don’t know when it was taken. Saw it Friday afternoon, but that’s the last I know. I reported it right off and it wasn’t but a week later someone called from the Sheriff’s Department up north to say it’d been found. This fellow Gant, who owned the car, paid to have it towed back but it was worthless by then. Car looked like it’d been rolled—doors all messed up, front banged in. Gant was pissed as hell.” He flicked me an apologetic look for the use of the word. “I told him to file a claim with his insurance company, but he didn’t want anything more to do with it. He’d already been in a couple fender-benders and the engine froze up once. He was convinced the car was jinxed. I offered him a fair price, but he wouldn’t take a cent. He said good riddance to bad rubbish and signed it over to me.” Ruel’s gaze returned to the screen where contestants were pressing buttons while the prize money they’d racked up was being flashed on monitors. I couldn’t answer even one of the questions they responded to with such speed.

Dolan said, “What happened to the car?”

“Someone pushed it down a ravine is what I heard.”

“I mean, where is it now?”

“Oh. It’s setting right out back. Cornell and I intend to do the restoration as soon as we have time. I guess you met him. He’s married with three girls, and Justine lays claim to any spare time he has. We’ll get to it in due course.”

“Justine’s his wife?”

“Going on fifteen years. She’s difficult to get along with. Edna has more patience with the situation than I do.”

“You have any idea who might have stolen the car?”

“If I did, I’d’ve told the police back then. Joyriders is my guess. Town this size, it’s what the kids do for fun. That and throw paint balloons out the back of their trucks. Not like when I was young. My dad would’ve pounded me bloody and that’d’ve been the end of that.”

“You ever had a car stolen from the shop before?”

“Not before and not since. I put up a fence with concertina wire and that took care of it.” He turned his attention from the TV. “What’s your interest?

Dolan’s expression was bland. “We’re cleaning out our files, doing follow-up on old crime reports. Most of it’s administrative work.”

“I see.” Ruel stepped on his cigarette and then placed the flattened butt in a Miracle Whip jar that was nearly filled to the brim. He held the jar out to Dolan who stepped on his cigarette and added it to the collection. Ruel was saying, “I’m not allowed to smoke inside, especially when the granddaughters visit. Justine thinks it’s bad for their lungs so Edna makes me come out here. Justine can be moody if she doesn’t get her way.”

“Why’d you hang on to the car?”

Ruel drew back and made a face as though Dolan were dense. “That Mustang’s a classic. 1966.”

“Couldn’t have been a classic then. The car was only three years old.”

“I told you I got the car for free,” he said. “Once we finish the restoration, it’ll be worth somewhere in the neighborhood of fourteen thousand dollars. Now I’d call that a profit, wouldn’t you?”

“Mind if we take a look?”

“Help yourself. I got five of them back there; one sweet little GT Coupe, silver frost with the black vinyl top torn up. Doesn’t run yet and the body needs work, but if you’re interested, we could talk money and maybe make a deal.”

“My car’s fine, thanks.”

Dolan lit another cigarette as the two of us trooped through high grass to a rutted dirt lane overgrown with weeds that led to the second of Ruel McPhee’s garages. The entire area had been undercut by gopher tunnels, and my foot occasionally sank into a softly crumbling hole. The garage was positioned so that its backside was to us, its double doors facing a flat field beyond. We could see the faintly defined path where the lane had originally been laid out, possibly in anticipation of a second house on the property. Three additional vehicles were visible in the area immediately in front of us. We checked those cars first, lifting their respective car covers like a series of ladies’ skirts. The two I peeked at were in poor shape, and I didn’t think they’d ever amount to more than yard ornaments. While we made our inspection, I said, “You think someone used the vehicle to drive the body to Lompoc?”

“Hard to say. She could have been alive when she left, assuming she was ever in Quorum at all. Just as likely someone stole the car and picked her up along the way.”

“But what if she was killed here? Why drive the body all the way up there to dump? Seems like it’d be easier to go out in the desert and dig a hole.”

Dolan shrugged. “You might want to put some distance between the body and the crime scene. It’d make sense to take off and go as far as you could. Then you’d have to find a place to pull off and unload, which’s not as easy as you’d think. If the body was in the trunk much more than a day, it’d start to decompose and then you’d have a big problem on your hands. You’d have to figure the car’d been reported stolen, which means you couldn’t risk a traffic stop in case the officer became curious about what you had back there. At least Lompoc’s off the main highway and if you found an isolated spot, you’d dump her while you had the chance.”

“What about the original owner? How do we know he didn’t have a hand in it?”

“It’s always possible,” he said, “though Gant’s been dead the last ten years. Ruptured abdominal aneurysm, according to the information I received.”

When we reached the garage, Dolan tried the side door, but a combination of warping and old paint had welded it shut. We went around to the double doors in front. Both were closed, but there were no locks in the hasps. Dolan gave the one on the right a hefty yank and the three-section door labored up, trailing spider webs and dead leaves. Sunlight washed in, setting a cloud of dust motes ablaze. The two cars inside were both covered with canvas tarps and the space was crammed with junk. In addition to old cars, McPhee apparently saved empty cans and jars, stacks of newspapers bound with wire, wood crates, boxes, shovels, a pickax, a rusted tire iron, firewood, sawhorses, and lumber. The garage had also been made home to an ancient mower, automotive parts, and dilapidated metal lawn furniture. The air smelled stale and felt dry against my face. Dolan paused to extinguish his cigarette while I raised a corner of the nearest tarp. “This looks a lot like the tarp the body was wrapped in.”

“Sure does. We’ll have to ask McPhee if one was taken the same time the car was.”

I looked down, catching sight of the battered right rear fender of the red Mustang. “Found it.”

Together we removed the car cover and folded it like a flag. To my untutored eye, the car looked as though it hadn’t been touched since the day it was hauled out of the ravine back in ’69. At best, the exterior had been hosed off, but dried dirt still clung to the underbelly of the car with its scraped and dented right side and its banged-in driver’s door. Both sides were rumpled. A portion of tree branch was caught under the left rear fender. Something about it made my heart thump. Dolan took out a handkerchief and gingerly pressed the trunk lock. The lid swung open. Inside, the spare tire was missing from the mount. A couple of dusty cardboard boxes filled with old National Geographic magazines had been shoved into the space. Dolan removed the boxes and set them aside. The exposed matting looked clean except for two large dark smudges and two smaller ones near the back. Dolan peered closer. “I think we better call the local Sheriff’s Department and get the car impounded.”

He crossed to the single door and tested it again. Satisfied that it was frozen shut, he said, “Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I stood just outside, staring at the untilled pasture with its tangle of wildflowers while Dolan headed off toward his car. I noticed he steered a wide path around the backside of the garage, where I assumed McPhee was still sitting. I couldn’t see the old man, but the occasional drift of frenetic music suggested he’d remained in his wooden chair, watching TV. I returned to the Mustang and circled it, hands behind my back, peering in the windows with their cracked and broken glass. The black leather seats, while gray with dust, seemed to be in good shape.

Dolan returned six minutes later carrying a Polaroid camera, his pant legs covered with burrs. He handed me the camera while he took out a pen and a packet of seals he’d retrieved from his car. He jotted his initials, the date, and the time on four seals and affixed one across each of the two doors, one to the hood, and the remaining seal across the trunk opening. Then he clicked off a series of Polaroid shots while he circled the car. As each photograph emerged from the slot, Dolan handed it to me. I waited for the image to appear and then wrote a title across the bottom. Dolan added his name, the date, and the time, and tucked them in an envelope he placed in his jacket pocket.

I said, “Does McPhee know we’re doing this?”

“Not yet.”

“What now?”

“I’ll go back to the motel and call Detective Lassiter. He can send out a deputy to secure the car until a tow truck arrives. I’ll also put in a request to the Santa Teresa Sheriff’s Department to send down a flatbed as soon as possible. They can load the car at the local impound lot and tow it back.”

“How long will that take?”

Dolan checked his watch. “It’s ten-thirty now. They should be able to get someone here by six tonight. Meantime, I’ll call Judge Ruiz in Santa Teresa and ask him to issue a telephonic warrant. We’ll return the affidavit with the Mustang and have Stacey file the paperwork up there. I’ll be back within the hour.”

14

I hadn’t sat surveillance for ages and I’d forgotten how long an hour could feel. At least the car wasn’t going to move. I took off my watch and slipped it in my pocket so I wouldn’t be tempted to keep peeking at the time. I settled in the shade, leaning against the garage while I added a few notes to my index cards and then slipped the paperback from my shoulder bag and found my place.

Half a chapter later, I heard a car door slam, and when I peered around the corner, I saw Cornell getting out of a white truck. He was crossing the parking pad, heading for his parents’ back door, possibly to have lunch. I was starving and had to take my nourishment in the form of an ancient Junior Mint I’d tossed in the bottom of my shoulder bag. I figured the fuzz on it would supply my quota of fiber.

The day had warmed up considerably and the air smelled of wildflowers and weeds. An occasional bumblebee lumbered by, a black-and-yellow gumball in flight. A swarm of gnats danced in the light and a horsefly zipped around, looking for a place to land. This was entirely too much wildlife for my purposes. I’m an indoor kind of person, and I prefer my contact with Nature reduced to the front of a picture postcard.

I heard someone trampling through the grass. I got to my feet, dusted off my jeans, and tucked the book back in my bag. I was expecting to see Dolan. Instead, Cornell appeared, smoking a cigarette he’d cupped in the palm of his hand. He didn’t seem all that happy to see me. His gaze shifted to the open garage door, where the Mustang sat in plain view, its tarp removed, a seal affixed across the opening of the hood.

I said, “Hi. I’m Kinsey. We met this morning.” I flicked a look toward the driveway, hoping to see the deputy arriving, but no such luck.

“I know who you are. What’s all this?”

“A sheriff’s deputy should be here shortly. Lieutenant Dolan thinks this might be the vehicle used to transport our victim. He wants to have it checked.”

“What’s that mean?”

I put a casual shrug in my voice. “It’s no big deal. He wants the evidence technicians to go over it.”

“And Dad knows about this?”

“I’m assuming so,” I said, lying through my teeth. “I’m not sure what the lieutenant told him. You’d have to ask him.”

Cornell frowned. He dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. “How long’s this going to take?”

“Probably no more than a couple of days.” I was hoping it wouldn’t occur to him we’d be removing the Mustang from the premises. Also, hauling it north where he probably wouldn’t see the car again for months. I didn’t want to deal with him if he raised a big stink.

He hunched his shoulders. “The law allows you to just waltz in this way? You’re on private property out here, same as the house. My dad owns everything as far as that fence.”

I turned and followed his gesture. “I wasn’t aware of that. Lot of land,” I said. “Actually, we had a chat with your father and asked to see the Mustang. He told us to help ourselves.”

“I don’t think he understood what you meant. He didn’t mention it to me.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Well, no. Not at all. It just seems weird.”

I looked down at the ground, snubbing the tip of my right Saucony in the dirt. “I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe Lieutenant Dolan can explain it when he gets back. He asked me to secure the car until the deputy arrives. Did you need something out here?”

“I came out to see what was going on. Dad saw you head in this direction, but then you never came back. Where’s Lieutenant Dolan?”

“Ah. I guess he went around the other way. He probably didn’t want to bug your dad while he was watching his show.” I let a silence settle. I didn’t want to manufacture small talk and I wasn’t interested in continuing the conversation on its present course.

“I better let Dad know. He’s not going to like it, but that’s your look-out.”

“Go ahead. Do anything you like.”

Cornell backed up a step and then took off for the house. By the time he reached the driveway, a black-and-white unit was pulling in. When the deputy got out, he and Cornell shook hands. I watched the two men confer, joined moments later by the old man himself. He had his straw hat set square on his head, the rim shading his face. Even from a distance, I could see he’d taken on the air of a bandy rooster whose barnyard was under siege. The conversation continued with a lot of hand waving on Ruel’s part. The three faces turned in my direction. Behind them, Lieutenant Dolan pulled up and parked at the curb. The three of them waited for Dolan and then another discussion ensued, at the end of which the four of them formed a little ragtag parade and trudged toward me.

Dolan introduced the deputy, whose name was Todd Chilton. He seemed to be acquainted with Ruel, and I gathered their relationship predated the current meeting. Chilton was in his late thirties, with dark hair clipped short on the sides and curling slightly on top. He’d loosened his tie, and he took a moment to rebutton his collar before the two of us shook hands.

Ruel peered at me and then turned to Lieutenant Dolan. “This the technician you were talking about?”

“She’s a private investigator. We’ll tow the car to Santa Teresa and do the evidence search up there.”

Ruel turned and stared. “You mean to take the car away?” He looked from Dolan to the deputy in disbelief. “He can’t do that, can he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But I hold title to that car and it’s registered in my name. He never said what he was up to or I’d’ve told him to get lost.”

Chilton said, “We understand that, Mr. McPhee, and I’m sure Lieutenant Dolan appreciates the inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience, my foot! That car’s been setting out there for the past eighteen years. If the cops thought it was so all-fired important, they should have taken it back then.”

Dolan said, “The information came in a week ago. That’s the first we’d heard of it, or we’d have done just that.”

“This’s private property. The car belongs to me. You can’t sashay in here and walk off with what’s mine.” He turned to the deputy. “I want him out of here.”

Chilton said, “I can’t help you with that. He has the right to take it.”

“Then you clear off, too! What good’s that gall-dang badge of yours if you can’t protect us any better than this?”

Chilton’s manner was beginning to shift. Where at first his tone had been conciliatory, now it was turning flat. “Excuse me, sir, but that car’s considered evidence in a criminal investigation. You don’t have a choice. Techs don’t find anything, you get the vehicle back and there’s no harm done.”

“I’m calling my lawyer.”

Lieutenant Dolan said, “Mr. McPhee, we have a legitimate search warrant. You can call anyone you want, but it won’t change what’s happening. No disrespect intended, but you might as well save your breath.”

“I’m entitled to one call.”

“That’s only if they put you in jail,” Chilton said, exasperated. “No one’s proposing to arrest you. It’s the car he wants. He’s talking about a homicide. You interfere here and you’re only making trouble for yourself. None of us want that.”

Cornell said, “Let it go, Dad. Come on. They’re going to do it anyway.”

Ruel gave way suddenly. He took his hat off and slapped his thigh with it. “People been telling me we live in a police state, but I never thought I’d see the day. It’s a damn shame when a law-abiding citizen gets treated like dirt.”

He walked away from the group. Cornell glanced back with a dark look and then followed his father to the house.

We heard a quick horn toot at the street and saw the local towing company with a flatbed truck idling at the curb. Chilton whistled to catch the driver’s eye and then gestured him in our direction with a series of arm rolls. The driver shifted gears, pulling the truck forward. He then backed into the driveway and eased up the long dirt lane toward the garage where we were standing.

Dolan and I acted as sideline supervisers while the chain was attached to the Mustang’s front axle and the car was winched up the ramp. Cornell’s truck was gone by then and there was no sign of Ruel. Once the Mustang was loaded, we tagged after the moving tow truck as far as the street. The driver waited while we got in Dolan’s car. We followed him, keeping the Mustang in view.

I said, “By the way, you talked to Stace? What’s he heard about his biopsy and X-rays? They must know something by now.”

Dolan looked at me blankly. “Completely slipped my mind. He wanted to come down here and I was so busy trying to talk him out of it I forgot to ask.”

“He’s joining us?”

“Not if I can help it. I’d rather have him up there where he can do some good.”

At the impound lot, we waited while the Mustang was unloaded and the rolling gate was locked. Dolan took care of all the paperwork and then he returned to the car. We headed for the motel. He was whistling idly to himself, tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel.

“You seem chipper.”

“I am. I got a good feeling about this.”

“How long until the forensics guys can get back to us?”

“Soon, I hope. Things are quiet at the moment, so Mandel said he’d ask them to get right on it.”

“And in the meantime, what?”

“Nothing. If they can connect our victim to the Mustang, we’ll use her dental chart to canvas the local dentists. Teeth that bad, someone might remember her.”

“Can’t we do that while we wait? I hate sitting around. We know someone stole the car and drove it up to Lompoc. C. K. spotted it near the quarry…”

“We still don’t know for sure this is the car he saw. It could’ve been something similar; some guy stopping near the quarry to take a leak. Don’t be so quick off the mark.”

“But suppose this was the car, doesn’t it seem safe to assume it was used to move the body?”

“Where do you get that, unless they find trace evidence?”

“Oh come on, Lieutenant…”

“I’m serious. Even if we’re right about the car, it still doesn’t prove the girl was from Quorum. Killer could have picked her up and stabbed her when he was on the road.”

“Okay, I’ll grant you that one. So what now, we just sit?”

“Yep.”

“But it could take days.”

“I can put you on a bus and send you home,” he said mildly.

“That’s not what I’m getting at.”

“Then what?”

“Why don’t you do the sitting while I start nosing around.”

He shook his head. “There’s no point going off half-cocked.”

“How about this? I’ll work with the meter off, but keep a running tab of my hours. If I manage to track her down, pay me, and if I don’t, oh well.”

Dolan thought about it, taking up his finger tapping as he studied the street ahead. “Maybe.”

“Come on, Dolan. Please, please, pretty please with sugar on it? Let me take a crack at it. I’ll be good. I swear.”

“Begging’s unbecoming. You’re not the type.” He stopped tapping. “I suppose I could borrow your typewriter and catch up on the paperwork. I want to get some of this down while the details are fresh.”

“Good. I’m glad. Makes it a lot more fun.”

Once in my room again, I opened the bed-table drawer and took out the pint-sized Quorum phone book, looking for the address of the public library. The Quorum Branch of the Riverside County District Public Library was on High Street. According to the minimap in the front of the directory, it was only five blocks away. I tucked the book into my bag, left my typewriter with Dolan, and then headed off on foot.

At the library, I went straight to the reference room and pulled the city directories for 1966, ’67, ’68, and ’69. I took the phone book from my shoulder bag and turned to the yellow pages under the heading “Dentists.” There were ten listed. I checked the current names against those of dentists in practice during the years in question. Two past dentists, Drs. Towne and Nettleton, had disappeared, which I was guessing meant they’d retired, died, or left the area. Four names carried over and six were new. Most seemed to be generalists, judging from their full-page ads, which trumpeted crowns, dentures, fillings, periodontal work, bridges, root canals, cosmetic dentistry, and oral surgery. With my dental phobia, this was making my palms sweat. Already I favored the fellow who offered “Nitrous oxide: Dentistry while you sleep.” I wouldn’t be opposed to postponing my next appointment ’til I was dead.

Of the carryovers, the fourth dentist, Dr. Gregory Spears, had listed himself twice, once under the general heading and again under the listing for orthodontists, of which there was one, namely him. The word “straightening” had been added in parentheses for those who didn’t know what an orthodontist did. I jotted down the four names and addresses, returned to the city map, and charted my route. Given the size of the town, it was no big deal to walk from the library to the first dentist on my list.

Spears’s office was located in a storefront on Dodson. There was no one in the waiting room. His front office “girl” was in her sixties, a Mrs. Gary, according to her name tag. Her desktop was orderly and the surrounding office space was laid out with efficiency; charts filed on the vertical. A random band of color-coded labels formed an irregular line across the flaps. A small sign in cross-stitch hung on the wall: PLEASE PAY AT TIME SERVICES ARE RENDERED. I was sure she’d be sympathetic when she heard your front cap came off in the middle of a ladies’ lunch, but she probably wouldn’t take any guff from you if your check should bounce.

When she opened the sliding glass window that separated her office from the waiting room, I placed a copy of my PI license on the counter. Dolan had given me the file containing Jane Doe’s dental chart, showing the number and location of her fillings. I placed that on the counter as well. In the background, I could hear the high-pitched squealing of a drill, a sound that was sometimes sufficient to cause me to pass out. I ran a dampened palm across the seat of my pants and said, “Hi. I’m hoping you can give me some information.”

“I can certainly try.”

“I’m currently working with two Santa Teresa homicide detectives on a Jane Doe case that’s been on the books since 1969. This is a chart of her dental work. There’s an off chance she lived in this area and we’re wondering if she might have been a patient of Dr. Spears’s. She was most likely a minor when the work was done.”

She glanced at the file. “He’s with a patient right now. Can you come back in half an hour?”

“It’s easier if I just wait,” I said. “How long have you worked for him?”

“Since he opened his practice in 1960. What did you say the patient’s name was?”

“I don’t know. That’s the point. She was never identified. She had numerous fillings and the forensic odontist who examined the maxilla and mandible thought the work was probably done in the two years before her death. It’s a long shot, I know.”

“I doubt we’d have a chart on someone we haven’t seen in nearly twenty years.”

“What happens to the old charts? Are they destroyed?”

“Usually not. They’re put on inactive status and retired to dead storage. I’m not sure how far back they go. You’re talking about hundreds of patients, you know.”

“I’m aware of that. The charts are here in town?”

“If you’re suggesting a hand search, that’s something you’d have to talk to Dr. Spears about. I’m not sure he’d agree to anything without a court order.”

“We’ll only be in town for two days and we were hoping to avoid delay.”

“Wait and see what he says. It isn’t up to me.”

“I understand.”

I took a seat in the corner, where I sorted through the magazines. I chose the current issue of Architectural Digest and entertained myself trying to imagine a color spread on my studio apartment, all eight hundred and fifty feet of it.

Fifteen minutes later, a woman with a puffy lip emerged, pausing at the desk while she wrote out a check for services. I waited until she’d left and then set the magazine aside and returned to the counter.

“Shall we try again?”

Mrs. Gary went into the examining room. I could hear the murmur of voices as she explained my request.

Dr. Spears came out to meet me, still wearing his white coat, wiping his hands on a paper towel he then tossed in the trash. He was gray-haired and blue-eyed and after we shook hands, mine were left smelling like soap. While he seemed to appreciate my problem, he wasn’t much help.

Before I could even get through the details, he was shaking his head. “I couldn’t do that without a name. Inactive charts are filed alphabetically. I’ve got hundreds of them. From what Mrs. Gary’s said, the girl was a minor, which further complicates matters. I don’t see how you’d find her.”

“She had tons of fillings, buckteeth, and a crooked eyetooth on the left,” I said.

“Most of my patients have crooked teeth. I’d like to help, but what you’re asking is impossible.”

“That’s too bad. I’d hoped for more, but I can see your point. What about the other dentists in the area back then? Can you tell me anything about Dr. Towne or Dr. Nettleton? I noticed both were in practice in the late sixties.”

“Dr. Towne died two years ago, but his widow might be willing to help if his records are still in her possession. Dr. Nettleton’s over ninety. He’s reasonably sharp, but I doubt you’ll get much.” He turned to Mrs. Gary. “You know the family, don’t you? Where’s he living these days?”

“With his daughter. She goes to my church.”

“Why don’t you give Miss Millhone the information. Maybe he’ll remember. It’s worth a try, at any rate.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

Mrs. Gary checked her Rolodex and made a note of the daughter’s name and address. From her expression, I was guessing I’d be lucky if Dr. Nettleton could remember how to tie his own shoes.

I left the office, pausing on the sidewalk out front. I consulted my map and my list, moving on to the next name. I repeated the same conversation, with variations, in my chats with the three remaining dentists. The response was polite but discouraging. They seemed willing to help, but all of them were busy and no one was interested in searching dead files on the off chance of finding her. Not only was I unable to supply them with a name, but I couldn’t prove she’d ever lived in Quorum or that her dental work was done there. My only hope had been that the meager facts in my possession might have triggered a recollection. I did have Dr. Nettleton’s address, but I was too tired by then to pursue the point.

It was close to 6:00 by the time I walked the ten blocks back to the motel where Dolan waited. I hated admitting I’d bombed out, but that’s what I did as soon as he answered his door.

He seemed unusually magnanimous. “Don’t worry about it. You covered a lot of ground.”

“For what it’s worth.”

“Let it go for now. Start again tomorrow. You might have better luck. Right now, it’s time for drinks and dinner. Are you up for that?”

“Sure, but you’ll have to give me half an hour. I want to check in with Henry and then I’m grabbing a shower. If you’re going to the Quorum Inn, I’ll meet you there.”

“Good.”

My call caught Henry just as he was going out the door. I gave him a hasty summary of the trip and the lack of progress, and he was properly consoling. “By the way, you received a package from Lompoc. It was on your doorstep this morning. I brought it in.”

“Who’s it from?”

“Doesn’t say.”

“What’s it look like?”

“About the size of a shirt box, two pounds. Probably not a bomb. I’m holding it to my ear and it doesn’t tick.”

“Now you’ve got me curious. Open it and peek.”

“I refuse to open your mail. I’ll keep it ’til you get back.”

“If you change your mind, I’m giving you permission to see what’s there,” I said. “How’s Mattie?”

“She’s fine. She ended up staying an extra day so she could hike Diamondback Trail. There’s a hot springs up there she used to visit with her husband. She’s thinking about a painting of the scene if she can find it again.”

“Sounds like fun. Did you go?”

“No, no. My knees wouldn’t take it so I sent her on alone. Besides, I’d agreed to do a tea for Moza and I ended up making finger sandwiches and cookies all day.” Henry had been a commercial baker during his working life, and he was still smitten with the process. He catered the occasional luncheon or tea and worked a deal with Rosie, trading homemade breads for occasional free meals.

“I liked her. She seems nice.”

“I hate to cut this short, but I’m late as it is. When will you be home?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know.”

I hung up the phone, stripped off my clothes, and hopped in the shower, thinking Late for what? He’d been in a hurry to get off the phone, but I couldn’t tell if it was me he was avoiding or the subject of Mattie. I’d hoped to find out if he was interested in her and she in him. She and Henry had been cute together and I was feeling proprietary. I’d thought it was a good sign she stayed the extra day, but then the mention of her husband didn’t sit well with me. I’d assumed she was a widow, but she might be divorced. In either case, she’d referred to her husband twice, so maybe she was still emotionally connected to him. Not a good sign.

15

At breakfast, drinking my second cup of coffee, I said, “I’ll track down Dr. Nettleton this morning to get some closure on that.” I watched Dolan eat his eggs Benedict. The yellow of the sauce was suspiciously bright, suggesting that the “chef” had used a packet of powdered Hollandaise.

He mopped up a puddle of poached egg with a fragment of buttered sweetroll. “I thought you covered all the dentists when you were out yesterday.”

I shook my head. “Didn’t get to him. This guy’s retired. I got his address from Dr. Spears but haven’t been there yet. Are you interested in coming?”

“Sounds like something you can handle on your own. Why don’t you drop me at the Sheriff’s Department. I asked them to go through their dead files looking for any missing-persons reports that might sound like our girl. After that, I’ll walk back to the motel, see if we’ve heard from Mandel. I talked to him late last night and he said the guy who picked up the Mustang did a quick turnaround and headed right back. He and his wife were leaving on vacation this morning so that worked in our favor. Mandel said the evidence techs’ll get on it first thing this morning. He’ll call as soon as he has anything to report. I don’t hear soon, I can call him again.”

“Sounds good. I’ll report in after I’ve talked to Dr. Nettleton.”

Once back from the Sheriff’s Department, Dolan put the car in neutral and pulled on the emergency brake, then slid from the driver’s seat while I emerged from my side, went around the front, and took his place at the wheel. He’d fired up a cigarette before I could get my bearings. He fished his key out of his pocket and let himself into his room. I spent a few seconds adjusting the seat and the rearview mirror, trying to get a feel for the old Chevy, which had the bulk of a tank after my snub-nosed VW. As soon as I was set, the engine conked out on me. I turned the key in the ignition and pressed the gas pedal lightly, coaxing and cajoling until the engine caught hold again. I felt like a little kid. I peered down the length of the hood, wishing I were perched on a New York City telephone book, though my feet barely touched the pedals as it was.

I pulled my bag onto my lap and checked my notebook for the address I’d been given, then consulted the minimap. The town of Quorum was roughly twenty-five streets wide, transected by five big boulevards that ran east and west. A series of smaller east-west streets further defined a grid that made navigation easy. Dr. Nettleton’s daughter lived on Banner Way in a small subdivision on the northern outskirts. I released the hand brake and backed out of the space with caution, then eased the car through the lot and onto the main drag. Drive time was approximately four minutes.

The house number I was looking for turned out to be another one-story brick ranch set among full-grown trees. The two-car garage had been incorporated into the main structure, and I was guessing it now served as guest quarters. Large tubs of pink begonias were lined up across the porch with its wide overhang.

I rang the bell and waited. The door was opened by a woman in her late forties. I’d caught her in the middle of her morning exercise, pink-faced and out of breath. In the background, I could see Jane Fonda doing leg lifts.

“I’m looking for Dr. Nettleton. Are you his daughter?”

“That’s right. I take it you’re the private detective. Alana Gary told me you might be stopping by. Come on in.”

“I’m Kinsey Millhone.”

“Vonda Landsberg,” she replied. “Dad’s in his room down the hall, the last door on the right. If you don’t mind, I’ll let you find your own way.”

“Sure. Is he expecting me?”

“Hard to say. His mind is sharp, but his memory comes and goes. He can still beat the pants off my husband at chess, but he’s easily exhausted, so please don’t stay long.”

“Fifteen minutes tops.”

Vonda returned to her exercise mat while I went down the hallway to the back bedroom. The door was ajar. I pushed it open. Dr. Nettleton was sitting in a bentwood rocker, staring out the window, which was open about six inches. On the sill outside, someone had scattered sunflower seeds. A squirrel was perched up on its haunches peering in at him.

The old man looked ninety; frail and bent, hunched in his chair with a shawl across his knees. His face was long and his earlobes drooped like melting candle wax. Most of his hair was gone, but what he had was pure white and clipped close to his head. Flesh-colored hearing aids filled his ear cavities like flattened wads of bubble gum.

“Dr. Nettleton?”

Rheumy-eyed, he turned in my direction and cupped a hand behind one ear. “What say?” His voice was powdery and dry, as though dust had accumulated on his windpipe.

“May I join you?”

“Are you the visiting nurse?”

“I’m a private detective.” I spotted a small wooden desk chair that I pulled close to his. I sat down. He seemed perfectly accepting of my appearance on the scene. Perhaps at his stage in life, he’d given up the notion of personal boundaries and privacy. In a slightly elevated voice, I explained who I was and what I needed from him. As I talked, Dr. Nettleton kept his head tilted, his trembling right hand cupped behind his ear. “Come again?”

I pulled my chair closer and went through it again, speaking louder this round. I could see the intelligence in his eyes, though I wasn’t at all certain he was following me. When I finished, the ensuing silence went on so long I wondered if he’d caught any of what I’d said. The squirrel picked up a sunflower seed and nibbled rapidly, cracking the shell, tail twitching. Dr. Nettleton smiled with such sweetness I nearly wept.

“Dr. Nettleton?”

He turned his head. “Yes?”

“I was wondering about the girl. Did you ever have a patient like her?”

He pulled himself upright, staring at a spill of sunlight on the floor. “The last year I had my practice, there was one girl fits that description. I was forced to retire when I was seventy-five. Hands weren’t steady and I couldn’t take standing on my feet all day. I forget her name now, but I remember the fuss I made when I saw her teeth. Told her, ‘Cavities like that can undermine your health.’”

I blinked at him. Maybe he’d misunderstood. “She had the buckteeth I mentioned?”

“Oh, yes. Occlusion was pronounced and her upper left cuspid was pointed anteriorly and slightly outward. That’s this one right here,” he said, pointing to his eyetooth. “Left third molar hadn’t yet erupted and I warned her she might have a problem with it if it didn’t come through shortly. She had considerable plaque, of course, and her gums tended to bleed. Teeth spoiled her looks. Pleasant-looking girl otherwise, though if I remember rightly, she had behavioral problems.”

“Like what?”

“Not sure. Something off about her. She’d been taken from her natural parents and placed in foster care. Must’ve had their hands full with her. Boisterous. Inappropriate. I believe she had a tendency to take things that weren’t hers. She’d come in for an appointment and the next thing we knew, the stapler’d be missing or the paper clip dispenser. I took care of her fillings and then referred her to Dr. Spears for orthodontic evaluation. Don’t know what happened to her after that. Doubt she had the work done. Didn’t seem the type. Pity, if you ask me.”

“Can you remember the name of the foster family?”

His focus shifted to the wall. “Not offhand. They weren’t patients of mine. I forget now who they went to.”

“What about the girl? Do you remember her name—first, last? Anything that might help?”

He gave his head a shake like a horse irritated by a fly. “I had to sedate her to get the work done and that affected her badly. Sometimes happens. Made her wild. I did one quadrant at a time, but she fought me every step. Novocaine didn’t seem to take either. I must have stuck her four times for every tooth I filled.”

I wiped my damp palm casually against my jeans, my dental phobia and my needle phobia having collided midair. “Did she attend the local high school?”

“Must have. State law. Pretty girl I’d say until she opened her mouth. Bad teeth spoil your looks and I told her so. Uncooperative. Missed two appointments and she came late for the ones she made. My hygienist could have told you the name, but she died. Can’t believe I outlived her. Fit as a fiddle; worked for me thirty-two years and never took a sick day.”

“What’d she die of?” I said, sidetracked.

“Heart. Weeding a pansy bed and toppled over sideways. She was out like a light. Yard work’ll do that. Wretched way to spend time. I prefer indoors. Always have.”

“Anything else about the girl?”

He squinted at me, shifting in his chair. “What’s that?”

I said, “Anything else about the girl?”

He studied his hands, which seemed to move of their own accord, plucking at the shawl. “I remember the foster mother raised a fuss about the bill. Sent to her in error; a simple clerical mistake. You should have heard her carry on. Had my office girl in tears. I never liked the woman after that. She’d bring the girl in, but I wouldn’t go out to greet her like I did everyone else. Figured she could sit there by herself. My hygienist was the one who said the woman drank. Can’t understand how Social Services considered her fit. She wasn’t, in my opinion, but then they never asked me what I thought.” He was silent for a moment. “That’s all.”

I touched his arm. “Thanks so much. This has been a big help. I’ll leave my phone number with your daughter. You can have her call me if you think of anything else.”

His wandering gaze met mine. “You play chess?”

“I don’t, but I hear you’re good at it.”

“I should be. My pa taught me when I was seven and now I’m ninety-three years old. Son-in-law plays badly. Hasn’t got the head for it, if you know what I mean. Requires you to think. You have to plan in advance, maybe ten to fifteen moves. I’d be happy to teach you if you have a desire to learn.”

“I’m afraid not, but thanks.”

“All right.” He was silent briefly and then pointed a dancing index finger at a jar on the chest of drawers. “You might fetch a few more sunflower seeds for that squirrel. Good company for me. More personality than some folks I’ve known and he’s easily amused.”

I sprinkled a handful of seeds on the ledge. Dr. Nettleton was already sinking, the energy fading from his face. As I opened the door, he said, “Don’t remember your name, but I thank you for the visit. I enjoyed the conversation and hope you did, too.”

“Believe me, I did.” I wanted to put him in the car and take him with me. I waved from the door, but I don’t think he caught the gesture.

I headed back to the motel. Surely we were on the right track. While Dr. Nettleton couldn’t supply the name, the details he’d given me were consistent with what we knew. A thought struck me—a quick stop I could make before I reconnected with Dolan. I slowed the car and then pulled over to the curb. I picked up my map and looked for a small black square with a tiny flag on top. I did a U-turn on Chesapeake and drove back in the direction I’d been coming from.

Quorum High, which was part of the Unified School District, occupied a flat, two-block stretch of land on the northeast side of town. The grass looked patchy and the flagpole was bare. The classrooms were dispersed among a number of low-slung outbuildings that appeared to be prefabricated, with walls you could probably pierce with an X-Acto knife. I counted six trees on campus; not enough to pass for landscaping, but sufficient to offer the occasional shallow puddle of shade. The administration building looked like the first story of something far more grand. Maybe the school was in the process of raising funds, driving everyone insane with endless telethons on the local TV station. People will pay big bucks to get their regular programs back: sitcoms and soaps instead of all those amateur rock bands playing songs they’ve written without training of any kind.

I parked in the lot in a space marked VISITOR. I locked the car and trotted across the flattened grass to the entrance, pushing through the double glass doors and into the main corridor. It was dead quiet, though there must have been students somewhere on the premises. The portable classrooms outside weren’t large enough to house the auditorium or the gym. I was guessing that a goodly number of classes were held in this building as well. I could smell sweat and hair spray, hormones and hot gym shoes—the scents of teen misery. Bad skin, no power, too few choices, too much sexual pressure, and not enough wisdom to see you through until you reached eighteen. How many lives were out of whack by then? Girls pregnant, guys dead in cars before the beer cans had quit rolling across the floorboards.

Ahead of me, down the hall, I spotted a sign indicating the principal’s office. I could feel my anxiety mount as it had every day of my life during my high school years. I’d been so out of it, such a dork. I’d survived by rebelling—smoking dope and hanging out with other misfits like me. Here I was again, only all grown up (allegedly), crossing the threshold voluntarily, looking for answers to questions I’d never even dreamed of when I was young.

The school secretary was in her early thirties with brown eyes and short silky hair the color of pecan shells. A gossamer array of freckles lay across her nose and upper cheeks. She was casually dressed: beige slacks, short-sleeve brown sweater, and flat-heeled shoes. Her laminated name tag read ADRIANNE RICHARDS, and under that, in smaller letters, ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT. She got up when she saw me and came to the counter. “May I help you?”

“I hope so,” I said. “I’m a private investigator from Santa Teresa. I’m working with a couple of police detectives trying to identify a homicide victim, who died in August of ’69.”

“You mean here?”

“We’re not sure.” I took a brief time-out, giving her a verbal sketch of the girl we were trying to identify. “We’ve been down here talking to local dentists, hoping to locate her through her old dental records. I just talked to Dr. Nettleton. He thinks she was a patient, but he can’t remember her name. I thought if I could talk to a couple of teachers, my description might ring a bell. Do you have any idea who was on the faculty back then?”

She stared at me blankly. I could almost see her compute the possibilities. I thought she might speak, but her expression shut down and she dropped her gaze. “You’d have to talk to Mr. Eichenberger. He’s the principal. All our student records are confidential.”

“I don’t want her records. I just want to know her name.”

“Mr. Eichenberger doesn’t allow us to give out information like that.”

“You mean you know her?”

Her cheeks had begun to color. “Of course not. I’m talking about school policy.”

I stared at her, annoyed. Maybe as administrative assistant she was unaccustomed to people talking back. I’d be lucky if I didn’t end up in detention myself. “I don’t understand the problem.”

“Mr. Eichenberger’s the only one authorized to discuss the students’ files.”

“Fine. Is he available?”

“I’ll check, but I’d have to see proper identification first.”

I removed my wallet from my shoulder bag and opened the flap to show the photocopy of my license. I passed it across the counter.

“May I take this?”

“As long as I get it back.”

“Just a moment.”

She crossed the office, approaching a closed door that bore the nameplate, LAWRENCE EICHENBERGER, PRINCIPAL. She knocked once and went in. After perhaps a minute, the door opened and Mr. Eichenberger emerged with Adrianne Richards right behind him. She handed me my wallet and then returned to her desk, where she busied herself with paperwork so she could eavesdrop without appearing interested.

Mr. Eichenberger was a man in his early sixties with sparse, soft-looking white hair, glasses, and a bulbous nose. His complexion looked sunburned, and I picked up the scent of his aftershave, which smelled like incense. He wore a vivid blue dress shirt, a dark sweater vest, and a hand-tied bow tie. His manner was officious, his expression suggesting he was hell-bent on thwarting me. “I understand you have a problem with one of our students.”

“Not quite,” I said. Mentally, I could feel my eyes cross. No wonder I’d hated high school, where I’d been wholly at the mercy of guys just like him. I went through my entire explanation again, feigning a patience I didn’t really feel.

Mr. Eichenberger said, “Ms. Millhone, let me make something clear. I’ve been here since the mid-sixties. As a matter of fact, I’m retiring in May. I came to the job when I was forty and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. I don’t mean to brag, but I remember just about every student who’s come through those doors. I make it my priority to know who they are and what they’re about. That’s what these kids need—not a buddy or a pal, they need guidance from adults with their best interests at heart. We’re in the business of getting these kids shaped up to face the real world. They need skills—reading and writing primarily—all in preparation for productive, well-paid work. If they’re not college material, we make sure they find trades. Truancy, gangs, drug problems—we don’t see much of that here, despite our proximity to Los Angeles.”

I flicked a look over my shoulder. Were we being filmed? It’s not that his sentiments weren’t admirable, but the spiel sounded canned and had nothing to do with me. “Excuse me, but is this relevant?”

He seemed to collect himself, as though recovering from a momentary lapse of consciousness. “Yes. Well. You were talking about a student. It would help if you’d give me the details. I can’t be of assistance without that.”

Ever obliging, I repeated my tale while his assistant moved papers randomly across her desk. Before I could finish my account, Mr. Eichenberger shook his head. “Not here. Not during my administration. You might try Lockaby. That’s the alternative high school.”

“Really. I didn’t know there was one.”

“It’s over on the Kennedy Pike; a white frame building across from the town cemetery. You can’t miss it.”

“Is there someone in particular I should ask for?”

“Mrs. Bishop is the principal. She might be able to help.”

“You didn’t know the girl yourself?”

“If I had, I’d say so. I wouldn’t withhold information in a murder investigation.”

“What about your assistant?”

“Mrs. Richards wasn’t working here back then.”

“Too bad. I thought it was worth a try,” I said. I took out a business card and made a note of the motel number on the back. “I’m at the Ocean View for the next couple of days. I’d appreciate a call if you think of anything that might help.”

“You mentioned a foster family. I’d try Social Services.”

“Thanks. That’s a good suggestion. I’ll do that.”

I decided not to make another move until I’d brought Dolan up to speed. For the second time that morning, I was headed back to the motel. I left the car in the parking space in front of his room and gave a rap at his door. From inside, I caught the muffled sounds of the blaring television set. Dolan must not have heard me because he didn’t answer my knock. Head tilted against the door, I waited and then tried it again. No deal. I turned and stared off across the parking lot toward the office. I let my eyes stray to the alcove that housed the soft-drink and Coke machines. No sign of him. I knocked again, this time sounding like the ATF at the outset of a drug raid. Maybe he was in the shower or otherwise indisposed.

I crossed the parking lot to the office and poked my head in the door. The desk clerk, a girl in her twenties, was sitting on a swivel stool, flipping through a copy of People magazine. I’d interrupted her in the middle of an article about Princess Di. The clerk was dark-haired, pretty in a sulky sort of way, with a mouth way too wide. Her lipstick was dark red and her lashes were so thick I thought they must be false. She was wearing a navy skirt and white blouse, topped by a smart red blazer with a phony crest on the patch pocket. The outfit must have been provided by the motel because it didn’t look like anything she’d have worn without the threat of being fired. To compensate, she’d shortened the skirt and left the top three buttons of her blouse undone. She was chewing gum, a habit I’d been warned against when I was in tenth grade. My French teacher swore it made you look like a cow and I haven’t chewed gum since. I hadn’t even liked the teacher, but the admonition stuck.

I said, “Sorry to bother you, but I’m wondering if you’ve seen the fellow from room 130? I know he’s expecting me, but he doesn’t answer his door.”

She leaned over and checked the register, flipping back a page. While she did this, she pushed her tongue through the wad of gum until it bulged like a small pink lung being extruded through her lips. “You’re talking about the old guy?”

“He isn’t old,” I said, offended.

“Yeah, right. The day he checked in? He got an AARP discount. Fifteen percent off. You can’t get that unless you’re old. You have to be fifty at least.”

“I’m fifty myself.”

She said, “Far out. You look forty.” She blew a bubble and popped it to punctuate her point. She looked at me. “Oops, sorry. You were kidding, right?”

“Never mind. I asked for that,” I said. “Did he leave the motel for some reason?”

“He went out for cigarettes, but I saw him come back.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Hour. He stopped by to pick up messages and then he went to his room.”

“Had any calls come in?”

“Ask him yourself, you’re such a pal.”

“Ring his room for me, okay?”

“Sure.” She picked up the phone, blowing another bubble as she punched the number in. It must have rung fifteen times. “He must have gone out again. Lotta old people get antsy. Too much energy. Have to be on the go or it drives ’em nuts.”

“I appreciate your assessment. Can you come with me to his room and use your key?”

“Nope. I’m here by myself and I can’t leave the desk. Why don’t you go around the back and bang on his bathroom window? He might be on the pot.”

I didn’t like this at all. I returned to his room and knocked again about as loudly as the villagers at Frankenstein’s castle door. Nothing. I circled the building, counting off the intervening rooms until I reached one I assumed was his. All the bathroom windows were too high off the ground to do me any good. I went back to his front door and stood there, undecided, while I thought about life. Why wasn’t he answering? I reached for my shoulder bag and pulled out my wallet. In the windowed compartment under my driver’s license, I keep a simple set of lock picks. This was not the battery-operated device I own that opens just about anything. I’d left that one at home, primarily because if I happened to get caught with it, the cops would take a dim view. What I had in hand was a set of the old-fashioned picks, a little hook and a tiny torque wrench, for occasions such as this. In my bag, I also carry a pin light and a folding screwdriver, neither of which would be necessary for today’s B&E.

I knocked one more time and called Dolan’s name in bullish tones. The guy in the next room opened his door and stuck his head out. “Hey! Keep it down, for cripes sake? And while you’re at it, you can tell that jerk to turn off his TV set. It’s been blasting since ten o’clock and I’m sick of it. Some of us have to work.”

“Sorry. He’s handicapped,” I said, and tapped my ear. “Severe hearing deficit, the poor guy.”

The man’s expression shifted from annoyance to something less. “Oh. I didn’t realize…”

“That’s okay. People treat him badly all the time. He’s used to it.”

I waited until he’d disappeared and then I set to work. In movies, thieves tend to pop the locks in no time flat, often with the use of a credit card, a method I avoid. I don’t trust the process. I knew a guy once whose credit card snapped off in the door he was trying to open. A neighbor spotted him breaking in and called the cops. When he heard the sirens approach, he hightailed it out of there, leaving half his card behind. The cops picked up his surname and the last six digits of his account. He was busted within a day.

In reality, picking locks takes practice, great patience, and no small measure of dexterity. Though most lock mechanisms are similar, there are variations that would drive the novice burglar insane. It usually takes me a few tries. I manipulated my little torque wrench with one eye on the parking lot. If Dolan was out, I didn’t want him to catch me breaking into his room. And I was not all that keen on having the cops called if one of the other occupants was watching me from behind the drapes. At the same time, if he was in there, it was time to find out what was going on. I felt the last gate give way. I turned the knob, pushed the door open, and stepped in. “Lieutenant Dolan?”

He was lying on the bed, fully dressed, his shoes off. He turned toward me. His breathing was shallow and his face was a pasty gray. I flipped off the TV and crossed the room.

His voice was hoarse and raspy. “Heard you knocking, but I was in the bathroom being sick. I’m not doing so good.”

“I can see that. You look awful. Are you having chest pains?” Up close, I could see a fine sheen of clammy sweat on his forehead and cheeks.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Tightness across here. Hard to breathe. Feels like an elephant sitting on my chest.”

“Oh, shit.” I picked up the phone and dialed 911.

16

The Emergency Medical Services crew seemed to take forever, though in truth it was no more than six minutes. I alerted the front desk and then waited in the parking lot so I could flag them down. I heard the sirens before I saw the Fire Department Rescue van speed into view. I waved and the vehicle veered toward me and pulled in with a chirp of brakes. The woman driver and two other EMS techs emerged, wearing bright yellow jackets with FIRE DEPARTMENT written across the backs. They carried their equipment with them as they followed me into Dolan’s room.

I stood to one side, watching as the two guys moved the furniture aside, clearing space to work. Their manner was efficient but conversational, taking care not to further alarm Dolan, who was doubtless already aware of the depth of trouble he was in. One tech loosened his shirt and then placed a stethoscope against his chest. He took Dolan’s pulse and jotted notes on his clipboard, then attached a blood pressure cuff, pumped it, and took a reading, his gaze fixed on the dial. He asked Dolan a series of questions designed to assess the symptoms and events preceding the episode. I was surprised to hear Dolan admit he’d experienced something similar the night before, though the feeling had been less pronounced and had passed within minutes. The woman tech stepped in. She administered two sublingual tabs of nitroglycerin, and then started an IV line while the third technician secured an oxygen cone across Dolan’s nose.

I went outside. A minute later, the crew emerged from the room. Dolan had been loaded onto a gurney. They rolled him as far as the back doors of the ambulance, which they opened to slide him into the rear. A few people passing through the parking lot paused to stare, but most moved on as soon as they realized what was happening. I appreciated their discretion. It’s hard enough to be ill without feeling as though you’ve made a spectacle of yourself.

One tech climbed into the van with Dolan. The rear doors were slammed shut. The hospital was seven blocks away. I got directions from the second tech before he got in the cab of the van on the passenger side. The woman took the wheel again. She backed out and made a beeline for the street, sirens warbling, bar light flashing. I made sure Dolan’s motel room door was locked and followed in his car.

When I arrived, the ambulance had already pulled into the emergency entrance. I parked in the main lot and by the time I entered the waiting room, he’d been rolled into the rear. I spoke to the desk clerk, telling her who I was. She asked me a few questions about Dolan, making me aware how little I really knew about him. I told her he had insurance coverage through the STPD and she said she’d pick up the remaining data from him. She got up and left her desk, clipboard in hand, indicating that the ER doctor would be out as soon as she was finished with him.

I took a seat in the waiting room, which was spare and reasonably pleasant: pale green carpet, fake plants, and piles of tattered magazines. An assortment of children’s toys was scattered on the floor. Lines of interlocking chairs had been arranged, cotillion-fashion, around the edges of the room. In the corner, the face of a television set was blank. Someone had brought in Easter decorations; a basket filled with plastic eggs nestled in impossibly green paper grass. I wasn’t even sure when Easter fell this year, but it was doubtless coming up soon, unless these were left from last year. Two patients came in while I was waiting: a man with superficial contusions and abrasions from a bike accident (judging from his shaved legs and his bun-hugging Spandex shorts), and a woman with her right ankle sandwiched between ice packs. Both were taken into examining rooms in the rear, but probably placed on hold while the doctors dealt with Dolan.

Outside, the sun was shining and the town of Quorum was going about its business as though nothing unusual had occurred. It was odd having a medical emergency in the middle of the day. Somehow, in my life, crises of this sort always seem to happen in the dead of night. I couldn’t tally the number of times I’d been sitting in waiting rooms like this one while outside, city streets were deserted and shrouded in darkness.

Restless, I left my seat and wandered into the hall, where I asked a passing nurse for the nearest pay phone. I was directed to the hospital lobby, two long corridors away. I dialed Stacey’s home number, charging the call to my credit card. Two rings later, he was on the line and I was filling him in.

“How’s he doing?”

“Don’t know. I haven’t talked to the doctor yet. I wish I’d busted into his room when I first got there. I’m telling you, Stacey, his face was gray. He should have dialed 911 himself, but I think he was in denial. You know him.”

“This is ridiculous. You can’t do this alone. I’m coming down.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re not well yourself. Just stay where you are. I’ve got enough on my hands.”

“I’m fine. Didn’t Dolan tell you? The docs showed my X-rays to some big muckety-muck and she says the shadow’s insignificant. I forget now what they call it, but it’s bullshit. Biopsy came back negative too so I got a clean bill of health.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course. Why would I lie about a thing like that? I’m in remission. At least for now.”

“Lucky you didn’t blow your brains out last week. Wouldn’t you be pissed?”

“I just wish I hadn’t gotten rid of my all personal possessions.”

“I could have told you as much.”

“Speaking of which, I’d like to have my family photos back.”

“Forget it. Find another bunch. Those are mine.”

“Come on now, Kinsey. I’ll get duplicates made.”

“Quit wheedling. I don’t want duplicates. I want those. Anyway, you shredded Cousin Mortimer and he was my favorite.”

“You never even met him.”

“I know, but he had a good face.”

“You’re tough.”

“A deal’s a deal.”

“How about joint custody. Shared visitation. One week on, one week off.”

“Maybe,” I said. “You shouldn’t have been in such a hurry.”

“At least I had the good sense not to shred my tax returns. I could be in jail for life, however much of it I got left.”

“What about your clothes?”

“Those went last week. I’ll have to scour the Goodwill thrift store and buy ’em back.”

“Oh ye of little faith. Dolan swore you’d be fine. You should have listened to him.”

“What does he know? The man’s a mess. Didn’t I tell you he was heading for another heart attack? Talk about a time bomb.”

“I know. I told him the same thing, but there was no stopping him. What about you, are you really feeling okay?”

“Terrific. Full of beans. I’m determined to come down. Don’t know how I’ll get there, but I’ll find a way.”

“The doctor’s letting you drive?”

“Of course. It’s no business of hers. Problem is, I sold my car and let my license lapse.”

“Oh, no.”

“Well, I didn’t want to take the test again. I was sure I’d be dead.”

“What about the lease on your house?”

“Shit, I’d forgotten about that. Healthy, but homeless. What a turn of events. By the way, did Dolan tell you what happened here?”

“We never had a chance to talk.”

“Triple homicide this morning—woman, her boyfriend, and her kid shot to death. The ex-husband’s fled into the back-country, where he’s hiding out. All the SO guys have been pulled into the search. This guy’s a wilderness expert, a paramilitary type. No telling how long it’s going to take to flush him out. Forensics is still at the crime scene, which means they won’t get to us again until they wrap that up. Could be days.”

“So why hang around down here? Once Dolan’s out, I can drive us home in his car and that’ll save you the trip.”

“No way. I’m bored to tears up here. I got cabin fever so bad, I’m about to go insane. Besides, if you two come home, we’ll just have to turn around and go back again.”

“Assuming there’s a link between the Mustang and Jane Doe,” I said.

“Trust me, it’s there and Dolan thinks so, too. You been in business as long as we have, you develop a feel for these things. We’re getting close.”

“Actually, I’d agree. I talked to a dentist this morning who remembered her—someone like her, at any rate. He thinks she was one of the last patients he treated before he had to retire. The guy’s ninety-three now and couldn’t give me the name, but everything else he says seems to fit. I checked with the principal at Quorum High and he referred me to the alternative high school for problem kids. I haven’t had a chance to deal with that—I’d just stopped by the motel to give Dolan the news when I found him in the throes of this heart attack.”

“You hang on ’til I get there. Then we’ll put our heads together and decide what’s next. How will I find you?”

“I’ll be around somewhere. If I’m not at the motel, you can try me here. You know Dolan’s car. Just keep an eye out for that. This town’s so small you can hardly miss.”

“Let me get a pencil and paper and you can give me that address. As soon as I find wheels, I’ll be on my way.”

I gave him the name and address of the motel.

He said, “Do me a favor and reserve a room in my name.”

“Why not take Dolan’s? He’s already forked out the bucks for it.”

“Good plan. Let’s do that.”

“While we’re at it, I need you to do me a favor. Could you stop by my apartment and pick up my leather jacket before you hit the road? It’s hanging in my downstairs closet. I’ll tell Henry to let you in and he can show you where it is.”

“It’s that cold?”

“To me it is. You better be prepared.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman in scrubs come out of the treatment area with a manila folder in hand. “I think the doc just showed. I’ll call you back if there’s anything to report.”

Dr. Flannery, the ER physician, was in her late forties, small, with short, pale brown hair, a broad forehead, thin lips, and deep lines in her face. Her nose was a raw pink, as though she’d blown it a few times since she’d applied her makeup. She had a tissue in her pocket and she dabbed at it before she held her hand out. “Sorry. Allergies. I’m Dr. Flannery. Are you Mr. Dolan’s friend?”

We shook hands. “Kinsey Millhone. It’s actually Lieutenant Dolan.”

She checked his chart. “So it is.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s been stabilized, but he has a serious left coronary arterial blockage. We’ll be admitting him as soon as his paperwork’s done. I’ve spoken to his cardiologist in Santa Teresa and he’s suggested a cardiac surgeon he knows in Palm Springs. Dr. Bechler’s on his way now. As soon as he’s seen the patient and reviewed the EKG, the two of them will talk. I’m guessing they’ll insert a stent. The choice is Lieutenant Dolan’s, but that’s what I’d do if I were in his shoes.”

I made a face. “They’ll open his chest?”

The doctor shook her head. “They’ll run a catheter through a small incision in his left inguinal area and go up through the vein.”

“How long will he be in?”

“That depends on his progress. Not as long as you’d think. Two days.”

“Can I see him?”

“Of course. I’ve plugged him full of morphine so he’s feeling no pain. The effect is about the same as a four-martini lunch.”

“Not unusual for him.”

“So I gathered. We had a little chat about that. I told him the smoking and heavy drinking would have to stop. He has to clean up his act around food as well. If you eat like he does, you should do the same yourself. QP’s with cheese?”

“He ratted me out?”

She smiled. “Make sure we know how to reach you. He’s listed you as next of kin, which means you’re cleared for visits if you keep it brief. You want to follow me?”

I tagged after her as she pushed through the door and padded down the highly polished corridor. When we reached Dolan’s cubical, she pulled aside the curtain on its overhead track. “I have a visitor for you.”

Dolan mumbled a reply. Dr. Flannery held up five fingers, signaling a five-minute visit. I indicated I understood and she withdrew. I looked down at Dolan. “How’re you feeling?”

His eyes were closed and he had a goofy smile on his face. His color had improved. He was stretched out on the table, his upper body draped with a cotton coverlet. His shoes were off and the toe of one sock was pulled up to form a little cap, which made him look like a kid. He was still on oxygen; attached to a bank of machines that monitored his vital signs. He had an IV line in each arm. A bag of clear liquid had been hung on one pole and I counted fifteen drips. He began to snore.

I took his hand, wagging it. “How’re you doing?”

He opened his eyes. “I’m good.”

“You were in big trouble, you dork. You should have called for help.”

“Heard you knock. Couldn’t move. Glad you got in.” He spoke carefully, as though his lips had been injected with novocaine.

“Me and my little key picks. Don’t tell.”

His eyes closed again and he put a finger to his lips.

I said, “I put a call in to Stacey and told him where you were. He says his X-rays are clear and he’s coming down.”

“Said the same to me. No point arguing.”

“Tell me about it. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was adamant. I figured as long as you’re stuck in here, he might as well pitch in. We can’t do much for now, but maybe we can stir things up. I’m hoping Forensics will come up with something good. I think we’ll put him in your room if I can have the key.”

“Hang on.” Dolan revived himself long enough to fumble in his pants pocket and extract his key. I tucked it in my shoulder bag, thinking I’d stop by and pick up my typewriter before Stacey arrived.

The desk clerk appeared at the curtain with a plastic hospital bracelet and a sheaf of documents affixed to a clipboard. “I have your jewelry, Lieutenant Dolan. I just need your signature and you’ll be on your way.”

He roused himself, lazily gestured her in. “Sign away my life.” He turned to me. “You okay on your own?”

“Don’t worry about me. You take care of yourself and get some rest. I’ll stop by this evening. You behave.”

“Good deal.”

Before I left Quorum General, I put a call through to Henry. He was out. I left a message on his machine, telling him about Dolan’s heart attack. I also mentioned that Stacey’d be stopping by. I told him where my jacket was and said I’d call later when there was more to report. It was 1:35 when I emerged from the hospital and returned to the parking lot. I hadn’t realized how tense I was until I’d unlocked the car door and slipped behind the wheel. I took a good deep breath and did a neck roll. Anxiety was roiling through my body now that I was on my own. I hadn’t realized how dependent I’d become on Dolan. It was nice to compare notes, nice to share meals, even fun to knock heads. My attachment didn’t contain a shred of romance, but it did trigger a longing to be connected to someone. I’d trained with two old guys, who’d taught me the business many years before. Maybe it was them I missed.

I flipped through my note cards. The next obvious move was to chat with the principal at the alternative high school. I wished Dolan were on hand so he could handle it. Though I hated to admit it, he’d be subjected to a lot less guff. Mano a mano. Once he flashed that badge of his, people tended to respond. I picked up my minimap and located the Kennedy Pike, then fired up the Chevy and pulled out of the lot. On the way down Main Street, I detoured into a filling station and pumped gas into the tank. I stood there clutching the pump, watching the gallons go in while the total sales price went up. The process took so long I thought the tank must have sprung a leak. I’m accustomed to my VW with its gas tank the size of a bucket of paint. $29.46 later, I nosed out of the station and turned right.

Once I reached Kennedy Pike, I drove west, scanning for sight of the cemetery and the white frame structure across the street from it. This section of Quorum was made up of endless flat, empty fields stitched together with lines of trees that served as windbreaks. When I finally spotted the cemetery, it looked as flat as the fields around it. There was only a smattering of visible headstones. Most were laid flat in the ground. I could see a few concrete benches and a sparse assortment of plastic bouquets that had been left near graves. The surrounding fence was iron and without ornament. Square brick support posts appeared at fifteen-foot intervals. There were seven full-sized trees of an indeterminate type, but the branches hadn’t leafed out yet and the limbs looked frail against the April sky.

Just beyond the cemetery entrance and across the street, I saw the Lockaby Alternative High School. I wondered if the students made the same melancholy association: from Youth to Death with only a stone’s throw between. When you’re of high school age, the days go on forever and death’s little more than a rumor at the end of the road. Dolan and I knew death was just a heartbeat away.

I parked in the lot and followed the walkway to the front porch, up a flight of wide wooden steps. This must have been a farmhouse once upon a time. It still carried an air of small rooms and cramped hopes. I let myself into the foyer, where eight kids were sprawled on the floor with sketchbooks, doing pencil drawings of the staircase. The teacher glanced up at me and then continued moving from student to student, making brief suggestions about perspective. From upstairs, I could hear another class in progress. Laughter trickled down the treads like leaking water. I don’t remember anything funny from my high school days.

To my right, the former parlor served as the main office, complete with the original fireplace. The hearth and surround were dark redbrick and the whole of it was topped with a dark mahogany mantelpiece. There was no counter separating the reception area from the office secretary, whose desk had been arranged facing the wide bay window. She interrupted her typing to turn and look at me. She seemed pleasant; dark-haired, plump, probably in her forties, though it was hard to tell. When she said, “Yes, ma’am?” several dimples appeared in her cheeks. She pulled out a chair and patted the seat.

I crossed the room and sat down, introducing myself. “I’m looking for Mrs. Bishop.”

“She’s in district meetings all day, but maybe I can help. I’m Mrs. Marcum. What can I do for you?”

“Here’s the problem,” I said, and launched into the tale. I’d told it so often that I had it down pat; the search for Jane Doe’s identity in fifty words or less. For the umpteenth time, I described Jane Doe and the series of interviews that had led me to Lockaby. “Do you remember anyone like that?”

“Not me, but I’ve only been here ten years. I’ll ask some of the teachers. Mrs. Puckett, who teaches typing, doubles as the guidance counselor. She’d be the one who’d recognize the girl if anyone did. Unfortunately, she’s out today—we all get a mental-health day every couple of months. She’ll be in first thing tomorrow morning if you want to come back.”

“If she does recognize the girl, would you have her records somewhere?”

“Not going back that far. We had a fire here eight years ago. Between the smoke and water damage, we lost the majority of our files. It’s a wonder the whole place didn’t go up in flames. The fire department saved us. They were here in seven minutes and knocked it down in thirty before it had a chance to spread.”

“How’d it happen?”

“Fire chief said electrical. We had wiring that dated from the original construction—1945. He said it was a wonder it hadn’t happened before. Now we have smoke detectors, heat detectors, and a sprinkling system—the works. We’re lucky we weren’t wiped out. Happily for us, there weren’t any injuries or loss of life. Paperwork, who cares? It accumulates faster than I can file it.”

“The kids like it here?”

“They seem to. Of course, we’re a magnet for the trouble-makers—dropouts, truants, delinquents. We get them when everyone else gives up. We only have a handful of teachers and we keep the classes small. Most of our students do poorly in an academic setting. Basically, they’re good kids, but some are slow. Short attention spans. They’re easily frustrated and most of them suffer from poor self-images. With a regular high school curriculum, they lose heart. Here the emphasis is practical. We cover the basics—reading, writing, and math—but we teach them how to write a résumé, how to dress for a job interview, simple etiquette. Art and music, too, just to round them out.”

“Sounds like something every school should do.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

The phone on her desk rang, but she made no move.

“You want to answer that?”

“They’ll try back. I’m often out of the office and they’ve learned. You have a business card?”

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you give me a number. I’ll try to reach Betty Puckett and have her give you a call.”

“That’d be great.” I took out a card and jotted down the name of the motel, the phone number, and my room number on the back. “I appreciate this.”

“I can’t swear she’ll know the girl, but if she was ever a student here, I promise you, Betty dealt with her.”

“One more question: Dr. Nettleton seemed to think this girl was in a foster home, so I’m wondering if Social Services might help?”

“I doubt it. They closed that office years ago, and I have no idea how you’d locate the old files. It’d be Riverside County, but that’s as much as I know. You’ll have a battle on your hands. They’re worse than schools are about access to records, especially on a juvenile.”

“Too bad. I had hopes, but I guess not.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll figure it out eventually. It’s just a question of time.”

When I left Lockaby, I was no better informed, but I was feeling encouraged. Once in the car again, I sat for a moment, beating out a little rhythm on the steering wheel. Now what? In the confusion of the moment, I hadn’t thought to ask Dolan what he’d learned from the Quorum PD and the sheriff’s office about the old missing-persons reports. I’d ask him when I went to visit. I did a mental check of our list. The only item we hadn’t covered yet was the issue of the tarp and whether one had been stolen at the time the Mustang was taken. I started the car and backed out of the slot, took a left on the Kennedy Pike, and returned to town.

The McPhee’s redbrick ranch house looked deserted when I arrived—doors shut, curtains drawn, and no cars in the drive. I passed the house, cruising slowly, and at the next intersection, did a U-turn and drove back. I parked across the street. I disliked the idea of seeing Ruel again, but who else could I ask about the tarp? While I’d remained largely in the background during the impounding of the Mustang, he’d still associate me with his loss of face.

I sat and studied the house, wondering if I could handle the question by phone. Chickenshit idea. Where possible, it’s always better to deal in person. I was on the verge of taking off, postponing the visit until later in the day, when an approaching car slowed and turned into the drive. Edna.

Once she turned off the engine, I could see her fussing in the front seat, gathering packages. After a bit of maneuvering, she got out with her purse over her shoulder, a grocery bag in one hand, and two department store carryalls clutched in the other. She pushed the door shut with one hip and moved to the rear of the car, setting down the carryalls while she opened the trunk. She placed her purse and the grocery bag on the driveway, reached into the trunk, and removed several additional grocery bags. I could see her debate whether she could manage everything in one trip or if she’d be forced to make two. I took the opportunity to get out of my car and cross the street at a trot. “Hi, Edna. Kinsey. Can I give you a hand?”

She looked up with surprise, coloring slightly at the sight of me. “I can manage.”

“There’s no sense in making two trips. Why don’t I take these and you can handle the rest?” I leaned forward and picked up her purse, one grocery sack, and the two large paper carryalls. “You must have spent all morning running errands.”

“The family’s coming for supper and I’m running late. I want to get a pot roast in the oven.” Her demeanor had softened, though she seemed ill at ease. Good manners apparently took precedence over any discomfort she felt at my reappearance on the scene. Ruel would have cut me dead, but the removal of the Mustang had little to do with her. It’d been sitting in the garage for years, anyway, and she was probably tired of his procrastination. His collection of classic cars must have seemed like a lousy investment since he’d apparently made no effort to restore even one of them.

I followed her along the driveway to the back gate and then, since she didn’t protest, I continued up the porch steps and through the back door. I put her purse on the Formica counter, waiting to see where she wanted the other bags. The red, white, and blue color scheme was like a tone poem to Americana. I took the time to let my gaze rest on every surface. “What time will Ruel be home?”

She’d placed her bags on the kitchen table. “Soon, I’d guess. The rest of them—Cornell and his wife and kids and my daughter—are supposed to come at six. You can put those over there,” and she gestured toward the window seat.

I left the grocery sack on the kitchen table and crossed to the window seat, where I placed the department store carryalls. I moved aside a couple of pillows and the patchwork quilt and perched, uninvited. I glanced at my watch. “It’s almost two now. Do you mind if I wait?”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Ruel’s been upset and I don’t want anything to set him off again.” She began to put groceries away, leaving out the items she intended to use: a mammoth cellophane-wrapped chuck roast that looked like the whole back end of some unidentified beast, onions, carrots, potatoes, fresh green beans, brown-and-serve rolls. She looked at me. “Did you need him for anything in particular? You know he’s madder than spit. There’s nothing he hates more than someone trying to put one over on him. You and that detective should have told him the truth.”

“We told Cornell why we were here. He could have mentioned it himself. We’re talking about a murder. What difference does it make if Ruel’s mad?”

“Nonetheless.”

“Nonetheless, what?”

“He won’t be happy if he finds you here.”

“Maybe you can help me and I’ll be on my way.”

“What do you want?”

“We’re wondering if someone took one of his tarps at the time the car was stolen.”

She paused to think about that and then shook her head. “Not that I recall. He never said anything. I suppose I could ask him and get in touch with you later on.”

“You’d be doing him a service, especially if it turns out the Mustang was used to abduct the girl.”

Edna laid a hand against her chest. “You can’t seriously believe he had anything to do with it.”

“It’s not up to me.” Her anxiety was infectious. I stood up, suddenly eager to be gone. As I picked up my shoulder bag, my glance fell on the red, white, and blue quilt folded neatly on the seat. The pattern consisted of a series of patches stitched together in a traditional log cabin pattern. In repeat rows, running along the diagonal, the fabric was a print of dark blue daisies, a dot of red in each center, on a white background.

I must have made a sound because Edna looked at me, saying, “What?”

“Where did you get this?”

“That was given to me by Justine’s mother, Medora—Cornell’s mother-in-law. Why?”

“I need to talk to her.”

17

I stood on the front steps of Medora Sanders’s house, a modest stucco box with a shallow overhang that served to shield the small concrete porch. The exterior was painted dark gray. The wood trim had shed flakes of white paint, like dandruff, on the shrubs planted along the foundation. At the end of the dirt drive there was a detached single-car garage with its door padlocked shut. Edna had allowed me to borrow the quilt and I carried it draped over one arm. The daisy-print fabric had been pieced into the quilt in seven adjoining sections. While it was true that the fabric might have been sold across the country, the coincidence was too striking to imagine it was unrelated.

I couldn’t find a bell so I opened the wood-framed screen and knocked on the glass pane in the front door. A moment passed and then a woman peered out. She was thin and unkempt, with pale green eyes and pale flyaway hair. Her cheeks and the rim of her nose were patterned with spider veins. She smoothed her hair with a knobby-fingered hand, tucking a loose strand into a disordered chignon before she opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Sanders?”

She wore faded jeans and a red nylon sweater with a runner up one sleeve where a loop of yarn had come loose. I could smell whiskey fumes seeping through her pores like toxic waste. She hesitated, apparently unwilling to confirm or deny her identity until she knew why I asked. “I don’t buy door-to-door,” she said.

I held up the quilt. “I’m not selling anything. I came to talk to you about this.”

Her gaze shifted, though her manner remained fuzzy and her eyes were slightly out of focus. She looked like someone chronically inebriated. “Where’d you get that?”

“Edna McPhee let me borrow it. I’m returning it later, but I have some questions for you first.”

“Why’d she send you over here?”

“She said since you made the quilt, you might have some information. May I come in?”

Medora thought about that briefly, probably wishing I’d go somewhere else. “I hope this won’t take long. I got other things to do.”

She opened the door and I stepped directly into the living room, which was small and cramped, with an acoustic-tile ceiling and a stingy-looking brick fireplace. On the mantel there was a cluster of statuettes: angels, milkmaids, and coy-looking kids with the toes of their shoes turned in.

Medora closed the door, saying, “That Edna’s a pill. I don’t know how Justine manages to put up with her.”

“The two of you don’t get along?”

“I never said that. Edna’s a good person and I know she means well, but she’s holier-than-thou. You know the type—doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, and doesn’t hold with those who do.”

“Cornell smokes.”

“Not around his mother. He’s pure as the driven snow,” Medora said. “She disapproves of cards, too. Devil’s handiwork, she says. Granddaughters come here, we play Canasta, War, Fish, Slap Jack. Doesn’t seem like the Devil’s work to me.”

She returned to the couch and sat dead center, causing the cushions to rise on either side of her. A crocheted green-and-black afghan was bunched haphazardly at one end. There was an ashtray full of butts on the coffee table, a cluster of prescription pill bottles, a fifth of Early Times, and a highball glass half-filled with melting ice cubes. Many surfaces looked sticky, and there was a fine haze of dust over everything. “I was taking a little nap. I haven’t been feeling well the last couple days. What’s your name again?”

“I should have introduced myself. I’m Kinsey Millhone.”

“Medora Sanders,” she said, “but I guess you know that. What’s your connection to Edna? I hope it’s not through her church. She’s always trying to get me roped in.”

“Not at all. Mind if I sit?”

She waved me into a chair. I moved aside a stack of newspapers and took a seat, keeping the quilt on my lap. There were a number of crafts projects in the room, most from kits, by the look: a wall-hung quilt, embroidered pillows on the couch. In front of the hearth there was a hand-hooked rug bearing the image of a Scottie. There were several framed cross-stitched pieces voicing corny sentiments. She followed my survey. “I used to do a lot of needlework until my joints flared up.” She lifted her right hand, displaying a twisted thumb and fingers that did a slow curve outward. It looked like she’d been tortured for information she’d refused to give. “I don’t quilt anymore in case you want one for yourself.”

I folded a section of the quilt until the daisy-print fabric was foremost. “Actually, I’m curious about this fabric. Do you remember where you got it?”

She glanced at the print. “I used to make clothes for my daughter.” She reached for a pack of Camels and extracted one. She flicked her lighter, but it took her two tries to make the flame touch the tip of the cigarette. “That was a remnant. Cheaper to buy that way. I used to check the bin at the fabric shop in town. It’s gone out of business now so you can save yourself a trip. Same time I bought that, I picked up six yards of royal blue taffeta that I offered to run up for Justine’s prom dress. She about had a cow. Said she’d kill herself before she wore anything homemade. She insisted on store-bought, so I made her pay for it. It’s like I told her, ‘Money doesn’t grow on trees, Justine.’ Kids these days don’t appreciate that.”

“They’re embarrassed,” I said. “They want exactly the same clothes every other teenager has. That’s how they express their unique individuality.”

“I guess. I had to make do with precious little once her dad ran out.”

“When was that?”

“Summer of 1969, somewhere around in there. Who keeps track? Fellow wants to take a hike, it’s good riddance.” She reached for one of her pill bottles and shook out a white tablet that she placed on her tongue. She picked up her highball and took a swallow, frowning slightly when she realized how watered down it was. “I’m on pain medication. Whiskey gives the codeine a little boost. Any rate, what’s this in relation to?”

“I’m trying to identify a young woman who was murdered during that same period. When the body was found, she was wearing home-sewn pants made of this same daisy print.”

Medora’s laugh was like a cough, hacking and full of phlegm. “I don’t know about a murder, daisy print or no, but I can tell you one thing. You got a big job ahead. Company must’ve made thousands of yards of that print.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but I thought it was worth a shot. The girl I’m referring to would have been somewhere between fifteen and eighteen. This was late July, early August, of 1969. About five foot four, a hundred and twenty-five pounds. Brunette hair she probably dyed blond. She had prominent teeth and the eyetooth on this side was twisted. She’d had a lot of dental work done.”

Her smile had begun to fade.

“Does any of that sound familiar?”

Medora crossed her arms and squinted against the smoke, cigarette held close to her face. “Years ago, I had a girl living with me sounds like that. Name was Charisse Quinn.”

I felt my heart thump twice from the hit of adrenaline that shot through my veins. I’d run across the name before, but I wasn’t sure where. “What happened to her?”

“Nothing as far as I know, except she flew the coop. I went in her room one morning and found her bed hadn’t been slept in and half her stuff was gone. She’d helped herself to my best suitcase, too. Of course, she stole just about anything wasn’t nailed down.”

“The murdered girl I’m talking about was found in Lompoc. You know the area?”

“Up near San Francisco?”

“Not that far north. Closer to Santa Teresa.”

“Couldn’t prove it by me. I don’t travel. Used to, but now I prefer to stay put.”

“Why was she living in your home?”

“I was a foster mom—something like that. Reason she ended up with me is I had this woman lived next door asked if I’d help. She’d had a whole string of foster kids trooping through her place. County wanted her to take Charisse, but her husband wasn’t well and it was more than she could manage. She asked if I could open my home—that’s how she put it—‘open my home to someone less fortunate than myself.’ What a joke. Wilbur barely gave me enough to cover all the household expenses. At any rate, my neighbor told me Social Services paid close to a hundred and eighty dollars a month, so that’s why I agreed. Doesn’t sound like much, but every little bit helped.”

“How’d the arrangement work out?”

“Not that good. Girl was foul-mouthed and disrespectful, though, at that age, I’ll be the first to admit, Justine was the same. Her and me had troubles enough without Charisse sticking in her two cents’ worth.”

“How long was she was with you?”

“Five, six months, I’d guess. I believe she came here early March.”

“Can you remember the date she disappeared?”

Medora made a sour face. “I never said she disappeared. I said she took off.”

“Sorry. That’s what I meant. When did she take off?”

“July, I’d say. Doesn’t surprise me to hear she came to a bad end. She’s a wild one, that girl. Had a bad case of hot pants. Picked up boys every chance she got. Out until all hours. She’d come waltzing in here three in the morning, smelling like crème de menthe and marijuana. I warned her and warned her, but would she listen to me?”

“What happened to her parents?”

“Don’t know. I never laid eyes on that pair. Must’ve been druggies or something if the State had to step in.”

“How old was Charisse?”

“Seventeen. Same as Justine. Girls were both seniors. Of course, Charisse got kicked out of regular high school and sent over to Lockaby. That’s the school for dummies and delinquents.”

Bemused, I thought back to my conversation with Eichenberger, the principal of Quorum High, who’d sworn up and down he remembered every student who’d ever passed through his doors. What a pompous old windbag. Charisse had not only been there, but she’d caused enough trouble to get tossed out.

“You have other children?”

“Just the one.”

“And you were living here at the time?”

“I lived here ever since Wilbur and I got married in 1951. We only have the two bedrooms, so the girls had to share. Imagine how popular that was.”

“Must have been hard.”

“Oh, they went through every kind of conflict—spats over clothes and boyfriends—the two went round and round like alleycats, spitting and hissing, fur flying. You never heard the like. Justine didn’t want Charisse hanging out with her friends and I could see her point. Always had to raise a fuss. Always had to have her way.”

“Not much of a charmer from the sound of it.”

“She could be charming once she put her mind to it, but only if she wanted something.”

“What about your husband? Where was he?”

“Well, he lived here in theory, but he was gone half the time.”

“What sort of work?”

“He hired on at Sears in major appliances—dishwashers, refrigerators, things like that. Worked nights, weekends, and every holiday. Never got us a deal, but that was him in a nutshell. You’d think he could’ve got me a portable dishwasher at the very least. I had to do everything by hand. Probably why my joints went bad. Made my back hurt, too.”

“So he left about the same time she did?”

“I suppose so, though I never thought of it like that.” She frowned at me, taking a drag of her cigarette. “I hope you’re not saying he went off with her.”

“I don’t know, but it does seem odd. If she was so hot for guys, why not him?”

“He was close to fifty years old, for one thing. And I can’t think why he’d take an interest in someone her age. He never paid any attention to her as far as I could see. He’s a skunk, that’s for sure, but I can’t believe he’d sink that low. That’s—what do you call it?—statutory rape.”

“Did he give you any explanation when he left?”

She took another drag of her cigarette. “None. He went off to work one day and he never came home. He left before she did, now I think of it. I remember because he missed seeing Justine in her prom dress and that was June fourteenth.”

“What’d you do when he left?”

“Nothing. Gone is gone,” she said.

“What about Charisse? Did you talk to the police when you realized she’d left?”

“I went to see them that day. Police and the sheriff. I got county funds for her and I knew the social worker would have a fit otherwise. As it was, I had to return the next month’s check and with Wilbur gone, I came up short on the bills. Justine tried to tell me Charisse wasn’t to blame, but it was typical of her. She’d do anything she could to screw it up for someone else.”

“But you did file a missing-persons report?”

“I told you, that day, though the deputy didn’t offer much encouragement. He found out she’d run off half a dozen times before. And like he said, with her eighteenth birthday coming up she’d be on her own, anyway. Said they’d do what they could, but he couldn’t promise much. He as good as told me to go home and forget about her.”

“Which you did.”

“What else could I do? I didn’t even know her mother’s name. I guess the social worker called the mother.”

“You think that’s where she went, back to her mom?”

“Don’t know and didn’t care. With Wilbur gone, I had my hands full just trying to make ends meet. In case you intend to ask, I never heard from her again. Him either. Far as I know, we’re still married, unless he’s dead. That’d be something, wouldn’t it?”

“You have reason to think something might have happened to him?”

“I’m saying, if he’s alive, you’d think he could have dropped us a card. Thirty-six years married, that’s the least he could do.”

“What about Charisse’s social worker? What was her name?”

“Don’t remember. It’s been too many years. Tinker, Tailor—something along those lines. I called and talked to her, and you know what she said? Said she never expected the arrangement to last; Charisse was such a pain. Not those words exactly, but that’s the gist of it. I thought, Oh, thanks. Now she pipes up, after all I went through.”

“You must have felt terrible.”

She coughed a thick laugh into her fist, pausing then to cough in earnest. She took a sip of watery bourbon and then recovered herself. “Especially when I found out Wilbur’d emptied all the bank accounts. Excuse me, are you about done here? Because if not, I intend to fix myself another drink—see if I can get some relief from this cough. That was my mother’s remedy—whiskey and honey—though you ask me, it wasn’t the honey that helped.”

“Just a few more questions and then I’ll let you get some rest. How did Charisse travel? Do you have any idea?”

“Wasn’t by bus. I know because police checked on that. I suppose she hitched a ride with one of those hoodlums she ran around with once she got to Lockaby.”

“You remember any of their names?”

“Couldn’t tell one from the other. They were all the same—skanky-looking boys with bad skin.”

“You heard about the car that was stolen from the back of Ruel’s shop?”

“Everybody heard. He was fit to be tied.”

“Is there any chance Charisse took it?”

“I doubt it. She didn’t drive. Never passed the test. I offered to help her get her license, but she didn’t get around to it. Afraid to fail, you ask me; worried she’d end up looking like a fool.”

“How’d she get around if she didn’t drive?”

“Bummed rides with Justine and Cornell and everyone else. That’s another thing got on people’s nerves. She was a mooch.”

“Did she work?”

“Her? That’s a laugh. I couldn’t even get her to pick up after herself.”

“I know I asked you this before, but is there any way you could pinpoint the date she left?”

Medora shook her head. “I was just glad to have her gone. Does seem queer to think she’s been dead all these years. I pictured her married with kids. That or living on the street. Wonder who killed her.”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Do you have a photograph by chance? I’d be interested in seeing how she looked.”

“I don’t, but you might ask Justine.” She paused, coughing again with such vigor it brought tears to her eyes. “I can’t stand it. My throat’s killing me. You want a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

I watched Medora pour herself some whiskey, her hands shaking so badly she could scarcely lift the glass to her lips. She swallowed with relief and then took two deep breaths. “Whoo! That’s better. Whiskey’ll cure just about anything.”

“Well, I guess that’s it. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

“You want my opinion, whatever happened to her? She brought it on herself.”

I was on my way down her walkway, heading for Dolan’s car with the quilt over my arm, when I noticed a sedan had pulled in and parked at the curb. The door on the driver’s side opened and a woman got out. She tucked her keys in her purse and she was halfway up the walk when she caught sight of me and stopped. Her gaze flicked to the quilt and then back to me. This had to be Justine. She and Medora shared the same body type and the same pale flyaway hair. Though their features were unremarkable, I could see the resemblance; something in the shape of their narrow chins and their pale green eyes. Like her husband, Cornell, she appeared to be in her mid-thirties.

“Excuse me. Are you Justine McPhee?”

“Yes?”

“My name’s Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private detective—”

“I know who you are. I believe we have you to thank for the foul mood my father-in-law’s been in.” Her manner was an odd mixture of composure and agitation, her tone giving vent to something prickly lurking under the surface.

“I’m sorry about that, but it couldn’t be helped.”

She glanced toward the house. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just chatting with your mother about Charisse.”

Her expression was vacant for an instant and then I could see recognition spark. “Charisse?”

“That’s right. I don’t know if Cornell mentioned this, but we’re investigating a murder…”

“That’s what he told me, but surely you’re not talking about her.”

“We don’t have a positive ID yet, but it does look that way.”

“I don’t believe it. What happened?”

“She was stabbed and her body was dumped outside of Lompoc. This was August of ’69. The sheriff’s detectives worked the case for months without progress. Now they’ve decided it’s time to try again.”

“But what brought you to Quorum? She was only here a few months.”

“Following our noses. We were lucky to get some breaks.”

“Like what? I’m sorry for all the questions, but none of this makes sense.”

“I know it’s tough to absorb,” I said. “When I was at Edna’s, I spotted the quilt and realized the dark blue daisy print was a match for the victim’s home-sewn pants. Edna told me your mother made the quilt, so I came to see her. You thought she’d run away?”

“Well, yes. It certainly didn’t occur to me the poor girl was dead. I’m sure Cornell and his dad would have helped you if they’d known who it was.”

“Let’s hope that’s true. At this point, we’re trying to pin down events between the time she took off and the time her body was found.”

“When was that again?”

“August third. Your mother said she left in July, but she couldn’t remember the exact date.”

“Charisse came and went as she pleased. I didn’t even realize she was gone until Mom started screaming about her suitcase. The pants you mentioned must’ve been the pair my mother made for me.”

“Did you give her the pants or did she take those, too?”

“I wouldn’t have given them to her. She always helped herself to my stuff.”

“What about the other items she stole?”

“I don’t remember anything specific. She had no scruples at all. She didn’t care who she hurt as long as she got what she wanted. The kids at Quorum didn’t want to have anything to do with her.” She adjusted the watchband on her wrist, glancing at the time as she did.

“You have to go?”

“I’m sorry, but we’re due at my in-laws for supper and I still have to pick up the girls. I stopped by to see Mom because she hasn’t been feeling well.”

“What about tomorrow? I’d love to talk to you again.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I wish I could help, but Ruel’s mad enough as it is. He’d have a fit if he knew I’d even said this much.”

“You said he’d’ve been cooperative himself if he’d known it was her.”

“I meant if he’d known about it up front. He’s hard to predict, especially now that he thinks you’ve made a fool out of him.”

“Well, give it some thought and let me know.”

“I’d have to talk to Cornell. He’s pissed off, too, because his dad blames him about the car.”

“That’s dumb. Ruel’s the one who took title and let it sit all those years.”

“True, but I don’t want to give him reason to come down on me. He complains enough as it is. He thinks I’m controlling. Ha. Like he’s not.”

“He doesn’t have to know. That’s entirely up to you. I don’t want you getting into trouble on my account.”

“Trust me. I won’t. You have to watch your backside around him. He might seem harmless, but he’s a snake.”

“Well. I better let you go. I’m staying at the Ocean View. I’d appreciate your calling once you’ve talked to Cornell. He might have something to contribute even if you don’t.”

“I doubt it. He really only knew Charisse because of me.”

“Speaking of that, your mother told me Charisse hung out with a bunch of hoodlums at Lockaby. You might ask if Cornell remembers anyone in particular. We could use a few names.”

“You really expect to find her killer after all these years?”

“We’ve made it this far,” I said. “I hope to hear from you.”

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do what I can.”

I went back to the motel and put a call through to Dr. Spears. I told Mrs. Gary, his assistant, what I’d learned from Medora Sanders. She remembered Charisse Quinn as soon as she heard the name. She made a note and said she’d pass the information along to him. She assured me that if he had time, he’d search the dead storage boxes for her chart. If he couldn’t do it himself, she promised she’d pitch in. I thanked her profusely. Once I hung up, I sat on the edge of the bed, grinning from ear to ear, finally allowing myself a moment to celebrate. I couldn’t wait to tell Dolan. A match on dental records would confirm my hunch. I was convinced this was her, but we needed concrete proof.

18

I went in through the front entrance of Quorum General and asked the volunteer at the reception desk for directions to the CCU. The facility wasn’t large, but it seemed up-to-date, at least judging by the portions of it I saw en route. As it turned out, Dolan had been taken into surgery by the time I reached the floor. The Palm Springs cardiologist had blown in an hour before, and he’d kicked butt in six directions getting the procedure under way. I got a cursory briefing from the charge nurse, who checked with the OR. She assured me everything was going fine, though it’d be a while before Dolan was out of post-op. She suggested I call her at 7:00 to make sure he’d returned.

Leaving the hospital, I could feel my exhilaration fade. It was 4:30 by then. I had no access to Dolan and no way to know when Stacey Oliphant would appear. At best, I wouldn’t hear from Justine until some time the next day, if I heard from her at all, which left me with no one to talk to and nothing to do. I retreated to the Ocean View. I parked the car in the motel lot and bought a can of Diet Pepsi from the vending machine. I used Dolan’s key to let myself into his room, where I retrieved my Smith-Corona. Once ensconced in my own room, I set up a minioffice, using the motel desk. I typed up my notes, a process that took the better part of an hour and a half.

At 6:15 I opened the phone book and consulted the yellow pages for the nearest pizza joint. I called and ordered a medium sausage-and-pepperoni pizza with jalapeño peppers and extra cheese on top. Given Dolan’s diet restrictions, there was no way I’d be able to eat such fare in front of him. As a courtesy, I decided to indulge now. While I waited for delivery, I popped out to the vending machine and bought another Diet P. I ate supper sitting on my bed, my back propped against the pillows, watching the news and feeling completely decadent.

I called the hospital shortly after 7:00 and talked to the ward clerk in CCU. She said Dolan was in his room if I wanted to visit, which, of course, I did.

It was fully dark outside and the temperature had dropped precipitously by the time I emerged from my room and headed back to the hospital. Despite the halo of light pollution hovering over the town, the stars were as distinct as pinpricks in black construction paper, light shining through from the other side. The moon hadn’t yet risen, but I could see where the darkness would lift and the desert would glow like a silver platter once it mounted the sky. I parked in the hospital lot and walked through the entrance doors for the second time that day.

All of the interior lights were ablaze, and it lent the premises a warm, cozy air. The lobby was filled with evening visitors. I passed the gift shop and the coffee shop and continued to the elevators, heading for the second floor. In all the semiprivate rooms I peered in, the curtains were drawn and the corner-mounted television sets were tuned to reruns. Dinner had probably been served at 5:30 or so, and the trays were now in the meal carts that still sat in the corridor. I caught glimpses of partially consumed foodstuffs: canned green beans and Salisbury steak (which is a fancy name for meat-loaf) and countless packets of saltines still secured in cellophane. Plastic cups of taut red Jell-O squares sat untouched, and I suspected the hospital dietitian would find herself in a state of despair. These meals, like those in elementary schools, look better on paper than they do to the hapless participants. Half the items end up in the trash.

CCU was quiet and the lights were subdued. Dolan was in a private room attached by tubes and wires to a bank of monitors. His vital signs were flashed on a digital read-out, like the time and temperature bulletins outside a bank. The decor had been designed to minimize stress. The color scheme consisted of restful blues and pale, soothing greens. There was a bank of windows and a wall-mounted clock, but no television set and no newspapers trumpeting the day’s quota of economic woes, murders, disasters, and fatal accidents.

One of Dolan’s IV lines had been removed and I could see the bruising in the crook of his arm. His one-day growth of beard already looked like the splayed white bristles on a toothbrush used to clean the bathroom grout. Two clear-plastic oxygen prongs extended from his nose. That aside, he was alert, his color was good, and some of his friskiness had been restored. He seemed tired, but he didn’t look half-dead. Any minute now, he’d get cranky about the absence of booze and cigarettes.

“Hey, Lieutenant, you look great. How’re you feeling?”

“Better. Almost human, as a matter of fact.”

There was a murmur behind me and I turned to find a nurse standing in the doorway. She was in her forties, with dark eyes and shiny brown hair streaked with gold. She wore civilian clothes, but her shoes were crepe-soled and her name tag announced her as CHRIS KOVACH, RN. She said, “Sorry to bother you, but there’s a fellow at the nurses’ station claiming he’s related to you. I checked your chart, but you don’t have him listed as an emergency contact or your next of kin.”

Dolan’s face went blank.

Chirpily, I said, “It must be your brother, Stacey. When I called and told him about your heart attack, he said he’d hop in the car and head right down.” I turned to Ms. Kovach. “I know the lieutenant’s not supposed to have more than one visitor at a time, but his brother’s just finished chemo for non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and it’d be great if we could be together after all these months.”

I thought the medical angle was a nice touch, but the look she gave me indicated she heard tales like that, on average, three times a day. “His brother? I don’t see the family resemblance.”

“That’s because he’s bald. With his hair grown in, they look enough alike to be mistaken for twins.”

“And you’re his daughter,” she said, indicating Dolan with a tilt of her head.

“Uh-huhn.”

“So the fellow in the hall is your uncle Stacey, is that correct?”

“On my mother’s side.”

She wagged a warning finger. “Just this once, but not for long. I’ve got my eye on the clock. No cheating on the time.”

Piously, Dolan said, “Thank you, Nurse.”

His tone was what finally netted us the smile she’d been trying to suppress.

Stacey appeared in the doorway moments later. I was happy to see he’d doffed his watch cap, exposing an endearing patchwork of bald spots and fuzz. At least the nurse would know I hadn’t lied about that.

Dolan said, “How’d you get here? I thought you sold your car.”

“Rented one—a spiffy little Ford I drove like a bat out of hell. I’m surprised I didn’t get a ticket. How are you?”

“Especially driving without a license.”

Stacey pulled over a chair, offering it to me. “You want to sit?”

“You take that. I prefer to stand.”

Since the visit was being limited, we truncated polite talk in favor of a Jane Doe update. I said, “I think I may have a line on her.” I told them about the quilt with the daisy-print patches that led me to Medora Sanders. “From what Medora says, the girl’s name is Charisse Quinn. She was apparently a ward of the State, fostered out through Riverside County Social Services. Both Medora and her daughter said she was a pain in the ass: dishonest, promiscuous, and foul-mouthed. According to Medora, she lived with ’em five months or so and then took off without a word. This was in the summer of ’69. I should also mention that Wilbur Sanders, Medora’s husband, disappeared at about the same time. I asked if the two events could be related, but she hated that idea. Let’s hope Dr. Spears can confirm the ID when he pulls her old chart.”

“You know the date this girl left?”

“I’m still trying to pin that one down. The timing’s close enough to work, or so it appears. I hope to talk to Justine again and maybe she can narrow the frame. By the way, she’s married to Ruel’s son, Cornell, if that’s significant.”

Stacey piped up. “The auto upholstery guy?”

Dolan said, “That’s him. The Mustang was recovered from his shed.”

Stacey was squinting. “And this runaway. You’re sure the name’s Charisse Quinn?”

“Fairly sure,” I said. “Why?”

“Because she shows up in one of the old reports. You can check for yourself. Her mother called the Sheriff’s Department here a week or so into the investigation. She’d heard her daughter’d been reported missing and wanted us to know she was alive and well.”

“I remember now. You’re right. I knew I’d read the name, but I couldn’t think where.”

Dolan said, “Well, she couldn’t be Jane Doe unless she rose from the dead. You said she called in a week or so after the body was found.”

“The caller said she was Quinn’s mother. Might have been someone else,” Stacey said.

“I don’t guess those old phone records still exist,” I said.

“Probably not,” Dolan replied. “Too much time’s elapsed. All we can hope is the deputy took down her number when the call came in.”

Stacey said, “Let’s see what this dentist says. If the records match, then we know the victim’s Quinn and the call’s a fake.”

“Any word on the Mustang?” Dolan asked.

Stacey smiled, holding up three fingers. “Three blond hairs caught in the hinge of the trunk. Characteristics are similar to Jane Doe’s hair. Not conclusive, of course, but it shores up the theory she was stowed in the Mustang for transport. Someone made an effort to wipe the car clean, but the techs picked up a few latent fingerprints, including a partial palm print on the jack. The guy must have moved it when he was clearing space in the trunk.”

I said, “What about the stains, were those blood?”

“We sent the carpet to the DOJ lab in Colgate, but we won’t get results on that for weeks. We’re lucky we have the technology now we didn’t have back then. The blood might be all hers, or we might have some of the killer’s mixed in.”

“Seems like the other question is whether the stains in the trunk match the ones on the tarp. A bloody stabbing like that, she might have put up a fight,” I said.

Stacey’s tone was dubious. “Maybe so, but don’t forget, her hands were bound and the coroner’s report doesn’t make mention of defensive wounds.”

Dolan said, “Even so, the guy might have been nicked.”

“Let’s hope. Problem is, we don’t have a suspect for comparison.”

“Correction. We don’t have a suspect yet.”

I raised my hand. “Could one of you ask Ruel about the tarp? I want to know if it was his.”

Dolan snorted. “Why should we ask? Why not you?”

“Come on. You know he’s going to yell at me. He’d never yell at the two of you.”

“Chickenheart.”

“What a wuss.”

I smiled. “I thought that’s what you tough guys were for. To do the dirty work.”

“I’ll tackle him,” Stacey said. “He won’t pick on a guy as sick as me.”

Dolan said, “Wait a minute, Stace. Don’t pull rank. You said you were well. I’m the sick one. Lookit where I am.”

“So you can ask him. Who cares? Point is, we ought to see if we can find out where the tarp came from.”

“How’re you going to do that? Damn thing doesn’t even have a tag with the manufacturer’s name. Besides which, I don’t see the relevance.”

I said, “The killer might have been a long-distance hauler. They sometimes use tarps to secure a load.” I stopped. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh, what?”

“I just had a flash.”

“Of what?”

“If the victim turns out to be Charisse and the body was transported in the Mustang, then your theory about Frankie Miracle is really screwed.”

Dolan frowned. “How you figure that?”

“We know Frankie stole Cathy Lee’s Chevy. So how could he have driven two cars, one from Quorum and one from Venice, and have both arrive in Lompoc at the same time?”

I could see him calculate. “He could have made two trips.”

“Oh, please. What’s he do—he kills Charisse, drives the Mustang to Lompoc, dumps the body, abandons the car, and then hitchhikes to Venice so he can stab someone else?”

“So he had an accomplice,” Dolan said.

“To do what? There’s no link between the two murders, unless I missed a beat somewhere.”

Stacey said, “Dolan hates the idea Frankie’s innocent.”

“I don’t hate the idea, it’s Frankie I hate,” Dolan said, irritably. “But what you say makes sense. How’d you come up with that?”

“I don’t know. It’s like one of those thought problems in high school math. The minute I’d see that sentence about the two trains, one leaving Chicago at sixty miles an hour, and the other blah, blah, blah, I’d start blacking out. I abandoned math the minute I was allowed.”

“You didn’t believe ’em when they said math would be useful later in your life?”

“Not even a little bit.”

In the doorway, Chris Kovach cleared her throat and pointed to her watch.

“We’re just going,” Stacey said, rising from his chair.

“You can come back tomorrow, but only one at a time.”

Stacey followed me to the motel in his rental car and we parked in adjoining slots. I walked with him to Dolan’s room and gave him the key. He unlocked the door and put his duffel on a chair. The room had been made up and the furniture was back in place. It was 9:25 and I was ready to say good-night, assuming he was tired and wanted to hit the sack. “If you like, we can have breakfast together. What time do you get up?”

“Not so fast. I drove straight to the hospital after hours on the road. I haven’t had my dinner yet. Wasn’t that an Arby’s I saw out on Main?”

“Sure, but the Quorum Inn’s still open. Wouldn’t you prefer a regular sit-down meal?”

“Arby’s has tables. I’ve never had an Arby-Q. Isn’t that what they’re called? Now you’ve introduced me to fast food, I have some catching up to do.”

I sat with Stacey, watching him plow through an Arby-Q, two orders of curly fries, and a roast beef sandwich, oozing a yellow sauce that was rumored to be cheese. He looked as if he’d picked up a few pounds in the days since I’d seen him last. “You do this often?”

“Couple times a day. I found a cab company that delivers fast food, sort of like Meals on Wheels. Geez, this is great. I feel like a new man. I never would have known if you hadn’t turned me on to this stuff.”

“Happy to be of help. Personally, I never thought of junk food as life-affirming, but there you have it.”

Stacey wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Forgot to mention this to Con. I got a call from Frankie’s PO. Dench says he may be in violation. Looks like he left the county without permission.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday.”

“That surprises me. To hear Frankie talk, he knew all the rules and regs and wasn’t going to be caught out. Wonder what set him off?”

“Might have been your visit. Con said he seemed cool, but you never know about these things. What’s on for tomorrow?”

“Let’s talk to Ruel. I’ve got the perfect excuse. I still have Edna’s quilt. We can ask him about the tarp when I take it back it to her.”

Stacey leaned forward. “Kinsey, we’re cops. We don’t need excuses. That’s for them to give us.”

Sheepishly, I said, “Oh. You’ve got a point.”

When we reached the motel again it was 10:15. The wind had kicked up and I had my arms crossed, trying to protect myself from the cold.

Stacey said, “Hang on a minute. I have your jacket in my trunk.”

I stood by his rental car while he opened the trunk and extracted my bomber jacket, along with a bulky mailing pouch he handed to me. “What’s this?”

“Henry sent it. He said he found it on your doorstep and didn’t think you’d want to wait. What is it?”

I turned the package to the light. “Beats me. Postmark’s Lompoc, which means it’s probably something from my aunt Susanna.”

“I didn’t think you had folks.”

“I don’t. Well, sort of. The jury’s still out.”

“Got it,” he said. “I’ll leave you to open it. Good-night.”

“’Night,” I said.

In the privacy of my room, I turned on the light and set my jacket aside. I left my shoulder bag on the chair and then I sat on the bed, turning the mailing pouch over in my lap. On the back, there was a pull tab that opened a seam along one edge. I pulled the strip and peered in. I removed the leather-bound album she’d sent. I remembered her mentioning family pictures, but never imagined she’d actually send them to me. I leafed through page after page of heavy black paper on which black-and-white photographs had been mounted by means of paper seals affixed to the corners and glued into place. Some of the pictures had come loose and the photos were tucked into the spine of the book. Under each, someone had written in white ink, identifying the subject, the date, and the circumstance.

There they were. All of them. My mother. Various uncles and aunts. The wedding of my grandfather Kinsey and my grandmother Cornelia Straith LeGrand. Babies in white christening dresses that trailed to the floor. Group photos, complete with cousins, servants, and family dogs. In most, the faces were solemn, the poses as stiff as paper dolls assembled on the page. A Christmas at the ranch with everyone gathered in front of an enormous pine tree laden with ornaments, garlands, and lights. A summer picnic near the house, with wooden harvest tables set out on the grass. Long dresses, pinafores, straw hats with wide brims freighted with artificial flowers; women looking buxom and broad-shouldered, their waists pinched by corsets that made their ample hips look twice as wide. Two men had been photographed in the army uniforms of World War I. One of the two appeared at later family gatherings while the other was never seen again. Sometimes the men were in shirt sleeves, dark vests, and black bowlers; sometimes striped summer jackets and white straw boaters. I could see the passing years reflected in women’s rising hems, their arms increasingly bare. Thanksgiving of 1932, suddenly all the little girls were decked out like Shirley Temple. Nothing of the Great Depression seemed to have touched the house or its occupants, but time did march on.

Many of these people were dead by now. The adults had grown old. The children had married and given birth to children of their own. There was my mother in that long white dress again at her coming-out party, July 5, 1935. There were other snapshots of the occasion. In one, I could have sworn the photographer caught my father in the background, his eyes fixed on her. I’d never actually seen a picture of him, but I felt I’d recognized him nonetheless. After that, the pages were abruptly blank, the entire last third of the album empty. That was odd. I thought about it, puzzled that the family history so carefully recorded up to that point should suddenly be abandoned.

Oh. Could that be right?

My parents had eloped. I’d seen a copy of their marriage license dated November 18, 1935. My grandmother had been horrified. She’d had her heart set on Rita Cynthia’s marrying someone she considered worthy of her firstborn daughter. Instead, my mother had fallen in love with a common mail carrier, who was moonlighting as a waiter on the day of her debut. There was apparently no Thanksgiving that year. And precious little in the way of celebrations since.

19

Saturday morning after breakfast, Stacey and I drove to the McPhees’. The day was clear and sunny. The wind had died down and the desert stretched out in a haze of beige and mauve. Cactus, mesquite, and creosote bushes grew at neatly spaced intervals, as though planted by an arborist. Out there, unseen, the bobcats, foxes, owls, hawks, and coyotes were feeding on the smaller vertebrates. I’d read that jackrabbits constitute half the diet of breeding coyotes, so that when hard times reduce the rabbit population, the coyote population shrinks, as well, thus maintaining the balance in nature’s culinary scheme.

We paused briefly on the street and I pointed across the pasture to the shed where we’d found the Mustang. Stacey said, “I wonder why he got himself in such a lather when the car was impounded?”

“Territorial, I guess. You’d do the same in his place.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Sounds like a man who knows more than he’s letting on.”

“Maybe he’s just another cranky old geezer, used to having his way.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“Stace, I wasn’t talking about you.”

I rang the bell and the two of us stood on the porch, waiting for someone to respond. From the backyard, I could hear children giggling and shrieking while a dog barked.

When Edna finally opened the door, she seemed somewhat taken aback. “Oh. I didn’t expect to see you here again,” she said. She averted her gaze politely from Stacey’s patchy head.

“Hi, Edna. How are you? This is Detective Oliphant from the Santa Teresa Sheriff’s Department. Have we caught you at a bad time?”

“I have my Baptist Church Auxilliary Committee here and we’re busy.”

I held out the quilt. “We won’t take long. I wanted to return your quilt.”

She took it, murmuring, “Thank you,” and then moved to shut the door.

I put a restraining hand on the frame. “We were hoping to see Ruel. Is he here?”

“He’s in the garage.”

“Mind if we talk to him?”

With a tiny flicker of irritation, she gave in. “You might as well come through the house and I’ll send you out the back. It’s quicker than going all the way around.”

The two of us stepped inside while she closed the door and then we followed her down the hall.

She said, “Did you talk to Medora?”

“I did. She was great. Thanks so much.”

In the kitchen, there were five women sitting at the table, which was stacked high with flyers and long white envelopes. All five glanced up at us, smiling expectantly as we moved toward the back door. Edna did a brief detour, returning the quilt to its place on the window seat. I noticed she didn’t stop to introduce us, probably reluctant to explain the arrival of an out-of-town sheriff’s detective and a private eye.

On the counter, she’d set up a big Thermos of coffee, a plate of sweet rolls, and a pile of paper napkins. The one empty chair was clearly hers. Two women folded the flyers, while another two stuffed them in the envelopes. The last woman in line licked the flaps and applied the stamps. I recognized this one: the light brown hair, brown eyes, the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. I’d seen her at Quorum High, where she worked as Mr. Eichenberger’s assistant.

I paused, saying, “Hi. How’re you?”

“Fine.”

“I’m Kinsey Millhone. I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Adrianne Richards.”

Edna hesitated and then said, “Adrianne’s my daughter.”

“Ah. Well, it’s nice seeing you again. This is Detective Oliphant,” I said, thus forcing a round of introductions. I really hate to be pushy, but what’s a poor girl to do?

One of the women piped up and said, “I’m Mavis Brant. This is Chalice Lyons, Harriet Keyes, and Adele Opdyke.”

Stacey tipped an imaginary hat, which the ladies seemed to like.

I smiled at them briefly, my attention returning to Adrianne. “You’re Cornell’s sister? I didn’t realize that. Small world.”

“Isn’t it?” She offered me a thin smile before she turned to the woman at the end of the table. “Excuse me, Harriet, could you pass me some envelopes?”

Harriet handed a batch of envelopes to Adele who passed them on to Adrianne, who was busy being busy. She must have been married, because if her office name tag had read “McPhee,” I’d have asked if she was related. She flicked a look in my direction and then engaged the woman next to her in conversation.

“Well, we don’t want to hold you up,” Edna said to us, ushering us on.

Stacey and I went out the back door and trooped down the stairs, heading for the garage. Edna’s granddaughter, Cissy, and her two older tow-headed sisters were racing across the yard in the throes of hysteria, a little yappy dog bouncing after them, nipping at their heels. As we watched, the dog caught a mouthful of Cissy’s sock. Growling, he tugged, trying to dig in his paws while she dragged him across the grass. I envisioned dog bites, blood, and tetanus shots later in the afternoon. There was no sign of Justine, so I was guessing the girls had been parked with the grandparents while she was off somewhere.

I smelled Ruel’s cigarette before we caught sight of him. He was in the same wooden desk chair with the same straw hat pushed to the back of his head. He looked small and harmless, and I could sense that Stacey was perplexed that I’d expressed any uneasiness about him. He was close to Stacey’s age, in his early seventies I’d guess. He was watching another television show with all the concentration of a kid. This time, it was a cartoon so completely asinine that even the little girls preferred being chased and bitten by a dog.

Without looking up, Ruel said, “Back again, I see. Who’s your friend?”

Stacey stepped forward, extending his hand. “Stacey Oliphant, Mr. McPhee. I’m a homicide detective with the Santa Teresa Sheriff’s Department. Nice to make your acquaintance.”

Ruel gave him an obligatory handshake. “Suppose you’re here to confiscate something else. It’s a damn shame you can walk in and take anything you want.”

“I can understand your point. Then again, the law’s the law. We don’t make it up; we just carry it out,” Stacey said.

“True enough,” Ruel said. “Nothing I can do about it now. You just be sure that car comes back without a scratch.”

I said, “Wait a minute. How’s that supposed to happen? The car was banged up to begin with.”

Ruel rolled his eyes with annoyance. “I meant, no damage aside from that.”

Stacey eased back in. “Mr. McPhee, I only drove in last night so I’m new on the scene. If it’s not too much trouble, I wonder if I can ask you to bring me up to speed.”

“Ask her, she’s so smart. I got better things to do.”

“She tells me you made quite a deal on that car.”

Like a recording, Ruel recited the details of his good fortune. “I got that Mustang free of charge back in 1969. Fella left it at the shop to have the seats repaired. Car was stolen and once it came back, he didn’t want anything to do with it.”

“Is that right? Good deal,” Stacey said, as though impressed. “And what inspired you to keep the car all these years?”

“My son and I intended to restore it, though now they’ve as good as told me it was used in some kind of criminal enterprise. Homicide, is that right?”

“Yes, sir. Naturally, we’re interested in taking a closer look.”

“You ought to talk to the previous owner. Feller name of Gant. He could’ve stolen the car himself. Have you ever thought of that?”

“I don’t believe we have. Wonder why he’d steal his own car and then turn around and give it to you?”

“Why does anyone do anything? Man might’ve been nuts.”

“Always possible. Happens he’s dead now.”

“Too bad. Otherwise, you could pester him instead of me,” Ruel said. He paused to light a cigarette with a wood match that he dropped in his jar. “Point is, I don’t know beans about a murder and my son knows less. Cornell should be here shortly to fetch the girls and that nasty dog of theirs. Talk to him yourself. Waste of time, you ask me.”

“That could well be. Police work, we pursue a lot of lines that don’t pan out. For instance, we’ve been curious about a tarp that was dumped with the girl’s body. Anybody mention that?”

“What kind of tarp?”

“Canvas. Looks like a car cover or a drop cloth. Ms. Millhone saw a couple tarps at the shop and wondered if one of yours might’ve come up missing at the time.”

“Nope. Can’t help. Happens I own a bunch of tarps, but I never had one taken and couldn’t care less if I did. Tarps are cheap. Take a stroll through the Kmart, if you doubt my word.”

“What about a car cover? You remember if there was one on the Mustang when it was taken?”

“I already answered that. All my tarps and car covers are accounted for.”

“You buy those in town?”

“You think I send off with box tops? Two of you are like dogs, chasing your own tails. Try something new. I’m tired of tarps.”

Stacey and I exchanged a look while Ruel returned his attention to the TV set. Stacey shifted his weight. “Do you happen to remember a young woman in town by the name of Charisse Quinn? Same age as your kids, so you might have met her through them.”

“Doesn’t sound familiar. She the one who got killed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t remember things like that.”

I touched Stacey’s arm, leaning close so I could murmur a question of my own. He nodded, saying, “What’s the story on Justine’s father? Medora told us yesterday the man deserted her.”

“Poor specimen of a fella, if you want to know the truth.”

“We heard he was a womanizer.”

“Everybody knew that…except his wife. Not to speak ill of the woman, but she has a serious drinking problem, has had for years. Edna and I, we don’t hold with hard liquor or spirits of any sort. It’s one thing Justine’s always appreciated about us.”

“You were talking about her dad’s womanizing. What’s the story on that?”

“He used to drive up to Palm Springs to meet the ladies. He’d tell Medora he was working late and go keep company with floozies.”

“You know this for a fact or was that just the gossip around town?”

“He told me so himself. Wilbur was as fond of drink as Medora, and once he imbibed, he had a tendency to brag about himself. Homely as a monkey, but he must’ve had his ways. Claimed he could walk into a bar and the women’d fall all over him. Married or single didn’t matter to him. He’d order a drink and offer to buy one for the gal sitting next to him. Once she said yes, he’d pull out his wallet and all he’d have on him was a hundred dollar bill. She’d end up paying, assuming he’d pony up by the end of the evening. Next thing you know he’d be getting in her panties and she’d be out that, too. I never figured women for such nitwits, but that’s how he told it.”

“This Quinn girl I mentioned was a ward of the court. A social worker placed her with the Sanders.”

Ruel turned and stared at Stacey. “That who you mean? Well, I’ll be. I hadn’t thought of her in years. Quinn. That sounds right. You should have said so in the first place.”

“We heard her name for the first time yesterday. How well did you know her?”

“I knew her to speak to, but not otherwise. Cornell said she fooled around with any boy she met. ‘Free with her favors’ is how he put it. She’d take ’em up to the Tuley-Belle and misbehave.”

“The Tuley-Belle?”

“Construction site outside town. Big condominium complex some fellas started building in 1968. Leon Tuley and Maurice P. Belle. Got it half-done and went bankrupt so the place’s sat there since. Kids like it because in parts there’s a roof overhead and the walls are up. Plumbing and electrical are torn out, but given what they’re up to, I guess you don’t need that.”

“Wilbur Sanders ever say anything to you about the Quinn girl?”

“I didn’t know him well, except as Justine’s dad. Cornell was dating her and the families would get together every now and then. Medora wasn’t often sober. I felt sorry for Justine. She’d sit there trying to cover up her shame and embarrassment. Meanwhile, Wilbur would excuse himself, come out here, and bend my ear about his sexual exploits. Ask me, he should have paid more attention to his wife.”

“And Charisse?”

“I don’t know anything about that. Hear Wilbur tell it, he was too much the gent to mention names. Minute they arrived, he’d make excuses and head out here. Always brought a flask of dark rum and we’d smoke our cigarettes. Once he got talking, you could hardly shut him up. Best of my knowledge, he kept his escapades to Palm Springs so Medora wouldn’t get wind.”

“If she was drinking so much, would she have cared?” I asked.

“Of course she’d have cared! Infidelity doesn’t sit well with the ladies. They’re apt to tear your head off.”

I heard a car pull into the driveway and I turned in time to see Cornell park his white pickup. As he came through the back gate, his three daughters made a run at him and piled into his legs, the pup bouncing along behind them like a basketball. Much squealing and hugging, punctuated by the dog’s shrill barks. Cornell extracted himself and headed in our direction, combing his hair with his fingers, tucking in the tail of his shirt where the girls had pulled it loose. He said, “Hey, Dad,” with some enthusiasm. To me, he said hi in a tone as flat as a tumbler of two-day-old Coke.

I introduced him to Stacey and the two men shook hands. Stacey said, “We’ve just been chatting with your dad about Charisse.”

Cornell seemed embarrassed by the subject. “Justine told me about that. I was sorry to hear.”

“Was she a friend of yours?”

“Well, no, but I’d see her at school. This was before she got kicked out and went over to Lockaby.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“She never went steady with anyone I knew. She dated quite a few guys, various classmates of mine.”

“Who would you say offhand?”

Cornell thought about it briefly. “I guess Toby Hecht and George Baum. You might start with them.”

Stacey made a note of the names while Cornell peered over his shoulder and pointed. “That’s B-A-U-M, not B-O-M-B.”

“Got it. And how could I go about getting in touch with these birds? They still around somewhere?”

“George is your best bet. He sells new and used cars over in Blythe. Toby, I don’t know about. I haven’t talked to him in years.”

Ruel had been following the conversation, but now he rose to his feet. “You fellers will excuse me, I got to go see a man about a dog. Nice talkin’ to you.”

“Same here,” Stacey said, touching his head as though tipping his hat.

Ruel took off across the grass, heading for the house while Stacey was saying to Cornell, “How about Wilbur Sanders? You ever see her with him?”

Cornell shifted his weight. He reached in his shirt pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He shook one loose and lit it, glancing back to make sure neither Edna nor Ruel was watching him. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to say anything bad about my wife’s dad.”

Stacey said, “We’re not asking you to tell tales. I’m sure he’s a fine man.”

Cornell didn’t seem prepared to go that far. “All I know is she doesn’t want to think ill of the man even if he’s gone.”

“Good point. She doesn’t want to think what, that Wilbur cheated on her mom?”

“Now I never said that. He put up with a lot.”

“You’re talking about Medora’s drinking? That’ll certainly throw a family into disarray. At the same time, people have been telling us Charisse was so interested in men, we can’t help but wonder was she interested in him?”

“I think I’ve said enough. If I were you, I wouldn’t mention this to Justine. She gets touchy on the subject.”

After that, Cornell stubbed out his cigarette, resisting any further attempts to probe. I watched Stacey come at the matter from a number of directions, but, try as he might, he couldn’t weasel anything more out of him.

Later, with Stacey at the wheel of the rental car, I said, “What was that about? Talk about resistance.”

Stacey shook his head. “I can’t decide if he was lying about something and doing a piss-poor job, or trying not to tattle and making a sore botch of that.”

“How could he be lying? He didn’t say anything.”

“Maybe you should talk to Justine—you know, woman to woman.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh yeah, right. Like she’d break down and confide in me.”

“Well, she might. Meanwhile, I think we better go by the hospital and see Con. First day without a smoke, he’ll be climbing the walls.”

“What about you? I haven’t seen you light your pipe since you arrived.”

“I gave it up; part of the deal I made, hanging on to life.”

The CCU nurse we’d been dealing with the night before was off duty and wouldn’t be back on the floor until 3:00. Winsome as we were, the current charge nurse, Meredith Snow, couldn’t be persuaded to let us break the rules. I sat in the waiting area, with its bare end table and four upholstered chairs, while Stacey went in to Dolan’s room for the requisite ten-minute visit. In the absence of magazines, I amused myself by cleaning all the woofies, loose hair, and tatty tissues from the bottom of my shoulder bag. In the process, I came across the Quorum phone book that I’d been toting around for days. I sat and thought about the tarp, wondering how to figure out where Ruel bought his. As the entire phone book, white and yellow pages combined, was about the thickness of a modest paperback, I tried the obvious, looking under “Tarpaulins” first. There were two subheadings: “Renting” and “Retail.” I wasn’t sure anyone would rent a tarpaulin to wrap up a corpse, but I suppose stranger things have happened. Dolan’s theory about the killer involved haste and improvisation, so it was always possible a rented tarp was the closest at hand. Ruel didn’t rent his, but someone else might.

“Tarpaulins—Renting” referred me to “Rental Service Stores” and “Yards.” Of the seven companies listed, four offered heavy equipment: lifts, loaders, backhoes, hand tools, paint sprayers, scaffolding, generators, air compressors, and related items. The remaining three companies were devoted to party supplies, including canopies and tents. I turned a corner of the page down, thinking I might check into them later.

Under “Tarpaulins—Retail,” there was one company listed, Diamond Custom Canvas. The boxed advertisement went on at some length in the teeniest print imaginable, listing their products, which included: asphalt, lumber, lumite, mesh, polyethylene, steel haulers, vinyl-coated polyester, vinyl laminates, tarps, welding curtains, screens, blankets, roll systems, and drop cloths. The address was on Roberts, one block over from Main. I was still staring at the ad when Stacey reappeared.

I tucked my finger in the book to mark my place. “You were in there ten minutes? It didn’t seem that long.”

“Lady came in with a tray to draw blood so I hightailed it out of there.” He noticed the phone book. “Good reading.”

“Actually, it is,” I said. “Are you going back in?”

“Nah, he’s grouchy as all get out. I knew he’d turn sour if he didn’t get his fix. I think I’ll take a little trip to Blythe and see if I can find this Baum fellow. Shouldn’t take long; it’s twelve miles. You want to come along?”

“Nah, I’m going to try something else. Why don’t you drop me at the motel and I’ll pick up Dolan’s car? If you’re finished by noon, we can hit the Burger King in town and pig out on Whoppers.”

“Sounds like a good plan to me.”

Diamond Custom Canvas was part of a block of two-story brick buildings, constructed with shared walls, that ran between Twenty-third and Twenty-fourth. There were several warehouses, an abandoned furniture wholesaler, and a discount clothing outlet. Some of the businesses were padlocked shut and the few that were open looked as though they’d fallen on hard times. Diamond was the single exception. Though the location wasn’t a magnet for the walk-in trade, both phones were busy. I stood at one end of the counter, listening idly to one of the two clerks, who was engaged in a lengthy discussion about the volume discount on a shipment of lumite asphalt solid tarps. The second clerk finished her conversation, got up, and disappeared through a side door. While I waited for assistance, I took a visual tour of the place.

The interior was one vast, gloomy room, twice as long as it was wide. The pressed-tin ceiling was two stories high, with long banks of hanging fluorescent lights. On the left, an ornate wooden stairway, painted an odd shade of turquoise, curved upward to the second floor. Across the back wall, two courses of glass blocks let in a muted light. I could see water marks streaking down the wall, some long-ago plumbing leak or possibly a hole in the roof.

I picked up and studied a pamphlet that listed the part numbers, cut size, UPC codes, and weights of various twelve-ounce olive-drab tarpaulins. The twenty-by-thirty weighed seventy-nine pounds—tough to tote around, I thought. The tan ten-ounce tarps seemed to be lighter, but I was already worried they wouldn’t hold up as well.

The second clerk came out of the back room. Glancing up, she spotted me and crossed to the counter. “May I help you?”

She was probably in her fifties, with heavy eye makeup and dyed black hair that she’d pulled up in a swirl on top. She wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of black spike-heel boots. Her fingernails were long, perfect ovals, painted dark red with a thin white stripe across each. I was reminded briefly of Iona and I wondered if she’d developed an expertise in nail art.

I said, “I know this is a weird request, but I hope you’ll bear with me.” I told her about Jane Doe and the tarp that was found when the body came to light. I did a quick summary of our reasons for believing the victim was local and our suspicion that the murder and/or abduction might have taken place down here. “I keep thinking if we could find out about the tarp, we might get a line on the guy.”

“You mean what kind of work he did?”

“Something like that. If he did painting or drywall…”

“Not drywall,” she said. “Those guys usually use a big roll of paper. It would help if I knew the material the tarp was made of. Are you talking about duck, cotton, acrylic, or a blend?”

“Well, I don’t really know and that’s the point. Looking at this brochure, I can see you make hundreds of tarps, so the question’s probably absurd.”

“Not really. Many of our products fall into other categories, like cargo control—lumber tarps and steel haulers. I don’t think you’d mistake either for a painter’s drop cloth. They’re too big. Too bad you don’t have it with you. At least I could tell you if it’s one of ours.”

“Sorry. They’ve got it in the property room up north, under lock and key.”

“In that case, let’s think how else we might help. Most drop cloths are standard, though we do make two grades—eight-or ten-ounce natural. If I showed you, do you think you’d recognize the difference?”

“I could try.”

“My name’s Elfreida.”

“I’m Kinsey. I appreciate your time.”

I followed as she came out from behind the counter and clip-clopped across the bare concrete floor to a big worktable where two stacks of folded canvas tarps were sitting side by side. She grabbed a tarp from each stack and opened both across the tabletop, flapping them like bedsheets to shake the folds loose. “Look familiar?”

“It’s that one, I think,” I said, pointing to the lighter of the two.

“Here’s the trick,” she said. She held up one edge, showing me the red-stitched seam with a tiny square of red in the corner. “This is not a trademark per se, but we use it on everything.”

“Oh, wow. I remember that red square from the tarp we have.”

“It’s actually not a square. It’s a diamond.”

“The company name,” I said.

She smiled. “Of course, that doesn’t tell you anything about where it was purchased. Might have been here in Quorum or it might have been somewhere else. Problem is, we distribute to paint stores and hardware stores all across the country, plus places like Target and Kmart. There’s no way you’d ever track the outlet. We don’t code for things like that.”

“Who buys them?”

“Painting contractors, for the most part. The average homeowner usually buys a plastic tarp he can dispose of when he’s finished. Makes the job easier. You toss it in the trash and you’re done. Do commercial or residential work, you need something you can use more than once. These things are sturdy. They last for years.” She went on talking, but I found myself snagged again on the issue of painting contractors. Where had I run across mention of a paint contractor? I was sure I’d seen it in one of the county sheriff’s reports. She said, “Looks like I lost you back there.”

“Sorry. I’m fine. I just remembered where I’d seen mention of a painting contractor. I should go check that out. Thanks so much. You’ve been more help than you can know.”

20

After I left Diamond’s, I returned to the motel. The house-cleaning cart was parked on the walk outside my room. The maid had stripped off my sheets and she was using the pile of soiled linens to prop the door open while she went about her work. I peered in, trying to get a sense of where she was in the process. My plastic-covered mattress was bare and a flat stack of clean sheets rested at the foot of the bed. I could hear her in the bathroom with her portable radio tuned to a Spanish-language station. On the night table the message light was blinking on my phone. I heard the toilet flush and the maid emerged with my damp towel across her arm. She toted her carryall of cleaning products.

I said, “Oh, hi. Sorry to interrupt. How much longer will you be?”

She smiled broadly and nodded, saying, “Hokay. Sí. Una momento.”

“I’ll come back,” I said. I trotted across the parking lot to the office and went in.

The desk clerk was perched on her swivel stool, still chewing bubble gum, her skirt hiked up, swinging one foot while she read the inner pages of the National Enquirer.

“My message light’s blinking. Can you tell me who called?”

“How should I know? Pick up the phone and dial 6.”

“The maid’s in my room so I’m here to ask you.”

The look she gave me said she was feeling put-upon. “What room?”

“125.”

With exaggerated patience, she set the paper aside, swiveled her stool to face her computer, tapped on the keyboard, and read from the screen. She chewed her gum briefly and then her face brightened. “Oh, yeah. I remember now. You got a call from a dentist, Dr. Spears. What’s the problem with your teeth?”

“Did he leave a number?”

She blew a bubble and curled it back into her mouth on the end of her tongue, waiting to pop it after she’d closed her lips. “He did, but I didn’t bother to write it down. It’s in the book.”

“When you first took this job, did they train you?”

She stopped chewing. “To do what?”

“Simple clerical skills, phone etiquette, manners—anything like that?”

“Nah. Know what I’m paid? Minimum wage. Three dollars and thirty-five cents an hour. Besides, I don’t need manners. My uncle owns the place. My name’s Geraldine, in case you feel like filing a complaint.”

I let the matter drop.

I went out the office door and turned right, moving to the bank of pay phones I’d seen near the ice machine. I opened my bag and fished out the Quorum phone book and a handful of change. I looked up the dentist’s number and dialed, receiver tucked between my shoulder and my tilted head while I put the directory back in my bag.

When Mrs. Gary picked up, I said, “Hi, Mrs. Gary. Kinsey Millhone here. I can’t believe I caught you in the office on a Saturday.”

“I’m just catching up on insurance claims. This is about the only time I have.”

“Dr. Spears left me a message. Is he there by any chance?”

“He’s off playing golf, but I can tell you why he called. He found the chart you asked about. I’ve got it sitting on my desk.”

“Tell him I’m in love.”

“He’ll be thrilled to death,” she said.

I laughed. “Could you do me a favor? Could you slip it in a manila envelope and mail it to Sergeant Detective Joe Mandel at the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department? He’ll talk to the forensic odontologist and they’ll handle it from there.” I gave her the address, adding my copious thanks to her and to Dr. Spears. I hung up the phone, offering up small, fervent prayers.

I had to believe that a comparison of his records with the Jane Doe maxilla and mandible would confirm Charisse Quinn’s identity. At the same time, I knew reliance on such records could prove inconclusive. A chart might contain errors, or it might be incomplete if details of previous or subsequent dental work had been omitted for some reason. A positive ID might take weeks, but once it was confirmed, the guys could chase down the paperwork on Charisse’s birth parents through Riverside County Social Services. In the meantime, I was feeling good. We seemed to be making progress in spite of the odds.

When I returned to my room, my door was closed and the maid’s cart was halfway down the corridor. I let myself in and tossed my purse and jacket on the bed. I retrieved my duffel from the closet and took it over to the desk, digging deep to the bottom, where I’d stashed my copy of the murder book. I sat and went through it page by page. I knew what I was looking for, but not where it was. Twenty pages in, I came across the report, dated August 1, 1969, detailing the arrest of Frankie Miracle, who’d given the deputy his home address in Blythe, California. No mention of Venice, where the murder had taken place. Under occupation, he’d classified himself as a handyman/helper. For his employer, he’d listed Lennie Root, R&R Painting, with an address and phone number in Hazelwood Springs. I turned down a corner of the page and moved on. I was curious about the purported call from Charisse’s mother that Stacey’d mentioned earlier.

Fifty pages further on, I found the follow-up report, dated 8-9-69/Approx. 1400 hrs., in which Deputy Joe Mandel had entered information about a call he received from the Riverside County Sheriff’s substation in Quorum. A Detective Orbison had contacted the Lompoc substation in response to the teletype regarding the Jane Doe homicide victim whose description matched that of a missing juvenile named Charisse Quinn. She’d left home on July 27. The Riverside County Sheriff’s Department noted her DOB as 4-10-52; height: 5’3” weight: 120 lbs. Blond hair, blue eyes, pierced ears, and extensive dental work. Her foster mother was listed as Medora Sanders, at the address where I’d had my conversation with her. According to Orbison, she’d come in the morning of August 9, to file the missing-persons report.

After Orbison’s call, Mandel had made two attempts to contact Medora without success. Then on 8-11-69/Approx. 1855 hrs., RCSD phoned again, this time telling Mandel they’d received a call from a woman who stated she had a daughter named Charisse Quinn, whom she understood was believed to be a murder victim. She wanted to let them know the girl had come home and she was alive and well. She gave the Riverside County Sheriff’s deputy a phone number where she could be reached, and Orbison passed the number on to Mandel. In his typed account, Mandel indicated that he’d attempted contact, but the number was listed as out of service. If he’d tried tracing the party, there was no notation of the fact. I continued leafing through the book, but I found no other reference to Medora or Charisse. I made a few notes and then sat, playing idly with my index cards, laying them out randomly in rows.

It was odd to see how the pieces realigned. When Dolan had first given me my copy of the murder book, I’d read these same reports, many of them more than once. The entry about the missing girl had been only one of a number of items that had meant nothing outside the current context. The name itself didn’t seem significant until Stacey remembered it. It was the same with Frankie Miracle’s place of employment. In early readings, the note had seemed incidental. Now the information fairly leapt off the page.

Three things struck me: First, in filing the missing-persons report, Medora hadn’t been quite as prompt as she’d led me to believe. She’d implied she’d gone straight to the police, when she’d actually waited more than a week. I’d have to go back and ask her about the delay. Secondly, Charisse’s July 27 departure from Quorum would place her in easy range of Frankie Miracle’s road trip after the murder of Cathy Lee Pearse on July 29. I still couldn’t figure out how the Mustang ended up in Lompoc, unless Charisse had stolen it herself. Despite Medora’s claim that she had no license, she might have known how to drive. If so, she might have gone as far as Lompoc, abandoned the vehicle, and tried hitching a ride from there. And finally, I wondered who’d made the call pretending to be Charisse’s mother. If Frankie’d had anything to do with Charisse’s murder, Iona could have made the call to cover for him. By August 11, when that call came in, Charisse’s body had been discovered and attempts were under way to determine who she was. What better way to eliminate the link than to claim the missing girl was home? As nearly as I could tell, that call had effectively removed Charisse’s name from the loop.

I put the murder book and my index cards in the desk drawer and pulled out my trusty pint-sized phone book, which covered Quorum, Blythe, Mesa Verde, Hazelwood Springs, Palo Verde, Ripley, Creosote, and eight towns in Arizona. I flipped to the yellow pages and found the listing for paint contractors. There were only four in the area—two in Blythe, one in Palo Verde, and one in Hazelwood Springs. According to his boxed ad, Lennie Root of R&R Painting was a residential painting specialist who also did condominiums, apartments, and commercial accounts. He was insured, bonded, and state licensed, promising reasonable rates, prompt work, and free estimates. There was a phone number, but no street address, which probably meant he operated on an answering machine from his home. I checked the white pages under “Root” and, sure enough, there he was. I was becoming quite fond of these small towns for the ease of access to its citizens. Big-city paranoia with its unlisted phone numbers only made my job tougher. I had ways of acquiring the information, but not as readily as this. I picked up my bomber jacket and got in the car.

When I got to the Burger King it was 12:15 and Stacey’s rental car was already parked in the side lot. I went in, scanning the crowd until I spotted him at a table on the far side of the room. Even here, there were Easter decorations—big posterboard eggs and posterboard Easter bunnies. Stacey waved when he saw me.

I slid in across from him, saying, “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Who said anything about waiting? I already had a Whopper and an order of fries.”

“Well, good for you. I hope you don’t mind sitting while I grab a bite myself.”

“Oh, I’ll be eating again. The Whopper was good, but it didn’t fill me up. I’ve been thinking we should do a study—purely scientific—a side-by-side tasting, a Whopper and a Big Mac, to see which we prefer. Or go vertical—McDonald’s hamburger, cheeseburger, a QP with cheese, and a Big Mac. What do you think?”

“You sit. I’ll go. You want a Coke with that Whopper?”

“I’d prefer a chocolate shake.”

Over lunch (my first, his second), I brought Stacey up to date on my visit to the canvas shop and my review of the murder book with its reference to Lennie Root. “How was your interview with George Baum?”

“What a pain,” he said. “He’s the consummate salesman—all capped teeth and phony charm. He tried talking me into a BMW, but I nixed that idea. Point is, when I asked him about Charisse, he sidestepped the whole subject. He thought he was being slick; like I never heard a guy equivocate. I’m guessing he diddled her, but now that he knows she was murdered, he’d like to distance himself. He nearly shit when I told him where I got his name. He’s maneuvering like crazy, doing anything he can to get me off his back, so he gives me some information I think you’ll find interesting. He tells me Charisse and Cornell’s sister were thick as thieves.”

“Well, that’s a new one.”

“Isn’t it? He says he used to see the two of them all over town. He swears Charisse had the hots for Cornell and sucked up to Adrianne to get close to him.”

“Kind of makes you wonder why Adrianne didn’t speak up. To hear Cornell tell it, he barely knew Charisse. Justine certainly gave me that impression.”

“It’s worth a chat with Adrianne if not the other two.”

“You want to do that while I talk to the painting contractor?”

“I’d rather you take care of both. My energy’s running low. I need a nap. As soon as you finish, stop by the motel. I should be up, and if not, feel free to wake me. We’ll go back to the hospital and let Dolan know what’s going on.”

Once Stacey and I parted company, I sat in my car debating which interview to do first. At the moment, I was more interested in hearing about Adrianne’s friendship with Charisse than I was in talking to Justine, Cornell, or the painting contractor. However, when I consulted the phone book, there were eight “Richards” listed, and Adrianne didn’t seem to be among them. I had no idea what her husband’s name was. Since it was Saturday, I knew she wouldn’t be at the school. Quelle bummeur. This brought the matter down to a toss-up between the painting contractor and the younger McPhees. Again, according to the phone book, I was only four blocks from Cornell and Justine’s, so they won by default.

Their house turned out to be a bright yellow board-and-batten, with white trim and diamond-paned windows flanked by dark green shutters. Pink geraniums grew in flower boxes across the front. The yard was enclosed by a white two-board fence. The two-car garage stood open, and I could see six-year-old Cissy and her two older sisters arranged in a cluster around Cornell’s workbench.

I parked in front and approached, moving up the driveway past a tangle of bikes. Cornell looked up, greeting me without interrupting his work. “Hey, how’re you?”

“I’m great. Is that a doghouse you’re building?”

“You bet, and I’m almost done as soon as I finish this roof. Girls are all set to paint it. You meet my daughters?”

“I met Cissy on Thursday. I saw all three of them at your parents’ house this morning.”

“Oh, that’s right. So you did. This is Amelia and Mary Francis.”

I said, “Hi.” I couldn’t tell which was Amelia and which was Mary Francis, but it probably didn’t matter. Most children seem interchangeable to me, anyway. “Is Justine at home?”

“Doing laundry. You can go in through there. Utility room’s just inside the door. Cissy, why don’t you show her where it is.”

I hesitated, tempted to ask him about Charisse before I broached the subject with Justine, but with his children present, it didn’t seem like a good idea. Cissy was tugging at my hand so I allowed her to lead me through the rear of the garage and into the utility room. She skipped back to her dad and his Saturday-morning project.

I found Justine in her sock feet, wearing an olive green sweatsuit. Her back was to me and she was cramming filthy blue jeans and work shirts into the washing machine. Beside her, the dryer was already in service, filling the room with a rich, damp heat while a garment with buckles clattered endlessly as it tumbled in the drum. I said, “I hope you don’t mind my dropping by without notice.”

She jumped and gave a yelp. “Shit, you scared me to death. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Cornell suggested I come in this way. I guess he figured you’d never hear me if I rang the front bell.”

“What are you doing here?”

“The usual. I’m nosing around. Mind if we talk?”

“I’ve already told you everything I know.”

“Indulge me, okay?”

She stared at the floor, curbing her annoyance, but I could see her relent, albeit unhappily. “Let me finish this and we’ll go into the kitchen.”

She shoved in the last of the load of clothes, added liquid detergent and bleach, then closed the lid and set the program knob. She pushed the Start button. She washed her hands at the utility sink, drying them on a terry cloth towel she retrieved from the pile of soiled linens.

I followed her into the kitchen, which was immaculate, a far cry from her mother’s house with its grunginess and knickknacks. I don’t know how women with active kids manage to keep a house picked up. She offered me coffee, probably to atone for her snappishness. I accepted with an eye to stringing out the visit. She poured me a mug and popped it in the microwave to heat. She was not a pretty girl. There was something washed-out about her looks, as though vital blood supplies had been suppressed for years, leaving her pale and depleted. The green sweatsuit added more color to her eyes than I’d seen before, but it still wasn’t much. The microwave pinged and she removed the mug.

When she set it in front of me, a wave of coffee slopped over the rim. She handed me a paper napkin. “Did you want something in particular? We haven’t eaten lunch. I need to go to the market to pick up some bread.”

“This shouldn’t take long,” I said, busy cleaning the spill. I decided to take an indirect route getting to the subject of Adrianne and Charisse. “Did you have a chance to talk to Cornell?”

“About what?”

“You were worried he’d get mad at you if you talked to me.”

“He got over that. He said he saw you at his dad’s so I guess all’s forgiven. Lucky you,” she said. She brought sugar and half-and-half to the table and then sat down, tucking her hands under her thighs.

“That’s because Detective Oliphant was there. He and Ruel seemed to hit it off. Did you meet Stacey?”

She shook her head. “I heard there was a second detective in town, but I haven’t met him yet. They must be going all-out.”

“They are. They’re very serious about this.”

“Well, good, though I don’t get why it matters after all these years.”

“Cops are funny that way. They never really give up. They just wait.”

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude about it, but I really have to scoot. The kids’ll get cranky.”

“Sorry. I’ll get down to it,” I said. “This morning, when Stacey spoke to Cornell, he mentioned a high school classmate of yours named George Baum.”

“Sure, I know George. Why was he talking about him?”

“Cornell seemed to think he was involved with Charisse.”

“Involved?”

“That’s a dainty way of saying he screwed her.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. He did not. George had a girlfriend, a cheerleader named Swoozie Franks. They went together for years, since junior high at least. They got married a month after graduation.”

“Swoozie?”

“It’s a nickname. I forget her real one.”

“Maybe Swoozie wouldn’t put out so George got relief from Charisse instead.”

Justine made a face. “That’s a tacky idea.”

“Why? You’ve all been saying what a slut she was.”

“Well, yes, but I can’t believe George would do something like that. Did he admit it?”

“Not as far as I know, but he did tell Stacey that Charisse and Adrianne were close. I was curious why no one mentioned that to us.”

“That’s not true at all. Why would he say that? He’s crazy.”

Dubiously, I said, “I don’t know, Justine. He says Charisse had a crush on Cornell and hung out with Adrianne to have access to him. You’d think Adrianne would’ve volunteered the information as soon as she heard Charisse was dead.”

“You said you weren’t even sure it was her.”

“Well, the ID isn’t positive, but now we have her dental records so we’re getting close. I would have mentioned it this morning, but it didn’t seem appropriate in front of Edna’s church group. Besides, that was the first time I realized who Adrianne was. You can imagine my surprise. I see her at Quorum High. I find out she’s Cornell’s sister, and then I hear she and Charisse were such good pals.”

“They weren’t pals. George doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Charisse’s so-called pals were a bunch of losers from Lockaby. They were more her speed.”

“Really. Your mother said she made a real pest of herself, wanting to hang out with the two of you.”

“We took her with us sometimes, but she was an embarrassment.”

“Did you know Charisse was so smitten with him?”

“Oh, please.”

“Why would George lie to us?”

“I didn’t say he lied. I said he got it wrong. The guy’s a dimwit. Besides, even if she had a crush on Cornell, what difference did that make? A lot of girls had crushes. He was the most popular guy in our high school class.”

“But how’d you feel about it? Didn’t it bother you?”

“I knew we’d end up together, so who cared about them?”

“I mean Charisse in particular.”

“She was nothing. A pig. I couldn’t have cared less about her.”

“Geez, that’s amazing. When I was in high school, I was insecure. You must have had a lot more self-confidence.”

“I wouldn’t say that. It just seemed like fate. The minute I saw Cornell, that was it for me. That was grade school. We went to different junior high schools and reconnected in high school in our senior year.”

“Love at first sight.”

“Right.”

“So really, it didn’t matter if Charisse and Adrianne were friends—in terms of its effect on you.”

“Charisse could do anything she liked. No skin off my back.” She glanced at her watch, signaling time was up. She could have been a shrink, given her skill in silent communication.

I held up a hand. “Just one other thing and then I’ll let you go. Doesn’t it seem a trifle coincidental that your father disappeared just about the same time she did?”

Justine stared at me. “I don’t get what you mean.”

“Come on, Justine. You’re not that naive.”

“You’re implying the two of them went off together?”

“Didn’t it ever cross your mind?”

“Of course not. Daddy left in June. She was with us for months and months after that.”

“Actually, it was only until the end of July. Maybe six weeks or so. What if they were having an affair?”

Justine laughed. “Oh, that’s gross. I don’t like to think he had sex with my mother, let alone with someone like her. That’s disgusting.”

“Disgusting to you perhaps, but in the annals of human history it’s not exactly a first. I said the same thing to your mom. Charisse was promiscuous, so why not him?”

Justine clamped her mouth shut, staring at the floor. Agitated, she tucked a strand of pale hair behind one ear.

I said, “Look, I’m not making any claims here. None of us have the facts. This is purely speculation.”

“Well, it’s in bad taste,” she said. She stood up.

“I guess I better let you go. Maybe I should have a chat with Cornell.”

“I’m not sure he’s interested.”

“He didn’t seem opposed to my talking to you.”

“He was being polite.”

“A quality I’ve always admired in a man. Anyway, you needn’t fret because I can’t do it now. I have something else to do.”

Hazelwood Springs on my California map was a microdot on Highway 78 ten miles south of Quorum. The town turned out to be so small that I drove straight through without realizing it. I made a three-point turn, using the next convenient driveway, and then doubled back. The entire town consisted of a minimart, two side roads, a scattering of houses, and a two-pump gas station of the old-fashioned variety, where some guy actually came outside, filled your tank, cleaned the windshield, and passed the time of day. I ended up putting another twenty bucks’ worth of gas in Dolan’s boat, but in return, the fellow was kind enough to point out Lennie Root’s place, which was just across the road.

Lennie Root’s small white frame house sat on pylons of raw cinder block, thus creating the crawl space he used to store his miscellaneous painting equipment. There was a flowery ceramic plaque affixed to the wood frame above the front door that read THE ROOTS, MYRA AND LENNIE.

Lennie responded to my knock. He was a man in his sixties with a narrow, sagging face and heavy bags beneath his eyes. His bushy gray hair was peppered with tiny specks of dried red paint. Over his chinos and white T-shirt he wore a full-length apron with a ruffle around the bib. He held a wrinkled white dress shirt like an errant tomcat he intended to boot out the door.

“Mr. Root? My name’s Kinsey Millhone. I’m hoping you can answer a few questions about a former employee. You remember Frankie Miracle?”

“What makes you ask? Because if you’re working for OSHA or state disability insurance, I want it on record—the injury was fake.”

“I’m not here about that. I’m actually a private investigator, doing follow-up on a homicide investigation. This was August of ’69. Frankie says he worked for you shortly before that.”

He blinked. “How much do you know about ironing?”

“Ironing?”

“My wife’s out of town at her mother’s until next Monday and I’m supposed to be at my daughter’s for supper tonight. I need to iron this shirt, but I don’t know how. My wife always sprinkles ’em with water and leaves ’em in a wad, but I never paid attention to what comes next. You show me how to do this and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

I laughed. “Mr. Root, you’re in luck. You got a deal.”

He handed me the shirt and I followed him through a modest living room to the kitchen at the rear. There were dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the counter was littered with additional glasses, flatware, and plates. On the breakfast table, there was a large broken-rimmed plastic basket piled with freshly laundered clothes. The door to the utility room stood open and Lennie crossed the kitchen to retrieve an ironing board with a floral padded cover and scratched metal legs. When he opened it, the sustained screech of metal on metal sounded like the mating call of an exotic bird. He plugged in the iron. I moved the setting to Cotton and waited for the iron to heat.

“My aunt Gin taught me to do this when I was seven years old, primarily because she hated to do the ironing herself.” I licked an index finger and touched it to the hot iron. It made a spatting sound. “Watch this.” I took the dampened shirt by the yoke, holding it between my hands, and straightened the puckered seams with one efficient snap.

“That’s first?”

“Unless your shirt doesn’t have a yoke. Then you start with the collar.” I placed the shirt on the ironing board and explained the strategy: the yoke, followed by the collar, then the cuffs, the two sleeves, and finally the body of the garment.

He watched with care until I’d finished the shirt and buttoned it onto a wire hanger. I handed him a second shirt from the basket and had him try his hand. He was slow and a bit clumsy, but he did a credible job for his first time out. He seemed pleased with himself, and I had a brief vision of him whipping through the entire basket of ironing as the afternoon wore on. He turned off the iron, moved the basket aside, and gestured me into a chair.

As soon as we were seated, he said, “Now. What can I tell you about Frankie, aside from the fact he’s the biggest punk who ever lived?”

“How long did he work for you?”

“Six months. Drunk most days; incompetent the rest.”

“Did you hire him or did your business partner?”

“I don’t have a partner.”

“I thought your company was called R&R Painting. I figured it was your brother, your son, or your dad.”

“No, no. It’s just me. I put that other R in there to reassure the public. One-man painting company, people worry you don’t have the manpower to get the job done. This way I give the estimate and get the contract signed and then when it turns out it’s just me, well, what’s it to them. I’m fast, I’m thorough, and I’m meticulous.”

“How’d you end up hiring Frankie?”

“Did someone a favor. Biggest mistake I ever made. This fellow knew Frankie’s brother and he asked me if I’d give him a job. He’d just gotten out of jail and no one else would take a chance. I wasn’t all that crazy about the idea myself, but I’d just taken on a big project and I was desperate for help.”

“What year was this?”

“Between Christmas of ’68 and the summer of ’69. He claimed he had experience but that was a lie. Worst excuse for a helper you ever saw, him and that friend of his. It’s people like that give prison a bad name.”

“What friend?”

“Clifton. Big guy. Had a funny first name…”

“Pudgie.”

Lennie pointed at me. “Him.”

“I didn’t realize Frankie and Pudgie were such buddies back then.”

“Were when they worked for me.”

That was an unexpected nugget of information. I couldn’t wait to tell Stacey, though for the moment I wasn’t sure what it meant—if anything. “From what you said earlier, I gather Frankie filed some kind of worker’s comp claim. Was he injured on the job?”

“Said he was. Oh, sure. Said he fell off a scaffold, but he was working by himself and it was bull. I got notice of the claim and next thing I knew, he was back in jail, this time on a murder rap. Is that the homicide you mentioned?”

“This was a second murder—a young girl stabbed to death within days of the first. Her body was dumped in Lompoc, which is where he was arrested. You remember when he left your employment?”

“June. How I know is because Myra’s and my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary fell on the fifteenth and he was gone by then.”

“How’d he end up in Venice?”

“I heard he got a job in Blythe, doing landscape work—in other words, a grown man cutting grass for minimum wage. He met some sixteen-year-old girl and three weeks later, the two of them got married. He was fired from that job so they moved up to Venice, where he did some painting for a friend.”

“Got it.”

“That other homicide you mentioned, is he a suspect in that?”

“Let’s put it this way. The cops have been taking a long, hard look at him. Unfortunately, at this point, there’s no proof he even knew the victim and nothing to link him to the crime itself.”

“How’d you end up at my door?”

“A drop cloth at the scene was made by the Diamond Custom Canvas Company in Quorum. I was over there a while ago looking at their tarps when I remembered mention of a painting contractor on his arrest sheet. He listed you as his employer.”

“Nah, he was long gone by then. I was all set to fire his butt if he hadn’t quit, which I’m sure he knew. Shortly afterward, the project I was working on went belly-up. It was a bad year for me.”

“I don’t suppose you’d recognize the drop cloth if you saw it again.”

“Should. I’ve used the same ones for years. I buy them in Quorum at the hardware store on Main. You have it with you?”

“I wish I did. It’s in the property room at the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department.”

“Well, you might have ’em check for paint spots. During the time Frankie worked for me, the only exterior color we used was something called Desert Sand. I forget the company—Porter most likely, though it might have been Glidden. Get a match on the paint and it might help tie the tarp to him. I’d be willing to testify.”

“Thanks. I’m impressed. You’ve got a good memory.”

“Desert Sand turned out to be a bad luck color. Biggest job I ever bid. At least to that point,” he said. “I’d’ve made thousands if the complex hadn’t gone in the tank.”

I felt a minor jolt in my chest. “Are you by any chance talking about the Tuley-Belle?”

“How’d you hear about that?”

“Ruel McPhee mentioned it earlier today.”

“Oh, I know Ruel. I’ve done many jobs for him over the years.”

“Where is this place? I’d like to take a look.”

“You passed it on your way in. It’s on 78, halfway between here and Quorum. On the west side of the road. From a distance, it looks like a prison. You can’t miss it.”

21

The faded billboard on the side of the road read THE TULEY-BELLE LUXURY CONDOMINIUMS—TOMORROW’S LIVING FOR TODAY. The project had been ambitious, accompanied by hype designed to create a buying frenzy. The banner pasted across one corner of the sign trumpeted ONLY TWO UNITS LEFT UNSOLD! If true, the lawsuits were doubtless still in the courts. I slowed and turned off the highway, following the deteriorating four-lane blacktop that was divided by concrete planting beds as empty as the surrounding landscape. The builders must have intended to create a lavish entrance with lush grass and palm trees lining the parkway, but the project had been abandoned long before the plans were executed. Vegetation was minimal. The flat terrain gave way to foothills stretching upward to form the Palo Verde Mountains. Distances were deceptive, the clear, dry air apparently functioning as an atmospheric zoom lens. The complex, which appeared to be a short quarter mile away, turned out to be closer to a mile and a half.

When I finally pulled into the dirt parking area and cut the engine, the silence enveloped the car like an invisible shield. In the harsh afternoon light, the partially constructed buildings looked as bleak as cliff dwellings. Piles of trash had blown up against the edifices. The surrounding acreage was flat and still. Dolan had told me that despite torrential desert rains, the runoff is usually swift and results in little saturation. Even from the car, I could see numerous deep channels cut into the porous soil, where flash floods had carved runnels, baked now to the hardness of poured concrete.

I got out and slammed the car door. The sound was muffled, as though absorbed by the very air itself. The subdivision was sprawling. Some portions had been completed; others had been framed in and deserted where they stood. Farther out, I could see where a series of foundations had been poured but the slabs remained untouched. There were numerous tire tracks, and I pictured a steady stream of teenagers slipping through the darkness, escaping from the raw night into the relative warmth of insulated walls. Out here, the wind was constant—a strong, whistling presence that whipped my hair across my face. Behind me, sand gusted across the road.

Two hundred feet away, a gaunt gray dog was stretched out on its belly, lazily tearing flesh from the carcass of a recent kill. It took me a moment to realize I was looking at a coyote. He regarded me without interest, but he did rise and pick up his prized bone before he trotted off. His coloring was so close to the muted desert hues that he vanished like a wraith.

I turned back to the nearest building and went in. The windows were gone and the doors had been removed from their hinges. The squatters hadn’t penetrated far. In what must have been intended as a lobby, mattresses now lined the walls like a hospital ward. Some sported ratty blankets, but most were bare. Cardboard boxes had been carted in and now served as bed tables for an assortment of ashtrays, drug paraphernalia, and empty beer cans. I toured, checking out the pharmaceutical fare. These kids were doing grass, hash, and cocaine, but the addiction of choice was still nicotine, with cigarette butts outnumbering the roaches four to one. A used rubber, draped across the toe of a lone high-top basketball shoe, just about summed it up. I tried to imagine the poor teenaged girls whose introduction to sex took place under such sorry circumstances. Maybe they were too drunk or too stoned to care what they were doing or what was being done to them.

Outside, I heard a racket like a flock of birds lifting into the air. I listened, struggling to identify the noise. It sounded like plastic flapping, as though a dust barrier had torn loose and was being blown by the wind. The rattle was unsettling, like someone shaking open a fresh garbage bag after taking out the trash. I crossed to the nearest doorway and ventured down the corridor, peering in all directions. There was no sign of the errant sheeting, only rooms opening off rooms, filled with merciless sunlight. I stopped, my senses acute. It occurred to me then what I should have realized right away: The Tuley-Belle was the ideal setting for a murder. The cries of the victim wouldn’t carry a hundred yards. If the killing took place outside, any blood could be concealed by turning the soil under with a spade. And if the killing took place inside, the floors could be swabbed down and the rags subsequently buried like strange soil amendments.

The Tuley-Belle reminded me of grand and ancient ruins, as though some savage civilization had inexplicably come and gone. Even in broad daylight, I could smell defeat. I knew I was alone. Because of the isolation, anyone approaching by car would be visible for miles. As for vagrants, they might be anywhere on the premises. There were countless places to hide, ways to remain concealed if the necessity should arise. I retraced my steps, trying not to run, scarcely drawing a breath until I’d tucked myself safely in the car. Stacey had to see this.

When I got back to the motel, he was pacing up and down in front of my door. I figured he was ready for another fast-food binge because I couldn’t think what else would generate such excitement. The minute he saw me, he scurried to the car. I rolled down my window. He leaned on the sill while he grinned and pointed to his face. “Well, am I glad to see you! I thought you’d never get here. Know what this is? This is me being as happy as I’m ever going to get.”

“What’s up?”

He stepped back, opening the car door so I could emerge. “Joe Mandel called. The fingerprint techs are working overtime. I told you, it looks like someone made an effort to wipe down the Mustang? Well, it turns out the job wasn’t very thorough because the techs picked up two sets of prints: one on the emergency brake, the gas cap, the inner rim of the spare tire, and the outside of the glove compartment. Looks like the driver leaned over to get something out and then pushed it shut. They lifted the second set of latents from a California road map shoved under the front seat.”

“They managed to get good prints after all these years?”

Stacey gestured dismissively. “These guys can do anything. It helps that the car’s been out of circulation and locked in that shed.”

“Whose prints?”

Stacey’s expression was pained. “Quit being so pushy and let me tell it my way. They compared both sets of prints with Charisse’s, but no luck on that score. It’s my theory she was already dead and in the trunk by then. The spare tire had been removed, probably stowed in the backseat to make room for her. Whoever wiped down the car actually did us a favor. All the incidental prints were eliminated and the ones he overlooked were as clear as a bell. Mandel got a pop on the first set within minutes. Guess who? You’ll never guess. This is so good.”

“Frankie Miracle.”

“That’s what I said, but I was wrong. Guess again.”

“Stacey, if you don’t spit it out, I’m going to fall on you and beat you to death.”

“Pudgie.”

I felt myself blinking. “You think Pudgie was involved?”

Stacey laughed. “I don’t know yet, but there’s a good possibility. When Mandel first told me, I nearly dropped my teeth. However, if you think about it, it does make sense. When you talked to Pudgie at the jail, he must have started to sweat. He probably assumed the business was forgotten, but eighteen years later, it’s coming up again. He couldn’t have been sure how much we knew or how close we’d come to establishing his connection. He must have pondered his options and decided it’d be smart to implicate someone else. That’s how he knew the little details to seed into the tale. Doesn’t mean he killed her, but I think he knows who did.”

I said, “He was subtle about it, too. I remember when he mentioned that the body had been wrapped, he was so offhand about it, I thought it was just a minor part of Frankie’s jailhouse talk. The same with the fact she’d been stabbed.”

“You didn’t mention it yourself?”

“Of course not. He was fishing for information, but I never gave him that. No wonder he was so worried about word getting back. Frankie’d go berserk if he thought Pudgie pointed a finger at him. I take it the second set of prints wasn’t Frankie’s.”

“Nah, what a pisser. I felt bad about that.”

“Me, too. I just talked to the painting contractor, a guy named Lennie Root. He says Frankie and Pudgie both worked for him in early ’69. After six months, Frankie quit—this was approximately mid-June. Apparently, after that, he worked in Blythe for three weeks. That’s where he met and married Iona Mathis.”

“What about Pudgie? Where was he?”

“Don’t know, but I can go back and ask. I was focusing on Frankie.”

“So Root puts him in Quorum at the same time as Charisse?”

“Not Quorum, but Blythe, which is close enough,” I said. “By the end of July when she disappeared, Frankie’d moved to Venice, a five-hour drive. Here I was, just about to swing over to your view, thinking Frankie’s our guy, and now Pudgie surfaces, so there goes that.”

“Not necessarily. They could’ve been in it together. Pudgie told you they didn’t know each other, but that was clearly horseshit.”

“Yeah, right. Pudgie knew Iona, so why wouldn’t he know Frankie? She could have introduced them,” I said. “Or maybe it was the other way around and Pudgie was the one who introduced Iona to Frank.”

“Well, it doesn’t make much difference since the second set of prints wasn’t his. Personally, I hate to see him off the hook for this.”

“Well, someone was in the Mustang with Pudgie. Iona maybe?”

Stacey frowned, scratching at the underside of his chin. “Well now, wait a minute. Hold on. That’s a leap we can’t make. We’re putting Pudgie in the Mustang when the girl was killed, but the prints might have been sequential instead of simultaneous. Did Pudgie know the McPhees?”

“If he stole the car it wouldn’t matter if he knew them or not.”

“Problem is, if Pudgie knew Cornell or any one of them, he might’ve had legitimate access to the vehicle. The car came back in poor condition. Ruel might have asked him to move it into the shed or hose it down. Or he and Cornell might have gone out to the shed to sneak a smoke. There could be all kinds of explanations for his prints being there.”

I said, “Assuming they knew each other.”

“Right.”

I thought about that briefly. “Pudgie did grow up in Creosote, which is only sixteen miles south. I think it’s down below Hazelwood Springs.”

“That’s my point.”

“But even if they knew each other, it still could’ve been Pudgie who stole the Mustang. When he was arrested in Lompoc, he was thumbing a ride. He could have stolen the car, driven it to Lompoc, dumped the body, and pushed the car into that ravine.”

“Why don’t we ask him? You said his sister brought him down here after he got out of jail. You have an address for her?”

“No, but we can probably get one.”

We picked up Pudgie’s home address from the administrator at the Santa Teresa county jail. We decided to take the rental car since Dolan’s smelled like cigarette smoke. Driving south on Highway 78, I pointed out the Tuley-Belle, telling Stacey what I’d seen. As I’d predicted, he was interested in seeing it and we decided to stop off as soon as time allowed.

Creosote wasn’t as big as Quorum, but it was ten times larger than Hazelwood Springs, which we passed through en route. The sign said POP. 3,435, but the Chamber of Commerce might have been inflating the facts. Given its close proximity to the Arizona state line, the town had opted for a Western look and resembled nothing so much as a cheap movie set where, at any moment, a cowboy might be shot and sail, tumbling, from the roof of the saloon. The commercial properties on the narrow main street were all wood frame, two-and three-story structures built side by side, with tall, fake facades, steep outside wooden stairs, and plank walkways between buildings instead of the usual sidewalks. It might have been an actual mining town or it might be masquerading as a place with a more interesting history than it had.

Stacey’d donned his red knit watch cap, claiming his head was cold. I suspected he was suffering a rare moment of vanity, but I could have been wrong. Pudgie’s sister’s house was on A Street near the corner of Third, a small, square box set on a square patch of lawn. Three concrete steps led to a small porch. From inside, we could hear a vacuum cleaner droning away. Stacey rapped smartly to no particular effect. He knocked again, and this time we could hear the vacuum cleaner being turned off. A woman opened the door, barefoot, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, with a dust rag hanging from a belt loop. She was a tall, big-boned redhead with a blue bandanna tied around her head, Cinderella-style. Her eye makeup was dramatic. Both her upper and lower lids were lined with kohl. A fringe of false lashes set off the blue of her eyes. “Yes?”

“We’re looking for Felicia Clifton. Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Stacey Oliphant, with the Santa Teresa Sheriff’s Department, and this is Kinsey Millhone…”

Felicia closed her eyes. “If this is about Cedric, I’ll kill myself. I swear to god, I will.”

“He’s not in trouble, Ms. Clifton—at least as far as I know—but we’d like to have a word with him if he’s here.”

“Well, he’s not. He went out late last night or first thing this morning. I’m really not sure which. He didn’t even leave a note about where he was going or when he’d be back.”

“Would you mind if we stepped into the house?”

Felicia hesitated, scanning the street as though the neighbors might be peering through their curtains at us. “I guess I can’t have you standing in the yard.”

We found ourselves stepping directly into the living room, which was probably ten feet by ten. We could see the kitchen from where we stood, and I was guessing the rest of the house consisted of two small bedrooms with a bath between. The air was scented with cleaning products. I could see where she’d swabbed a wet mop across the kitchen floor, leaving residual streaks of Pine-Sol. I picked up whiffs of Pledge furniture polish, Comet, Lysol toilet bowl cleaner, and perhaps a soupçon of household bleach.

“Have a seat,” she said.

Stacey settled on the couch while I chose a bright yellow molded-plastic chair to his left. Felicia couldn’t quite settle down, and I wondered if she cleaned to calm her anxieties, as I sometimes did. She’d worked hard to make the place attractive though the furnishings seemed to be an odd assortment of seconds, thrift shop finds, and discount sales.

“What sort of work do you do?” Stacey said, trying to strike a friendly tone.

“I manage a dry-cleaning establishment. My whole life’s about that—cleaning up other people’s messes.”

Stacey said, “I imagine Cedric’s been a problem.”

“Oh, go ahead and call him Pudgie. Everybody else does. I don’t know why I insist on ‘Cedric.’ It’s ridiculous given the sort of person he is.” She perched on a plastic chair that was a mate to mine. She reached out and straightened a stack of magazines, then idly, took out her dust rag and ran it around the table, picking up unseen particles of dust.

Stacey cleared his throat. “Is it just the two of you?”

“Just us. He’s been a source of aggravation as long as I remember. Our parents split when he was only eighteen months old. Mom ran off with this guy who sold galvanized pipe. Daddy drank himself to death a little over two years ago. I was eight when my brother was born. Daddy was useless by then so I raised him myself. You can imagine how that went.”

“Tough job at that age.”

“You can say that again. I must not’ve done too good a job because Cedric’s been in trouble since he was nine. I know I should quit coming to his rescue, bailing him out, trying to get him on his feet again. It doesn’t do any good. His only talent is avoiding work; plus he sometimes steals cars.”

I said, “What’s he been doing since he got out of jail?”

“Same thing he always does. Drinks, smokes, borrows money from me, and lies around on his butt. Occasionally he helps out, but only if I scream loud enough. Then he’ll sometimes do dishes or he’ll grocery shop. I guess I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Has he been looking for work?”

“Says he has, but in this town, there isn’t much to do. There’s an opening at the Dairy Queen, but he thinks that’s beneath him. I don’t know where he got that. He’s down so low, there’s nothing under him as far as I can see. It’s only a matter of time before he blows it again. I don’t get how that works. Every time a guy screws up, there’s always some gal around to feel sorry for him. In this case, it’s me.”

“I know one of those,” I said, thinking of Iona.

“It’s guilt,” Stacey said.

“Is that it? Well, I guess. He always seems so sincere. Every time I look at him, I see him at nine. He got caught when he stole two silver picture frames from a neighbor lady across the street. What in hell did he want with two silver picture frames? Then he cried like a baby and swore up and down he’d never do it again.”

“How long did that last?”

“About a month. I forget what he stole next—something equally useless. I can lecture him all I like; scream and yell. He knows exactly what to say to reel me in again. He’s not dumb by any stretch, but he’s lazy as all get out. He does whatever works in the moment without a thought in his head about the consequence. I’m sorry, I don’t know how I got off on that. You want me to have him call you when he gets back?”

“If you would, that’d be great,” Stacey said, taking out a ballpoint pen. “You have a piece of paper? I can give you the number.”

“You can write it on the cover of that Cosmopolitan. I never throw those out.”

Stacey jotted down the name of our motel, the number, and our two room numbers on the cover of the magazine.

“You might write your names down so I don’t forget,” she said, meaning that she already had.

Stacey scribbled our names, then clicked his pen and tucked it away. “When he goes out, do you have any idea where? We’ll be happy to scout around and see if we can find him ourselves.”

“There’s a tavern—just a little hole-in-the-wall—over on Vine. You might try there. I can’t think where else he might be, unless he drove into Blythe.”

“Who’s he hang out with?”

“No one that I know. He’s been in jail so many times, he doesn’t have many friends left. He did get a couple of phone calls Thursday night. The first, I don’t know about. He took that himself. The second time I answered and it turned out to be a woman he dated years ago…”

“Not Iona Mathis,” I said.

“That’s exactly who. You know her?”

“I met her a few days ago.”

“She’s nice. I like her. Too bad he didn’t end up with her. I hear she married someone else.”

“Why’d she call him?”

“I don’t know, but she must have been pissed because I heard him backpedaling like crazy, swearing up and down he didn’t do whatever it was she was so aggravated about. Then some guy got on the line and it started all over again.”

“Frankie Miracle?”

“Could be. I think so. I wasn’t paying that close attention. Phone’s in the kitchen. The call came during my favorite TV show, so after a few minutes of his yammering, I got up and shut the door.”

“After the call, he didn’t say anything about going out last night?”

“No, but then it’s not like he tells me half of what he does.”

“You think he might have gone off to meet Iona?”

“Oh god, no. I sincerely hope not. As mad as she was? He’d be smart to keep his distance.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” I said when Stacey and I were in the car again. “Why don’t you find a gas station and we’ll see if there’s a pay phone.”

“Who’re you going to call?”

“Annette up in Peaches. Iona’s mom.”

There were two gas stations on the main drag; a Chevron at the corner of First and Vine and an Arco station at the corner of Hollywood and Vine. Somebody had a sense of humor here, at any rate. Stacey pulled in at the Arco. The two of us emptied our pockets and came up with a handful of change. He waited in the car while I dialed Directory Assistance and got the number for the Moonlight Café. Within minutes, I had Annette on the other end of the line.

“Hi, Annette. This is Kinsey Millhone. Lieutenant Dolan and I…”

“I remember you,” she said. “How’s that lieutenant? I forget his first name…”

“Conrad. People call him Con. As a matter of fact, he had a heart attack yesterday. He’s in the hospital in Quorum.”

“Well, forevermore. I’m so sorry to hear that. The poor man. How’s he doing?”

“Well, he’s got good doctors and they seem to think he’ll be okay.”

“Thank goodness. You tell him I intend to keep him in my prayers.”

“I’ll do that. In the meantime, I have a question for Iona. Is she working today?”

“Honey, don’t I wish. She left Peaches shortly after you did and drove straight to Santa Teresa. She called later that same day to say she was at Frank’s. I can’t believe my own flesh and blood’s so dumb. I told her to stay away from him, but would she listen? Of course not.”

“How’d that happen? Last I heard he didn’t even know where she was.”

“Baby, that was daydreaming on my part. Now I find out she was in touch with him the whole time he was in prison. They’re on the phone with each other just about every day.”

“What sent her running to him?”

“You don’t know how protective she is where he’s concerned. She’s worse than a mama bear. She’s sure he didn’t have anything to do with that other poor girl’s death—you know, the one you were here asking about? If he did, she’d be first in line volunteering an alibi for him.”

“Could she do that?”

“Do what?”

“Provide him an alibi for the two days after Cathy Lee’s death? She was awfully vague on that score.”

“Iona’s convinced there’s an explanation, but so far I haven’t heard a word of it. I think that’s why she went, to find out where he was for that two days. I know she was fretting about the quarry where the girl was dumped.”

I held the receiver out and squinted at the mouthpiece. “Why would Iona fret about that?”

“Oh, she knows the place well. She used to play there as a kid. She has a couple cousins—this is my sister’s two kids. Iona stayed with them every summer for two weeks. They’d ride their bikes over to the quarry and have rock fights.”

“In Lompoc?”

“What did I just get through saying to you?”

“Why didn’t you tell Lieutenant Dolan?”

“I must not’ve been thinking or I’d have spoken right up.”

“Are you sure it’s the same one? There must be others in the area.”

“I guess that’s what Iona’s trying to find out.”

“Did she mention Pudgie at all?”

“In regard to what?”

“I’m wondering if she said anything to Frankie about him?”

“Well, she must have. You know Pudgie and Frankie were in jail together right around that same time. If anybody pointed a finger, it almost had to be him. She figures Pudgie threw Frankie’s name in the hat, hoping to make some kind of deal for himself.”

“Oh geez, that’s not true. There wasn’t any deal,” I said. “Look, do me a favor. If she gets in touch, will you have her call me? I’m in Quorum at the Ocean View Motel, room 125.”

“I don’t expect to hear from her, but if I do, I’ll be happy to tell her. Of course, you’re closer to her than I am.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, hon, she’s in Creosote. I told you that. After she left Santa Teresa, she went looking for Pudgie to see if she could straighten this out.”

“Did Frankie come with her?”

“Lord, I don’t know. I hope not. She never said.”

I didn’t actually groan, but I probably should have. “Let’s don’t worry about that now. Thanks, Annette. You’ve been a big help.”

“Honey, you tell Lieutenant Dolan I’m sending him a big old sloppy kiss.”

“I’ll do that. Just please have Iona call me if you hear from her. You don’t know where she’s staying?”

“Of course not. I’d have said if I did.”

“Great. I thought I better check in case I missed that part.”

22

We cruised Vine, which was the main street of Creosote and all of ten blocks long. There was only the one tavern, done up in the ubiquitous Western theme. We parked and went in, pausing to get our bearings: low ceilings supported by heavy beams, a wooden floor dense with sawdust, rough-hewn log walls chunked with stucco or its equivalent. There was a long, polished mahogany bar with the requisite brass foot railing, eight tables with captain’s chairs, and a Foosball table. The place was deserted, so it didn’t take long to figure out that Pudgie wasn’t there. At one end of the bar, there was an old Orange Julius machine with a perpetual fountain of juice laving the square, glass tank. Behind the bar, there was a rotisserie where old-fashioned hot dogs on skewers circled past a heat source, throwing off an irresistible cheap scent.

Stacey and I made a beeline for the bartender, ordering and consuming two hot dogs each, decorated with a squiggle of mustard, and piled high with a nasty sweet pickle relish and onions minced so fine our eyes were watering. Neither of us said a word until the last bite of bun had been munched and swallowed. I was gratified to hear Stacey making the same low whimpering sounds that accompanied most of my meals.

He chased his lunch down with a Coke and then used a paper napkin to scrub his mouth and fingers. “I’ll be burping weenies for the rest of the day, but it’s worth it. Don’t know how I worked up such an appetite.”

“Well Stacey, we haven’t eaten since noon and it’s after three o’clock.”

“Can I get you anything else?” The bartender was a man in his late fifties, with an egg-shaped face, balding head, and a gap between his two front teeth.

Stacey said, “We’re looking for Pudgie Clifton. His sister, Felicia, thought he might be here.”

“Haven’t seen him today. He usually shows up at eleven when we open the place. He’ll be in later. Happy Hour for sure. He never misses a chance to get his two for one.”

“When he comes in, would you have him get in touch with us? We’re out running around, but he can reach us later at the Ocean View Motel in Quorum.” Stacey made a note on a paper napkin, which the bartender set on the ledge of liquor bottles behind him. I waited while Stacey paid for lunch (my second, his third) and then we returned to the car.

Heading north again on Highway 78, I pointed out the hazy outlines of the Tuley-Belle in the distance, off to the left. “You want to do the tour now or come back?”

“No time like the present.”

Stacey turned into the paved four-lane entrance, noting as I had its deteriorating state. We drove the mile and a half, the desert stretching out on every side of us. When we reached the complex, he parked and we got out. It was still afternoon, and the sun overhead was like a pitiless spotlight, revealing every crack and flaw in the abandoned site. Somehow in my memory, I’d tidied it up a bit, forgetting the garbage and blowing sand, the gaping windows and ruts in the surrounding dirt parking area. I sensed movement and shifted my gaze. I reached out and put a hand on Stacey’s arm and both of us stood stock still. Two coyotes had appeared at a trot. Both were pale gray and scrawny, bony-legged, taller than the average German shepherd, but with the same prominent ears. The first coyote stopped and regarded us with a certain leisurely arrogance. These were desert coyotes, smaller than the ones we saw in Santa Teresa. There, when the drought years eliminated small rodents and ground game, coyote packs were forced down out of the foothills into urban neighborhoods. I’d heard them calling to one another, chilling, high-pitched yelps, when they’d cornered their quarry and were closing in on the kill. I’d seen countless handmade signs stapled to telephone poles, usually displaying photographs and phone numbers, offering plaintive appeals for the return of “lost” cats and small dogs. I knew where they were. In dawn light, in my travels around town, I’d spotted the occasional lone coyote crossing the road with a bundle in its jaws. Out here in the desert, where the heat was extreme and even less rain fell, coyotes ate anything: lizards, insects, carrion, snakes.

The second coyote had trotted on, but now circled back to the first. This must have been the female of the pair, her sides rounded by a litter of pups. The two animals stared up at us with an eerie intelligence. I was aware of their cold yellow eyes and the fathomless round, black pupils. I had no sense that they feared us. This was their territory, sparse and untamed, and their survival rates would always be better than ours out here. Stacey clapped his hands and the two continued on to the road at the same unhurried pace. He turned and watched them, as I did, until they disappeared from view.

The wind picked up. Despite the sun and even in my bomber jacket, I found myself huddled against the cold. “Let’s go inside before I freeze to death.”

We wandered the empty corridors. With Stacey close by, I was willing to venture farther afield. We explored together at first and then separated. While he inspected the partially completed condominium next door, I stumbled across an unfinished wood staircase and picked my way carefully to the second floor. I crossed to a wide, frameless window and looked out at the land; mile after mile of scrub dotted with tumbleweeds. Again, the sound of rapidly flapping plastic. I leaned out, peering to my right. At ground level, I could see a cloudy corner of the sheeting dance forward and back from beneath a pile of rocks. Ghost stories originate from such phenomena. I was surprised the locals hadn’t already generated legends about the place.

Across the way, Stacey emerged from the adjacent building into full sunlight. He saw me and waved. I returned his wave, watching as he rounded the corner of that building and disappeared again. I left the window and joined him down below.

It was close to 4:00 when we pulled in at the motel. I felt we’d done enough for one day and I voted for a break. Stacey said he’d go back to the hospital and spend time with Dolan. Once he dropped me at the room, I changed into my sweats and Sauconys and went jogging. My last run had been Wednesday, before Dolan and I left town. As this was now Saturday, I thought it was high time I did something in my own behalf. For once I was happy about the chilly desert air. Humidity was low and I managed to do the entire three miles scarcely breaking a sweat.

Back again, I found the message light blinking on the face of my phone. I dialed 6 and the operator told me I had a message from Betty Puckett. I wrote down the name and number, but it took me a beat to remember her—the guidance counselor slash typing teacher at Lockaby Alternative High School. I thought about showering but decided to place the call before I got myself cleaned up.

When she picked up on her end, she was already sounding most annoyed with me. “I’m sorry to be peevish, but I’ve called you three times and I expected a call back.”

“Mrs. Puckett, my apologies, but this is the first and only message I’ve ever had from you. When did you call before?”

“Twice yesterday afternoon and again first thing this morning.”

“It must be the desk clerk. She’s terrible with messages and just about everything else. Believe me, I’d have called you if I’d known.”

“Well. I suppose these things happen,” she said, mollified. “Patsy Marcum called me shortly after you left the office yesterday. I don’t think I can help, but Patsy thought I should get in touch.”

“We’ve actually made some progress since I talked to her. It now appears possible our murder victim is a girl named Charisse Quinn. Do you remember her?”

“That name doesn’t ring a bell. When was she at Lockaby?”

“This would have been April or May of 1969. She started at Quorum High in March, but she got expelled fairly soon from what I’ve heard. She must have transferred to Lockaby close to the end of the school year.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. I was out during that period on medical leave. I know because I went back through my records and checked my calendar for that year. Otherwise, I’d have done the intake interview.”

“So you didn’t meet with her.”

“I didn’t. I wish I could help.”

“I do, too. We’ve been hearing a lot about her, but most of it’s derogatory. I was hoping to get something more objective from you.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Was the family local?”

“Not as far as I know.” I took a moment to explain the situation with Medora Sanders and her fostering of Charisse.

“I do know the Sanders, or I should say I did. I’m not familiar with Medora’s current circumstances, but in those days, she had a serious drinking problem.”

“How much to you know about Wilbur?”

“Well, I knew him to speak to. We went to the same church, at least when Medora was sober enough to attend.”

“She says he left her mid-June and she hasn’t heard from him since. We’ve been wondering if there’s a link between Charisse’s disappearance and his.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t think so. He did run off with someone, but it wasn’t her. This was a woman he worked with at Sears.”

“How do you know that?”

“Rumors were flying. That’s all anybody ever talked about.”

“I can’t believe Justine and Medora didn’t know,” I said.

“I guess no one was willing to be the bearer of bad news. I heard just recently—and I forget now who told me—that Wilbur married that woman and he’s living in Sacramento under a fictitious name. Sandy Wilburson, or some variation.”

“Really. That’s interesting, because Medora thinks he’s dead.”

“To all intents and purposes, he is.”

“One more thing while I have you on the line. This is probably a long shot, but I’m wondering if you remember a kid named Cedric Clifton. He’s originally from Creosote, but he’s been in trouble since he was nine and he might well have ended up at Lockaby.”

“Yes, I know Cedric, though it’s odd you should ask. He was a student of ours in 1968, a year before the period you were talking about.”

“What’s odd about that?”

“Well, you mentioned the Sanders. He dated their daughter. He was older than she—probably nineteen or so to her sixteen.”

“Justine and Pudgie Clifton? I don’t think so. Didn’t she date Cornell McPhee?”

“Yes, but she dated Cedric first. The two of them broke up after she started dating Cornell and ‘set her cap for him,’ as they used to say. They were both in my daughter’s class at Quorum.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” I said. “What’s the deal around here? Everybody knows everybody.”

Betty Puckett laughed. “Welcome to Smalltown, America. What else can I tell you about Cedric?”

“Did he ever do time for grand theft auto?”

“Oh, sure. Among other things,” she said.

“Such as what?”

“Theft by deception, forgery, bad checks.”

“Not violent crime?”

“Not while he was at Lockaby. I have no way of knowing what he’s done since then.”

“Thanks. You’ve been a big help. Sorry you had so much trouble getting through to me,” I said.

I showered and washed my hair, wishing I could rinse off my confusion as easily with the water running down the drain. All the little bits and pieces, the subterranean links. It was like looking for a pattern in the Milky Way. After I was dressed, I sat down at the desk, where I hauled out a pack of index cards and started making notes. Once I’d jotted down everything that seemed relevant, I organized the cards in roughly chronological order, set the Smith-Corona on the desk, and typed up a report. Both Stacey and Dolan were capable of doing the same work and would have done so if pressed, but I was eager to see how the facts would arrange themselves. I could see the connections form and separate, though they made no particular sense: Pudgie working with Frankie; Frankie married to Iona; Pudgie dating Justine before her marriage to Cornell. Iona had grown up in the same town as Pudgie and had hung out with him in her youth. Cornell’s sister, Adrianne, had been friends with the murdered girl, always assuming, of course, that Charisse and Jane Doe were one in the same. Then there were Pudgie’s fingerprints on the stolen car. Now that was an interesting development. I sat and stared at the cards, thinking about the players.

It occurred to me that in 1969, I was only two years older than these “kids” were then. I’d fumbled my way through high school without once achieving academic excellence. I was never elected to class office, never played a sport, and never participated in extracurricular activities. I wasn’t a member of the band, the pep squad, or the chorus. Mostly, I walked around feeling glum and disenfranchised. I made unremarkable to mediocre grades, smoked dope, and hung out with other low sorts, undistinguished and unnoticed. Had I attended Quorum High School, Pudgie would more likely have been a friend of mine than Justine or Cornell. While Cornell was no longer a varsity hero, he was a decent, hard-working guy with a wife and kids to support. Justine was a full-time wife and mom; Adrianne now worked as an administrative assistant in the very high school she’d attended. And Pudgie was still busy getting sent to jail. As for me, I was now a (more or less) respectable, law-abiding citizen who shunned illegal drugs and refused to place burning objects of any sort between my lips. I wondered how Charisse had figured into the grand scheme of things. At least the rest of us had enjoyed the option of making better choices in later life than we’d made in our teens. All of her opportunities had ended in 1969, and one of the decisions she’d made had been her last.

Once I finished typing the report, I sat and shuffled the cards, playing the little game I always play. I laid them out randomly, then like a hand of Solitaire, watching to see how events would look when the chronological order became jumbled. The truth isn’t always immediately apparent, especially when it comes to murder. What appears to be a logical series of incidents might look entirely different when the sequence is turned on its head. The police are always working backward from the homicide itself to events leading up to the fatal blow. Except for random killings, which have become increasingly common these days, murders happen for a reason. There is motive—always motive. In nine cases out of ten, if you know why something happens, you’ll know the “who” as well.

I sorted through the cards again just to see if I’d missed anything. Of course, I’d forgotten to go back to Medora and ask why she’d waited a week to file the missing-persons report on Charisse. I placed that card on top of the stack, turning it upside down as a reminder to myself before I secured them with a rubber band. The point was minor and there was probably an explanation, but it was still a question that needed covering.

At 5:00, I tossed the pack of index cards in the drawer on top of the murder book, stacked the pages of my typed report, tucked them in a folder, and drove them to the local print shop, where I had two copies made. On my way back to the motel, driving east on Main Street, I caught a glimpse of Adrianne Richards heading for the local supermarket. She’d just parked her car and was walking from the side lot to the front entrance. I braked, glancing belatedly in the rearview mirror in hopes the car behind me wouldn’t climb up my tailpipe. I made a hard left-hand turn to the annoyance of several motorists, one of whom shook his fist at me and mouthed a naughty word. I made a sheepish gesture and blew him a kiss.

I parked and went in. I did a quick walking survey, canvassing the store aisle by aisle. I finally spotted her in the produce section, grocery list between her teeth while she picked through a display of cantaloupes. In her cart, she had a plastic basket of cherry tomatoes, two bunches of green onions, and a cauliflower that looked like a brain wrapped in cellophane.

I said, “Hi. I’ve been hoping to talk to you, but I didn’t know how to get in touch. What’s your husband’s first name?”

“Peter. We’re divorced. He’s in Reno.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

“Fine with me,” she said. She was wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a twinset of smoky blue cashmere. Her hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck, secured with a barrette. She selected a cantaloupe, sniffed it, and then tucked it in her cart. She moved on, pausing at the dairy case to check the expiration date on a carton of skim milk, which she then placed in her cart. “What can I help you with?”

“Well, I’m curious. When I showed up in the office at Quorum High, didn’t it occur to you I might have been talking about Charisse?”

“Not at all. Why would it? She’s been gone for years.”

“I heard you were good friends.”

“I don’t know about ‘good’ friends. We hung out together some.”

“Did she say anything to you about leaving town?”

“I didn’t even know she was gone. It’s not like I saw her every day.”

“But once you figured it out, didn’t you worry about her?”

“Not particularly. I figured she could take care of herself.”

“Did you ever hear from her again?”

“No, but I didn’t expect to. That’s not how it was. I was a couple of years younger and we didn’t have much in common. I’ve lost touch with a lot of classmates I was closer to than her. Such is life.”

“You don’t seem upset about the murder. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Look, I’ll be honest. I’m sorry for what happened, but I’m not sad. Why would I be? I knew her four months at best.”

“Tell me about the friendship, such as it was.”

“I don’t know what to say. I thought she was funny. She didn’t care what she said and she really didn’t care what other people thought. I was feeling rebellious. She did things I didn’t have the nerve to do. I was a good girl. She was bad. I guess opposites attract.”

We turned left, ambling down an aisle stocked with canned vegetables, dried pasta, white and brown rice, and dried legumes. She picked up a package of lentils.

I said, “Do you know Pudgie Clifton?”

“Sure. He dated Justine.”

“How long did they go together?”

“A year or so, less. Personally, I thought he was a bum, but she liked him. Even after they broke up, they stayed friends.”

“He seems like an odd choice for her.”

“You should have seen the guy I dated. Talk about a misfit.”

“Did Pudgie know Cornell?”

“We all knew each other.”

“What about Frankie Miracle and Iona Mathis?”

“I’ve heard the names, but I don’t know either one.”

“Did Pudgie spend much time at your house?”

She seemed mildly baffled. “A fair amount. What makes you ask?”

“Do you think he could have stolen the Mustang from your father’s shop?”

I could see her consider. “It’s possible. He stole other cars back then.” She moved over to the shelves, choosing a can of tomato sauce and two cans of pork and beans.

“Did you suspect him at the time?”

“It might have crossed my mind.”

“Did you ever mention that to your dad?”

“No. I didn’t see Pudgie do it so why get him in trouble when I didn’t know for sure. I figured he was trying to impress Justine.”

“Hadn’t they broken up by then?”

“Well, yes, but he was hoping to get her back.”

“Did she know he took the car?”

“I don’t even know that. It’s just a guess on my part. I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“I think he not only stole the car, but drove up to Lompoc with Charisse.” I didn’t mention “dead in the trunk.”

“So what?”

“You never asked him if he knew what happened to her?”

“I’m sure if he’d known something he would have spoken up.”

“Didn’t anybody seem concerned?”

“Not really. Medora reported her missing so we all assumed the police would take care of it. I’m sorry if that sounds mean.”

By now she’d turned onto an aisle lined on both sides with freezer cases: ice creams, frozen pies, pizzas, and bags of frozen vegetables. Adrianne opened a glass door and removed a bag of baby peas.

I studied her with puzzlement. “Why do I have the feeling you know something you’re not telling me?”

“I’m sure I know lots of things I haven’t told you.”

“About Charisse.”

“I don’t want to make trouble. I told you that before.”

“Who would you be making trouble for?”

“I’m speaking in generalities, not about anyone specific.”

“Let’s hope that’s true. Thanks for your time.”

She moved on and I remained where I was, watching the efficiency with which she went about her business.

I stopped by the motel. Stacey’s car was gone. He hadn’t left me a note, so I figured I’d catch him later. I drove on over to Quorum General, where I found Dolan sleeping, his dinner tray pushed to one side. I tiptoed to his bedside and tucked one copy of the report, sealed in a manila envelope, under the edge of the blanket folded at his feet. On my way past the nurses station, I had a quick chat with Ms. Kovach, who told me he was being transferred out of CCU and onto a regular medical floor. I told her to tell him I’d been in and had left him an update at the foot of his bed.

“I’ll be sure and tell him,” she said.

As I eased out of the parking lot, Stacey was just pulling in. We both rolled down our windows and had a chat, car to car. I passed him the second copy of the notes I’d typed and included a quick account of my conversation with Adrianne, plus the gossip I’d picked up from Betty Puckett regarding Wilbur Sanders’s decampment and his subsequent bigamy.

Stacey said, “Sorry to hear Pudgie spent so much time at the McPhees. I hate rooting against the guy, but we could use a break about now.”

“So what if he knew them? He still could have stolen the car, don’t you think?”

“How’re we going to prove it? I thought the prints would turn out to be significant,” he said. “Oh, well. I’ll ask the boys to get to work on Wilbur. Shouldn’t be hard to track him down. Might as well cook his goose while we’re at it.”

“Yeah, Medora’s in bad shape. It’d be nice to see him taking some responsibility. Meanwhile, where were you? I stopped by the motel and you were gone.”

“I went over to the sheriff’s office and talked to a couple of detectives. They said they’d take a set of elimination prints on the McPhee’s if I can talk them into it.”

“You think they’ll agree?”

“I can’t think why not. By the way, I want you to go to the Baptist Church with me. It’s Easter and Edna tells me the McPhees will all be there. Two services tomorrow, but I think the nine o’clock’s our best bet. Afterward, they’re going back to Edna’s for a big Sunday dinner. Easter, I bet she does a spiral-cut ham.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She’s just like my mother. We had ham every Easter, along with yams and green beans. We’ll follow them to the house and have a quick chat with them while they’re all there together.”

“I don’t know, Stacey. Maybe you should go alone. I’ll only end up irritating Ruel.”

“I want you with me. I promise we’ll keep it brief.”

A car pulled up behind me and the driver gave a quick, polite beep of his horn.

I said, “I’ll catch you later at the motel.”

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

We ate supper in Dolan’s room, which Stacey had by now adopted as his own. Both of us sat on the king-size bed, sharing a bucket of franchised fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, and watery corn on the cob. Once we finished, I gathered the chicken bones, empty cartons, and used plasticware and tossed everything in the trash. Stacey wanted me to stay and watch a movie, but I was ready for a break. I’m not accustomed to spending so much time in the company of others. “If you need me, I’ll be in my room. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Great. I’ll knock on your door at eight. That’ll give you time to shower and get dressed.”

“Oh shoot. I just remembered. The only thing I have with me are blue jeans.”

“No problem. We don’t have to go in. We can wait in the parking lot and follow them home.”

“Why not go straight to the house?”

“What if they change their minds and decide to go out for Sunday lunch? This may be the only chance we have to talk to them together.”

“You think she’d give up the chance to cook her big Easter dinner?”

“Probably not, but I want to see the congregation all dressed up,” he said. “We used to do that as kids.”

“You’re not going to let me get out of this, are you?”

He smiled benignly. “Enjoy your evening.”

23

The phone was ringing as I unlocked my door. I dropped my bag and plucked the handset from the cradle on what must have been the fourth or fifth ring. A woman said, “Is this Kinsey?”

“Sure, who’s this?”

“Iona. My mom said you called looking for me.”

“Where are you, in Creosote?”

“Peaches. I just got in. What do you want?”

“Did you talk to Pudgie Clifton Thursday night?”

“I might have called him,” she said, cautiously. “Why do you ask?”

“Did you make arrangements to see him?”

“Why would I do that? He’s a lowlife punk.”

“His sister said you were pissed at him. What was that about?”

“None of your business. That’s between him and me.”

“All right. Let’s try this one. Your mother tells me you spent time in Lompoc as a kid. I’m wondering if you told Pudgie about the quarry up there.”

Dead silence.

“You remember telling him about that? I’m talking about the one where the girl’s body was found.”

“How would I know where the body was found?”

“Oh come on, Iona. Don’t play games with me. I don’t care if you told him. I just want the information.”

“I might have.”

“You might have, or you did?”

“All right, I did, but that was years ago. I even took him to see it once when we were out on the road.”

“Did you know Charisse Quinn?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you going to ask who she is?”

“I’m not stupid. I assume she’s the dead girl they found after Cathy Lee was killed. I asked Frankie about that and he says he had nothing to do with that. He didn’t even know her.”

“You know, he’s not stupid, either. If he killed the girl, he’s hardly going to tell you.”

“Why are you so against him? Can’t you give the guy a break? He hasn’t done anything to you.”

“This isn’t about me, Iona. It’s about Charisse. Is Frankie there by chance? I’d like to talk to him myself.”

“He took off Friday morning. He was scheduled to work Friday night and had to get back.”

“Short visit, wasn’t it?”

“So what?” she said, annoyed.

“What’d you tell him about Pudgie?”

Another silence, during which I could hear her breathing in my ear.

“Iona?”

“If you must know, I told him Pudgie’s a fuckin’ snitch. He knew somebody had pointed a finger at him. The minute you mentioned Pudgie, I figured it was him.”

“Is that why you were so pissed at him?”

“I’m not the only one. Frankie’s pissed about it, too. Pudgie cut a deal for himself by blaming Frankie for what happened to that girl.”

I felt a whisper of fear, like a millipede, running down my back. “Where’d you get that?”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“Yes it is, because Frankie checked it out. He knows this guy at the county jail who’s serving thirty days? The guy told him Pudgie had a visitor—this woman private eye, who was asking about the murder—that was you, right?”

“Of course, but Pudgie never made a deal.”

“Yes, he did. You know how I know? He got out of jail the very next day. The guy said.”

“Because his sentence was up. He’d served his time and he was released.”

“Nuhn-un. No way. Pudgie went back to his cell block and bragged to everyone. He said you were doing something special for him. Next thing you know, he got out.”

“He asked me for cigarettes and I said no. That’s all it was. There wasn’t any deal.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Tell me another one.”

“Would you listen to me? Iona, think about this. I don’t have the authority to get him out. How would I do that?”

“That’s not what the guy said.”

“Well, the guy got it wrong. I don’t have the power to make a deal with anyone. I’m not a cop. I’m a private citizen just like you.”

She said, “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” I snapped. “Next time you talk to Frankie, would you set him straight? If he needs to hear it from me, he can call. In the meantime, lay off Pudgie. He didn’t do a thing.”

Exasperated, I returned the handset to the cradle. All we needed was Frankie Miracle on a rampage. I had to admit I was really splitting hairs on this one. Pudgie had most certainly pointed a finger at Frankie, but not in order to make a deal for himself. He was hoping to divert our attention, which he’d succeeded in doing, but only temporarily. Now that his fingerprints had shown up on the stolen vehicle, the focus had shifted back to him. His attempt to implicate Frankie only made his own behavior the more suspect, so in the end, his scheme backfired. Unfortunately, I didn’t credit Frankie with an appreciation of the finer points of finking. To him, a rat was a rat. I checked my notes and picked up the phone again, dialing Felicia Clifton’s number in Creosote. I didn’t even hear the line ring on her end before she said, “Hello?”

“Felicia? Kinsey Millhone. How are you?”

“Not good. Cedric hasn’t come home and I’m worried sick about him.”

“He hasn’t been gone that long, has he? You said he left the house this morning. That’s only a few hours.”

“Or he could have gone out last night. All I know is he wasn’t here when I got up. Either way, he should have checked in by now. This is not like him.”

“Did you call the tavern? The bartender said he was always there for Happy Hour.”

“Jerry hasn’t seen him either. I don’t know where he could have gone.”

“Maybe he met a girl and went home with her.”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t give him any money so he didn’t even have enough to buy drinks. My car’s still here so he has to be on foot. He could have walked to the tavern, but not anywhere else. You’ve seen this town. We’re out here in the middle of nowhere and everything shuts down at six.”

“Have you tried the police?”

“I suppose I could do that,” she said reluctantly. “I tried the two hospitals—the one in Quorum and the other one in Blythe—but neither has a record of him.”

“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“Would he skip town without telling you?”

“You mean take off for good? Why would he do that?”

“Ah. He’s in a bit of trouble with Frankie Miracle, Iona’s ex.”

“Shit. Does Pudgie know that?”

“I’m sure he’s well aware of it. So maybe he decided to lay low.”

“Without any money, where could he go?”

“Good question. Look, why not try the police? Maybe he was picked up. For all you know, he’s sitting in jail.”

“Trust me, if that was true, he would have hit me up for bail.”

“Well, I hope he shows soon, but if he doesn’t, let me know. Maybe we can come up with another idea.”

“You really think he’s okay?”

“I’m sure he’s fine, but I agree it’s worrisome,” I said. We chatted briefly, trying to boost each other’s confidence. Once I hung up, I thought, Who am I trying to kid? I couldn’t believe Frankie would risk jail time on a charge of assault and battery (or worse), but he wasn’t exactly famous for his impulse control. Now that Iona had set him off, who knew what he’d do?

Sunday morning at 8:45, Stacey and I were staked out in the parking lot of the Quorum Baptist Church. It was Easter and most of the women and children we’d seen were decked out in pastel suits and floral dresses, wearing fresh corsages, their hats atremble with artificial flowers. The McPhees pulled into the church parking lot in three separate cars. We’d been there for half an hour, the rental tucked discreetly behind a three-foot hedge. I was still arguing it made more sense to go straight to the house, but I think Stacey preferred the drama of doing it this way. The elder McPhees arrived first. They parked and got out, waiting while Adrianne turned in behind them and parked her car close by. Shortly afterward, Justine and Cornell arrived with their three girls. Dressed in their Sunday best, the eight of them looked like a picture-book family. Edna wore a hat. Ruel’s hair was slicked down with gel, and his light-blue suit was only slightly too big. The three girls, in matching outfits, complete with hats and white cotton gloves, bypassed the sanctuary and went into the Sunday School building attached at one end.

Stacey and I remained where we were. Some of the church windows were open, and we were treated to organ music and an assortment of hymns. The sermon itself didn’t carry that far. Stacey had bought a copy of the Palo Verde Valley Times, and while the service went on, we occupied ourselves with the local news. He said, “What’d you hear from Pudgie?”

“Not a word. I called last night, but Felicia said he hadn’t showed. I’ll call again this afternoon. With luck, he’ll be back and we can talk to him. I’ll bet you money he has a story cooked up to explain his prints on the Mustang.”

I read the front section and the funnies, and Stacey entertained himself by reading aloud ads for cheap desert real estate. I looked up. “You ought to do it, Stacey. Now that you’re a homeless person, you could live down here.”

“Too hot. I’ve been thinking to ask Dolan about moving in with him.”

“Hey, I like that. He needs someone to ride herd on his profligate lifestyle.”

“I’d have to sneak out for junk food. That’s the only thing worries me.” With a rattle, Stacey flipped the page, his attention shifting to sports.

“It wouldn’t hurt you to cut down.”

“Speaking of which, what would you like to try next? Taco Bell, Long John Silver’s, or Jack in the Box?”

“I thought we were going to McPhee’s.”

“I’m talking about later. A fella has to eat.”

After the church service ended, we waited until the family headed out, and we followed them to the house. Ruel and Edna turned off a block early. “What’s that about? Are they ducking us?” I asked, peering back at them.

“They do that every week—visit a shut-in before Sunday lunch.”

“You’re too much,” I said. “Is there anything you don’t know?”

Justine let us in. She and Adrianne were apparently in charge of the kitchen until Edna got home. The house smelled of the baked ham she must have put in the oven before she left for church. I detected whiffs of pineapple and brown sugar and the burnt sugar smell of baking sweet potatoes oozing sap onto the oven floor. Justine’s girls had settled at the coffee table in the living room, playing a board game with only minor squabbling. I could see their Easter baskets on the floor where they’d left them. Judging from the bits of crumpled foil, it looked as though the girls had already begun to sample the hollow chocolate bunnies and foil-wrapped chocolate eggs. All three had received bright yellow plush ducks. The dining room table had been set with the good china. The centerpiece was an enormous arrangement of Easter lilies I could smell from where I stood.

Justine proceeded down the hall ahead of us. “We’re out here in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on lunch.”

“No problem,” Stacey said as we followed her.

The kitchen was densely heated, in part by the kettle of green beans simmering on the stove. Of course, I was starving, hoping to get on with this so Stacey and I could hit the junk food circuit. I’d already decided it wasn’t my job to help Stacey reform. I’d set him on this path so I might as well keep him company while he stuffed himself.

Adrianne stood at the counter, twisting plastic ice cube trays so the cubes dropped neatly into a big clear-glass pitcher. She passed each empty tray to Cornell, who refilled it after she handed it to him. He delivered the last tray to the freezer and then picked up a dish towel and dried his hands. In the meantime, Justine was setting out salad plates, arranging a lettuce leaf on each. She opened the refrigerator and removed a Tupperware Jell-O mold, which she ran briefly under hot water at the sink. Over her shoulder she said to Stacey, “What did you want?”

“I was hoping your parents would be here so I wouldn’t have to repeat myself. I don’t know if Lieutenant Dolan mentioned this, but we’re going to need a set of fingerprints from each of you. Detective Bancroft at the Sheriff’s Department said she’d look for you first thing tomorrow morning.”

Cornell leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. He’d taken off his sport coat and loosened his tie. “What’s this about?”

“Elimination purposes. Any one of you might’ve left prints on the Mustang. This way, if we come up with latents, we’ll have something to compare ’em to. Saves time and aggravation.”

“We’re supposed to get inked and rolled like a bunch of criminals?” Cornell asked.

“Well, no sir. Not at all. This is strictly routine, but it’s a big help to us. Lieutenant Dolan would have told you himself, but he ended up at Quorum General. I suppose you heard about that.”

Cornell wasn’t to be distracted by Dolan’s medical woes. “What if we say no?”

“I can’t think why you would. It’s common practice.”

“Well, it’s not common for me.”

Adrianne looked at him. “Oh, just do it, Cornell. Why are you kicking up a fuss?”

“He’s not kicking up a fuss,” Justine said. “He’s asking why we have to agree to this crap.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it ‘crap,’” Stacey said. “Left up to me, I’d let the matter slide, but Dolan seems to think it’s a good idea. He’s the boss on this one. Only takes a couple minutes and the place can’t be any more than ten blocks away. If you want, I’ll drive you over and bring you back when you’re done.”

“It isn’t that,” Cornell said.

“Then what?” Adrianne said. “Why are you acting like this?”

“I wasn’t talking to you. I want your opinion, I can ask.”

“Excuse the heck out of me.”

“Look, I’ll go down there, okay? I just don’t like being told what to do.”

Stacey said, “Tell you what. I’ve got an inkless pad in the car. Inked prints are superior, but I can see your point. We can take care of it right now if you’d prefer.”

“Skip it. I’ll go. It just bugs me, that’s all.”

“We appreciate that. I’ll tell the detective the family’s coming in.”

“Wait a minute. Mom and Dad have to go, too?”

“Since the vehicle belongs to your dad, it wouldn’t be unusual to find his prints on it. It’s the same with your mom. No point in chasing our tails if there’s an obvious explanation.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Cornell said. He tossed the dish towel on the counter and went out the back door, letting it bang shut behind him. I’d have bet serious money he’d be lighting a cigarette to calm himself.

His sister stared after him. “What’s his problem?”

“Just drop it. He’s in a bad mood,” Justine said.

Adrianne caught my eye briefly and then looked away.

Stacey and I went to Long John Silver’s for lunch, this time swooning over crisp-fried fish and chips doused in puckery vinegar the color of iced tea. Afterward, we stopped by Quorum General to visit Dolan. I hadn’t seen him since Friday night and I was amazed at his progress. He was out wandering the hall, wearing a pair of paper slippers and a light cotton robe over his hospital gown. He was freshly showered and shaved, his hair still damp and neatly combed to one side.

As soon as he saw us he said, “Let’s use the waiting room at the end of the hall. I’m sick of being cooped up.”

I said, “You look great.”

“I’m lobbying the doc to let me out of here.” Dolan seemed to shuffle, but it may have been the only way to keep the slippers on his feet.

“What’s the deal at this point?”

“Possibly tomorrow. I’m supposed to start cardiac rehab and he thinks I’m better off doing that on home turf,” he said. “Joe Mandel called me this morning with good news. They picked up the guy on that triple homicide.”

Stacey said, “Good dang deal. Now they can concentrate on us.”

We had the waiting room to ourselves. Up in one corner, a wall-mounted color TV was tuned to an evangelist, the sound turned down low. There was a white-robed choir behind him and I watched the vigor with which they sang. Lieutenant Dolan seemed restless, but I thought it was probably the lack of cigarettes. For him, work and the act of smoking were so closely connected it was hard to do one without the other. We chatted about the case. None of us ever tired of rehashing the facts, though there was nothing new to add.

He said, “Right now, Pudgie’s our priority. Time to lean on that guy.”

“Waste of time,” Stacey said. “He’s an old family friend. His prints are easy to explain. Might be bullshit, but nothing we can prove either way.”

We moved on to idle chitchat until Dolan’s energy began to flag. We parted company soon afterward.

Stacey and I spent the remainder of Sunday afternoon in our separate rooms. I don’t know how he occupied his time. I read my book, napped, and trimmed my hair with my trusty pair of nail scissors. At 6:00, we went out for another round of junk food, this time Taco Bell. I was beginning to crave alfalfa sprouts and carrot juice; anything without additives, preservatives, or grease. On the other hand, the color had returned to Stacey’s cheeks and I’d have been willing to swear he’d gained a pound or two since he arrived.

Dolan was released from the hospital late Monday afternoon just as the dinner trays were coming out. Stacey and I arrived on the floor at 5:00 and waited with patience while Dolan’s doctor reviewed his chart and lectured him at length about the importance of staying off cigarettes, eating properly, and initiating a program of moderate exercise. By the time we saw him, he was dressed in street clothes and eager to be gone.

We tucked him in the front seat of Stacey’s rental car while I climbed in the back. He carried a manila envelope with copies of the ER report, his EKGs, and his record of treatment. As Stacey turned the key in the ignition, Dolan said, “Bunch of bunk. They exaggerate this stuff, trying to keep you in line. I don’t see what’s so bad about an occasional smoke.”

“Don’t start on that. You do what they say.”

“How about I’ll be as compliant as you were? As I remember it, you did what suited you and to hell with them.”

Stacey turned off the key and threw his hands up. “That’s it. We’re going right back upstairs and talk to the doctor.”

“What’s the matter with you? I said I’d do as I’m told…in the main. Now start the car and let’s go. I’m not supposed to be upset. It says so right here,” he said, rattling his envelope.

“Does not. I read that myself.”

“You read my medical records?”

“Sure. The chart was in the slot on your door. I knew you’d lie about things.”

I leaned forward, resting my arms on the front seat between them. “Guys, if you two are going to bicker, I’ll get out and walk.”

All three of us were silent while they thought about that.

Finally, Dolan said, “Oh, all right. This is making my blood pressure go up.”

At the Quorum Inn over dinner, Dolan’s mood improved and the tension between them eased. Dolan made a pious display of ordering broiled fish with lemon, steamed vegetables, a plain green salad, and a glass of red wine, which he swore he was allowed. After our day of junk food, Stacey and I both ate broiled chicken, salad, and the same steamed vegetables. We all pretended to enjoy the dinner more than we did. By the time our decaf coffee arrived, it was clear we’d run out of conversation. In the morning, Stacey would drive Dolan back to Santa Teresa in the rental car, leaving Dolan’s for me. The case had sailed into one of those inevitable calms. We were waiting for paperwork, waiting for test results, waiting for comparison prints; in short, waiting for a break that might never come. I probably should have headed home at the same time they did. I’d certainly join them in a day or two, if nothing further developed.

I said, “In the meantime, what’s left? I don’t want to sit here idle.”

Dolan said, “Just don’t get in trouble.”

“How could I do that? There’s nothing going on.”

Tuesday morning, I saw them off at 8:00, giving a final wave as Stacey turned out of the parking lot. I went back to my room, feeling a mild depression mixed with relief at being on my own again. I usually experienced a similar reaction after Robert Dietz had been with me and finally hit the road. It’s hard to be the one left behind. If I were home, I’d clean house, but in the confines of the motel, I couldn’t even do that. I gathered my wee pile of laundry, rooted in the bottom of my bag for loose change, and walked to the Laundromat half a block away. There’s no activity more profoundly boring than sitting in a Laundromat, waiting for the washer and dryer to click through their cycles from beginning to end. If you dared leave your clothes, thinking to return later when the load was done, someone would steal them or pull them out of the machines and leave them in a heap. I sat and did surveillance on my own underwear. It beat doing a records search, but not by much.

24

I hadn’t been back from the Laundromat for more than ten minutes when I heard a knock on my door. I peered through the fisheye and saw Felicia Clifton standing outside, staring off across the parking lot. I opened the door. The face she turned to me was pale and undefined, free of makeup. Her eyes, without the black liner and false lashes, were actually prettier, though not nearly as large or as vivid. She wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and running shoes without socks, as though she’d dressed in haste. Her red hair was pulled back in a jumbled ponytail.

“This is a pleasant surprise. Come in.”

She stepped in, reaching out a hand to steady herself. At first I thought she was drunk, but I realized within seconds, she was shaken and upset. “Felicia, what’s wrong? Is it Pudgie?”

She nodded mutely. I moved her to one side and closed the door after her, saying, “Hey, you’re safe. You’re fine. Take your time.”

She sank onto the desk chair, putting her head between her knees as though on the verge of passing out.

So far, I didn’t like the way the conversation was shaping up. I went into the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth. I rung it out with cold water and carried back to her. She took it and pressed it to her face. She made a sound that was half-sigh and half-moan.

I sat down at the foot of the king-size bed, almost knee to knee with her. “Is he all right?” From the way she was behaving, I suspected he was dead, but I was unwilling to voice that possibility until she did.

“They called at seven. They think it’s him. They need someone to look, but I can’t.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. They told me to come in.”

“Where, the Sheriff’s Department downtown?”

She nodded. “This is bad. He’s been gone for days. If he was hurt, they wouldn’t ask me to come in, would they? They’d tell me where he was.”

“You don’t know that for sure. Did they call you at work?”

“I was still at home. I don’t start until eight. I was having a cup of coffee in my robe when the phone rang. I don’t even know how I got here. I remember getting in the car, but I don’t remember the drive.”

“We’ll go. Leave your car where it is and we’ll take mine. Just let me grab my things. In the meantime, breathe.”

I breathed in and out for her, demonstrating the process. I knew her anxiety was such that she’d end up holding her breath. Jacket and bag in hand, I ushered her out and pulled the door shut behind us. She didn’t have a purse and her hands were shaking so badly the car keys she carried jingled like a length of chain. I put a hand out to still them. She looked at me in surprise and then stared down at the keys as though she’d never seen them before. She tucked them in her jeans. I opened the passenger door for her, then circled the car and slipped in under the wheel. Once I started the car, I turned the heat on full blast. The day wasn’t cold, but she was so tense I knew she’d be feeling chilled. She sat, shoulders hunched, pressing her hands between her knees, while she shook like a dog on the way to the vet’s.

The Police Department and Sheriff’s Department were housed together in a two-story brick building, which, like everything else in Quorum, was hardly more than seven blocks away. I found parking on the street and went around to the passenger door to help her out. Once she was on her feet, she regained some of her composure. I knew she was still rattled, but something about being in motion helped her assume control. So far, she really hadn’t heard any bad news. It was the anticipation that was crushing her.

We went into the station. I had Felicia take a seat on a wooden bench in the corridor while I went into the office. This was strictly no-fuss decor: a counter, plain beige floor tile, gray metal desks, rolling swivel chairs, and government-issue gray filing cabinets. Cables and connecting wires ran in a tangle from the backs of the computers and down behind the desks. A cork bulletin board was littered with memos, notices, and official communications I couldn’t read from where I stood. There were also framed color photographs of the Riverside County sheriff, the governor of California, and the president of the United States.

I told the uniformed deputy at the desk who Felicia was and why we were there. He referred me in turn to a Detective Lassiter, who emerged from the inner office to have a chat with me. He was in his forties, clean-shaven, trim, and prematurely gray. He was dressed in civilian clothes, gun and holster visible under his dark gray sport coat. He kept his voice low while he detailed the information he’d received. “We got a call from a woman who lives out on Highway 78, four miles this side of Hazelwood Springs. Are you familiar with the area?”

“I know the section of the road you mean.”

“There are coyotes in the hills near her property, so she leaves her dog inside unless she can be in the yard to keep an eye on him. Yesterday, the trash haulers left the gate open and the dog escaped. He was gone all night and when he came back this morning he was dragging a bone. Actually, an arm. The deputy remembered Felicia’s call about Cedric. Most of us know him, but we want someone else to take a look.”

“I really only met him once and I’m not sure I’d recognize his arm. Unless it’s the one with all the tattoos,” I added. I had a quick vision of his left arm from the one and only time I’d seen him at the Santa Teresa county jail. On it, he’d had a tattoo of a big-breasted woman with long, flowing black hair. In addition, he had a spiderweb, the sombrero-clad skull, and a pornographic sex act he would have been well advised to have tattooed on his butt.

“We had a warrant out on him for a traffic-related felony—this was 1981. Along with his mug shot we have a description of his tattoos that seems to match.”

“Can’t you use the hand to roll a set of prints?”

“Most of the fingers have been chewed, but we’ll try that as soon as the coroner’s done whatever he needs to do.”

“Where’s the rest of him?”

“That’s just it. We don’t know.”

I stared at him, blinking, startled by the notion that had just popped into my head. “I might.”

Intuition is odd. After one of those gut-level leaps, you can sometimes go back and trace the trajectory—how this thought or observation and yet another idea have somehow fused at the bottom of your brain to form the insight that suddenly rockets into view. On other occasions, intuition is just that—a flash of information that reaches us without any conscious reasoning. What I remembered was the sound of plastic being flapped by the wind, and a coyote leisurely stripping flesh from what I’d assumed at the time was a recent kill. “I think he’s at the Tuley-Belle. The scavengers have been dining on him for days.”

Felicia and I sat in the car for an hour on the upwind side of the abandoned complex. By now, the odor of putrefying flesh was unmistakable, as easily identified as the smell of skunk. We waited while the coroner examined the remains. The coyotes must have picked up on the scent of blood within hours, and many of Pudgie’s facial features had apparently been ravaged. It was that aspect of his death that seemed to offend even the most cynical of the officers present. Pudgie’s troubles with the law had occurred with a frequency that had created something of a bond with many of the deputies. Granted, he was a screwup, but he was never vicious or depraved. He was simply one of those guys for whom crime came more easily than righteous effort.

Eventually, Detective Lassiter came over to the car and asked Felicia if she wanted to see the body. “He’s not in good shape, but you’re entitled to see him. I don’t want you left with any doubts about this.”

She glanced at me. “You go. I won’t look if it’s that bad.”

It was.

Pudgie’s body had been covered with a length of opaque plastic sheeting, weighted with rocks, and left in a shallow depression out behind the very building I’d toured. Even as I approached the area with Detective Lassiter, I could hear the wind pick up a corner of the plastic and flap it like a rag.

I said, “Where’d the plastic come from?”

“It was tacked across a doorway at the rear of this wing. You can still see the remnants where it was torn from the door frame.”

The glimpse I had of the body was sufficient to confirm that it was Pudgie. No surprise on that score. The cause of death was blunt-force trauma: repeated blows to the head that had fractured his skull and left a lot of brain matter exposed.

“What about the murder weapon?”

“We’re looking for that now.”

There was no immediate estimate as to time of death. That would wait until the coroner did the postmortem. Felicia had last seen him Friday night between 9:30 and 10:00 when she’d turned off the TV and had gone to bed. He might well have been killed that night, though it was unclear how he got to the Tuley-Belle. Odds were someone had picked him up in Creosote and had driven him out here—probably someone he trusted, or he wouldn’t have agreed to go. I wondered how long it had taken the coyotes to arrive, their knives and forks at the ready, bibs tucked under their little hairy chins. The hawks and crows, foxes and bobcats would have waited their turns. Nature is generous. Pudgie, in death, was a veritable feast.

The area had been secured. Anyone not directly involved was kept at a distance to preclude contamination of the scene. The coroner’s van was parked close by. Detective Lassiter had organized the deputies and they’d started a grid search, looking for additional bones and body parts as well as the murder weapon and any evidence the killer might have left behind. Deputy Chilton, whom I’d met at the McPhees’, was one of the men combing the surrounding area. Felicia and I sat in Dolan’s car. Technically, she wasn’t required to be there at all, and I suspect the detective would have preferred that I ferry her home. At the station, while we’d waited, they’d sent a unit out to the Tuley-Belle to check my guess. The deputy had spotted Pudgie’s body and called in the report. Felicia had been given a vague accounting, enough to know it was her brother and the condition of his body poor. She’d insisted on coming. He was far beyond rescue, but she kept her vigil nonetheless.

I watched the crime scene activity as if it were a movie I’d already seen. The details sometimes varied, but the plot was always the same. I felt sick at heart. I avoided thinking about the coyotes and the sounds I’d heard on the two occasions I’d been at the Tuley-Belle. There was no doubt in my mind that he was dead by then. I couldn’t have saved him, but I might have prevented some of the mauling that came later. The fact that Pudgie was killed here lent support to my suspicion that Charisse had been killed at this location as well.

At 2:00, Detective Lassiter crossed the wide unpaved parking area and again headed in our direction. I got out of the car and went to meet him midway. “They’re getting ready to transport the body. You might have Felicia call the mortuary in Quorum. Once the autopsy’s done, we’ll release the body to them unless she’s made other arrangements. You might ask if she has a pastor she wants us to notify.”

“Sure. I’ll see what she says.”

“You’re down here with Stacey Oliphant?”

“Right. He and Lieutenant Dolan are on their way back to Santa Teresa. I was scheduled to follow, but under the circumstances, I’ll stay.”

“We’ll operate on the assumption the two murders are related unless we find out otherwise. I imagine Santa Teresa will want to send down a couple of their guys.”

“Most certainly,” I said. I gave him my summary of what had brought us to Quorum and what we’d learned. Since Stacey had relayed much of the same information, I skimmed across events, only filling in details when I came to something he hadn’t heard, Frankie Miracle being prime. I said, “Lieutenant Dolan and I dropped in on his ex-wife in Peaches as we were heading down to the desert. Her name’s Iona Mathis.”

“We’re familiar with her,” he said. “She and my niece belong to the same church, or at least they did.”

“Yeah, well her mom says she drove to Santa Teresa to see Frankie as soon as we left. I thought he drove back with her, but I’m not sure. She claims he was at work Friday night in Santa Teresa.”

“Easy enough to check. You know the company?”

“I don’t, but I’m sure Stacey or Dolan will know. You might want to talk to Iona as well. She called Pudgie Thursday night and was really pissed off, from what Felicia said.” I made a verbal detour, telling him about Iona’s belief that Pudgie’d made a deal for himself at Frankie’s expense. “Felicia doesn’t know if Pudgie went out late Friday night or first thing Saturday morning. She told me a call came in before Iona’s, but she has no idea who it was. He answered that one himself.”

“I’ll talk to Iona soon…maybe later today. Where will you be?”

I told him where I was staying. “I’ll call the guys as soon as I get back to the motel. This business with Pudgie will be a blow. I’m sure Stacey told you they found his prints on the Mustang. We all assumed he either killed her himself or else knew who did. Now it looks like someone killed him to shut him up.”

“The downside of being an accessory,” Lassiter said. “Meanwhile, if anything comes up, let us know.”

I drove Felicia back to the motel. She was quiet, leaning her head against the seat with her eyes half-closed. She had a tissue in one hand, and I could see her dab at her eyes occasionally. Her lids were swollen and her face was splotchy, her red hair lusterless as though dulled by grief. Whatever weeping she did was silent. Now that she knew the worst, there was something passive in her response, a resignation she must have harbored for years, waiting for the blow.

Finally, I said, “If it’s any consolation, people did care about him.”

She turned and smiled wanly. “You think? I hope you’re right about that. He had a sorry life; in jail more times than he was out. Makes you wonder what it means.”

“I’ve given up trying to figure that out. Just don’t blame yourself.”

“I do in some ways. I’ll always think I could have done a better job with him. Trouble is, I don’t know if I was too tough on him or not tough enough.”

“Pudgie made his choices. It’s not your responsibility.”

“You know something? I don’t care what he did. He was decent to me. He might have sponged, but he never ripped me off, you know? He’s my baby brother and I loved him.”

“I know. You belong to a church? I’d be happy to make some calls.”

“In a town this size, the word’s already out. The minister will probably already be there by the time I get home. I just hope I don’t fall apart. This is hard enough.”

At the motel, I parked near her car and the two of us got out. I gave her a hug. She clung to me briefly. Then she pulled back, eyes brimming, and wiped her nose on a tissue. “Don’t be too nice. It only makes it worse,” she said.

“You’re okay to drive?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

I let myself into my room. The maid had come and gone, so my towels were fresh and my bed had been neatly made. I stretched out, reaching for the phone next to my book on the bed table. Stacey’s number was a disconnect. I had to smile at that. Since he’d been convinced he was dying, he probably hadn’t worried much about utility bills. I called Dolan’s number and left a message, asking one or the other of them to give me a call as soon as they rolled in. It was 3:00 by then and even if they’d stopped for lunch, they should arrive in Santa Teresa within the hour. I didn’t dare leave the room, for fear I’d miss their call. I tried reading, but I found myself, not surprisingly, brooding about Pudgie’s death. I thought about my conversation with Iona Mathis, wondering how she’d come up with that cockamamie notion that I’d made a deal with Pudgie to get him out of jail. I hoped her misconceptions hadn’t contributed to his death. If so, then I bore a certain responsibility for what had happened to him. The thought made me ill.

I took my shoes off and slid under the covers, pulling the spread over me. I picked up my book and read for a while, hoping to distract myself. I was warm. The room was quiet. I found myself dipping into sleep so that when the phone finally rang, I jumped, snatching up the handset while my heart thumped. The surge of adrenaline peaked and receded. It was Dolan.

I sat up and trailed my feet over the side of the bed, rubbing my face while I suppressed a yawn. “How was the trip? You sound tired.”

“I’ve felt perkier,” he said. “Stacey dropped me off half an hour ago. He’s taking a run to the Sheriff’s Department to talk to Mandel. On his way back, he plans to stop by his apartment and pick up his things. I guess we’ll think about dinner after that.”

“Is he staying with you?”

“Temporarily. You know the lease is up on his place and he has to be out by the end of the month. He assumed he’d be six feet underground by then, but I guess the gods fooled him. I asked if he wanted to stay here until he finds some place else. I can use the company.”

“Nice. That should benefit both of you if you can keep from quarreling.”

Dolan had the good grace to laugh. “We don’t quarrel. We disagree,” he said. “What about things on your end? We felt bad you got stuck holding the proverbial bag. Did you manage to amuse yourself?”

“Funny you should ask.” And then I told him about Pudgie’s death, which we discussed in detail. In the midst of dissecting events, Dolan said, “Hang on a second. Stacey just came in. I want to tell him about this.”

He put his hand across the mouthpiece to spare me the replay while he brought Stacey up to speed. Even in its muffled form, I could hear Stacey’s expletives.

He took the handset from Dolan. “That’s the last time I’m leaving you. What the hell’s going on?”

“You know as much as I do.”

He had his own set of questions about Pudgie, and then we chatted about Frankie. He said they’d do what they could to track him down and see if he could account for his whereabouts from Friday morning on. “Good news on this end. Charisse’s dental chart is a match for Jane Doe’s, so at least we nailed that down. Forensics is just about willing to swear the hairs we recovered belong to her as well. Now all we need is a match on that second set of prints and we may be in business. Have the McPhees gone in?”

“I assume so. I’ll check tomorrow morning to make sure,” I said. “When are you planning to drive back?”

“Soon as I can. I’ll hit the road the minute things here are under control.”

I heard Dolan rumbling in the background.

Stacey said, “Oh, right. Dolan left his gun in the trunk of his car. He wants to know if it’s still there.”

“I haven’t had occasion to open the trunk, but I’ll look when I can. What’s he want me to do with it?”

Dolan said something to Stacey.

“He says just make sure you get it back to him as soon as you get home.”

“Of course.”

Dolan said something else to him that I couldn’t make out.

Stacey said, “Hang on a minute.” And to Dolan, “Damn it! Would you quit talking to me when I’m on the phone with her?”

More mumbling from Dolan.

“Horsepucky. You will not.” Stacey returned. “Guy’s driving me nuts. He says he’ll do fine on his own, but he’s full of shit. Minute my back is turned, he’ll run out and buy himself a pack of cigarettes. They oughta lock him up.”

I heard a door slam in the background.

“Same to you, bub!” Stacey yelled. “Anyway, I’ll call and let you know when I’m hitting the road. You can talk to the desk clerk and reserve a room.”

After we hung up, I put a call through to Henry. His machine picked up. I left a message, telling him I missed him and that I’d call back. I read for another hour or so and then ordered a pizza. I didn’t have the heart to go out and eat a proper meal by myself. Ordinarily, I like eating in a restaurant alone. But with Stacey and Dolan gone, the idea seemed alien. Pudgie’s murder had left me spooked. It was one thing dealing with a murder that had happened eighteen years before. Whatever the motivation, time had provided a lengthy cooling-off period. Life had gone on. The killer had managed to strike once and get away with it. I’d assumed there wouldn’t be a reason to kill again, but Pudgie’s death made it obvious how wrong I was. The stakes were still high. In the intervening years, someone had enjoyed a life that was built on a lie. Now we’d come along threatening the status quo.

I ate my supper and tossed the box in the trash. I watched a couple of television shows with annoying laugh tracks. At 9:00, I decided I might as well work. Keeping a systematic set of notes has its soothing side effects. I sat down at the desk and opened the drawer.

Things had been moved.

I stared and I then looked around the room, wondering if someone had come in. Not if. I wondered who’d come in and handled the contents of the drawer. The last time I’d taken notes must have been Saturday afternoon. Stacey and I had been to Creosote, stopping off at the Tuley-Belle on the way home. Once at the motel, we’d decided to take a break. I’d had a phone chat with Betty Puckett from Lockaby and then I’d showered, dressed, and started jotting down the tidbits—events, questions, and conversations. At the end of that session, I’d put a rubber band around my index cards and tossed them in the drawer on top of the murder book. Now they were underneath. It seemed a small matter, but my memory was distinct.

I picked up a pen and used it to lift one corner of the murder book so I could slide the cards out. I held the stack along the edges while I peeled off the rubber band. I’d left the top card upside down as a reminder to myself to have a second chat with Medora Sanders. Now the card was reversed, lined up in the same direction as all the other note cards.

Someone had been in here. Someone had handled the murder book and read my notes.

I got up abruptly, almost as though a shock had been administered through the seat of the chair. I circled the room, carefully scrutinizing every square foot of it. My duffel and the family photo album were in the closet untouched. Except for what was in the drawer, everything else was as I remembered it. Had the maid tidied up? If so, why would she stop and read the index cards? The maid I’d chatted with had barely spoken English. It could have been another employee. There were probably different women who worked weekday and weekend shifts. Maybe the last maid who’d cleaned my room had been curious and had helped herself, thinking I’d never know. I had trouble believing it, but I couldn’t prove otherwise.

I rebanded the cards and returned them, using the tip of my pen to push the drawer shut. I didn’t think it would occur to anyone that I’d have such a clear recollection of how the contents of the drawer had been left. If it wasn’t the maid, then how had entry been effected? The room door was kept locked. I went into the bathroom and pulled a tissue from the box, then moved to the door and used the tissue to turn the knob. I examined the exterior of the door, the escutcheon and the face plate, but there were no gouges or scratches, and no evidence of forced entry. The windows were latched on the inside and showed no indications of tampering.

On the other hand, the means of access could have been simple. While the maid had been cleaning the room on Saturday, she’d left my door propped open with the pile of dirty sheets. She’d had her radio on in the bathroom, music blaring while she cleaned the toilet and the sink. Anyone could have slipped in and searched the desk, which was just inside the door. There wouldn’t have been time to read the murder book itself, but the cards were more important. My notes reflected everything I knew about the case and everything I considered relevant. By perusing my notes, someone could figure out where I’d been, who I’d talked to, and what I intended to do. There was an obvious advantage to anticipating my next move. Someone could step in before I’d had the chance to get the information I needed.

I closed the door and went back to the desk. I studied the stack of cards with Medora’s name on top. I didn’t think she knew anything she hadn’t told me before, but it might be smart to check with her. Briefly, I considered calling Detective Lassiter or someone else at the local Sheriff’s Department, but what was I supposed to say? My stack of index cards has been moved an inch? Gasp! I didn’t think they’d rush right out and dust for prints. At best, they’d come up with the same suggestion I had, that the maid had opened and closed the drawer in the process of cleaning my room. Big deal. Aside from the rearrangement of my belongings (which they’d have to take my word for), there wasn’t any evidence of a break-in. The room hadn’t been vandalized and nothing had been stolen, so from their perspective, no crime had been committed.

I grabbed my bag and my bomber jacket, preparing to leave. I was almost out the door when something occurred to me. I retrieved my family album from the closet and then crossed to the desk drawer and removed the murder book and the index cards. I went out, making sure the door was secured behind me. I locked my armload of valuables in the trunk of Dolan’s car and then headed for Medora’s house. I was heartened by the lingering image of Dolan’s Smith & Wesson in the trunk.

25

The night was cold and windy, but the drive was so brief, there wasn’t time enough for Dolan’s heater to kick in. There was scarcely a building in Quorum more than two stories tall, so there wasn’t much protection from the blasts of chill air sweeping in off the desert. The sky was a brittle black and the presence of stars wasn’t as comforting as one might hope. Nature has her little ways of reminding us how small and frail we are. Our existence is temporary while hers will go on long after our poor flesh has failed.

I parked in Medora’s driveway. The house was dark except for one lamp in the living room. As I crossed the patchy stretch of grass I realized the front door was standing open. I could see the vertical strip of dull light expand and contract as the wind ebbed and flowed. I hesitated and then knocked on the screen door frame. “Medora?”

There was no sound from inside. I opened the screen door and called through the opening. “Medora?”

I didn’t like the idea of intruding, but this was odd, especially given my suspicions about an intruder of my own. If someone had read my notes and spotted her name, her house might well be the next stop. I pushed the door open and eased in, closing it behind me. The room was dark except for a small table lamp. I could see Medora on the couch, lying on her back, her hands folded across her chest. I drew closer. She was snoring, her every exhalation infused with the fumes of metabolizing alcohol. If she woke to find me hovering she’d be startled, but I didn’t want to leave until I knew she was okay. A half-smoked cigarette, resting on the lip of the ashtray, had burned down to an inch of ash before it had gone out. The ice in her highball glass had long since melted away. Her prescription pill bottles appeared to be full and the caps were in place. At least she hadn’t overdosed in any obvious way, though I knew her practice of mixing whiskey with painkillers was dangerous.

The house was cold and I could feel a breeze stirring. I crossed to the kitchen and flipped on the light. The back door stood open, creating a cross-ventilation that had drained all the heat from the rooms. I lifted my head and scanned the silence for any hint of sound. I remained where I was and did a visual survey. The back door was intact—no splintered wood, no shattered framing, and no broken glass. The windows were shut and the latches turned to the locked position. The kitchen counters were crowded with canned goods, boxes of cereal and crackers, packages of paper napkins, toilet tissue, paper towels, and cleaning products. It looked as if the dishes hadn’t been done in a week, though all she seemed to eat was cereal and soup. The trash can was overflowing, but aside from the mess, it didn’t appear that anything had been disturbed.

I glanced over at Medora, chilled by the notion of how vulnerable she was. Anybody could have walked in, robbed her, assaulted her, killed her where she lay. If a fire had broken out, I doubt she’d have been aware. I closed the back door and locked it. I toured the rest of the house, which comprised no more than one small, dingy bathroom and two small bedrooms. Her housekeeping habits, such as they were, made it impossible to tell if anyone else had been in the rooms doing a quick search.

I returned to the living room and leaned toward her. “Medora, it’s Kinsey. Are you all right?”

She didn’t stir.

I placed a hand lightly on her arm, saying, “Hey.”

Nothing. I shook her gently, but the gesture didn’t seem to register. She was submerged in the murky depths of alcohol, where sound couldn’t penetrate and no light reached. I shook her again. She made a grunting noise, but otherwise remained unresponsive. I didn’t think I should leave her in her present state. I looked for a telephone and finally spotted one in the kitchen, mounted on the wall near the hall door. I searched one drawer after another until I found the phone book. I looked up Justine’s number and called her. She answered after four rings.

“Justine? This is Kinsey. I’m really sorry to bother you, but I stopped by your mother’s house just now and found both doors standing open. She seems to have passed out. I think she’s okay, but I’m having trouble rousing her. Could you come over here? I don’t think I should leave her until you’ve seen for yourself.”

“Damnation. Oh, hell. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

She hung up abruptly. I was sorry I’d annoyed her, but such is life. I returned to the couch and perched on the edge of the coffee table. I took Medora’s hand and slapped it lightly. “Medora, wake up. Can you wake up?”

Groggily, she opened her eyes. At first, she couldn’t seem to focus, but she finally coordinated her eyes and looked around the room, disoriented.

“It’s me, Kinsey. Can you hear me?”

She mumbled something I couldn’t understand.

“Medora, did you take something for the pain? Let’s get you up, okay?” I slid an arm under her head, trying to lift her into a sitting position. “I’m going to pull you up here, but I need your help.”

She seemed to gather herself, pushing up on one elbow, which enabled me to haul her upright. Her gaze settled on mine with an expression of confusion. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know, Medora. You tell me. Let’s get you on your feet and take a walk. Can you do that?”

“What for? I’m fine. I don’t want to walk.”

“Well, sit then and let’s talk. I don’t want you falling asleep again. Did you take something?”

“A nap.”

“I know you took a nap, but your doors were wide open and I was worried about you. Did you take any pills?”

“Earlier.”

“How many? Show me what you took, was it this?”

“And the other ones.”

I checked the labels on the bottles: Valium, Tylenol with Codeine, Percocet, Xanax. “This is not a good idea. You’re not supposed to take all of these at the same time, especially if you’ve had a drink. It’s not safe. Are you feeling okay?”

“Dr. Belker gave me those.”

“But you shouldn’t take them when you drink. Didn’t he explain that?”

“That case I couldn’t take ’em at all. I drink every day.” She smiled at my goofiness, having settled that point.

We went on in this fashion, with Medora offering short declarative sentences in response to my continued questions. While it was hardly scintillating conversation, it did serve its intended purpose, which was to keep her in contact with reality. By the time Justine arrived, fifteen minutes later, Medora was more alert and in control of herself.

Justine shed her coat and tossed it on the back of a chair. “Sorry it took so long, but I was waiting for Cornell. I finally called my next-door neighbor and she came over to watch the girls.”

Medora had focused on Justine with an air of humility and embarrassment. “I didn’t tell her to call you. I wouldn’t do that.”

Justine sat down beside her mother and took her hand. “How many times have we been through this, Mother? You can’t keep doing this. I have a life of my own.”

“All I had was one drink and a pain pill.”

“I’m sure you did. How many?”

“The usual.”

“Never mind. Just skip it. I shouldn’t waste my breath. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. You didn’t have to leave the girls and come over.”

“She says the doors were wide open. What was that about?”

“I closed them. I did. I remembered what you said.”

“Let’s just get you into bed. We can talk about this later when you’re more yourself.”

“I’m myself,” she said blearily, as Justine assisted her to her feet. Medora was a bit tottery.

“You need help?”

Justine shook her head, intent on maneuvering her mother around the sharp-cornered coffee table, across the room, and into the short hallway that led to her bedroom. I could hear the two of them murmuring, Medora apologizing while Justine went about the business of getting her to bed.

Five minutes later, Justine returned, rubbing her arms reflexively. “I swear she’s getting worse. I don’t know what to do with her. Geez, the place is freezing.”

“It’s warmer than it was.”

She went over to the thermostat. “It’s turned off. What’s she doing, trying to save money on the heating bill? No wonder she gets sick. She had pneumonia two months ago.” She adjusted the lever and within seconds, I could hear the furnace click on.

She sat down on the couch with a sigh that was laden with irritation. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve talked to her about this. She takes out the garbage or goes to pick up the newspaper from the drive and then she either locks herself out or forgets to latch the door again. On a windy night like this, the doors bang and blow open. She never even knows.”

“I’m not sure that’s what happened here, but it’s giving me the creeps. Could you take a look around and make sure nothing’s missing? Suppose someone’s been here.”

“Why would anybody bother? There’s nothing worth stealing.”

“I understand, but I don’t like the feel of it. Can you make a quick circuit for my sake?”

“All right. You might as well follow me. This won’t take long, but you can see for yourself.” She leaned over and picked up the whiskey bottle from the coffee table. “Here.”

I took the bottle and waited while she snagged the highball glass and the pill bottles lined up nearby. “Her doctor’s out of his mind. I’ve had this discussion with him a hundred times. They’re old friends, so she comes along right after me and talks him into it.”

She gave the kitchen a cursory look while she poured her mother’s whiskey down the drain. She emptied all the pills into the trash, where I heard them rattling toward the bottom like a cupful of BB’s. She tossed in the empty whiskey bottle. “I’ll take care of this later,” she said, referring to the overflowing trash can and the pile of dishes in the sink. “Things look fine in here. The place is a pigsty, but no more than usual.”

I trailed after her while she looked into the bathroom and the second bedroom. The latter must have been her room as a kid, the one she’d been forced to share with Charisse. The twin beds were still in place, but most of the remaining space was taken up with piles of clothing, boxes, and miscellaneous junk. I nearly confided my suspicion about someone having entered my room, but I thought better of it. I didn’t have proof and I didn’t want to sound completely paranoid. Besides, it would only encourage her to ask questions I didn’t want to answer.

As we were returning to the living room, she said, “I heard about Pudgie. It’s horrible.”

“News travels fast.”

“Trust me, everybody knows by now.”

“Who told you?”

“Todd Chilton called. He’s a deputy—”

“I met him. Why did he call you?”

“Oh, right. He remembered I dated Pudgie and he thought I should know. From what he said, it was gross. At least I got that impression reading between the lines. He says you’re the one who figured it out.”

“Someone would have noticed before long,” I said, thinking about the smell. I filled in a few brush strokes, avoiding anything of substance. I was certain Detective Lassiter would limit the information that reached the public.

“Why’d you stop by?”

“I had a question for your mom. I know this seems minor, but I was curious. The first time I talked to her, she said she’d gone to the police the day Charisse disappeared. But according to the police report, she waited a week. I was hoping she’d explain the discrepancy.”

“She didn’t tell you about the note?”

“From Charisse? Not that I remember.”

“She probably forgot to mention it. Her mind’s completely shot from all the crap she takes. The note said she’d decided to go see her mother and she’d be back in three days. We thought she’d show up, but a week passed and Mom started getting worried. That’s when she talked to the police.”

“You saw the note yourself?”

“Sure. She’d left it on the bed.”

“And the handwriting was hers?”

“As far as I could tell.”

“Did your mother save it?”

“I doubt it. Why would she do that?”

“Could you ask her please?”

“Right now?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

She left the living room and returned to her mother’s bedroom, where I could hear her insistent questioning and Medora’s foggy response. I heard drawers being opened and shut. Moments later, Justine returned. “I don’t believe this. She says she saved the note because she didn’t want Social Services blaming her when Charisse took off. She thought if they ever asked, she could show the note as proof that Charisse left of her own accord.”

“Amazing. That’s great. I’d love to see it.”

“Well, that’s just it. She can’t remember where she put it. She thought it was in the chest of drawers, but it’s not there now. Knowing her, it could be anywhere. She’s such a slob.”

“Maybe we can look again when she’s on her feet.”

Justine gave me a look. “Yeah, right. Listen, I need to get back to the girls. Cornell must be home by now, but just in case. Let me turn off some lights and I’ll walk you to your car. It’s dark as pitch out there.”

I waited while she double-checked, making sure the back door was locked. She turned off the lights, except for one in the hall. She tested the thumb lock on the front door, flipped it to the locked position, and pulled it shut behind her. She took her keys from her coat pocket and crossed the yard to her Ford sedan, which was parked in the driveway behind Dolan’s car.

“Did you guys go down and have your fingerprints taken?”

“Edna went Monday, but I haven’t had a chance. I’ll pop in tomorrow while I’m out running errands.”

“What about the others?”

“Adrianne said she’d try later in the week.”

“What about Ruel and Cornell?”

“Don’t look at me. I don’t want to be the one to nag them. It’s not my job.”

“You’re right. Thanks anyway. I’ll bug them myself.”

I drove to the motel with an eye on my rearview mirror. The wide streets were deserted. Businesses were shut down and most of the houses were dark. Once in my room, I spent a few minutes assuring myself everything was exactly as I’d left it. My book was facedown on the bed where I’d placed it, the bedspread still rumpled where I’d pushed it aside. The table lamp was on and the warm light made the room seem cozy. The windows were latched and I made sure the drapes were properly closed. Didn’t want any boogeymen to peek in at me. After that, I stripped out of my clothes and into the oversize T-shirt I use as a nightie. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and slid into bed. I thought my paranoia might keep me awake, but since I’m a person of no depth whatever, I fell asleep right away.

At 2:06, the phone rang. I reached for the handset automatically, noting the time as I placed it against my ear. “What.”

“Kinsey?”

“What.”

“This is Iona.”

“Okay.”

“Frankie wants to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Pudgie.”

“Put him on.”

“In person.”

I leaned over and flipped on the table lamp, which made me squint painfully and probably put permanent wrinkles on my face. “Why are you calling me in the dead of night? I’m asleep.”

“I would’ve called earlier, but he just got here.”

“Got here where?”

“Quorum. He wants you to meet us at the all-night diner. Know the one I mean? On Main Street. It’s called the Chow Hound.”

I closed my eyes. “No offense here, but there’s no way I’m going out at this hour to talk to Frankie Miracle, so scratch that idea.”

“What if he comes there? We’re calling from a pay phone. We’re not far.”

“Like how far?”

“A block.”

“Why isn’t he on the phone instead of you?”

“He’s afraid you’ll say no.”

I laughed. “He’s worried about me? Iona, the guy’s a killer. He stabbed a woman fourteen times.”

“But he’s paid for his crime. He went to prison and now he’s out.”

“Oh, crap. Why am I arguing with you? If you want to come over, I’ll open the window and talk to him through the screen. That’s as much as I can offer.”

“Okay.”

I hung up and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. This was not the kind of hotel that offered complimentary robes (hell, I felt lucky they offered complimentary toilet paper!), so I pulled on a sweatshirt. I thought about it briefly and pulled on my jeans. By then, I could see headlights arc across the drapes. I turned off the lamp and crossed to the window, peering out as Frankie’s white pickup pulled into a slot two doors down. Iona was at the wheel. She waited in the truck with the engine running, probably trying to keep warm, while Frankie got out on the passenger side and slammed the door. I said, “Great. Wake everybody up. I’ll feel safer that way.”

I watched him check room numbers until he got to mine. As soon as he was close, I slid the window open a crack. “Hello, Frankie.”

“Hi. Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Come on. I can’t stand around out here. It’s fuckin’ cold.”

“I don’t need a weather report. I know it’s cold. You want to talk, I’m listening, but get on with it.”

“All right,” he said, irritably. He paused to light a cigarette. Despite the low-watt outside lighting, I could see him clearly—the brown wavy hair, the smooth baby face. He peered over his shoulder, his manner embarrassed. “I heard about Pudgie. I just wanted you to know I had nothing to do with it.”

“Good for you.”

“Don’t you want to know the rest?”

“Sure.”

“The cops have already been around—Lieutenant Dolan and some pal of his. I thought my landlord was talking about you, but he said it was an old guy.”

“Stacey Oliphant.”

“That’s him.”

“They’re good guys. They’re fair. You should be talking to them.”

“I hate cops. What pigs. I’d rather talk to you.”

“What for? I’m just going to turn around and ask you the same questions Lieutenant Dolan would have asked.”

“You want to know where I was Friday night, right? I was in Santa Teresa, working my regular shift. Eleven to seven. And that’s the truth.”

“I thought you were down here with Iona.”

“Who told you that?”

“Weren’t you with her when she called and talked to Pudgie Thursday night?”

“Sure, but I left Friday morning and drove back to Santa Teresa.”

“Anybody see you at work?”

“Two-thirty in the morning, I’m moppin’ floors, not entertaining the troops. Reason I like the job is it’s quiet and nobody’s there to hassle me.”

“You were completely alone.”

“At that hour? Of course. Who’s going to be there? The place’s all locked up.”

“I don’t know. Someone else on the cleaning crew? A lawyer working late? A building that size can’t be empty.”

“For starters, there’s nobody else on the crew. I’m it. And second, even if there was someone in the building, how would I know? Six floors is tough. I got a lot of ground to cover. Some lawyer’s workin’ late, he’s not going to stop and make small talk with the likes of me. So. Nobody saw me. You’ll have to take my word that I was there all night.”

“You drove all the way down here to tell me this?”

“Hey, I could’ve had her alibi me, which she’d’ve done in a heartbeat, but I wanted to play straight.”

“Good boy. Now what?”

“Iona thought you might put in a good word for me.”

“Frankie, come on. You know better than that. No one gives a shit what I think. My opinion carries no weight at all. It’s like Iona thinking I had the clout to offer Pudgie a deal. It’s ridiculous.”

“Those cops like you.”

“Sure they do, but so what? Look, I’m perfectly willing to pass the story along, but trust me, without an alibi, my big, hot endorsement won’t help.”

“But you believe me?”

“Let’s put it this way; nothing would make me happier than your telling the truth. I’m sure the cops will be crazy about the idea, too.”

He dropped his cigarette and stepped on the ember with the toe of his boot. “You try, okay?”

“I’ll call Lieutenant Dolan tomorrow. Meantime, if I were you I’d get back to town before your PO gets wind of what’s going on.”

“I’ll do that. And thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

I closed the window and had it latched again before Frankie reached the truck. I heard the door slam and she backed out, the headlights doing a reverse angle on the draperies as she pulled away. I shook my head. What a baby. Gone was the tough guy I’d met the first time around. As for his story, I wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. Sincerity aside, he was capable of manipulation if it suited his purposes.

In the morning, I changed rooms. There were far too many people who knew where I was and I didn’t feel safe. I chose an innocuous location on the second floor in the middle of a stretch of rooms. No ice machines. No vending machines. No reason to be up there unless you were a paid motel guest. At ground level, I figured I was a sitting duck for Peeping Toms or guys with a penchant for picking locks. Up here, even if the housekeeper propped my door open for hours on end, it would take nerve for someone to climb the stairs and pretend to be wandering around lost. From the second floor I had a nice view of the parking lot. I’d left Dolan’s car in a row of cars to one side so there was no way to associate the vehicle with my whereabouts.

At 9:15, I called Dolan’s house. Stacey picked up. I told him my concern that someone had entered my room and had taken a long hard look at my notes. He told me to change rooms, which I told him I’d done. He told me Dolan had left for an appointment with the cardiologist. I told him about Medora’s house, the note, and Frankie’s late-night visit. He told me I better watch my step and I said I would. Then he said, “What have we picked up in the way of elimination prints?”

“We’re not doing so well. Last I heard Edna had gone in, but none of the other four.”

“What’s up with that? I don’t like them thinking they can bypass us. Go back and threaten. Tell them it looks bad, like maybe one of them has something to hide.”

“So how’s Dolan doing?”

“He’s good. I’d say good. Doing better than I thought.”

“You think the living arrangements are going to work?”

“Jury’s still out on that. I could probably do worse—though, frankly, the guy’s a colossal pain in the ass. Of course, he says the same thing about me.”

“Makes you the perfect pair,” I said. “Better than some of the marriages I’ve seen.”

“Amen to that. What’s the latest down there?”

“I haven’t heard anything since I was at the Tuley-Belle last night, but I can stop by the sheriff’s office and talk to Lassiter.”

“Do that and call me back. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, but so far no luck. Meantime, we’ll see what we can find out about Frankie’s whereabouts on Friday night.”

“Great. Tell Dolan I said hi. I really miss you guys.”

Stacey said, “Ditto. And you take care of yourself.”

I retrieved Dolan’s car and drove the few short blocks to the Sheriff’s Department. Todd Chilton and a civilian clerk seemed to be the only ones in. He was chatting with one of the church ladies I’d seen at Edna’s. She was in her seventies, wearing a pale green leisure suit. Her hair had just been done and it puffed out as nicely as a dandelion. She’d placed a parking ticket on the counter, and I waited politely while she wrote out a check and tore it from her register. I flicked a quick look at the name printed on the face of the check: Adele Opdyke.

“How are you, Adele? We met at Edna’s on Saturday. Nice seeing you again.”

“Nice seeing you, too.” She seemed flustered to realize I was standing close enough to see what she was doing. “Don’t go thinking this ticket’s mine. It’s my husband’s. He parked in a fire lane Friday night, late going to a movie. He’s always doing that. Doesn’t matter how many times I tell him not to.”

Deputy Chilton said, “Why are you the one paying? He’ll never learn this way.”

“You’re right, you’re right. I’m entirely too good to him. I should make him take care of it. It would serve him right.” She glanced at me. “You’re that private detective, but I forget your name. Edna told us all about the fabric in her quilt.”

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Did you get that mailing out?”

“It’s done and it’s been delivered by now.” She turned back to Chilton. “How’s the investigation? That poor Cedric had a sorry life and what a terrible end.”

“We’re all working overtime, doing everything we can. Quorum PD’s pitching in so we’re on it.”

“That’s good.” She tucked her checkbook in her handbag. “Well, I’m off to run my errands. I wanted to get this done first before I forgot. Nice talking to you.”

As soon as she left, I said, “I was looking for Detective Lassiter, but I gather he’s not here.”

“He’s at the Tuley-Belle. The coroner thinks Pudgie was killed with a tire iron, which hasn’t turned up yet. Detective Lassiter thinks it’s possible it’s still out there—dumped or buried. Detective Oliphant left a couple of messages for him, but they’ll have to wait. I know he’s concerned about this business with the McPhees’ fingerprints, but we’ve got all our personnel at the crime scene, so even if they came in there’s nothing we could do.”

“Well. First things first. I’ll tell Stacey someone will get back to him later in the day. I’m sure he’d like an update.”

26

I sat in the car in front of the Sheriff’s Department, thinking about tire irons. As murder weapons go, the lowly tire iron has the virtue of being genderless and easily obtainable. Lots of people have tire irons. They’re probably not as common as a set of kitchen knives, but they’re cheap, readily available, have no moving parts, and no one would think to question your possessing one. You don’t need a license to buy one and you don’t have to worry about a three-day waiting period while your local hardware salesman runs a background check.

I’d seen a tire iron in the past week. I knew it was only one of millions in the world, and the chances were remote that I’d seen the very tire iron used on Pudgie’s head. Still, it seemed like a good mental exercise. Where had I seen tools? McPhee’s automobile upholstery shop, both in the two-car garage where he sat to smoke and in the second garage where Dolan and I had found the Mustang. Also Cornell’s garage where I’d seen him at work constructing a dog house for his daughters’ pup. The question was, did any of these locations warrant another look? It seemed like a waste of time except for the fact that I had nothing else to do. While Detective Lassiter and the deputies were out combing the area surrounding the Tuley-Belle, the killer might have scrubbed the blood and brains off the murder weapon and put it back where it’d been. So finding it wouldn’t mean anything and not finding it wouldn’t mean anything, either. Well, that was dumb. I decided to try something more productive.

I started the car and went back to the Ocean View. I wanted to call Felicia and see how she was doing. I was also interested in the arrangements she’d made for Pudgie’s funeral. My message light was blinking. I dialed 6 and picked up a message indicating that Lieutenant Dolan had called at 10:00. It was only 10:20 now, so I was hoping I’d catch him before he left the house again. He picked up on the first ring.

“Hey, Lieutenant, this is Kinsey. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Sorry I missed your call earlier.”

“That’s okay, though with all these phone calls flying back and forth, Stacey really doesn’t need to come back. I think I’m talking to you guys more now than I did when you were here.”

“Don’t tell him. He can’t wait to get down there and back to work.”

“So what’s up?”

“Nothing much. We’re restless and bored. Hang on. Here’s Stacey. He has something he wants to say.”

He handed the phone to Stacey, and we went through an exchange of pleasantries as though we hadn’t spoken in days. Then, he said, “I’ve been thinking about this Baum guy and he bothers me. I got sidetracked and left without asking him for leads. Stands to reason she was killed by someone she knew, so let’s broaden the search. Can you check it out for me?”

“Sure. Give me the address of the car lot and I’ll pay him a visit.”

Before I left for Blythe, I put in a call to Pudgie’s sister. She sounded better; subdued, but not weepy. She probably found it therapeutic to be caught up in the clerical work that follows in the wake of a death. I could hear the murmur of voices in the background. “You have people there?”

“Friends. Everybody’s been great. A cousin stayed with me last night and another one’s driving in from Phoenix.”

“Are you having services?”

“On Friday. I’m having his body cremated as soon as the coroner releases him, but people are stopping by this evening if you’d like to join us. The memorial on Friday probably won’t amount to much, but I thought I should do something. The pastor keeps calling it ‘a celebration of his life,’ but that doesn’t seem right to me with him in jail so much.”

“Up to you,” I said. “What time tonight?”

“Between five and eight. I’ve borrowed a big coffee urn and there’s tons of food.”

“I’ll aim for seven. Can I bring anything?”

“Please don’t. I’m serious. I’ve already got far more than I can use,” she said. “If you run into anyone who knew him, tell them they’re invited, too. I think he’d be happy if people turned out for him.”

“Sure thing.”

The Franks Used Cars lot looked like just about every other car lot I’d ever seen. The business was housed in what must have been a service station once upon a time, and the showroom now occupied one of the former service bays. An assortment of gleaming cars were lined up street-side with slogans painted in white on the windshields. Most were spotless and polished to a high shine, making me glad I’d parked Dolan’s half a block away.

George Baum was the only salesman on the premises. I caught him sitting at his desk, eating a tuna sandwich, the open packet of waxed paper serving as a handsome lunch plate. I hated to interrupt his feeding process—I tend to get cranky when someone interrupts mine—but he seemed determined to do business. I sat down in the visitor’s chair while he rewrapped half his sandwich and tucked it in the brown paper bag he’d brought from home. I detected the bulge of an apple and imagined it held cookies or a cupcake as well.

On his desk, he had a formal family portrait in a silver frame: George, Swoozie (who still looked perky as could be), and three stair-stepped adolescent boys wearing jackets and ties. The color photograph was recent, judging by hair and clothing styles. While only in his mid-thirties, George was already portly, wearing a brown suit of a size that made his head look too small. Stacey was right about his teeth—even, perfectly straight, and bleached to a pearly white. He wore his hair short and the scent of his aftershave was fresh and strong.

I introduced myself, watching his enthusiasm fade when he realized I was there to pump him for information. “This is your father-in-law’s place? I didn’t realize you worked for him.”

“You know Chester?”

“No, but I heard you were married to Swoozie Franks. I put two and two together.”

“What brings you here? I already talked to someone about Charisse Quinn.”

“That was my partner, Detective Oliphant. He’s the one who thought we should have another chat.”

“What now?”

“We need the names of the guys who were involved with her. ‘Involved’ meaning screwing, just so you know what I’m talking about.”

He smiled uncomfortably. “I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“What’s the point in asking me? Why don’t you go over to the high school and get names from the yearbook? It’d be the same list.”

“I could do that,” I said, “but I’d rather hear it from you. And skip what’s-his-name—Toby Hecht. Cornell says nobody’s heard from him in years.”

“That’s because he’s dead. He was killed in Vietnam.”

“Sorry to hear that. Who else would you suggest?”

George shook his head. “I don’t see the relevance. So maybe a few classmates had sexual relations with her. What bearing does that have on where they are now in life?”

“I’m not worried about where they are. I’m worried about Charisse. Somebody killed her. That’s what I’m here to discuss.”

“I understand that. Of course. And if I thought any one of them was capable of murder, I’d speak up.”

“Let me tell you something, George. The person who killed her turned around and killed Pudgie Clifton. And you want to know why? Pudgie knew something he shouldn’t have. I’m not sure what, but it cost him his life. You keep quiet and you could end up putting yourself at risk. That’s not a smart move, especially if your only motive is to protect a bunch of horny high school dudes.”

“I do business with a lot of those dudes. Honest, I don’t mean to be uncooperative, but I don’t like being put on the spot.”

I was watching him, fascinated, because he’d started to perspire. I’d never really seen that, a man breaking out in a sweat while he talked. I said, “All right. Try this. Let’s just talk about you. Were you intimate with her?”

“Swoozie would have killed me.”

“You never made it with Charisse?”

“I’d rather not answer that.”

“Which means yes.”

He paused, taking out a handkerchief to mop at a trickle of sweat running down the side of his face.

“George?”

“Okay, yes, but that’s just between us. If it ever got out, my marriage would be over. Swoozie thinks I was a virgin. I told her she was the first. She hated Charisse. All the girls did.”

“I’m listening.”

“I was kind of nerdy. You know the type—smart and earnest and inexperienced. I’d pretend I’d made out. The guys’d be talking about sex and I’d act like I knew what they meant when I didn’t have a clue. Then Charisse came along and she was really nice to me. I liked her—I mean that sincerely—so when she offered to, you know, I just figured what the hell, no harm was ever going to come of it. I felt better about myself after that, a lot more confident.”

“How many times?”

“Three. Swoozie and I had been dating since we were kids. I knew we’d get married and then I’d never have a chance to be with anyone else. I didn’t want to live my whole life only knowing one girl.”

“And afterwards?”

“I wasn’t sorry I’d done it, but I was scared Swoozie would find out. I already had a job lined up with her dad.”

“You must have been relieved when Charisse disappeared.”

“Well, hey, sure. I’ll admit that, but so were a lot of guys, including Mr. Clean.”

I smiled. “Mr. Clean?”

“Sure. Cornell. We called him that because he worked for his dad and his hands were always dirty. He used to scrub ’em with lye soap, but it never did any good.”

My smile had faded because I’d blocked out his explanation and tuned into what he’d actually said. “Cornell was screwing Charisse?”

“Sure. Justine was holding out for marriage. She came up from nothing. And I mean her family was for shit—”

“I know about that,” I said, cutting him off.

“She saw Cornell as the answer to her prayers. She wasn’t about to put out unless he married her.”

I thought about that. “I did hear Charisse had the hots for him.”

“Oh, sure. She was also jealous of Justine. Compared to her life, Justine’s already looked better, so she got competitive.”

“And Justine knew about this?”

“Oh, no. No, no. Charisse knew better. After all, she was living at Justine’s. She wasn’t about to get herself thrown out on the street.”

“You’re telling me Cornell was in the same jeopardy you were.”

“Big time. Even more so. He was everybody’s hero—scholastics, sports, student government, you name it. We all looked up to him.”

“Who else knew about this, aside from you?”

“Adrianne, I guess. She walked in on ’em once over at the Tuley-Belle. That’s how she found out.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she told me.”

“Why? Were you a close friend of hers?”

“No, not really. We were in the same church youth group. We went on a weekend retreat and I could see she was upset. I asked and she told me what was going on. She thought she should talk to our pastor, but I disagreed. I said it wasn’t her job to save Cornell’s soul. He was a big boy and he could work it out for himself.”

I arrived at Felicia’s house in Creosote at precisely 7:00 that Wednesday night. Cars were lined up at intervals along the darkened street. I didn’t think I could manage to parallel park in Dolan’s tank so I was forced to leave his car around the corner and walk back. Cornell’s white pickup truck was parked in front of the house, behind Justine’s dark Ford sedan. The moon had been reduced to the size of a fingernail paring. The air was dry and cold. The usual wind whiffled through the trees, making the shaggy palms sway, fronds rustling like rats running through an ivy patch. Lights shone from every room of Felicia’s small house. Despite her admonition, I’d brought a dense chocolate cake in a pink bakery box.

A neighbor answered the door, introducing herself while relieving me of the box, which she carried to the kitchen. I stood for a moment and surveyed the room. I counted eight flower arrangements, about half of them containing leftover Easter lilies. Felicia had dimmed the lights, using votives and candles to illuminate the rooms. The effect was nice, but the air had been warmed to a feverish temperature. I suppose the gathering could have been called a wake, though there was certainly no corpse present. Perhaps “visitation” was the better term. That’s how Felicia had referred to it.

On a purely self-centered note, I hadn’t thought I’d need to pack my illustrious all-purpose dress. That long-sleeve black garment is tailor-made for such occasions, but how could I have known? Cheap shit that I am, earlier in the day I’d ducked into a Goodwill thrift store, where I’d found a pair of serviceable black wool slacks and a short black jacket of another fabric altogether. I’d also bought preowned black flats and a pair of (new) black panty hose. My shoulder bag was brown, probably a fashion faux pas given the rest of my ensemble, but it couldn’t be helped. I’d looked better in my day, but I’d also looked a lot worse.

I had no way of guessing how many people had come and gone in the hours before my arrival, but the number of mourners I saw was embarrassingly small. I wouldn’t have referred to them as “mourners,” either. They came closer to being talkers, Nosy Parkers, and consumers of free food. Clearly some of those assembled were Pudgie’s relatives. I could tell because they all looked faintly surprised he hadn’t been shot to death in the process of an armed robbery. I caught sight of Cornell talking to his sister, but both avoided eye contact, and I got the impression neither was eager to talk to me. I didn’t see Justine, and the rest of those gathered were total strangers, except for Felicia, who was standing in the kitchen talking to a fellow I’d never seen before. I’d hoped to see George Baum, to whom I’d given the address before I’d left the car lot. Maybe he didn’t want to risk running into Cornell, having tattled on him.

Since I didn’t recognize anyone except people who didn’t seem to want to talk to me, I crossed to the buffet table on the far side of the room. Felicia hadn’t fibbed about the copious amounts of food folks had brought. There was every kind of casserole known to man, platters of cold cuts, crackers and cheeses, chips and dips, plus an assortment of cakes, pies, and cookies. A big pressed-glass punch bowl had been filled with coral liquid that looked suspiciously like Hawaiian Punch. There was one lone bottle of white zinfandel. I unscrewed the top and filled a clear plastic cup to the brim, then drank it down an inch so it wouldn’t look like I was hogging more than my share.

I moved through the smattering of people, hoping to corner Adrianne so the two of us could have a chat. I saw Cornell go out to the front yard to grab a cigarette, so at least I didn’t have to worry about him. I drifted through the living room and into the kitchen. Felicia passed me with a plate of cookies in hand. I touched her arm and said, “How’re you doing?”

Her red hair was pulled away from her face. “I’m all right for now. I think the hard part comes later when everyone goes home. I’ll try to catch you in a bit. I have to get back with this.”

“Have you seen Adrianne?”

“I think I saw her go out there,” she said. “Cedric would have been glad you came.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” I said, and she was gone.

I set my wine cup on the counter and pushed the kitchen screen open. Adrianne was on the back porch, sitting on the top step. I took a seat beside her, my shoulder bag between us. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. This depresses me, that’s all.”

“I have a question for you.”

“Geez, would you give it up already? This is hardly the time.”

“You can talk to me or you can talk to the cops. Take your pick.”

“Oh hell. What do you want? I’m sick of this business.”

“So am I. Unfortunately, it isn’t over.”

“It is as far as I’m concerned. So ask me and get it over with. I’m about to go home.”

“Did you know Cornell was fooling around with Charisse?”

She looked at me sharply and then she looked away. She was quiet for a long time, but I decided to wait her out. Finally, she said, “Not at first.”

“And then what?”

“Do we really have to talk about this? That was eighteen years ago.”

“I hear you were at the Tuley-Belle and walked in on them.”

“Thank you, George Baum. If you knew the answer, why’d you ask?”

“Because I wanted to hear it from you. Come on. Just tell me what happened. Like you said, it was years ago so what difference does it make?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, with disgust. “A bunch of us had gone out there. We used to do these big scavenger hunts and play stupid games. That Friday night, it was Hide-and-Seek. Cornell and Charisse were in a room on the second floor. I stumbled in, looking for a place to hide, and there they were. I was horrified and so was he.”

She stopped. I thought that was the end of it, but she picked up again. “I guess I was naive, but I genuinely liked Charisse. I didn’t know she was using me to get to him.”

“What’d she say to you?”

“What could she say? I’d caught them in the act. Not that she was ever one to apologize for what she did. I told her she was a shit, but she shrugged it off. She didn’t care for my opinion or anyone else’s. Afterward, I begged her to stay away from him, but she was obsessed. I hated her for that. She nearly ruined his life.”

“How?”

Silence again. “Ask him. It’s really his business, not mine.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “She told him she was pregnant.”

Again, she was quiet.

“Am I right?”

“Yes. She was determined to marry him. She told me about it before she told him.”

“Why?”

“Because she thought I’d help. I told her to blow it out her butt, but she threatened to tell Mom and Dad unless I talked him into it.”

“Did anyone else know?”

“No. She was sure he’d marry her to avoid the embarrassment. Once he did that, it’d be too late for anyone else to interfere—meaning Justine, of course.”

“And he was willing to go along with this?”

“He didn’t have any choice. You know how straightlaced my parents are, especially Mom. If they found out, they’d have forced him to marry her anyway.”

“So what was the plan?”

“There wasn’t a plan. She had it all figured out. They were going to run off together. She knew a place where they could get a marriage license even if they were underage.”

“He must have been in a sweat.”

“He was really scared. I told him he was being dumb. How could he even be sure the kid was his? All he had to do was get five or six of his buddies to swear they’d screwed her too and he’d be off the hook.”

“Nice move, Adrianne. Did you come up with that yourself?”

“Well, what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t let her wreck my brother’s life! Besides, it was true. Why should he pay? He only did what every other guy was doing. Why’s that so wrong?”

“Oh sure. I can see your point. There’s only one tiny problem.”

“What.”

“She wasn’t pregnant.”

“Yes, she was.”

I shook my head. “I read the autopsy report.”

She stared at me, a hand lifting to her mouth as though pulled by strings. “Oh, shit. She made it up?”

“Apparently. So when she disappeared, what’d you think? That she’d gone off on her own to spare him the disgrace?”

“I didn’t know she was lying. I thought she might have decided to have an abortion.”

“If she’d been pregnant in the first place.”

There was another long silence and I stepped in again. “When you heard Medora’d filed a missing-persons report, weren’t you worried they’d find her?”

“I hoped they wouldn’t, but it did worry me.”

“But there might have been a way to head them off.”

“Head who off?”

“The cops who were looking for her.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“The phone call.”

She looked at me blankly, but I didn’t know her well enough to know if she was faking.

I said, “Someone called the Sheriff’s Department, claiming to be Charisse’s mother, saying she was home again, alive and well. The Lompoc Sheriff’s Department and the one down here were on the verge of linking the two—the missing girl and Jane Doe. Then the call came in and that was the end of that.”

“Well, it wasn’t me. I swear. I didn’t call anyone.”

“I’m not the one you have to persuade.” I got up and brushed off the back of my pants. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“I sincerely hope not.”

I went into the kitchen, feeling hyped up and tense. I was treading dangerous ground, but I couldn’t help myself. These people had been sitting on their secrets far too long. It was time to kick in a few doors and see who’d been hiding what. I wondered where Cornell was the night that Pudgie was killed. That was a subject worth pursuing.

In my absence, someone had drained off my entire cup of wine. I tossed the empty plastic in a trash can. As I went into the hall, I glanced into the bedroom Pudgie must have occupied. There was a single bed, covered with a plain spread, the blanket and pillow stacked together at the foot. The room had all the cozy charm of a jail cell. There were no curtains at the window, and the plain white shade had been pulled down halfway. No pictures, no personal possessions. The closet door stood open, revealing an empty hanging rod. Felicia must have swept through, boxing up everything he owned, and then called the Goodwill. I felt a pang of disappointment. Given my curious nature, I’d hoped for the opportunity to search his things. I wasn’t even sure what I thought I’d find—some sense of who he was, some feeling for why he’d died. I didn’t imagine he’d left a note about his final rendezvous, but there might have been a hint of what he’d meant to do in life.

“Bleak,” someone said.

I turned. Justine was standing to my left, making the same sad assessment of the room that I had. I saw her gaze linger on my jacket. “What.”

“Nothing. I used to have a jacket just like that.”

“Really? I’ve had this old thing for years.” I felt a spark of fear and a second lie sprung to my lips. “Hey, what was Cornell up to Friday night? I thought I saw him downtown about ten.”

She gave me a little smile of negation and bafflement. “He was home with the kids. I was out doing stuff for church.”

“He was home alone?”

“Not at all. The kids were there. I told you that.”

“Well, that’s odd. You sure he didn’t pop out to get a video? I could have sworn it was him.”

“It couldn’t have been. I went out at nine after the girls were in bed. He was folding laundry when I left and sacked out on the couch when I got home at midnight.”

“The church is open that late?”

“I wasn’t at the church. I was over at Adele’s, working on a mailing. That’s why he ended up baby-sitting.”

“I thought they did the mailing Saturday at Edna’s.”

“They finished it then. We started Friday night.”

I didn’t point out that Cornell could have driven to Creosote and back in an hour, with plenty of time left for a stop at the Tuley-Belle to deliver forty whacks to Pudgie’s head. She could have done it, too. Three hours would have been more than adequate. I tried to remember what Adele had said when she paid her husband’s parking citation. He’d been ticketed Friday night because he was late for a movie, but I couldn’t remember if she said she’d been with him or not. Changing the subject, I said, “You want some wine? I’m out. I’ll be happy to bring you some.”

“No, thanks. I don’t drink. I’ve seen enough of that.”

“I’ll be right back.”

I bumped into someone as I entered the living room. I said, “Pardon me,” and looked up to find Todd Chilton. He wasn’t in uniform and it took me an instant to realize who he was. I said, “Hey, how are you? I didn’t realize you’d be here. Can I talk to you a minute?”

“Sure.”

We stepped to one side. Music had started up. Someone had apparently put together a tape of Pudgie’s old favorites, starting with Chubby Checker. “Come on, baby, let’s do the twist…” Nobody seemed to think it was inappropriate. I was just happy to have the noise to cover my conversation with the deputy. He bent his head, a hand cupped to his ear.

I said, “Have they found the murder weapon yet?”

He shook his head. “We searched until six and then we had to give it up. No point fumbling around in the dark. Detective Lassiter did say he’d return Detective Oliphant’s call first thing tomorrow morning. Lot of paperwork’s piled up since we’ve been out in the field.”

“I’m assuming Pudgie’s murder hit the news.”

“Oh yeah. Big spread this morning, asking for volunteers. I was just talking to Cornell. We got a lot of desert out there and a weapon like that’s easy to hide. We’ve searched that whole area behind the Tuley-Belle and now we’ll head toward the highway. You’re welcome to join us. We could use the help.”

“Thanks. I may do that.”

Chilton moved away. I scanned the room, looking for Cornell. Adrianne had reappeared and she gave me a look of dark distaste before she walked away. I’d probably overplayed my hand with her. I didn’t want to think she’d tell her brother what I knew, but she was capable of that.

Felicia passed me again. “They’re about to cut that chocolate cake if you’re interested. It looks great.”

“I’ll have some in a bit. Have you seen Cornell?”

She glanced around. “He was here a while ago. He might be in the kitchen. I saw him talking to Adrianne. He might have left to pick up the kids at the baby-sitter’s. I hear he’s a doll about things like that.”

“I’m sure. Thanks.”

I crossed to the front window and peered out to the darkened street. Justine’s sedan was still there but Cornell’s truck was gone. I didn’t like that. His departure seemed abrupt. Maybe it was true he’d gone to pick up his kids, but it was also true he knew the search for the murder weapon was heating up. I let myself out the front door, struck by the chill night air after the suffocating level of artificial heat inside. My thrift store jacket, which had probably belonged to Justine once upon a time, was too light to offer much protection from the cold. I readjusted my shoulder bag and broke into a trot, heading for Dolan’s car.

I unlocked the door and slid in under the wheel. I jammed the key in the ignition and turned it. The car coughed and died. I tried again. No deal. I pumped the gas pedal twice and then realized I was only flooding the engine. I sat and waited and then tried again. The starter ground and turned over. I gave it way too much gas and the engine roared to life. I pulled out, tires chirping as I took off. I turned on the heat, hoping to warm up. My sense of urgency coupled with the dry cold was making me shiver.

Half a minute later, I was on Highway 78, driving north toward Quorum. At this hour of the evening, traffic was light. I thought I caught a glimpse of Cornell’s truck up ahead. There were four cars on the road between us and I was having to peer around and through them to keep an eye on him. Approaching the Tuley-Belle, the car in front of me slowed and I realized that, at the head of the line, Cornell had slowed to a stop. His turn signal winked merrily and he turned left as soon as oncoming traffic allowed.

I slowed as I passed the entrance, watching his taillights disappear into the dark. I drove on a hundred yards and pulled over to the side of the road. I doused the headlights, set the handbrake, and let the car idle while I debated with myself. I’d be foolish to follow him. The Tuley-Belle was a mile and a half from the main road, not only isolated, but riddled with hiding places better known to him than they were to me. I peered over my shoulder and stared into the darkness, picking up the parallel rounds of his headlights, now facing me. He hadn’t driven to the complex. For some reason, he’d turned the truck around and was now parked by the road, facing the highway. I saw the headlights go out. Soon after that, I picked up a faint smudge of light off to the right of the four-lane blacktop. What was he doing out there? Burying the murder weapon? Digging it up to move it? But why take that risk? Simple. He knew the sheriff’s investigators had been and gone. He also knew they’d return the next morning to start the search again. Todd Chilton had described the terrain the deputies had covered. If the weapon was out there, he could either move it into an area they’d already searched or remove the weapon from a section yet to be combed. Why would the tire iron be out there in the first place? Because he didn’t want the damn thing hidden anywhere close to home? Because he hadn’t had time to dispose of it anywhere else? Whatever he was up to, he must have decided this was his only opportunity to act.

I reached up and snapped the cover from the dome light and unscrewed the bulb. I got out, pushing the door closed without snapping it shut. I walked to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. I wasn’t worried about the trunk light. Nothing on the back end of Dolan’s vehicle worked, including the taillights. I felt my way across the darkened space until my hand came down on Dolan’s Smith & Wesson, snug in its holster. I picked up the gun and the holster, eased down the lid of the trunk, and returned to the driver’s seat. I slipped under the wheel again, leaving the car door ajar. I fumbled in my bag until I found my pen light. I snapped it on and placed it on the passenger seat, keeping my inspection process well below the level of the dashboard. This was the gun Dolan carried on duty; a 9mm Parabellum, with a clip that held fifteen rounds. I hit the clip release button and checked the magazine—fully loaded—and then smacked it back into place. I pulled the slide back and released it, then checked to see that the safety was on. I hefted the weight of the gun, close to twenty-eight ounces, feeling its clumsiness in a hand as small as mine. At least it was an equalizer, wasn’t it?

I stripped off my jacket. Dolan’s shoulder holster had a Velcro and leather strip shoulder strap that I adjusted and secured under my left arm, the gun tucked snugly in place. I pulled on the jacket again, tugging at the front until it lay flat. I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, waiting for a break in the flow of cars. As soon as I was clear in both directions, I made a wide U-turn, swinging across the two-lane highway and onto the berm on the far side of the road. I eased the car along on the berm until I found a spot that seemed to provide at least a modicum of cover. I was now facing in the direction of Creosote instead of Quorum on the same side of the road as the entrance to the Tuley-Belle. Cornell was laboring away somewhere to my right, though I couldn’t really see him from where I sat.

I killed the engine, tucked the keys in my jacket pocket, and got out of the car. It wasn’t my intention to do anything dumb. I wasn’t going to tackle the guy or try to make a citizen’s arrest. I just wanted to see what he was up to and then I’d slip back to the car and be on my way. Even so, if there’d been a public phone in a five-mile radius, I would have bagged my scheme, called the Sheriff’s Department, and let them handle him.

The entrance to the abandoned property had been blocked by bright orange plastic cones and a sign mounted on a sawhorse designating the entire area as a crime scene. Someone had moved the No Trespass warnings aside and the sawhorse now lay toppled on its side.

The thin crescent moon worked to my advantage. The road itself was dark, but the sky was a muted gray. The landscape—largely sand and gravel basins—gradually came into focus as my eyes adjusted to the dark. I could make out a number of features: clusters of tumbleweeds, like giant beach balls, creosote bushes, bayonet cactuses, yuccas, and the leggy branches of the palo verde trees. Ahead of me, I caught glimpses of a stationary light, possibly a lantern or a good-sized flashlight. I was getting closer, but as I’d noticed before, distances were difficult to calculate.

I could hear the peeping of ground frogs, probably poisonous, and the intermittent hooting of an owl. Unbidden, my brain suddenly played back in excruciating detail Dolan’s earlier recital about Mojave insect life, specifically the tarantula hawk, a species of desert wasp, the female of which sniffs out a tarantula, stings it into a state of paralysis, drags it back to her burrow, and lays an egg in its abdomen. Once hatched, the tiny grub feeds daintily until its final moult, then rips open the spider’s abdomen, thrusts its head and part of its thorax inside and devours everything in sight. Sometimes the tarantula is even dead by then. I was grossing myself out. This is the very same Nature that some people find spiritually uplifting. I picked up my pace, trying to block the interminable list of other insects he’d mentioned, scorpions and fire ants among them. Whatever else happened out here, I wasn’t going to sit down.

The road made a slight bend, and I found myself not ten yards away from Cornell’s white pickup truck, its engine still ticking as the metal cooled. Tucked in behind Cornell’s truck was Justine’s dark Ford sedan. I stared in disbelief. The last time I’d seen it, it was parked in front of Felicia’s house. Apparently, while I was struggling to get Dolan’s car started, Justine left the house in her car and followed him. By the time I was finally under way, it hadn’t occurred to me to glance back and see if her car was still there. She must have caught up with him, passed him, and turned off the highway before he did. She was the one who’d moved the barrier from the entrance to the place. She’d been back in her car and heading up the road before I’d caught sight of him making his turn.

I reached out and laid a hand on the hood of the truck, steadying myself, then eased to my left, using the cab as cover. I could hear the persistent chunking of a spade. He was digging. Were they burying the weapon or digging it up? I lifted on tiptoe. He’d set the flashlight on the ground. I saw the occasional distorted shadow as one or the other crossed the path of the light as the work progressed. I could hear them arguing, but the subject wasn’t clear. I wasn’t sure if they’d collaborated from the first or if Cornell had done the killing and she’d finally figured it out. My heart began to bang and a cloud of fear, like indigestion, burned in my chest. I tried to get my bearings, noting two nearby Joshua trees and a clump of sagebrush on my left that formed a mound the size of a pup tent. Directly across the road, there was a massive flowering shrub where white moths the size of hummingbirds had gathered to feed. Their wings beat audibly in the still night air, like the far-off thrumming of helicopter blades.

I turned back, suddenly aware that the chunking sound had stopped. I looked again. Cornell was on his knees, reaching into the hole. He hauled out the tire iron and wrapped it in a fold of cloth. The two of them started kicking soil back in the hole, intent on eradicating any evidence of their work. Justine picked up the spade and used the flat of the blade like a spatula, smoothing the sand like frosting. He bent and picked up the flashlight and gave a cursory sweep to make sure they hadn’t left anything behind. They headed toward me.

I pivoted and ducked, silently retracing my steps, hoping to gain the bend in the road before the two reached Cornell’s truck. If they climbed into their respective vehicles and returned to the highway, their two sets of headlights were going to pick me out of the dark like a startled bunny rabbit. I heard the slamming of two doors. I left the pavement and scurried out into the dark. I spotted a furrow in the earth, a channel where flash flooding had cut a shallow trench. I dropped flat and propelled myself on my elbows, belly-crawling, until I reached the shallow ditch and rolled into it. I put my head down, my arms folded under me, and waited. Only one engine sparked to life. I expected the flash of passing headlights, but none appeared. Cautiously, I lifted my head and peered in time to see the taillights of the pickup truck. One or both of them were on their way to the Tuley-Belle. I scrambled to my feet and ran. If I was mistaken and she’d been left behind, posted by the sedan, I was in bigger trouble than I thought. I slowed my pace as I rounded the bend. The Ford was still parked by the side of the road and there was no sign of her.

I reached her Ford and snatched at the door on the driver’s side. She’d left her keys behind, dangling in the ignition. I got in and started the car. I released the hand brake, left the lights off, and made a wide sweeping turn, bumping off the road and back, this time driving, as they had, toward the sprawling complex ahead. If they intended to hide the tire iron at the Tuley-Belle, it might never turn up.

When I was as close as I dared drive, I took my foot off the gas pedal and let the sedan coast to a stop. I turned the engine off and put her car keys in my pocket, again reaching up to disable the dome light before I opened the car door. I took out Dolan’s Smith & Wesson. I moved off the road, circling out and to my left so that I was approaching the complex at an angle across raw land. Cover was better out here. The huddled shadows tended to form and reform, shifting, as the wind pushed the tumbleweeds across the uneven ground. I spotted the truck, which Cornell had parked between the two half-finished buildings, looming silent and dark. In the second building, upstairs, I saw a glimmer of light. I moved forward with caution, hoping Cornell had left his keys behind as she had. If I could steal their only means of transportation, it would force them to walk the mile and a half to the main highway. By the time they reached the road, I could be speeding back to Creosote and return with help. Let them explain to Todd Chilton what they’d been doing out there. There was no motion in the patch of darkness immediately surrounding the truck.

I circled the vehicle, noting that the window was rolled down on the driver’s side. I peered in, catching the glint of his keys right where I’d hoped they’d be. In my mind’s eye, I was already opening the truck door, sliding under the wheel. I’d turned the key in the ignition, slammed the gear lever into drive, and sped off, leaving the two of them behind. As it turned out, I celebrated my achievement prematurely. I heard a scuffling behind me and a little voice inside piped up, saying “Uh-oh,” but by then it was too late. I turned, expecting to see Cornell, but it was Justine sailing toward me. With her pale flyaway hair and her icy pale green eyes, she looked like a banshee sweeping out of the dark. Cornell must have left her to stand watch, acting as a sentinel in case a horny pack of teenyboppers showed up at the Tuley-Belle for a midweek screwfest. Maybe I hadn’t been as quiet as I’d thought. Perhaps, given the peculiarities of desert acoustics, she’d heard my every step and simply waited for me.

She had the shovel in her hands. I saw her lifting her arms, raising the shovel overhead like an axe. I had to admire her strength. What she was doing wasn’t easy. The shovel looked heavy and I hadn’t thought she’d developed that much upper-body strength. Still, from her perspective, this was an emergency, so she might have been calling on reserves she didn’t know she had.

As with many moments of crisis in life, the swiftness with which the ensuing events unfolded created the reverse effect, emerging with the soft, dreamy qualities of slow-motion footage. Like a sequence of time-lapse photographs, Justine’s arms continued to rise until the shovel reached its apex. I saw the first shimmering instant of its descent. I curled to my left and lifted my right arm, trying to aim and fire Dolan’s S&W before the shovel hit its mark. If she’d brandished the shovel with the blade perpendicular, striking me side-on, she probably would have chopped my arm to the bone. As it was, the flat of the shovel collided with my forearm and the gun spun off into the dark. I never even heard it land. The shovel came down again. A ringing pain radiated outward from my left shoulder and disappeared. It was odd. I knew she’d landed a blow, but I was so flooded with adrenaline the pain vanished. I staggered, my knees buckling, nearly felled by the impact.

I spotted the Smith & Wesson lying six feet away. The shovel came down again, this time clanging against the top of the truck cab with a force that wrenched the tool from her grip. I ran at her and shoved her as hard as I could. She stumbled backward but managed to catch herself before she hit the ground. She was making guttural sounds, probably trying to marshall her forces to yell for Cornell. I grabbed the shovel and used it like a scythe to crack her across the shins. She screamed. I looked back and saw she was down. Cornell came running from the building. Just as he spotted me, I saw Justine scramble to her feet and reach the truck door. She yanked it open and got in on the driver’s side, screaming at him, “Get in the truck! Get in the truck!”

I scrambled forward, snatched up the gun, and pushed off the safety.

He flung himself at the tailgate as she started the truck. She backed up and shifted gears, gunned the engine, and turned the wheel, peeling out. I watched him haul himself over the side and into the truck bed, disappearing from view. I turned and extended my arms, both hands on the gun as I aimed. It helped that I was pissed off. I was talking aloud, admonishing myself to take my time. There was no reason to panic. The ground was flat and I’d be able to see them for a long time. I located one of the rear taillights between the niche in the gun’s rear sight and the niche in the foresight as I squinted down the barrel. I hadn’t paid attention to Dolan’s choice in ammunition, but if I remembered correctly, the baseline 9mm 100-grain slug moves out at muzzle velocities of between 1,080 and 1,839 feet per second, depending on slug rate. My figures might have been off, but not by much. I fired. The recoil was like a quick sneeze, kicking the barrel up and back. I missed, corrected, fired again, and heard a tire blow. Cornell had flattened himself in the bed of the truck. I altered my sights slightly and fired again, missing. I took aim again and fired four more rounds, trying to make each one count. By the time I paused, both back tires were flat. After that, the truck veered off course and came to a stop almost of its own accord. I approached on foot, taking my time, knowing I had sufficient rounds left to take care of business if Justine and Cornell still felt like arguing.

Epilogue

Justine was arrested and charged with two counts of first-degree murder, with a string of related offenses thrown in to sweeten the pot. Edna and Ruel prevailed on Cornell to hire a lawyer of his own, and his lawyer, in turn, persuaded him to make a deal with the DA. After all, he’d had nothing to do with the murder of Charisse Quinn and he’d had no part in Pudgie Clifton’s death. That Saturday after I’d gone to the house to talk to Justine, she’d panicked and begged for his help in moving Pudgie’s body and subsequently burying the tire iron with which she’d killed him. Cornell pled guilty to being an accessory after the fact, for which he’s serving one year in the county jail. Edna and Ruel have taken on the responsibility for Amelia, Mary Francis, and Cissy McPhee until their father’s release.

Justine’s motivation wasn’t difficult to fathom. She’d killed Charisse for seducing Cornell and trying to steal the life she’d envisioned for herself. It was indeed Pudgie who’d stolen the Mustang and loaded Charisse’s body in the trunk. While Justine packed the dead girl’s clothes and forged the note explaining her fictional departure, Pudgie drove the body to Lompoc and dumped it at the quarry Iona’d told him about. Justine waited a week and then called the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department, pretending to be Charisse’s mother and claiming her daughter was safely home again.

Once Pudgie reappeared in Quorum with news that the investigation had been reactivated, Justine had been forced to eliminate him. She’d enlisted Cornell’s aid in disposing of Pudgie’s body as she’d once enlisted Pudgie’s aid in disposing of Charisse. His was certainly too unwieldy a corpse for her to manage on her own. The day I’d startled her in the laundry, it was his blood and brains she was washing from her clothes. It dawned on me later that the business with Medora’s doors standing open was Justine’s doing as well, affording her the opportunity to pump me for information about the progress I’d made.

For once in his life, Frankie Miracle was innocent of any complicity in these crimes, a fact that went some way toward brightening his outlook.

With the trial date approaching, Justine’s attorney is insisting on a change of venue, maintaining she’ll never get a fair trial in Riverside County after the media circus generated by her arrest. I love it when killers want to argue about what’s fair.

On a more homely note, Stacey’s still living with Dolan, an arrangement that suits them surprisingly well. Both are currently in good health, limiting their consumption of tobacco and junk food, and continually grousing about each other, as good friends are sometimes inclined to do. As for me, I’m back in my office in Santa Teresa, unpacking my moving boxes while I wait to see what else life has to bring.

Respectfully submitted,
Kinsey Millhone

Author’s Note

About this novel…

There is one additional, quite lengthy note about the writing of this novel. Q is for Quarry is based on an unsolved homicide that occurred in Santa Barbara County in August 1969. The catalyst for the book was a conversation I had with Dr. Robert Failing during a dinner party at the home of our friends Susan and Gary Gulbransen in early September of 2000. Dr. Failing is a forensic pathologist who worked, under contract, for the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Department from 1961 until 1996. I had just completed and submitted the manuscript of P is for Peril, and the dinner conversation turned, not surprisingly, to what I might do next. Bob mentioned the Jane Doe victim, whose body had been dumped near a quarry in Lompoc, California, about an hour north of Santa Barbara. He had performed the autopsy, and, in passing, he remarked that the Coroner’s Office had retained her maxilla and mandible. It was his feeling that Jane Doe’s distinctive dental features should have sparked public recognition. Unfortunately, at the time, she was either never reported missing or the missing-persons report somehow failed to reach the detectives working this case. Despite months of tireless effort, they were never able to identify Jane Doe, and her killer was never caught. To this day, no one knows who she is, where she came from, or who murdered her.

As a novelist, I’ve been offered countless plot ideas, stories, personal anecdotes, “real life” events, and “true” murders—experiences that were important to those who suggested them, but which, for one reason or another, didn’t stimulate or excite me. This idea took root. I expressed an immediate interest, knowing full well that the survival of an idea is unpredictable. I’d met the coroner’s investigator, Larry Gillespie, retired now, on previous occasions while researching earlier books in the series. Bob offered to speak to Larry about rounding up the jaw bones. He also offered to introduce me to some of the Sheriff’s Department detectives he’d worked with during his association with this law-enforcement agency.

I keep a journal during the writing of these books, a ritual I began in rudimentary form with A is for Alibi and have continued, with ever increasing breadth and depth, through the seventeen novels in the series to this point. The early portions of the journal for any given novel are usually a record of my fumbling attempts to find a workable story line. I ruminate, I chat with myself, I fret, I experiment. Oddly enough, from my perspective, the first journal note on the subject of Jane Doe didn’t appear until November 8, 2000, some two months after my initial conversation with Bob Failing. I had, at that point, already accepted the subject matter as the basis for this book, though it took me many more months to work out the details. I loved the word “quarry” because its meaning, particularly in this instance, could do double-duty, referring to the place where the body was found and to the search for the killer.

On January 11, 2001, Bob Failing and I met with Sergeant Detective Bill Turner and then Commander Bruce Correll of the Criminal Investigations Division, Santa Barbara Sheriff’s Department, and the four of us drove to Lompoc to see the quarry. I met with Bruce Correll and Bill Turner again on January 19, 2001. At that time, in a gesture of incredible generosity, they gave me a copy of the murder book for the Jane Doe case. It contained case notes, investigative reports, and both color and black-and-white photographs of the body and the area where she was found. I was also given photographs of her effects, including her leather sandals and the home-sewn pants with the daisy-print, dark blue with a dot of red on a white background.

Over the ensuing year, with the blessings of then-sheriff Jim Thomas, I met with these two detectives on numerous occasions. Bill Turner, in particular, became an invaluable resource, providing information about procedural issues, technicalities, and the myriad nuts and bolts of his work. He answered my many (sometimes stupid) questions with unfailing patience and enthusiasm, responding with the sort of detailed replies that make a writer’s job a joy. Any errors, herein, by the way, are either the result of my faulty understanding or license I took in the interest of the story.

My fascination with the case rekindled the interest of the department, and the possibility arose of an exhumation of the body so that a facial reconstruction might be done, in hopes that Jane Doe might be identified. I wasn’t privy to the discussions that must have gone on behind the scenes. In Santa Barbara County exhumations are uncommon, and budget considerations became an issue, not only because of the cost of the exhumation itself but for the expense of hiring a forensic sculptor, who would use Jane Doe’s skull and jaw bones to re-create her likeness. There was also the matter of the reinterment, to accord Jane Doe the ultimate dignity of a proper burial, which we all considered essential. I offered to underwrite the plan because I, too, had become hopeful that something might come of it.

The exhumation was scheduled for July 17, 2001. On that day, we traveled again to Lompoc, this time to the cemetery where Jane Doe was buried thirty-three years earlier. Dr. Failing flew in from his vacation home in Colorado. My husband, Steve Humphrey, made the journey with us, as did Sergeant Detective Bill Turner. Also present were Detective Hugo Galante, his wife, Detective Kathryn Galante, and Detective Terry Flaa, of the North County Detective Unit of the Criminal Investigations Division; Detective David Danielson; Coroner’s Investigator Sergeant Darin Fotheringham; Sheriff’s dispatcher Joe Ayala; his wife, Erin Ayala; the coroner’s office secretary; Sheriff’s trainee Danielle Goldman; Lieutenant Ken Reinstadler of the Santa Maria station, Patrol Division; Commander Deborah Linden, of the Santa Barbara Sheriff’s Department, South Coast Patrol Division; and Mr. Mark Powers, the graveyard superintendent. The procedure took the better part of the day. Once Jane Doe’s body was recovered, she was removed to the Santa Barbara County Coroner’s Office.

In anticipation of the exhumation, Bill Turner had contacted Betty Gatliff in Oklahoma, whose work as a forensic artist is internationally recognized. Betty Gatliff is a retired medical illustrator who not only practices forensic sculpture but teaches workshops and seminars across the country. She is a fellow of the American Academy of Forensics Sciences, an emeritus member of the Association of Medical Illustrators, and an associate member of the International Association for Identification. Jane Doe’s skull, maxilla, and mandible were sent to Ms. Gatliff, whose services had been engaged.

In the meantime, I had begun a re-creation of my own, constructing a wholly fictional account of a young girl whose fate was similar to Jane Doe’s. Where possible, I used details from the Jane Doe murder book, including fragments from the autopsy report, case notes, and the investigative reports submitted by the detectives originally assigned to this case. There are two exceptions of note: (1) There was no tarp. I manufactured that detail to give my fictional detectives yet another means of pursuing their inquiries; and (2) there was, in fact, found at the scene a blood-soaked man’s Western-style blue denim shirt with white-covered snaps, size 14H neck. I omitted this detail in the interest of simplicity. That aside, I must assure the reader that every character in this novel is fictional. Every event is purely the product of my invention. Whatever the personality and nature of the “real” Jane Doe, my assertions are the figment of my imagination and are in no way purported to be real, true, or representative of her. I emphasize this point out of respect for her and out of consideration for those who must have loved her and wondered about her silence as the years have passed.

By mid-September of 2001, Betty Gatliff had reconstructed a likeness of Jane Doe and returned her skull with its mandible and maxilla. She also sent numerous color photographs of Jane Doe, four of which are reproduced here in black and white. Jane Doe was reinterred on Tuesday, February 26, 2002, with a uniformed Sheriff’s Department Honor Guard accompanying her from the coroner’s office to the cemetery, a sheriff’s chaplain conducting the service, flowers, and the heartfelt prayers of those of us who have been a small part of her life. It is our hope that someone reading this novel and seeing the photographs will recognize this young woman and step forward with information about her. Though both Bruce Correll and Bill Turner retired in the summer of 2002, Bill Turner will be available to respond to queries by mail at: Sheriff’s Department, County of Santa Barbara, 4434 Calle Real, P.O. Box 6427, Santa Barbara, CA 93160-6427, or through the Sheriff’s Department’s website, www.sbsheriff.org.

Respectfully submitted,
Sue Grafton

R IS FOR RICOCHET

SUE GRAFTON

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

R IS FOR RICOCHET

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2002 by Sue Grafton.

All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 9781101360644

BERKLEY®
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

For my granddaughter, Taylor,
with a heart full of love

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of the following people: Steven Humphrey; Boris Romanowski, California State Parole Agent; Alice Sprague, Deputy District Attorney, Alameda County, California; Pat Callahan, Public Relations Officer, Valley State Prison for Women; at the California Institution for Women, Warden John Dovey, Lieutenant Larry J. Aaron, Public Information Officer, and Pam Clark, Community and Parole Relations; Bruce Correll, Chief Deputy (retired), Santa Barbara Sheriff ’s Department; Lorrinda Lepore, Investigator II, Ventura County District Attorney’s Office; Bill Kracht, General Manager, The Players Club; Joan Francis, Francis Pacific Investigations; Julianna Flynn and Kurt Albershardt; and Gail and Harry Gelles.

And for the generous offers of support and expertise for the subplot that ended up on the cutting-room floor, thanks go to Detective Sergeant Bill Turner (retired), Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Department; Dona Cohn, Cohn Law Firm; attorneys Joseph M. Devine, Lawrence Kern, and Philip Segal of Kern Noda Devine & Segal; Daniel Trudell, President, Accident Reconstruction Specialists; James F. Lafferty, P.E., Ph.D., biomechanics and mechanical engineering; Dr. Anthony Sances, Jr., President, Biomechanics Institute; and Nancy Degger, President, Rudy Degger & Associates. Maybe next book.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

1

The basic question is this: given human nature, are any of us really capable of change? The mistakes other people make are usually patently obvious. Our own are tougher to recognize. In most cases, our path through life reflects a fundamental truth about who we are now and who we’ve been since birth. We’re optimists or pessimists, joyful or depressed, gullible or cynical, inclined to seek adventure or to avoid all risks. Therapy might strengthen our assets or offset our liabilities, but in the main we do what we do because we’ve always done it that way, even when the outcome is bad…perhaps especially when the outcome is bad.

This is a story about romance—love gone right, love gone wrong, and matters somewhere in between.

I left downtown Santa Teresa that day at 1:15 and headed for Montebello, a short ten miles south. The weather report had promised highs in the seventies. Morning cloudiness had given way to sunshine, a welcomed respite from the overcast that typically mars our June and July. I’d eaten lunch at my desk, feasting on an olive-and-pimiento-cheese sandwich on wheat bread, cut in quarters, my third-favorite sandwich in the whole wide world. So what was the problem? I had none. Life was great.

In committing the matter to paper, I can see now what should have been apparent from the first, but events seemed to unfold at such a routine pace that I was caught, metaphorically speaking, asleep at the wheel. I’m a private detective, female, age thirty-seven, working in the small Southern California town of Santa Teresa. My jobs are varied, not always lucrative, but sufficient to keep me housed and fed and ahead of my bills. I do employee background checks. I track down missing persons or locate heirs entitled to monies in the settlement of an estate. On occasion, I investigate claims involving arson, fraud, or wrongful death.

In my personal life, I’ve been married and divorced twice, and subsequent relationships have usually come to grief. The older I get, the less I seem to understand men, and because of that I tend to shy away from them. Granted, I have no sex life to speak of, but at least I’m not plagued by unwanted pregnancies or sexually transmitted diseases. I’ve learned the hard way that love and work are a questionable mix.

I was driving on a stretch of highway once known as the Montebello Parkway, built in 1927 as the result of a fundraising campaign that made possible the creation of frontage roads and landscaped center dividers still in evidence today. Because billboards and commercial structures along the roadway were banned at the same time, that section of the 101 is still attractive, except when it’s jammed with rush-hour traffic.

Montebello itself underwent a similar transformation in 1948, when the Montebello Protective and Improvement Association successfully petitioned to eliminate sidewalks, concrete curbs, advertising signs, and anything else that might disrupt the rural atmosphere. Montebello is known for its two-hundred-some-odd luxury estates, many of them built by men who’d amassed their fortunes selling common household goods, salt and flour being two.

I was on my way to meet Nord Lafferty, an elderly gentleman, whose photograph appeared at intervals in the society column of the Santa Teresa Dispatch. This was usually occasioned by his making yet another sizable contribution to some charitable foundation. Two buildings at UCST had been named for him, as had a wing of Santa Teresa Hospital and a special collection of rare books he’d donated to the public library. He’d called me two days before and indicated he had “a modest undertaking” he wanted to discuss. I was curious how he’d come by my name and even more curious about the job itself. I’ve been a private investigator in Santa Teresa for the past ten years, but my office is small and, as a rule, I’m ignored by the wealthy, who seem to prefer doing business through their attorneys in New York, Chicago, or L.A.

I took the St. Isadore off-ramp and turned north toward the foothills that ran between Montebello and the Los Padres National Forest. At one time, this area boasted grand old resort hotels, citrus and avocado ranches, olive groves, a country store, and the Montebello train depot, which serviced the Southern Pacific Railroad. I’m forever reading up on local history, trying to imagine the region as it was 125 years ago. Land was selling then for seventy-five cents an acre. Montebello is still bucolic, but much of the charm has been bulldozed away. What’s been erected instead—the condominiums, housing developments, and the big flashy starter castles of the nouveau riche—is poor compensation for what was lost or destroyed.

I turned right on West Glen and drove along the winding two-lane road as far as Bella Sera Place. Bella Sera is lined with olive and pepper trees, the narrow blacktop climbing gradually to a mesa that affords a sweeping view of the coast. The pungent scent of the ocean faded with my ascent, replaced by the smell of sage and the bay laurel trees. The hillsides were thick with yarrow, wild mustard, and California poppies. The afternoon sun had baked the boulders to a golden turn, and a warm chuffing wind was beginning to stir the dry grasses. The road wound upward through an alley of live oaks that terminated at the entrance to the Lafferty estate. The property was surrounded by a stone wall that was eight feet high and posted with No Trespassing signs.

I slowed to an idle when I reached the wide iron gates. I leaned out and pushed the call button on a mounted keypad. Belatedly I spotted a camera mounted atop one of two stone pillars, its hollow eye fixed on me. I must have passed inspection because the gates swung open at a measured pace. I shifted gears and sailed through, following the brick-paved drive for another quarter of a mile.

Through a picket fence of pines, I caught glimpses of a gray stone house. When the whole of the residence finally swept into view, I let out a breath. Something of the past remained after all. Four towering eucalyptus trees laid a dappled shade on the grass, and a breeze pushed a series of cloud-shaped shadows across the red tile roof. The two-story house, with matching one-story wings topped with stone balustrades at each end, dominated my visual field. A series of four arches shielded the entrance and provided a covered porch on which wicker furniture had been arranged. I counted twelve windows on the second floor, separated by paired eave brackets, largely decorative, that appeared to support the roof.

I pulled onto a parking pad sufficient to accommodate ten cars and left my pale blue VW hunched, cartoonlike, between a sleek Lincoln Continental on one side and a full-size Mercedes on the other. I didn’t bother to lock up, operating on the assumption that the electronic surveillance system was watching over both me and my vehicle as I crossed to the front walk.

The lawns were wide and well tended, and the quiet was underlined by the twittering of finches. I pressed the front bell, listening to the hollow-sounding chimes inside clanging out two notes as though by a hammer on iron. The ancient woman who came to the door wore an old-fashioned black uniform with a white pinafore over it. Her opaque stockings were the color of doll flesh, her crepe-soled shoes emitting the faintest squeak as I followed her down the marble-tiled hall. She hadn’t asked my name, but perhaps I was the only visitor expected that day. The corridor was paneled in oak, the white plaster ceiling embossed with chevrons and fleurs-de-lis.

She showed me into the library, which was also paneled in oak. Drab leather-bound books lined shelves that ran floor to ceiling, with a brass rail and a rolling ladder allowing access to the upper reaches. The room smelled of dry wood and paper mold. The inner hearth in the stone fireplace was tall enough to stand in, and a recent blaze had left a partially blackened oak log and the faint stench of wood smoke. Mr. Lafferty was seated in one of a pair of matching wing chairs.

I placed him in his eighties, an age I’d considered elderly once upon a time. I’ve since come to realize how widely the aging process varies. My landlord is eighty-seven, the baby of his family, with siblings whose ages range as high as ninety-six. All five of them are lively, intelligent, adventurous, competitive, and given to good-natured squabbling among themselves. Mr. Lafferty, on the other hand, looked as though he’d been old for a good twenty years. He was inordinately thin, with knees as bony as a pair of misplaced elbows. His once sharp features had at least been softened by the passing years. Two small clear plastic tubes had been placed discreetly in his nostrils, tethering him to a stout green oxygen tank on a cart to his left. One side of his jaw was sunken, and a savage red line running across his throat suggested extensive surgery of some vicious sort.

He studied me with eyes as dark and shiny as dots of brown sealing wax. “I appreciate your coming, Ms. Millhone. I’m Nord Lafferty,” he said, holding out a hand that was knotted with veins. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

“Nice to meet you,” I murmured, moving forward to shake hands with him. His were pale, a tremor visible in his fingers, which were icy to the touch.

He motioned to me. “You might want to pull that chair close. I’ve had thyroid surgery a month ago and more recently some polyps removed from my vocal cords. I’ve been left with this rasping noise that passes as speech. Isn’t painful, but it’s irksome. I apologize if I’m difficult to understand.”

“So far, I’m not having any problem.”

“Good. Would you like a cup of tea? I can have my housekeeper make a pot, but I’m afraid you’ll have to pour for yourself. These days, her hands aren’t any steadier than mine.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” I pulled the second wing chair closer and took a seat. “When was this house built? It’s really beautiful.”

“1893. A man named Mueller bought a six-hundred-forty-acre section from the county of Santa Teresa. Of that, seventy acres remain. House took six years to build and the story has it Mueller died the day the workers finally set down their tools. Since then, the occupants have fared poorly…except for me, knock on wood. I bought the property in 1929, just after the crash. Fellow who owned the place lost everything. Drove into town, climbed up to the clock tower, and dived over the rail. Widow needed the cash and I stepped in. I was criticized, of course. Folks claimed I took advantage, but I’d loved the house from the minute I laid eyes on it. Someone would have bought it. Better me than them. I had money for the upkeep, which wasn’t true of many folks back then.”

“You were lucky.”

“Indeed. Made my fortune in paper goods in case you’re curious and too polite to inquire.”

I smiled. “Polite, I don’t know about. I’m always curious.”

“That’s fortunate, I’d say, given the business you’re in. I’m assuming you’re a busy woman so I’ll get right to the point. Your name was given to me by a friend of yours—fellow I met during this recent hospital stay.”

“Stacey Oliphant,” I said, the name flashing immediately to mind. I’d worked a case with Stacey, a retired Sheriff’s Department homicide detective, and my old pal Lieutenant Dolan, now retired from the Santa Teresa Police Department. Stacey was battling cancer, but the last I’d heard, he’d been given a reprieve.

Mr. Lafferty nodded. “He asked me to tell you he’s doing well, by the way. He checked in for a battery of tests, but all of them turned out negative. As it happened, the two of us walked the halls together in the afternoons, and I got chatting about my daughter, Reba.”

I was already thinking skip trace, missing heir, possibly a background check on a guy if Reba were romantically involved.

He went on. “I only have the one child and I suppose I’ve spoiled her unmercifully, though that wasn’t my intent. Her mother ran off when she was just a little thing, this high. I was caught up in business and left the day-to-day raising of her to a series of nannies. She’d been a boy I could have sent her off to boarding school the way my parents did me, but I wanted her at home. In retrospect, I see that might’ve been poor judgment on my part, but it didn’t seem so at the time.” He paused and then gestured impatiently toward the floor, as though chiding a dog for leaping up on him. “No matter. It’s too late for regrets. Pointless, anyway. What’s done is done.” He looked at me sharply from under his bony brow. “You probably wonder what I’m driving at.”

I proffered a slight shrug, waiting to hear what he had to say.

“Reba’s being paroled on July twentieth. That’s next Monday morning. I need someone to pick her up and bring her home. She’ll be staying with me until she’s on her feet again.”

“What facility?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound as startled as I felt.

“California Institution for Women. Are you familiar with the place?”

“It’s down in Corona, couple of hundred miles south. I’ve never actually been there, but I know where it is.”

“Good. I’m hoping you can take time out of your schedule for the trip.”

“That sounds easy enough, but why me? I charge five hundred dollars a day. You don’t need a private detective to make a run like that. Doesn’t she have friends?”

“Not anyone I’d ask. Don’t worry about the money. That’s the least of it. My daughter’s difficult. Willful and rebellious. I want you to see to it she keeps the appointment with her parole officer and whatever else is required once she’s been released. I’ll pay you your full rate even if you only work for a part of each day.”

“What if she doesn’t like the supervision?”

“It’s not up to her. I’ve told her I’m hiring someone to assist her and she’s agreed. If she likes you, she’ll be cooperative, at least to a point.”

“May I ask what she did?”

“Given the time you’ll be spending in her company, you’re entitled to know. She was convicted of embezzling money from the company she worked for. Alan Beckwith and Associates. He does property management, real estate investment and development, things of that type. Do you know the man?”

“I’ve seen his name in the paper.”

Nord Lafferty shook his head. “I don’t care for him myself. I’ve known his wife’s family for years. Tracy’s a lovely girl. I can’t understand how she ended up with the likes of him. Alan Beckwith is an upstart. He calls himself an entrepreneur, but I’ve never been entirely clear what he does. Our paths have crossed in public on numerous occasions and I can’t say I’m impressed. Reba seems to think the world of him. I will credit him for this—he spoke up in her behalf before her sentencing. It was a generous gesture on his part and one he didn’t have to make.”

“How long has she been at CIW?”

“She’s served twenty-two months of a four-year sentence. She never went to trial. At her arraignment—which I’m sorry to say I missed—she claimed she was indigent, so the court appointed a public defender to handle her case. After consultation with him, she waived her right to a preliminary hearing and entered a plea of guilty.”

“Just like that?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And her attorney agreed to it?”

“He argued strenuously against it, but Reba wouldn’t listen.”

“How much money are we talking?”

“Three hundred fifty thousand dollars over a two-year period.”

“How’d they discover the theft?”

“During a routine audit. Reba was one of a handful of employees with access to the accounts. Naturally, suspicion fell on her. She’s been in trouble before, but nothing of this magnitude.”

I could feel a protest welling but I bit back my response.

He leaned forward. “You have something to say, feel free to say it. Stacey tells me you’re outspoken so please don’t hesitate on my account. It may save us a misunderstanding.”

“I was just wondering why you didn’t step in. A high-powered attorney might have made all the difference.”

He dropped his gaze to his hands. “I should have helped her…I know that…but I’d been coming to her rescue for many, many years…all her life, if you want to know the truth. At least that’s what I was being told by friends. They said she had to face the consequences of her behavior or she was never going to learn. They said I’d be enabling, that saving her was the worst possible action under the circumstances.”

“Who’s this ‘they’ you’re referring to?”

For the first time, he faltered. “I had a lady friend. Lucinda. We’d been keeping company for years. She’d seen me intercede in Reba’s behalf on countless occasions. She persuaded me to put my foot down and that’s what I did.”

“And now?”

“Frankly, I was shocked when Reba was sentenced to four years in state prison. I had no idea the penalty would be so stiff. I thought the judge would suspend sentence or agree to probation, as the public defender suggested. At any rate, Lucinda and I quarreled, bitterly I might add. I broke off the relationship and severed my ties with her. She was much younger than I. In hindsight, I realized she was angling for herself, hoping for marriage. Reba disliked her intensely. Lucinda knew that, of course.”

“What happened to the money?”

“Reba gambled it away. She’s always been attracted to card play. Roulette, the slots. She loves to bet the ponies, but she has no head for it.”

“She’s a problem gambler?”

“Her problem isn’t the gambling, it’s the losing,” he remarked, with only the weakest of smiles.

“What about drugs and alcohol?”

“I’d have to answer yes on both counts. She tends to be reckless. She has a wild streak like her mother. I’m hoping this experience in prison has taught her self-restraint. As for the job itself, we’ll play that by ear. We’re talking two to three days, a week at the most, until she’s reestablished herself. Since your responsibilities are limited, I won’t be requiring a written report. Submit an invoice and I’ll pay your daily rate and all the necessary expenses.”

“That seems simple enough.”

“One other item. If there’s any suggestion that she’s backsliding, I want to be informed. Perhaps with sufficient warning, I can head off disaster this time around.”

“A tall order.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Briefly, I considered the proposition. Ordinarily I don’t like serving as a babysitter and potential tattletale, but in this case, his concern didn’t seem out of line. “What time will she be released?”

2

On my way back into town, I picked up my dry-cleaning and then cruised through a nearby supermarket, picking up odds and ends, which I intended to drop off at my place before I returned to work. I was hoping to touch base with my landlord before the arrival of his lady visitor later in the day. I was running the errands to provide myself with props to explain my unexpected midafternoon appearance. Henry and I confide in each other on many issues, but his love life isn’t one. If I wanted information, I knew I’d do well to proceed with finesse.

My studio apartment was originally the single-car garage attached to Henry’s house by way of a now glass-enclosed breezeway. In 1980 he converted the space to the snug studio I’ve been renting ever since. What began as a basic square fifteen feet on a side is now a fully furnished “great room,” which includes a living room, a bump-out galley-style kitchen, a laundry nook and bathroom, with a sleeping loft and a second bathroom up a set of spiral stairs. The space is compact and cleverly designed to exploit every usable inch. Given the pegs and cubbyholes, walls of polished teak and oak, and the occasional porthole window, the studio has the scale and feel of a ship’s interior.

I found a parking spot two doors away and hauled out my cleaning and the two grocery bags. My timing couldn’t have been more perfect. As I pushed through my squeaky metal gate and followed the walkway around to the rear, Henry was just pulling into his two-car garage. He’d taken his bright yellow five-window Chevy coupe for its annual checkup and it was back now, the exterior polished to a fare-thee-well. The interior was probably not only spotless, but scented with faux pine. He bought the vehicle new in 1932 and he’s taken such good care of it you’d swear it was still under warranty, assuming cars had warranties back then. He has a second vehicle, a station wagon he uses for routine errands and the occasional trip to the Los Angeles airport, ninety-five miles south. The coupe he reserves for special occasions, today being one.

I have trouble remembering that he’s eighty-seven years old. I also have trouble describing him in terms that aren’t embarrassingly laudatory given our fifty-year age difference. He’s smart, sweet, sexy, trim, handsome, vigorous, and kind. In his working days, he made a living as a commercial baker, and though he’s been retired now for twenty-five years, he still makes the best cinnamon rolls I’ve ever eaten. If I were forced to accord him a fault, I’d probably cite his caution when it comes to affairs of the heart. The only time I’d seen him smitten, he was not only deceived, but nearly taken for every cent he had. Since then, he’s played his cards very close to his chest. Either he hadn’t run into anyone of interest or he’d looked the other way. That is, until Mattie Halstead appeared.

Mattie was the artist-in-residence on a Caribbean cruise he and his siblings had taken in April. Soon after the cruise ended, she’d stopped in to see him on her way to Los Angeles to deliver paintings to a gallery down there. A month later, he’d made an unprecedented trip to San Francisco, where he spent an evening with her. He’d kept mum on the subject of their relationship, but I noticed he’d spiffed up his wardrobe and started lifting weights. The Pitts family (at least on Henry’s mother’s side) is long-lived, and he and his siblings enjoy remarkably good health. William’s a bit of a hypochondriac and Charlie’s almost entirely deaf, but that aside, they give the appearance of going on forever. Lewis, Charlie, and Nell live in Michigan, but there are visits back and forth, some planned and some not. William and my friend Rosie, who owns the tavern half a block away, would be celebrating their second wedding anniversary on November 28. Now it looked like Henry might be entertaining similar thoughts…or such was my hope. Other people’s romances are so much less hazardous than one’s own. I was looking forward to all the pleasures of true love without suffering the peril.

Henry paused when he caught sight of me, allowing me to fall into step with him as he proceeded to the house. I noticed his hair had been freshly trimmed, and he wore a blue denim work shirt with his crisply pressed chinos. He’d even traded in his usual flip-flops for a pair of deck shoes with dark socks.

I said, “Hang on a second while I drop this stuff off.”

He waited while I unlocked my door and dumped my armload on the floor just inside. Nothing I’d bought would go funky in the next thirty minutes. Rejoining him, I said, “You had your hair trimmed. It looks great.”

He ran a self-conscious hand across his head. “I was passing the barbershop and realized I was long overdue. You think it’s too short?”

“Not at all. It shaves years off your age,” I said, thinking Mattie would have to be an idiot if she didn’t understand what a treasure he was. I held open the screen door while he pulled out his keys and unlocked his back door. I followed him inside, watching as he set his groceries on the kitchen counter.

“Nice that Mattie’s coming down. I’ll bet you’re looking forward to seeing her.”

“It’s only the one night.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“She did a painting on commission for a woman in La Jolla. She’s delivering that one plus a couple more in case the woman doesn’t care for the first.”

“Well, it’s nice she can manage a visit. When’s she getting in?”

“She hoped to be here by four, depending on traffic. She said she’d check into the hotel and call once she’s had a chance to freshen up. She agreed to supper here as long as I didn’t go to any trouble. I said I’d keep it simple, but you know me.”

He began to unload his sack: a packet wrapped in white butcher’s paper, potatoes, cabbage, green onions, and a big jar of mayonnaise. While I watched, he opened the oven door and checked his crock of soldier beans bubbling away with molasses, mustard, and a chunk of salt pork. I could see two loaves of freshly baked bread resting on a rack on the counter. A chocolate layer cake sat in the middle of the kitchen table with a glass dome over it. There was also a bouquet of flowers from his garden—roses and lavender he’d arranged artfully in a china teapot.

“Cake looks fabulous.”

“It’s a twelve-layer torte. I used Nell’s recipe, which was originally our mother’s. We tried it for years, but none of us could duplicate her results. Nell finally managed, but she says it’s a pain. I ended up tossing half a dozen layers before I mastered the thing.”

“What else are you having?”

Henry took out a cast-iron skillet and set it on the stove. “Fried chicken, potato salad, coleslaw, and baked beans. I thought we’d have a little picnic on the patio, unless the temperature drops.” He opened his spice cabinet and sorted through the contents, taking down a bottle of dried dill. “Why don’t you join us? She’d love to see you.”

“Oh please. Socializing is the last thing she needs. After six hours on the road? Give the woman a drink and let her put her feet up.”

“No need to worry about her. She has energy to spare. She’d be delighted, I’m sure.”

“Let’s just see how it goes. I’m on my way back to the office, but I’ll check in with you again as soon as I get home.”

I’d already decided to decline, but I didn’t want to seem rude. In my opinion, they needed time to themselves. I’d pop my head in and say hi, primarily to satisfy my curiosity about her. She was either widowed or divorced, I wasn’t sure which, but during her last visit, I’d noticed she’d made a number of references to her husband. At one point, when Henry was nursing a bum knee, she’d gone hiking alone, taking her watercolors with her so she could paint a spot in the mountains she and her husband had enjoyed for years. Was she still emotionally entrenched? Whether hubby was dead or alive, I didn’t like the idea. Henry, meanwhile, was busy being nonchalant, perhaps in denial of his feelings or in response to covert signals from her. Of course, there was always the possibility that I was imagining all this, but I didn’t think so. At any rate, I intended to have my supper at Rosie’s, resigned to my usual weekly allotment of her bullying and abuse.

I left Henry to his preparations and went back to the office, where I put a call through to Priscilla Holloway, Reba Lafferty’s parole agent. Nord Lafferty had given me her name and phone number at the end of our appointment. I was already back at my car, opening the driver’s side, when the elderly housekeeper had called from the front door and then hurried down the walk, a photograph in hand.

Winded, she’d said, “Mr. Lafferty forgot to give you this. It’s a photograph of Reba.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that. I’ll return it as soon as we get back.”

“Oh, no need. He said to keep it if you like.”

I thanked her again and tucked the photo into my bag. Now, while I waited for Parole Agent Holloway to answer her phone, I plucked out the photo and studied it again. I’d have preferred something recent. This had been taken when the woman was in her mid- to late twenties and almost puckish in appearance. Her large dark eyes were intent on the camera, her full lips half-parted as though she were on the verge of speaking. Her hair was shoulder-length and dyed blond, but clearly at considerable expense. Her complexion was clear with a hint of blush in her cheeks. After two years of prison fare, she might have packed on a few extra pounds, but I thought I’d recognize her.

On the other end of the line, a woman said, “Holloway.”

“Hi, Ms. Holloway. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a local private investigator—”

“I know who you are. I had a call from Nord Lafferty, telling me he’d hired you to pick up his daughter.”

“That’s why I’m calling, to clear it with you.”

“Fine. Have at it. It’ll save me the trip. If you’re back in town before three, bring her over to the office. Do you know where I am?”

I didn’t, but she gave me the address.

“See you Monday,” I said.

I spent the rest of the afternoon taking care of paperwork, mostly sorting and filing in a vain attempt to tidy up my desk. I also did some boning up on parole regulations from a pamphlet printed by the California Department of Corrections.

Returning to my apartment for the second time that day, I saw no sign of picnic items on the patio table. Perhaps he’d decided the meal was better served indoors. I crossed to his back door and peeked in. As it turned out, my hopes for their romantic interlude were squelched by William’s presence in the kitchen. Looking aggrieved, Henry sat in his rocking chair with his usual glass of Jack Daniel’s while Mattie nursed a goblet of white wine.

William, two years Henry’s senior, has always looked enough like him to be his twin. His shock of white hair was thinning where Henry’s was still full, but his eyes were the same hot blue and he carried himself with the same erect military bearing. He wore a dapper three-piece suit, his watch chain visible across the front of his vest. I tapped on the glass and Henry motioned me in. William rose to his feet at the sight of me, and I knew he’d remain standing unless I urged him to sit. Mattie rose to greet me, and though we didn’t actually hug, we did clasp hands and exchange an air kiss.

She was in her early seventies, tall and slender, with soft silver hair she wore pulled into a knot on the top of her head. Her earrings glinted in the light—silver, oversize, and artisan-made.

I said, “Hey, Mattie. How are you? You must have arrived right on time.”

“Good to see you. I did.” She wore a coral silk blouse and a long gypsy skirt over flat-heel suede boots. “Will you join us in a glass of wine?”

“I don’t think so, but thanks. I’ve got business to take care of so I have to run.”

Henry’s tone was morose. “Have a glass of wine. Why not? Stay for supper as well. William’s invited himself so what’s the difference? Rosie couldn’t tolerate having him underfoot so she sent him over here.”

William said, “She had a small conniption fit for no reason at all. I’d just returned from the doctor’s office and I knew she’d want to hear the results of my blood work, especially my HDLs. You might want to take a look yourself.” He held the paper out, pointing with significance at the long column of numbers down the right side of the page. My gaze slid past his glucose, sodium, potassium, and chloride levels before I caught the expression on Henry’s face. His eyes were crossed so close to the bridge of his nose I thought they’d trade sides. William was saying, “You can see my LDL-HDL risk ratio is 1.3.”

“Oh, sorry. Is that bad?”

“No, no. The doctor said it was excellent…in light of my medical condition.” William’s voice carried a hint of feebleness suggestive of a weakened state.

“Well, good for you. That’s great.”

“Thank you. I called our brother Lewis and told him as well. His cholesterol is 214, which I think is cause for alarm. He says he’s doing what he can, but he hasn’t had much success. You can pass the paper on to Mattie once you’ve studied it yourself.”

Henry said, “William, would you sit down? You’re giving me a crick in my neck.” He left his rocker and took another wineglass from the kitchen cabinet. He poured wine to the brim and passed the glass to me, slopping some liquid on my hand.

William declined to sit until he’d pulled out my chair. I settled myself with a murmured “Thank you” and then I made a show of running a finger down the column of reference and unit numbers from his doctor’s report. “You’re in good shape,” I remarked as I passed the paper to Mattie.

“Well, I still have palpitations, but the doctor’s adjusting my medication. He says I’m amazing for a man my age.”

“If you’re in such terrific health, how come you’re off to the urgent care center every other day?” Henry snapped.

William blinked placidly at Mattie. “My brother’s careless with his health and won’t acknowledge that some of us are proactive.”

Henry made a snorting sound.

William cleared his throat. “Well now. On to a new subject since Henry’s apparently unable to handle that one. I hope this is not too personal, but Henry mentioned your husband is deceased. Do you mind my asking how he was taken?”

Henry was clearly exasperated. “You call that a different subject? It’s the same one—death and disease. Can’t you think of anything else?”

“I wasn’t addressing you,” William replied before returning his attention to Mattie. “I hope the topic isn’t too painful.”

“Not at this point. Barry died six years ago of heart failure. I believe cardiac ischemia is the term they used. He taught jewelry making at the San Francisco Art Institute. He was a very talented man, though a bit of an eccentric.”

William was nodding. “Cardiac ischemia. I know the term well. From the Greek, ischein, meaning ‘quench’ or ‘seize,’ combined with haima, or ‘blood.’ A German pathology professor first introduced that term in the mid-1800s. Rudolf Virchow. A remarkable man. What age was your husband?”

“William,” Henry sang.

Mattie smiled. “Really, Henry. I’m not sensitive about this. He died two days shy of his seventieth birthday.”

William winced. “Pity when a man’s struck down in his prime. I myself have suffered several episodes of angina, which I’ve miraculously survived. I was discussing my heart condition with Lewis, just two days ago by phone. You remember our brother, I’m sure.”

“Of course. I hope he and Nell and Charles are all in good health.”

“Excellent,” William said. He shifted in his chair, lowering his voice. “What about your husband? Did he have any warning prior to his fatal attack?”

“He’d been having chest pains, but he refused to see the doctor. Barry was a fatalist. He believed you check out when your time is up regardless what precautions you take. He compared longevity to an alarm clock that God sets the moment you’re born. None of us knows when the little bell will ring, but he didn’t see the point in trying to second-guess the process. He enjoyed life immensely, I’ll say that about him. Most folks in my family don’t make it to the age of sixty, and they’re miserable every minute, dreading the inevitable.”

“Sixty! Is that right? That’s astonishing. Is there a genetic factor in play?”

“I don’t think so. It’s a little bit of everything. Cancer, diabetes, kidney failure, chronic pulmonary disease…”

William put his hands on his chest. I hadn’t seen him so happy since he’d had the flu. “COPD. Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. The very term brings back memories. I was stricken with a lung condition in my youth—”

Henry clapped his hands. “Okay, fine. Enough said on that subject. Why don’t we eat?”

He moved to the refrigerator and took out a clear glass bowl piled with coleslaw, which he plunked on the table with rather more force than was absolutely necessary. The chicken he’d fried was piled on a platter on the counter, probably still warm. He placed that in the center of the table with a pair of serving tongs. The squat little crockery pot now sat on the back of the stove, emitting the fragrance of tender beans and bay leaf. He removed serving utensils from a ceramic jug and then took down four dinner plates, which he handed to William, perhaps in hopes of distracting his attention while he brought the rest of the dinner to the table. William set a plate at each place while he quizzed Mattie at length about her mother’s death from acute bacterial meningitis.

Over supper Henry steered the conversation into neutral territory. We went through ritual questions about Mattie’s drive down from San Francisco, traffic, road conditions, and matters of that sort, which gave me ample opportunity to observe her. Her eyes were a clear gray and she wore very little makeup. She had strong features, with nose, cheekbones, and jaw as pronounced and well proportioned as a model’s. Her skin showed signs of sun damage, and it lent her complexion a ruddy glow. I pictured her out in the fields for hours with her paint box and easel.

I could tell William was reflecting on the subject of terminal disease while I was calculating how soon I could make my excuses and depart. I intended to drag William with me so Henry and Mattie could have some time alone. I kept an eye on the clock while I worked my way through the fried chicken, potato salad, coleslaw, baked beans, and cake. The food, of course, was wonderful, and I ate with my usual speed and enthusiasm. At 8:35, just as I was formulating a plausible lie, Mattie folded her napkin and laid it on the table beside her plate.

“Well, I should be on my way. I have some phone calls to make as soon as I get back to the hotel.”

“You’re leaving?” I said, trying to cover my disappointment.

“She’s had a long day,” Henry said, getting up to remove her plate. He took it to the sink, where he rinsed it and set it in the dishwasher, talking to her all the while. “I can wrap up some chicken in case you want some later.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’m full but not stuffed, which is just the way I like it. This was wonderful, Henry. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the effort that went into this meal.”

“Happy you enjoyed it. I’ll get your wrap from the other room.” He dried his hands on a kitchen towel and moved off toward the bedroom.

William folded his napkin and scraped back his chair. “I should probably run along as well. Doctor urged me to adhere to my regimen—eight full hours of sleep. I may engage in some light calisthenics before bed to aid the digestive process. Nothing strenuous, of course.”

I turned to Mattie. “You have plans for tomorrow?”

“Unfortunately, I’m taking off first thing in the morning, but I’ll be back in a few days.”

Henry returned with a soft paisley shawl that he laid across her shoulders. She patted his hand with affection and picked up a large leather bag that she’d set beside her chair. “I hope to see you again soon,” she said to me.

“I hope so, too.”

Henry touched her elbow. “I’ll walk you out.”

William straightened his vest. “No need. I’ll be happy to see her off.” He offered Mattie his arm, and she tucked her hand through the crook with a brief backward look at Henry as the two went out the door.

3

Saturday morning, I slept in until 8:00, showered, dressed, made a pot of coffee, and sat at my kitchen counter, where I ate my ritual bowl of cereal. Having washed both bowl and spoon, I returned to my stool and surveyed the place. I’m inordinately tidy and I’d just done a thorough housecleaning earlier in the week. My social calendar was unblemished and I knew I’d spend Saturday and Sunday alone as I did most weekends. Usually this doesn’t bother me, but today I felt an unsettling sensation. I was bored. I was so desperate for something to do, I thought about returning to the office to set up the files for another case I’d taken on. Unfortunately, my office bungalow is depressing and I wasn’t motivated to spend another minute at my desk. Which left me to do what? Damned if I knew. In a moment of panic, I realized I didn’t even have a book to read. I was on the verge of leaving for the bookstore to stock up on paperbacks when my telephone rang.

“Hi, Kinsey. This is Vera. I’m glad I caught you. You have a minute?”

“Of course. I was on my way out, but it’s nothing pressing,” I said. Vera Lipton had been a colleague of mine at California Fidelity Insurance, where I spent six years investigating arson and wrongful-death claims. She was the claims manager while I worked as an independent contractor. She had since left the business, married a doctor, and settled into life as a full-time mom. I’d seen her briefly in April with her husband, a physician named Neil Hess. Also in tow was a rowdy golden retriever pup, and her eighteen-month-old son, whose name I forgot to ask. She was massively pregnant and due to deliver her second child within days, judging by her belly. I said, “Tell me about the baby. You looked ready to drop one the day I saw you at the beach.”

“No kidding. I was sway-backed as a mule. I had shooting pains in both legs, and the baby’s head pressing on my bladder made me dribble in my pants. I went into labor that night and Meg was born the next afternoon. Listen, the reason I called, we’d love to have you over. We never see you these days.”

“Sounds good to me. Give me a toot and we’ll set something up.”

There was a pause. “That’s what I’m doing. I just invited you to come over and have a drink with us. We’re putting some people together for a barbecue this afternoon.”

“Really? What time?”

“Four o’clock. I know it’s short notice, but I’m hoping you’re free.”

“As it happens, I am. What’s the occasion?”

Vera laughed. “No occasion. I just thought it’d be nice. We’ve invited a few neighbors. Strictly casual and low-key. If you have a pencil handy, I’ll give you the address. Why don’t you plan to be here a little early and we can catch up.”

I took down the information, not at all convinced. Why would she call like this out of the blue? “Vera, are you sure you’re not up to something? I don’t mean to sound rude, but we chatted for five minutes in April. Before that, there was a gap of four years. Don’t get me wrong. I’d be happy to see you, but it does seem odd.”

“Mmm.”

I said, “What,” not even bothering to make a question of the word.

“Okay, I’ll level with you, but you have to promise you won’t scream.”

“I’m listening, but this is making my stomach hurt.”

“Neil’s younger brother, Owen, is in town for the weekend. We thought you should meet him.”

“What for?”

“Kinsey, occasionally men and women are introduced to each other, or haven’t you heard?”

“Like a blind date?”

“It’s not a blind date. It’s drinks and a few snacks. There’ll be tons of other people so it’s not like you’ll be stuck with him one-on-one. We’ll sit on the back deck. Cheez Whiz and crackers. If you like him, that’s swell. If you don’t, no big deal.”

“The last time you fixed me up, it was with Neil,” I said.

“My point exactly. Look how that turned out.”

I was silent for a moment. “What’s he like?”

“Well, aside from the fact that he walks with his knuckles barely grazing the floor, he seems to do okay. Look, I’ll have him fill out an application. You can do a background check. Just be here at three-thirty. I’m wearing my only pair of jeans that haven’t been split up the back.”

She hung up while I was saying, “But…”

I listened to the dial tone in a state of despair. I could see now I was being penalized for shirking my job. I should have gone in to work. The Universe keeps track of our sins and exacts devious and repugnant punishments, like dates with unknown men. I went up the spiral staircase and opened my closet so I could stare at my clothes. Here’s what I saw: My black all-purpose dress—which is the only dress I own, good for funerals and other somber occasions, not suitable for meeting guys, unless they’re already dead. Three pairs of jeans, a denim vest, one short skirt, and the new tweed blazer I bought when I had lunch with my cousin, Tasha, eighteen months before. Also, an olive-green cocktail dress I’d forgotten about, given to me by a woman who was later blown to bits. In addition, there were castoffs from Vera, including a pair of black silk pants so long I had to roll ’em up at the waist. If I wore those, she’d ask to have them back, thus forcing me to drive home essentially naked below the waist. Not that I thought harem pants would be suitable for a barbecue. I knew better than that. Shrugging, I opted for my usual jeans and turtleneck.

At 3:30 promptly I was ringing Vera’s doorbell. The address she’d given me was on the upper east side of town, in a neighborhood of older homes. Theirs was a ramshackle Victorian painted dark gray with white trim and an L-shaped wooden porch complete with froufrou along the rail. The front door had a stained-glass rose in the center that made Vera’s face look bright pink when she peered out at me. Behind her, the dog barked with excitement, eager to jump up and slobber on someone new. She opened the door, holding the dog by its collar to prevent its escape.

She said, “Don’t look so glum. You’ve been given a reprieve. I sent the guys out to buy Pampers and beer, so it’s just us for twenty minutes. Come on in.” Her hair was cropped short and streaked with blond. She still sported her glasses with wire frames and enormous pale blue lenses. Vera’s the type of woman who attracts admiring glances wherever she goes. Her figure was substantial, though she’d already dropped much of the weight she gained with Meg. She was barefoot, wearing tight jeans and an oversize tunic with short sleeves and a complicated cut to the top. All the toddler and baby toting had firmed her biceps.

She held the door for me, angling her body so the dog couldn’t lunge at me just yet. He’d doubled in size since I’d seen him on the beach. He didn’t seem like a mean mutt, but he was exuberant. She leaned close to his face, put a hand around his muzzle, and said, “No!” in a tone that had no particular effect. He seemed to like the attention and licked her in the mouth the first chance he got.

“This is Chase. Ignore him. He’ll settle down in a bit.”

I made an effort to ignore the dog while he pranced around, barking happily, and then snagged the hem of my pant leg and began to tug. He emitted a puppy growl, his feet braced on the hall carpet so he could rip my jeans to shreds. I stood there, captive, and said, “Gee, this is fun, Vera. I’m so glad I came.”

She gave me a look, but let the sarcasm pass. She snagged the dog by the collar and dragged him toward the kitchen while I followed. The foyer ceiling was high with a set of stairs to the right, the living room on the left. A short hall led straight to the kitchen across the back. The passage was the usual land mine of wooden blocks, plastic toy parts, and abandoned doggie bones. She shoved Chase into a kennel the size of a steamer trunk. This didn’t dismay the dog, but I felt guilty nonetheless. He placed a baleful eye to one of the air vents in the kennel and stared at me with hope.

The kitchen was large and I could see a wide deck accessible through a set of French doors. The cabinets were dark cherry, the counters dark green marble, with a six-burner stove-top built into a central island. Both the baby and Vera’s son, whom she introduced as Peter, were already bathed and dressed for bed. Near the kitchen sink, a woman in a pale blue uniform was piping a star of yellow filling into each of a dozen hard-boiled egg halves.

“This is Mavis,” Vera said. “She and Dirk are helping, to save the wear and tear on me. I’ve got a babysitter on her way.”

I murmured greetings and Mavis smiled in response, hardly pausing as she squeezed the filling from a pastry bag. Parsley had been tucked around the platter. On the counter nearby there were two baking sheets of canapes ready for the oven and two other serving platters, one arranged with fresh cut vegetables and the other an assortment of imported cheeses interspersed with grapes. So much for Cheez Whiz—which I personally adored, being a person of low tastes. This party had clearly been in the works for weeks. I now suspected the designated blind date had come down with the flu and I’d been elected to take her place…a B-list substitute.

Dirk, in dress pants and a short white jacket, was working near the walk-in pantry where he’d set up a temporary bar with a variety of glasses, an ice bucket, and an impressive row of wine and liquor bottles.

“How many are you expecting?”

“Twenty-five or so. This is strictly last minute so a lot of people couldn’t make it.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I’m still off the booze because of Twinkletoes here.”

The baby, Meg, was strapped in an infant seat in the middle of the kitchen table, looking around with a vague expression of satisfaction. Peter, aged twenty-one months, had been secured in a high chair. His tray was littered with Cheerios and green peas that he captured and ate when he wasn’t squishing them instead.

Vera said, “That’s not his dinner. It’s just to keep him occupied until the babysitter shows. Speaking of which, Dirk can fix you a drink while I take Peter upstairs.” She removed the tray from the high chair and set it aside, then lifted the boy and set him on one hip. “I’ll be back shortly. If Meg cries, it’s probably because she wants to be picked up.”

Vera disappeared down the hall with Peter, heading for the stairs.

Dirk said, “What can I get for you?”

“Chardonnay’s fine. I’d appreciate that.”

I watched while he removed a bottle of Chardonnay from an ice tub behind him. He poured me a glass and added a cocktail napkin as he passed the wine across the makeshift bar.

“Thanks.”

Vera had set out Brie and thinly sliced French bread, bowls of nuts and green olives. I ate one, being careful not to crack my teeth on the pit. I was curious to tour the rest of the downstairs rooms, but I didn’t dare leave Meg. I had no idea what a baby her age was capable of doing while strapped in an infant seat. Could they hop in those things?

One end of the kitchen had been furnished with two sofas upholstered in a floral fabric, two coordinating chairs, a coffee table, and a television set built into an entertainment center that ran along the wall. Wineglass in hand, I circled the periphery, idly studying the silver-framed photos of family and friends. I couldn’t help wondering if one of the fellows pictured was Neil’s brother, Owen. I imagined him, like Neil, on the short side and probably dark-haired as well.

Behind me, Meg made a restless sound of the sort that suggested more to follow at twice the volume. I tended to my responsibilities, setting down my wineglass so I could free the child from her infant seat. I picked her up, so unprepared for how light she was I nearly flung her through the air. Her hair was dark and fine, her eyes a bright blue with lashes as delicate as feathers. She smelled like baby powder and maybe something fresh and brown in her pants. Amazingly, after staring at me briefly, she laid her face against my shoulder and began to gnaw on her fist. She squirmed and the little oinking sounds she made hinted at feeding urges I hoped wouldn’t erupt before her mother returned. I jiggled her a bit and that seemed to satisfy her temporarily.

I had now exhausted my vast fund of infant-care tricks.

I heard a manly trampling outside on the wooden deck. Neil opened the back door bearing a grocery sack bulky with disposable diapers. The guy who came in behind him carried two six-packs of bottled beer. Neil and I exchanged greetings and then he turned to his brother and said, “Kinsey Millhone. This is my brother, Owen.”

I said, “Hi.” The babe in my arms precluded anything in the way of handshakes.

He responded with hey-how-are-you–type things, talking over his shoulder while he delivered the beer into Dirk’s capable hands.

Neil set the sack on a kitchen stool and removed the package of disposable diapers. “Let me run these on up. You want me to take her?” he asked, indicating Meg.

“This is fine,” I said, and surprisingly, it was. After Neil left, I peered down at her and discovered that she’d gone to asleep. “Oh, wow,” I said, scarcely daring to breathe. I couldn’t tell if the ticking I heard was my biological clock or the delayed timing device on a bomb.

Dirk was in the process of making a margarita for Owen, ice clattering in the blender. With his attention occupied I had an opportunity to study him. He was tall, compared with his brother, over six feet while Neil topped out closer to my height at five-feet-seven. His hair was sandy, lightly dusted with gray. He was lean, an ectomorph, where Neil’s build was stocky. Blue eyes, white lashes, a good-size nose. He glanced over at me and I dropped my gaze discreetly to Meg. He wore chinos and a navy short-sleeved shirt that revealed the light downy hair along his forearms. His teeth were good and his smile seemed sincere. On a scale of 1 to 10—10 being Harrison Ford—I’d place him at 8, or maybe even 8 plus plus.

He moved to the counter where I was standing and helped himself to a canape. We chatted idly, exchanging the sort of uninspired questions and answers that tend to pass between strangers. He told me he was visiting from New York, where he worked as an architect, designing residential and commercial structures. I told him what I did and how long I’d done it. He feigned more interest than he probably felt. He told me he and Neil had three other brothers, of which he was the second from the bottom of the heap. Most of the family, he said, was scattered up and down the East Coast with Neil the lone holdout in California. I told him I was an only child and let it go at that.

Eventually, Neil and Vera came downstairs. She took the baby and settled on the couch. Vera fiddled with her shirt, popped a boob out, and began to breast-feed while Owen and I made a point of looking somewhere else. Eventually several other couples arrived. There were introductions all around as each new twosome was incorporated. The kitchen was gradually taken up with guests, standing in small groups, some spilling into the hallway and out onto the deck. When the babysitter arrived, Vera took Meg upstairs and returned wearing a different shirt. The noise level rose. Owen and I were separated by the crowd, which was all right with me as I’d run out of things to say to him.

I made an effort to be friendly, chitchatting with any poor soul who caught my eye. Everyone seemed nice enough, but social gatherings are exhausting to someone of my introverted nature. I endured it as long as I could and then eased toward the foyer where I’d left my shoulder bag. Good manners dictated that I say thank you and good-bye to host and hostess, but neither were in sight and I thought it’d be expedient to tiptoe away without calling attention to my escape.

As I closed the front door and made my way down the wooden porch stairs, I caught sight of Cheney Phillips coming up the walk in a deep red silk shirt, cream dress pants, and highly polished Italian loafers. Cheney was a local cop, working vice last I heard. I tended to run into him at a dive called the Caliente Café—also known as CC’s—off Cabana Boulevard by the bird refuge. Rumor had it he’d met a girl at CC’s and the two had taken off for Vegas to get married a scant six weeks later. I remembered the pang of disappointment with which I’d greeted the news. That was three months ago.

He said, “Leaving so soon?”

“Hey, how are you? What are you doing here?”

He tilted his head. “I live next door.”

I followed his gaze to the house, another two-story Victorian that appeared to be a twin of the one I’d just left. Not many cops can afford the tab on a Santa Teresa residence of that size and vintage. “I thought you lived in Perdido.”

“I did. That’s where I grew up. My uncle died, leaving me a great whack of dough so I decided to invest it in real estate.” He was probably thirty-four, three years younger than I, with a lean face and a mop of dark curly hair, five-eight or so, and slim. He’d told me that his mother sold high-end real estate and his father was X. Phillips who owned the Bank of X. Phillips in Perdido, a town thirty miles to the south. He’d clearly been raised in an atmosphere of privilege.

“Nice house,” I said.

“Thanks. I’m still getting settled or I’d offer you a tour.”

“Maybe another time,” I said, wondering about his wife.

“What are you up to these days?”

“Nothing much. A little this and that.”

“Why don’t you return to the party and have a drink with me? We should talk.”

I said, “Can’t. I have to be someplace and I’m late as it is.”

“Rain check?”

“Of course.”

I waved, walking backward for a moment before I turned and headed to my car. Now why had I said that? I could have stayed for a drink, but I couldn’t face another minute in that crowd. Too many people and too much chitchat.

I was home again by 6:15, relieved to be alone but feeling let down nonetheless. Given that I hadn’t wanted to meet Vera’s brother-in-law in the first place, I was disappointed—the blind date had turned out to be a bland date. Nice guy, no sparks, which was probably just as well. Sort of. It was entirely possible the regrets were attached to Cheney Phillips instead of Owen Hess, but I didn’t want to deal with that. What was the point?

4

I left for the prison at 6:00 Monday morning. The drive was boring and hot, my route taking me from Santa Teresa down the 101 as far as Highway 126, which cuts inland at Perdido. The road runs between the Santa Clara River on the right and a fencework of power lines on the left, skirting the southern reaches of the Los Padres National Forest. I’d seen contour maps of the area, which detailed numerous hiking trails through that bleak and mountainous terrain. Dozens of creeks are threaded along the canyon floors. There are a surprising number of public campgrounds distributed throughout the 219,700 acres that constitute the wilderness. If I weren’t preternaturally opposed to bugs, black bears, rattlesnakes, coyotes, heat, stinging nettles, and dirt, I might enjoy seeing the rumored sandstone cliffs and pines growing at odd angles along the boulder-strewn hills. In years past, even from the safety of the highway, I sometimes spotted one of the last of the California condors circling in the sky, its ten-foot wingspan stretched out as gracefully as a soaring kite.

I passed countless avocado orchards and citrus groves laden with ripening oranges, with produce stands set up every two to three miles. I caught a red light in each of three small communities of newly constructed housing and lavish shopping malls. An hour and a half later, I reached the junction of the 126 and Highway 5, which I followed to the south. It took me another hour to reach Corona. The incarceration-prone family couldn’t do much better than to serve their separate bids in this area, which has the California Youth Authority, the California Institution for Men, and the California Institution for Women all within shooting range of one another. The land was flat and dusty, interrupted by power lines and water towers, parcels separated by low barbed-wire fences. A thin line of trees appeared at intervals, but it was hard to see the point. They provided no shade and only the sparsest screening from the cars speeding by. The houses had flat roofs and looked shabby, with dilapidated outbuildings. There were thick, knobby trees, whose amputated branches were, if not dead, devoid of foliage. As is true of most raw acreage in California, housing developments were taking root like a slew of weeds.

By 8:30 I found myself sitting in my car in the parking lot adjacent to the Processing Center at the California Institution for Women. For years, the CIW was known as Frontera, the feminine derivative of the word frontier. The 120-acre campus (as they referred to it back then) opened in 1952, and until this year, 1987, it was the only facility in California housing female felons. I’d already been inside the building where I showed the officer my photo ID and told him I was there to pick up Reba Lafferty, whose CDC number was, by an amusing coincidence, the same as my birthdate. The officer checked his roster, found her name, and then called Receiving and Release.

He’d suggested that I wait in the parking lot, so I’d hoofed it back to my VW. So far, the community of Corona seemed a bit grim for my taste. A trail of yellow smog hung on the horizon like something a crop-dusting plane might have left in its wake. The mid-July heat was as thick as soured milk and smelled of feedlots. A buffeting wind was blowing and there were flies everywhere. My T-shirt was sticking to my back and I could feel a sheen of moisture on my face—the sort of clamminess that wakes you from a dead sleep when you’ve just come down with the flu.

The view through the ten-foot chain-link fences was an improvement. I could see green lawns, walkways, and hibiscus plants with showy red and yellow blossoms. Most of the buildings were dun-colored and built close to the ground. Female inmates strolled the yards in groups of two and three. I knew from reading I’d done that construction had just been completed on a 110-bed Special Housing Unit. Total staff was 500, give or take a few, while the prison population varied between 900 and 1,200. Whites were in the majority, with ages bunched in the thirty-to-forty range. The prison provided both academic and vocational programs, including computer programming. Prison industries, largely textiles, produced shirts, shorts, smocks, aprons, handkerchiefs, bandannas, and fire-fighting clothing. Frontera also served as a hub for the selection and training of firefighters, who would be assigned work in the forty-some conservation camps across the state.

For the umpteenth time, I looked at the snapshot of Reba Lafferty taken before her legal ills and her felony quarantine. If she’d abused alcohol and drugs, the excess didn’t show. Restlessly, I returned the photo to my shoulder bag and fiddled with the tuner on the radio. The morning news was the usual disheartening mixture of murder, political shenanigans, and dire economic predictions. By the time the news anchor cut to the station break, I was ready to cut my own throat.

At 9:00 A.M. I glanced up and caught sight of activity near the vehicle sally port. The gates had been rolled back and an outbound sheriff’s department van now idled while the driver presented his paperwork to the sally port officer. The two of them exchanged pleasantries. I got out of my car. The van pulled through the gate, made a wide right-hand turn, and then slowed to a stop. I could see a number of women onboard, parolees headed for the real world, their faces turned to the window like a row of plants seeking light. The doors to the van hissed open and closed, and then the vehicle moved off.

Reba Lafferty stood on the pavement in prison-issue tennis shoes, blue jeans, and a plain white T-shirt without benefit of a brassiere. All inmates are obliged to surrender their personal clothing on arrival at the prison, but I was surprised her father hadn’t sent her something of her own to wear home. I knew she’d been compelled to purchase the outfit she wore since the articles were considered government property. She’d apparently declined the prison-issue bra, which was probably about as flattering as an orthopedic brace. Inmates are also required to leave prison without anything in hand, except their two hundred bucks in cash. Startled, I saw that she looked exactly like the photo. Given Nord Lafferty’s advanced age, I’d pictured Reba in her fifties. This girl was barely thirty.

Her hair was now cropped short and looked damp from a shower. During her incarceration, the blond had grown out and the natural dark strands were spikey, as though she’d stiffened them with mousse. I expected her to be heavy, but she was trim almost to the point of looking frail. I could see the bony hollows of her collarbones beneath the cheap fabric of her T-shirt. Her complexion was clear but faintly sallow, and her eyes were smudged with dark shadows. There was something sensual about her; a defiance in her posture, a touch of swagger in her walk.

I lifted my hand in greeting and she crossed the road, moving in my direction.

“You here for me?”

“That’s right. I’m Kinsey Millhone,” I said.

“Great. I’m Reba Lafferty. Let’s hit the friggin’ road,” she said as we shook hands.

We walked to the car and for the next hour, that was the extent of our conversation.

I prefer silence to small talk so the lack of chitchat wasn’t awkward. I varied my route, catching Highway 5 south until it intersected the 101. A couple of times I thought of asking her a question, but I didn’t think the ones that came to mind were any of my business. Why’d you steal the money and How’d you screw it up and get caught being foremost.

It was Reba who finally broke the silence. “Pop told you why I was in?”

“He said you took money, but that’s all,” I said. I noticed that I’d bypassed the word ‘embezzlement,’ as though it might be rude to name the crime that resulted in her prison term.

She rested her head against the back of the seat. “He’s a love. He deserves a lot better than me.”

“May I ask how old you are?”

“Thirty-two.”

“No offense, but you look about twelve. How old was your dad when you were born?”

“Fifty-six. My mother was twenty-one. There’s a match made in heaven. No telling what her deal was. She dropped me like a litter of kittens and hit the road.”

“Does she keep in touch?”

“Nope. I saw her once, when I was eight. We spent one day together—well, half a day. She took me to Ludlow Beach and watched me splash in the waves until my lips turned blue. We had lunch at that snack stand, you know the one near High Ridge Road?”

“Know it well.”

“I had a milk shake and ate fried clams, which I haven’t eaten since. I must have been hyper. I remember my stomach was full of butterflies from the minute I woke up, knowing she’d be there. We were on our way to the zoo when I got sick in the car and she ended up taking me home.”

“What’d she want?”

“Who knows? Whatever it was, she hasn’t wanted it since. Pop’s been great, though. I’m lucky in that regard.”

“He feels guilty about you.”

She turned and looked at me. “How come? None of this is his fault.”

“He thinks he neglected you when you were young.”

“Oh. Well, he did, but what’s that got to do with it? He made his choices and I made mine.”

“Yeah, but generally speaking, it’s better to avoid the ones that are going to land you in jail.”

She smiled. “You didn’t know me back then. I was either drunk or stoned and sometimes both.”

“How’d you hold down a job?”

“I saved the drinking for nights and weekends. I smoked dope before and after work. I never did the hard stuff—heroin, crack, or speed. Those can really mess you up bad.”

“Didn’t anyone ever notice you were stoned?”

“My boss.”

“How’d you manage to take the money? Seems like that would necessitate a clear head.”

“Trust me, I was always clear about some things. Have you ever been in jail?”

“I did an overnight once,” I said, making it sound like an outing with my Girl Scout troop.

“For what?”

“Assaulting a cop and resisting arrest.”

She laughed. “Wow. Who’da thunk? You look like a real button-down type. I’ll bet you cross the street with the light and never fudge the numbers on your tax return.”

“Well, true. Is that bad?”

“No, it’s not bad. It’s just boring,” she said. “Don’t you ever want to cut loose? Take a risk and maybe blow yourself through the roof?”

“I like my life as it is.”

“What a drag. I’d go nuts.”

“What makes me nuts is being out of control.”

“So what do you do for laughs?”

“I don’t know…I read a lot and I jog.”

She looked at me, waiting for the punch line. “That’s it? You read a lot and you jog?”

I laughed. “It does sound pathetic when you think of it.”

“Where do you hang out?”

“I don’t do any ‘hanging out’ as such, but if I want dinner or a glass of wine, I usually go to a tavern in my neighborhood called Rosie’s. The owner’s a mama bear, which means I can eat without being hassled by guys on the make.”

“You have a boyfriend?”

“Not so’s you’d notice,” I said, slipping into the vernacular. Better not to let her venture too far down that path. I glanced over at her. “If you don’t mind my asking, have you been in trouble before?”

She turned to look out the passenger-side window. “Depends on your point of reference. I went through drug rehab twice. I did six months in county jail on a bad-check charge. By the time I got out, my finances were in the shitter so I declared bankruptcy. Here’s the weird part. Once I filed? I got a ton of credit card offers in the mail and all of them were preapproved. How could I resist? Of course, I ran those up, too. Thirty thousand bucks’ worth before the gates clanged shut.”

“Thirty thousand for what?”

“Oh, you know. The usual. Gambling, drugs. I blew a bunch at the track and then went to Reno where I played the slots. I sat in on some high-stakes poker, but the cards were running cold. Not that I’d quit because of that. I figured I could only lose so many times before the game turned around and started working my way. Unfortunately, I never reached that point. Next thing you know, I was broke and living on the streets. That was 1982. Pop moved me into his house and then he cleaned up my debts. What about your vices? You must have one.”

“I drink wine and the occasional martini. I used to smoke cigarettes, but then I gave that up.”

“Hey, me, too. I quit a year ago. Talk about tough.”

“The worst,” I said. “What made you quit?”

“Just to prove I could,” she said. “What about other stuff? You ever do coke?”

“Nope.”

“Ludes, Vicodan, Percocet?”

I turned and stared at her.

“I’m just asking,” she said.

“I smoked dope in high school, but then I straightened up my act.”

She flopped her head to one side and said, “Snore.”

I laughed. “Why snore?”

“You live like a nun. Where’s the friggin’ joy?”

“I have joy. I have a lot of joy.”

“Oh, don’t be so defensive. I wasn’t judging you.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Well, okay, maybe a little bit. I’m mostly curious.”

“About what?”

“How you make it in this world if you give up living on the edge.”

“Maybe you’ll find out.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that, but one can always hope.”

As we approached Santa Teresa, a drifting fog had curled across the landscape, wispy and pale. I drove along the beach, palms standing out darkly against the soft white of the Pacific. Reba’d been staring at the ocean since it came into view south of Perdido. As we passed the Perdido Avenue off-ramp, she turned her head, watching it recede into the mist. “You ever hear of the Double Down?”

“What’s that?”

“Perdido’s only poker parlor—scene of my downfall. Had some great times there, but that’s over and done with. Or so I hope.”

The highway angled inland and she watched the ebb and flow of citrus groves on either side of the road. Houses and businesses began to accumulate until the town itself appeared—two- and three-story white stucco buildings with red tile roofs, palm trees, evergreens, the architecture defined by the Spanish influence.

“What’d you miss most?” I asked.

“My cat. Long-haired orange tabby I’ve had since he was six weeks old. He looked like a little powder puff. He’s seventeen now and a great old guy.”

As I took the Milagro off-ramp, I glanced at my watch. It was 12:36. “Are you hungry? We have time for lunch if you want to eat before you meet your PO.”

“That’d be great. I’ve been hungry since we hit the road.”

“You should have spoken up. You have a preference?”

“McDonald’s. I’d kill for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese.”

“Me, too.”

Over lunch, I said, “Twenty-two months. What’d you do with your time?”

“I learned computer programming. That’s a hoot and a half. Also, I memorized prison stats,” she said.

“Sounds like fun.”

She began dunking her fries in a lake of ketchup, eating them like worms. “Well, it was. I spent a lot of time in the library reading all the studies they’ve done on female inmates. Used to be, I’d pick up an article like that and it had nothing to do with me. Now it’s all relevant. Like in 1976? There were eleven thousand women in state and federal prisons. Last year, the number jumped to twenty-six thousand and you want to know why? Women’s Liberation. Judges used to take pity on women, especially those with little kids. Now it’s equal-opportunity incarceration. Thank you, Gloria Steinem. Only something like three percent of convicted felons do any prison time anyway. And here’s something else. Five years ago half the killers released from prison had served less than six years. Can you believe that? Murder someone and you’re back on the street after six in the can. Most parole violations, you end up doing a bullet, which is a lot if you look at it proportionately. I flunk one drug test and I’m back on the bus.”

“A bullet?”

“A year. I’m telling you, the system’s really screwed. I mean, what do you think parole’s about? You serve your sentence on the street. What kind of punishment is that? You have no idea how many vicious guys you got walking around out here.” She smiled. “Anyway, let’s go meet my PO and get it over with.”

5

Parole offices were housed in a low yellow brick building of a style popular during the sixties—lots of glass and aluminum and long horizontal lines. Dark green cedars grew under an overhang that ran the length of the façade. The parking lot was generous and I found a spot without difficulty. I shut down the engine. “Want me to go with you?”

“Might as well,” she said. “Who knows how long I’ll have to wait. I could use the company.”

We crossed the parking lot and hung a right, moving toward the entrance. We pushed through the glass doors and found ourselves facing a long drab hallway lined with offices on both sides. There was no reception area that I could see, though at the far end of the corridor there were a few folding chairs where a smattering of men were seated. As we entered, a big woman with red hair and a fat file in hand peered out of an office and called to one of the guys loitering against the wall. A sorrowful-looking man in his sixties stepped forward, dressed in a shabby sport coat and pants that were none too clean. I’d seen guys like him sleeping in doorways and picking half-smoked cigarette butts out of the sand-filled ashtrays in hotel lobbies.

She glanced over at us, catching sight of Reba. “Are you Reba?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Priscilla Holloway. We spoke on the phone. I’ll be with you in a sec.”

“Great.” Reba watched them depart. “My parole officer.”

“I figured as much.”

Priscilla Holloway was in her forties, strong-featured, big-boned, and tan. Her dark red hair was pulled back in a French braid that extended halfway down her back. Her dark slacks were wrinkled from sitting. Over them she wore a white shirt, hem out, and a zippered red knit jacket that was open down the front, discreet concealment for the firearm she wore holstered at her side. Her build was athletic, and my guess was she played the fast, hard-sweating sports: racquetball, soccer, basketball, and tennis. When I was in grade school a girl her size would have scared the crap out of me, but I learned, in those days, that if I cultivated a friendship, I’d end up with playground protection for life.

Reba and I staked out our claim on a tiny section of the hallway where we variously leaned and slouched, trying to find a comfortable position in which to wait. There was a pay phone mounted on the wall nearby and I could see Reba’s focus sharpen at the sight of it. “You have any change? I need to make a phone call. It’s local.”

I opened my shoulder bag and did a quick search along the bottom, fishing for stray coins. I passed her a handful of change, watching as she moved to the phone and picked up the handset. She dropped in the coins, punched in a number, and then turned her body at an angle so I couldn’t read her lips while she talked. She was on the line for three minutes and when she finally put the handset back in the cradle, she was looking happier and more relaxed than I’d seen her so far.

“Everything okay?”

“Sure. I was touching base with a friend.” She sank down along the wall and took a seat on the floor.

Ten minutes later, Priscilla Holloway appeared, walking her fusty-looking client to the front door. She issued him an admonition and then turned to Reba. “Why don’t you come on back?”

Reba scrambled to her feet. “What about her?”

“She can join us in a bit. We’ve got a couple of things we need to talk about first. I’ll come get you in a minute,” she said to me.

The two moved down the bleak hallway, Reba looking half Holloway’s size. Reconciled to the wait, I leaned against the wall, my shoulder bag on the floor. The glass doors opened and Cheney Phillips came in, passing me on his way down the hall. I saw him tap on Priscilla Holloway’s open door and stick his head in. He chatted briefly with her and then turned, walking in my direction. He still hadn’t recognized me, which gave me a moment to study him.

I’d known Cheney for years, but we hadn’t had occasion to interact until a murder investigation two years before. Over the course of several conversations, he’d told me he’d grown up in circumstances of benign neglect and fixed his sights early on a career in law enforcement. He’d been working undercover vice the last time our paths crossed, but by now his face was probably too well-known for anything covert. He was dressed to the nines, as usual: dark slacks and a pin-stripe sport coat, wide in the shoulders and nipped at the waist. His dress shirt was midnight blue worn with a midnight blue tie with a sheen of lighter blue. His dark hair was curly, his dark gaze revealing a curious mix of cop-think and come-hither. When I heard he’d gotten married, I’d moved his name, in my mental Rolodex, from a prominent place near the front to a category I labeled “expunged without prejudice” near the back of the file.

His gaze connected briefly with mine and when he realized it was me, he stopped in his tracks. “Kinsey. I don’t believe it. I was just thinking about you.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Getting a bead on a parolee. What about you?”

“Babysitting a gal until she gets on her feet.”

“Missionary work.”

“Hardly. I’m getting paid,” I said.

“When I ran into you Saturday I meant to ask why I haven’t seen you at CC’s. Dolan told me the two of you were working a case. I figured you’d be in.”

“I don’t ‘do’ bars at my age except for Rosie’s,” I said. “What about you? Last I heard, you were off in Las Vegas getting married.”

“Geez, word gets around. So what else did you hear?”

“That you met her at CC’s and only knew her six weeks before the two of you ran off.”

Cheney’s smile was pained. “Sounds so crass when you put it that way.”

“What happened to your other girlfriend? I thought you’d been dating someone else for years.”

“That wasn’t going anywhere. She realized it before I did and dumped my sorry butt.”

“So what’d you do, marry on the rebound?”

“That would cover it, I guess. What about you? How’s your friend Dietz?”

“Kinsey, would you like to join us?”

I glanced up to see Priscilla Holloway approaching.

Cheney turned his head, following my gaze. His eyes flicked from the parole officer to me. “I better let you go.”

“Nice seeing you again,” I said.

“I’ll give you a call as soon as I’m free,” Priscilla said to him as he turned to go.

I glanced back, watching him as he pushed out the glass doors and turned toward the parking lot.

“How do you know Cheney?” she asked.

“Through a case I worked. Nice guy.”

“He’s good. Did the drive go okay?”

“Piece of cake, but it was hot down there.”

“And way too many bugs,” she said. “You can hardly open your mouth without swallowing one.”

Her office was small and the furniture was plain. A window overlooked the parking lot, the view cut into slices by a dusty venetian blind. There was a Polaroid camera resting on the windowsill and two instant photos of Reba lay on top of a stack of thick files. I assumed Priscilla kept current photos in the file in case Reba took off without notice. There were file cabinets on her side of the desk and two metal chairs on ours. Reba sat in the one closest to the window. Priscilla took a seat in her swivel chair and looked at me. “Reba says you’ll be squiring her around town.”

“Just for a couple of days, until she’s settled.”

Priscilla leaned forward. “I’ve been over this with her, but I think it bears repeating so you know the score. No drugs, no alcohol, no firearms, no knife with a blade longer than two inches, except knives in her residence or in her place of employment. No crossbow of any kind.” She paused to smile, directing the rest of her remarks to Reba as though for emphasis. “No consorting with known felons. Any change of residence has to be reported within seventy-two hours. No traveling more than fifty miles without authorization. You will not be out of Santa Teresa County for more than forty-eight hours and not out of California at all without my written consent. Cops pick you up and you don’t have the magic piece of paper, you’ll be back in the clink.”

“I’m cool with that,” Reba said.

“One thing I forgot to mention. If you’re seeking employment, a special condition of your parole prohibits a position of trust: no handling of payroll, taxes, no access to checks—”

“What if the employer knows about my record?”

Holloway paused. “Under those circumstances, maybe, but talk to me first.” She turned back to me. “Any questions?”

“Not me. I’m just along for the ride.”

“I’ve given Reba my number if she should need me. If I’m not available, leave a message on my machine. I check four and five times a day.”

“Right.”

“In the meantime, I have two concerns. The first is public safety. The second is her successful reentry. Let’s not screw up on either count, okay?”

“I’m with you,” I said.

Priscilla stood up and leaned across her desk to shake first Reba’s hand and then mine. “Good luck. Nice meeting you, Ms. Millhone.”

“Make it Kinsey,” I said.

“Let me know if there’s any way I can be of help.”

Once we were in the car again, I said, “I like Holloway. She seems nice.”

“Me, too. She’s says I’m the only female she handles. Every other parolee she has is a 288A or a 290.”

“Which is what?”

“Registered sex offenders. 288A signifies a child molester. A couple of ’em are considered sexually violent predators. Nice company. You’d never guess just from looking at those guys,” she said. She took out a folded pamphlet with “Department of Corrections” printed on the front. I could see her scanning the information as she turned the page. “At least I’m not classified as High Control. Those guys really have to jump through hoops. I see her once a week at first, but she says if I behave myself, she’ll move me to once a month. I’ll still have to attend AA meetings and I’ll be subjected to weekly drug tests, but that’s just peeing in a jar and it’s really not so bad.”

“What about employment? Will you be looking for a job?”

“Pop doesn’t want me to work. He thinks it stresses me out. Besides, it’s not a condition of parole and Holloway doesn’t care as long as I keep my nose clean.”

“Then let’s get you home.”

At 2:30 I dropped Reba off at her father’s estate, making sure she had both my home and office numbers. I suggested she take a couple of days to get settled, but she said she’d been cooped up, idle, and bored for the past two years and wanted to get out. I told her to call in the morning and we’d work out a time to pick her up.

“Thanks,” she said, and then opened the car door. The elderly housekeeper was already standing on the front porch, watching for her arrival. Near her sat a big long-haired orange cat. As Reba slammed the car door, the cat stepped down off the porch and strolled toward her at a dignified pace. Reba leaned down and swept the cat into her arms. She rocked him, her face buried in his fur, a display of devotion the cat seemed to accept as his due. Reba carried him to the porch. I waited until she’d hugged the housekeeper and disappeared inside, cat tucked under one arm, and then I put the car in gear and headed back to town.

I stopped by the office and put in the requisite time returning phone calls and opening the mail. At 5:00, having taken care of as much business as I intended to do, I closed up the office and retrieved my car for the short drive home. Once there, I opened my mailbox and pulled out the usual assortment of junk mail and bills. I pushed through the squeaky gate, engrossed in an ad from a Hong Kong tailor soliciting my business. I had another offer from a mortgage company suggesting ready cash with one simple call. Wasn’t I the lucky one?

Henry was in the backyard hosing down the patio with a steady stream of water as fat as a broom handle. With it, he forced leaves and grit across the flat stones and into the grass beyond. The late afternoon sun had broken through the overcast and we were finally experiencing a touch of summer. He wore a T-shirt and cutoffs, his long, elegant bare feet tucked into a pair of worn flip-flops. William, in his usual natty three-piece suit, stood just behind him, carefully avoiding any spatter from the hose. He was leaning on a black malacca walking stick with a carved ivory handle. The two were arguing but paused long enough to greet me civilly.

“William, what’d you do to your foot? I’ve never seen you with a cane.”

“The doctor thought it would help keep me steady.”

“It’s a prop,” Henry said.

William ignored him.

I said, “Sorry to interrupt. I must’ve caught you in the middle of a chat.”

William said, “Henry’s feeling indecisive about Mattie.”

“I’m not indecisive! I’m being sensible. I’m eighty-seven years old. How many good years do I have left?”

“Don’t be absurd,” William said. “Our side of the family has always lived to be at least a hundred and three. Did you hear what she said about hers? I thought she was reciting from the Merck Manual. Cancer, diabetes, and heart disease? Her mother died of meningitis. Of all things! Take my word for it, Mattie Halstead will go long before you.”

“Why worry about that? None of us are ‘going’ anytime soon,” Henry said.

“You’re being foolish. She’d be lucky to have you.”

“What in heaven’s name for?”

“She’ll need someone to see her through. No one wants to be ill and alone, especially toward the end.”

“There’s nothing wrong with her! She’s healthy as a horse. She’ll outlive me by a good twenty years, which is more than I can say for you.”

William turned to me. “Lewis wouldn’t be this stubborn—”

“What’s Lewis have to do with it?” Henry asked.

“He appreciates her. If you’ll remember, he was most attentive to her on the cruise.”

“That was months ago.”

“You tell him, Kinsey. Maybe you can get through to him.”

I could feel uneasiness stir. “I don’t know what to say, William. I’m the last person in the world who should give advice about love.”

“Nonsense. You were married twice.”

“But neither one worked out.”

“At least you weren’t afraid to commit. Henry’s being cowardly—”

“I am not!” Henry’s temper was climbing. I thought he was going to turn the hose on his brother, but he moved over to the faucet and wrenched the water off with a squawking sound. “The idea’s preposterous. For one thing, Mattie’s entrenched in San Francisco and my roots are down here. I’m a homebody at heart and look at the way she lives—always taking off on cruises, sailing around the world at the drop of a hat.”

“She only cruises the Caribbean so it doesn’t present a problem,” William said.

“She’s gone for weeks on end. There’s no way in the world she’s going to give that up.”

“Why should she give it up?” William said, exasperated. “Let her do anything she wants. You can live six months up there and the other six months down. We can all benefit from a change of scene—you more than most. And don’t give me that song and dance about ‘roots.’ She can keep her place and you can keep yours, and you can go back and forth.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay right here.”

“I’ll tell you your problem. You don’t want to do anything that involves risk,” William said.

“Neither do you.”

“Not so! No sir. You’re completely incorrect. By golly, I got married at the age of eighty-six and if you don’t think that’s taking a risk, then ask her,” he said, pointing to me.

“Really, it is,” I murmured dutifully, my hand in the air as though swearing an oath. “But guys? Excuse me…” They both turned to stare at me. “Don’t you think Mattie’s feelings count? Maybe she’s no more interested in him than he is in her?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. I’m discussing the situation from her point of view.”

“She’s interested, you dolt!” William said. “Look at this. She’s coming back to town in a day. She said so herself. Didn’t you hear her say that?”

“Because it’s right in her path. She isn’t stopping off to see me.”

“Oh yes she is, or why wouldn’t she drive straight on through?”

“Because she has to buy gas and stretch her legs.”

“Which she could do without taking the time to see you.”

“William has a point. I’m with him,” I said.

Henry began to coil the hose, his hands picking up bits of grit and cut grass. “She’s a wonderful person and I value our friendship. Let’s just leave the subject. I’m tired of it.”

William turned to me. “That’s how this started. All I did was point out the obvious, that she’s a wonderful person and he’d better get a move on and snap her up.”

Henry said, “Nuts!” waving William off as he returned to the house. He opened the screen door and banged it shut.

William shook his head, leaning on his walking stick. “He’s been like this all his life. Unreasonable. Stubborn. Having temper tantrums at the slightest hint of disagreement.”

“I don’t know, William. If I were you, I’d back off and let them work it out for themselves.”

“I’m only trying to help.”

“Henry hates to be helped.”

“Because he’s mulish.”

“We’re all mulish when it comes right down to it.”

“Well, something has to be done. This may be his last chance at love. I can’t bear to see him make a hash of it.” There was a gentle pinging sound and William reached into his vest pocket and checked his watch. “Time for my snack.” He took out a small cellophane packet of cashews that he opened with his teeth. He popped two in his mouth, chewing them like pills. “You know I’m hypoglycemic. The doctor says I shouldn’t go more than two hours without eating. Otherwise I’m subject to faintness, weakness, clamminess, and palpitations. Also, tremulousness, which you’ve doubtless observed.”

“Really. I hadn’t noticed.”

“Precisely. The doctor’s encouraged me to instruct friends and family in recognizing the symptoms because it’s imperative to render immediate treatment. A glass of fruit juice, a few nuts. These can make all the difference. Of course, he wants me to undergo tests, but in the meantime, a diet high in protein, that’s the trick,” he said. “You know, with deficient glucose production, an attack can be triggered by alcohol, salicylates, or in rare cases, by ingesting the ackee nut, which produces what’s commonly known as the Jamaican vomiting sickness…”

I cupped a hand to my ear. “I think that’s my phone. I better run.”

“Certainly. I can tell you more over supper since you’re interested.”

“Great,” I said. I began to edge toward my door.

William pointed at me with his walking stick. “As for this business with Henry, isn’t it better to feel something intensely even if you’re wounded in the process?”

I pointed at him. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

6

I had a brief debate with myself about working in a three-mile jog. I’d had to skip my morning run in the interest of reaching CIW by nine. I usually run at 6:00 when I’m still half-asleep and my resistance is down. I’ve discovered that as the day wears on my sense of virtue and resolve both rapidly diminish. Most days, by the time I get home from work, the last thing I want to do is change into my running clothes and drag myself out. I’m not so fanatic about exercise that I don’t occasionally let myself off the hook; however, I’d noticed a growing inclination to seize any excuse to sit on my butt instead of working out. Before I thought too much about it, I went up the spiral stairs to change my clothes.

I kicked off my loafers, peeled out of my jeans, and pulled my T-shirt over my head, tugging on my sweats and my Sauconys. In circumstances like this, I make a little deal with myself. If I jog for ten minutes and really really hate it, I can turn around and come back. No shame, no blame. Usually by the time the first ten minutes have elapsed, I’m into the swing of it and enjoying myself. I tied my house key in the laces of one shoe, locked the door behind me, and set off at a brisk walk.

Now that the marine layer had burned off, the neighbors were out in their yards, mowing lawns, watering, and pruning deadheads from the rosebushes massed along the fences. I could smell ocean brine mingled with the scent of freshly clipped grass. My block of Albinil Street is narrow. Aside from vehicles parked on either side, there’s barely room for two cars to pass. Eucalyptus trees and stone pines provide shade for the assorted stucco and frame houses, most of them small, dating back to the early forties.

By the time I reached the jogging path, I was sufficiently warmed up to break into a trot. After that, I only had to cope with my protesting body parts, which gradually melded into the smooth rhythms of the run. I was home again forty minutes later, winded, sweating, but feeling virtuous. I let myself into the apartment, stripped off my sweats, and took a short hot shower. I was out and drying myself when the telephone rang. I took the call while turning the towel into a makeshift sarong.

“Kinsey? This is Reba. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Well, I’m standing here soaking wet, but I should be good for a minute until the chill sets in. What’s up?”

“Not much. Pop was feeling bad so he’s gone to bed. The housekeeper just left and the home-care nurse called to say she’d be a little late. I was just wondering if you were free for dinner?”

“Sure. I could do that. What’d you have in mind?”

“Didn’t you mention a place in your neighborhood?”

“Rosie’s. That’s where I was headed. I wouldn’t call it fancy, but at least it’s close.”

“I just need to get out. I’d love to join you but only if it doesn’t interfere with your plans.”

“What plans? I don’t mind a bit. You have transportation?”

“Don’t worry about that. As soon as the nurse arrives, I’ll meet you down there. About seven?”

“That should work.”

“Good. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I’ll grab a good table and see you there,” I said, and then gave her the address.

After she hung up, I finished my routine, putting on fresh jeans, a clean black T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers. I went downstairs and spent a few minutes tidying my already tidy kitchen. Then I flipped on the lights and sat in the living room with the local paper, catching up on the obituaries and other current events.

At 6:56, I walked the half block to Rosie’s through the lingering daylight. Two sets of neighbors were having cocktails outside, enjoying conversation from porch to porch. A cat crossed the street and eased its slim body through the palings in a picket fence. I could smell jasmine.

Rosie’s is one of six small businesses on my block, including a laundromat, an appliance-repair shop, and an automobile mechanic, who always has clunkers lined up along his drive. I’ve been having supper at Rosie’s three to four nights a week for the past seven years. The exterior is shabby, a building that might have served as the neighborhood market once upon a time. The windows are plate glass, but the light is obscured by sputtering neon beer signs, posters, announcements, and faded placards from the health department. As nearly as I can remember, Rosie’s has never been awarded a rating higher than a C.

Inside, the space is long and narrow, with a high, darkly painted ceiling that looks like it was made of pressed tin. Crudely constructed plywood booths form an L on the right. There’s a long mahogany bar on the left, with two swinging kitchen doors and a short corridor leading to the restrooms located at the rear. The remaining floor space is occupied by a number of Formica dinette tables. The accompanying chairs have chrome legs and upholstered marbleized gray plastic seats, variously split and subsequently mended with duct tape. The air always smells of spilled beer, popcorn, ancient cigarette smoke, and Pine-Sol.

Monday nights are generally quiet, allowing the day-drinkers and the usual sports rowdies to recover from their weekend excesses. My favorite booth was empty, as were most of the others, as a matter of fact. I slid in on one side so I could watch the front door for Reba’s arrival. I checked the menu, a mimeographed sheet inserted in a plastic sleeve. Rosie runs these off on a machine at the back, the blurred purple lettering barely legible. Two months before, she’d instituted a new style of menu, closely resembling a leather-bound portfolio with a handscripted list of the Hungarian Specialties du Jour of the Day, as she referred to them. Some of these menus had been stolen and others had served as hazardous flying missiles when opposing soccer teams enjoyed a hot dispute about the last big match. Rosie had apparently given up her pretensions to haute cuisine and her old mimeographed sheets were back in circulation. I ran an eye down the list of dishes, though I’m not even sure why I bothered to check. Rosie makes all my food decisions for me, compelling me to dine on whatever Hungarian delicacies come to her mind when she’s taking my order.

William was now working behind the bar. I watched him pause to check his pulse, two fingers of one hand pressed to his carotid artery, the other hand holding aloft his trusty pocket watch. Henry came in and flicked a look in his direction. He chose a table near the front, pointedly turning his back to the bar. As I watched, Rosie moved out from behind the bar bearing a glass of lip-puckering white wine that she passes off as Chardonnay. I could see an inch of gray hair growing in along her part. In the past, she’s claimed to be in her sixties, but now she’s so quiet on the subject I suspect she’s slipped over the line into her seventies. She’s short, pigeon-breasted, and the red portion of her red hair is dyed to a hue somewhere between cinnabar and burnt ocher.

She placed the glass of wine in front of me. “Is new. Very good. You sip and tell what you think. I’m saving two dollar a bottle over other brand.”

I sipped and nodded. “Very nice,” I said. Meanwhile, enamel was being eaten off my teeth. “I see Henry and William aren’t speaking.”

“I’m telling William to mind his own business, but he’s no listen to me. I’m shock to see a woman can come between them two brothers.”

“They’ll get over it,” I said. “What’s your take on the situation. You think Mattie has designs on Henry?”

“What do I know? That Henry’s a catch. You should hev seen little old ladies flirt with him on cruise ship. Was comical. On other hand, her husband die. Meybe she don’t want to connect with some guy. Meybe she want freedom all to herself and Henry for a friend.”

“That’s what I’ve been worried about, but William’s convinced there’s something more going on.”

“William’s convince she won’t be living two more years. He wants Henry to hurry in case she’s dropping dead already.”

“That’s ridiculous. She’s barely seventy.”

“Very young,” Rosie murmured. “I myself hope to look so good when I’m getting her age.”

“I’m certain you will,” I said. I picked up the menu and pretended to study. “I’m expecting a friend so I’ll hold off on ordering. Actually this all sounds pretty good. What do you recommend?”

“Lucky you esk. For you and your friend, I’m fixing Krumpli Paprikas. Is stew made of boil potato, ongion, and what you call weenies cut in pieces. Is always serve with rye bread and on the side you hev choice of cucumber salad or sour pickle. Which you want? I’m think pickle,” she said, scribbling a note on her pad.

“Sour pickle, my favorite. So perfect with the wine.”

“I’m bring you food as soon as he come.”

“It’s a ‘she’ friend, not a ‘he.’”

“Is pity,” she said, shaking her head. She added an emphatic mark to her pad and then returned to the bar.

At 7:15 Reba appeared, pausing at the door to scan the room. She saw me waving from my booth and made her way toward the back. She’d changed out of her jeans and T-shirt into slacks, a red cotton sweater, and sandals. Her color had improved and her eyes looked enormous in the perfect oval of her face. The spikes were gone from her hair, strands of which she’d tucked behind her ears, causing them to protrude like an elf ’s. When she reached the booth, she slid in on her side, saying, “Sorry I’m late, but I ended up taking a cab. Turns out my driver’s license expired while I was in the can. I was worried I’d be pulled over if I tried driving without one. I could have applied for a renewal from prison but never got around to it. Maybe tomorrow we can go to the DMV.”

“Sure. No problem. Why don’t I pick you up at nine and we can take care of your license and then run any other errands you have in mind.”

“Maybe some clothes. I can use a few things.” Reba craned her head, doing a quick survey of the room behind her where the patrons were starting to trickle in. “Would you mind switching seats? I hate sitting with my back to the room.”

I slid out on my side of the booth and traded places with her, though in truth I wasn’t any fonder than she was about sitting with my back to the room. “How’d you manage in prison?”

“That’s where I learned to keep an eye on my ass. I trust what I can see. The rest is way too scary for my taste.” She took up a menu and ran her eye down the page.

“Were you scared?”

She lifted her enormous dark eyes to my face, her smile fleeting. “At first. After a while, I wasn’t scared so much as cautious. I didn’t worry about the staff. It took me about two full seconds to figure out how to get along with them.”

“Which was what?”

“Compliance. I was nice. Polite. I did as I was told and I obeyed all the rules. It was really no big deal and it made life easier.”

“What about the other inmates?”

“Most of them were okay. Not all. Some of the girls were mean, so you didn’t dare let ’em see you as weak. You backed down on anything, they’d be all over you like flies. So here’s what I learned. Some bitch gets in my face? I get right back in hers. If she escalates, I do the same and keep on upping the ante until it finally dawns on her she’d better leave me alone. What made it tricky was you didn’t want to be written up, especially for anything involving violence—there was hell to pay for that—so you had to find a way to stand your ground without calling attention to yourself.”

“How’d you manage it?”

She smiled. “Oh, I had my little ways. The truth is I never messed with anyone who didn’t mess with me first. My goal was peace and quiet. You go your way and I’ll go mine. Sometimes it just didn’t work out that way and then you had to move on to something else.” She glanced down at the menu. “What is this stuff?”

“Those are all Hungarian dishes, but you don’t need to fret. Rosie’s already decided what we’re having. You can argue with her if you like, but you’ll lose.”

“Hey, just like prison. What a happy thought.”

I saw Rosie approach, bearing another glass of second-rate wine. Before she could put it down in front of Reba, I reached for it, saying, “Thanks. I’ll take that. What about you, Reba? What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll have iced tea.”

Rosie made an officious note to herself like a proper journalist. “Sweet or no sweet?”

“I prefer plain.”

“I’m bring lemon on the side in little diaper so you squeeze in your tea with no seeds come out.”

“Thanks.”

Once Rosie left, Reba said, “I would have turned that down. It really doesn’t bother me to see you drink.”

“I wasn’t sure. I don’t want to be a bad influence.”

“You? Not possible. Don’t worry about it.” She set the menu aside and clasped her hands on the table in front of her. “You have other questions. I can tell.”

“I do. What were they in for, the mean ones?”

“Murder, manslaughter. A lot for selling drugs. The lifers were the worst because what did they have to lose? They’d get thrown in detention? Whoopee-do. Big deal.”

“I couldn’t stand having all those people around. Didn’t that drive you nuts?”

“It was terrible. Really bad. Women living in close proximity always end up on the same monthly cycle. I guess there must be primitive survival advantages—females fertile at the same time. Talk about PMS. You tack a full moon on top of that and the place turned into a loony bin. Moodiness, quarrels, crying jags, suicide attempts.”

“You think being among hardened criminals corrupted you?”

“Corrupted me? Like how?”

“Didn’t you pick up new and better ways to break the law?”

She laughed. “Are you kidding? All of us were in there because we got caught. Why would I take instruction from a bunch of fuckups? Besides which, women don’t sit around trying to teach other women how to rob banks or fence stolen property. They talk about what lousy attorneys they had and how their case is going on appeal. They talk about their kids and their boyfriends and what they want to do when they get out, which usually involves food and sex—not necessarily in that order.”

“Was there an upside?”

“Oh, sure. I’m clean and sober. The drunks and druggies are the ones who end up back in the can. They go out on parole and the next thing you know, they’re on the bus again, coming through Reception. Half the time they can’t even remember what they did while they were out.”

“How’d you survive?”

“I walked the yard or read books, sometimes as many as five a week. I did tutoring. Some of the girls barely knew how to read. They weren’t dumb; they’d just never been taught. I did their hair and looked at pictures of their kids. That was hard, watching them try to maintain contact. The phones were a source of conflict. You wanted to make an afternoon call, you had to get your name on a list first thing in the morning. Then when your turn came, you had twenty minutes max. The big beefy dykes took as long as they liked and if you had objections, tough patooties to you. I was a shrimp compared to most. Five-two, a hundred and four pounds. That’s why I learned to be devious. Nothing sweeter than revenge, but you don’t want to leave your fingerprints all over the deed. Take my advice: never do anything that points back to you.”

“I’ll remember that,” I said.

Rosie returned with a tray bearing Reba’s iced tea, the lemon swaddled in cheesecloth, and an order of Krumpli Paprikas for each of us. She set down rye bread, butter, and sour pickles, and disappeared again.

Reba leaned close to her bowl. “Oh. Caraway seeds. For a minute, I thought I saw something move.”

The potato stew was tasty, served in big porcelain bowls flecked with caraway seeds. I was using my last piece of buttered rye bread to sop up the remaining traces of gravy when I saw Reba glance over my left shoulder toward the front of the restaurant, her eyes widening. “Oh my goodness! Look who’s here.”

I leaned left, peering around the edge of the booth so I could follow her gaze. The front door had opened and a guy had come in. “You know him?”

“That’s Beck,” she said as though that explained everything. She pushed herself out of the booth. “I’ll be right back.”

7

I waited a decent interval and then peered at the two of them standing near the door. The guy was tall, lean, and rangy in jeans and a supple black suede jacket. He had his hands in his jacket pockets and his collar turned up, which didn’t look as thuglike as it sounds. His hair was a tawny mix of blond and brown, and his half-smile created a deep crease on either side of his mouth. Beside him, Reba was diminutive, a full head shorter than he, which forced him to lean toward her attentively as the two of them talked. I went back to cleaning my bowl—food, in this instance, taking precedence over idle speculation.

A moment later they appeared and Reba gestured at him. “Alan Beckwith. I used to work for him. This is Kinsey Millhone.”

He held his hand out, his wrist thin, his fingers long and slim. “Nice to meet you. I’m Beck to most.”

I put him in his thirties—fine lines on his face, but no pouches anywhere. “Nice meeting you, too,” I said, shaking hands with him. “Are you joining us?”

“If you don’t mind. I don’t want to butt in.”

“We’re just chatting,” I said. “Have a seat.”

On their side of the booth, Reba slid in first, scooting over to make room for him. He sat down, half-slouching, his long legs outstretched. He was clean shaven, but I could see the shadow of a beard. His eyes were the dark, rich brown of Hershey’s Kisses. I picked up the scent of cologne, something spicy and light. I’d seen him before…not here, but somewhere in town, though I couldn’t imagine why our paths would have crossed.

He tapped on the back of Reba’s hand. “So. How’ve you been?”

“Fine. It feels great to be home.”

I tuned them out, watching as the two exchanged pleasantries. For people who’d once worked together, both seemed ill at ease, but that might have been because he’d turned her over to the cops, a move that would put a damper on most relationships.

“You look good,” he said.

“Thanks. I could use a decent haircut. I did this myself. What about you? What have you been up to?”

“Not much. Traveling a lot on business. I just got back from Panama last week and I may be heading out again. We’re in the new building, part of the mall that was finished last spring. Restaurants and shops. It’s really slick.”

“That was in the works when I left and I know what a pain in the ass it was. Congratulations.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Not yet. Must be convenient for you, working right downtown.”

“Dynamite,” he said.

She smiled. “How’s the office gang? I hear Onni took my old job. Is she doing okay?”

“She’s fine. It took her a while to learn the system, but she’s doing great. Everyone else is pretty much the same.”

What did I sense? I tested the air with my little feelers, trying to identify the nature of the tension between them.

Idly, I listened while Beck continued. “I got a new deal in the works. Commercial property up near Merced. I just met with some guys who have capital to invest so we may pull something together. I stopped in here for a good-luck drink before I headed home.” His attention shifted in an effort to include me in the conversation. A smooth move, I thought. He wagged a finger between Reba and me, like a windshield wiper. “How do you two know each other?”

I’d opened my mouth to speak, but Reba got in first. “We don’t. We just met this morning when she picked me up and brought me home. I was going nuts, stuck at the house. Pop went to bed early and I was too hyper to sit still. The silence was really creeping me out so I called her.”

His gaze settled on mine. “You live around here?”

“Half a block down. I rent a studio apartment. Matter of fact, that’s my landlord over there,” I said, gesturing toward Henry at his table near the front. “The bartender’s his older brother William, who’s married to Rosie, the gal who owns this place, just to fill you in.”

Beck smiled. “A family affair.” He was one of those guys who understands the power of being totally focused on the person he’s talking to. No barely disguised glances at his watch, no surreptitious shift in his gaze to see who’s coming in the door. Now he seemed as patient as a cat staring at a crack in a rock where a lizard has disappeared.

“You live in the area?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I’m in Montebello, right where East Glen and Cypress Lane intersect.”

I rested my chin on my hand. “I’ve seen you someplace.”

“I’m a native, Santa Teresa born and bred. My folks had a place in Horton Ravine, but they’ve been gone now for years. My dad owned the Clements,” he said, referring to a three-story luxury hotel that folded in the late seventies. Subsequent ownerships had failed as well and the building had been converted to a retirement facility. If I remembered correctly, his father had been involved in numerous businesses around town. Major bucks.

I glanced over to see Rosie moving toward us with an empty tray, her sights fixed on Beck, her approach as direct and unwavering as a heat-seeking missile. When she reached the table, she made a point of directing all her comments to me, a minor eccentricity of hers. She seldom looks a stranger in the eye. Male or female, it doesn’t matter to her. Any new acquaintance is treated like an odd appendage of mine. The effect, in this instance, was coquettish, which I thought was unbecoming in a woman her age. “Your friend would like something to drink?”

I said, “Beck?”

“You have single-malt Scotch?”

She fairly wriggled with pleasure, shooting an approving look at him out of the corner of her eye. “Special for him, I hev MaCallum’s. Is twenty-four years old. You want neat or wit ice?”

“Ice. A double with a water back. Thanks.”

“Of course.” She cleared the table, loading our dinner plates and silverware onto her tray. “He’s want supper, perhaps?”

He smiled. “No, thanks. It smells wonderful, but I just ate. Maybe next time. Are you Rosie?”

“Yes, I em.”

He rose to his feet and offered his hand. “An honor to meet you. Alan Beckwith,” he said. “This is quite a place.”

In lieu of an actual handshake, Rosie allowed him temporary possession of her fingertips. “Next time, I’m fix something special for you. Hungarian like what you’ve never had until I give.”

“You got a deal. I adore Hungarian cuisine,” he said.

“You hev been to Hungary?”

“Budapest, once, about six years ago…”

Covertly, I watched the interplay between the two of them. Rosie became more girlish as the exchange went on. Beck was too slick for my taste, but I had to give him credit for making the effort. Most people find Rosie difficult, which she is.

As soon as she went off to fetch his drink, Beck turned to Reba. “How’s your dad? I saw him a couple months ago and he wasn’t looking good.”

“He’s not doing well. I really had no idea. I was shocked to see how much weight he’s lost. You know he had surgery for a thyroid tumor. Then it turned out he had polyps on his vocal cords so he had to have those removed. He’s still shaky on his feet.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. He’s always seemed so vigorous.”

“Yeah, well, he’s eighty-seven years old. He’s bound to slow down at some point.”

Rosie returned, bringing Beck a hefty glass of Scotch over ice with a small carafe of water on the side. She set his drink on a cardboard coaster and handed him a dainty paper cocktail napkin. I noticed she’d found a doily to put on her tray. If the guy had been with me, she’d have been measuring the inseam for his wedding tuxedo.

He picked up his drink and took a measured sip, sending her a smile of approval. “That’s perfect. Thanks.”

Rosie departed reluctantly, at a loss for any other service to perform.

Beck turned back to me. “Are you a local as well?”

“Yep.”

“Where’d you go to high school?”

“S.T.”

“Me, too. Maybe that’s where we knew each other. What year did you graduate?”

“1967. What about you?”

“A year ahead of you—1966. Odd I don’t remember you. I’m usually good about those things.”

I upgraded his age to thirty-eight. “I was a low-waller,” I said, indicating my association with the badass kids who sat on the low wall at the rear of the school property where the hillside sloped down to meet the street behind. We smoked cigarettes and dope and occasionally mixed vodka in our bottles of orangeade. Tame by later standards, but considered wicked in our day.

“Really,” he said. He gave me a brief searching look and then reached for the menu. “How’s the food?”

“Not bad. Are you really fond of Hungarian cooking, or were you making that up?”

“Why would I lie about something like that?” He delivered the line lightly, but he could have meant anything—perhaps that he’d never bother to lie about the trivial or mundane in life. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m surprised you haven’t been in before.”

“I’ve seen the place in passing, but frankly, it always looked like such a dive I never had the nerve. I had a meeting with some guys and thought I’d give it a try since I was in the neighborhood. Nicer inside than out, I’ll say that.”

My antennae went up with a little whining sound. That was the second time he’d explained how he happened to come in. I picked up my glass and took a sip of bad wine. Really, it tasted like a product you’d use to clean tar off your feet after a day at the beach. Reba was playing with the straw in her iced tea.

Looking from her face to his, I realized what a dunce I’d been. She’d arranged this in advance. Dinner with me was just a cover for her meeting with him, but why the subterfuge? I rearranged myself so I was sitting with my back against the side wall, my feet on the seat, keeping my demeanor casual while I watched the scenario play out. “You’re in real estate?” I asked.

He downed half the whiskey remaining in his glass, adding water to the residue. He swirled the glass, rattling his ice cubes. “That’s right. I have an investment company. Development, mostly. I do property management on occasion, though not a lot these days. And you?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

He smiled, bemused. “Not bad for someone who started her career loitering behind the school.”

“Hey, the training was good. Hang out with a bunch of budding crooks, you get to know how they think.” I made a display of looking at my watch. “Ah. I don’t know about you, Reba, but it’s time for me to head out. My car’s just half a block down. Give me a minute to go get it and I can drive you home.”

Beck looked at Reba with feigned surprise. “You don’t have wheels?”

“I’ve got a car, but no license. Mine expired.”

“Why don’t I give you a lift and save her the drive?”

I said, “I don’t mind doing it. I’ve got my car keys right here.”

“No, no. I’ll be happy to take her. No point in your having to go out of your way.”

Reba said, “Really. It’d be easier for him than it would be for you.”

“You’re sure?”

Beck said, “Absolutely. It’s right on my way.”

“Okay with me. You two stay if you like and I’ll take care of the bill. It’s my treat,” I said, as I slid out of the booth.

“Thanks. I’ll take care of the tip.”

“Nice meeting you.” I shook hands with Beck again and then glanced at Reba. “I’ll see you in the morning at nine. You want me to call first?”

“No need. Just come up to the house whenever you like,” she said. “Actually, I ought to be heading home myself. It’s been a long day and I’m bushed. You mind?”

“Anything you want.” Beck finished his drink, swallowing the watered-down whiskey that remained in his glass.

I moved over to the bar and paid the bill. Glancing back, I saw that Beck was already on his feet, fishing in his pocket for his money clip. I watched him peel off two bills for the tip, probably fives since he was so eager to impress. They waited for me to join them so we could walk out together. Henry had disappeared by then, but the shank-of-the-evening drinkers were straggling in.

Outside it was dark, the moon not yet visible. The air was clear and still except for the chirping of crickets. Even the sound of the surf seemed diminished. The three of us ambled toward the intersection, chatting about nothing in particular.

“I’m down there,” Beck said, pointing toward the shadowy side street to our right.

“What do you drive?” I asked.

“’87 Mercedes. The sedan. And you?”

“’74 Volkswagen. The bug. See you later.”

I waved and continued walking while the two of them turned off. Fifteen seconds later, I heard the double report of their respective car doors slamming shut. I paused, waiting for the sound of an engine turning over. Nothing. Maybe they’d decided to sit and talk. When I reached my gate I pushed through, listening to the familiar squeaking of its hinges. I followed the walk around to the rear. Once I reached my front door, I hesitated, debating about Reba and Beck. Maybe I was wrong about them. Curiosity got the better of me. I left my shoulder bag on the porch and took off across the grass, crossing Henry’s flagstone patio to the chicken-wire fence that ran along the rear property line. I felt my way from post to post, tracing the length until I reached his garage. I stooped and pushed the fencing aside, slipping through the gap where the fittings had come loose.

My heart was thumping merrily and I could feel my gut contract with anticipation. I love these nighttime adventures, easing in silence across darkened backyards. Fortunately, none of the neighborhood mutts caught wind of me, so my passage was completed without a chorus of shrill warning barks. At the mouth of the alley, I veered right, emerging onto the side street. I moved forward, scanning the shapes and sizes of the cars parked on either side. A single streetlight cast only the faintest illumination, but once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I had no trouble identifying Beck’s Mercedes. Every other vehicle was a compact, a minivan, or a pickup truck.

I could discern his profile where he slouched in the driver’s seat half-turned so that he was facing Reba. I stood there for ten minutes and when nothing transpired, I backed up with caution and retraced my steps.

I let myself into my place and set my bag on a kitchen stool. It was 8:05. I flipped on the TV and watched the front end of a movie that actually seemed amusing, despite all the annoying commercial interruptions. I kept notes so I wouldn’t buy anything I saw. At 9:00 I muted the set and went into the kitchenette, where I opened a bottle of Chardonnay and poured myself a glass. On impulse, I pulled out a saucepan, the lid, and a bottle of corn oil. I turned on the front burner, set the pan in place, and added a puddle of oil to the bottom of the pan. I scrounged through my cupboard for the bag of popcorn I’d bought months before. I knew it would be stale, but it was chewier that way. I measured out a jigger of kernels and tossed them in the pan. I kept an eye on the TV screen while the sound of the popcorn accelerated like the finale to a fireworks show. Happily for me, the size of my studio is such that I can cook, watch TV, start a load of laundry, or use the john without moving more than eight or ten feet.

I returned to the couch with my wine and the bowl of hot popcorn, propped my feet on the coffee table, and watched the remainder of the movie. At 11:00, when the news came on, I left the apartment and followed the same circuitous route through the alley until I reached the shadowy street where I’d hovered before. Beck’s Mercedes was still visible, parked at the curb. The rear window was fogged over with condensation as pale as gauze. Instead of Beck in silhouette, I saw Reba’s legs. Her head was apparently down near the steering wheel, one foot propped on the dashboard, the other on the passenger-side door, thus providing her leverage while Beck labored in the confines of the leather-bound front seat. I went back to my place, and when I checked again at midnight, the car was gone.

8

The gates to the Lafferty estate were open, and when I cruised up the drive, I saw Reba waiting on the porch step, the cat at her feet. She had a brush in her hand and she groomed the cat while he strutted back and forth, arching his back against the bristles. When she caught sight of me, she kissed him and set the brush aside. She crossed to the front door, opened the screen, and leaned in to tell her father or the housekeeper she was on her way out. I couldn’t help but smile as she bounded down the walk. She was happy, in high spirits, and I remember thinking, That’s what sex will do for you, kid. She wore desert boots, jeans, and a nubby dark blue sweater with a large cowl neck. She looked as giddy as a young girl. Her father had said she was difficult—“reckless” was his word—but I’d seen no hint of it in my dealings with her. She possessed a natural exuberance and it was hard to picture her drunk or stoned. She opened the car door and slid onto the passenger seat, smiling and out of breath.

“What’s the cat’s name?”

“Rags. He’s a love. Seventeen years old and he weighs in at eighteen pounds. The vet wants him on a diet, but pooh on that.” She put her head back. “You don’t know how good it feels to be out. Like coming back from the dead.”

I pulled away from the house, shifting gears as I headed down the drive and through the gates. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did. Talk about a treat. Prison mattresses are about this thick, like lawn-chair pads, and all the sheets are gross. The pillow was so flat I had to roll it up and wad it under my head like a towel. I’d get in bed at night and my body heat would activate this strange smell in the bedding.” She wrinkled her nose.

“What about the food?”

“Not too bad. I’d say the food ranged from passable to gross. What saved us was they let us have these electric coils in our cells. You know the ones you use to heat up a single cup of tea? We figured out all kinds of things to make with ours—Top Ramen, soups, stewed tomatoes in a can. I never even liked stewed tomatoes until I got down there. Some days, the cells stank; scorched coffee or bean sludge crusted on the bottom of the pan. Most of the time I disconnected and blocked everything out. I created this invisible force field that I kept between me and the rest of the world. Otherwise, I’d’ve gone bonkers.”

“Did you have friends?”

“A couple and that helped. My best friend was Misty Raine, with an e on the end. She’s a stripper—big surprise with a name like that—but she’s an absolute hoot. Before California, she lived in Vegas, but after she was released and got off parole, she moved to Reno. She says the action there is better than Vegas. She’s been good about keeping in touch. God, I miss her.”

“What was she in for?”

“She had a boyfriend who taught her how to lift credit cards and forge checks—‘hanging paper’ as they say. They’d go on these big spending sprees, stay in a bunch of fancy hotels, and charge anything they liked. Then they’d dump that card, steal another one, and mosey on down the road. Then they branched out into phony IDs. She has this artistic streak and it turns out she’s a whiz at replicating passports and driver’s licenses and shit like that. They made so much dough she bought herself a new set of tits. Before the boyfriend, she’d been working for one of those mobile-maid-type cleaning services for minimum wage. She said she’d’ve never gotten anywhere on what she made even if she worked all her life.

“My other friend, Vivian, was mixed up with this drug dealer. You don’t know how many times I heard that one. He was pulling in a thousand bucks a day, and they lived like kings until the cops showed up. That was her first offense and she swears it’s her last. She’s got another six months to serve and then I’m hoping she’ll come here. Her boyfriend’s been sent up five times and he’ll be in for years, which is just as well. She’s still crazy about the guy.”

“True love is like that.”

“You really think?”

“No. That was meant to be tongue in cheek,” I said. “I take it you don’t have friends here in town.”

“Just Onni, the woman I used to work with. I talked to her earlier, hoping I could see her this afternoon, but she was tied up.”

“Isn’t she the one who took your old job?”

“Right. She feels guilty about that, but I said don’t be dumb. She used to do front desk, but this was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up. Why would I begrudge her the chance? She said she’d have driven me around today if she didn’t have to work.”

I turned into the parking lot of the Department of Motor Vehicles. “If you want, you can run in and pick up a booklet and study in the car before you take the test.”

“Nah. I’ve been driving for years so how hard can it be?”

“Well, it’s your choice. I prefer to bone up myself. Cuts the flop sweat.”

“I like anxiety. It keeps me awake.”

I waited in the car while Reba went in. She was gone forty minutes, some portion of which I spent hanging over the seat, trying to tidy all the crap that I keep back there. I generally motor around town with an overnight case stocked with toiletries and clean underpants. This, in the event I’m presented with a pressing reason to hop on a plane. In addition, I have assorted articles of clothing that I sometimes wear while pretending to be a public servant. I can do a pretty good imitation of a postal employee or meter reader from the gas-and-electric company. It pays to look like I’m doing official business when I’m standing on a front porch, idly scanning someone’s mail. I also keep several reference books in the backseat—one on crime scene investigation, Deering’s California Penal Code, a Spanish-language dictionary left over from a class I took years ago—an empty soda can, a bottle opener, an old pair of running shoes, a pair of badly snagged panty hose, and a lightweight jacket. While my apartment is tidy, I’m a slob when it comes to my car.

I glanced up in time to catch Reba’s emergence from the DMV office. She half-skipped across the lot, waving a piece of paper that turned out to be her temporary license. “Aced it,” she said, as she got into the car.

“Good for you,” I said. I turned the key in the ignition, shifted into reverse, and backed out of the space. “Where now?”

“I know it’s only ten forty-five, but I wouldn’t object to another QP with Cheese.”

We ordered from the drive-through window, found a space in the parking lot, and ate in the car. We’d opted for two large Cokes, two Quarter Pounders apiece, and a large order of fries, which we doused in ketchup and ate as fast as we could. I said, “I had a friend regained his health eating shit like this.”

“I’m not surprised. I like how flat the pickles are, all mooshed in there. Pop’s got a personal chef who’s really great, but she’s never been able to duplicate this. I can’t figure it out, how they do it. Doesn’t matter where you are, a QP with Cheese tastes exactly the same and so does everything else. Big Macs, fries.”

“Nice to have something you can count on,” I said.

After lunch we drove out to the La Cuesta shopping mall, where Reba worked her way from store to store, flashing her father’s credit card and trying on clothes. Like other women I’ve known, she seemed to have an inborn sense of what would look good on her. In most stores, I made a point of finding the nearest chair from which I watched her like a good mom while she moved from rack to rack. Sometimes she’d take out a garment, study it critically, and put it back. Other times, she’d lay the item on top of those she’d draped over her arm. At intervals, she’d head off to the dressing room and then appear twenty minutes later with her choices made. Some pieces she’d leave behind and the rest she’d pile on the counter while she looked for something else. In the course of two hours, she bought pants, skirts, jackets, underwear, knit tops, two dresses, and six pairs of shoes.

Once in the car again, she put her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. “I used to take so many things for granted, but never again. Where next?”

“Up to you. Where do you want to go?”

“The beach. Let’s take our shoes off and walk in the sand.”

We ended up at Ludlow Beach, not far from my house. Santa Teresa City College was perched on the bluffs above us. The sky was gray as far as the eye could see, and wind was whipping the waves, blowing spray toward the beach. We left our shoes locked in the car, along with my shoulder bag and Reba’s purchases. The picnic tables in the grassy area had been abandoned except for a foursome of gulls squabbling over a bread bag that had been tied shut and left on the edge of a trash bin. Reba picked up the bag, tore through the cellophane, and tossed the crumbs across the grass. Gulls began to wheel in, shrieking, from all directions.

We trudged through a hundred yards of soft sand between the parking lot and the surf. At the water line, icy waves tumbled perilously close to our bare feet, but the sand was damp and packed hard, easier to walk on. I said, “So what’s the deal with Beck?”

She flashed me a smile. “That blew me away, running into him like that.”

“Really. That’s odd. I was under the impression you’d arranged it in advance.”

She laughed. “No, not at all. Why would I do that?”

“Reba.” I got the big brown eyes turned on me.

“Honest. He’s the last person in the world I expected to see.”

I shook my head. “Nope. Not honest. Lying through your teeth. That’s why you sat on the far side of the booth so you could watch for him.”

“That’s not true. I had no idea he’d be there. I was totally surprised.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Just hold on a second and I’ll bring you up to speed. I’ve been telling lies for years and believe me, I know when someone’s maneuvering the truth. I got a bullshit meter working ’round the clock. I watched the two of you last night and it was ding ding ding! I was strictly window dressing, the person, in the olden days, they referred to as a ‘beard.’ You called him from the parole office and told him where you’d be.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Maybe. But I wasn’t sure he’d come.”

“Oh, he came all right, if his behavior in the car was any indication.”

Her head whipped around and she looked at me in disbelief. “You were spying on us?”

“That’s what I’m paid for. You don’t want to be seen, you shouldn’t do it in public.”

“What a bitch!”

“Reba, your father cares about your welfare. He doesn’t want you to end up in the shit again.”

She clutched my arm, looking at me earnestly. “Don’t tell Pop. Please. What purpose would it serve?”

“I haven’t decided what I’m going to do. It might help if you told me what’s going on.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, give it a whirl. You want me to keep quiet, you better fill me in.” I could see how tempted she was. Who can resist talking about a guy that you’re so smitten with?

“I’m not sure how to explain. I worked for him for years and he’s always been supportive…”

“Not the long version, dearie, just the salient points. You’re having an affair, right?”

“It’s much more than that. I’m crazy about him and he’s crazy about me, too.”

“The crazy part I’ll buy. Since when?”

“Two years. Well, four if you count the two I was gone. We’ve been writing back and forth and talking on the phone. We planned to get together tonight, but there’s an AA meeting I’m supposed to attend. I thought I better show up in case Holloway checks. Beck called me at Pop’s and said he couldn’t stand the wait. I thought of Rosie’s because her place is so out of the way I couldn’t imagine running into anyone we know. I guess I should have told you up front, but I wasn’t sure you’d approve so I just went ahead and did it.”

“What’d you need me for? You’re big boys and girls. Why not go to a motel and get it over with?”

“I was scared. We haven’t been together for so long, I was afraid the chemistry might be gone.”

“I don’t get it. What’s the timing on this? Were you bonking the guy while you were ripping him off?”

“It isn’t ‘bonking.’ We make love.”

“Oh, sorry. Were you ‘making love’ while you were making off with all his hard-earned cash?”

“I guess you could put it that way. I mean, I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself. I felt awful. I still do. He knows I’d never do anything to hurt him.”

“Losing that much money didn’t hurt? I’d be cut to the quick.”

“It wasn’t personal. I took money from the company—”

“Which he owns.”

“I know, but I didn’t look at it that way. It was just there and nobody seemed to notice. I kept thinking I’d score big and then I’d put it all back. I never meant to keep it and I certainly wouldn’t steal.”

“Reba, that’s what stealing is. You pocket someone else’s money without their knowledge or consent. If you use a gun, it’s called robbery. Either way, it’s not behavior that’s designed to endear.”

She shrugged uncomfortably. “I saw it as a loan. It was just a temporary thing.”

“The guy must have a big heart.”

“He does. He tried to help me. He did everything he could. I know he’s forgiven me. He said it all again last night.”

“Hey, I’ll take your word for it, but it’s weird. I mean, it’s one thing to forgive, but then to go on with the affair? How does he rationalize that? Doesn’t he feel used?”

“He understands I have a self-destructive streak. That doesn’t mean he condones it, but he doesn’t hold it against me.”

“Is that why you never went to trial? Because of him?”

“Partly. When I got arrested, I knew I’d hit bottom. I was guilty as shit. I just wanted to take my licks and get it over with. A trial would’ve been an embarrassment for Pop. I didn’t want him to suffer another public spectacle. I’ve caused enough trouble as it is.”

“Your father tells me Beck’s married. Doesn’t his wife figure into the equation somewhere?”

“That’s a marriage of convenience. They haven’t been intimate for years.”

“Oh, come on. Every married guy says that.”

“I know, but in his case, it’s true.”

“What a crock of shit. You think he’ll leave her for you? It doesn’t work that way.”

“Wrong. You are so wrong,” she said. “He has it all set up.”

“Like what?”

“This is all part of his game plan, but he has to bide his time. If she finds out about me, she’ll take him for everything.”

“I know I would.”

“He told me last night he’s close to pulling it off.”

“Pulling what off?”

I got the double whammy—the big imploring eyes, plus the arm clutch denoting her earnest intent. “Promise you won’t tell.”

“I can’t promise you that! What if he’s planning to rob a bank?”

“Don’t be dumb. He’s getting his finances in shape. Once he has his assets under wraps, he’ll broach the subject of divorce. By then, it’ll be a done deal and what’s she going to do? She’ll just have to face facts and accept reality.”

“Would you listen to yourself? You’re telling me he’s worked out a way to cheat his wife. What kind of man is he? First he runs around on her and then he rips her off? Oh wait. Skip that. Just occurred to me that you ripped him off first so maybe you’re the perfect pair.”

“You don’t even know what love is. I bet you’ve never been in love in your life.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head in despair. “You are such a nincompoop.”

“So what? It’s not hurting anyone.”

“Oh, right. What about his wife?”

“She’ll come around eventually, once it’s out in the open.”

“Are there any kids?”

“She never wanted kids.”

“That’s a blessing at any rate. Look, babe. I know where you’re coming from. I was once involved with a married man myself. At the time they were separated, but they were married all the same. And you know what I learned? You have no idea what goes on between a husband and wife. I don’t care how he represents the relationship, you shouldn’t tread on sacred turf. It’s the same as walking on hot coals. Doesn’t matter how much faith you have, your feet are going to burn.”

“Tough. It’s too late. It’s like playing craps. Once the dice leave your hand, you can’t do anything but watch.”

“At least break it off until he’s free,” I said.

“I can’t. I love him. He’s everything to me.”

“Oh shit, Reba. Go see a shrink and get your head on straight.”

I watched her face shut down. She turned abruptly and started walking away, addressing her comments to me over her shoulder as the gap between us widened. “You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. You only met the man once so you can keep your friggin’ opinions to yourself. It’s none of your business and it’s none of Pop’s.” She walked on, heading toward the parking lot. I was left with no choice but to trot along behind.

We barely spoke during the drive to her father’s house. By the time I dropped her off, I figured that was the end of the line for me. She was out of prison. She was home. She had her driver’s license back and a closet full of clothes. Nothing she’d done—namely, screwing—was in violation of her parole so her actions and behavior were no concern of mine.

She got out of the car and retrieved her packages from the backseat. “I know you mean well and I appreciate your concern, but I’ve paid for my sins and now my life belongs to me. If I make bad choices, it’s my tough luck. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Okay by me. Have a good life,” I said.

She closed the car door. She paused and leaned in the window briefly. I thought she meant to say more, but she decided to let it ride. I watched her until the front door closed behind her and then I headed for the office. Once there, I typed up an invoice, billing Nord Lafferty the five hundred dollars a day for the two days I’d worked. I put the bill in an envelope, which I sealed and addressed. On the way home, I drove past the post office, where I slowed to a stop and dropped it in the box at the curb.

9

For supper, I fixed myself a hot hard-boiled-egg sandwich slathered with mayo and heavy on the salt, vowing in a vague and insincere way to rectify my diet, which is woefully short of fruits, vegetables, fiber, grain, and nutrition of any sort. I’d intended to make an early night of it, but by seven I was feeling restless for reasons I couldn’t name. I decided on a quick trip to Rosie’s, not so much for the bad wine as a change of scene.

To my surprise, the first person I saw was Henry’s older brother Lewis, who lives in Michigan. He stood behind the bar with his suit jacket off, his arms bare to his elbows and plunged in soapy water while he washed assorted glasses and beer mugs. I crossed to the bar, saying, “Well, this is a surprise. Where did you come from?”

He looked up with a smile. “I flew in this afternoon. William picked me up at the airport and put me straight to work.”

“What brings you to town?”

“Nothing in particular. I needed a change. I came up with the plan on the spur of the moment. Charlie was busy and Nell wasn’t in the mood, so I booked a seat and made the trip by myself. Travel’s invigorating. I’m full of beans,” he said.

“Well, good for you. That’s great. How long will you be here?”

“Until Sunday. William and Rosie are putting me up. That’s why he’s teaching me to tend bar, so I can earn my keep.”

“Does Henry know you’re here?”

“Not yet, but I’ll call him as soon as William lets me take a break.”

He rinsed the last of the beer mugs and set it on a rack to drain, then dried his hands on the white towel he’d tucked in his waist. He put a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of me and shifted into bartender mode. “What are you drinking? If memory serves, you prefer Chardonnay.”

“Better make that a Coke. Rosie’s changed ‘vintners,’ though the term hardly applies. The wine she’s serving has all the subtlety of solvent.”

He hosed me a Coke and placed it in front of me. For a gentleman of eighty-nine, he was the picture of efficiency, his manner brisk and relaxed. Watching him, you’d have thought he’d been tending bar all his life.

“Thanks.”

“You’re entirely welcome. My treat.”

“Well, aren’t you nice! I appreciate that.”

I watched him amble toward the far end of the bar to wait on somebody else. What was going on? I’d never known Lewis to fly out unannounced. Had William put him up to it? That seemed like a bad idea. I turned and glanced over my shoulder at the smattering of patrons. My favorite booth was occupied, but there were numerous other seats available. I carried my Coke and crossed to a table near the entrance. Fresh air wafted in with each opening and closing of the door, thus dispelling some of the accumulated cigarette smoke, which lay on the air like fog. Even so, I knew I’d get home smelling like soot and have to hang my clothes on the shower rod overnight to eliminate the stink. My hair was doubtless already reeking, though I wear it too short to hold a strand to my nose. Smokers listen to these prissy-ass complaints as though the charges were trumped up simply to annoy and offend.

I was scarcely settled when I sensed the welcomed shift in air current that signaled someone entering the place. Cheney Phillips stood in the doorway. I felt one of those lurches you experience on a plane that leaves you wondering if the flight will be the last you take. I watched him scan the assembled patrons, apparently looking for someone who hadn’t yet arrived. His clothing was the usual mix of expensive fabrics and fine tailoring. He favored crisp white dress shirts or soft-collared silk in shades of cream or buttermilk. On occasion, he shifted to a tone-on-tone, usually in dark hues that lent him a faintly sinister air. Tonight, he wore a cinnamon sueded silk sport coat over a rust-colored cashmere turtleneck. I lifted my hand in greeting, wondering if the sweater was as soft as it looked. He sauntered over to my table and pulled out a chair. “Hey, how’s by you? Mind if I sit?”

I gestured assent. “Our paths cross again. I haven’t seen you for months and now I’ve run into you three times in the past four days.”

“Not entirely accidental.” He pointed to my glass. “What the hell is that?”

“Coke. A soft drink. It’s been around for years.”

“You need something stronger. We have to talk.” Without waiting for my response, he caught Lewis’s eye and gestured, indicating the need for service.

I turned in time to see Lewis hustle out from behind the bar and head toward our table. “Yes, sir.”

“Two vodka martinis, straight up. Stoli if you have it, Absolut if not. And a side of olives.” Glancing at me, he said, “You want ice water?”

“Oh, why not?” I said, ever the bon vivant. “This is Lewis Pitts, my landlord’s brother. You’ve met Henry, haven’t you?”

“Of course. Cheney Phillips,” he said. He rose to his feet and shook hands with Lewis, who said a few pleased-to-meet-you-type things with the usual pleasantries thrown in. I found myself noting the texture of Cheney’s hair, springy dark brown curls that looked as soft as a poodle’s coat. I’m not a dog lover at heart. Doggies tend to bark their bad breath in my face, preparatory to jumping up and parking their cumbersome paws on my chest. Despite numerous sharp commands, most dogs behave any way they please. There’s the occasional exception. The week before, in a rare moment of goodwill, I’d stopped to chat with a woman who was walking a breed I’d never seen before. She introduced me to Chandler, a Portuguese water dog who sat on command and gravely offered to shake hands. The dog was quiet and well mannered with a coat so curly and soft I could hardly keep my hands to myself. Why was I thinking about that now? Having missed the bulk of the conversation, I tuned in as Lewis was saying, “Be right back.” It was like waking up in the middle of a TV movie. I had no clear idea what was going on.

As soon as he was gone, I turned to Cheney. “I take it you’re here to meet someone.”

His attention was focused on faces halfway across the room, his gaze shifting at precise intervals like a corner-mounted camera. He’d been a vice cop for years and he had a letch for hookers and dope dealers the way some guys are fixated on the size of a woman’s boobs. His eyes flicked to mine. “Actually, I came in looking for you. I stopped by your apartment and when I didn’t find you there, I figured you’d be here.”

“I didn’t realize I was so predictable.”

“Your best trait,” he said. His gaze caught on mine again and the effect was unnerving. I glanced at the bar, the front door, anywhere but him. Where was Lewis and what was taking him so long?

Cheney said, “Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”

“Sure.”

“We have an interest in common.”

“Oh, really. And what would that be?”

“Reba Lafferty.”

The answer was unexpected and I could feel my head tilt with curiosity. “What’s your connection to her?”

“That’s why I went to see Priscilla Holloway. I heard someone was driving down to CIW to bring Reba back. I didn’t know it was you until I saw you that day.”

Cheney glanced up at Lewis, who’d appeared with our martinis on a tray. He set them down with great care, watching the liquid tremble. The stemware was so cold I could see ice flakes sliding along the outer surface of the glass. The vodka, just out of the freezer, looked oily in the light. I hadn’t drunk a martini in ages and I remembered the sharp, nearly chemical taste.

I can never decide what makes Cheney’s face so appealing—wide mouth, dark brows, eyes as brown as old pennies. His hands are big and it looks like he busted his knuckles pounding someone in the chops. I studied his features and then caught myself, thinking I should slap my own face. I’d just lectured Reba on the folly of a dalliance with a married man and here I was idly entertaining the very thought myself.

Cheney said, “Thanks, Lewis. Can you run a tab for us?”

“Of course. Just let me know if you need anything else.”

Once he was gone, Cheney lifted his glass and tapped its edge against mine. “Cheers.”

I took a sip of my drink. The vodka was smooth, forming a column of heat that sank down my spinal cord and into my shoes. “I hope you’re not saying she’s in trouble.”

“I’d say she’s teetering on the brink.”

“Oh, no.”

“How well do you know her?”

“You can make that past tense. I did the job I was hired for and now I’ve moved on.”

“As of when?”

“We parted company this afternoon. What’s she done?”

“Nothing so far, but she’s close.”

“So you said. Meaning what?”

“She’s been seeing Alan Beckwith, the guy you met in here Monday night.”

“I know when I met the guy, but what’s that to you?” I could hear hostility creep into my tone at the implications of what he’d said. Someone was apparently watching me the same night I was watching Reba carry on with Beck.

“Don’t be crabby.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way.” I took a deep breath, willing myself into a more sanguine place. I said, “I don’t understand where you fit in. And don’t make me guess. I really hate that shit.”

Cheney smiled. “I’m talking to some guys who have an interest in him. Her, too, by association. You have to understand this is all highly confidential.”

“I’m crossing my heart,” I said, and made an X on my chest.

“You know anything about Beck?”

“I’m an innocent. Well, wait. That’s not entirely true. I know his father owned the Clements, so I’m assuming the man was a major player in his day.”

“The best. Alan Beckwith Senior made a shitload of money in a number of franchises, mostly real estate. Junior’s been successful, but he’s worked all his life in the shadow of his dad. Beck never measured up. From what I’ve heard, it’s not like his dad made judgments about him, but Beck was conscious of the gap in their accomplishments. His old man went to Harvard and graduated fifth in his class. Beck’s academic career was undistinguished. His college was good, but strictly second tier. He ended up with an MBA, but gradewise, he wasn’t even in the top twenty-fifth percentile. That’s just how it went. His achievements were modest compared to his dad’s and I guess the older he got the worse he felt. He’s the kind of guy who swore he’d be a multimillionaire by the time he was forty. At thirty, he was stalled out and getting desperate to make good. You know the saying ‘Money’s just a way of keeping score’? Well, Beck took that to heart. Five, six years back, he decided his prime goal was to outearn his dad. Since he couldn’t manage it playing straight, he took a left-hand turn. He realized he could make a lot more money if he offered his services to people who needed to have theirs washed.”

“Money laundering?”

“Right. Turns out Beck has an aptitude for financial shenanigans. Since he deals in high-end real estate, the basic infrastructure was already in place. There are half a dozen ways to fiddle funds when you buy and sell property, but the mechanism’s slow and there’s too much paperwork. With money laundering, you want to minimize the paper trail and put as many fire walls as possible between you and the source. His early efforts were clumsy, but he’s getting better at this stuff. Now he’s set up an offshore company—a Panamanian dummy corp called Clements Unlimited. Places like Panama, you can hide a lot of dough because the bank secrecy laws have been tight there since day one. 1941, they took their cue from the Swiss and went to coded accounts. Unfortunately for the bad guys, the numbered account isn’t what it once was. Swiss banks don’t offer the same level of protection, because they’ve taken so much flak for providing cover for thugs. They’ve finally recognized the necessity for getting along in the international banking community and that’s motivated their signing treaties with a host of other countries. In effect, they’ve agreed to cooperate where there’s proof of criminal activity. Panama isn’t as eager to please. They’ve got lawyers who create companies in bulk and sell them off to customers who want to sidestep the IRS.”

“You’re talking about shell corporations, right?”

He nodded. “You can create a sham company according to your specifications or you can buy one ready-made. Once you have a shell in place, you funnel money from the U.S. by way of the shell to any financial haven you choose. Or you can set up an offshore trust. Or you do what Beck did, which was to buy himself a bank-in-a-box and start accepting deposits.”

“From whom?”

“He makes a point not to inquire too closely, but his primary client is a big-time Los Angeles drug dealer, ostensibly doing business in scrap gold. Beck also dry-cleans money for a major pornography mill and a syndicate that runs a network of hookers and whorehouses down in San Diego County. Guys in the sin trades accumulate millions in cash and what can they do with it? Live lavishly and your neighbors will start to wonder about the source of your wealth. So will the IRS, the DEA, and half a dozen other government agencies. There’s never a shortage of folks who need to run dirty money through the sluice and have it come up clean. The neat thing from Beck’s perspective is that, until recently, what he’s doing wasn’t illegal in and of itself.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Last year Congress passed the Money Laundering Control Act. Before that, the same basic transactions might have been the focus of an investigation or subject to prosecution under some other statute, but the laundering itself wasn’t a crime. Sorry to be so long-winded. Bear with me on this.”

“Don’t worry about it. Most of this is news to me.”

“Me, too. From what I’m told, the groundwork was laid in 1970 when the Bank Secrecy Act was passed. The BSA established reporting regulations for financial institutions—banks, brokerage houses, currency dealers, anybody issuing traveler’s checks, money orders, shit like that. They’re required to report certain transactions to the Secretary of the Treasury within fifteen days on a form called the Currency Transaction Report—the CTR—for any transaction over ten thousand dollars. Are you following?”

“More or less. How do you know all this stuff?”

“Most of it I picked up from my IRS pal in the past couple of months. He says in addition to the CTR, there’s something called a Currency and Monetary Instrument Report, the CMIR. This is for the people who physically receive or transport cash—carry it, mail it, ship it—again, that’s in any amount over ten thousand dollars. There’s another form for casinos, but we don’t have to worry about that here. Far as we know, Beck doesn’t have ties to any of the big gambling operations, though that’s another nice way to scrub a load of cash and get it squeaky clean.

“The government relies on financial institutions to track the flow of cash through the system. Obviously, there’s nothing illegal about dealing in large sums as long as all the proper forms get filed. Try to bypass that and you’re subject to severe penalties—assuming you’re caught, of course. Beck made a point of cultivating a bunch of banker pals and for a period, he was bribing one of them to look the other way. The bank officer would prepare the CTR as required and place a copy in the files, only instead of shipping the original to the IRS, he’d run it through a shredder. Problem is, the banks tend to move these executives from branch to branch, and Beck lost his co-conspirator. That’s how he came to the attention of Internal Revenue. Some new VP at Santa Teresa Savings and Loan noticed a pattern of small deposits that he was pretty sure were all linked to Beck or Beck’s company. He’s been breaking the big deposits into a series of smaller transactions, hoping to skirt the ten-thousand-dollar requirement for a government report. This is the fundamental maneuver in any laundering operation. It’s called structuring, or ‘smurfing.’ Beck employed a regular road crew of smurfs, who’d go from bank to bank here in town—sometimes from city to city—buying cashier’s checks or money orders in the smaller dollar amounts—two grand, five, sometimes as much as nine, but never over ten. The dribbles and drabs were deposited piecemeal into a single account, and then Beck would use wire transfers to move the whole of it to a couple of offshore banks. After that, he’d funnel it back to his clients in a more respectable form.

“Anyway, while all this was going on, the DEA was following the money from the other end, tracking funds through the system from a cartel importing marijuana and cocaine into Los Angeles. At some point, the two paths intersected and a red flag went up. I’d met the IRS investigator at a conference in D.C. about four years back. Shortly after that, he got assigned to the L.A. office to coordinate the task force. Once Beck’s name surfaced, the focus shifted to him. The agent, Vince Turner, asked me to act as the local interface. His guys are keeping a low profile because the feds are trying to build a case without Beck’s getting wind of it.”

“Oh, good luck. In this town?”

“We’re well aware,” he said. “So far they’ve initiated mail and trash covers and they’ve been running surveillance, covering his movements in and out of the country. What they need now is an informant, which is where Reba Lafferty comes in.”

I gestured impatiently. “You’re kidding. She’s in love with the man. She’d never rat him out.”

“Don’t be so sure…”

“I am sure. She’s smitten. That’s how she’s managed to hold herself together for the past two years. They wrote to each other and talked on the phone a couple of times a week. That’s how she survived. I got it straight from her.”

“Just hear me out,” he said. “You know the background on this.”

“Of course. She ripped off his company for megabucks over a two-year period—”

“While she and Beck were having an affair,” he said.

“I know that. So what?”

“So under the circumstances, doesn’t it seem strange he’d take up with her again the minute she gets out?”

“Well, yeah. Matter of fact, I asked her about that myself. She claims he’s forgiven her. She says he knew she was self-destructive and couldn’t help herself. Or words to that effect.”

He was shaking his head. “Nope. Don’t think so. It doesn’t ring true.”

“I’m not defending the point. I’m just telling you what she said. I agree with you. It’s hard to believe Beck would turn the other cheek. So what’s the deal? I gather you know something I don’t.”

Cheney leaned forward, lowering his voice. I tilted my head closer and felt the whisper of his breath against my cheek as he spoke. “She took the fall for him. He had her set up accounts for a couple of phony companies. She’d invoice for bogus goods and services, then write checks out of accounts payable. He’d sign ’em and she’d send ’em off to a post office box. Later, she’d pick ’em up and deposit the money to a phony account. Sometimes, he’d wire the money offshore or she’d withdraw the cash herself and pass it on to him.”

“I don’t get it. Why’s he stealing from himself?”

“He has people to pay off and this is how he covers his butt. He can’t siphon off large sums of cash without an explanation. If he’s ever audited, the IRS will want to know where the money went. He figured he’d disguise the fact he’s draining off the bucks by making it look like a legitimate business expense.”

“Why not use money from one of his offshore accounts?”

“Who knows the rationale? By then he’d cooked up a couple new schemes anyway and he was anxious to shift gears. He talked Reba into going down for the three hundred and fifty thou and he came out smelling like a rose. Since she claimed she’d gambled all the money away, who could prove otherwise? Truth is, she’s always had a gambling problem and she was already making trips to Vegas and Reno, which suited him to a tee.”

“But how’d he talk her into it?”

“Same way guys talk women into anything. He promised her the moon.”

“I can’t believe she went to jail for him. What an idiot.”

Cheney shrugged. “My IRS buddy says there was talk of approaching her back then, offering to cut her a deal, but at the time, they were just setting up shop and couldn’t afford to take the risk. Now it’s crunch time. They need the inside track and she’s it.”

“Beck must have a company comptroller and accountants. Why not one of them?”

“They’re working on that angle as a backup plan.”

“Well, you better tell ’em to work hard. If Reba spent two years in prison for Beck, why turn on him now?”

“You know he’s married…”

I could feel my impatience mount. “Of course. And Reba knows it, too. He says it’s a marriage of convenience. I think it’s a crock and I told her so, but couldn’t get her to budge.”

“She’s delusional in that case. You see Beck and his wife together—her name’s Tracy, by the way—there’s no suggestion whatever he’s anything less than devoted. Could be an act on his part, but it doesn’t look that way.”

“That’s how guys are…”

“Hey, women are the same. Percentagewise, women probably screw around more than men.”

“Listen to us. That’s sick. How’d we get so cynical?”

Cheney smiled. “It comes with the turf.”

“You think Tracy knows about Reba?”

“Hard to say. Beck’s got a ton of money and he treats her like a queen. Maybe from her perspective, it’s smarter to look the other way. Or maybe she knows and doesn’t give a shit.”

“Yeah, well, Reba’s convinced he’s kept his wife in the dark, and furthermore, if Tracy finds out, she’ll not only divorce his ass, but take him for everything he’s got.”

“How’s she going to do that? He has money stashed in bank accounts all over the world. And some are banks he owns. She’d end up with the same nightmare we’re facing, which is how to trace his assets. Reba’s got that down cold. She knows where the bodies are buried if we can get to her.”

“What makes you think he didn’t change it all while she was gone?”

“Why would he do that? He may vary the game plan, but the accounts have been in place for years. Setting up an offshore bank is an expensive proposition. He’s not going to go back and start from scratch unless he’s forced to. That’s why the feds are so worried about tipping him off. They don’t want him to panic before they’re ready to roll.”

“What do they want from her?”

“Facts and figures, banks, account numbers—whatever she can get her hands on. Some of the information they have, but they need corroboration, plus whatever she knows that they haven’t come up with yet.”

“But what’s her motivation? You’ve got nothing to offer. She’s a free human being. Ask her for help and she’ll run straight to him.”

Cheney reached into the inner pocket of his sport coat and removed a manila envelope that he pushed across the table.

“What’s this?”

“Take a look.”

I undid the clasp. Inside I found a series of grainy black-and-white photographs of Beck, probably taken with a telephoto lens. In two, his companion’s face wasn’t clear, but she appeared to be the same woman. The pictures had been taken on five different occasions, judging from the date and time recorded in the bottom right-hand corner of each print. All had been snapped within the past month. The last photo was a shot of the two of them leaving a motel I recognized on upper State Street. I slid the photos back into the envelope. “Who’s the woman?”

“Her name is Onni. She’s Reba’s best friend. He’s been bedding her ever since Reba landed at CIW.”

“What a shitheel,” I said. “And I’m supposed to show her those in hopes of persuading her to turn on him?”

“Yes.”

I tossed the photos and they skittered across the table to him. “You have the resources of the entire United States government at your disposal. Find someone else to do your dirty work.”

“Look, I understand where you’re coming from, but this isn’t penny-ante stuff. What Beck’s doing is—”

“I know what he’s doing. Don’t give me this ‘Money laundering is evil’ bullshit. I got that already. I don’t see why I should be the one who talks Reba into rolling over on him.”

“We’re guys. We don’t know her the way you do. Just call her and chat. The woman trusts you.”

“She does not. She doesn’t even like me. I’m telling you, she got really pissed off when I tried telling her the truth. How can I turn around and call? She’d know I was up to something. She may be an idiot, but she isn’t unaware.”

“Think about it—please—before you make up your mind.”

I stood up and pushed back my chair. “All right. I’ll think about it. In the meantime, I need to go home and take a bath.”

10

I did not sleep well. My encounter with Cheney Phillips had generated a gloom that seemed to permeate my dreams. I woke often and stared up through my skylight at the overcast night sky. His proposal had at least served to diminish his appeal. Reba was vulnerable by nature and only marginally stable, given to veering off course in response to her own internal tumult. So far she seemed fine (sort of ) but I didn’t want to trip her into a downward spiral when she’d just reached solid ground. She’d been free for two days. What would she do if she heard about this? She’d go off the deep end. On the other hand, she’d pinned her hopes on a bum and what was I to do? Sooner or later, she was going to learn the truth. Was it better to tell her now while she still had an opportunity to redeem herself?

At 5:59 A.M. I shut down my alarm and pulled on my sweats in preparation for a run. I went through my usual bathroom routine—brushing my teeth, splashing water on my face, lamenting the state of my hair, which was sticking up every which way. I looped my housekey in my shoelace, locked the apartment, and started walking at a fast pace toward the bike path that runs parallel to the beach.

Gradually I broke into a trot, my muscles protesting. My feet felt leaden, as though someone had affixed ten-pound weights to the bottoms of my shoes. The sun had already risen and for once there was no evidence of fog. The day promised to be a good one, clear and sunny. Across the rumble of the surf, I could hear the barking of a sea lion, probably some hoary old guy who’d staked out a place for himself on a marker buoy. In hopes of shaking off my depression, I picked up the pace, my sights focused on the bathhouse where I made my turnaround. By the time I started back, I wasn’t exactly light of heart, but I didn’t feel quite so dead.

I finished my run and walked the last couple of blocks to cool down. When I reached home, I saw Mattie’s car parked in Henry’s drive. Oh goody. I let myself into my place, showered, dressed, and ate a bowl of cereal. As I left for the office, I picked up the tantalizing scent of bacon and eggs wafting across the patio. Henry’s kitchen door was open and through the screen, I heard laughter and chatting. I smiled, imagining the two of them sitting down to breakfast together. I knew better than to think she’d spent the night with him. He’s entirely too proper to compromise her reputation, but an early morning get-together was well within the purview of Emily Post.

I crossed the yard and tapped on the door frame. He responded, inviting me to come in, though his tone wasn’t quite as chipper as I’d hoped. I let myself in, thinking Uhoh. Henry had reverted to his usual dress code—flip-flops, white T-shirt, and tan shorts. The kitchen showed all the signs of a recent meal—dirty skillets and bowls, an array of spices near the stove. Dishes and utensils were piled in the sink, and the counter was gritty with toast crumbs. Henry was at the sink, running water for a fresh pot of coffee, while Mattie sat at the kitchen table engrossed in a conversation with William and Lewis.

I caught the dynamic in a flash and I could feel myself wince. William had set this up. He’d been infuriated by Henry’s attitude where Mattie was concerned. Lewis had no such qualms. I knew William had been chatting with Lewis on the phone, but I hadn’t thought much of it. Now I had visions of his maneuvering Lewis onto the scene, assuming Henry’s competitive instincts would kick in. Instead, Henry was reacting like a schoolboy, withdrawn and insecure in the presence of his brother’s cockiness. Maybe William didn’t care which of his brothers snagged Mattie as long as one of them did.

From what I knew of the family history, Lewis—two years older than Henry—had always asserted his superiority in matters of the heart. Neither Lewis nor Henry had ever married, and though I hadn’t quizzed them on the subject, there was one reference I remembered. In 1926 Henry had taken Lewis’s girlfriend away from him. Henry claimed Lewis had never fully recovered from the insult. Now, to all appearances, Lewis was finally mounting a retaliatory campaign. He’d made a point of dressing smartly—starched white shirt, vest, suit coat, his shoes shined, his trousers sharply creased. Like his two younger brothers, Lewis had all his hair and most of his teeth. I saw him as Mattie must—handsome, attentive, with none of Henry’s reticence. The two brothers had met her on the same Caribbean cruise and Lewis had pursued her relentlessly. He’d signed up for Mattie’s watercolor class, and while his efforts were crude, she’d admired his enthusiasm and his doggedness. Henry claimed he was only flirting, but Mattie didn’t see it that way. Now here he was again, stepping into the picture just as Henry was making headway.

“Coffee?” Henry asked me. Even his voice sounded bruised, though he was covering as well as he could.

“Sure, I’ll take a cup. Thanks.”

“Mattie? Fresh pot coming up.”

“Love some,” she said, distracted by the anecdote Lewis was in the midst of telling. Henry wasn’t listening. The story was probably one he’d heard before and he knew how it would end. I was so focused on Henry I didn’t hear much of it myself. Lewis reached the punch line and both William and Mattie burst out laughing.

I sat down at the table and when the merriment subsided, I glanced at Mattie. “So what’s up today? The two of you have plans?”

“Oh, no. I can’t stay. I’ve got responsibilities at home.”

Lewis slapped the table. “Nonsense! There’s a show at the art museum. I read about it in the paper and I know it’s one you’d love.”

“What sort of show?”

“Blown glass. Extraordinary. It’s a traveling exhibit the reviewer called a ‘must-see.’ At least stay for that. Afterward, we could have a bite of lunch at a Mexican restaurant right there in the arcade. There’s an art gallery across the court you really should see. You could talk to the owner about your work. Maybe she’d agree to represent you.”

William chimed in. “Fabulous idea. Don’t go rushing off. Take a little time for yourself.”

I felt my head swivel. William was beaming like a mother at a dance recital.

I said, “Uh, Henry? Could I see you for a minute? I’ve got a problem at my place.”

“What sort of problem?”

“It’s just something I have to show you. It won’t take long.”

“I’ll look into it later. Can’t it wait?”

“Really not,” I said, hoping to signal him with my tone.

He seemed resigned or annoyed, I couldn’t tell which. He turned to Mattie. “You won’t mind if I slip out for a minute?”

“Not at all. I can tidy up the kitchen while you’re gone.”

“That’s not necessary,” Henry said. “I’ll take care of the dishes as soon as I get back.”

“Take your time,” Lewis said, airily. “We’ll get the place all shipshape and then take a walk on the beach. Mattie needs some fresh air. Place is like an oven in here.”

Henry turned a bleak eye on Lewis. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to clean the kitchen myself.”

Lewis made a face. “Oh, loosen up, for Pete’s sake. You’re like a little old lady. We’re not going to mess with your precious things. I promise we’ll keep all the spices in alphabetical order. Go on. Get out of here. We’re fine.”

Henry’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. I tucked my arm into his and steered him toward the door. I could tell he was torn between wanting to defend himself and wanting to escape the torment. I didn’t think Mattie was being mean. Her affection for both brothers was doubtless genuine. She simply wasn’t tuned into the rivalry between the two.

The screen door banged shut behind us and we crossed the yard. As soon as I let him into my apartment, I could see Henry scrutinize the premises, his expression sour, looking for the problem he was there to fix. “I hope it’s not the plumbing. I’m not in the mood to crawl under the house.”

“There isn’t any problem. I had to get you out of there. You need to chill out. You can’t let Lewis get under your skin like that.”

He gave me a stony look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I couldn’t tell if he was actually that obtuse or feigning ignorance to avoid addressing the point. “Yes, you do. Lewis is flirting, but he flirts with every woman he sees. It doesn’t mean anything. You’ve got twice his charm and twice his good looks. Besides, you’re the one she came to see. You can’t let him swoop in like that and sweep her off her feet.”

“Swoop and sweep?”

“You know what I mean. She’s taking the path of least resistance. That doesn’t mean she likes him any better than you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Mattie couldn’t set aside time for me. Let him propose an outing and suddenly she’s got all day.”

“But you could have proposed something just as easily.”

“I did. I suggested breakfast.”

“And she agreed. The only thing I don’t understand is how Lewis and William ended up over there as well.”

“A remarkable coincidence. The two were taking their morning constitutional and just ‘happened’ to be passing as she pulled into the drive. They stopped for a chat and naturally, she invited them to join us. Now she intends to spend the rest of the day with him.”

“She never said that. What’s the matter with you? So Lewis came up with a plan. Big deal. Think of a better one and stand your ground.”

“It’s not up to me. It’s Mattie’s call. Lewis is being pushy and competitive, vying for her attention. The way he’s acting, he might as well be eight.”

“Well, that’s true,” I said. “He is competitive with you.”

“Precisely. And it’s revolting—grown men scrapping over her like dogs with a bone. No gentleman should impose himself when it’s a lady’s right to choose.”

“Mattie isn’t choosing. She’s being nice.”

“Fine. She can be as nice as she pleases. Far be it from me to interfere.”

“Oh, come on, Henry. Don’t be like that.”

“But that’s how I am. That’s exactly how I am.”

“Stubborn and proud.”

“I can’t change my nature. I refuse.”

“So don’t change your nature. Change your attitude.”

“I won’t. If she’s so easily swayed by his flirtation, as you so aptly refer to it, then perhaps I’ve misjudged her. I assumed she was a woman of integrity and common sense. He’s vain and superficial and if she finds that appealing, then so be it.”

“Would you get off your high horse? You’re only taking that position to avoid a fight. You think if you go head-to-head with him, you’ll lose out, but that’s just not true.”

“You have no idea what I think.”

“Okay. You’re right. I shouldn’t speak for you. Why don’t you tell me how it feels.”

“It doesn’t ‘feel’ like anything. This is all beside the point. Mattie has her preferences and I have mine.”

“Preferences?”

“That’s right. I prefer to be accepted for myself. I prefer not to dictate the behavior of others or have them dictate to me.”

“What’s that got to do with Lewis?”

“She thinks he’s entertaining. I do not. In addition, I find his sudden appearance highly suspect.”

“Really,” I said. I was reluctant to communicate my own suspicions about William unless Henry voiced them first.

Henry went on. “I believe she spoke to Lewis on the phone and he flew out in response.”

“Where’d you get that?”

“He didn’t seem the least bit surprised at finding her here, which means he knew in advance. And how could he have known unless she told him herself?”

“He could have heard from someone else.”

“Who?”

“Rosie.”

“Rosie doesn’t chat with Lewis. Why would she talk to him? She barely talks to me.”

“William, then. He could have mentioned it in passing.”

“I see you’re determined to protect her.”

“All I’m doing is injecting a note of reality. No one’s plotting behind your back. Well, Lewis, maybe, but not Mattie. You know better.”

“You’re implying I’m paranoid, but this is not my imagination. Mattie’s intention was to come for breakfast and then drive straight home. Lewis suggested something off the top of his head and now she’s delaying her return. Yes or no?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s not argue. I don’t think there’s anything afoot, but you do, so let’s drop the subject. My only point…well, I don’t even know what my only point is. My only point is don’t give up on her. And that’s all I’m going to say.”

“Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my kitchen and my little-old-lady ways.”

I went to the office and locked myself in. Truly, it was more restful to ponder crime than human beings in love. Here I was trying to talk Henry into the very thing I was trying to talk Reba out of, and neither one would listen. Then again, why would they? I’ve bungled every relationship I’ve ever been in so it’s not like my advice is worth much.

I opened the window in hopes of creating a little cross-ventilation. The thermometer outside on the window frame read 74 degrees. It felt hotter than that to me. I sat down, put my feet up on the desk, and rocked back in my swivel chair. I studied my surroundings with a sense of discontent. The windows were so dingy I could hardly see out. Grime on the windowsill. Dust on my fake plant. My desk was covered with junk and the trash can was filled to capacity. I still had boxes I hadn’t unpacked since I moved in and that was five months ago. What a slattern I was.

I got up and went into my tiny kitchen, where I scrounged under the sink for a bucket, a sponge, and a quart of virulent yellow liquid that resembled toxic waste. I spent the morning scrubbing surfaces, vacuuming, dusting, shining, polishing, unpacking, and putting things away. By noon, while I was hot, tired, and sweaty, my mood had improved. But not for long.

There was a knock on the door. I opened it to find a courier standing on my doorstep with an envelope in hand. I signed for it and opened it, pulling out a check from Nord for $1,250 in response to the invoice I’d sent him the day before. The handwritten note that accompanied the payment indicated the $250 bonus was for a job well done.

I wasn’t so sure. Psychologically, the bonus put me in his debt and triggered another round of peeps from my conscience, which I’d thought to pacify with all the cleaning I’d done. I was right back in the thick of my debate. Should I tell Reba what was going on or should I not? More important, should I bring her father into the loop? His single admonition—to which I’d agreed—was to keep him informed of any backsliding on her part. This hadn’t happened yet (as far as I knew), but if I told her about Beck and Onni, what would she do? She was going to crash and burn. And if I didn’t tell her and she somehow got wind of it—which was not out of the question in a town this size—much crashing and burning would ensue anyway. She’d begged me not to tell her father about Beck, but Reba wasn’t the one who was paying my bills. Witness this check.

I tried to think of an overriding principle that might apply—some moral code that would guide my decision. I couldn’t think of one. Then I wondered if I had morals or principles of any kind, and that made me feel worse.

The phone rang. I picked it up and said, “What,” rather more rudely than I’d intended.

Cheney laughed. “You sound stressed.”

“Well, I am. Do you have any idea the bind you’ve put me in?”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s tough. Would it help if we talked?”

“What’s to talk about? Betraying that poor girl? Giving her the news about his screwing around?”

“I told you he’s a bad man.”

“But isn’t it just as bad to go after her like that?”

“You have any other suggestions? Because we’re open to just about anything. God knows, we don’t want to pull out the big guns unless we have to. The girl’s freaky enough.”

“That’s for sure. I notice you’re using the term ‘we,’ so I assume you’ve thrown in your lot with the IRS.”

“This is a law-enforcement issue. I’m a cop.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Would you at least have a chat with my IRS pal?”

“So he can pile his bullshit on top of yours? That’s a happy proposition. I feel like I’m going under as it is.”

“Look, I’m just around the corner. You want to have lunch? He’s on his way up from L.A. and said he’d join us. No hard sell. I promise. Just listen to him.”

“To what end?”

“You know a place called Jay’s? Hot pastrami sandwiches and the best martinis in town.”

“I don’t want to drink at lunch.”

“Me neither, but we can eat together, yes?”

I said, “Hang on. There’s someone at my door. I’m going to put you on hold. I’ll be back in a second.”

“Good deal. I’ll wait.”

I pushed the Hold button and laid the receiver on my desk. I got up and paced from the inner office to the outer one. What was wrong with me? Because I did want to see him. And it didn’t have anything to do with Reba Lafferty. That subject was just a cover for another form of confusion I was wrestling with. I went into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror, noting that I looked like shit. This was ridiculous. I went back to the phone and pushed Hold, activating the line. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll meet you there.”

“Don’t be silly. I can swing by. No point in taking two cars when we can make do with one. It’s better for the environment.”

“Oh, please.”

I locked up the office and waited for him out on the street. There was no point worrying about my grubby jeans or my ratty tennis shoes. My hands smelled like bleach and my turtleneck was stretched out of shape. I needed a complete makeover, but I didn’t think I could manage one in the next three to four minutes. Oh, to hell with it. This was business. What difference did it make if I were fresh as a daisy, wearing heels and panty hose? The more immediate problem was Cheney’s IRS contact. I was already experiencing a low-level dread at the idea of meeting him. No hard sell, my ass. The man would grind me underfoot.

Cheney came around the corner in a sporty little red Mercedes convertible. He pulled in at the curb, leaned over, and opened the passenger-side door. I slid in. “I thought you drove a Mazda,” I said, sounding faintly accusative.

“I left that at home. I also have a six-year-old Ford pickup that I use for surveillance. I took delivery on this baby in Los Angeles last week.”

“Slick.”

He turned right at the corner and headed across town. I liked his driving style. No speeding, no showing off, and no reckless moves. Out of the corner of my eye, I noted the matte finish on his red silk windbreaker—nothing shiny or vulgar—white dress shirt, the chinos, snappy Italian shoes that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Even in an open car, his aftershave smelled like spices, the scent of tiny blossoms on some night-blooming shrub. This was pitiful. I wanted to lean over and sniff deeply at the side of his face. He glanced at me, smiling, as though he knew what was going on in my head. This was not a good sign.

11

Santa Teresa has never been noted for its club scene or its wild nightlife. Most restaurants close soon after the last of the dinner orders have been plated and served. The bars are open until 2:00 A.M., but most don’t provide dance floors or live music. Jay’s Cocktail Lounge, downtown, is one of the few spots to offer both. In addition, from 11:30 A.M. until 2:00 P.M., lunch is served to a limited clientele who prefer the privacy and quiet for low-key business meetings and discreet liaisons. The walls are padded in gray suede, with a thick gray carpet underfoot that makes you feel you’re walking across a mattress. Even by day, the place is so dark, you have to pause at the entrance until your eyes adjust. The booths are commodious, padded in black leather, and any ambient noise is dampened to a hush. Cheney gave his name to the hostess—Phillips, party of three.

He’d made reservations in advance.

I said, “God, you’re cocky. What made you so sure I’d say yes?”

“I’ve never known you to turn down food, especially if someone else pays. Must feel like mothering.”

“Well, it is, isn’t it?”

“By the way, Vince called to say he’s running late. He said to go ahead and order.”

We spent the first part of the meal dealing with matters unrelated to Reba Lafferty. We sipped iced tea and picked at our sandwiches, unusual for me where food is concerned. I’m accustomed to eating fast and moaning aloud, but Cheney seemed to enjoy taking his sweet time. We chatted about his career and mine, the police department budget cuts, and the effects thereof. We knew a few cops in common, one being Jonah Robb, the married man I “dated” during one of his frequent separations from his wife, Camilla.

I said, “How’s Jonah doing these days? Is the marriage off again or on?” I rattled the last of the ice cubes in my empty glass and, as if on cue, the busboy appeared to replenish my supply.

Cheney said, “Off, from what I hear. They had a kid. I should say, Camilla did. According to the scuttlebutt, the boy wasn’t his.”

“Yeah, but he’s crazy about that baby all the same,” I said. “I ran into him a couple of months ago and he was busting his buttons he was so proud of the kid.”

“What about the two daughters? No telling what effect this is having on them.”

“Camilla doesn’t seem to care. I wish they’d just get back together and be done with it. How many times have they split?”

Cheney shook his head.

I studied him. “What about you? How’s married life these days?”

“That’s over.”

“Over?”

“You know the word ‘over’? As in done with.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. When did this transpire?”

“Middle of May. Embarrassing to admit, but we were only married five weeks, which is one week less than we’d known each other before we eloped.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s moved back to L.A.”

“That was quick.”

“Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Better to get it over with.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“I doubt it. I was tired of feeling dead. Work we do, we take chances in the real world but not so much in here,” he said, tapping on his chest. “What’s love about if not risk?”

I studied my plate, which was littered with potato chip crumbs. I licked my index finger and captured a cluster that I laid on my tongue. “You’re beyond my area of competence. These days, I seem to be surrounded by people who’ve got it wrong, Reba Lafferty being one.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, holding his glass by the rim. “So let’s talk about her.”

“What’s to talk about? She’s fragile. It doesn’t seem right to put the squeeze on her.”

A flicker of irritation crossed his face. “Fragile, my ass. She’s the one who elected to get involved with him. Turns out, he’s a sleazebag in more ways than one. She should know what’s going on.”

“You’re not doing this for her sake. You’re doing it for yours.”

“What difference does that make? She needs to be told. Or do you disagree?”

“What if the revelation pushes her over the edge?”

“If she goes off the deep end, we’ll handle it.” His gaze shifted to a point just over my shoulder. I turned my head and caught a glimpse of a man I assumed was Vince Turner approaching to my left. Cheney slid out of the booth and the two of them shook hands.

Vince Turner was a hefty man in his forties, round-faced, balding, wearing a tan raincoat. The wire stems on his frameless glasses had been bent at an angle that left them slightly askew. He toted a brown leather school bag that in sixth grade would have labeled him as hopelessly out of it. Now the scuffed handle and the buckles on the two exterior pockets marked him as self-assured.

Cheney introduced us. Turner peeled off his raincoat and tossed it across the back of the banquette before he sat down. His suit was mud brown, the jacket wrinkled across the back. His trousers had accordion pleats radiating from the crotch because he’d sat in them too long. He loosened his tie and tucked the ends in the pocket of his dress shirt, perhaps to keep them from flapping in his food.

“Have you eaten?” Cheney asked.

“I had a burger in the car coming up, but I could use a drink.”

Cheney signaled the waiter, who appeared moments later with a menu in hand.

Turner waved it away. “Maker’s on the rocks. A double.”

“Would you like anything else?”

“That’s fine. What about you, Cheney?”

“I’m good.”

“By me,” I said.

As soon as the waiter disappeared, Turner picked up his baton of napkin-wrapped flatware, unrolled the utensils, and set a place for himself. On his right hand he wore a heavy gold-and-garnet class ring, but there was no way to read the legend that encircled the stone. His face was shiny with perspiration, but his pale eyes were cold. He lined up the handles of his knife, his spoon, and two forks, then checked his watch. “I’m not sure how much Lieutenant Phillips has told you about me. It’s one-fifteen now. At two-fifty, I’ll be on a flight from here to LAX and then on to Washington, D.C., where I meet with a group of IRS investigators and the DEA. That gives us approximately one hour to conduct our business, so I’ll get straight to the point. You have questions or comments, feel free to raise your hand. Otherwise, I’ll talk until I get to the end. Is that agreeable?” He made another minute adjustment to the silverware.

“Fine with me,” I said. I found it easier to watch his hands than to look him in the eye.

“I’m forty-six years old. Since 1972 I’ve worked in the Criminal Investigation Division of the Bureau of Internal Revenue. My first assignment was as assistant to the man who pursued the case against Braniff Airlines in the laundering of illegal corporate campaign contributions. Braniff, like American Airlines, needed the occasional government assist in those days and began to funnel money to the Nixon re-election committee by way of Maurice Stans. You remember him?”

He looked up at me long enough to see me nod.

“Having cut my teeth on Watergate, I developed an appetite for financial chicanery. I’ve never been blessed with a wife or children. My job is my life.” He glanced down at his jacket and removed a tiny speck of lint. “A year ago, in May of 1986, Congress, in a rare moment of common sense, passed Public Law 99-570, the Money Laundering Control Act, which has provided us the hammer with which to pound the shit out of violators of the Bank Secrecy Act. The banking community is already feeling the effects. For a long time, banks in this country treated reporting requirements as a trivial matter, but that’s changed. Many violations once considered misdemeanors have now been elevated to felony offenses with maximum prison sentences, fines, and civil penalties. Crocker National Bank has been fined $2,250,000; Bank of America was fined $4,750,000; and Texas Commerce Bancshares was fined $1,900,000. You can’t imagine the satisfaction I’ve felt forcing these guys into line. And we ain’t done yet.”

He paused, looking up with a smile that warmed his face from within. His ice blue eyes suddenly contained a merriment impossible to resist. I think in that moment, my position shifted. I’d do what I could for Reba, but if she came up against this guy, she was in deeper shit than she knew.

The waiter arrived with his Maker’s Mark, which was the color of strong iced tea. Vince Turner sucked down half without hesitation and then placed the glass carefully in front of him. He folded his hands and lifted his eyes to mine. “Which brings us to Mr. Beckwith. I’ve spent the past year assembling a comprehensive dossier on him. As I’m sure you know, his lifestyle looks clean and his social credentials are solid, largely because of his late father’s standing in the community. He’s considered by most to be an honest, law-abiding citizen, who’d never dream of trafficking in drugs, pornography, or prostitutes.

“He’s what we call a market-based offender. He takes the profits from these same illegal activities, disguises their origin, and introduces them back into the system as legitimate earnings. For the past five years, he’s been ‘rehabilitating’ funds for a man named Salustio Castillo, a Los Angeles jewelry wholesaler who also deals in scrap silver and gold. The business is just a cover for what he really does, which is to import cocaine from South America. Castillo bought a large property in Montebello through Mr. Beckwith’s real estate firm. Mr. Beckwith brokered the deal, which is how they became acquainted. Mr. Castillo needed someone of Mr. Beckwith’s professional reputation. His company is diverse and his financial dealings of sufficient magnitude to camouflage the funds Castillo was so eager to place. Mr. Beckwith saw the possibilities and agreed to help.

“At first, he employed the standard laundering techniques—structuring transactions, consolidating the deposits, and using wire transfers to move the money out of the country. By the time the money was routed through his company books and back to Castillo, the sources appeared to be legitimate. After six months, Mr. Beckwith got tired of paying his smurfs or maybe he got tired of keeping track of the myriad accounts he’d opened across Santa Teresa County. He began to make big deposits—two and three hundred thousand dollars at a clip, claiming these were the proceeds of commercial real estate ventures. This time he was the model of compliance, making sure all the appropriate CTRs were filed. In truth, he was counting on the fact that the IRS has to process so many millions of CTRs that his were in little or no danger of being flagged for scrutiny. Soon he was running a million a week through the system, taking one percent off the top as his service fee.

“Finally, deposits reached a level where the risks outweighed the benefits of doing business so close to home. Mr. Beckwith got nervous and decided to bypass the local banks and eliminate the paper trail. He acquired a Panamanian bank and an unrestricted banking license in Antigua, putting up the requisite one million in U.S. dollars as paid-in capital. He invested an additional five hundred thousand dollars for a second international banking license in the Netherlands Antilles, which doesn’t have a tax treaty with the U.S. at this point.”

I raised my hand. “A million and a half? Is it really worth that to him?”

“Absolutely. With his offshore banks, he can make deposits. He can write his own references, issue letters of credit to himself, all of this protected by complete privacy and with very little interference from the host countries. He doesn’t even have to be there to handle management. Keep in mind, too, when people hear you own a bank, they tend to be impressed.”

I said, “I’ll bet.” Cheney caught my eye fleetingly, probably thinking, as I was, about the banks his father owned.

Vince Turner paused and looked from Cheney to me.

I said, “Sorry. Go on.”

He shrugged and continued as though his commentary had been recorded in advance. “By law, an American citizen is required to declare all foreign bank accounts on their yearly tax returns, but these guys aren’t any more scrupulous about that than any other aspect of their business. Mr. Beckwith, under the auspices of the banks he’d bought, established an international business corporation, an IBC, in Panama, with shares being held in a Panama Private Interest Foundation, allowing him to avoid both U.S. and Panamanian taxation. With the shell company in place, he began to move currency physically from the States to his offshore havens. You move cash, Customs requires a CMIR—a Currency and Monetary Instrument Report—but Mr. Beckwith doesn’t much care for filling out these pesky little government forms. No forms means no more violations, at least to his skewed way of thinking. Once deposited in one of his offshore banks, monies are returned to Mr. Castillo in the form of business loans with a twenty-year balloon.

“Of course, the transport of currency generates difficulties of a different sort. Bills are not only bulky, but weigh more than you’d think. The foreign markets prefer the smaller denominations—twenties and fifties. A million dollars in twenty-dollar bills tops out at over one hundred twenty-five pounds. Try toting that through an airport. Not a problem for our boy. The ever resourceful Mr. Beckwith leased a Learjet and now he flies suitcases full of cash to Panama every couple of months. Panama’s currency is the U.S. dollar, so he doesn’t even have to worry about the exchange rate. Between plane trips, he’s been taking his wife on a series of luxury cruises, moving the cash in a steamer trunk that he keeps in his stateroom.”

Turner polished off his bourbon, signaling the waiter for another round. “Anybody ever tell you how much money gets laundered every year worldwide?”

I shook my head.

“One-point-five trillion dollars—that’s a one, a five, and eleven zeros—just so you get the picture. In the U.S., the figure’s somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty billion, but we’re talking about revenue that’s never taxed, so you see how serious it gets.”

Cheney spoke up. “How much can you tell her about the investigation to date?”

“Broad strokes? Four years ago the IRS, the DEA, the FBI, Customs, and the Justice and Treasury departments put together a task force to investigate gold and precious metals dealers in Los Angeles, Detroit, and Miami, all of whom we suspect are laundering money for a Colombian drug cartel. So far they’ve managed to place, layer, and integrate sixteen million dollars, running the cash through four businesses, using multiple accounts, at ten different banks, one of which has a branch here in town. Alan Beckwith is responsible for processing a substantial portion of that sum.

“Ours is painstaking work. We’re still sorting out the particulars, developing as much hard evidence as we can before we make our move. The trick is not to alert him until we have all our ducks in a row. A U.S. District Court judge in Los Angeles and another in Miami have recently approved electronic surveillance. That’s allowed us to monitor Mr. Beckwith’s phone conversations. We’ve also obtained authorization to seize and remove trash from his home and business premises. Right now we have our merry band of agents picking through his garbage. They’ve found invoices listing fictitious addresses for nonexistent businesses, assorted handwritten notes, canceled checks, discarded typewriter cartridges and adding-machine tape. Mr. Beckwith has legitimate dealings with financial institutions on a number of fronts, and he’s skilled at mingling the profits from illegal activities with the mundane business he does from day to day. What he’s apparently unaware of is that financial institutions are required to save signature cards, account statements, copies of checks written for any amount over a hundred dollars. The banks also retain a transaction log of wire transfers, so they can properly account for funds passing through the system. The information is all coded, but it’s possible to use the sequence numbers to identify the source bank, the target bank, and the dates and times the money was sent on its way. We don’t yet have access to these documents, but we’re putting together the necessary paperwork to subpoena bank records.”

The waiter appeared, setting down Turner’s second drink. A silence fell until he’d moved away from the table and out of earshot. Turner picked up his glass of bourbon. His drinking had slowed to a sipping pace, and I could see him savoring the taste.

“What do you want from Reba? Surely you’re not asking her to waltz in and lift all the pertinent files.”

“Not at all. In point of fact, we can’t instruct her to do anything that violates the law because we’re not at liberty to do so ourselves. Even if she stole the files without our prior knowledge or approval, we couldn’t even peek at them without jeopardizing our case. What we can ask for is an in-depth description of his records—the nature of the files he has and where they’re located—which will allow us to prepare financial and document search warrants. I understand you feel protective of Ms. Lafferty, but we need her cooperation.”

“Isn’t there anybody else? What about his company comptroller?”

“The company comptroller’s a fellow named Marty Blumberg. We’ve thought of him. The problem is he’s so deeply implicated he might panic and run, or worse, panic and warn Mr. Beckwith. Now that she’s not working for him, Reba’s been removed from the line of fire and she might be more inclined to help. Lieutenant Phillips showed you the photographs?”

“Well, yeah, but I’m not sure what those are going to do for you. She finds out he’s in trouble, she’ll fall all over herself telling him whatever you tell her.”

“I gathered as much. Do you have a suggestion about how to contain her reaction?”

“No. To me, it’s like detonating a nuclear device. You risk as much destruction as you’re hoping to unleash.”

Turner adjusted a minute irregularity in the flatware he’d aligned. “Point taken. Unfortunately, we don’t have much time. Mr. Beckwith has uncanny survival instincts. We’ve been discreet, but from the intelligence we’ve gathered, he may well suspect there’s something afoot. He’s consolidating his funds, picking up the pace, which we find worrisome.”

“Reba mentioned that, but she’s convinced he’s doing it for her. He says once his assets are secure, he’ll dump his wife and the two of them can hit the highway. Or that’s what she hears. Who knows the truth of it?”

“There’s no doubt he’s preparing to make a run for it. Another week and he might succeed in placing the cash and himself beyond our reach.”

“Does the money belong to him or Salustio Castillo?”

“His, in the main. If he’s smart, he’ll keep his hands off Salustio’s cash. Last guy who crossed Castillo got turned into a concrete popsicle in a twenty-gallon garbage can.”

Once it was clear Vince was finished, Cheney said, “So. Who talks to Reba? You, me, or her.”

There was a silence while all three of us stared at the tabletop. Finally, I raised my hand. “I’ve got a better shot at it than either one of you.”

“Good. Give us a couple of days. As soon as I get back from Washington, I’ll set up a meeting with our FBI contact and the DOJ. Customs will want to sit in as well. As soon as we decide how we want to proceed, we’ll bring you in for a briefing, probably the beginning of next week. After that, we’ll hope to talk to her.”

“You better make it good. I don’t look forward to delivering the news.”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll advise you in advance.”

Cheney dropped me off at my office at 2:00 P.M. The afternoon temperature was climbing, a complete contradiction of the morning weather report that promised a moderate 74 degrees. Vince Turner had called a taxi to ferry him to the airport so he could catch his flight. I was hoping Cheney would have the good grace to deliver me without reference to Reba Lafferty or Beck, but as I got out of the car, he held up a manila envelope. “I had copies made for you.”

“What am I supposed to do with ’em?”

“Whatever you like. I thought you should have a set.”

“Thanks so much.” I took the envelope.

“Call me if you need me.”

“Trust me. I will.”

I waited until he’d turned the corner and the sound of his little red Mercedes had faded in the turgid afternoon air. I let myself into the office, where the air felt stuffy and dead. I passed through the reception area to my desk. I tossed my shoulder bag on the client chair and sat down with the manila envelope. I used it to fan myself and then undid the clasp and removed the prints. The photographs were just as I remembered them—Beck and Onni emerging from various motels, he with his arm around her, the two holding hands, Onni with her head on his shoulder and her arm around his waist, the two hip-to-hip walking in lockstep. Poor Reba. She was in for a rude awakening. I opened my desk drawer and tossed the envelope inside. I didn’t even want to think about the sorry task of breaking the news. In hopes of distracting myself, I did something I hadn’t done for ages. I walked the four blocks from my office into downtown Santa Teresa and caught two movies, back-to-back, watching one of them twice. I thus succeeded in dodging the heat and dodging reality at the same time.

12

When I reached my apartment, I saw that Mattie’s car was gone and Henry’s kitchen was dark. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. The temperature was somewhere in the eighties, almost unheard of at this hour. It was still light out and the sidewalks shimmered with accumulated heat. The air felt sluggish, with no movement to speak of and humidity probably hovering at 95 percent. You’d think it would rain, but this was mid-July and we’d be stuck with drought conditions until late November—if the weather broke for us at all. My apartment was stifling. I sat on my porch step, flapping a breeze at my face with the folded newspaper. While most Southern California properties have sprinkler systems, few have central air conditioning. I was going to have to haul a fan out of the closet and set it up in the loft before I hit the sack.

Nights like this little kids toss aside nighties and pajamas and sleep in their underpants. My aunt Gin always swore I’d be cooler if I did a 180 turn on the bed, feet on the pillow, my head propped on the tangle of covers wadded at the foot. She was remarkably permissive, this woman who raised me, having never given birth to any children of her own. On those rare California nights when it was too hot to sleep, she’d tell me I could stay up all night even if I happened to have school the next day. We’d lie there reading our books in our respective bedrooms, the trailer so quiet I could hear her turning the pages. What I treasured was the heady sense that we were breaking the rules. I knew “real” parents probably wouldn’t tolerate such license, but I saw it as one small compensation for my orphaned state. Inevitably, I’d drift off to sleep. Aunt Gin would tiptoe in, slip the book out of my hands, and douse the light. I’d wake later to find the room dark and the sheet laid over me. Odd, the memories that linger long after a life is gone.

Finally, just as the streetlights came on, I heard the telephone ring. I pulled myself to my feet and scooted into the apartment, snatching up the handset. “’Lo?”

“This is Cheney.”

“Well, hi. I didn’t expect to hear from you. What’s up?”

There was sufficient noise in the background I had to press a hand to my ear to hear what he was saying. “What?”

“Have you had dinner yet?”

I’d eaten a box of popcorn at the movies, but I didn’t think that counted. “I wouldn’t call it that.”

“Good. I’ll be there in two minutes and we’ll go out and grab a bite.”

“Where are you?”

“Rosie’s. I figured you’d be here, but I was wrong again.”

“Maybe I’m not as predictable as you thought.”

“I doubt that. You own a sun dress?”

“Well no, but I have a skirt.”

“Wear that. I’m tired of seeing you in jeans.”

He hung up and I stood there, staring at the receiver. What a weird turn of events. Dinner sounded like a date, unless he’d heard something from Vince Turner about the briefing coming up next week. And why would I have to wear a skirt to receive information like that?

I took my time going up the spiral stairs, trying to figure out what to wear aside from the skirt. I sat down on the bed, pulled off my tennis shoes and shed my sweaty clothes. I showered and wrapped myself in a towel. When I opened my closet door there, sure enough, was my tan poplin skirt. I removed it from the hanger and flapped the wrinkles out. I put on fresh underwear and then stepped into the skirt, noting that the hem hit me just above the knee. I crossed to the chest of drawers where I pawed through a stack of shirts and selected a red tank top that I pulled over my head and tucked in at the waist. I put on a pair of sandals, went into the bathroom, and brushed my teeth. This was all my way of stalling while I decided how I felt.

I stood at the sink and studied my reflection. Why was I compelled to stare at myself in mirrors whenever Cheney called to say he was on his way? I ran water in my hands and ruffled up my hair. Eye makeup? Nah. Lipstick? Don’t think so. That would look presumptuous if this were really IRS business. I leaned closer. Well, okay, just a touch of color. No harm in that. I settled for pressed powder, a quick sweep of eye shadow, mascara, and coral lipstick that I applied and wiped off, leaving my lips faintly pink. You see? This is the downside of relationships with men—you become a narcissist, obsessed with “beauty” issues that ordinarily you couldn’t care less about.

I turned off the light, trotted downstairs, and picked up my shoulder bag. I left a lamp burning in the living room, locked the door behind me, and went out to the street. Cheney was already there, his little red Mercedes idling at the curb. He leaned across the seat and opened the door for me. The man was a fashion plate. He’d changed clothes again: dark Italian loafers, sand-washed silk pants in a charcoal brown, and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He did a quick head-to-toe appraisal. “You look good.”

“Thanks. So do you.”

He smiled slightly. “Glad we got that settled.”

“Me, too.”

He turned right at the corner, heading over to Cabana Boulevard, where he took a left. With the top down, my hair was flying every which way, but at least the air was cool. I figured we were heading to the Caliente Café. The place is a cop hangout and all-around dive—cigarette smoke, beer smell, the constant rattle and howl of blenders whipping ice cubes into margarita mix, tasty faux-Mexican cuisine, and no discernible decor unless you count the six raggedy-ass Mexican straw hats nailed to the wall.

When we reached the bird refuge, instead of turning left as I expected, we sailed right on under the freeway and up the other side. We were now in what was known as “the lower village” of Montebello. The four lanes of divided road merged and narrowed into two, lined with elegant clothing and jewelry shops, real estate offices, and the usual assortment of businesses, including beauty salons, a tennis shop, and a high-priced art gallery. By then, it was fully dark and most places, while closed, were awash with light. The trees were wrapped in strands of tiny Italian bulbs, trunks and branches sparkling as though with ice.

We continued along the frontage road as far as St. Isadore. Cheney took a left. We passed through an area dubbed the “hedgerow district” where pittosporum and eugenia shrubs grew ten to twenty feet high, shielding properties from the road. Until now, tax myself as I might, I hadn’t thought of one word to say so I’d kept my mouth shut. This didn’t seem to bother Cheney, and I was hopeful he disliked small talk as much as I did. On the other hand, we couldn’t spend the entire evening without speaking. That would be too strange for words, as it were.

We wound along dark lanes, the little red Mercedes humming, Cheney downshifting until we reached the St. Isadore Hotel. Once a rustic working ranch that dated back to the late 1800s, the St. Isadore is now an upscale resort with luxury cottages dotted across fourteen acres of flower beds, shrubs, live oaks, and orange trees. Pets were permitted. For a mere fifty dollars per mutt, dogs were provided with doggie beds, “Pawier” mineral water, hand-painted personalized water bowls, and pet “room service” on request. I’d been here for dinner on occasion, but never as a paying guest.

Cheney pulled up at the main building and got out of the car. A parking attendant stepped forward and helped me extricate myself and then he spirited the car away. We bypassed the elegant second-floor restaurant and ducked into the Harrow and Seraph, a low-ceilinged bar located at ground level. The door stood open. Cheney stepped aside, allowing me to pass in front of him, and then he followed me in.

The walls were stone, whitewashed and cool. There were fewer than twenty tables, many empty at that hour. A small bar ran along the back wall. There was a stone fireplace on the left, the hearth dark, given that it was summer. There was banquette seating on the right with the remainder of the tables staggered across the space in between. Illumination was discreet but not so dim that you’d need a flashlight to read the menu. Cheney steered me to an upholstered bench seat backed with pillows so plump I had to push them aside. He sat across the table and then seemed to think better of it, got up and slid in beside me, saying, “No cop talk. I’m off duty here and so are you.”

“I thought you wanted to chat about Reba.”

“Nope. Don’t want to hear a word.”

I was only moderately distracted by the warmth of his thigh in proximity to mine. That’s the thing about wearing poplin—the way it conducts body heat. The waiter appeared and Cheney ordered two vodka martinis, straight up, with extra olives on the side. As soon as the waiter left, Cheney said, “Quit worrying. We won’t drink all the time. This is just to loosen our tongues.”

I laughed. “I appreciate the reassurance. The notion did flit across my mind.” I let my gaze travel briefly—mouth, chin, shoulders. His teeth were beautiful, white and straight—always a weakness of mine. Dark hairs shaded the curve of his forearms.

He studied me, his right elbow propped on the table, his chin resting in his palm. “You never answered my question.”

“Which one?”

“At lunch. I asked you about Dietz.”

“Ah. Well, let’s see if I can be fair about this. He tends to drop out of sight. Last time I saw him was a year ago March. Where he’s been since then I have no idea. He’s not big on explanations. I guess you’d call it the ‘Take it or leave it’ school of relationships. I’ve left messages on his machine, but he hasn’t returned my calls. It’s possible he’s dumped me, but how would I know?”

“Would it matter if he had?”

“I don’t think so. I might feel insulted, but I’d survive. I think it’s rude to leave me hanging, but such is life.”

“I thought you were nuts about the guy.”

“I was, but I knew what he was.”

“Which is what?”

“An emotional drifter. The point is, I chose him anyway, so it must have suited me somehow. Now things are different. I can’t go back to that. It’s over and done.” Which was, now that I thought about it, roughly how Cheney had described his marriage.

He seemed to be considering what I’d said. “You’ve been married once?”

I held up two fingers. “Both ended in divorce.”

“What’s the story on those guys?”

“The first was a cop.”

“Mickey Magruder. I heard about him. You leave him or did he leave you?”

“I was the one who pulled out. I misjudged him. I left because I thought he was guilty of something. Turns out, he wasn’t. I still feel badly about that.”

“Because why?”

“I didn’t have a chance to tell him I was sorry before he died. I’d have liked to clear that. Husband number two was a musician, a pianist, very talented. Also, chronically unfaithful and a pathological liar with the face of an angel. It was a blow when he left. I was twenty-four years old and probably should have seen it coming. Later I found out he’d always been more interested in other men than he was in me.”

“So how come I don’t see you around town with other guys? Have you given up on men?”

I nearly made a smart remark, but I caught myself in time. Instead, I opened my mouth and said, “I’ve been waiting for you, Cheney. I thought you knew that.”

He looked at me, waiting to see if I was making light of him. I returned his gaze, waiting to see what he’d do with the information. I couldn’t imagine what would happen next. There were so many wrong moves, so many dumb things that might come out of his mouth. I was thinking, Don’t mess this up…please, please don’t ruin it…whatever it is…

Here are two things I hate to have men do:

(1) Tell me I’m beautiful, which is bullshit manipulation and has nothing to do with me.

(2) Look into my eyes and talk about my “trust” issues because they know I’ve been “hurt.”

Here’s what Cheney did: He put his arm up on the seat back and picked up a strand of hair from the top of my head. He studied it with care, his expression serious. In the split second before he spoke, I heard a muffled sound, like gas jets igniting when a match is struck. Warmth fanned up along my spine and softened all the tension in my neck. He said, “I’ll give you a proper haircut. Did you know I cut hair?”

I found myself staring at his mouth. “No. I didn’t know that. What else do you do?”

He smiled. “Dance. Do you dance?”

“Not very well.”

“That’s all right. I can teach you. You’ll improve.”

“I’d like that. What else?”

“I work out. I box some and lift weights.”

“Do you cook?”

“No, do you?”

“Peanut butter and pickle sandwiches.”

“Sandwiches don’t count, except for grilled cheese.”

I said, “Any other talents I should know about?”

He ran the back of his hand down along my cheek. “I’m an especially good speller. Fifth grade, I came in second in the school spelling bee.”

I could feel a hum forming in my throat, the same strange mechanism that causes cats to purr. “What’d you screw up on?”

“‘Eleemosynary.’ It means ‘of or for charity or alms.’ Should be e-l-e-e-m-o-s-y-n-a-r-y. I left out the third e.”

“But you haven’t screwed up since. So you learned.”

“Yes, I did. What about you? Any skills you want to talk about upfront?”

“I know how to read upside down. I interview some guy and he has a document on his desk? I can read every word while I’m chatting away with him.”

“Excellent. What else?”

“You know that party game we played in elementary school? The mom brings out a tray, twenty-five objects covered with a towel? She lifts the towel and the kids study the items for thirty seconds before she covers them again. I can recite ’em back without missing one, except sometimes the Q-tips. I tend to mess up on those.”

“I’m not good at party games.”

“Neither am I, except for that. I’ve won all kinds of prizes. Bubbles in a jar and paddles with the ball attached that goes bang-bang-bang.”

The waiter brought our drinks. The connection between us faded, but the moment the waiter left, I could feel it start up again. He put his hand on my neck. I leaned toward him, tilting my head until my lips were close to his ear. “We’re going to get in a lot of trouble, aren’t we?”

“More than you know,” he murmured in response. “Know why I brought you here?”

“Not a clue,” I said.

“The macaroni and cheese.”

“You’re going to mother me?”

“Seduce.”

“You’re doing well so far.”

“You ain’t seen nuttin’ yet,” he said, and smiled. He kissed me then, but only once and not for long.

When I could speak again, I said, “You’re a man of great restraint.”

“And self-control. I probably should have mentioned that much earlier.”

“I like surprises. Good ones,” I said.

“That’s all you get with me.”

The waiter approached and took out his pad. We eased away from each other, both of us smiling politely as though Cheney’s thigh wasn’t locked against mine under the tablecloth. I hadn’t taken the first sip of my drink, but I was feeling bleary-eyed, drowsy with the heat that was suffusing my limbs. I checked the other diners, but no one else seemed to notice the charged particles undulating between us.

Cheney ordered a salad for each of us and told the waiter we’d share the macaroni and cheese, which was apparently served in a ramekin the size of a bread-and-butter plate. Didn’t matter to me. He’d neatly shifted me off-center, away from my usual contentious and arbitrary self. I was already hooked into him. I could feel my boundaries dissolve, desire cleaving the barricade I’d erected to keep the Mongol hordes at bay. Who cared about that? Let them swarm over the walls.

As soon as the waiter left, Cheney put his hand, palm up, on the table and I laced my fingers through his. He was staring off across the room, his gaze shifting from face to face as he checked the other patrons. I sensed he’d detached himself, but I knew he’d be back. I studied his profile, the mop of curly brown hair, mine to touch if I liked. I could see the pulse beat in his throat. He turned and looked at me. His eyes moved from mine to the shape of my mouth. He leaned into me and we kissed again. Where the first kiss had been delicate, this kiss was promissory.

I nearly hummed aloud. “We have to eat dinner, right?”

“Food as foreplay.”

“I’m starving.”

“I’ll do right by you.”

“I know.”

I’m not sure how we made it through the meal. We ate a salad that was cold and crisp, pungent with vinaigrette. He fed me macaroni and cheese, hot and soft, laced with prosciutto, and then he kissed the taste of salt from my mouth. How had we arrived at this place? I thought of all the times I’d seen him, conversations we’d had. I’d never caught a real glimpse of this man, but here he was.

He paid the bill. While we waited for the car, he pulled me in against him with his hands on my ass. I wanted to climb his frame, shinny up his body like a monkey up a palm. The parking attendant averted his eyes, keeping his manner disinterested as he handed me into the car. Cheney tipped him, pulled his door shut, and shifted into first. As we sailed through the dark, I rubbed a hand along his thigh.

By the time we pulled into his driveway, I wasn’t even sure where we were. His house, apparently. Dazed, I watched as he got out of the car on his side and came around to mine. He pulled me out of the seat and turned me until I was laid up against him, my back against his front, his lips moving along my neck. He pushed the strap of my tank top aside and kissed my shoulder, letting me feel the faintest nudge of his teeth. He said, “Let’s slow down, okay? We can take as long as we want. Or do you have to be somewhere?”

“No.”

“Good. Then why don’t we go upstairs.”

“Okay.” I reached back and slid my fingers into his hair, gripping, as I turned my face toward his. “Please tell me you’re not so sure of yourself you changed the sheets before you left the house tonight.”

“I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that to you. I bought new.”

13

Cheney drove me home at 5:45 through the early morning light. He’d go into the gym for his morning workout and then hit the department in time for a briefing at 7:00. I intended to crawl straight into bed. We’d finally untangled ourselves at dawn, just as streaks in the sky were turning from salmon to hot pink. It had taken me less than a minute to throw on my clothes, after which I’d watched him get dressed. He was more muscular than I’d imagined, his body sleek and well defined. Good pecs, good biceps, good abs. When I’d married Mickey I was twenty-one years old to his thirty-seven, a difference of sixteen years. Daniel had been closer to my age, but soft, with a boyish body, slender and narrow-chested. Dietz, like Mickey, had been senior to me by sixteen years, a connection I’d never made before. Something to ponder later. I hadn’t devoted much thought to men’s bodies, but then again I’d never made the acquaintance of one quite like Cheney’s. He was just so beautifully built—skin as smooth as fine leather, pulled taut over an armature of stone.

On the street in front of my place, we kissed one last time before I got out of the car and watched him rumble away. With any other man, I might already be fretting about all the dumb things women worry about—would he call, would I see him again, had he meant even one small portion of what he’d said. With Cheney, I didn’t care. Whatever this was and whatever came next, it was all fine with me. If the entire relationship ended up encapsulated in the hours we’d just spent, well, wasn’t I the lucky one for the experience?

I slept until ten, skipped the run, lollygagged around the house, and finally drifted into the office shortly before noon in time to break for lunch. I was just about to unwrap my cheese and pickle sandwich when I heard someone open the outer door and slam it shut. Reba appeared in the doorway, her face suffused with rage, manila envelope in hand. “Did you take these?”

I felt a spurt of fear at the sight of the envelope, given that I had its identical twin in my drawer.

She leaned across my desk and slashed the air in front of my face with the corner of the envelope, shaking it so close to my eyes she could have taken one out. “Did you?”

“Did I what? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” This was world-class lying, me at my best, rising to the challenge, unflinching in the heat of battle.

She undid the clasp and snatched out the prints, which she slapped down in front of me. She leaned forward again, this time supporting her weight with both hands. “Some fucking little creep came to the house and asked to speak to me. I thought it was a parole officer doing a home visit so I take him in the living room and sit him down to have a chat, cheery as all get-out just to show what a good little citizen I am. Next thing I know he’s handing me these and laying out a line of shit like you wouldn’t believe. That’s Beck, by the way, in case the light’s too grainy.”

I picked up the black-and-white prints and made a display of sorting through them, trying to decide how to play this. I placed them on the desk and looked up at her. “So he picks up some hooker. What do you expect?”

“Hooker, my ass.” She took one photo by the edge and pointed at the woman with such viciousness she nearly ripped the page. “Do you know who that is?”

I shook my head, my heart thudding in my chest. Of course I knew. I just didn’t want to admit it to her.

“That’s Onni. My best friend.”

“Ah.”

She made a face. “I don’t give a shit if he had sex, but with her?”

“Yeah, you’d think as a courtesy, he could have screwed his wife instead of your best friend,” I said.

“Exactly. I didn’t expect him to be celibate. I certainly wasn’t.”

Ooo, what did she mean by that? With whom had she done what? In prison, the options were limited, or so one would think.

“You know what pisses me off? I’m supposed to have dinner with Onni. Tonight. Can you picture it? I’d be chatting away, happy to be with her because I missed her so much. The whole time she’d be sitting there, laughing up her ass. The friggin’ bitch. She knows I’m in love with him. She knows that!” Her face suddenly took on that pinched look that precedes tears. She sat down abruptly. “Oh god, what am I going to do?”

I waited for a moment, listening to the tight squeezed-up sound of her weeping. This went on for a while, but once the sobs had subsided, I said, “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. Does it look like I’m okay? I’m going out of my mind. I could have gone my whole life without this.”

Like a shrink, I picked up the box of tissues from the corner of my desk and pushed it over to her. She took one and blew her nose. “Hell with it. I wasn’t going to do this, but I really can’t help myself.” She opened her bag and took out a fresh pack of cigarettes. She tugged on the thin band of red, peeling away the top of the cellophane wrapper. She tore off one half of the foil and smacked the bottom of the pack on her hand to force a cigarette forward out of the tight pack. She reached for her gold Dunhill lighter and flicked it, bending to the flame with a rapt expression on her face. She inhaled, drawing smoke into her lungs like nitrous oxide, letting it out again in a soft stream. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. This was like watching someone shoot up. I could see the sedative effect as the nicotine permeated her system. She opened her eyes again. “Better. That’s awesome. I hope you have an ashtray.”

“Flick it on the floor. The carpet’s shit anyway.”

She was probably light-headed, but at least the outrage had been erased and replaced by an artificial calm. She allowed herself a thin, mocking smile. “I should have known when I bought the pack I’d crack it within a day.”

“Just don’t drink.”

“Right. I won’t. One vice at a time.” She took another drag from her cigarette, tension draining from her face. “It’s been a year since I smoked. Shit, and I was doing so well.”

“You were doing great.” I was still picking my way across what felt like a minefield, wondering if I could tell her the truth without bringing down fire on my own position.

“What’s sick is the damn thing tastes so good,” she said.

The subject of Beck was beside the point, now that she had her smokes. “So now what?” I asked.

“Beats the hell out of me.”

“Maybe the two of us can figure it out.”

“Yeah, right. What’s to figure? I’ve been had,” she said.

“I’m puzzled about the fellow who came to the house. I don’t get that. Who was he?”

She shrugged. “He said he was FBI.”

“Really. The FBI?”

“That’s what he claimed, all superior and smarmy. As soon as I saw the first photo, I told him to get the hell off the property, but he wanted to sit there and spell it out for me, like I was too dumb to get it. I picked up the phone and told him I’d call the cops if he wasn’t out the door in five seconds. That shut him up.”

“Did he show you his ID? Badge, business card? Anything like that?”

“He flashed a badge when I first opened the door, but I didn’t pay attention. Parole officers carry badges. I thought that’s who he was so I didn’t bother to check his name. I mean, what’s it to me? I didn’t see what choice I had so I let him in. When he pulled out the envelope, I figured he had forms to fill out, like he’d be filing some report. By the time I realized what he was up to I was so damn mad I didn’t care who he was.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m sure as hell canceling my dinner date. I wouldn’t sit down with Onni if I had a gun to my head.”

“Don’t you think Beck’s the one you should be mad at? You went to jail for the guy and this is what he does in return.”

“I never went to jail for him. Who told you that?”

“What difference does it make? That’s the word around town.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“Come on, Reba. You might as well come clean. I’m the only friend you have. So you’re crazy in love and took the fall for him. Wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe he sweet-talked you into it.”

“He didn’t sweet-talk me into anything. I knew what I was doing.”

“I have a hard time believing that.”

“You want to argue the point? You ask me to be honest and then you sit there and make judgments? How fucked up is that?”

I raised a hand. “Right. You’re right. I apologize. I didn’t mean it that way.”

She stared at me, assessing my sincerity. I must have looked like an honest woman because she said, “Okay.”

“Anyway, whatever the motivation, you’re saying you didn’t embezzle any money from him?”

“Of course not. I have money of my own, or at least I had some back then.”

“That being the case, how’d you end up in jail?”

“The discrepancies showed up on an audit and he had to account for the missing money somehow. He thought they’d let me off easy. Suspended sentence, probation—you know, something like that.”

“That seems like a stretch. You’d been in jail once before on a bad-check charge. From the judge’s point of view, this was simply more of the same.”

“Well, yeah, I guess it might have looked that way. Beck did everything he could to soften the blow. He told the DA he didn’t want to file charges, but I guess it’s like a case of domestic violence—once the system gets hold of you, you don’t have much choice. There’s this big gap, three hundred and fifty thousand gone and him without an explanation.”

“What happened to the money?”

“Nothing. He was socking it away, shifting the money to an offshore account so his wife couldn’t get her hands on it. How was he supposed to know the judge would turn out to be such a hard-ass? Four years? My god. He was more shocked than I was.”

“Really.”

“I’m serious. He felt like a turd. He got in this big stinking argument with the prosecuting attorney. That went nowhere. Then he wrote to the judge, begging him to be lenient, but no such luck. He promised he’d have his attorney file an appeal—”

“An appeal? What are you talking about? Beck had no standing to file an appeal. The law doesn’t work that way.”

“Oh. Well, maybe I misunderstood. It was something like that. He said it was his responsibility and he’d take the blame, but by then, it was too late. He had more to lose than I did. How I looked at it, as long as he was free, he could work on getting the rest of the money set aside. Besides, he was taking all the risks. If somebody had to pay, better me than him.”

“So you came up with the idea,” I said, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice.

“Sure. I mean, I can’t exactly remember who mentioned it first, but I was the one who insisted.”

“Reba—I don’t mean to sound critical so don’t blow your stack—but it looks like he set you up. Doesn’t it look like that to you?”

That was a stumper. “You think he’d do that?”

“He did this,” I said, pointing to the photographs. “You’re the one who toughed it out down there, day after day for the past twenty-two months. Meanwhile, Beck’s up here screwing around. Doesn’t that bug you? It bugs me.”

“Of course it bugs me, but it’s not exactly news. He’s a womanizer. I’ve always known that about him. It doesn’t mean anything. That’s just the way he is. The reason I’m mad at her is she should’ve had more loyalty or integrity or something.”

“You don’t even know when it started. He could have been involved with her when the alleged embezzlement first came to light.”

“Thank you. That’s nice. Once I get done choking her to death, I’ll have her verify dates and times.”

“I hope that’s hyperbole.”

“Whatever that is,” she said. “The thing I can’t figure out is what this has to do with the FBI? Why’s this guy chasing around town snapping pictures of Beck? And why bring ’em to me? If he wanted to make trouble, why not show Tracy?”

“I can help with that,” I said, mentally cursing the bumblefuck FBI agent who jumped the gun on us. I stopped, poised on the brink. There was still time to back up. This was like standing on a ten-meter platform, looking at the drop to the water below. If you’re going to jump, get it over with. It doesn’t get easier the longer you wait. I felt a thin mist of anxiety settle on my skin. “The feds are interested in Beck’s relationship with Salustio Castillo.”

She studied me. “Where’d you get that?”

“Reba, you worked for the guy. You have to be clued in.”

She veered off that topic. “Did Pop put you up to this?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t spoken to him since he hired me. Besides, he’s an honorable man. He’d never stoop to sleazy photos. He’s got way too much class.”

She took another deep drag and blew the smoke straight up. “What’s your source then?”

“I have pals in law enforcement. It was one of them.”

“And the FBI’s involved?”

“The IRS is interested as well. Plus Customs, plus the DOJ, plus the ATF for all I know. Lieutenant Phillips is the local liaison if you want to talk to him.”

“I don’t get it. Why me? What do they want?”

“They need help. They’re putting a case together and need the inside dope. I guess the pictures were intended to get you in the mood.”

“He screws me over so I turn around and screw him?”

“Why not?”

“What else have you heard?”

“About Beck? Nothing you don’t already know. He takes the illegal profits and he runs the funds through his company to make them look legitimate. He takes a percentage off the top and then he returns clean money to the thugs he works for. Right?”

She was silent. Her gaze shifted an inch.

I said, “You had to have been in on it all along. You did the books for him, bank deposits, stuff like that, right?”

“The company comptroller handled most of it, but okay, maybe some.”

“The FBI can use information if you’re willing to play.”

She was silent, her gaze tracking the dust motes settling through the air like fairy dust. “I’ll think about it.”

I said, “While you’re at it, think about this. Onni has your old job, which means she knows as much about his business as you do, except her information’s current. If he’s planning to disappear, who’s he going to take with him? More to the point, who’s he leaving behind? Onni? Don’t think so. Not if she’s in a position to blow the whistle on him.”

“I’m in that position, too,” she said, as though feeling competitive about her ability to squeal. She held up the last inch of her cigarette. “I have to put this out.”

“Give it to me.”

I reached over and took the butt end, holding it with about as much enthusiasm as I’d feel for a freshly salted slug. I left the office and carried it down the hall to my tatty toilet with the permanent rust stains. I dropped it in the john and flushed. I could feel the tension between my shoulder blades. This was work and I had no way to tell if the pitch would be effective. If nothing else, I hoped she’d give up her fantasy of what Beck was.

When I returned to the office, she was standing by the window. I sat down at my desk. With the light coming in, she was almost entirely in silhouette. I picked up a pencil and made a mark on my blotter. “Where’s your head at this point?”

She turned and smiled at me briefly. “Not as far up my butt as it was.”

And that was where we left it.

I told her to take her time thinking about the situation before she decided what to do. Vince Turner might be in a hurry, but he was asking a lot and, one way or the other, she’d better be convinced. Once she’d agreed, he couldn’t afford to have her changing her mind. I watched her through the window. She got in her car and sat there long enough to light up again and then she took off. Once I knew she was gone, I put a call through to Cheney and laid out the sequence of events, including the hapless FBI agent who’d put the plan at risk.

He said, “Shit.”

“That was my reaction.”

“Damn. And there’s no name on this crud?”

“None, and no description of him, either. I’d have pressed her for details, but I was too busy trying to act like I didn’t know the whole of it in advance.”

“She buy it?”

“I’d say so. In the main. Anyway, I thought you’d want to call Vince and let him know where we stand.”

“Which is where?”

“I’m not sure. Reba needs time. This is a lot to digest.”

“Doesn’t sound like she was that surprised.”

“I think she’s always known more than she lets on. Now that it’s out in the open, we’ll see what she does with it.”

“Makes me nervous.”

“Me, too. Let me know what Vince says.”

“Will do. See you later.”

“Okey-doke,” said I.

14

I closed the office at 5:00, locked the door behind me, and retrieved my car. I drove the long way home so I could stop at my favorite service station and fill the tank with gas. As I cruised down State Street past the heart of town, I spotted a familiar figure. It was William in a dark fedora and a dark three-piece suit, walking briskly toward Cabana Boulevard, swinging his black malacca stick. I slowed and honked, pulling over to the curb. I leaned over and rolled down the window on the passenger side. “You want a ride?”

William tipped his hat. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

He opened the car door and angled himself in, his long legs sticking up awkwardly in the cramped front seat. He kept his cane between his knees.

“You can slide that seat back and get yourself more room. The lever’s right down there,” I said, pointing toward his feet.

“This is fine. It’s not far.”

I glanced over my left shoulder, waiting for a break in traffic before I eased into the flow. “I didn’t expect to see you down here and you’re all decked out. What’s the occasion?”

“I attended a visitation at Wynington-Blake. Afterward, I had a cup of tea with the sole surviving family member. Lovely man.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize someone died. I wouldn’t have sounded quite so chirpy if I’d known.”

“That’s all right. This was Francis Bunch. Eighty-three years old.”

“Gee, that’s young.”

“My thought precisely. He was mowing his lawn Monday and blew an aneurysm in his brain. His second cousin Norbert is the only one left. At one count, there were twenty-six first cousins and now everybody’s gone.”

“That’s a tough one.”

“It is. Francis was quite the fellow—U.S. Army veteran, who fought in WW Two. He was a retired pipe-fitter and a Baptist. Preceded in death by his parents, his wife of sixty-two years—Mae was her name—seven children, and his brother, James. Norbert said Francis loved working in his yard so he went the way he would have wanted, except perhaps not quite so soon.”

I turned the corner onto Cabana Boulevard and drove the three blocks to Castle, where I turned right again. “How long had you known him?”

William looked surprised. “Oh, I never met the man. I read about him in the paper. With so many of his family gone, I thought someone should be there to pay their respects. Norbert was most appreciative. We had a nice long chat.”

“I thought you’d given up funerals.”

“I have…in the main…but there’s no harm in attending a service now and then.”

I turned right onto my street, passing Rosie’s. I spotted a space halfway between my apartment and the restaurant and then did a half-assed job of parallel parking. Close enough, I thought. I shut the engine down and turned to him. “Before you go, I’ve been wondering about something. Did you, by any chance, call Lewis in Michigan and talk him into coming?”

“Oh, he didn’t require much persuasion. Once I mentioned Mattie’s name, he was Johnny-on-the-Spot. I even had him thinking it was his idea. As I said to Rosie, ‘This is just the ticket.’”

“William, I can’t believe you did that!”

“Neither can I. In a moment of inspiration, the idea popped into my head just like that. I thought, Henry’s complacent. He needs an incentive and this ought to do the trick.”

“I didn’t say I liked the plan. I think it stinks.”

He frowned, somewhat taken aback. “Why do you say that? He and Lewis are jealous of one another. I’m surprised you weren’t aware.”

“Of course I’m aware. I’d have to be brain-dead to miss that. The problem is Henry’s reaction is just the opposite. He’s not going after her. He’s backing away.”

“He’s a sly one, that Henry. Always has a little something hidden up his sleeve.”

“That’s not what I hear. He’s saying he refuses to compete. He thinks it’s tacky behavior so he’s retiring from the field.”

“Don’t be fooled by that ploy. I’ve seen this a dozen times or more. He and Lewis set their caps for the same fair maiden and the jousting begins. It’s actually working out even better than I’d hoped. You know Lewis talked Mattie into staying an extra day. You should have seen the look that came across Henry’s face. That set him back on his heels, but he’ll rally. It may take a bit of doing, but he’ll prevail.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“Not since yesterday. Why?”

“When I came home last night, her car was gone and his place was dark.”

“He didn’t come to Rosie’s. I can assure you of that. You know Lewis invited Mattie to go with him to the art museum and then lunch afterward.”

“William, I was sitting right there.”

“Then you must have seen her response. She sparked to the idea, which Henry couldn’t fail to notice. He probably came up with something special for the two of them last night.”

“I don’t think so. When I talked to Henry, he was adamant.”

William waved the idea away. “He’ll back down in the end. He’ll never let Lewis get the better of him.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said dubiously.

We opened our respective car doors and got out, taking leave of each other on the street. I wanted to say more, but it seemed wiser to let the subject drop. He seemed so sure of himself. Maybe Henry would come back fighting and William’s meddling would be “just the ticket,” as he’d referred to it. I watched him set off toward Rosie’s, whistling and twirling his cane. As I went through the gate, I picked up Henry’s afternoon paper, which was still lying on the walk.

I rounded the corner. Henry’s back door was open. I went through a quick debate, then crossed the patio and tapped on the screen. “You there?”

“I’m here. Come in.”

The overhead light was off and, though to all intents and purposes it was still broad daylight outside, the effect was gloomy. He sat in his rocker with his usual glass of whiskey in hand. The kitchen was spotless, appliances gleaming, the counters glossy. The oven was off and the stove top was bereft of any pots and pans. The air smelled blank. This was so unlike him. No sign of his daily baking project, no dinner preparations under way.

“I brought your paper in.”

“Thank you.”

I placed it on the kitchen table. “Mind if I join you?”

“Might as well. There’s half a bottle of wine in the refrigerator if you’re interested.”

I took a wineglass from the cabinet and found the stoppered bottle of Chardonnay tucked in the refrigerator door. I poured myself half a glass and looked over at him. Henry hadn’t moved. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Ah. That’s good because the kitchen looks kind of grim. I thought I’d turn on some lights.”

“Suit yourself.”

I crossed to the wall and flipped the switch, which didn’t seem to help. The light seemed as dull and as flat as Henry’s demeanor. I sat down and placed my wineglass on the table. “What happened last night? I saw Mattie’s car was gone and you were out. The two of you go somewhere?”

“She left for San Francisco. I took a walk.”

“What time did she leave?”

“I didn’t pay much attention. Four thirty-two,” he said.

“Pretty late start for a six-hour drive. If she stopped for supper, she probably didn’t get home until close to midnight.”

Silence from Henry.

“I take it she stayed for lunch. Did you go with them to the art museum?”

“You know we don’t have to discuss this. There’s really nothing to say. I’d just as soon drop the subject.”

“Sure. No problem,” I said. “Are you going to Rosie’s for supper? I was thinking of doing that myself.”

“And risk running into Lewis? I think not.”

“We could go somewhere else. Emile’s-at-the-Beach is always lovely.”

He looked at me with such injury in his eyes, I couldn’t bear to see it. “She broke it off.”

“She did?”

“She said I was impossible. She said she really couldn’t bear my bad behavior.”

“What brought that on?”

“Nothing. It came out of a clear blue sky.”

“Maybe she had a hard day.”

“Not as hard as mine.”

I sat staring at the floor, feeling a wave of disappointment washing over me. I had such high hopes for them. I said, “You know what I find hard? I want to believe nice things can happen to us. Not every day, maybe, but just now and then.”

“Me too,” he said. He got up and left the room.

I waited a minute and when it was clear he wasn’t coming back, I dumped my wine in the sink, rinsed the glass, and then let myself out. I was ready to wring William’s neck and I wouldn’t have minded having a go at Lewis while I was at it. I could have handled pain of my own easier than Henry’s. Part of my bleak mood was probably connected to my lack of sleep, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt deep and permanent, a darkness being stirred up, like silt, from the very depths. Henry was a great guy and Mattie’d seemed perfect for him. He probably had been impossible, but so had she in her way. What would it have taken to be a little more sensitive to the situation? Unless she didn’t care much to begin with, I thought. In that case, she’d cut and run the minute things got tough. As a person with cut-and-run tendencies myself, I could see her point. Life was difficult enough without having to put up with someone else’s petulance.

I let myself into my apartment and checked the answering machine. I was hoping Cheney’d left a message, but the light wasn’t blinking so I kissed that one off. Despite my earlier self-confidence, I wasn’t keen on the idea of waiting around to see if he’d call. It was dinnertime, but I wasn’t any more willing than Henry to venture into Rosie’s. William would prance over, taking his own pulse and asking for the latest in the lovers’ progress report. In case he was ignorant of the breakup, I didn’t want to be the one to tell him. And if he’d heard it from Lewis, I didn’t want to listen to him minimize the role he’d played. I suspected a run would cheer me up, but given my current mental state, I’d have had to jog all the way to Cottonwood, twenty miles round-trip.

This was one of those moments when you need a girlfriend. When you’re down in the dumps, that’s what you do—call your best friend—or so I’ve heard. You chat. You laugh. You tell her your sad tale of woe, she commiserates, and then you take off and go shopping like normal folk. But I didn’t have a girlfriend, a lack I’d hardly noticed until Cheney appeared. So now, not only was I facing the fact that I didn’t have him, I didn’t have her either, whoever she was.

A voice said…Ah, but you do have Reba.

I thought about that one. If I made a list of desirable girlfriend traits, “convicted felon” wouldn’t be one. On the other hand, I’d be a convicted felon myself if I’d ever been caught doing even half the things I’d done.

I picked up the phone and punched in the number for the Lafferty estate. When Reba answered, I said, “Reba, this is Kinsey. I need a favor. How good are you at giving fashion advice?”

Reba picked me up in her car, a two-year-old black BMW she’d acquired shortly before she’d been sent to CIW. “The DA was panting to seize the car on the premise I’d bought it with ill-gotten gains. Ha ha ha on him. My father gave it to me for my thirtieth birthday. Hopes dashed again.”

“What’d you say to Onni when you canceled dinner?”

“I told her something came up and we’d make it another night.”

“She was cool with that?”

“Of course. She probably hated the idea of having dinner with me. I was always pouring my heart out about Beck. There wasn’t anyone else I could talk to about him. Beck said this, Beck said that. When it came to our sex life, I’d be giving her a blow by blow, so to speak.”

“That was your mistake. You made him sound too good.”

“You got that right. She was always jealous of me. Minute my back is turned, she walks off with my job and then she walks off with the love of my life, or so I thought at the time. I hate women who get into that competitive shit.”

“What’s she like?”

“You can judge for yourself as long as you end up agreeing with me. I know where she hangs out. If you’re interested, we can drop by later and I’ll introduce you.”

“Drop by where?”

“Bubbles in Montebello.”

“That’s been closed for two years.”

“Nuhn-uhn. The place has changed hands. Name’s the same, but it’s been open for a month under new management.”

“Where we headed now?”

“The mall.”

Passages, the newly opened shopping plaza in the heart of Santa Teresa, had been designed to resemble an old Spanish town. The architecture featured a picturesque assortment of narrow shoulder-to-shoulder buildings of varying heights, arches, loggias, courtyards, fountains, and side streets, the whole of the three-block complex capped by red tile roofs. At ground level there were restaurants, clothing stores, galleries, jewelry stores, and other retail shops. The wide central esplanade was anchored at one end by Macy’s and at the other end by Nordstrom’s, with a large chain bookstore occupying a prominent spot. Pepper trees and flowering shrubs were planted throughout. In the taller structures, three and four stories high, office space had been leased to lawyers, accountants, engineers, and anyone else who could afford the staggering rents.

Given Santa Teresa’s resistance to new construction, the project had taken years to push through. The city-planning commission and the architectural board of review, plus the city council, plus the county board of supervisors, plus the building and safety commission, all at odds with one another, had to be soothed, pacified, and reassured. Citizens’ groups protested the razing of buildings five and six decades old, though most were otherwise unremarkable. Many were already slated for mandatory earthquake retrofitting, which would have cost the owners more than they were worth. Environmental impact studies had to be approved. Numerous small merchants were evicted and displaced, with only one holdout, a funky little bar called Dale’s that was still moored in the middle of the plaza like a tugboat in a harbor full of yachts.

We ate dinner at an Italian boutique restaurant located on one of the smaller avenues that connected the center esplanade to State Street on one side and Chapel on the other. Temperatures were still elevated, and we elected to eat on the patio outside. As the dark came down, the landscape lighting began to paint walls and vegetation in colors more vivid than their daylight shades. Details of wrought-iron fixtures were picked out in shadow, the plaster frieze along the roof outlined in black. If you squinted, you could almost believe you’d been transported to a foreign country.

While we waited for our salads, I said, “I appreciate your doing this—the clothes thing.”

“No problem. It’s obvious you need help.”

“I’m not sure the word ‘obvious’ should come into play.”

“Trust me.”

Later, while she was winding spaghetti on her fork, she said, “You know this is Beck’s project.”

“What is?”

“The mall.”

“He did Passages?”

“Sure. I mean, not on his own—in partnership with a guy in Dallas, another developer. Beck moved his office to the far end, down by Macy’s. The fourth floor runs the full block between State and Chapel.”

“I didn’t realize the building covered that much ground.”

“Because you didn’t bother to look up. If you did, you’d see that there are covered walkways that join the second and third levels in places above the esplanade. Technically, in the rainy season, you could move from one building to the other without getting wet.”

“You’ve got a better eye than I do. I missed that.”

“I have the advantage. The mall’s been in development for years so I’ve seen the plans at just about every stage. Beck moved his office in a couple of months after I went into CIW, so I never got to see it. Turned out great, or so I hear.”

I took a sip of wine, finishing the last bite of eggplant parmigiana while I watched Reba use a chunk of bread to clean up her marinara sauce. I said, “Where are you going with this?”

She popped the bread in her mouth, smiling while she chewed. “You’re the kick-ass private eye. You figure it out. In the meantime, let’s go buy you some clothes and then we can make the run into Montebello.”

15

We shopped until the stores closed at 9:00. Reba kept up a running commentary as I tried things on. In the interests of education, she let me make my choices without reference to her opinion. At first, I tried gauging her reaction as I lifted a garment off the rack, but she looked on with the same deadpan expression she must have donned at the poker table. With no guidelines whatever, I picked out two dresses, a pantsuit, and three cotton skirts. “Okay,” I said.

Her brow went up about an eighth of an inch. “That’s it?”

“Isn’t this enough?”

“You like that green deal, that pantsuit thing?”

“Well, yeah. You know, it’s dark and it won’t show spots.”

“All riiiight,” she said, with a tone suggesting that you have to let kids make boo-boos in order for them to learn.

She trailed behind me as far as the line of dressing cubicles in the rear. She looked on idly while I opened door after door, trying to find a room not in use. When I finally found an empty cubicle, she gave every impression of following me in.

“Hold on a sec. You’re coming in here with me?”

“What if something doesn’t fit? You can’t stroll around out there in your underwear.”

“I wasn’t planning to. I was going to try on stuff back here and then decide.”

“Deciding is my job. You try on clothes and I’ll explain how misguided you are.”

She sat on a plain wooden chair in a space that was six feet on a side with floor-to-ceiling mirrors on three. The fluorescent lighting guaranteed your skin would look sallow and every tiny body flaw would appear in bas relief.

I took my shoes off and began to strip down with the same enthusiasm I feel before a pelvic exam. “I can tell I have a better developed sense of modesty than you do,” I said.

“Oh, please. Prison knocked that out of me. The shower stalls were a quarter this size with these skimpy canvas curtains designed to keep your head and feet in view. That was to prevent the inmates from having sex in private. Little did they know. Aside from that, you might as well forget privacy altogether. It was simpler to prance around nude like everybody else.”

During these revelations, I was trying to step gracefully out of my blue jeans, but my foot caught and I nearly toppled sideways. Reba pretended not to notice. I said, “Didn’t that bother you?”

“At first, but after a while, I thought, oh who gives a damn? All these naked women and pretty soon you’ve seen every possible body type—short, tall, skinny, fat, little tits, big ass, or big tits and no ass. Scar, moles, tattoos, birth defects. Everybody looks just about like everybody else.”

I peeled my T-shirt over my head.

“Oh, bullet holes!” she said, nearly clapping her hands as she caught sight of mine.

“Do you mind?”

“Well, I think they’re cute. Sort of like dimples.”

I slid the first of two cotton dresses from the hanger and eased my arms up the interior and out the requisite armholes. I turned to the mirror. I looked about like I always did—not bad, but not that good. “What do you think?”

“What do you think?”

“Come on, Reba. Just tell me what’s wrong with it.”

“Everything. The color for starters. You should wear clear tones—red, maybe navy blue, but not that pukey shade of yellow. It makes your skin tone look orange.”

“I thought that was the lighting.”

“And look how loose it’s cut. You’ve got good legs and a great set of boobs. I mean, they’re not huge, but they’re sassy so why cover them with something that looks like a pillowcase?”

“I don’t like to wear stuff too tight.”

“Clothes are supposed to fit, dear. That dress is one size too big and it looks—dare I say it—so matronly. Go ahead and try on the blue print skirt, but I can tell you right now it’s another pass. You’re not the big-ass Hawaiian palm-and-parrot type.”

“If you already hate it, why should I try it on?”

“Because otherwise you’ll never get the point.”

And so it went. Bossy women and I get along swimmingly as I’m a masochist at heart. I bypassed the blue print skirt and didn’t bother trying on the green pantsuit, knowing she’d be right about that, too. She removed the offending garments, holding the hangers at arm’s length like so many dead rats. While I waited in the dressing room, she went out to the floor and flipped through the racks. She returned with six items, which she exhibited one by one, creating the illusion that she was letting me choose. I resisted one dress and one skirt, but everything else she’d selected ended up looking great on me, even if I do say so myself.

“I don’t understand how you know all this stuff,” I said, getting dressed again. This is my perpetual complaint, that somehow other women have a flair for things that make me feel like a dunce. It was like thought problems in math. In high school, the minute I encountered one I’d feel like I was on the verge of blacking out.

“You’ll get the hang of it eventually. It’s really not that hard. At CIW, I was the resident styling maven. Hair, makeup, clothes, all of it. I could’ve taught a class.” She paused to check her watch. “Let’s get a move on. Time to party.”

We sped south on the 101 with Reba at the wheel.

I said, “I’m not sure this is smart. Why go to a place where everyone’s drinking?”

“I’m not going there to drink. I haven’t had a drink for twenty-three months, fourteen and a half days.”

“Then why put yourself in harm’s way?”

“I told you. Because that’s where Onni is. She goes out every Thursday night to hustle guys.” I opened my mouth to protest, but she shot me a look. “You’re not my mother, okay? I promise I’ll call my sponsor the minute I get home. At least, I would if I had one, which I don’t.”

Bubbles was a Montebello wine-and-champagne bistro that had once done a lively business in concert with the Edgewater Hotel and another high-priced piano bar called Spirits. The three were in easy driving distance of one another and formed a triangle traveled by every rich, hot, single person on the market back then. All three places were heavy on atmosphere—glitz, glitter, live music, small dance floors, and low lights. Drinks were pricey, served in oversize glasses, and food was an afterthought, meant to get you home again without a fatal accident.

In the mid-seventies, for reasons unknown, Bubbles became a magnet for escort services, girls working high-end out-call and “models” from Los Angeles, who drove to Montebello cruising for love. Eventually cocaine became prevalent and the county sheriff’s department stepped in and shut the place down. I’d been there on occasion because my second husband, Daniel, was a jazz pianist who played the three night spots in rotation. Early in the relationship, I realized if I didn’t make a point of being there with him, I might not see him until breakfast the next day. He claimed he was out “jamming” with the guys, which turned out to be true, in both the literal and metaphorical senses.

We pulled up to the left of the entrance. Reba handed her car keys to the valet and we went in. Men in suits and sport coats stood five and six deep at the bar, checking out our boobs and butts as we passed. Reba did a quick search from table to table while I followed in her wake. Bubbles hadn’t changed. Illumination was achieved primarily by way of massive fish tanks that lined the walls and separated one seating area from the next. In the main room, there was a bar with a U-shaped border of booths and a scattering of tables big enough for two. In the second room, through a wide arch, a jazz combo—piano, saxophone, and bass—was set up on a wide deck above a dance floor the size of a trampoline. The music was mellow—haunting melodies from the forties that stuck in your head for days. This was not a place where voices were raised or raucous laughter cut through the murmur of civilized conversation. No one got drunk and tumbled backward into other patrons. Women didn’t weep or fling drinks on their dates. No one upchucked in the elegant restrooms with their marble floors and baskets of tiny terrycloth towels. Customers smoked, but the ventilation system was high-tech and a roving band of busboys whisked away dirty ashtrays and replaced them with clean ones every five minutes or so.

Reba put a hand out and slowed me to a halt. Like a pointer, she stood and pinned a look on Onni, who sat at a table by herself, smoking a cigarette with an air of indifference I suspected was fake. The presence of two half-filled champagne flutes and a bottle resting in a nearby cooler suggested a companion who’d left the table moments before. The “real” Onni bore only passing resemblance to the Onni I’d seen in the grainy black-and-white photos. She was tall and slim, with a long thin face, wide nose, thin lips, and small nearly lashless eyes. Her dark hair was dead straight and spilled across her shoulders with the high silky shine you see in ads for shampoos. Silver earrings dangled from her lobes and brushed against her neck with every move of her head. The jacket of her black business suit had been shrugged aside, revealing a white silk tank top that looked more like a slip than any blouse I’d seen. Taken feature by feature, she really wasn’t pretty, but she’d managed to maximize her assets. Her makeup was artful and her breasts looked as hard as croquet balls inserted inexplicably under the skimpy flesh on her chest. Nonetheless, she presented herself as though she were beautiful and that was the impression that prevailed.

Reba moved forward with trumped-up exuberance. “Onni! How perfect. I was hoping you’d be here.”

“Hello, Reba.” Onni’s manner was cool, but Reba didn’t seem to notice as she slid into a chair. I sat down too, fully aware Onni wasn’t at all happy to see us. Beside her, Reba seemed childlike, animated, petite, with dark tousled hair, the large dark eyes, perfect nose, and delicately rounded chin, where Onni’s receded slightly. What Reba lacked was that air of self-containment that passes for breeding among middle-class pretenders.

Reba said, “This is my friend Kinsey. I’ve been telling her about you.” Her gaze settled on the two champagne flutes as though she’d just noticed. “I hope we’re not cutting in on your action. Big hot date?”

“It’s actually not a date. Beck and I had to work late so he suggested stopping off for a nightcap. I don’t imagine we’ll stay long.”

“Beck’s here? That’s great. I don’t see him.”

“He’s chatting with a friend. I’m sorry you canceled dinner. When you said something came up, I pictured AA.”

“I did a meeting already. I’m only required to do one a week.” Reba helped herself to one of Onni’s cigarettes and waggled it between her teeth. “You have a light for this?”

“Of course.” Onni reached into a small bag and came up with a pack of matches. Reba took the pack, struck one, and cupped a hand around the flame. She inhaled with satisfaction and returned the matches with a sly smile that Onni seemed to miss. I knew Reba well enough by now that I could see the icy rage sparkling in her eyes. She pulled the ashtray closer and then put an elbow on the table and propped her chin on her hand. “So. How are things with you? You said you’d write, but then I never heard from you.”

“I wrote. I sent you a card. Didn’t you get it?”

Reba took a drag of her cigarette, her smile still in place. “That’s right. So you did. It had bunnies on it as I remember. One measly card in twenty-two months. Hey, don’t put yourself out.”

“I’m sorry if that bothers you, but I was busy. You left the office in bad shape. It took me months to straighten it out.”

“Yeah, well, the Department of Corrections had first claim. Whisk you off to prison, you don’t have the option to stop by your workplace and tidy up your desk. I’m sure you have the situation well in hand.”

“Finally. No thanks to you.” Onni’s gaze shifted slightly.

Reba turned her head in time to see Beck approaching from the bar. He caught sight of her and his forward motion halted for a split second, like a few frames of film missing from a sequence. Reba’s face brightened. She pushed out of the chair and moved toward him. When she reached him, her arms slid around his neck as though she meant to kiss him on the mouth.

He extracted himself gently. “Hey, hey, hey, gorgeous. We’re in public. Remember?”

“I know, but I missed you.”

“Well, I missed you, too, but suppose one of Tracy’s girlfriends is here.” He steered her back to her chair, sending me a smile in the process. “Good to see you again.”

“Nice seeing you,” I said, though it wasn’t nice at all. Not surprisingly, my view of him had changed radically. When I’d met him in Rosie’s, I’d thought he was handsome—long-limbed, loose-jointed, with that lazy half-smile. Even his eyes, which I’d thought were a rich chocolate brown, now looked as dark as volcanic stone. Seeing him with Onni, I could sense the trait they shared—both were opportunists.

Of the three of them, Reba currently occupied the power position. Onni knew the intimate details of Reba’s relationship with Beck, but neither Beck nor Onni were aware that Reba had been tipped off about their affair. To further complicate the situation, I was reasonably sure Onni didn’t know that Beck and Reba had reactivated their sexual connection. I felt a frisson of tension ripple up my spine, curious how Reba intended to play the hand she’d been dealt.

Beck sat down in the remaining chair and slouched on his spine, extending his legs as though he were entitled to more space than we were. In the geography of body language, he and Onni were lined up in parallel, their bodies tracing the same angle while Reba sat across the table from them, her body an upright that cut across the slant of their respective postures.

Onni’s attention was fixed on her champagne flute.

Beck sipped champagne, watching Reba above the rim of his glass. The blond highlights in his hair must have been professionally applied. Certainly, the haphazard thatch effect was no accident. “So how’s it going?” he asked.

Reba said, “Not bad. I was actually thinking of coming back to work.”

Onni’s expression was incredulous, as though Reba had farted in the presence of Elizabeth II.

Reba ignored her reaction, addressing her remarks to Beck. “Yeah, I mentioned it to my parole officer and she was all for it as long as my ‘prospective employer’ knew about my past,” she said, forming quote marks with her fingers. “I figured who better than you?”

Smoothly, he said, “Reeb, I’d love to help, but it doesn’t seem smart.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Onni snapped. “You robbed him blind.”

Reba shifted her gaze. “Onni, I’m sorry, but you don’t get it. Beck trusts me. He knows I’d do anything for him.” She looked back at him. “Right?”

Beck rearranged his legs, pulling himself into an upright position, his tone mild. “It’s not a question of trust. There’s no position. It’s as simple as that. I wish we had an opening, but we don’t.”

“You could make one, couldn’t you? I remember you did that for Abner.”

“Different situation. Marty was overloaded and needed the help. I had no choice in that case.”

“But you have one with me, is that it? You could choose to help me, but you won’t?”

He reached out and grabbed one of her fingers, giving it a shake. “Hey, babe, remember? I’m on your team.”

Reba studied him with care, the lean, handsome face, the hand touching hers. “You said you’d take care of me. You owe me.”

“Hey, anything you want.”

“Except work.”

Onni snorted and rolled her eyes. “What gall! How do you have the fucking nerve to sit there and argue the point after what you did?”

Beck said, “Cool it, Onni. This is between her and me.”

“Well, pardon the hell out of me. I just think someone should set this girl straight. She wreaked havoc on the company and for what? So she could go on indulging herself, blowing every nickel she could get her hands on at the poker table? My god!”

I half-expected Beck to belt her in the mouth, but he focused on Reba’s face. He took her hand, placing her index finger against his lip. The effect was erotic, some intensely private communication taking place between them. “Forget about work. Take a little time for yourself. Do something nice, like that spa in Floral Beach. I can have Ed set it up. You’ve been through tough times, I understand that, but talk about work is premature.”

“I have to do something with my life,” she said, her eyes pinned on his.

“I know, babe. I hear you. All I’m saying is you need to take it slow. I don’t want you rushing into anything you might regret.”

Reba smiled. “Like what? Coming back to work for you?”

“Like getting stressed out, upset, when there’s no reason to. You need to keep it low-key. Kick back and relax while you have the chance.”

Onni said something under her breath. She shoved her arms into the sleeves of her jacket and shrugged herself into it, straightening her lapels. She reached for her cigarettes and tucked them in her bag, then stood, saying, “Night, folks. I’m out of here.” Her manner seemed to be matter-of-fact unless you knew what was going on.

“Give me five minutes and I’ll drive you home,” Beck said to her.

Onni’s smile was brittle. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather walk.”

“You won’t make it a block in those heels.”

“Not your problem, champ. I’ll figure it out.”

“Cut the crap, Onni. Have Jack call you a cab. I’ll square the fare with him on my way out.”

“Not to worry. I’m a big girl. I think I can manage to call a cab on my own. Meantime, enjoy Panama. And thanks for the drink. It was really swell, you fucking jerk.”

Reba turned her head, watching as Onni walked away. “What’s her problem?”

“Forget it. She gets bored anytime the topic of conversation moves to something other than her,” Beck said.

Reba said, “What’s the deal with Panama? When did that come up?”

“It’s just a quick trip. Couple of days.”

“Why couldn’t you take me with you? Like a minivacation. You could take care of business while I sit by the pool and get some sun. It’d be great.”

“Baby, this is strictly solo. I’ve got wall-to-wall meetings. You’d be bored to tears.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I can amuse myself. Come on, Beck. We’ve hardly had a minute together. We could have a ball. Please, please, please?”

He smiled. “You nut. I’d do it in a heartbeat if I thought we could get it past your PO. Trust me, if you’re not allowed to leave the state, you sure as hell wouldn’t be allowed to leave the continental U.S.A.”

Reba made a face. “Oh, shit. You’re right. I forgot about that. I don’t even have a passport. It expired in June.”

“So get your passport renewed and I’ll take you to Panama as soon as you’re out from under all the rules and regs.” He took a hasty look at his watch. “Speaking of which, I gotta go. The limo’s picking me up in an hour to drive to LAX.”

“You’re flying out tonight? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Beck waved the idea away. “I’m down there so often, it’s not worth mentioning. Anyway, I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”

“Couldn’t I ride down in the limo with you and come back with the driver once he drops you off?”

“It’s an L.A.-based company. The driver’s coming up from Santa Monica. Once he leaves me at the airport, he’s on his way home.”

“Shoot. I wanted to spend time with you.”

“Me, too. We’ll take a rain check. Meantime, let’s get you out of here. It’s late.”

16

The three of us went out into the chill night air together as we had at Rosie’s earlier in the week. I kept my distance, feigning interest in the lighted window display in the shop next door. Beck and Reba had a murmured conversation, their heads bent together like co-conspirators. Reba seemed to drink in the sight of him, her face in profile looking childlike and trusting. The revelation about Beck’s relationship with Onni had apparently done nothing to mitigate his hold on her. It looked as if Cheney and Vince would have to find another source for confidential information. I only hoped she’d keep her mouth shut and not blow the whole deal.

A valet pulled up in Reba’s BMW. Beck slipped the guy a tip on her behalf and then turned as a second parking valet pulled his car in behind hers. Once Reba got in the car, she took out a lipstick and applied a fresh coat, checking her reflection in the rearview mirror. She caught sight of Beck behind her and waved to him, blowing him a kiss.

She shifted into drive and turned right onto Coastal Road. I glanced back in time to see Beck pull out after we did. He made a left-hand turn, heading toward West Glen Road. As soon as he was out of sight, Reba slowed, made a U-turn, and sped after him.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“I want you to see his house.”

“What do I care? At this hour? It’s dark.”

“It won’t take long. It’s just about a mile down West Glen.”

“It’s your car so you can do as you please, but don’t put yourself out on my account.”

I couldn’t get a fix on her mood. At first I’d thought she was flirting with Beck purely to infuriate Onni. I was anticipating the rehash, the two of us comparing notes about Onni’s reaction, especially when she walked out in such a huff. By that point in the evening, however, Beck was really pouring on the charm and she’d fallen under his spell. I found it unnerving how deftly he’d drawn her back into orbit, exerting the same invisible pull as the earth on the moon. Just when I thought we’d won her over to our side, Beck had taken her back.

We turned right on West Glen. Beck was now out of sight, several curves in the road between our car and his. Even if he noticed our headlights behind him, he probably wouldn’t give the matter much thought. We reached the straightaway and caught sight of him about a quarter mile ahead. His brake lights came on as he slowed and made a right-hand turn. His car disappeared from view. Reba sped up, closing the distance, and then she slowed as well. She peered across me and out the passenger-side window as we passed a gated estate. I caught a glimpse of a massive stone mansion in a fairyland of lights.

Fifty yards beyond the entrance to his property, she pulled onto the berm. She killed the lights, shut the engine down, and got out of the car. Before she eased the door shut, she said, “You coming or not?”

“Sure. Eleven o’clock at night, I could use a walk.” I emerged from the car on my side. She’d made a point of not slamming her door and I certainly knew better than to slam my own. If we were on a search-and-seizure mission of some kind, there was no point in alerting him to our presence. I joined her as she backtracked along the darkened road. Having spent half an hour in a smoke-filled bar, we must have smelled like two cigarette butts out for a breath of fresh air. This section of Montebello was dark, no streetlights, no sidewalks, and no passing cars. We were accompanied by the chirring of crickets and the scent of eucalyptus trees. She halted at the entrance to Beck’s driveway.

Through iron gates, I was treated to the full panoramic view. The ivy-covered stone façade looked as stately as a monastery, mansard roof, half-timbered, a long bank of mullioned windows aglow along the front. I was guessing three to four acres with a tennis court visible on one side and a swimming pool on the other. Reba moved to the right of the gate and eased herself between the hedge and the stone pillar, where a gap permitted passage despite the solid look of the shrubs. I followed, pushing through a turnstile of branches that nearly tore off my shirt. She proceeded with an air of calm familiarity as she veered off across the lawn. I gathered she’d made the walk many times before. She seemed confident about the absence of motion-detecting floodlights and attack-trained dogs. I was worried the automatic sprinkling system (complete with toe-busting sprayer heads) would suddenly spark to life and drench us in a downpour of artificial rain.

Closer to the house, a porte cochere spanned the driveway and served as a covered walkway, sheltering residents and guests as they moved to and from their cars. Reba skirted the entrance and took up a position between two squared-off clipped shrubs on the far side. The boxwoods had been shaped to form an alcove about the size of a phone booth, easily big enough to allow the two of us to huddle. A wide slat of shadow shielded us from view.

We waited in silence. I love nighttime surveillance as long as my bladder isn’t screaming for relief. Who wants to have to squat in the bushes where the high beams of any passing car can flash across the globes of your pearly hind-end? Add to that the likelihood of peeing on your own shoes and the notion of “penis envy” isn’t tough to comprehend.

A set of headlights appeared at the bottom of the drive and a mechanical hum announced the slow parting of the wrought iron gates. A black stretch limousine swung into view and proceeded slowly up the drive, approaching the house with all the gravity of the lead car in a funeral procession. The driver pulled under the porte cochere and triggered the trunk lid, which seemed to pop up of its own accord.

As if on cue, the porch light went on and the front door was opened. I could hear Beck talking to someone over his shoulder as he carried out three large bags and set them on the porch. With the engine still idling, the driver got out in his tuxedo and chauffeur’s cap and moved around to the rear where Beck waited with the luggage. The driver hefted the suitcases into the trunk one by one. He shut the trunk and then opened the rear limo door. Beck paused, looking toward the house as his wife stepped out onto the porch. She stopped, apparently to check the thumb lock before she pulled the door shut behind her. “Is that everything?”

“We’re good. Bags are in the trunk.”

She crossed to the limo and ducked into the backseat. Beck followed her in. The driver closed the limo door and then returned to the driver’s seat and resumed his place at the wheel, shutting the car door. I could hear a slight pop as he released the emergency brake and then the limo glided down the drive toward the road. The lighted rear license plate read: ST LIMO-1, designating car number one of the Santa Teresa Limousine Service. The gates swung open, the limo disappeared, and the gates eased shut again.

Beside me, Reba flicked her Dunhill, the flame warming her face briefly as she took the first long drag from a fresh cigarette. She put the pack and lighter in her pocket and blew out a stream of smoke. Her eyes were remarkably large and dark, and her lips curved upward in a cynical smile. “Lying sack of shit. You know when I figured it out? Did you see the little hitch in his walk when he first caught sight of me? That said it all. I was the last person in the world he wanted to see.”

“At least you managed to queer it for Onni. She was really pissed at him.”

“I hope so. Anyway, let’s get out of here before a sheriff ’s deputy decides to cruise by. Beck always notifies ’em when he’s leaving town. They’re quite attentive to him.”

“Are you okay?”

“I feel great. How long will it take to set up the meeting with the feds?”

When I let myself into my apartment at 11:25, the light was blinking on the answering machine, a tiny red beacon in the dark. I flipped on the overhead light. I set my shoulder bag on the countertop and dumped my shopping bags on the floor. I crossed to the desk and stood there, staring at the blink, blink, blink as though it might be a message in Morse code. Either it was Cheney or it was not. The fact of the matter had already been entered into evidence so I might as well find out. If he hadn’t called, that didn’t necessarily mean anything. And if he had called, it didn’t necessarily mean anything, either. The problem in the early stages of any relationship is that you don’t know where you stand and you don’t know how to interpret the other person’s behavior.

So okay. All I had to do was push the button and I’d know.

I sat down. If he hadn’t called, I sure didn’t want to be the one to call him, though I was panting to tell him what had transpired between Beck and Reba. I could touch base with him for that purpose. In fact, I’d have to call him soon so he could set up the meeting between Reba and Vince. But aside from business—on a personal level—he’d have to make the first move. He looked like the kind of guy women called all the time—too cute and too sexy to have to expend much effort himself. I didn’t want to place myself in the same category with his other women, whoever they were. How was it, though, that after only one day I was feeling insecure? Ruefully, I remembered my cockiness of the night before.

I pushed the button and listened to the brief high-pitched squeal as the tape rewound. Beep. “Kinsey, this is Cheney. It’s ten-fifteen and I just got off work. Give me a buzz when you get in. I’ll be up.” He left his number. Click.

I checked the clock. Over an hour ago. I made a note of his home number, then suffered a fit of indecision. He said to call, so I’d call. Nothing tricky about that…unless he was already in bed and asleep. I hate waking people up. Before I felt any more squirrelly, I punched in the number.

He picked up on the first ring.

I said, “If you’re asleep I swear I’m going to slit my wrists with a butter knife.”

He laughed. “Not at all, babe. I’m a night owl. How about you?”

“Not me. I’m an early bird. I usually get up at six for my run. How come you were working so late? I thought you got off at five.”

“We spent the day cooped up in a van over on Castle, taking videos of johns going in and out of a hot new whorehouse. Heavy weekend trade coming up. We’ll do a sweep as soon as we have enough little fishies in the net.”

“Nothing like sitting all day to wear you down.”

“I’m trashed. How about you?”

“I’m pretty trashed myself,” I said. “Though I did have a productive evening. You won’t believe where I’ve been.”

“Answer can’t be Rosie’s. Too easy.”

“I was out with Reba. First we went clothes shopping and then we went to Bubbles where we ran into Beck and Onni. I won’t plague you with the details—”

“Hey, come on. Don’t be like that. I love the details.”

“I’ll tell you next time I see you. At the moment, I’m too bushed to go into a blow-by-blow. The upshot is Reba’s ready to do business.”

“She’s agreed to talk to Vince?”

“That’s what she told me half an hour ago.”

“What brought this on? I know she was waffling, but this falls into the too-good-to-be-true category, don’t you think?”

“No, I’m trusting her on this. Mostly because I was right there watching when the whole thing went down. Beck laid on a bunch of BS, three or four lies in a row, and Reba nailed him on all counts. I mean, not to his face. He was stringing her along and stringing her along. I think she could have dealt with that—she’s probably used to his messing with her head. The kicker was, she realized he was taking Tracy to Panama when he’d implied he was going alone.”

“How’d she find out?”

I hesitated. “We did some independent research.”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“I thought not. Bottom line is she’ll meet with the feds as soon as you can set it up.”

“Shit, that’s great. I’ll let Vince know as soon as I can track him down. Might take a couple of days. He’s hard to reach on weekends.”

“The sooner the better. We don’t want her changing her mind,” I said.

“While we’re on the subject, Vince checked on that FBI guy who went to Reba’s with the photos. Turns out he’d been transferred from another office and wanted to show how good he was at taking the initiative. He got his ears boxed but good.”

“Glad to hear that,” I said.

“So what are you doing at the moment? Are you down for the count?”

“Meaning what, am I in bed? No, I’m up.”

“Meaning, I don’t want to keep you on the phone if you’re about to hit the sack.”

“Not a bit of it. I just walked in the door. I was worried I wouldn’t catch you before you went to bed yourself.”

There was a moment of quiet.

I said, “Hello?”

“I’m here. I was wondering how you’d feel about company.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

I thought about exhaustion, both his and mine. “Good. I’d feel good—assuming it’s yourself we’re discussing and not someone else.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

“Make it fifteen. That’ll give me time to change.”

I took the spiral stairs two at a time, whipped off my clothes, jammed everything in the hamper, showered, shaved my legs, washed my hair, flossed and brushed my teeth, all in the space of eight minutes, which gave me plenty of time to pull on clean sweats (minus underwear) and change the sheets. Downstairs again, I was in the process of refolding sections of the newspaper when I heard his tap at the door.

I tossed the Dispatch in the wastebasket and let him in. His hair was curly and damp and he smelled like soap. He was holding a pizza box that smelled heavenly. He closed the door behind him. “I never ate dinner. The guy just delivered this. You hungry?”

“Of course. You want to take it up with us?”

He smiled, shaking his head fondly. “Always in a hurry. We have time.”

At 1:00 A.M., he gave me the promised haircut, me sitting on a stool in the loft bathroom with a towel draped across my shoulders, Cheney with a second towel wrapped around his waist.

I said, “Most of the time I do this myself with a pair of nail scissors.”

“So I see.” He worked with ease and concentration, taking off very little hair, but somehow making the whole of it fall together in tidy layers.

I watched his reflection in the mirror. So serious. “Where’d you learn to cut hair?”

“I have an uncle who does this for a living. Salon on Melrose, ‘Hair Cutter to the Stars.’ Four hundred bucks a pop. I figured if I washed out of police academy I could do this instead. I’m not sure which option was more horrifying to my parents, my becoming a cop or a guy who does women’s hair. They’re otherwise decent folks, barring the inherent snobbery.”

“Last time I had a really good cut, you know who did it?”

“Danielle Rivers. I remember that.” Cheney’s attention had shifted to the nape of my neck, where he was busy snipping away, trying to even out the line.

Danielle Rivers was a seventeen-year-old hooker he’d introduced me to. He’d recently been transferred to vice, part of the regular rotation system at the police department, while I’d been hired to track down the killer of Lorna Kepler, a beautiful young woman who was caught up in porno films and sex for hire. He’d put me together with Danielle because she and the victim had been cohorts.

I said, “Danielle was appalled when she heard how little I earned—half of what she made. You should have heard her riff on investment strategies, all of which she picked up from Lorna. I wish I’d taken her advice. Maybe I’d be rich.”

“Easy come, easy go.”

“Remember the sandwiches you bought in the hospital cafeteria the night she was admitted?”

He smiled. “Man, those were bad. Ham and cheese from a vending machine.”

“But you added all the stuff that made them edible.”

He gave me a hand mirror and kissed me on the top of the head, saying, “All done.”

I turned, holding the mirror so I could check the cut in the back. “Oh, wow. It looks good. Thanks.” I glanced down at his towel, the two ends of which had parted in front. “I like your friend. Must be showtime and he’s popped his head out to check the audience.”

Cheney glanced down. “Why don’t we go in the other room and see if we can catch his act?”

Eventually we slept, curled together like cats.

17

Friday morning, we dragged ourselves out of bed at 10:00. We showered and dressed, and then walked over to Cabana Boulevard, where we had breakfast at a little beachside café. Cheney didn’t have to go to work until later in the day, having been scheduled for another shift in the surveillance van. Back from breakfast, we stood and chatted at the curb until we ran out of things to say. We parted company at noon. He had errands to run and I was ready to be alone. I watched until his little red Mercedes disappeared from sight and then I followed the walkway around to the backyard.

Henry was kneeling in one of his flower beds, where nutgrass was popping up. He was barefoot, wearing cutoffs and a tank top, his flip-flops lying on the lawn nearby. Eliminating nutgrass requires patience. The weed multiplies by way of threadlike roots and tiny black rhizomes that spread underground, so simply yanking the stems free does nothing to the plant’s underlying structure, which goes on merrily reproducing. The small pile of weeds Henry had successfully uprooted resembled nothing so much as a cluster of spiders with frail legs and bodies the size of blackened match heads.

“You need help?”

“No, but you can keep me company if you like. There’s something satisfying about going after these things. Ugly-looking little buggers, aren’t they?”

“Disgusting. I thought you got rid of all the nutgrass this spring.”

“Ongoing process. You never really win.” He sat back on his heels briefly, then shifted so he could tackle the next section.

I kicked off my tennis shoes and settled in the grass, letting the sunshine wash across my legs. Henry’s dark mood had lifted, and while he was still subdued, he seemed almost himself again.

“I see you had company last night,” he remarked, without looking at me.

I laughed, feeling the blush begin to mount in my cheeks. “That was Cheney Phillips. STPD. He’s a friend of Lieutenant Dolan’s,” I said, as though that were relevant.

“Nice?”

“Very. We’ve known each other for years.”

“I thought it must be something of the sort. I’ve never known you to be impulsive.”

“Actually, I am. It just sometimes takes me a while to work up to it.”

There was a companionable quiet, broken only by the sound of Henry’s trowel chunking in the ground.

Finally, I said, “Is Lewis still in town?”

“He flies home tomorrow. I feel better about him, in case you’re wondering. I don’t want to see him just yet, but we’ll work it out in due course.”

“What about Mattie?”

“Oh, that’s probably for the best. I never expected the relationship to turn into anything serious.”

“But it might have.”

“‘Might’ doesn’t count for much. I generally find it wiser to deal with what is than with what might have been. Having made it to the ripe old age of eighty-seven without a long-term romance, there’s no reason to suppose I’m even capable of such a thing.”

“Couldn’t you at least call?”

“I could, though I’m not sure what that would accomplish. She made her feelings clear. I have nothing else to offer and nothing much to add.”

“What if she called you?”

“That’s up to her,” he said. “I don’t mean to sound like a sad sack. I’m really fine.”

“Well, of course you’re fine, Henry. It’s not like you’re crushed because you’ve dated her for years. On the other hand, I thought you were great together and I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”

“You were picturing…what?…a little trip down the aisle?”

“William got married at eighty-seven, why not you?”

“He’s impetuous by nature. I’m a stick-in-the-mud.”

I threw a handful of grass at him. “You are not.”

Reba called at 5:00, interrupting what I realized in retrospect was an award-winning nap. I’d stretched out on the bed with my favorite John le Carré spy novel. The light was soft. The temperature was mild and the sheet I’d thrown over me was the perfect weight. Outside I could hear the dim buzz of a lawn mower, followed by the pft-pft-pft of Henry’s Rain Bird, firing jets of water across the newly trimmed grass. Thanks to my sleep deprivation of the past two nights, I sank out of consciousness like a flat stone settling lazily to the bottom of a lake. I don’t know how long I might have gone on like that if the phone hadn’t rung. I put the handset to my ear and said, “Uh-huh.”

“This is Reba. Did I wake you?”

“I greatly fear you did. What’s the time?”

“Five minutes after five.”

I checked the skylight, squinting in an attempt to determine if the sun was coming up or going down. “A.M. or P.M.?”

“It’s Friday afternoon. I was just wondering what you’d heard from your guys.”

“Nothing so far. Cheney’s currently on surveillance, but I know he’s trying to reach his contact in Washington, D.C. It may take a few days to set up the meeting. With so many agencies involved, the protocol’s tricky to negotiate.”

“I wish they’d get on with it. Beck’s back Sunday night. I don’t want to have to deal with him if I’m doing this.”

“I can appreciate that. Unfortunately, Cheney’s dependent on other people and he can only push so hard. Doesn’t help we have a weekend coming up.”

“I guess. You want to go someplace later? We could have dinner.”

“That sounds good. What time?”

“Soon or right away, whichever one comes first.”

“What’d you have in mind? You want to meet me somewhere?”

“You decide. All I know is I gotta get out before I lose my mind.” I could hear her pause to light a cigarette.

“What’s making you so itchy,” I said.

“I don’t know. I’ve been feeling anxious all day. Like maybe there’s a drink or a poker parlor coming up real soon.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Easy for you to say. I’m already back to smoking a pack a day.”

“I could have told you not to start.”

“I couldn’t help myself.”

“So you said. Personally, I don’t buy it. You either take charge of your life or you might as well give up.”

“I know, but I’ve been feeling so bad. I know Beck’s a shit, but I really love the guy—”

“You love the guy?”

“Well, not now, but I did. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“Not in my opinion.”

“Also, you know, as odd as it sounds, I kind of miss being locked up.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” she said. “In prison, I didn’t have to make all these decisions, so that limited my chances of screwing up. Out here, what’s the incentive to behave?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose in despair. “Where are you now, at your dad’s?”

“Yeah, and you’ll never guess who came waltzing in for a visit with him.”

“Who?”

“Lucinda.”

“That woman who hoped to marry him?”

“The very one,” she said. “She’d love to see me violate parole. I get tossed in the can again, she’ll whip back into Pop’s life before the doors slam shut.”

“Then you better pull yourself together.”

“That’d be easier to do if I could have a drink. Or maybe I could drop in at the Double Down and just watch. No harm in that.”

“Would you cut the crap? You can do anything you want, but don’t kid yourself. You’re just looking for an excuse to self-destruct.”

“Yeah, it might be a relief.”

“Look, why don’t I hop in the car and come get you?”

“I don’t know. Now that I think about it, maybe that’s not such a hot idea. If I leave Lucinda alone with him, she’ll find a way to make trouble.”

“Oh, come on. What can she do? Your father told me he was done with her.”

“She’ll manage somehow. I’ve seen her do it before. Pop’s like me, weak-willed and indecisive, only not as hell-bent. Besides, if he’s so done with her, how come she’s sitting in the other room?”

“Would you quit obsessing about her? She’s the least of your worries. Look, give me a minute to throw on some clothes and I’ll be up.”

“Are you sure you want to go out?”

“Sure I’m sure. Why don’t you start walking down the drive, and I’ll meet you at the gate.”

In the car on the way over, I tried to assess the situation. Reba was on the verge of coming unglued. Since the moment she’d fired up that first cigarette, I’d been waiting for signs of emotional decompression. After two years at CIW, she was unaccustomed to real-world conflicts and real-world consequences. Prison, while loathsome, apparently provided a form of containment that must have made her feel safe. Now there was too much to deal with and no way for her to assimilate the impact. Bad enough to find out Beck had hoodwinked her into taking the fall for him, worse still to discover he’d launched into an affair with the woman she’d thought of as her best friend. She was tough enough to acknowledge his deception, but perhaps not tough enough to make the break. I could see her ambivalence; she’d been dependent on him for years. What worried me was the fact she had so little tolerance for stress. If the meeting with Vince Turner had been scheduled right away, she might have sailed right on through, spilling everything she knew. With the delay of even three days, she was in danger of losing control. And while she wasn’t my responsibility, I was party to the push that had her teetering on the brink.

When I arrived at the estate, she was perched on a big sandstone boulder to the right of the gate. In a navy blue windbreaker, jeans, and tennis shoes, she sat with her knees drawn up, cigarette in hand. When she saw me, she took one last drag and then scrambled to the ground. The moment she got in the car, I could feel the nervous energy pouring out of her like heat. Her movements were agitated and her eyes were too bright. “What’d you do to your hair?” she asked.

“Got it cut.”

“It looks good.”

“Thanks.” I put the car in reverse and did a three-point turn.

She craned her neck and looked back at the gate. “I just hope she’s gone by the time I get back. I couldn’t believe she showed up like that unannounced.”

“How do you know she didn’t call him in advance?”

“That’s even worse. If he agreed to see her, he’s crazier than I am.”

“Hey, take a deep breath and get a grip. You’re all over the place.”

“Sorry. I feel like there’s someone inside trying to crawl out through my skin. I wish I had a guy. I’d rather have a drink, but getting laid would help.”

“Call your sponsor. Isn’t that what they’re for?”

“I haven’t found one yet.”

“Then call Priscilla Holloway.”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ve got you,” she said, and laughed.

“Yeah, right. This is way beyond me.”

“Well, me too, you know? I’m just trying to muddle through the same as anybody else.” She was quiet for a moment, staring out the window. “Fuck it. Never mind. I can tough it out on my own.”

“As you’ve so amply demonstrated in the past,” I said.

“Well, you’re so smart, what do you suggest?”

“Find a meeting.”

“Where?”

“How do I know? We’ll go to my place and check the yellow pages. There’s bound to be a listing for AA.”

Once we reached my apartment, it took less than a minute to look up the number and make the requisite phone call. As it turned out, the closest meeting was at the city recreation center four blocks away. I drove her myself, not trusting her to make it on her own.

“I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour,” I said, as she got out of the car. The slamming of the door was as much as I received in the way of a reply. I made a point of waiting until I saw her walk in the door and then I waited another minute in case she intended to sneak out again. I could see how an alcoholic’s family became ensnared in the game. I was already battling an urge to monitor her every move. That, or wash my hands of her altogether and be done with it. If I hadn’t been intent on keeping her under wraps until she met with Vince, I might have cut her loose.

To kill time, I circled back to my neighborhood and parked outside of Rosie’s. And yes, I recognized the irony of waiting for Reba in a bar while she struggled with the urge to have a drink. Lewis was there tending bar by himself, an apron tied around his waist. Two day-drinkers had taken up residence at the far end of the room. The color television mounted in the corner was tuned to a golf tournament being played someplace green. Rosie must have been back in the kitchen doing dinner prep because the place smelled like sautéed onions. She was also doing something with fried kidneys I didn’t want to know about.

I perched on a bar stool and ordered a Coke. I honestly might have minded my own business, if Lewis hadn’t seemed so chipper and oblivious. He gave no indication that he regretted, or even recognized, the trouble he’d caused.

He set my Coke on the bar, saying, “Where’s Henry? I haven’t seen him the last couple of days.”

I studied him. “You really don’t know.”

“What? Is something wrong with him?”

I debated for half a second and then said, “Look, I know this is none of my business, but I think William was out of line when he talked you into flying out. Henry and Mattie were doing fine until you showed up.”

Lewis blinked at me as though I were speaking in tongues. “I don’t understand.”

“You didn’t have to barge in on breakfast and ask her for a date.”

“I didn’t ask her for a date. I suggested an art exhibit and a bite of lunch.”

“Out here, we call that a date. Henry was upset and rightly so,” I said.

Lewis seemed bewildered. “He was upset with me?”

“Sure he was. She was supposed to be spending time with him.”

“Why didn’t he speak up?”

“How could he? You called him a little old lady, in front of Mattie, no less. He was mortified. He couldn’t speak up without looking even more foolish than he already felt.”

“But that was just good-natured jostling. It was a joke.”

“It’s not a joke when you hustle in and try to beat him to the punch. Life’s complicated enough.”

“But we’ve always competed for the ladies. It’s all in good fun. Neither of us takes it seriously. For heaven’s sake, ask William if you doubt my word.”

“He’s never going to cop to it. He set the whole thing up. He had no business meddling, but what you did was worse. You knew Henry was interested in her.”

“Of course he is and I am, too. That was obvious on the cruise. I made my pitch and he made his. If he can’t handle the challenge, why complain to me?”

“Mattie broke it off. She said she didn’t want to see him again.”

Disconcerted, Lewis said, “Oh. Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Yes, it does. You flew out to California and got right in the middle of something that was none of your concern. There’s nothing ‘good-natured’ about that. You were being hostile.”

“No, no. Not a bit of it. I can’t believe you’re saying this. I’d cut off my right arm before I’d do such a thing.”

“But you did do it, Lewis.”

“You’re completely wrong. That wasn’t my intention. Henry’s always been my favorite. He knows I’m crazy about him.”

“Then you better find a way to make amends,” I said.

It was close to 8:00 when Reba emerged from her AA meeting and headed toward my car. It was still light out. A massive fog bank hovered on the horizon and the breezes coming off the ocean laid a chill in the air. “Feel better?”

“Not especially, but I’m glad I went.”

“You still want to have dinner?”

“Shit, we have to go back to the house. I forgot the photographs.”

“Why do you need those?”

“Visual aids,” she said. “There’s a guy I want you to meet. He has dinner the same place every Friday night at nine. I did some reconnoitering this morning just to satisfy a hunch. We’ll make a run up to Pop’s for the pix, have a heart-to-heart with my pal, and then take some time to explore.”

“Isn’t a nine o’clock dinner kind of late?”

“I hope so. Prison, you eat at five in the afternoon. Talk about depressing. Makes you feel like a kid.” She turned in her seat. “Why’re you going this way? You should have taken a right back there.”

“Actually, we don’t need to go to your house. I have a set of pictures at my office. Cheney gave ’em to me.” I wondered if she’d question my having copies of the photos, but she was sidetracked by something else and gave me a speculative look.

I said, “What.”

“I notice you’re dropping Cheney’s name every chance you get. Is that where you got that?” She pointed.

“Got what?”

“That hickey on your neck.”

I put a hand against my neck self-consciously and she laughed. “Just teasing,” she said.

“Very funny.”

“Well, I’d like to think you have a sex life.”

“I’d like to think my sex life is private,” I said. “So who’s this guy you’re so hot for me to meet?”

“Marty Blumberg. Beck’s company comptroller.”

18

I drove over to my office. I left Reba in the car, the VW idling, while I ran in and grabbed the manila envelope from my desk drawer. In the car again, I passed her the envelope and watched her out of the corner of my eye as I circled the block and headed for Passages. She removed the photographs and studied them as though viewing vermin through a microscope. She put them back in the envelope without a word, her expression impossible to read.

I found what was possibly the last space in the underground parking garage, which stretched like a low-ceilinged gray cavern that ran the length of the mall. We hiked to the escalator and went up to level one, where all the shops were located. Manila envelope in hand, Reba walked two paces ahead of me, forcing me to trot to keep up with her. She didn’t seem as hyper as she had been, and for that I was glad. “Where are we going?”

“Dale’s.”

“Why Dale’s? That’s a dive.”

“Not true. It’s a Santa Teresa landmark.”

“So’s the dump,” I said.

Dale’s was strictly a no-frills bar. People went there to drink, pure and simple. I could feel the now familiar conflict arise: should I be protective and suggest we go somewhere else, or keep my mouth shut and let her take responsibility for the choices she made? In this instance, self-interest prevailed. I wanted to meet Marty Blumberg.

We entered the place, pausing in the open doorway to get our bearings. I hadn’t been in Dale’s for years, but it looked much the same—narrow room with a bar running along the left and a jukebox in back. There were six or eight small tables jammed up against the wall on the right. The lighting was primarily of the neon beer-sign variety, blue and red. There were numerous patrons on hand, occupying half of the bar stools and most of the tables. Eighty-seven percent of those present were smoking, the air as gray as morning fog. The overhead fixture made the light seem flat, very close to the quality of waning daylight outside. The jukebox, I remembered, was stocked with old 45-rpm records. At that very moment, the Hilltoppers were crooning “P.S. I Love You” while a couple danced on a narrow expanse of floor by the unisex bathroom. The sawdust underfoot and the acoustical ceiling tiles muffled the noise level so that both music and conversation seemed to be taking place in another room.

The walls were lined with black-and-white photographs, taken in the forties, to judge by the ladies’ hairstyles and clothing. Each photo featured the same balding middle-aged man, perhaps the eponymous Dale. He had his arm slung around various minor sports figures—baseball players, professional wrestlers, and Roller Derby queens—their signatures scrawled across the bottom of the pictures.

At the far end of the room, a concession-sized machine produced a steady spill of popcorn that the bartender scooped into paper cups and set out for general consumption. At intervals along the bar, there were collections of assorted popcorn seasonings: garlic salt, lemon pepper, Cajun spices, curry powder, and Parmesan cheese in a green cardboard container. The popcorn wasn’t sufficient to keep patrons sober, but it gave them something to fiddle with between the downing of drinks. As we were taking our seats, a peevish argument flared up, the topic being politics, about which no one present seemed to have the faintest clue.

“So where is he?” I said, looking around the room.

“What’s your hurry? He’ll be here in a bit.”

“I thought we were having dinner. I didn’t know they served food in here.”

“Well, they do. Seven-way chili.” She started ticking off the choices on her fingers. “Macaroni, chopped onions, cheese, oyster crackers, sour cream, or cilantro in any combination.”

“That’s only six.”

“You can have it plain.”

“Oh.”

The next 45 selection came into play and Jerry Vale launched into his version of “It’s All in the Game”: “Many a tear has to fall…” I refused to think about Cheney lest I jinx the relationship.

A waitress appeared. Reba asked for iced tea and I ordered a beer. I’d have ordered iced tea myself, but only to demonstrate a virtue I didn’t actually possess. In the face of her sobriety, I was acutely conscious of every sip I took. I was also worried the minute I turned my head, she’d snatch up my beer and suck half of it down.

As there was nothing else on the menu, we ordered seven-way chili, electing all six options. The chili arrived hot, spicy, and rich. The recipe, I noticed, was printed on our paper place mats. I was tempted to snitch mine, but the note at the bottom said “Serves 40,” which seemed excessive for someone who usually eats alone standing over the sink. “You never finished telling me about Passages and Beck’s participation,” I said.

“Glad you asked. I didn’t think you’d pursue the subject.”

“Here I am,” I said. “Care to fill me in?”

She paused to light a cigarette. “It’s simple enough. A developer in Dallas bought the land in 1969 and submitted all the plans. He thought it’d be a cakewalk. The guy was so optimistic, he was already putting up signs: ‘Passages Shopping Plaza. Coming in the fall of 1973.’ The city planners had a ball, running him ragged with all the codes and requirements. He revised the plans sixteen times, but nothing ever seemed to suit. Twelve years later, when the developer still hadn’t managed to get approval, he put the word out on the street and someone introduced him to Beck. That was 1981. The project was finished in ’85, a speedy three years after construction began.”

I waited for the rest.

“I can tell by the look on your face you’re not getting it,” she said.

“Just tell me, okay? Guessing slows us down and makes me cranky.”

“Well, think about it. How do you think Beck got all those approvals and permits? Because he’s nice?”

I stared, feeling dense.

Reba rubbed her thumb against her fingers in the universal gesture denoting money changing hands.

“Payoffs?”

“Exactly. That’s where the money went—the three hundred and fifty thou I was accused of snitching. I delivered most of it myself, though I didn’t realize what it was until later. All I knew was he had me driving to hell and gone with these bulky manila envelopes. Granted, some of it was earmarked for the boys in Sacramento—Beck is forever greasing palms on behalf of pending legislation—but most was for local guys who had the power to say no. Once they pocketed the dough, they were more than happy to be of help.”

“But that’s political money laundering.”

“Wow, you are quick,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Isn’t that why you’re setting up this meeting with the feds, to get the goods on him?”

“I wasn’t sure how far you meant to go.”

“Right to the bitter end.”

“But when we first talked, didn’t you say he was depositing the money offshore so he could hide it from his wife?”

“That’s the story he gave me. I didn’t figure out what he was really doing until the audit came up. I’m sure he’s still funneling cash out of the country as fast as he can, but at least I get it now; his efforts were never meant to benefit me.”

“I’m sorry. I know that’s tough on you.”

“Tough, but true,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact.

At 9:00, just about on the dot, Marty Blumberg appeared. Reba had been watching for him, and she gave him a big wave and motioned him over the minute he walked in. He paused at the bar to light a cigarette. The bartender was already setting up his usual drink, whiskey so dark it looked like Coke. Glass in hand, he ambled over to our table. He was probably in his fifties, a good-looking guy once upon a time. Now he was overweight by a good hundred pounds, his wardrobe lagging one size behind. His trouser pockets bulged open like a set of ears and the buttons on his shirt were straining against his bulk. He was baby-faced and florid, with sorrowful-looking blue eyes, a pug nose, and a full head of dark frizzy hair. He seemed genuinely glad to see her. Reba invited him to join us, hooking a thumb in my direction by way of introduction. “This is Kinsey Millhone. Marty Blumberg,” she said.

I said, “Hi, Marty. Nice to meet you,” and the two of us shook hands.

Marty gave Reba a quick visual appraisal. “You’re none the worse for wear. When’d you get back?”

“Monday. Kinsey drove down and brought me back. The whole experience was an education…in what, I don’t know.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I hear you’re in the new offices. Nice to be so close. Dale’s was always your favorite.”

Marty smiled. “I’ve only been coming in the past fourteen years. I could be part owner with all the money I’ve spent.”

Reba took out a cigarette and Marty picked up her Dunhill and extended a light. Reba tucked a strand of hair behind one ear as she bent to the flame, her hand resting casually on his. She inhaled, her eyes closing briefly. Smoking was like prayer, something you approached with reverence. “Beck says the offices are awesome.”

“Pretty slick,” he said.

“Coming from you, that’s high praise. How about a tour? Beck said he’d show me around, but he’s in Panama.”

“A tour? Sure, why not? Give me a call and we’ll set it up.”

“How about tonight? As long as we’re down here, it would be a hoot.”

He hesitated. “I could do that, I guess. I need to pick up my briefcase anyway and clean off my desk.”

“You’re cleaning your desk on a Friday night? That’s devotion.”

“Beck’s new dictum—no files or papers on any of the surfaces overnight. Place looks like a showroom. I’m mostly playing catch-up, taking care of stuff I’ve let slide. I’ll probably work tomorrow, too.”

“The guy’s a workaholic,” she said to me as an aside and then turned back to him. “Kinsey’s a PI…a pri-vate de-tec-tive,” she said, separating each syllable for emphasis. She turned to me. “You have a business card on you?”

“Let me look,” I said. I fumbled in my shoulder bag until I found my wallet, where I kept a stash of cards. Reba had her hand out so I passed one to her and she handed it on to Marty, who studied it, pretending it mattered when he couldn’t have cared less.

He tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Guess I better watch my backside.”

Reba smiled. “That is so so true. You have no idea.”

He shook a cigarette from the pack, placing it directly between his lips. Smoking didn’t seem like a good idea as he was already wheezing.

Reba said, “Allow me,” as she picked up her Dunhill, flicked it, and offered him a light.

“Such service.”

“You bet. Tit for tat,” she said. She propped her chin on one hand. “Aren’t you curious what she’s doing here?”

Marty looked from Reba to me. “A drug bust?”

“Don’t be dumb,” she said, giving him a smack on the arm. She leaned forward flirtatiously and murmured, “She’s part of a task force—federal and local dicks—looking into Beck’s finances. All very hush-hush. Promise you won’t tell.” She put a finger to her lips and I could feel myself blanch. I couldn’t believe she’d laid it out like that, without a word to me. Not that I’d have agreed. I checked his reaction.

His smile was tentative as he waited for the punch line. “No, seriously.”

“Seriously,” she said. I could see she enjoyed doling it out to him bit by bit.

“I don’t get it.”

“What’s to get? I’m telling you the truth.”

“Why tell me?”

“Fair warning. I like you. You’re right in the line of fire.”

He must have been one of those men who operated with his body thermostat cranked up into the red zone because his face now bore a sheen of perspiration. Without seeming to be aware of it, he took the flap of his tie and blotted the beads of sweat from his cheek. “What do you mean, I’m right in the line of fire? How do you figure that?”

“Well, A: You know what he’s been up to, and B: Beck won’t go down for this any more than he’d accept blame for the missing three hundred and fifty thou.”

“I thought you volunteered.”

“Stupnagel that I am, I made it easy for him. I’d like to think you’re smarter than me, but maybe not.”

“He can’t do anything to me. I’m covered.”

“You really think so? All he has to do is point. You’ve got your fingerprints on everything. You’re the one who set up the accounts. Same with the offshore banks and the IBC.”

“Exactly. I’ve got leverage on him. I’m the last guy on earth he ought to fuck with.”

“I don’t know,” she said, with skepticism. “You’ve been with him a long time…”

“Ten years.”

“Right. Which means you know a lot more than I do.”

“So?”

“So if he stuck it to me, he can stick it to you as well. Believe me, the trap’s there. You just can’t see it at this point any more than I saw what he was doing to me until it was too late.”

“I got no beef with Beck. The guy takes good care of me. Ten years, you know how much money I’ve managed to sock away? I could retire anytime I want, walk out tomorrow and still be living like a king.”

“It may feel cushy, but it’s a trap all the same.”

Marty was shaking his head. “No. Uhn-uhn. I’m not buying it.”

“What if they lean on you?”

“They, who?”

“The feds. What do you think I just got done telling you. The FBI, IRS, what’s the other one?” she asked me, snapping her fingers impatiently.

“Department of Justice,” I said.

She turned to me and frowned. “I thought you mentioned a couple more.”

I cleared my throat. “Customs and Treasury. And the DEA.”

“See?” she said to him as though that explained that.

“Why lean on me? Based on what?”

“Based on all the shit they’ve picked up so far.”

“From who?”

“You think they don’t have agents in place?”

He laughed, albeit uneasily. “What ‘agents’? That’s bull.”

“Sorry. I misspoke myself. I said ‘agents’ in the plural. There’s really only one.”

“Who?”

“See if you can guess. Here, I’ll give you a hint. Who in the company has gotten close to Beck in the last umpty-many months? Hmmm.” She put a finger against her cheek, deep in mock thought. “Starts with O.”

“Onni?”

“There you go,” she said. “Talk about a break. I get sent to prison and that gives her the chance to slide right in.”

“She works for the feds?”

Reba nodded. “Oh yeah, for years, and trust me, Little Miss Onni wants his ass on a plate.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Marty, this is her golden opportunity. You know how it is with women in these shit government jobs. Sure, they get hired. The guys let ’em do all the grunt work, but forget about promotion. There’s no upward mobility without a coup of some kind. She doesn’t pull this off, she’ll be stuck where she is.”

“Doesn’t sound right. Are you sure? This makes no sense at all. The girl’s dumb as a post.”

“That’s the impression she gives, but she’s wily as they come. I’m telling you, she’s good. You watch. This lady can write her own ticket, provided she nails Beck first. I mean, look at it this way. Does anybody in the company suspect? You sure as shit didn’t and Beck doesn’t have a clue. If he knew what was going on, he’d be out the door like a shot. Wouldn’t he?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You better believe it,” she said. “Meanwhile, there she is with a finger in every pie, access to everything. What a sweet deal for her.”

Marty seemed to be getting annoyed, though I noticed two blotches on the front of his shirt where the sweat was soaking through. “Look, Reb. I know you’re pissed at him and I don’t blame you—”

“Sure, I’m pissed at him, but I’m not pissed at you, which is why I’m here. I’m trusting you to keep your mouth shut. I haven’t breathed a word of this to anyone else. She’s after his balls. She’s so gung-ho she’s willing to screw the guy to get the drop on him.”

Marty was silent. I could hear him breathing as though he’d just finished running six blocks. “You can’t just make claims—”

“I know. You’re a man of common sense and you’re hard to convince, which is why I brought these.” She slid the black-and-white photos from the envelope and passed them over to him.

Marty leafed through them. “Jesus.”

“See what I mean?”

“What’s he thinking?”

“He’s not thinking. He’s got his brain between his legs. Really, you hadn’t guessed he was screwing her? You knew he was doing me.”

“Yeah, but you made no secret you had the hots for him. This, I don’t know. Shouldn’t somebody tell him what’s going on?”

Reba raised her brows and gave him the big eyes. “You want to do that? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

“Poor guy.”

“‘Poor guy,’ my butt. Are you kidding? If he was willing to work me over, why not you? Thing is, the stakes are bigger this time. You tell him about Onni, the only effect is giving him more time to cover his tracks.”

Marty held up his glass and rattled the ice. The bartender caught the gesture and began to make him another drink. “Onni. I can’t believe it. Beck must have walked right into it.”

“Of course. Minute she makes her move, he’ll turn right around and lay it off on you. He’ll claim you acted on your own. He never authorized you to do anything. You took it on yourself.”

“But it’s his signature. Loan aps, incorporation papers—”

“Marty, get serious. He’ll say he’s never had a head for the financial end of things. That’s how I was able to get away with the money I stole. Gosh. Guess he should have wised up, but some guys never learn. You told him to sign so he signed. He trusted you and this is what he gets for it. Shamey-shame on him. Meanwhile, you’re under federal indictment.”

Marty shook his head. “I don’t know. This is freaking me out.” The bartender brought his drink. Marty took out his wallet and extracted two twenties. “Keep that,” he said. As the bartender left, he was well on his way to draining his glass.

During the brief interchange between the two, Reba shot me a look. It’s your show, I thought, before she glanced away.

She patted Marty’s arm, her tone brisk. “Anyway, ponder the implications. That’s really all I ask. Even if you decide I’m making it up, it wouldn’t hurt to cover your ass. Once the subpoenas are issued and all the warrants are in place, you’ll be shit out of luck. In the meantime, if you’re on your way upstairs, how about the two of us tagging along?”

19

I’d passed the entrance to Beck’s office building half a dozen times without ever taking in the sight. The façade was thickly overgrown with ivy, integrated seamlessly into the architectural conceit of an ancient Spanish town. Flowering trees had been planted along the front. To the left of the entrance were side-by-side stairs and escalators, giving access to the additional parking structure at the corner of the mall. A high-end luggage shop occupied a portion of the ground floor, presumably paying Beck a big whack of high-end rent.

We pushed through glass doors that swung closed soundlessly as we entered. Windows stretched upward the full four stories to a slanting glass roof. The interior atrium was oblong, done in a mottled rosy granite, floors and walls forming a hard canvas on which natural and artificial light played according to the time of day. High on the wall, there was a clock with long brass minute and hour hands and six-inch-diameter brass dots representing the hours. A curtain of dark green ivy and philodendron hung from a miniature oasis above the clock.

There were two elevators on the wall dead ahead. To the right of these, in an alcove, there were two more elevators, facing each other, one with a much wider door, which I assumed was designed to accommodate freight. A digital readout next to each elevator showed that all were at lobby level.

In the center of the lobby, a perfect circle of granite was sunk in the floor, sloping sides washed with a constant Niagara of water spilling from a six-inch channel around its rim. The sound was soothing, but the look, I fear, was closer to toiletlike than the restful pool it was meant to suggest.

A uniformed guard sat at a high polished-onyx desk. A lean man in his sixties, he had salt-and-pepper hair and a blank handsome face. Briefly I wondered what curious set of circumstances had landed him here. Surely there was little to guard and less to secure. Did he simply sit for the whole of his eight-hour shift? I saw no indication he had a book in his lap discreetly shielded from view. No radio or pint-size television set. No sketch pad or crossword puzzle book. His eyes tracked us, his face turning slowly as we clattered across the cold expanse of polished granite floor.

Marty lifted his hand and received an unblinking stare in response. Reba smiled at the guy, giving him the full benefit of those big dark eyes of hers. She was rewarded with a tentative smile. She caught up with Marty outside the elevator doors. “What’s his name? He’s cute.”

“Willard. He’s on nights and weekends. Can’t remember who’s been covering days.”

We entered the elevator and Marty pushed the button for four. “You made a conquest. First time I’ve ever seen him smile,” he said.

“Getting along with guards turns out to be a specialty of mine,” she said. “Although, in my case, ‘correctional officer’ is the appropriate term.”

Since Beck’s offices took up the entire fourth floor, the elevator doors opened directly into the reception area, hushed with thick pale green carpet. Lights blazed everywhere, but it was clear there was no one on the premises but us. Modern furniture and contemporary art were mixed with antiques. Etched-glass partitions separated the reception area from an airy conference room beyond. From our perspective, corridors opened on four sides like the spokes of a wheel. The hallways appeared to stretch on at length with wide bands of color forming sweeping loops along the wall.

“Oh, Marty. This is gorgeous. Beck said it was spectacular, but this is really over the top. Mind if we look around?”

“Just don’t take long. I want to get home.”

“I promise we’ll make it quick. Think of it this way, if it weren’t for that stint in prison, I’d be working here myself. Isn’t there a roof garden?”

“The stairs are back that way. You can’t miss ’em. I’ll be in my office down that hall.”

“You could get lost in this place,” Reba said.

“Well, don’t. Beck’s not going to like it if he hears you’ve been here.”

“Mum’s the word,” she said, producing her dimples for him.

Reba circled the reception area with me following in her wake. As long as Marty was present, she was almost childlike in her hand-clapping enthusiasm, popping her head into offices here and there along the way, oohing and aahing. He watched us briefly and then went off in the opposite direction.

The minute he was out of sight, Reba dropped all pretense of touring and got down to business. I kept pace with her as she checked the names posted on the wall outside each office. When she reached Onni’s, she shot a look down the hall to make sure Marty wasn’t there. She moved to Onni’s desk, grabbed a tissue from the box, and used it as she started opening drawers. “Keep a lookout, okay?”

I checked the corridor behind me. Searching is my all-time favorite sport (except for time spent with Cheney Phillips of late). The edgy thrill of invading someone’s private space is heightened by the possibility of getting caught in the act. I wasn’t sure what she was looking for or I’d have joined her in the game. As it was, somebody had to stand guard.

Still opening and shutting drawers, Reba said, “God, I can’t believe Marty’s so paranoid. Must be off his meds. Ah.” She held up a chunky ring of keys that she jingled midair.

“You can’t take those.”

“Poo. Onni won’t be in until Monday. I can put ’em back by then.”

“Reba, don’t. You’re going to ruin everything.”

“No, I won’t. This is scientific research. I’m testing my hypothesis.”

“What hypothesis?”

“I’ll tell you later. Quit worrying.”

She left Onni’s office, trailing a hand along the wall as she returned to the reception area, scanning the lines of the ceiling. When she reached the elevators, she circled the central core, measuring with her eyes. Large abstract paintings dominated the walls and the lighting was such that one’s attention was irresistibly drawn from one artwork to the next.

“It would help if I knew what you were looking for,” I said.

“I know how his mind works. There’s something here he doesn’t want us to see. Let’s try his office.”

I wanted to protest but knew she wasn’t listening.

Beck’s corner location was prime—spacious, with clear cherry paneling and the same footstep-muffling green carpeting. The room was furnished with low-slung chrome-and-leather chairs of the sort that require winch and pulley action to remove yourself once you’ve been foolish enough to sit. His desktop was black slate, a curious surface unless he favored doing his long division in chalk along the length. Reba used the same tissue to avoid leaving latent prints on his desk drawers. I loitered uneasily in the doorway.

Dissatisfied, she pivoted. She studied every aspect of the room and finally crossed to the paneled wall, where she tapped her way across, listening for evidence of a hollow space behind. At one point, she activated a touch latch and a door sprang open, but the only treasure revealed was his liquor supply, complete with cut glass decanters and assorted glasses. She said, “Shit.” She pushed the door shut and returned to his desk. She sat in his swivel chair and did a second survey from that vantage point.

“Would you hurry up?” I hissed. “Marty could show up any minute, wondering where we went.”

She pushed the chair back and leaned down so she could examine the underside of his desk. She extended her hand, almost to the length of her arm. I wasn’t sure what she’d discovered and I didn’t care to be a witness. I stepped out into the hall and looked toward the reception area. So far no Marty. Idly I noted the fact that the paintings were graduated in size with the largest near the elevators and the smaller ones, in diminishing proportions back here. From the viewpoint of a visitor, the effect would be to create the illusion of corridors much longer than they were—an amusing trompe l’oeil effect.

Reba emerged from Beck’s office and grabbed me by the elbow, steering me toward the wide stairs that led up to the roof.

“What’s up there besides the roof garden?”

“That’s why we’re going up—because we don’t know,” she said. She took the steps two at a time and I kept pace with her. A glass door at the top opened into a fully landscaped garden: trees, shrubs, and flower beds separated by gravel paths that meandered out of sight. Landscape lighting made the whole of it glow. Chairs and umbrella-shaded tables were placed in assorted patios that were dotted throughout. A four-foot wall encircled the perimeter with dazzling city views in all directions.

Central to the garden was what looked like a gardener’s cottage, the exterior encompassed by trellises on which gaudy passionflower vines wound up and across, thick with purple blossoms. There was a sign half-concealed in the profusion of greenery. Curious, I pulled the foliage aside.

“What is it?” she asked.

“‘Danger. High Voltage.’ There’s a phone number for the building supervisor if work needs to be done. Must be a transformer or maybe part of the electrical service. Who knows? I guess it could be housing for the elevators, along with central heating and air conditioning. You have to put stuff like that somewhere.” The little building seemed to hum in a way that suggested you’d be fried to a crisp if you made one wrong move.

From the stairway, Marty called up to us. “Hey, Reba?”

“Up here.”

“I don’t mean to rush you, but we ought to get going. Beck doesn’t like strangers on the premises.”

“I’m hardly a stranger, Marty. I’m his favorite screw.”

“Yeah, well, he’ll be pissed anyway and take it out on me.”

“No problem. We’re ready anytime you are,” she said, and then to me: “Take your car keys and wallet out of your shoulder bag and leave it behind that thing.”

“My bag? I’m not going to leave my shoulder bag. Are you nuts?”

“Do it.”

Marty appeared at the top of the stairs, apparently not trusting us to come down the stairs on our own. He leaned against the stair rail, his breathing stertorous from the climb. Reba crossed to the landing and linked her arm into his, turning to admire the mountains visible in the distance. “What a view! Perfect setting for an office party.”

Marty took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, which was glistening with perspiration. “We haven’t done that so far. Good weather, the gals eat their lunch out here and grab a little sun. Bad days, they use the break room like they did at the old place, only this one’s fancier.”

“The break room? I didn’t see that.”

“I can show you on the way out.”

Reba turned to me. “Everything okay?”

“Right behind you,” I said.

The two started down the stairs. Grousing to myself, I’d done as she’d instructed, removing my keys and wallet from my bag, which I shoved behind a big potted ficus tree. I hoped she knew what she was doing because I sure as shit didn’t. Looking back wistfully, I moved toward the stairs.

I caught up with them in what looked like a midsize kitchen. Sink, dishwasher, two microwaves, a side-by-side refrigerator-freezer, and two vending machines, one with soft drinks, the other with candy bars, potato chips, peanut butter crackers, cookies, packages of nuts, and other fatty snacks. There was a large table in the center of the room surrounded by chairs.

“Is this great?” she said.

I said, “Swell.”

“You ready?” Marty asked me.

“Sure. I’m fine. It’s been fun.”

“Good. Let me get my briefcase and I can lock up.”

The three of us proceeded down the hall toward the elevators. As Marty passed his office, he ducked out of sight and reappeared with his briefcase. Reba leaned around the door frame. “Nice office. Did you do this yourself?”

“Oh god, no. Beck hired a design firm to handle everything, except the plants. We have another company for those.”

“Pretty highfalutin,” she remarked.

We watched as Marty pushed the elevator button, calling the car from down below. While we waited, Reba pointed to a third elevator on the far side of the reception desk. “What’s that one for?”

“Service elevator. It’s mostly for hauling cartons up and down, file cabinets, furniture, stuff like that. We have fifteen, twenty firms on these three upper floors. That’s a lot of office supplies and copy machines. Plus, the cleaning crew uses it when they come in.”

“Bart and his brother still work weekends?”

“Fridays, same as ever. They’ll be coming in at midnight,” he said.

“Nice to know some things don’t change. The rest is a major upgrade. Might know Beck would do that as soon as I’m out the door.”

The elevator arrived and the doors slid open. Marty reached around and pressed the Door Open button while he entered the alarm system code on the keypad to the right. Reba displayed only cursory interest. Once the three of us got on, Marty released the button and pressed 1 for the first floor. We descended without saying much, all three of us watching the digital floor numbers flash from 4 to 3 to 2 to 1.

As we emerged, the doors to one of the two elevators in the alcove opened and a two-man cleaning crew emerged with their cart and loaded a vacuum cleaner, assorted brooms and mops, industrial-size bottles of cleaning solutions, and packets of paper toweling to resupply the restrooms. Both wore coveralls with a company logo stitched across the back. One gave Willard a nod and he returned a one-finger salute. Reba watched the two men cross the alcove and enter the service elevator.

“What are they up to?”

Marty shrugged. “Beats me. I think they work on two.”

The doors closed behind them and the three of us continued to the entrance while Willard made a note of our departure time with the same blank stare he’d given us before. Marty didn’t bother to nod his good-byes, but Reba gave Willard a merry finger wave. “Thanks, Willie. Nighty-night.”

He hesitated and then lifted a hand.

“Did you see that? True love,” she said.

We went down to the lower-level parking garage. At the foot of the stairs, Marty said, “I’m parked over here. Where’re you guys?”

“That way,” I said, pointing in the opposite direction.

Reba shoved her hands in her jacket pockets and watched him walk toward his car. “Hey, Marty?”

He paused and looked back.

“Think about what I said. You don’t act soon, Beck’s gonna have your nuts in a vise.”

Marty nearly spoke, and then seemed to change his mind. He shook his head, his expression withdrawn, and turned on his heel.

She watched until he was out of sight and then the two of us walked the length of the garage.

“I didn’t like the look of those cleaning guys,” she said.

“Would you give it a rest?”

“I’m going on record. There’s something bogus about them.”

“Thanks for telling me. I’ll put a note in the file.”

When we reached the VW, I unlocked the door on my side, slid behind the wheel, and then leaned over and unlocked the passenger-side door for her. She got in and pulled the door shut, but when I went to insert the key in the ignition, she put her hand out. “Hang on a minute.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re not done yet. Soon as Marty pulls out, we can have another go.”

“You can’t go back up there. How’re you going to pull that off?”

“We can tell Willie you left your shoulder bag upstairs and you have to have it back.”

“Reba! You gotta quit this. You’re going to screw up the government’s case.”

“It’s the government that screws up. Look at the state we’re in. The country’s a mess.”

“That’s not the point. You can’t violate the law.”

“Listen to you, Miss Prissy Ass. What law?”

“Shall we start with breaking and entering?”

“That wasn’t breaking and entering. We went up with Marty. He let us in of his own free will.”

“And then you stole the keys.”

“I didn’t steal them. I borrowed them. I intend to put ’em back.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m telling you, I’m through with this,” I said. I turned the key in the ignition, shifted gears, and backed out of the space.

“Don’t you want your bag?”

“Not now. I’m taking you home.”

“Tomorrow morning, then, and I swear that’ll be the end of it, okay? I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Why so early? It’s Saturday. The mall doesn’t open until ten.”

“We’ll be long gone by then.”

“Having done what?”

“You’ll see.”

“Uhn-uhn. No way. You can count me out.”

“You don’t come with me, I’ll do it on my own. No telling what kind of trouble I’ll get into.”

I would have closed my eyes in despair, but I was already pulling up the exit ramp and didn’t want to crash in my haste to get us out of there.

I turned right on Chapel. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Reba pull something from her jacket pocket, saying, “Well, this is cool.”

“What.”

“Looks like I stole something after all. Naughty me.”

“You didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. These are Beck’s. I found ’em in his desk in that Mickey Mouse secret drawer. Must be planning to skip town, the little so-and-so.” She was holding up a passport, a driver’s license, and assorted documents.

Abruptly I pulled over to the curb, greatly annoying the driver of the car behind me, who leaned on his horn and made a rude hand gesture. “Give me those,” I said, grabbing for them.

She held the documents out of my reach. “Hang on. This is the real deal here. A passport, birth certificate, driver’s license, credit cards. ‘Garrison Randell’ with Beck’s photograph. Must have cost a mint.”

“Reba, what do you think’s going to happen when he realizes that stuff ’s gone?”

“How’s he going to know?”

“How about he looks in his drawer the minute he gets back? That’s his means of escape. He probably checks the docs twice a day.”

“You’re right,” she said. “On the other hand, why would he suspect me?”

“He doesn’t have to suspect you. All he has to do is figure out who’s been in. Once he gets a bead on Marty, it’s over. Marty’s not going to risk his neck on your account. You’ll end up back in the clink.”

She thought about that. “Well, okay. I’ll put ’em back in his desk when I return Onni’s keys.”

“Thank you,” I said, but I knew I couldn’t take her at her word.

I dropped her at her place and rolled into my apartment at 11:15. The red message light was blinking on my answering machine. Cheney, I thought. There was something erotic in the very idea, and like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I nearly whimpered in response. I pressed the button and heard his voice. Eight words. “Hey, babe. Call me when you get in.”

I punched in his number and when he picked up, I said, “Hey yourself. Did I wake you?”

“I don’t mind. Where you been?”

“Out with Reba. I have tons to report.”

“Good. Come on over and spend the night,” he said. “I’ll make you French toast in the morning if you’re good.”

“Can’t. She’s picking me up here at eight.”

“How come?”

“Long story. I’ll tell you when I see you.”

“So how about I come get you and take you home in the morning in time to meet her?”

“Cheney, I can handle the drive. You’re only two miles away.”

“I know, but I don’t want you rattling around the streets at this hour. The world’s a dangerous place.”

I laughed. “Is that how it’s going to be? You’re all protective and I’m docile as a lamb.”

“You have a better idea?”

“No.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up in ten,” he said.

20

I waited for him outside, sitting on the curb, wearing a black turtleneck T-shirt and one of my new skirts. This was the third night in a row I’d be seeing him. Like a winning streak at the craps table, the roll was bound to come to an end. I couldn’t decide if I was being cynical or sensible in acknowledging the fact. I knew how the night was going to go. In the first moments of seeing him, I’d feel neutral—glad to be in his company, but not irresistibly drawn to him. We’d chat about nothing in particular and gradually, I’d become aware of him: the smell of his skin, his face in profile, the shape of his hands as he gripped the steering wheel. He’d sense my attention and turn to look at me. The minute we made eye contact, that low distant humming would start up again, vibrating through my body like the first rumbles of an earthquake.

Curiously, I didn’t feel I was in danger with him. Having blundered so often in relationships with men, I tended to be cautious, remote, keeping my options open in case things didn’t work out. Inevitably, things turned sour, which only served to reinforce my wariness. In retrospect, I could see that Dietz played the game exactly the way I did, which meant I was also safe with him, but for all the wrong reasons: safe because he was always off somewhere, safe because he probably wasn’t capable of coming through for me, and safe, most of all, because his detachment was a mirror of my own.

I heard Cheney’s car long before he turned the corner from Bay onto Albanil. His headlights flashed into view and I got to my feet, silently cursing the loss of my shoulder bag. I’d been forced to pack—if you want to call it that—a few things in a paper sack, like a kid’s brown-bag lunch: clean underwear, a toothbrush, my wallet, and keys. Cheney was driving with the top down again, but when I got in the car I realized the heater was turned on full blast, which meant that half of me would be warm.

He spotted the sack. “That your overnight case?”

I held up the brown bag. “It’s part of a matching set. I have another forty-nine just like it in my kitchen drawer.”

“Nice skirt.”

“Thanks to Reba. I wasn’t going to buy it, but she insisted.”

“Good deal.” He waited until I’d fastened my seat belt and then he pulled away.

I said, “I can’t believe we’re doing this. Don’t you ever sleep?”

“I promised you a house tour. Last time, all you saw was the bedroom ceiling.”

I held up a finger. “I have a question.”

“What’s that?”

“Is this how you ended up married so fast? You meet old What’s-Her-Face and spend every night with her for the first three weeks. Week four, she moves in. Week five, you’re engaged, and by week six, you’re married and off on your honeymoon. Is that the way it went?”

“Not quite, but close. Why, does that bother you?”

“Well, no. I just wondered how much time I had to get the invitations out.”

Cheney conducted a tour, starting with the downstairs rooms. The house was more than a hundred years old and reflected a way of life long past. Most of the original mahogany fireplaces, doors, window trim, and baseboards were still intact. Tall, narrow windows, high ceilings, transoms above the doors to aid the circulation of air. There were five working fireplaces on the first floor and four more in the bedrooms upstairs. The parlor (a concept that has since gone the way of the dodo bird) continued into the morning room, which in turn opened onto a gracious screened-in porch. In the adjacent laundry room, the old double tubs existed side-by-side with a wood-fueled stove for heating water.

Cheney was in the process of redoing the living room where the hardwood floor was covered in canvas drop cloths. Wallpaper had been steamed off and lay in discouraged-looking clumps. The plaster had been patched and the windowpanes had been taped in preparation for painting. He’d taken off one of the doors, which he’d laid across two sawhorses and covered with canvas to provide a surface for any tools not in use. The brass hardware—doorknobs, lock plates, window latches, and pulls—were jumbled into cardboard boxes in one corner of the room.

“How long have you had the house?”

“Little over a year.”

Additional drop cloths extended through a set of glass-paned pocket doors into the dining room, which was in marginally better shape. Here the ladder, paint cans, brushes, rollers, paint trays, and liners—not to mention the smell—attested to his having primed and painted, though he hadn’t yet replaced the fixtures or the incidental hardware, which littered every sill.

“This the dining room?”

“Right, though the couple who owned the place were using it as a bedroom for her aged mother. They converted the butler’s pantry into a makeshift bathroom, so the first thing I did was tear out the toilet, shower, and sink and restore the built-in china cupboards and silverware drawers.”

Through the bay of dining room windows, I found myself looking into Neil and Vera’s kitchen next door. Cheney’s driveway and theirs ran parallel with a modest strip of grass separating the two. I could see Vera standing at the sink, rinsing dishes before she put them in the machine. Neil was perched on a stool at the counter with his back to me, the two chatting as she worked. No sign of the children so they must have been in bed. I seldom witnessed even the briefest moments of a marriage in progress. Occasionally I’d be struck by the sight of one of those couples in restaurants who spend the meal not looking at each other and not exchanging a word. Now that’s a scary proposition: all the minor day-to-day frictions with none of the companionship.

Cheney put his arms around me from behind and laid his face against my hair, following my gaze. “One of the few happy couples I know.”

“Or so it would appear.”

He kissed my ear. “Don’t be a cynic.”

“I am a cynic. So are you.”

“Yes, but we both have a streak of optimism way down deep.”

“Speak for yourself,” I said. “Where’s the kitchen?”

“Through here.”

The previous owners had done extensive remodeling in the kitchen, which was now a streamlined vision of granite counters, stainless-steel appliances, and high-tech lighting. Far from detracting from the overall Victorian feel of the house, there was a wonderful sense of hope and efficiency at work. I was exploring a walk-in pantry the size of my loft when the telephone rang. Cheney caught the call and his end of it was brief. He replaced the handset on the wall-mounted phone. “That was Jonah. There’s been a shoot-out in a parking garage on Floresta. One of my hookers got caught in the crossfire. I said I’d drop you at your place and meet him at the scene.”

“Sure thing,” I said, thinking, Great…now that Jonah knows we’re an item, the entire STPD will be informed by midday tomorrow. Men are worse gossips than women when it comes right down to it.

I crawled into bed at midnight and found myself tossing and turning, possibly because of the lengthy nap I’d taken in the afternoon. I don’t remember the moment when I sank into a leaden sleep, but vaguely, I became aware of a pounding on my door. I opened my eyes and checked the clock. 8:02. Who the heck was it? Oh, shit. Reba was down there.

I pushed the covers back and swung my feet out on the floor, yelling, “Just a minute!”…like she could actually hear me. I dry-washed my face, pressing my fingers into my eyes until light sparks appeared on the inside of my lids. I went downstairs and let her in, saying, “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I overslept. I’ll be with you in a sec.”

I left her to make herself at home while I went upstairs, though in the interest of good manners, I leaned over the loft rail and called down to her. “You can put on a pot of coffee if you can figure out how.”

“Don’t worry about it. We can stop off at McDonald’s.”

“You got a deal.”

I did an abbreviated bathroom tour and then pulled on jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes. I retrieved my wallet and car keys from the brown-paper bag and in six minutes flat, I was ready to go out the door.

We ordered from the take-out window and then sat in the parking lot with two enormous coffees and four Egg McMuffins with extra packets of salt. Like me, Reba ate like she was competing for the land speed record. “They don’t call this fast food for nuttin’,” she remarked, her mouth full. There were a scant few minutes when we sank into quiet, focused on our food.

Having finished, we bundled up our trash and shoved it in the bag, which Reba pitched into the container on the sidewalk nearby. She said, “Two points. Hot damn.”

While I sipped my coffee, she reached over to the rear seat and picked up three rolled cylinders of architectural plans, bound with a rubber band. She slipped the band on her wrist for safekeeping, then unfurled the first oversize sheet, which she spread across the dashboard. The paper itself was a whitish blue, with the two-dimensional rooms laid out in blue ink. The legend along the bottom read: THE BECKWITH BUILDING, 3-25-81.

Reba said, “These are the old blue-line drawings. I’m hoping they’ll tell us what Beck’s hiding and where he’s hiding it.”

“Where’d you get these?”

“We had multiples at the office—everything from framing plans to plumbing plans, heating and air conditioning, fixture requirements, you name it. Every time the architect made changes, he’d print out a new set of drawings for all the principals. Beck told me to toss ’em.”

“And you had the foresight to hang on to them? I’m impressed.”

“I wouldn’t call it foresight. I just love the information. It’s like looking at X-rays—all those cracks and bone spurs where you least expect them. Here, take a look at these and we’ll compare notes. I realized last night we were going about this all wrong.”

She passed me the second batch of drawings on sheets of paper that must have measured eighteen inches by twenty-four. I wrestled the first sheet into a reasonably flat position and studied the particulars. As nearly as I could tell, this had something to do with the service entrance and electrical rooms, showing the location of the meter, the transformer vault, the switchgear, electrical closets, and individual circuits. The wiring diagrams were made up of circles and wavy lines, showing the relationship of outlets to controls.

The next sheet was more interesting. It looked like a cutaway of one corner of the building from the rooftop down. According to the legend at the bottom of the page, every eighth of an inch represented one linear foot. The architect had labeled every aspect of the drawing in that freehand block lettering students must be taught the very first day at architectural school. Reba glanced over, saying, “What they’re using there for stablization is a rigid core that runs down the center of the building—a structural tower that contains the restrooms, stairs, and elevators. I remember them talking about diagonal bracing and shear panels, whatever that means.”

I could see the concrete columns, the location of precast concrete spandrel panels, the slab on grade and concrete pile foundation, which was backed up by a steel-stud and drywall assembly. I was hoping to spot the correlation between the lines on the page and the spaces I’d seen. The detailed drawing of the rooftop, for instance, did show the mechanicals of the elevator equipment in roughly the same position as the fakey-looking gardener’s cottage. Reba put a finger on the page. “I don’t like it. That other drawing shows the elevators on the far side, not this. So which is it?”

“Maybe we should take another look,” I said. “I don’t get how anybody figures this shit out. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Reba unfurled another floor plan, this one dated August of ’81. We studied a couple of the drawings next to one another. Having seen the offices firsthand, I had a fair idea what I was looking at, with certain notable exceptions. Where the employee break room was located in reality, the floor plan indicated a conference room, which had been moved closer to reception. “How many sets do you have?”

“Tons, but these seemed the most relevant. From March to August, there’s not that much difference. It’s the changes that show up in October that looked interesting to me.” She wrestled a fourth sheet open and placed it atop the third. Much crackling of paper as the two of us examined the specifics of employee restrooms, wheelchair clearances, metal decks, and rigid insulation—the whole of Beck’s fifteen-office suite visible in one sweep.

“Are we looking for anything in particular?” I asked.

She pointed to an oblong area on my sheet adjacent to fire stairs and the elevator envelopes. “See that? The location of the elevators shifted from there to there,” she said, moving her finger from my drawing to hers.

“Break room moved, too, but so what?”

“Well, look at it. I mean, I understand they made changes, but there’s space unaccounted for. Here it’s called storage, but in this drawing, the space is still there with no reference to it at all.”

“I still don’t see the significance.”

“I just think it’s odd. I’m telling you, there was a room there on one of the early floor plans. I asked Beck what it was and he blew me off, like I didn’t need to know. On the initial blue-line drawings, the architect labeled it a gun vault, which is totally ridiculous. Beck’s a pussy about firearms. He doesn’t even own one gun, let alone a collection of the damn things. At the time, I figured maybe it was a panic room or whatever you call them…”

“A safe room?”

“Like that. Something he didn’t want anyone else to know about. Later I wondered if he intended to use it as a love nest, a hidey-hole where he could take his lady friends. I mean, what could be better? In the same building but out of the public eye. Think how easy it’d be to get a little ass on the side.”

“Maybe the architect vetoed the idea.”

“Nobody vetoes him. He knows exactly what he wants and he gets it.” She laid a finger on an unmarked area just off reception. “Couldn’t there be space behind this wall?”

I went back in my mind and pictured the gallery of paintings and the trompe l’oeil effect created by the diminishing sizes of objects as the eye traced them down the hall. I looked back at the floor plan. “I don’t think so. If there’s a room there, how the heck do you get in? There aren’t any doors in that wall that I remember.”

“My recollection, too. Because I counted off five offices and Onni’s was in the middle. After Jude’s office—you know the one with all the black-and-white photographs?”

“Right, right.”

“Yeah, well, the gallery picked up from there and that wall had to be a good twenty-five feet long.”

“What about that room where they kept office supplies?”

“That’s right there. I went around this part twice and there weren’t any doors there either, so if it’s a room, it’s been sealed.”

“Maybe it’s something to do with the building infrastructure. All the nuts-and-bolts stuff. Don’t you have plans any later than this?”

Reba shook her head. “I was in prison by then.”

We were both silent for a moment. Then I said, “Too bad we don’t have plans for the offices below his. You’re just assuming that’s a room, but it could be a mechanical chase or something that goes all the way down.”

She curled the plans together and made a cylinder of them, replacing the rubber band. She tossed them into the backseat and turned the key in the ignition. “Only one way to find out.”

Reba drove around the block, slowly circling Passages Shopping Plaza, peering across me through the passenger-side window as she scanned the exterior. On the south side of the mall she pulled over to the curb, her attention taken up by an entrance marked “Deliveries.” A steep ramp led down into the shadows and out of sight.

“Hang on. I gotta see this,” she said. She killed the engine and got out on her side of the car while I got out on mine. We walked down the ramp, which descended two levels to what must have been a subbasement. At the foot of the ramp was a portcullis secured with a big handsome padlock. Through the grillwork, we could see ten parking spaces, a blank double door at the end of a cul-de-sac, and a single metal door to the right. I said, “You think this is the only way in?”

“Can’t be. When merchandise is delivered, there has to be some way to distribute goods to the individual stores.”

We retraced our steps, huffing and puffing slightly as we made the climb. When we reached the sidewalk, she backed up a few steps, her gaze tracking the length of the building. At street level, along this aspect of the fortresslike structure, there were no shop windows and no access to retail establishments. “Second ramp just like this down the block,” she remarked. “Oh, wait a minute. I got it. Let’s just see if I’m correct.”

I looked at her. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

“If I’m right, of course. If I’m wrong, you don’t need to know.”

“You’re very tedious.”

She smiled, unfazed.

We returned to the car. She started the engine and glanced over her left shoulder to check for oncoming cars. She pulled out and continued her circuit of the mall, passing the twin of the entrance we’d just seen. She turned right at the corner and headed north on Chapel.

At Passages there was no charge for parking on weekends, probably to encourage spending. The gate to the underground parking lot was up. Reba turned in and eased her car down the ramp. At the bottom she hung a right and drove the length of the garage, parking in a space near the darkened glass doors that marked the lower-level entrance to Macy’s. The store at this hour was still closed and wouldn’t open until 10:00.

Reba pointed. Ten car lengths to our right there was a nondescript door marked “Service. No Admittance.” Beyond that, the ramp for second-, third-, and fourth-level parking spiraled up and out of sight.

“Won’t that be locked?” I asked, feeling that queasy sense of excitement at the notion of going where we weren’t supposed to be.

“For sure. I told you I did some reconnoitering before, but I couldn’t get in. Now I have these.” She held up the chunky ring of keys she’d snitched from Onni’s desk. She sorted through the keys one by one, smiling at the sight. “My, oh my. I’m sorry for every mean thing I ever said about the girl. Catch this.”

Onni, Little Miss Compulsive, had labeled every key with a strip of neatly embossed tape: OFFICE, BECK’S, CNFRCE ROOM, SRVICE COR, WRHSE, S.ELE., S.DEPOSIT MID-CITY, S.DEPOSIT, ST SV’GS & LO. Reba pinched the two safe-deposit keys together and jangled the rest. “Bet these contain a shitload of information. Safe-deposit box is where Beck keeps his second set of books.”

“A second set? That’s not smart.”

“Not real books. The information’s all on disks. He’s over there every couple of days, dropping off the updates. What’s he going to do? He’s a businessman. Even if what he’s doing is illegal, he still has to keep records. You think he doesn’t have to provide a full accounting to Salustio?”

“Sure, but it still seems risky.”

“Beck adores taking risks. He’s addicted to the rush.”

“I can relate to that.”

Reba continued to finger the safe-deposit keys. “Wonder if there’s any way to get into these boxes…”

“Reba…”

“I didn’t say I’d do it. He changed banks the minute I went to prison, so I wouldn’t be a signatory in any event. It’s probably Marty now.”

“Swear you’re going to put those back.”

“I told you I would. As soon as I’ve made dupes.”

“Goddamn it, Reba. Are you totally out of your mind?”

“Pretty much.” She glanced back over her shoulder at the vast empty garage. “We better get going before someone else shows up.”

We got out of the car and walked to the service door, our footsteps echoing against the bare concrete walls. Reba tried the knob, locked as anticipated, and then used the key Onni had so thoughtfully designated. The door opened into a stairwell. We walked down a flight and discovered two additional doors about ten feet apart. Reba said, “The lady or the tiger? You pick.”

I pointed to the left. She shrugged and handed me the keys. I had to do a bit of experimenting to find the right one. Onni’s paucity of imagination had resulted in her labeling some of the keys numerically. I tried three before I came to the one that worked. I unlocked the door and opened it. We found ourselves in the same ten-parking-space cul-de-sac we’d seen from the street.

Reba said, “Aha!”

We closed the first door and moved to the second. “Your turn,” I said. “I’d go for the key marked number four.”

“No sweat. I already know what’s behind this one.” She eased the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open. We stood looking into a long windowless corridor. Flats of fluorescent lights affixed to the ceiling lent a bluish cast to the air. At regular intervals, oversize metal doors on either side of the hall opened into the shipping and receiving departments of the various shops along the mall, some of which fronted on Chapel Street and some on the mall’s interior esplanade. Signs above the doors indicated the respective retailers: the luggage shop, a children’s clothing store, an Italian pottery outlet, the jewelry store, and so on down the line.

I studied the layout. There was no sign of the two elevators I’d seen in the lobby above, but a solid wall of concrete suggested the bottom of the shaft that housed them. A short distance away, a mirror located in the upper right-hand corner was tilted to reveal the alcove, reflecting an image of the service elevator and the second elevator I’d noticed on the lobby level. I started to move forward, but Reba extended her arm, effectively blocking me like the gate at a railroad crossing. She put a finger to her lips and pointed up and to the right.

I spotted a corner-mounted security camera, its aperture focused squarely on the far end of the hall. There was a telephone attached to the wall, presumably to facilitate communication between the front desk and deliverymen. We backed up and eased the door shut. Even so, she dropped her voice to an almost inaudible murmur. “After you dropped me off last night, I picked up my car and came back so I could chat with Willie. He’s nice, not as tight-assed as you’d think. Big chess buff. Plays duplicate bridge, and I swear to god, he bakes sourdough bread. Says he’s had the same starter for nine years. Whole time we’re yakking, I’m checking out the monitors—all ten of ’em—so I’ll know what he sees. I was catching flashes of this view, but I didn’t know where it was until we opened the door down here. Upstairs, he’s got line of sight in both directions on all the hallways, but nothing in the elevators and nothing on the roof.”

“What about Beck’s offices?”

“Oh, please. Beck wouldn’t put up with that Big Brother shit. He doesn’t mind Willie spying on his tenants, but not on him.”

“Seems like heavy security for a building this size.”

“Interesting, isn’t it? I thought so myself.”

“So where’d the elevators disappear to?”

“The public elevators stop at lobby level. Clearly, Beck doesn’t want anyone to have access to his offices from down here,” she said. “One elevator does a short loop between the parking garage and the lobby. Anybody who needs to reach floors two, three, or four has to exit into the lobby and cross to the public elevators. That way, Willie can intercept them and quiz them. You better have a pretty good reason for being in the building or you’re out of luck. If you need to take an elevator down this far, you have to have a key. There isn’t any button you can push.”

“But if the service elevator originates down here, can’t someone hop on down here and bypass Willard altogether?” I asked. “I mean, even with the cameras rolling he can’t be watching all ten monitors at once.”

“In theory, you’re right, but it’d be tricky. For one thing, all these passageways are kept locked—”

“Which didn’t keep us out.”

“And for another,” she said, plowing right on, “there’s a security code for every floor. You could risk the service elevator—assuming Willie didn’t spot you in the corridor down here—but you couldn’t get off unless you knew the code for the alarm panel on any given floor. Mess up the numbers and all hell breaks loose.”

“Which means what to us, exactly?”

“Which means we better impose on Willie’s good nature and retrieve your purse before the end of his shift.”

21

We retraced our steps, emerging from the service corridor in the parking garage near Macy’s. We crossed to the escalator and went up one level to the esplanade. When we reached the front entrance to the Beckwith Building, Reba pushed the door and discovered that it was locked. She cupped her hands to the plate glass. “Hey, Willie. Over here.”

She tapped on the glass to get the security guard’s attention. The minute he looked up, she gave him an enthusiastic wave and pantomimed his unlocking of the door. Willard shook her off, like a pitcher shaking off a sign. Reba motioned him over with an exaggerated rolling of her arm. He stared at her, unmoved, and she clasped her hands together earnestly as though in prayer. Reluctantly he left his perch at the desk and crossed to the door, where he said, “Building’s closed!” from his side of the glass.

“Come onnn. Open up,” she said.

He considered the request, his ambivalence clearly evident.

She put her mouth against the glass and made a big sucky kiss. She gave him the big eyes and produced the dimples for effect. “Please, please, please?”

He wasn’t happy, but he did pick up the keys attached to the chain on his belt. He unlocked the door and opened it a cautious three inches. “What do you want? I can’t be doing this unless you’re one of the tenants.”

“I know, but Kinsey left her bag upstairs and she needs her car keys and wallet.”

Unimpressed, Willard flicked a look at me. “She can come back on Monday. Building opens at seven.”

“How’s she going to do that? Without her car keys, she can’t even drive. I had to pick her up at her house and bring her over here myself. This is her handbag, Will. Do you know what it’s like when a woman’s separated from her purse? She’s going berserk. She’s a private detective. She has her license in there. Plus her address book, makeup, credit cards, checkbook, every nickel she owns. Even her birth control pills. She gets pregnant, the burden’s on you, so get ready to raise a kid.”

“Okay, okay. Tell me where it is and I’ll bring it down to her.”

“She doesn’t know where it is. That’s the point. All she knows is she had it when we went up with Marty last night. Now it’s gone and that’s the only place she went. It has to be there somewhere. Come on. Be a peach. It won’t take five minutes and we’ll be out of your hair.”

“Can’t. The alarm system’s on.”

“Marty gave me the code. Honest. He said it’s fine with him as long as we cleared it with you first.”

The long-suffering Willard opened the door and allowed us in. I thought he’d insist on coming upstairs with us, but he was serious about his monitoring duties and didn’t want to leave his post. Reba and I took one of the two public elevators, which made the four-floor journey at an agonizingly slow pace.

“You sure you know the code?” I asked.

“I watched Marty do it. Same code we had before when I was working for Beck.”

“How come he’s such a nut about security and so careless about his codes? Sounds like anybody who ever worked for him could get in.”

Reba waved the observation away. “We used to change ’em all the time—once a month—but with twenty-five employees, somebody was always messing up. The alarm would go off three and four times a week. The cops came out so many times, they started charging fifty bucks a pop.”

The doors slid open and Reba hit the Stop Run button while she stepped out of the elevator. I leaned around and watched as she punched in the seven-digit code: 4-19-1949. “Beck’s birthday,” she said. “For a while he used Tracy’s, but he was the one who kept forgetting that date so he switched to his own.”

The status light on the keypad shifted from red to green. She left the elevator on Stop Run, awaiting our return. I followed her into the reception area.

The offices were dead quiet. There were numerous lights on, which oddly contributed to the overall feeling of abandonment. “Bart and Bret, the cleaning twins, were in last night. Check the vacuum cleaner tracks. We better hope whoever comes in here first thing Monday morning doesn’t wonder about our footprints running up and down the halls.”

“How do you know the vacuuming was done by Bart and Bret and not the guys with the cleaning cart?”

“I’m so glad you asked. Because I’ll tell you why. They weren’t real cleaning guys, which is something I figured out in the dead of night. Know what bugged me about them?” She paused for effect. “Wrong shoes. What guy mops the floors wearing four-hundred-dollar shiny Italian loafers?”

“You are Sherlock Holmes.”

“You’re damn straight. You grab your shoulder bag while I satisfy my curiosity. This shouldn’t take long.”

I made a beeline for the roof, heading down the corridor closest to the stairs. Given Beck’s edict about clean surfaces, every desk I spotted en route looked as barren and untouched as an ad for office furniture. I took the steps two at a time and pushed through the big glass door that opened onto the roof. The morning sky was immense, the perfect shade of blue. I slowed and crossed to the parapet, drawn by a desire to see downtown Santa Teresa from this vantage point. The sun had warmed the air in the rooftop garden, coaxing fragrance from the flowering shrubs while a light breeze rustled through the foliage. In the distance, light spilled like pancake syrup across the mountain peaks. I leaned over and looked at the street, which was largely empty at this hour. I tilted my face to the light and took a deep breath before I righted myself and turned back to the task at hand. I retrieved my bag from behind the big potted ficus tree and went downstairs. Reba had been right about my birth control pills. I pulled out my packet and popped two like after-dinner mints.

When I got downstairs, she’d taken out a tape measure and was busy checking the length and breadth of the corridor, one foot on the metal ribbon while she extended the tape to the full. She released the button and I could hear the metal tape sing as she brought it zinging back to her hand. The tip-end whipped against her finger and dealt her a nasty blow. “Shit. Son of a bitch!” She sucked on her knuckle.

“You need a medic?”

“Look at that. I’m bleeding to death.”

The nick on her index finger was a quarter of an inch long and she studied it with a frown. “Anyway, bet you dollars to donuts the friggin’ room is right there. Press your ear to the wall and see if you can hear anything. Minute ago I heard a humming. Like machinery.”

“Reba, that’s the elevator shaft. You probably caught the sound of the service elevator going down.”

“Not from this floor. We’re the only ones up here.”

“But we can’t be the only people in the building. The elevator equipment is right above us. Of course you’d hear it.”

“You think?”

“Let’s try the obvious and check it out,” I said.

She followed me around the corner where the service elevator was located. From the digital readout on the wall, we could track the car going down, the number changing from 1 to G.

“Told you,” I said, and then glanced at my watch. “Shit. We better get out of here before Willard gets anxious and comes looking for us. I can’t believe the nonsense you laid on him. Talk about maneuvering.”

“I thought I did great…though that begging and pleading shit is only good for limited use. The next time we want in, I’ll have to screw the guy for sure.”

“You’re making a joke, right?”

“Don’t be such a prude. Screw one guy, you’ve screwed ’em all. You’re only a virgin once, and after that, you might as well reap the benefits. Besides, I wouldn’t mind. I think he’s cute.” Her gaze was raking the wall again and I could tell she was still speculating about the missing space. She said, “Maybe you get in by way of the roof. Through that little building that looks like a gardener’s shack.”

“Skip it. We don’t have time. Let’s get out of here.”

“You’re such a worrywart,” she said, taking out Onni’s key ring. “Just give me a second to return these, okay? I’m trying to be a good citizen.”

“What about Beck’s phony docs.”

“Right. I got ’em right here,” she said, patting her jacket pocket. She took the hem of her shirt and began cleaning fingerprints from the keys. “Wiping off the prints,” she said. “In case they ever dust.”

“Just get on with it.”

She walked down the hall to Onni’s office—not nearly fast enough for my taste—and disappeared from sight. I checked my watch again. We’d been up here twelve minutes. How long was it supposed to take us to find my shoulder bag? By now Willard would be out from behind his desk and on his way up. Reba took her time returning and when she finally appeared, hands shoved in her jacket pockets, instead of getting on the elevator as anticipated, she returned to the alcove where the service elevator was located and stood there staring at it.

“What are you doing?”

“I just figured it out. Hot damn.” She reached out and pressed the button, calling the service elevator to the fourth floor. As we watched the digital readout, the elevator began its slow and dutiful climb. Eventually the doors opened. She reached in and pressed Stop Run, then entered the service elevator with me close behind her. The space was twice the width and half again as long as an ordinary elevator, apparently to accommodate moving boxes, file cabinets, and oversize office equipment. The walls were hung with quilted gray fabric like the blankets movers use to protect furniture.

Reba moved to the wall opposite the elevator doors and pulled the padding aside to reveal a second set of elevator doors. On a wall-mounted panel to the right of them, there was a nine-digit keypad. She studied it for a moment and then raised a tentative hand.

“You know the code?”

“Maybe. I’ll tell you in a minute.”

“Guess wrong and won’t you set off the alarm?”

“Oh, come on. It’s like a fairy tale—you get three tries before the thing goes berserk. If I blow it, we’ll tell Willie we made a wee mistake.”

“Just leave it for now. You’re really pushing your luck.”

She ignored me, of course. “I know it’s not going to be his birth date—even Beck wouldn’t be dumb enough to use that again. But it might be a variation. He’s a narcissist. Everything he does relates to him.”

“Reba…”

She flashed a look at me. “If you’d quit whining and help me out we can get on with it and be on our way. I can’t pass this up. It may be the only chance we have.”

I rolled my eyes, trying to control my panic, which was already accelerating. She wasn’t going to budge until we figured it out or got caught. I said, “Shit. Try the same date backwards.”

“Not bad. I like it. That’d be what?”

“9-4-9-1-9-1-4.”

She thought about it briefly and then made a face. “Don’t think so. Too tough for him to rattle the number off the top of his head. Let’s try this…”

She punched in 1949-19-4.

No deal.

She punched in 19-4-1949.

I could feel my heart thud. “That’s two.”

“Would you get off it? I know it’s two. I’m the one punching in numbers. Let’s just think about it for a second. What’s another possibility?”

“What about Onni’s birthday?”

“Let’s hope not. I know it’s November 11, but I’m not sure what year. Anyway, Beck hasn’t been boffing her long so he probably doesn’t have a clue himself.”

I said, “11-11 any year would be eight digits, not seven.”

She pointed at me, apparently impressed with my ability to count.

“What’s his wife’s birthday?” I asked.

“3-17-1952. But he’s blown that one so many times he’s probably spooked by now. Besides, he prefers numbers with internal connections or sequences. Know what I mean? Repeats or patterns.”

“I thought you said he used your birthday at one point.”

“True. That’d be 5-15-1955.”

“Hey, mine’s 5-5-1950,” I chirped, sounding like a lunatic.

“Great. We’ll do a joint celebration when the dates roll around next year. So what should I try? His birth date backwards or mine straight ahead?”

“Well, his birth date backwards has an internal logic if you group the numbers. 949-191-4. Would he break it down that way?”

“Might.”

“Just do one or the other before I have a heart attack.”

She punched in 5-15-1955. A moment of silence and then the doors slid open. “My birthday. Sweet. You think he still cares?”

I pushed the Stop Run button and watched her wipe her prints off the keypad, taking care not to trigger the alarm. “Wouldn’t want anyone to know we were here,” she said, happily.

Meanwhile, I was staring straight ahead. The room was probably six feet by eight—not much bigger than a closet. The cleaning cart we’d seen was shoved up against the left wall. A U-shaped counter took up much of the remaining floor space. I looked up. The room seemed to be well ventilated, the walls heavily padded. A smoke detector and a heat detector had been installed in the shadowy upper reaches of the ceiling, where I could see sprinkler heads as well. Rungs embedded in the wall formed a ladder that went straight up. Around the perimeter of the ceiling, I could see rectangles of daylight roughly corresponding to the vents in the fake gardener’s cottage on the roof. Reba was right. In a pinch, you could probably gain entry to the room from the roof. Or escape that way.

There were three currency-counting machines on one arm of the counter and four currency-bundling machines on the adjacent counter. Open suitcases were lined up on the third section, packed with tightly wrapped bundles of hundred-dollar bills. Under the counter, ten cardboard cartons were lined up, their top flaps open, packed with additional bundles of hundreds, fifties, and twenties in U.S. currency. Each bundle was shrink-wrapped, with paper adding-machine tape circling packets of five. There were two styrofoam coffee cups visible and a pile of empty cups in a wastebasket, which also contained wads of discarded plastic wrappers. Several silver-dollar-size plastic disks with small blades were being used to slit the wrappers.

Reba said, “Geez. I’ve never seen so much money.”

“Me neither. It looks like they’re pulling bundles from these boxes, removing the wrappers, running the bills through the currency counter, and then rewrapping them for transport.”

She advanced a few steps and checked the total on one of the currency counters. “Take a peek at this puppy. They’ve run a million bucks through this.” She picked up a bundle and weighed it in her hand. “Wonder how much this is. Wouldn’t you love to know?” She sniffed it. “You’d think it would smell good, but it doesn’t smell like anything.”

“Would you keep your hands to yourself?”

“I’m just looking. I’m not doing anything. How much do you figure is in one of these, twenty grand? Fifty?”

“I have no idea. Don’t mess with that. I’m serious.”

“Aren’t you curious what it feels like? It doesn’t weigh all that much,” she said. She wiped her prints from the wrapper and put the bundle back, surveying the space. “How many guys you think work here besides the two we saw?”

“There’s not room for three. They probably come in weekends when the activity’s less conspicuous,” I said. I reached out and put my hand on one of the styrofoam cups and nearly moaned in fear. “This is still warm. Suppose they come back?”

“No one can get to us. The elevator’s on hold.”

“But if they find the elevator on hold, won’t they know something’s wrong? We have to get out of here. I’m begging you.”

“Okay, okay. But I knew I was right about the room. This is incredible, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely. Who gives a shit? Let’s go.”

I backed out of the room and into the service elevator. The other set of doors was still open and I stuck my head out into the corridor to assure myself that no one had entered the premises while we were in the room. Reba was having trouble dragging herself away. I said, “Reba, come on!” sounding every bit as tense and impatient as I felt.

She moved into the elevator as though mesmerized and entered the seven-digit code. The doors on that side of the elevator slid closed. She replaced the wall padding and adjusted the quilted matting to conceal the second set of doors.

“What took you so long?”

“It’s all so beautiful. Can you imagine having even half the bundles in there? You’d never have to lift another finger as long as you lived.”

“No problem. Your life wouldn’t last that long.”

We exited through the elevator doors that opened into Beck’s offices and Reba released the Stop Run button. We waited until the service elevator doors closed, and then went around the corner and got back on the public elevator.

She released the hold button, the doors closed, and we began our leisurely descent. I was nearly sick with anxiety, but she didn’t seem affected. The woman had nerves of steel.

When we reached the lobby level and stepped off, Willard looked up from his desk with a smile. “You find it?”

I held up my shoulder bag to show our mission had been accomplished. My hands were shaking so badly I thought he’d spot the trembling from across the lobby. I was doing what I could to maintain a semblance of normality until we could ease out the front door and be on our way.

Reba, true to form, made a point of crossing to his desk, where she stretched up on tiptoe and rested her arms on the counter, holding her injured finger close to his face. “You got a first-aid kit? Look at this. I about crippled myself.”

Willard peered at her knuckle, inspecting the wound that was no bigger than a hyphen. “How’d you do that?”

“I must have snagged it on something. Sucker hurts. You can kiss it and make it better if you want.”

He shook his head, smiling indulgently, and started opening his desk drawers. While he rummaged around in search of a Band-Aid, I noticed Reba’s gaze flicking across the monitors, taking in all ten views.

Willard held up a bandage. “Think you can manage this yourself?”

“Don’t be mean. After all I’ve done for you?” She held out her finger and he pulled the red thread that opened the paper packaging. He removed the Band-Aid and applied it.

She said, “Thanks. You’re a doll. I’ll recommend a raise.” She made a kissing noise at him as we headed for the door.

Behind us, Willard left his perch and followed, taking out his jumble of keys so he could unlock the front door. “Don’t you be coming back. This is the last of it.”

“I won’t, but you’ll miss me,” she said as we scooted through the door.

“I doubt that,” he said, and Reba blew him another kiss. I thought she was laying it on a bit thick, but Willard didn’t seem to mind. He turned the keys in the lock and we were safe.

22

Reba slowed her BMW to a stop in front of my apartment. As I got out and shut the car door behind me, I saw that Cheney’s little red Mercedes was parked at the curb. I felt a surge of anxiety. I’d intended to fill him in on my adventures with Reba over the past couple of days, but Jonah’s call had intervened and he’d gone off to the shooting scene without my having spoken a word. The omission made me uneasy, as though I were deliberately holding out on him. Even referring to our activities as “adventures” sounded like an attempt to minimize the fact that what we’d done could jeopardize the investigation. Last night’s incursion into Beck’s offices had been risky enough. In a pinch, an argument could be made that Marty had invited us to tour the premises, but his offer hadn’t extended to our rifling through desk drawers and stealing Onni’s keys. He’d certainly never given us permission to return in his absence and enjoy the run of the place. I wanted to tell Cheney about the bundles of cash being counted, repackaged, and packed into suitcases, but I knew the discovery encompassed a little matter of criminal trespass, which tainted the knowledge. Nonetheless, I needed to unload before my withholding the information became an issue in itself.

I went through the gate and around the side of my studio, as burdened with guilt as though I’d slept with another man. I could make excuses for my conduct, but I was accountable all the same. Cheney was sitting on my front step, still in the clothes he’d been wearing the night before. He smiled when he saw me, looking exhausted, but good. Confessing was bound to impact our relationship. I dreaded the consequences, but I had to speak up.

I sat down on the step and slipped my hand into his. “How’d it go? You look beat.”

“Big mess. Two gangbangers dead. Hooker got caught in the crossfire and she’s dead, too. Jonah sent me home to shower and change clothes. I’m due back at one. How’s by you?”

“Not that good. We need to talk.”

He focused on my face, his eyes searching. “Can it wait?”

“I don’t think so. This is about Reba. We’ve got a problem.”

“Meaning what?”

“You’re not going to like this.”

“Just spit it out,” he said.

“She and I connected up for dinner last night. She wanted to introduce me to Marty Blumberg, Beck’s company comptroller, and I couldn’t see the harm. He has dinner at Dale’s every Friday night so that’s where we went. He comes in and the three of us are schmoozing away. Next thing I know, she tells him how the feds are mounting a case against Beck and he—Marty—is going to end up taking the blame if he doesn’t do something quick. I had no idea what she thought she was doing, but there it was.”

Cheney closed his eyes and hung his head. “Geez. I don’t believe it. What the hell’s wrong with her?”

“It gets worse. She tells him Onni’s a federal agent and she’s screwing Beck’s brains out as a way of getting the goods on him. At first, Marty resists. He really doesn’t want to believe it, but Reba shows him the photos and reels him in. Then she gets us invited up to the offices—ostensibly for a tour—but she uses the opportunity to scour the place for anything she can lay her hands on, which turns out to be Onni’s keys.”

I continued the rundown, giving him an unvarnished account of what had happened over the course of the past two days. I could tell he was getting pissed before I was even halfway through. He was tired. He’d had a long night and this was the last thing he needed. At the same time, I felt compelled to tell him the truth. Either I revealed the whole of it—of myself—or what was the point?

I moved on to events of the morning and when I’d finished, Cheney blew. “You gotta be out of your head! Aside from the issue of unlawful entry, if Beck gets wind of it, he’ll know something’s off and that’s the end of it for us.”

“How’s he going to find out?”

“Suppose Marty spills the beans or the security guy has second thoughts about letting you in. He knows both of you by name. All it’d take is one offhand remark from either of those guys. Doesn’t matter how solid the government’s case is, defense attorney puts you on the stand and he’ll take you apart. Not that he’ll have the chance. Long before it comes to that, the feds will slap you with charges of obstruction of justice, tampering with evidence, and god knows what else. Perjury for sure the minute you try to cover your ass. Reba’s got no credibility. Convicted felon, woman scorned. Anything she says is automatically suspect.”

“Then why’d you bring her into it? If she’s so useless, why recruit her in the first place?”

“Because we needed a confidential informant, not a friggin’ one-man posse. You’re a pro. You know better—or I assumed you did. The feds play for keeps. Compromise an operation like this and you’re the one who pays. What’s it to her? She’s got nothing to lose.”

“Cheney, I hear you. I know I should have stopped her, but I couldn’t see a way to do it. Once she told Marty what was going down, events just started to escalate—”

“Bullshit. You were a willing participant. What you did was illegal—”

“Got it. I know. I’m aware of it,” I said. “On the other hand, how could I walk away? She’s in this because of us—because of me to be specific. I feel some responsibility for what’s happening to her.”

“Well, you better start taking responsibility for your own behavior. If this sting goes down the shitter, you’ll be in more trouble than you can shake a stick at.”

“Wait a minute. Wait. I don’t mean to sound defensive, but I got backed into this. When the deal first came up, I told you I didn’t want to do it, but you talked me into it, smutty photographs and all. Fade out, fade in. I’m sitting there at Dale’s and she opens her mouth and blows the deal wide open. What was I supposed to do? If I’d gotten up and left, there was no way of guessing what the hell she’d do next. Believe it or not, I was trying for damage control. I’ll admit the situation snowballed—”

“Just do me a favor and stay the hell away from her, okay? She calls you, hang up and leave the rest of it to us. I’ll get Vince on the horn and bring him up to speed. We’ll see what he can salvage, if anything.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to screw things up.”

“Well, you can’t do anything about it now. What’s done is done. Just keep your distance from Reba. Promise.”

I held a hand up like I was taking an oath.

“I’ll call you later,” he said brusquely. He got up and headed around the corner to his car. I heard him fire up his engine and peel away from the curb with a chirp of rubber on pavement. I could feel my face burning for an hour afterward.

I locked myself in my apartment and tidied my underwear drawer. I needed to do something small and useful. I had to get a handle on life in a risk-free arena where I could feel competent again. Maybe folding underpants didn’t amount to much, but it was the best I could do. I moved on to the chest of drawers and refolded my shirts. Then I tackled the junk drawer downstairs. I hated the idea of being prosecuted. Obstruction of justice was serious damn shit. I pictured myself in jail garb, legs shackled, hands manacled in front, doing the traditional inmate two-step while shuffling to and from court. That began to seem a bit melodramatic and I decided there was no point in going overboard on the self-flagellation. So I’d goofed. Big deal. I hadn’t killed anyone.

After an hour, I became aware of voices outside my door, one being Henry’s. I glanced out the kitchen window, but the angle was too extreme for me to see who else was there. I went to the front door, popped the locks, and opened it a crack. Henry, Lewis, and William were standing together in the driveway. Lewis and William were both in three-piece suits while Henry wore his usual shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops. He’d backed the station wagon out of the garage and Lewis was loading his bags in the rear. As I looked on, I heard a soft ping, and William removed his pocket watch from his vest and checked the time. He took out a small packet of trail mix and made a production of opening the sealed cellophane, which generated copious crackling noises. Henry flicked him a look of annoyance but continued the conversation with Lewis, which seemed to be about nothing in particular. I eased the door shut, gratified that one conflict had been peacefully resolved, or so I hoped. The truth about strong emotion is that it’s difficult to sustain. Despite how victimized we feel, it’s hard work hanging on to anger, even when it’s tinged with righteousness. Holding a grudge against someone is (sometimes) more trouble than it’s worth.

Reba called at 2:00. As I’m constitutionally unable to resist a ringing phone, I was on the verge of snatching up the handset. I hesitated, curbing the impulse, and let the machine pick up. She said, “Oh, poo. I was hoping you’d be there. I just had this big ol’ stinkin’ fight with Lucinda and I’m dying to tell you about it. I practically threw her out on her ass only not really, but you know, figuratively speaking. Anyway, call me when you can and I’ll fill you in. Also, there’s something else we need to talk about. Bye-bye.”

She called again at 3:36. “Hey, Kinsey, me again. Don’t you check messages these days? I’m going stir-crazy up here. We really need to talk so give me a buzz when you get in, okay? Otherwise, I can’t be responsible for what I do. Ha ha ha. That’s a joke…sort of.”

At 5:30, she left only her name with a request that I call.

I went into the office Monday morning and buried myself in the work I’d neglected the previous week. I’d read about the parking-lot shootout in the morning paper, and I knew the STPD vice and homicide detectives were working with the gang detail, interviewing witnesses and running down leads. The Santa Teresa gang population tends to be stable, their activities carefully monitored. Periodically, however, gang members from Olvidado, Perdido, and Los Angeles will swing through town, especially on holiday weekends when the homeboys, like everyone else, are hoping for a change of scene. Happily police officers from those communities make the same swing through town so that unbeknownst to the gangbangers, they’re still under the watchful eye of the law.

I didn’t hear from Reba again until late Monday afternoon, after I arrived home from work. Mercifully she hadn’t called the office, where good business practice dictates that I answer the phone. She’d called my apartment twice, leaving a message at noon and then another one at 2:00. She sounded cheerful at the outset but increasingly plaintive as the day wore on. “Kinsey? Yoo hoo! Did you tell me you were going out of town or something? Don’t think so, but I really can’t remember for sure. I’m sorry to be such a pest, but Beck’s back in town and I’m antsy as hell. I really don’t know how much longer I can hold out. I’m on my way to Holloway’s to pee in a jar and shoot the shit with her. Then I’m supposed to go to an AA meeting, but I’m thinking I might skip. Too depressing, you know? Anyway, call me when you get this. Hope everything’s okay. Bye.”

It was hard to leave her hanging when I’d been so available to her the week before. I felt like a mother cow separated from her calf—I could hear Reba’s bleating cries, but I wasn’t free to respond. I’d been serious when I promised Cheney I’d keep my distance, at least until the situation was under control. Once she’d talked to Vince and his pals, I could reassess. By then, of course, she might well have severed our relationship.

In the meantime, I heard nothing from Cheney, a silence I ascribed to his being up to his ears in work. To avoid the silence, I left the apartment and headed over to see Henry. I tapped on the frame and he motioned me in. He had his heavy-duty mixer on the counter, a ten-pound sack of bread flour, yeast packets, sugar, salt, and water at the ready.

“Can you put up with company?”

He smiled. “If you can put up with the racket my mixer makes. I’m about to throw together a batch of bread, which I’ll let rise overnight and bake first thing tomorrow morning. Grab a stool.”

I watched him measure ingredients, which he dumped in the big stainless-steel mixing bowl. Once he turned on the machine, we put our conversation on hold until he was done. We chatted while I watched him remove the sticky mass of dough, kneading and adding flour until the whole of it was smooth and elastic. He oiled a big wash pan, turned the dough in it until its surface glistened, and then covered it with a towel. He put the pan in the oven where the pilot light would generate the warmth necessary for the bread to rise.

“How much are you making?” I asked, looking at the quantity of dough.

“Four big loaves and two batches of dinner rolls, all for Rosie,” he said. “I may do up a pan of sticky buns if you’re interested.”

“Always. I take it Lewis went home?”

“I dropped him at the airport Saturday. And speaking of him, he did apologize for butting in, which may be a first. I guess it never occurred to him that his flying out would have that effect. I told him there was no point worrying. What’s done is done.”

“Someone said the same thing to me yesterday under different circumstances,” I said. “At any rate, I’m glad the two of you are back on solid ground.”

“Never any doubt of that,” he said. “What about you? I didn’t see much of you this weekend. How’s your new fellow?”

“Good question,” I said. I told Henry the sorry saga of my bad behavior, risks taken, laws broken, gains, losses, and tension-filled escapes. He enjoyed the tale a lot more than Cheney had and for that I was grateful.

A little after six, I returned to my place and fixed myself a hot hard-boiled-egg sandwich, with more mayo and salt than your internist would recommend. I was wadding up my paper towel when the phone rang. I tossed the wad and waited until the caller began to speak. Marty Blumberg identified himself and I picked up. “Hey, Marty. It’s me. I just now walked in.”

“I hope you don’t mind me calling you at home. Something weird’s come up and I’d be curious what you think.”

“Sure.” I picked up traffic noises in the background and pictured him calling from a pay phone.

“You want the long version or the short?”

“Long stories are always better.”

“Right,” he said. “So here’s how this goes.” I could hear that momentary lull as he inhaled and released a mouthful of smoke. “I get home from work today and my housekeeper’s wringing her hands. She’s upset about something, but won’t say what. I press because I can tell she needs to unburden herself. She says, don’t get mad. I say, fine. She tells me she arrived at the house at nine, like always, and she sees this phone company truck parked in the drive and a couple of guys on the porch. She goes ahead and lets herself in the back and then answers the front door. This one guy says the phone company’s received a number of calls complaining the service is out and they’re going through the neighborhood checking all the lines. They want to know is my phone working, so she asks ’em to wait, tries the line, and sure enough it’s dead. Well, she’s paranoid—comes from watching way too many cop shows on TV—so she asks ’em to show some ID. Both have these pinch-on plastic picture dealies that say California Bell. Huerta writes down their names and employee numbers. Second guy has a clipboard and he shows her the work order, typed up as neat as you please. She figures it’s legit so she lets ’em in. You with me so far?”

“Yes, but I don’t like the sound of it.”

“Me neither,” he said. “She’s telling me this shit and I can feel the rocks piling up in my gut. The guys are in my study fifteen, twenty minutes, and then they come out and tell her everything’s hunky-dory. She asks what it was and they say the roof rats must’ve chewed through the outside wires, but now all’s well. Afterwards, she’s thinking none of this makes sense and she’s worried she did wrong. I act like no big deal and tell her I’ll handle it from here. So what I’m thinking is somebody’s either bugged my house or put a tap on my phone.”

“Or both,” I supplied.

“Shit, yes. Why else would I be calling from a fuckin’ minimart parking lot? I feel like an idiot, but I can’t take the chance. My phone’s tapped; I don’t want whoever’s doing it to realize I figured it out. That way I can feed ’em any bullshit I want. You think it’s the feds?” I could hear him take another puff on his cigarette.

“I have no clue, but I think you’re right to worry.”

“How can they do that? I mean, assuming they planted a bug, or, like, a listening device, wouldn’t that be illegal?”

“Without a court order, sure.”

“Trouble is, if it’s not them, it might be someone a whole lot worse.”

“Like who?” I was thinking Salustio Castillo, but wanted to hear him say it.

“Never mind who. Either way, I don’t like it. Friday night, when Reba laid out that shit about Beck, I figured she was yanking my chain. More I think about it, the more I’m thinkin’ maybe she was telling the truth. Beck always made a point of keeping me in the thick of it. Like she says, could be he’s setting me up.”

“Who else is in on it?”

“On what?”

“The money laundering.”

“Who says anyone? I never said that.”

“Oh come on, Marty. You can’t launder that much money without help.”

“I’m not a snitch,” he said, his tone indignant.

“But other people are involved, right?”

“I don’t know, maybe. A few, but you’re never going to get me to name names.”

“Fair enough. So what’s in it for you?”

“Same as everyone else. We’re paid to keep our mouths shut. We help Beck now and he’ll see that we’re set up for life.”

“Life in a federal pen. That’ll be a treat,” I said.

Marty ignored that, saying, “Truth is, I got plenty and I’d skedaddle right now if I could figure out how. If Customs is in on the deal, I can’t leave the country without getting my ass nailed. They flag my name in the computer, minute I check in for my flight, boom, I’m done for.”

“I’m telling you, you better throw in your lot with the guys who count. Beck isn’t looking after you. He’s got himself to protect.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that. I mean, sure he may need us, but how far is he willing to go? Beck’s about Beck. Comes right down to it, he’d throw us to the wolves.”

“Probably so.” I nearly confided the rumor I’d heard, that Beck was on the move and likely to disappear within the next few days, but the likelihood hadn’t been confirmed and the information wasn’t mine to pass on. “Of course, it’s always possible the phone company story is on the up and up…”

“Nuh-uhn. Don’t think so.”

“Well, I’m sorry I can’t help.”

“What about Reba? I’ve been trying to reach her all day.”

“Probably at the house. She had a meeting with her parole officer earlier so you might try her again.”

“You talk to her, tell her to give me a call. This is making my stomach hurt. I’m anxious as hell.”

“Look, let me talk to a friend of mine and see what I can find out.”

“I’d appreciate that. You call back, you be careful what you say. Meantime, you hear from Reba, tell her the two of us gotta talk. I don’t like workin’ with a noose around my neck.”

“Hang in there,” I said, and then winced at my choice of words.

Once he disconnected, I dialed both Cheney’s home and work numbers and left messages. I tried his pager, punching in my home number in hopes he’d call back. Marty was moving into panic mode, which made him as unpredictable as Reba, though more vulnerable.

I spent the evening stretched out on the couch, book propped in front of me pretending to read while I waited for Cheney’s call. I wondered where he was and whether he was still pissed off at me. I needed to talk to him about Marty, but more than that, I craved the physical contact. My body was remembering his with a low-level yearning disruptive to concentration. Before he arrived on the scene, I’d lived in a dead zone—not exactly buzzing with joy, but certainly not discontent. Now I felt like a pup just coming into heat.

One of the problems with being celibate is that once sexual feelings resurface, they’re almost impossible to repress. I found myself remembering what had happened between us and fantasizing about what might come next. Cheney had a laziness about him, a natural tempo half the speed of mine. I was beginning to see that operating in high gear was a means of protecting myself. Living at an accelerated pace allowed me to feel only half as much because there wasn’t time to feel more. I made love the same way I ate—eager to satisfy the immediate hunger without acknowledging the deeper desire, which was to feel connected at the core. Avoiding the truth was easier if I was on the run. With quick sex, as with fast food, there was no savoring the moment. There was only the headlong rush to be done with it and move on.

At 10:00, when the phone rang, I knew it was him. I turned my head, listening until the machine began recording the sound of his voice. I reached over and picked up, saying, “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself. You called.”

“Hours ago. I thought you were ignoring me. Are you still mad?”

“About what?”

“Good.”

“How about you? Are you pissed off?”

“Not my nature,” I said. “Not with you at any rate. Listen, we need to talk about Marty. Where are you?”

“Rosie’s. Come join me.”

“You trust me to walk half a block by myself? It’s pitchy dark outside.”

“I was going to meet you halfway.”

“Why don’t you go the whole distance and meet me here.”

“We can do that later. For now, I think we should sit and stare into each other’s eyes while I put a hand up your skirt.”

“Give me five minutes. I’ll step out of my underwear.”

“Make it three. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

By the time I locked the door behind me and reached the front gate, he was waiting on the other side of Henry’s wrought-iron fence. The sidewalk on his side was one step lower than the walk on mine, which made me feel tall. The night air was chill and the dark settled over us like a veil. I slid my arms around his neck. He tilted his head and ran his mouth down along my throat and across my collarbone. The fence pales were cold, blunt-tipped spears that pressed against my ribs. He rubbed his hands up and down my arms. “You’re cold. You should have a jacket on.”

“Don’t need one. I have you.”

“That you do,” he said, smiling. He eased a hand between the fence pales, ran his fingers under my skirt and up between my legs. I heard him catch his breath and then he made a sound low in his throat.

“Told you.”

“I thought it was a metaphor.”

“What do either of us know about metaphors?” I said, laying my face against his hair.

“I know this.”

My turn to hum. “We should go to Rosie’s,” I whispered.

“We should go in and lie down before impaling ourselves on this fence.”

At midnight we made grilled cheese sandwiches—the only instance in life when Velveeta isn’t such a terrible idea. I found myself sidetracked by the crust, which was crisp, fully saturated with butter. Still munching, I said, “Hate to ask, but what’d Vince say when you told him about Reba and me?”

“He stuck his fingers in his ears and hummed. Actually, he loved the information about the counting room. Said he’d put a note in the file and attribute the tip to an anonymous call. He’s scheduling the meeting with Reba for Thursday.”

“Can’t he make it any sooner than that? He’s the one telling us Beck’s about to take off. Reba’s worried she’ll run into him.”

“I can mention it to Vince, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope. That’s the downside of an operation like this, it’s unwieldy as hell. All she has to do is lay low.”

“You give her the news. I’m not allowed to talk to her.”

“That’s right. Because I’m looking after you.”

“What about Marty? He’s the one you ought to be worried about. He’s really feeling the squeeze, convinced his phone’s tapped or he’s got a bug planted in his house.”

“Could well be. Tell him to give us a call and we can talk about a deal.”

“He’s not ready for that. He’s still looking for a way out of the bind he’s in.”

“What do these guys think? They’re so smart they’re never going to get caught?”

“They haven’t been caught so far.”

23

Tuesday morning passed in a great big boring blur. Given the egocentric nature of the world, I imagined that since nothing in particular was happening to me, there was nothing in particular happening to anyone else. In truth, events were transpiring that I would hear about only when it was too late to alter either cause or effect. My phone rang at 11:00—Cheney asking me to sit tight for the next half-hour as there was something he wanted me to hear. “You have a tape recorder?” he asked.

“An old one, but it takes a regular-size cassette.”

“That’ll do.”

Fifteen minutes later he walked in the door. While I was waiting for him, I searched through my closet until I found the tape recorder. I opened a fresh package of AA batteries and by the time Cheney arrived, the tape recorder was set up and ready to go. “What is it?”

He slipped the cassette in the machine. “Something the FBI picked up this morning. Some of it sounds garbled, but the techs have taken it as far as they can.” He pressed the Play button, triggering a generalized hissing and the ringing of a phone. A man on the other end picked up without identifying himself. “Yes?”

The calling party said, “Problem.”

The minute I heard the voice, I shot a look at Cheney. “Beck?”

He pressed the Pause button. “The guy he’s talking to is Salustio Castillo. This was the first call he placed when he got to the office.” He pressed Play again.

On the tape, Castillo was saying, “What?”

“When I took delivery on that shipment, the inventory was off.”

Silence. Hissing. “Impossible. ‘Off ’ meaning what?”

“Short.”

“By how much?”

“A pack.”

“Large or small?”

“Large. We’re talking twenty-five.”

Salustio was silent. “I supervised the count myself. What about the invoices?”

“Not a match. I checked three times and the numbers don’t tally.”

Salustio said, “I told you I wanted someone supervising your end—”

“This wasn’t on my end.”

“Or so you say.”

Silence from Beck. “You know I wouldn’t do this.”

“Do I? You’ve argued for a bigger cut of the action, which I can’t…there’s no way I can justify from my end. Now you say…missing, all I have is your word.”

“You think I’d lie?”

“Let’s call it inventory shrinkage. It’s been known to happen. From my perspective, you’re adequately compensated…don’t see it that way. So maybe you siphon off a percentage of the goods and that satisfies your need for a pay increase. What better cover than claiming I shorted you?”

“I never said that.”

“Then what?”

“I said the total’s off. Might be the…mistake…”

“Yours. Not mine.”

“…”

“Fix it.”

Silence. There was a stretch of pure hissing on the tape.

Tightly Beck said, “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

“Make up the shortfall out of your end, which is where the loss occurred. My total’s correct and I want full payment deposited to my account. In the meantime, not to worry. I know you’re good for it. Pleasure doing business,” Salustio said, and clicked off.

Beck said, “Fuck!” as he banged down the phone.

Cheney turned off the tape.

I thought the conversation was interesting, but I wasn’t clear why he wanted me to hear it. I was on the verge of making a comment when Cheney said, “A tightly packed bundle of hundred-dollar bills is one inch thick,” he said. “That’s twenty-five thousand dollars. I know because I asked the Treasury boys. Beck’s been back a day. If a currency delivery came in while he was gone, it makes sense he’d double-check the totals first thing.”

“Okay,” I said. And then I shut my mouth because I could hear the penny drop. He knew Reba and I had ventured into the counting room on Saturday when the currency was being unwrapped and run through the machines. All either of us had to do was clip a pack of hundreds and who’d be the wiser? Beck didn’t know we’d been there and all Salustio cared about was having the right total credited to his account. “You think she took it?”

“Sure. Vince was apoplectic. I thought he’d pop a vein. Beck doesn’t know she was up there, but he’ll rip the place apart looking for that dough. Once he pulls the security tapes, he’s got her. You, too, for that matter.”

“She has to be nuts. Why take the risk?”

“Because Beck can’t report the loss. He calls the cops and he’ll generate the kind of scrutiny he can’t afford. Not when he’s on the verge of skipping out.”

I could feel myself flush, overtaken by alternating surges of denial and guilt. I suddenly understood what she’d been doing in the counting room for those few beats after I’d entered the elevator. I’d felt anxious, impatient to be gone while she’d been smitten with the sight of all that cash. Meanwhile, I was preoccupied, intent on checking the corridor to make sure we were in the clear. It wouldn’t have taken any time—two seconds?—to stuff a packet of cash down her shirt or in her jacket pocket. I’d been thinking “nerves of steel,” amazed at her nonchalance while I was wetting my drawers. Then, of course, there was her exuberance with Willard once we got downstairs. She’d flirted and I’d assumed she was hyper because we’d discovered Beck’s counting room. Must have been the feel of all that money next to her skin. Crazy. Reba wiping down her fingerprints. Cheney verbally boxing my ears when I’d confessed our misdeeds. And I’d defended her. Shit! My palms were damp and I rubbed them against my jeans. “What now?”

“Vince wants her in as soon as possible. The meeting with the IRS and Customs has been moved up to tomorrow afternoon at four in the FBI offices. Vince wants to talk to her first, like at one o’clock, and see if he can iron this out. Otherwise, the shit’s really going to hit the fan.”

“Can’t he help her?”

“Sure, if she’s willing to put herself in his hands.”

“Fat chance. She’s never even met the man.”

“Why don’t you talk to her?”

“If you think it’d do any good. I’ve been ducking her for days, but I can give it a try.”

“Do that. Worst-case scenario, he’ll put her in a safe house until he can figure out what’s what.”

Cheney checked his watch, popped the Eject button on the tape recorder, and removed the tape. “I gotta get this back. You have Vince’s number?”

“You better give it to me again.”

He snagged a pen and a scratch pad and made a note, tearing off the top sheet, which he handed to me. “Let me know what she says. If you can’t reach me, you can talk directly to him.”

“Will do.”

After he left, I sat at my desk, trying to figure out what to say to Reba. There was really no point in pussyfooting around. She’d dug herself a hole and the sooner she climbed out of it, the better off she’d be. As long as Beck got the money back, he might not inquire too closely how it had disappeared. I picked up the handset and punched in the number for the Lafferty estate. I went through a preliminary round of conversation with the housekeeper, Freddy, who told me Reba was still in bed. “Shall I wake her?”

“I think you better.”

“One moment. I’ll put you on hold and have her take the call in her room.”

“Great. Thanks.”

I pictured Freddy in her crepe-soled shoes, padding down the hall and up the stairs, holding on to the rail. The silence went on for a bit, but I imagined her knocking on Reba’s door and then a groggy interval before she picked up, which was sure enough how she sounded when she came on the line. “’Lo?”

“Hi, Reeb. It’s Kinsey. I’m sorry to wake you.”

“That’s okay. I should probably be getting up anyway. What d’you want?”

“I need to ask you about something and you have to swear to tell the truth.”

“Sure.” She was already sounding more alert, so I thought she had a fair idea what was coming.

“Remember when we were together Saturday morning on that little voyage of discovery?”

Silence.

“Did you lift a packet of hundred-dollar bills?”

Silence.

“Never mind admitting it. The point is, Beck knows.”

“So what? Serves him right. It’s like I told him at Bubbles, he owes me, big time.”

“Only one tiny problem. The money wasn’t his. It was Salustio’s.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Shit. Are you sure? I thought it was Beck’s, like he was packing it to take with him when he left.”

“Nuhn-uhn. He was verifying Salustio’s total before making a deposit to his account. Now he’s twenty-five grand short.”

I could hear her lighting a cigarette. I said, “What made you think you could get away with it?”

“It was a whim, like an impulse. Haven’t you ever done anything like that? Spur of the moment. I just did it, that’s all.”

“Well, you better put it back before Beck figures it out.”

“How’m I supposed to do that?”

“How would I know? Stick it in an envelope and leave it at Willard’s desk. He can pass it on to Marty or take it up himself—”

“But why do I have to do anything? Beck can’t prove it, can he? I mean, how can he prove it when I didn’t leave fingerprints?”

“For one thing, he’s got security tapes that show you going in and out of the building. Beyond that, he doesn’t have to prove a thing. All he has to do is tell Salustio and you’re screwed.”

“He wouldn’t do that to me, would he? I mean, I know he’s a shit, but he wouldn’t tell Salustio. You think?”

“Of course he would! Salustio expects him to cough up the missing twenty-five grand.”

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

“Look, Reeb. I’ll say this again. Vince Turner can probably help if you’ll turn around and help him.”

“What good does that do me with Salustio?”

“Maybe Vince can put you somewhere safe until it’s all ironed out.”

“Oh, man. This is bad. You think I should call Beck?”

“You’d be smarter to keep away from him and talk to Vince instead. He wants to see you anyway before you meet with the feds.”

“What feds? I don’t have a meeting with the feds. The guy dropped the ball.”

“He did not. The meeting’s been changed to tomorrow afternoon at four. I’ll pick you up at twelve-thirty and you can spend a couple of hours with him first.”

“About bloody time.”

“I told you it would take time.”

“Yeah, well, it’s too late now.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, I gotta think how to handle this. I’ll call you back.” The line went dead.

So much for my powers of persuasion.

That night, Cheney was busy with softball practice, so I was on my own. I had dinner at Rosie’s, after which I retired to my apartment and spent the evening with a book.

Twelve-fifteen on Wednesday, I headed south on the 101, relieved to be in motion again. Once I delivered Reba to Vince’s office, he could take charge of her and I’d be off the hook. The drive up Bella Sera was exactly as it had been on prior occasions, right down to the scent of bay laurel and the smell of dry grass. It had been thirteen days since I’d taken this route on my way to meet Nord Lafferty, wondering what he could possibly want with me. Escort his daughter home from prison. How complicated was that? In the days since we’d returned, her life had slowly come unraveled. The crazy part was that I liked her. Despite the differences between us, I responded to her out of the outrageous elements in my own nature. Watching her operate was like seeing a distorted version of myself, only larger than life and much more dangerous.

When I reached the property, the gates were standing open. As I rounded the bend in the drive, I saw the same Lincoln Continental and Mercedes sedan. Now a third vehicle sat beside the other two—this one a Jaguar convertible, a handsome dark green with a caramel interior that looked good enough to eat. I parked, leaving my car unlocked as I moved up the walk to the house. Reba’s massive long-haired orange cat, Rags, sauntered out to greet me, looking at me with startling blue eyes. I extended my hand and he sniffed at my fingers. He allowed me to scratch his head, nudging me repeatedly to keep the action afloat.

I rang the bell and waited while he circled my legs, leaving long orange hairs on the legs of my jeans. From inside, I heard the muffled tap of high heels on hard marble tile. The door was opened by a woman I immediately pegged as the legendary Lucinda. She appeared to be in her midforties, thanks to the work of a first-rate plastic surgeon. I knew this because her neck and hands were fifteen years older than her face. Her hair was short, streaked with varying shades of blond as though bleached by the sun. She was slim and beautifully dressed in a designer outfit I recognized, though I’d forgotten the name. The two-piece black knit was banded in white and the jacket had brass buttons running down the front. The knee-length skirt revealed a knotty set of calves. “Yes?”

“I’m Kinsey Millhone. Could you tell Reba I’m here?”

She studied me carefully with eyes as dark as tar. “She’s not home. Is this something I can help you with?”

“Ah, no. Don’t think so. I’ll just wait for her.”

“You must be the private investigator Nord’s spoken of. I’m Lucinda Cunningham. I’m a friend of the family,” she said, extending her hand.

“Nice meeting you,” I said, shaking hands with her. “Did Reba say when she’d be home?”

“I’m afraid not. It might help if you told me what this was about.”

Pushy woman, I thought. “She has a meeting this afternoon. I told her I’d give her a lift.”

Her smile was not entirely warm, but she stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door shut behind her. “I don’t mean to pry, but this…um…appointment, is it important?”

“Very. I called her myself to let her know.”

“Well, this may present a problem. We haven’t seen Reba since dinnertime last evening.”

“She was gone all night?”

“And this morning as well. There’s been no note and no call. Her father hasn’t said as much, but I know he’s concerned. When I saw you at the door, I assumed you had news of her, though I was almost afraid to ask.”

“That’s weird. I wonder where she went?”

“We have no idea. As I understand it she was out late the night before. She slept until noon and then she had a phone call—”

“That was probably me.”

“Oh. Well, we wondered about that. She seemed upset afterwards. I believe she had a visitor. She was gone much of the afternoon and finally put in an appearance while her father was in the midst of his evening meal. He eats early most days, but this was closer to normal—shortly after six, I’d say. The cook had prepared chicken soup and his appetite seemed good. Reba wanted to chat with him and I decided to leave so the two could be alone.”

“And she didn’t mention anything to him?”

“He says not.”

“I better talk to him myself. This is worrisome.”

“I understand your concern, but he’s resting right now. He’s been working with his respiratory therapist and he’s exhausted. I’d prefer not to disturb him. Why don’t you come back later this afternoon? He should be up and about by four.”

“I can’t do that. This meeting is urgent, and if she’s not going to make it, I need to know right now.”

Her gaze dropped from mine and I could almost see her calculate the extent of her authority. “I’ll see if he’s awake and if he’s up to it. You’d have to keep it brief.”

“Fine.”

She reached behind and opened the door, gesturing me inside. I noticed she put a foot out to prevent the cat from coming in. Rags was offended, shooting her a look. I stepped into the foyer, waiting for directions.

“This way.”

She crossed toward the stairs and I followed in her wake. As she climbed the stairs, one hand trailing along the bannister, she delivered a comment over her shoulder to me. “I’m not sure what Reba’s told you, but the two of us have never really gotten along.”

“I wasn’t aware of that. I’m sorry to hear.”

“I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. She was under the impression I had designs on her father, which couldn’t be further from the truth. I don’t deny I’m protective. I’m also outspoken when it comes to her behavior. Nord seems to think if he’s ‘supportive’ and gives her everything she wants, eventually she’ll straighten out. He’s never understood what good parenting is about. Children have to take responsibility for what they’ve done. Only my opinion…not that anybody’s asked.”

I let that one slide. I knew little of their history and didn’t feel a response would be appropriate.

We traversed the wide landing, moving down a carpeted corridor with bedrooms on both sides. The door to the master bedroom was closed. Lucinda tapped softly, then opened the door and looked in on him. “Kinsey’s here about Reba. May I show her in?”

I didn’t hear his response, but she stepped aside, allowing me to enter. “Five minutes,” she said firmly.

24

Nord Lafferty lay propped up against a pile of pillows, his oxygen tank close by. His frail white hands trembled on the crocheted coverlet. I knew his fingers would be icy to the touch, as though his energy and warmth were retreating from his extremities to his core. It wouldn’t be long until the last bright spark would be snuffed out. I moved to the side of his bed. He turned to look at me and a smile brought color to his face. “Just the person I was thinking of.”

“And here I am. Are you feeling up to this? Lucinda says you had a session with the respiratory therapist. She doesn’t want me wearing you out.”

“No, no. I’ve rested a bit and I’m fine. I’m sorry to have to waste so much time in bed, but some days I’m not capable of anything else. I trust you received my check.”

“I did. The bonus wasn’t necessary, but I appreciate the thought.”

“You deserve every penny. Reba enjoys her time with you and I’m grateful for that.”

“Lucinda tells me she’s been gone since dinnertime last night. Do you happen to know where?”

He shook his head. “She sat with me through supper and helped me into the library afterwards. I heard her making a call. A cab arrived thirty minutes later. She said not to worry, gave me a kiss, and that was the last time we spoke.”

“She has a meeting at one o’clock today and then a second meeting at four. I can’t imagine her a no-show. She knows how critical this is.”

“She made no mention of it. I take it she hasn’t been in touch with you.”

“We talked briefly yesterday. She said she’d get back to me, but then she never called.”

“She did have a visitor. Fellow she used to work with.”

“Marty Blumberg?”

“That’s him. He came up to the house and the two had their heads together for quite some time. She went out afterwards.”

“Lucinda mentioned she was out late the night before.”

“She didn’t arrive home until two-thirty in the morning. I was still awake when she finally pulled in the drive. I saw the headlights flash across the ceiling and I knew she was safe. Old habits die hard. The months she was in prison—those were the only nights I didn’t lie awake waiting for her. I imagine I’ll die with an eye on the clock, frightened something’s happened.”

“Why’d she call a cab? Is something wrong with her car?”

He hesitated. “My guess is she was leaving town and didn’t want her car sitting in a parking lot somewhere.”

“But where would she go?”

Helplessly, Nord shook his head.

“Did she take any luggage?”

“I asked Freddy myself and she says she did. Mercifully, Lucinda’d left by then, or I’d never hear the end of it. She knows something’s happened, but so far I’ve kept her in the dark. Lucinda’s relentless, so do be careful or she’ll wheedle it out of you.”

“I gathered as much. Which cab company?”

“Freddy might remember if you want to talk to her.”

“I’ll do that.”

A soft tap at the door and Lucinda appeared, holding up two fingers. “Two more minutes,” she said, with a smile to indicate her good intent.

Nord said, “Fine,” but I saw a flash of irritation cross his face. As soon as she closed the door, he said, “Lock that. And lock the door to the connecting bath while you’re about it.”

I gave him a momentary look and then crossed to the door and turned the thumb lock. A large white-tiled bathroom opened off to the right, apparently joining his bedroom with the one next to it. I locked the far bathroom door, leaving the near one ajar, and then returned to my seat.

He pulled himself up against the pillows. “Thank you. I suppose she means well, but there are times when she takes too much on herself. To date, I haven’t appointed her my guardian. As for Reba, what do you propose?”

“I’m not really sure. I need to find her as soon as possible.”

“Is she in trouble?”

“I’d say so. Shall I fill you in?”

“It’s best I don’t know. Whatever it is, I trust you to take care of it and bill me afterwards.”

“I’ll do what I can. Couple of government agencies are interested in talking to her about Beck’s financial dealings. This is going to get sticky and my position’s precarious as it is. When it comes to the feds, I don’t want to end up on the wrong side of the fence. If I’m working for you, no privilege attaches to our relationship in any event, so hiring me won’t serve as protection for either one of us.”

“I understand completely. I wouldn’t ask you to compromise yourself in the eyes of the law. That said, I’d be grateful for any help you can give her.”

“Is her car still here?”

He nodded. “It’s parked in the garage, which is unlocked as far as I know. You’re welcome to take a look.”

There was a tapping at the door and the handle turned. Lucinda rattled the knob impatiently, her voice muffled. “Nord, what’s wrong? Are you in there?”

He gestured toward the door. I crossed and unlocked it. Lucinda turned the knob abruptly and pushed her way in, almost banging me in the face. She stared at me, apparently assuming I’d locked the door on my own. “What’s this about?”

Nord strained to raise his voice. “I told her to lock it. I didn’t want any further interruptions.”

Her body language shifted from suspicion to injury. “You might have mentioned it. If you and Miss Millhone have private business to discuss, I wouldn’t dream of interfering.”

“Thank you, Lucinda. We appreciate that.”

“Perhaps I’ve overstepped my bounds.” Her tone was frosty, the content designed to generate apologies or reassurances.

Nord offered neither. He lifted a hand, almost a gesture of dismissal. “She’d like to see Reba’s room.”

“What for?”

Nord turned to me. “Down the hall to your right—”

Lucinda cut in. “I’ll be happy to show her. We don’t want her wandering around on her own.”

I glanced at Nord. “I’ll get back to you,” I said.

I followed Lucinda down the hall, noting her stiff posture and her refusal to look at me. When we reached Reba’s room, she opened the door and then stood in my path forcing me to squeeze by her. Her eyes trailed after me. “I hope you’re satisfied. You think you’re so helpful, but you’re killing him,” she said.

I locked eyes with her, but she was far more practiced than I at delivering the withering glance. I waited. Her smile was set, and I knew she was the sort who’d find ways to get even. Lucinda, the bitch indeed. She stepped into the hall. I shut the door and locked it, knowing she’d get the point.

I turned and leaned against the door, making a visual survey, taking in the whole of the room before starting my search. The bed was made, a few personal mementos neatly arranged on the bedside table: a framed photo of her father, a book, a scratch pad, and a pen. No clutter. No clothing on the floor. Nothing under the bed. A phone, but no personal address book. I went through the desk drawers, uncovering items that must have been there for years: school papers, exam books, unopened boxes of stationery, which were probably gifts—certainly not her taste, unless she favored kitty-cat cards with cute sayings on the front. No personal correspondence. Dresser drawers were neat.

I checked the closet, where several empty hangers suggested the number of garments missing—six by my count. Among the articles she’d left behind were a navy blue blazer and a leather bomber jacket, askew on its hanger. I had no way of knowing what she’d packed. I wasn’t even sure the size or the number of suitcases she owned. I sorted through idly, thinking back to the clothes I’d seen her in. I didn’t spot her boots or either of the sweaters I remembered—the one red cotton, the other dark blue with a cowl neck. She’d worn both within the first few days of being home, which meant they might well be her favorites, garments she’d want with her on the road.

I went into the bathroom, which was close to barren: tawny marble floor tile and countertop, spotless mirrors, and the smell of soap. The medicine cabinet had been emptied of items. No deodorant, cologne, or toothpaste. No prescription drugs. I could see a whitish spot on the marble counter where her toothbrush had lain. The hamper had been stuffed with blue jeans, T-shirts, and underwear; a bath towel, still faintly damp, crowded in on top. The shower pan was dry. Nothing in the trash.

I went back to the closet and studied the clothes. I took the bomber jacket off its hanger and checked the pockets. I found some loose change and a slip from a generic order pad that showed she’d paid for a cheeseburger, chili fries, and a Coke. No date and the restaurant wasn’t mentioned by name. I slipped the receipt into my jeans pocket and returned the jacket to its hanger. I let myself out of the room and retraced my steps. As I passed Nord’s room, I paused and leaned my head close to the door. I could hear the murmur of voices, primarily Lucinda’s, and she sounded aggrieved. Any further conversation with him would have to wait. I went downstairs and found my way to the back part of the house.

The housekeeper was sitting at the kitchen table. She’d spread newspapers across the surface, on which she’d laid twelve place settings of sterling silver, two silver water pitchers, and a series of silver beakers. Some of the more ornate pieces had been sprayed with an aerosol polish that was drying to a strange shade of pink. The cloth she used on the flatware was black from the tarnish she’d removed. Her gray hair was wispy, curled and back-combed into a dandelion-like aureole with patches of scalp showing through.

I said, “Hi, Freddy. I’ve been chatting with Mr. Lafferty. He says you saw Reba last night before she left.”

“Going out the door,” she said, addressing her remark to the spoon.

“She took a suitcase?”

“Two—a black canvas overnight case and a hard-sided gray suitcase on wheels. She was wearing jeans and boots and a leather hat, but no jacket.”

“Did you have a conversation?”

“She put a finger to her lips, like this was our little secret. I was having none of that. I’ve worked for Mr. Lafferty forty-six years. We don’t keep secrets from one another. I went straight into the library and spoke to him, but before I managed to get him up from his chair, she was gone.”

“Did she say anything about her intentions? Any talk of a trip?”

Freddy shook her head. “There were calls going back and forth, but she was quick to catch the phone so I never heard who it was. I couldn’t even tell if the caller was a man or woman.”

“You know it’s a parole violation if she leaves the state,” I said. “She could be sent back to prison.”

“Miss Millhone, as fond as I am of her, I wouldn’t withhold information or cover for her in any way. She’s breaking her father’s heart and the shame’s on her.”

“Well, if it makes any difference, I know she adores him, which doesn’t change anything, of course.” I took out a card with my home number scribbled on the back. “If you should hear from her, would you call me?”

She took my card and slipped it into her apron pocket. “I hope you find her. He doesn’t have much time.”

“I know,” I said. “He told me her car’s still parked in the garage.”

“Use this back door. It’s closer than going out the front. There’s a set of keys on the hook,” she said, indicating the service porch and mud room visible through the open doorway behind her.

“Thanks.”

I snagged the keys and then took a diagonal path across a large brick apron, approaching what must have been the original carriage house, converted now to a four-car garage. Rags appeared from around the corner of the house. Clearly, his job was to oversee arrivals, departures, and all activities involving the property. Above the garage, I could see a stretch of dormer windows with curtains drawn across the glass, which suggested servants’ quarters or an apartment, possibly Freddy’s. One garage was empty, the retractable door standing open. I used it as ingress and quickly spotted Reba’s BMW parked against the far wall. I felt obliged to explain myself to Rags as he followed in my tracks. I got in on the driver’s side and slid under the wheel. I put the key in the ignition and checked the gas gauge. The arrow jumped to the top, indicating a full tank of gas.

I leaned over and popped the door to the glove compartment and then spent a few minutes sorting through the accumulation of gasoline receipts, outdated registration slips, and an owner’s manual. In the side pocket to my left, I found another handful of gasoline receipts. Most were dated three to four months before Reba went to prison. The single exception was a receipt dated July 27, 1987—Monday. She’d bought gas at a Chevron station on Main Street in Perdido, twenty miles to the south. I added the receipt to the other one in my pocket. I checked under the front seats, the backseat, the floorboards, and the trunk, but found nothing else of interest. I left the garage and returned the keys to the hook in the mud room, then collected my car. Last I saw of Rags, he was sitting on the porch, calmly grooming himself.

I returned to the 101 and made a speedy round-trip to my apartment, stopping off long enough to pick up the photograph of Reba her father had given me. I folded it and eased it into my shoulder bag before I headed for Perdido. The four-lane highway follows the coastal contours with the foothills on one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other. The concrete seawall all but disappears in places, and waves crack up along the rocks in an impressive display of power. Surfers park their cars on the berm and tote their surfboards down to the beach, looking as sleek as seals in their form-fitting black wetsuits. I counted eight of them in the water, straddling their boards, faces turned toward the waves as they waited for the surf to mount the next assault on the shore.

To my left, the steeply rising foothills were bare of trees and thick with chaparral. Paddle-shaped cactus had taken over large patches of eroding soil. The lush green, encouraged by the winter rains, had given way to spring wildflowers, and then died back to this tinderbox of vegetation, ripe for the autumn fires. The railroad tracks ran sometimes on the mountain side of the road and sometimes crossed under the highway and tracked the surf.

On the outskirts of Perdido, I took the first off-ramp and proceeded toward town on Main, checking addresses along the way. I spotted the Chevron station on a narrow spit of land that bordered the Perdido Avenue off-ramp. I pulled in and parked on the side of the station nearest the restrooms. A uniformed attendant was standing at the rear of a station wagon, topping off the tank. He spotted me, eyes lingering briefly before returning to his task. I waited until the customer had signed the credit card slip and the wagon had pulled away before I crossed to the pumps. I pulled out the photograph of Reba, intending to inquire if he’d worked on Monday and if so, if he remembered her. As I approached, however, something else occurred to me. I said, “Hi. I need directions. I’m looking for a poker parlor called the Double Down.”

He turned and pointed. “Two blocks down on the right. If you get to the stoplight, you’ve gone too far.”

It was close to two in the afternoon when I pulled into the one remaining space in the parking lot behind a low cinder-block building painted an unprepossessing beige. The sign in front flashed a red neon spade, a heart, a diamond, and a club in succession. The Double Down was written out in blue neon script across the face of the building. In lieu of stairs, a wheelchair ramp angled up to a windowless entrance, approximately four feet above ground. I climbed the ramp to the heavy wooden door with its rustic wrought iron hinges. A sign indicated that the hours ran from 10:00 A.M. until 2:00 A.M. I pushed my way in.

There were four large tables, covered in green felt, each with eight to ten poker players seated in wooden captain’s chairs. Many turned and looked at me, though no one questioned my presence. Along the rear wall there was a galley-style kitchen with a menu posted above the service window. The selections were listed in removable black letters mounted in white slots: breakfast dishes, sandwiches, and a few dinner items. I was already partial to the scrambled egg and sausage breakfast burrito. I checked the receipt I’d found in Reba’s jacket pocket—cheeseburger, chili fries, and Coke. The same items were listed on the board and all the prices matched.

The walls were paneled in pine. Along the acoustical-tile ceiling, a picture rail was festooned with strands of fake ivy and hung with framed reproductions of sports art, football dominant. The lighting was flat. All the players were men except for a woman at the back who was probably in her sixties. A chalkboard mounted on the side wall bore a list of names, presumably guys waiting for an open seat. To my surprise, there was no cigarette smoke and no alcohol in sight. Two color television sets mounted in opposing corners flickered silently with two different baseball games. There was scarcely any conversation, only the sound of plastic chips clicking together softly as the dealer paid off the winners and pulled in the losing bets. As I looked on, the dealers changed tables and three guys took advantage of the break to order something to eat.

There was a counter to my left and behind it, in a cubbyhole, a fellow was sitting on a stool. “I’m looking for the manager,” I said. I was wondering, of course, if poker parlors had managers, but it seemed like a safe bet, so to speak. The guy said, “Yo,” raising his hand without lifting his gaze from his book.

“What’s the book?”

He held it up, turning the cover into view as though wondering himself. “This? Poetry. Kenneth Rexroth. You know his work?”

“I don’t.”

“The guy’s awesome. I’d lend you this, but it’s the only copy I have.” He put his finger between the pages, marking his place. “You want chips?”

“Sorry, but I’m not here to play.” I took Reba’s picture from my bag, unfolded it, and held it out to him. “Look familiar?”

“Reba Lafferty,” he said, as though the answer was self-evident.

“You remember when you saw her last?”

“Sure. Monday. Night before last. She sat at that table. Came in about five and stayed until we closed the place at two. Played Hold ’Em most of the night and then switched to Omaha, for which she has no feel whatever. Had a roll of bills about like this,” he said, making a circle of his thumb and middle finger. “Chick’s been out of prison a week, or that’s the scuttlebutt. You her parole officer?”

I shook my head. “A personal friend. I was the one who went down to Corona and drove her home.”

“Should have saved yourself the trip. Before you know it, she’ll be on the sheriff’s bus, heading the other way. Too bad. She’s cute. About the way a raccoon’s cute before it bites the shit out of you.”

I said, “Yeah, well, there you have it. She took off last night and we’re trying to track her down. I don’t suppose you know where she went.”

“Off the top of my head? I’d say Vegas. She dropped a bundle in here, but you could tell she was on a roll. She had that look in her eye. Bad luck or good, she’s the kind who keeps going till all the money’s gone.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You don’t gamble?”

“Not at all.”

“My theory? Chick runs on empty. She gambles for the hype, thinking she can use that to fill herself up. Ain’t never gonna happen. She needs help.”

“Don’t we all,” I said. “By the way, why the Double Down? I thought the term was blackjack.”

“We used to have blackjack until the owner phased it out. The locals prefer poker—skill over luck, I guess.”

As soon as I reached my office, I grabbed a pencil and notepad, hauled out the phone book, and chose a travel agent at random. I dialed and when she answered, I told her I needed information about a trip to Las Vegas.

“What day?”

“Don’t know yet. I work until five and I’m not sure what day I want to go. What flights do you show for weekdays after six P.M.?”

“I can check,” she said. I heard tappity-tap-tap in the background and after a silence, “I see two. USAir at 7:55 P.M. by way of San Francisco, arriving Las Vegas at 11:16, or United Airlines 8:30 through Los Angeles, arriving LV at 11:17 P.M.”

“Where else would I find poker parlors?”

“Say again?”

“Card parlors. Poker.”

“I thought you wanted to go to Las Vegas.”

“I’m looking at all the options. Anything closer to home?”

“Gardena or Garden Grove. You’d have to fly to LAX and find ground transport.”

“That sounds doable. What flights do you have to Los Angeles after six P.M.? I know about the United flight at 8:30. Is there anything else?”

“I show a United at 6:57, arriving in Los Angeles at 7:45.”

I was taking notes as she spoke. “Oh wow, thanks. This is great.”

Somewhat testily, the travel agent said, “You want to book one of these or not?”

“I’m not sure. Let’s try this. Say I had a few bucks in my hot little hand. Where else could I go?”

“After six P.M. weekdays?” she said, drily.

“Exactly.”

“You could try Laughlin, Nevada, though there aren’t any flights into Laughlin-Bullhead unless you want to fly charter.”

“Don’t think so,” I said.

“There’s always Reno–Lake Tahoe. The same airport services both.”

“Could you…”

“I’m doing it,” she sang, and again I could hear her tapping her computer keys. “United Airlines departing Santa Teresa at 7:55, arrives San Fran 9:07 P.M., departs 10:20, arriving in Reno at 11:16. That’s all there is.”

“I’ll call you back,” I said, and hung up. I circled the word “Reno,” thinking about Reba’s former cellmate, Misty Raine, allegedly living up there. If Reba were on the run, it might make sense to try connecting with a friend. Of course, consorting with a known felon was a parole violation, but she was already racking them up, so what was one more to her?

I dialed directory assistance in Reno, the 702 area code, and asked the operator for a listing under the last name Raine. There was one: first initial M, but with no address listed. I thanked her and hung up. I drew a second circle around the word “Raine,” wondering if Reba had been in touch with Misty since her release. I picked up the phone again and dialed the number I’d been given for M. Raine. After four rings, a mechanical male voice said, “No one is home. Please leave a number.” So uninformative. I really hate that guy.

At 4:30, I drove back to the Lafferty estate. As I pulled into the parking pad, I was happy to note Lucinda’s car was gone. Rags was asleep in a wicker chair, but he roused himself to greet me, sitting at my feet politely while I rang the bell. When Freddy let me in, Rags took the opportunity to slip inside. He followed as Freddy led me to the library where Nord was entrenched on the sofa, propped up against a mass of bed pillows and covered with a throw. He said, “I had Freddy bring me down. I couldn’t stand another minute upstairs.” Rags jumped up on the sofa, walked the length of Nord’s body, and sniffed at his breath.

I said, “You look better. You have some color in your cheeks.”

“It’s temporary, but I’ll take what I can get. I’m assuming you’ve learned something or you wouldn’t be back so soon.”

I told him about the gasoline receipt and my drive to Perdido, where I’d been directed to the card parlor. I related the report I’d had about her poker losses Monday night. I couldn’t see any point in plaguing him with the suspicion that she’d stolen twenty-five thousand dollars so I left that part out. “Reba mentioned a stripper named Misty Raine, a former cellmate of hers. Apparently, Misty moved to Reno after she got off parole. I’m thinking if Reba’s caught up in gambling, it’d be smart to scout out a place where she could also lay low—”

“In which case she might try hooking up with this friend,” Nord said, idly stroking the cat.

“Right. That way, instead of laying out money for a room, she could drop it all at the tables and hope for some return. According to directory assistance, there is an ‘M. Raine’ in Reno, with no published address.”

“But wouldn’t traveling to Reno be a violation of her parole?”

“So’s the gambling,” I said. “There’s always the possibility she’ll come back before she’s missed, but I hate to see her take the chance. Has she been to Reno before?”

“Often,” Nord said. “But how can you be sure she’s there? Her friend isn’t likely to admit to it.”

“That’s my thought, too. Reba didn’t mention Reno?”

“She never said a word.”

“What about the phone company? I’ve been wondering if you could ask about any long-distance calls in the past seven days. A match on Misty’s number would at least suggest the two have been in touch.”

“I can try.”

I rounded up the phone book and dialed the number for him, taking him as far as the billing department before I handed him the phone. He identified himself by name and phone number and explained what he wanted. In the most glib and convincing manner imaginable, he spun a tale of an out-of-town visitor who’d made some long-distance calls but neglected to ask for time and charges. After chatting with the woman, he jotted a number in the 702 area code to which three calls had been made. He thanked her for her help, hung up, and handed me the slip. “I’m afraid this still doesn’t give you an address.”

“I have a police pal and I’m hoping he can help.”

25

By the time I left Nord’s it was close to 5:00. There was no point returning to the office so I headed for home. I let myself into my place and tossed my bag on a chair. Cheney had left two cranky messages wanting to know where the hell Reba was as she’d missed her 1:00 appointment with Vince and her 4:00 meeting with the FBI. I called Cheney’s pager, punched in my number, and waited for the phone to ring, which it did ten minutes later.

“You called?”

“I need a favor. Can you check a phone number in Reno and get me an address?”

“Who for?”

“A friend of a friend.”

“Is this about Reba?”

“Who else?”

He thought about it briefly. “She’s already in more trouble than she knows. If she’s up there, the best thing for all of us is to have Reno PD pick her up.”

“That’s one approach,” I said. “On the other hand, you still need her cooperation. I’m thinking about driving up to Reno and talking her into coming back—assuming I can find her.”

“Does Holloway know she’s gone?”

“I doubt it, but Reba doesn’t see her until Monday, which means we have five days before she’ll be missed. I’d hate to do anything behind Priscilla’s back so you can tell her if you like. Or…”

“Or what?”

“You can run it by your IRS buddies and see what they have to say. Maybe her value to them takes precedence and they can square it with her PO. There’s plenty of time to tell Priscilla once Reba’s been debriefed.”

“Give me the number in Reno and I’ll get back to you.”

“Why don’t you talk to Vince first and then I’ll give you the number. We can work it out from there.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Of course I trust you. He’s the one I’m worried about.”

“What about tonight? You want to meet me at Rosie’s? I’ve got a couple of reports to write, but it shouldn’t take me long.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll be there in a bit.”

I left my front door ajar and crossed the patio to Henry’s. His kitchen door was open and I knocked on the frame. “Henry? It’s me.”

“Come on in. I’ll be right there,” he said.

He had a pot of homemade soup simmering on a back burner and I took that as a good sign. Henry seldom cooks or bakes when he’s feeling down. His glass of Black Jack over ice was sitting on the kitchen table, the newspaper neatly folded and waiting in his rocking chair. A newly opened bottle of Chardonnay was sitting in a cooler on the counter. He appeared from the hallway with a stack of clean towels. “You should have poured yourself some wine. I opened that for you. Something I want to talk to you about. You have a few minutes?” He put the towels in a kitchen drawer and took a wineglass out of the kitchen cabinet and filled it halfway.

“Thanks. I have all the time you need. I’ve been feeling out of touch. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks. What about you?” He resumed his seat in the rocking chair and took a sip of his drink.

“I’m good,” I said. “Now that we’ve cleared that pithy matter, you want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

He smiled. “Here’s what I’ve been considering. I don’t think there’s any remedy for my relationship with Mattie. At the moment, she’s calling the shots and I don’t feel I can impose if she’s not interested. That’s the way of the world. We didn’t know each other long and there are all kinds of reasons it couldn’t work—age, geography—the particulars aren’t relevant. What I realize is I enjoyed having someone in my life. It put a spring in my step, even at the age of eighty-seven. So I’ve been thinking it wouldn’t be such a terrible idea to make a phone call or two. There were several women on the cruise who seemed lively and nice. Mattie may be one of a kind, but that’s beside the point.” He paused. “That’s as far as I got, but I’d be interested in your thoughts on the matter.”

“I think it sounds great. I remember after you got home, you had all kinds of women leaving messages on your machine.”

“Embarrassed me.”

“Why?”

“I’m old-fashioned. I was taught men should be the pursuers, not the other way around.”

“Times have changed.”

“For the better?”

“Perhaps. You meet someone you like, why not make an effort? There’s nothing wrong with that. If it works, it works, and if it doesn’t, oh well.”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking. There’s a woman named Isabelle, who lives here in town. She’s eighty, which is a little closer to my age. She loves to dance, which I haven’t done for ages. And another woman, Charlotte. She’s seventy-eight and still active in real estate. She lives in Olvidado, close enough,” he said. “You think one at a time might be good?”

“Nothing wrong with both. Get your feet wet. The more the merrier.”

“Good. Then that’s what I’ll do.” He clicked his glass against mine. “Wish me luck.”

“All the luck in the world.” I leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

I sat in my favorite booth in Rosie’s, the one in the rear where I can sip a glass of wine while I keep a close eye on the place. I’ve been a regular at the tavern for seven years and I still can’t tell you the names of the day-drinkers or the other steady customers like me. Rosie’s the only common thread, and I suspect if the other patrons and I compared notes, we all have the same complaint. We’d grouse at how she bullies us, but we’d all feel smug, seeing her mistreatment as a sign of just how special we are to her. William was working behind the bar. I’d stopped off on the way in and picked up the wine he poured when he saw me enter. He was busy, otherwise, I was certain, he’d have given me the latest in his medical reports.

Once settled, I took a sip of white wine so close to vinegar it was almost enough to make me swear off the stuff. Cheney had called back within minutes to tell me Vince was favoring the personal approach. He offered his blessings as long as he was given the contact number as well. I gave Cheney the number I’d picked up from Nord’s telephone bill. I assumed Vince Turner would keep the information to himself, but I worried the FBI would get wind of what was going on and make trouble.

I put in another call to Nord to tell him I’d be taking off in the morning. He’d offered to underwrite the trip and I’d accepted, any charitable impulse quickly overridden by the need to pay my bills. I’d brought along a pocket atlas and I was flipping back and forth between Southern California and the western border of Nevada, considering my route. The obvious choice was to take Highway 101 to the 126, travel east as far as Highway 5, and then north to Sacramento, where I’d connect to the 80 on a north-to-east trajectory that would take me straight into Reno. If Cheney couldn’t manage to get me Misty’s address, I’d revert to the old-fashioned method—check the public library for the criss-cross directory where phone numbers are listed in numerical order and matched with the corresponding address.

Before I hit the road, I’d make a stop at the auto club and get a proper series of strip maps. I really didn’t need them, but I like the white spiral binding and that arrow penned in orange that marches up the page. Makes me feel like I’m getting my money’s worth for the cost of my annual membership. I moved on, making a mental list of clothing and toiletries I’d need to pack. I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up with a smile, anticipating Cheney.

Beck slid into the booth across from me. “You seem happy to see me.”

“I thought you were someone else.” I took in the sight of him: chinos, dress shirt, with a windbreaker over it.

He laughed, thinking I was making a joke. Casually I closed the atlas and laid it on the seat beside me, then leaned to the right as though scanning the entrance. “Reba’s not with you?”

“Not at all. That’s why I stopped in. I’m trying to track her down.” His eyes strayed to the atlas. “Are you taking a trip?”

“Just indulging in fantasy. I’ve got too much work piled up to go anywhere.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re a private detective. What are you working on?”

I knew he couldn’t care less about my caseload unless it involved him. I figured he was fishing, wondering if I was part of the government conspiracy to reel him in. I said, “The usual. A skip-trace, a couple of employee background checks for the Bank of Santa Teresa. Stuff like that.” I droned on for a bit, making it up as I went along. I could see his eyes glaze over and I hoped sincerely that I was boring him to death.

I looked up in time to see Rosie appear through the swinging kitchen doors. Her eyes lighted on Beck like a terrier spotting a rat. She made a beeline for the booth, barely able to suppress her happiness. Beck collected himself and rose to his feet. He extended a hand to her, then leaned forward and bussed her on the cheek. “Rosie, you look beautiful. You’ve had your hair done.”

“I did myself. Is home permanent,” she said.

As far as I could see, her hair looked the way it always did—badly dyed, badly cut.

She dropped her gaze modestly. “I’m remember what you want. Scotch. Double wit ice and water back. The twenty-fours year, not the twelve.”

“Very good. No wonder your customers are loyal.”

I thought she’d see through the flattery, but she lapped it up, nearly dropping a little curtsy before she scurried off to get his drink. He sat down again, watching her departure with a fond smile as though he really gave a shit. His gaze drifted back to mine. He was a cold, cold man. The missing twenty-five thousand had put him on red alert. He was out hunting to see who his enemies were.

I crossed my arms and leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. There was something restful about being in the company of someone I disliked so much. I didn’t have to worry about impressing him, which allowed me to focus on the game at hand. “How was Panama City?”

“Fine. Good. The problems started as soon as I came home. A little birdie tells me you and Reba got into trouble while I was gone.”

“Me? Well, dang. What’d I do now?”

“You don’t know what I’m referring to?”

“We went shopping at the mall if that counts for anything.”

“The pow-wow with Marty. What was that about?”

I blinked at him twice as though drawing a blank and then allowed the light to dawn. “Friday night? We ran into him at the mall. Once the stores closed down, we stopped in at Dale’s and ordered a couple of bowls of that chili guaranteed to give you the runs. Geez, Louise. Have you ever eaten that crap? Completely gross—”

“Enough already. Just get on with it.”

“Sorry. So anyway, about that time Marty came in. He was happy to see Reba. She introduced us and we chatted for a bit. End of story.”

He seemed to watch me from a distance, not yet satisfied. “What’d you chat about?”

“Nothing in particular. I meet the guy. I’m nice. That’s all it amounted to. Why do you care?”

“You didn’t talk about me?”

“You? Not at all. Your name never came up.”

“Then what?”

“What do you mean, ‘Then what’?”

“Where’d you go from there?”

I shrugged. “The office. Marty was bragging about the new digs and said he’d show us around, so we ended up doing a quick tour. He said you’d be pissed if you heard. Is that what this is about?”

“I don’t believe you’ve finished. Isn’t there something else?”

“Well, let’s see now. Oh. Now this is earth shattering. I left my purse on the roof and we had to pop back the next day and go in search of it. What a pain in the ass that was.”

Rosie approached with Beck’s scotch on a tray. We dropped the topic of conversation and smiled at her blandly while she set down a ceremonial doily and put his drink on it. Beck murmured his thanks without engaging her in further conversation.

She hesitated, hoping for another round of fawning and compliments, but he was intent on me. I was wishing she’d sit down and talk to us the rest of the night. Instead she flicked me a look, suspicious that this was romance a-brewing. Little did she know I was sitting there frantically assessing the situation, trying to guess how much Beck knew and how he’d acquired the information. If he’d seen security tapes, I had to make sure I accounted for all our comings and goings. I was aware my being a wiseass was getting on his nerves, but I couldn’t help myself. Rosie manufactured a bit of small talk and then departed. I looked at Beck, waiting for his next move.

He picked up his scotch and took a sip, watching me over the rim of his glass. “Clever. You explain it all so nicely, but somehow I’d swear you’re lying through your pearly whites.”

“My reputation must precede me. I’m good at lying,” I said.

He set his drink on the table, making a circular pattern with the moisture from the bottom of the glass. “So where is she?”

“Reba? Beats me. We’re not joined at the hip.”

“Really. You’ve been with her constantly and now suddenly you have no idea? She must have said something.”

“Beck, I think you’ve gotten the wrong impression. We’re not friends. Her father paid me to go get her. That’s the kind of pal I am. I took her to the parole office and the DMV. She was lonesome. We had dinner—”

“Don’t forget Bubbles.”

“Big deal. We went to Bubbles. I was feeling sorry for her. She doesn’t have any friends, except Onni, who treats her like a piece of shit.”

He thought about that briefly and shifted gears. “What’s she told you about me?”

I tried to make the big eyes like Reba did when she was feigning innocence. “About you? Well, gosh now. She told me you screwed her brains out in the car the other night. She was going to give me all the nitty-gritty details about the size of your dick, but I begged off. No offense, but I don’t find you nearly as fascinating as she does. Except for the current conversation. What are you fishing for?”

“Nothing. Maybe I misjudged you.”

“Well, I doubt that, but so what? Sounds like you’re the one in trouble and projecting it on us.” I might have pushed the line too far because I wasn’t that crazy about the look he turned on me.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re laying out all this bullshit and I don’t have a clue what you want. You’ve peppered me with questions from the minute you sat down.”

He was dead silent for about fifteen seconds—a long time in the middle of a conversation of this type. Then he said, “I believe she stole money from me when she was in the office that night.”

“Ah. Got it. That’s a serious accusation.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Why not turn the matter over to the cops?”

“I can’t prove she did it.”

I shook my head. “Doesn’t sound right to me. I was with her when we toured the office and she never touched a thing. Me neither, for that matter. I hope you don’t think I’m involved, because I swear I’m not.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s her.”

“You’re worried?”

“I think she’s in trouble. I’d hate to see her hurt.”

“Why didn’t you just say so up front?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I went about this all wrong and I apologize. Truce?”

“We don’t need a truce. I’m worried about her, too. She’s back to smoking a pack a day and god knows what else. This morning, she was talking about booze and poker parlors. Scared the crap out of me.”

“I didn’t realize you’d seen her.”

“Oh sure. I thought I mentioned that.”

“You didn’t, but that’s good. I haven’t heard a word from her since I got back. She’s usually on the phone first thing, tugging at my sleeve. You know Reeb. She tends to cling.”

“I’ll say. Look, she talked about us having lunch tomorrow. Why don’t I tell her to give you a call?”

He smiled tentatively, wanting to believe me. At the same time, I could sense his scrutiny, testing my comments for any false notes. Happily, since I’m a thoroughly accomplished liar, I could pass a polygraph, disavowing murder with blood still dripping from my fingers. He reached out and tapped my hand, something I’d seen him do with her. I wondered what the gesture meant, a sort of tag…you’re it. “I hope I wasn’t out of line. You’re a good egg,” he said.

“Thanks. You are, too.” I reached out and tapped his hand in return.

He pushed up from the booth. “Better to let you go. I’ve taken up enough of your time as it is. Sorry if I was rude. I didn’t mean to grill you.”

“Hey, I understand. Stay and have another drink if you like.”

“Nah, I gotta hit the road. Just tell Reba I’m looking for her.”

“What’s your schedule like tomorrow? Are you at the office all day?”

“You bet. I’ll be waiting for her call.”

Good luck, I thought. I watched him crossing the room, trying to see him as I had at first. I’d thought he was sexy and good-looking, but those qualities had vanished. Now I saw him for what he was, a guy accustomed to having his own way. The world centered on him and others were simply there to service his whims. I wondered if he were capable of killing. Possible, I thought. Maybe not with his own hands, but he could have it done. Belatedly, a warm drop of sweat trickled down the middle of my back. I allowed myself a deep breath, and by the time Cheney showed up, I was feeling calm again and slightly bemused.

He slid in next to me and pushed a folded slip of paper in my direction. “Don’t say I never did you one. Address is a rental. Misty’s been in residence the past thirteen months.”

“Thanks.” I glanced at the address and put the paper into my pocket.

He said, “What’s the smile about? You’re looking pleased with yourself.”

“How long have I known you? A couple of years, right?”

“More or less. You haven’t really known me until this past week.”

“Know what I realized? I’ve never lied to you.”

“I should hope not.”

“I’m serious. I’m a natural-born liar, but so far I haven’t lied to you. That puts you in a category all by yourself…well, except for Henry. I can’t remember ever lying to him. About anything important.”

“Good news. I love the part where you say ‘so far.’ You’re the only person I know who could say something like that and think it was a compliment.”

Rosie reappeared and when she caught sight of Cheney, she shot me a quizzical look. She seldom saw me with one man, let alone two on the same night. Cheney ordered a beer. Once she was gone, I rested my chin on my fist so I could look at him. His face was smooth and there was the faintest web of lines at the outer corners of his eyes. Dark suede sport coat the color of coffee grounds. Beige shirt, brown silk tie hanging slightly askew. I reached out and straightened it. He caught my hand and kissed my index finger.

I smiled. “Have you ever dated an older woman?”

“Talking about yourself? I got news for you, kiddo. I’m older than you.”

“You are not.”

“I’m thirty-nine. April 1948.” He took out his wallet, flipped it open, removed his driver’s license, and held it up.

“Get serious. You were born in 1948?”

“How old did you think I was?”

“Somebody told me you were thirty-four.”

“Lies. All lies. You can’t believe a word you hear on the street.” He put his license in his wallet, which he flipped shut and returned to his hip pocket.

“In that case, your body’s even better than I thought. Tell me the day and month again. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“April 28. I’m a Taurus, like you. That’s why we get along so well.”

“Is that true?”

“Sure. Look at us. We’re Earth signs, the Bull. We’re the Boy Scouts of the Zodiac. Determined, practical, reliable, fair-minded, stable—in other words, boring as hell. On the downside, we’re jealous, possessive, opinionated, and self-righteous—so what’s not to like? We hate change. We hate interruptions. We hate being rushed.”

“You really believe all that stuff?”

“No, but you have to admit there’s a certain ring of truth to it.”

Rosie returned to the table with Cheney’s beer. I could tell she was tempted to loiter, hoping to catch a snippet of conversation. Both of us sank into silence until she left again.

Then I said, “Beck was here.”

“You’re changing the subject. I’d rather talk about us.”

“Premature.”

“Then why don’t we talk about you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“For instance, I like it that you don’t wear makeup.”

“I’ve worn it twice. That first day at lunch and then again the other night.”

“I know. That’s how I figured I could get you between the sheets.”

“Cheney, we need to talk about Reba. I leave for Reno first thing tomorrow morning. We have to be operating off the same page.”

His expression sobered to some extent, and I could see him shift into business mode. “Okay, but don’t be dragging it out. We have better things to do.”

“Business first.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

We spent the next ten minutes talking about Reba and Beck—what he’d said, what I’d said, and what, if anything, it meant. Cheney intended to call Priscilla Holloway in the morning and bring her up to speed. He thought the straightforward approach was preferable to taking the risk that she’d find out anyway. He’d refer her to Vince Turner and let the two of them work out their arrangements. If Holloway wanted Reba picked up, then all the better for him. Vince would be thrilled to have her under lock and key.

Finally, Cheney said, “Can we go now? All this talk about criminals is turning me on.”

26

The drive from Santa Teresa to Reno took nine hours, including two potty stops and a fifteen-minute lunch break. The first seven hours got me as far as Sacramento, where Highway 80 intersects the 5 and begins its slow climb toward the Donner Summit, 7,240 feet above sea level. Smoke from a series of brush fires in the Tahoe National Forest had saturated the air with a pale brown haze that followed me across the Nevada state line. I reached the Reno city limits at suppertime and cruised through town just to get a feel for the place.

Most of the buildings were two and three stories tall, dwarfed by the occasional chunky hotel. Aside from the casinos, businesses seemed to be devoted to making cash readily available. The working theme was cheap food and pawnshops, with the word “GUNS” writ large on two out of every seven signs.

I chose an unprepossessing two-story motel in the heart of town, its prime attraction being that it sat on a lot adjacent to a McDonald’s. I checked in, found my second-floor room, and put my duffel bag on the bed. Before I left again, I picked up the Reno phone book I found in my bed-table drawer. I went downstairs, left the phone book in my car, and then proceeded to McDonald’s, where I sat in a window seat and treated myself to a couple of QPs with Cheese.

According to the strip maps I’d picked up at the auto club, Carson City—the last known domicile of the erstwhile Robert Dietz—was only thirty miles away. Because of Cheney, I thought about Dietz without bitterness, but without much interest. While I munched fries doused in ketchup, I opened the Reno city map and looked for the street where Misty Raine was supposedly living these days. Wasn’t far away and I thought my next order of business was to pay a visit to the place.

I dumped my trash and returned to my car. With the map propped against the steering wheel, I sketched out my course. The route took me through spartan neighborhoods of pines, chain-link fences, and ranch houses faced in stucco or brick. Even at seven in the evening, the light was good. The air was hot and dry and smelled of pine pitch and charred oak from the California fires. I knew the temperatures would drop as soon as the sun went down. The lawns I passed were parched, the grasses scorched to a soft yellow-brown. The trees, on the other hand, were surprisingly green, dense healthy foliage a relief in the relentless washed-out beige of the surrounding landscape. Maybe the whole of it was designed to keep all the gamblers indoors where gaudy colors dazzled the eye, the air temperature was constant, and lights were ablaze twenty-four hours a day.

I spotted the house I was looking for—a one-story yellow wood-frame bungalow with three stingy windows across the front. The trim was brown and the door to the single-car garage was decorated with three vertical rows of triangles, yellow paint on brown. Shaggy evergreens marked the corners of the house, and the flower beds along the drive were filled with desiccated plant stalks. I parked on the far side of the street about four houses down with a clear view of the drive. When sitting surveillance, there’s always a concern that a neighbor will call the cops to complain about a suspicious vehicle parked out front. To create a diversion, I removed two orange plastic construction cones from the well of my car and then went around to the rear, where I opened the engine compartment. I set up the cones nearby, signaling engine trouble in case anyone got curious.

I stood near the car and scanned the surrounding houses. I saw no one. I crossed the street to Misty’s front door and rang the bell. Three minutes passed and then I knocked. No response. I leaned my head against the door. Silence. I walked down the drive and scrutinized the padlocked garage, which was connected to the house by a short enclosed breezeway. Both garage windows were locked and the glass had been painted over. I headed around the front of the house. A wooden fence on the far side opened into a backyard that was depressingly bare. No sign of pets, no children’s toys, no lawn furniture, and no barbecue. The windows that overlooked the patio were dark. I cupped my hands to the glass and found myself staring at a home office equipped with the usual desk and swivel chair, a computer, phone, and copier. No sign of Misty or Reba. I was disappointed, having persuaded myself that Reba was staying with her. Now what?

I returned to the car and settled in to wait, amusing myself by browsing the yellow pages of the borrowed phone book. Bored with that, I picked up the first one of three paperbacks I’d brought for this purpose. It was comforting that most of the nearby houses remained dark, suggestive of occupants at work. At 8:10, I saw a Ford Fairlane slow on approach and ease into Misty’s drive. In the fading daylight, primer paint on the driver’s side of the car glowed as though luminescent. A woman emerged, wearing a white halter, tight jeans, and high heels without hose. She reached into the backseat for two cumbersome plastic grocery bags, crossed to the front door, and let herself in. I could see interior lights go on as she moved through the house. This had to be the very Misty Raine that I was looking for.

So far no one had questioned my presence on the block. I got out, retrieved the orange plastic cones, and returned them to my car—this by way of being prepared for whatever might come next. I resumed my reading with the help of a penlight I dug out of my bag. At intervals I glanced up, but the house remained quiet and nobody entered or left. At 9:40, prison-strength exterior spots came on, flooding the driveway with harsh white light. Misty emerged from the house, leaving lights on behind her as she got in her tank-size Ford and backed out of the drive. I waited fifteen seconds, fired up the VW, and followed.

Once we reached the first intersection, there was sufficient traffic to provide cover, though I didn’t think she had any reason to suspect she was being tailed. She drove sedately, refraining from any abrupt or tricky moves that would indicate a concern about the thirteen-year-old pale blue VW traveling three car lengths behind.

We proceeded into town. She took a right on East 4th and after half a block turned into a small city parking lot that sat between an Asian restaurant and a minimarket with a marquee that read: GROCERIES * BEER * SLOTS. I slowed and pulled over to the curb. I left the engine running while I spread out my Reno map and studied the layout. I don’t know why I went to such trouble to disguise my purposes. Misty didn’t seem to be aware of me and certainly no one else in Reno cared if I was lost. I watched her enter the minimarket and took advantage of her absence to pull into the same lot. I parked as close to the entrance as I could manage. Each space was numbered in paint, and a board posted on the brick wall of the market indicated that fees were paid on the honor system. Dutifully, I searched out the requisite window and inserted the number of dollar bills I thought would cover my stay. I was so engrossed in this display of municipal virtue that I didn’t spot Misty until she was halfway across the street, munching a candy bar. She had a carton of cigarettes under one arm.

Her destination lay dead ahead, an adult-entertainment establishment called the Flesh Emporium. Under the double row of lightbulbs spelling out the name of the place, a blinking neon sign flashed: GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS…NUDE, LEWD, AND CRUDE. And in smaller letters: TATTOOS AND PIERCING DONE WHILE YOU WAIT. And smaller still: BOOKS, VIDEOS, LIVE REVUES. The bouncer waved her in. I waited a decent interval and then crossed the street. There was a twenty-dollar cover charge that it grieved me to pay, but I ponied up the cash. I made a note to myself to add it to my expense account in a manner that didn’t suggest play-for-pay sex.

Inside the entrance, a modest-size casino was hazy with cigarette smoke, the air aglow with the ambient light from a hundred slot machines lined up back-to-back. In passing, I picked up the soft, goofy flute-and-bell music that accompanies play. The acoustical-tile ceiling was low, dotted with can lights, cameras, smoke alarms, and sprinkler heads. Scarcely anyone was seated at the slots, but farther in, beyond the blackjack tables, I could see a darkened bar with a wide apron built along one side. On three hotly lighted platforms nude dancers undulated, strutted, and otherwise exhibited body parts. Nothing they did seemed particularly lewd or crude. I found a table toward the rear, feeling ill at ease. Most of the customers were men. All were drinking and most paid little or no attention to the breasts and buttocks on parade in front of them.

There was no sign of Misty, but a waitress named Joy arrived at my table and placed a cocktail napkin in front of me. Sequined pasties the size of dinner mints chastely shielded her nipples from public scrutiny, and she wore a glittering fig leaf over what my aunt Gin would call her “privates.” I ordered a bottle of Bass ale, theorizing there was no way the management could water it down. When Joy returned with my beer and a basket of tinted yellow popcorn, I paid the fifteen-dollar tab and tipped her an extra five bucks. “I’m looking for Misty. Is she here?”

“She just went to change. She’ll be out in a bit. You’re a friend of hers?”

“Not quite, but close enough,” I said.

“Give me your name and I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“She won’t know me by name. A friend of a friend said I should look her up if I was ever passing through.”

“What’s the friend’s name?”

“Reba Lafferty.”

“Lafferty. I’ll tell her.”

I sipped my beer and picked at the cold, chewy popcorn, glad for the distraction as I didn’t really favor watching nude women shaking their booties at me even from a distance. I’d imagined voluptuous, showgirl-style bodies, but only one of the three had the requisite football-size knockers. I figured the other two were saving up.

As it turned out, Misty hadn’t gone to change clothes so much as to strip off the garments she was wearing when she got to work. Her legs were bare and only a thong and her high heels remained. She was tall and lanky, with pitch-black hair, a prominent collarbone, and long, thin arms. By way of contrast, she had breasts of burdensome dimensions, the kind that give you back problems and require a bra with straps so fierce they create permanent tracks across your shoulder blades like ruts worn in rock. Not that I’ve ever suffered from such a fate, but I’ve heard women complain. I couldn’t imagine choosing to haul those things around. Her eyes were large and green with dark circles underneath that even heavy makeup couldn’t hide. I placed her in her forties though I wasn’t sure quite where.

“Joy says you’re a friend of Reba’s.”

I didn’t know stripper-greeting etiquette, but I stood and shook her hand. “Kinsey Millhone. I’m from Santa Teresa.”

“Same as Reba,” she remarked. “How’s she doing these days?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“Can’t help you there. I haven’t seen her in years. Are you in town on vacation or what’s the deal?”

“I’m here looking for her.”

One of Misty’s shoulders went up in what passed for a shrug. “Last I heard she’s in prison. California Institution for Women.”

“Not anymore. She was released on the twentieth of this month.”

“No fooling. Well, good for her! I’ll have to drop her a line. The real world’s a shock when you’re not used to it,” she said. “Hope she makes it.”

“The prospects of that are dim. She did well at first, but lately things haven’t been so hot.”

“Sorry to hear that, but why come to me?”

“Just a long shot,” I said.

“Must have been awful long. I’ve worked here a week. I don’t get how you managed to track me down.”

“Process of elimination. Reba told me you worked as an exotic dancer. With a name like yours, it wasn’t difficult.”

“Get off it. You know how many strip joints there are in this town?”

“Thirty-five. This is the thirteenth I’ve tried. Must be my lucky number. Can we chat?”

“About what? I start work in two minutes. I need time to get centered. Gig like this is tough unless you have your head on straight.”

“I won’t keep you long.”

Gingerly she perched and I wondered if the wooden chair seat felt cold on her bare butt. The sensation couldn’t be that keen, but she didn’t yelp or otherwise vocalize dismay. She said, “Is this a fishing expedition or did you want something in particular?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I just thought if I heard from her, I could pass the message along—provided it’s not obscene.”

“I’ve heard she’s in town. I’m hoping to talk her into coming back to California before she blows the terms of her parole.”

“It’s no skin off my nose what she blows. Or who, for that matter.”

“I understand you were cellmates.”

“Six months or so. I got out before she did—obviously.”

“She told me you kept in touch.”

“Why not? She’s a nice kid and she’s fun to be around.”

“When was the last time you heard from her?”

Mock thought. “Must have been last Christmas. I sent her a card and she sent one back.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Sorry to cut this short, but that music is my cue.”

“If she happens to get in touch, tell her I’m in Reno. We really need to talk.” I’d written the name of the motel, the telephone number, and my room number on a slip of paper that I handed her as she stood.

She took the note, though she had no place to put it unless she stuck it up her bum. “So who’s paying you?”

“Her dad.”

“Nice job. Like a bounty hunter, huh.”

“It’s more than a job. I’m a friend and I’m concerned about her welfare.”

“I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. One thing about Reba, she can take care of herself.”

I watched her head for the bar. The matching moons of her ass scarcely wobbled as she walked, and I could see the muscles in her thighs flex and relax with every step she took. Bumping and grinding must be better than Jazzercise, plus she didn’t have to pay the weekly freight. I made a stop in the ladies’ room, where I availed myself of the facilities before returning to my car.

Once there, I fired up the engine and sat with the windows rolled down, listening to the radio to pass the time. An hour later I began to worry about (1) running out of gas, or (2) asphyxiating myself with my own exhaust fumes. I cut the radio, killed the engine, and stared at the brick wall in front of me. This was the perfect screen on which to project recent memories of Cheney Phillips, probably not such a hot idea as he was many miles away.

Unwittingly, I dozed. Lights from a passing car flashed across my windshield and I woke with a start. I looked to my right as Misty’s car passed behind me and slowed. She exited the parking lot and turned right. I started my car, backed out of the space with a quick chirp of tires, and pulled out shortly after she did. A glance at my watch showed it was 4:00 A.M. Apparently she did a six-hour shift instead of the usual eight put in by the ordinary working bloke. Then again, it was hard to imagine prancing around in high heels for more than a couple of hours at a stretch.

I kept the Ford Fairlane in view, allowing as big a lead as I could give her without losing sight of her altogether. There were fewer cars on the road now and many of the storefronts were dark. The big casinos were still doing a lively business. Misty pulled up to the front entrance to the Silverado Hotel. The wide overhang that stretched across the eight-lane drive was so densely studded with lightbulbs that the air seemed to shimmer with artificial heat. Misty got out of the car and handed the keys to a valet. The big glass doors opened and closed automatically as she approached and disappeared inside.

There were two vehicles in line between her car and mine. I leaped out and tossed my keys to an irritated-looking valet who’d been chatting with a pal. “Could you keep the car close? There’s a twenty in it for you. I shouldn’t be long.”

Without waiting for a reply I trotted toward the front doors and entered the vast lobby, which was sparsely populated at that hour. I did a quick survey. There was no sign of Misty. She could have slipped into a waiting elevator, into the ladies’ room to my right, or into the casino dead ahead. Pick one, I thought. As I moved into the casino, smoke settled around me like a delicate mantilla. The silvery pings and grace notes from the slots were like a series of falling coins, the chirping of money as it trickled down the drain. Aisles ran in grids between the slot machines, the faces of which glowed bright red, green, yellow, and a saturated blue. I was struck by the patience of the few late-night players—like ants tending aphids on the underside of a leaf.

As I walked, I was glancing right and left, looking for Misty, whose height and black hair would surely set her apart. Toward the rear there were restaurants. I could see a coffee shop, a sushi bar, a pizza parlor, and an “authentic” Italian bistro offering six kinds of pasta and a variety of sauces, complete with Caesar salad, for $2.99. I spotted Misty in the lounge, though my gaze slid right past her at first and touched on the man who sat across the table from her. He was red-haired and gaunt, his complexion ruddy and pitted with acne scars. Neither saw me. I eased into the lounge, which was open on two sides. I sat at the bar some distance away, watching as the two conferred. The bartender ambled over and I ordered a glass of Chardonnay. There were not many patrons present at that hour, and I worried I’d be conspicuous sitting alone.

Out on the casino floor a great whooping and hollering went up, and shortly thereafter a party of five women came in, drunk and triumphant. One flourished a bucket of quarters, having won a five-hundred-dollar jackpot. My line of vision was obscured by their boisterous presence, but they provided me cover. I watched Misty engaged in a lengthy discussion with the man, leaning forward intently as the two examined something on the table in front of them. Finally, satisfied, she passed him a fat white number 10 envelope that I was betting contained a wad of cash. In exchange, he returned the item to a manila mailing pouch and handed it to her. I watched as she shoved it in her oversize purse. I tossed a five-dollar bill next to my empty glass and got up, leaving the bar in anticipation of her departure. I paused near the elevators, sliding a glance in her direction as she passed me and hurried toward the door. I followed in her wake.

She gave the valet parker her ticket, and while she waited for her car, I angled left, keeping my head turned and my back to her. My car was parked near the entrance. I reclaimed my keys, tipped the valet, and slid under the wheel. Two minutes later, her car rolled into view and the valet hopped out. She handed him a tip and took his place under the wheel. I watched her exit the lot. I eased in behind her, this time with only one car between. Once I was convinced she was on her way home, I took a left and sped along a parallel course. I arrived moments before she did. I killed my lights and slouched in my seat, eyes barely clearing the steering wheel. She turned into her drive as she had before, parked, crossed to her front door, and went in.

The front light went out. I sat there for a minute, sorely tempted to return to my motel and crawl into bed. Surely she was in for the night, or what little was left of it. I was tired, I was bored, and I was hungry again. I pictured breakfast in a twenty-four-hour coffee shop: orange juice, bacon and scrambled eggs, buttered rye toast covered with strawberry jam. Then sleep. There had never been any guarantee that Reba was in Reno. I’d taken the chance because it made sense, given what I knew of her. The two of them had certainly been in touch—why else would her number show up on Nord Lafferty’s telephone bill? But that hardly spoke to the issue of her present whereabouts. I sat up, staring at Misty’s half-darkened house and the narrow line of light running along the bottom of her garage door.

Why park in the driveway when she had a garage right there in front of her? In one of those unexpected jolts, I was clunked in the noggin by the obvious. If Misty were alone, she probably wouldn’t need two bulging bags of groceries or a carton of smokes. The groceries might have represented her weekly run, but the woman didn’t smoke. In the time we’d spent chatting, most smokers would have found an excuse to light up. It was actually that thin line of light at the bottom of the garage door that made me curious. I got out of the car and crossed the street.

27

I checked the garage windows first. Nicks in the brown paint that covered the glass revealed a makeshift guest room: a chair, a chest of drawers, a double bed, and a lamp sitting on an end table fashioned from a cardboard box. The disheveled linens suggested current occupancy, as did the red cotton sweater flung at the bottom of the bed, which I recognized as Reba’s. A hard-sided gray suitcase lay open on the floor near the chest of drawers. The duffel was unzipped on the chair, clothes spilling out.

I circled the house as I had before. The pull latch on the wooden gate made scarcely a sound as I moved into the backyard and approached the lighted window. I ducked and came up at an angle, peering over the sill. Reba and Misty sat together at the desk with their backs to me. I couldn’t see what they were doing and their voices were too muffled to discern the topic of conversation, but it was sufficient for the moment to know that Reba was in range.

Here was the question I asked myself: did I dare go back to my motel without confronting them? I was desperate for sleep, but I worried if I waited until morning, one or both of the women would be gone. Of course, I’d be facing the same dilemma anytime I let Reba out of my sight. For the moment, I was reluctant to give up the only advantage I had, which was that I knew where she was, but she didn’t know that I knew.

Blessedly, as I watched, Misty gathered up the items they’d been inspecting and tucked them into the mailing pouch I’d seen earlier. Reba left the room and Misty followed, flicking the light switch as she passed. I made my way to the front of the house and hovered in the shadow of the evergreens. Ten minutes later, the living room light went out. I eased across the front of the house to the drive. Another fifteen minutes passed and then the line of light under the garage door was extinguished as well. I figured my little chickadees were in for the night.

I drove back to my motel through a city that was wide awake but quiet. The sun wouldn’t be up for another hour or so, but the sky had already lightened to a pearly gray. I parked, took the stairs to the second floor, and unlocked my door. The room was drab but clean enough, as long as you didn’t use a black light or get down on your hands and knees with a magnifying glass. I peeled off my clothes and took a good hot shower, then did what I could to secure the drapes across the window. The fabric was a heavyweight plastic, dark red, and very tastefully flocked. Add to that, vinyl wallpaper with its lightning bolts of silver and black, and you had a most amazing decor. I pulled back the pink chenille spread and settled between the sheets, turned off the lights, and slept like the dead.

At some point, my subconscious gave me a nudge. I remembered Reba telling me what a whiz Misty was at reproducing fake passports and other phony documents. Was that why Misty was meeting the fellow at the Silverado? Even in my sleep, I felt a whisper of fear. Maybe Reba was planning to make a run for it.

At 10:00 the next morning the phone rang. I lifted the handset and laid it against my ear without moving my head. “What.”

“Kinsey, this is Reba. Did I wake you?”

I rolled over on my back. “Don’t worry about it. I appreciate the call. How’re you doing?”

“Pretty much okay until I heard you were here. How’d you find me?”

“I didn’t find you, I found Misty,” I said.

“So how’d you do that? I’m just curious.”

“Detective work, dear. That’s what I do for a living.”

“Huh. That surprises me.”

“What does?”

“I figured Pop was able to hire you because you weren’t any good. Clearly you weren’t busy, or why would you agree to such a dumb-ass job? Drive his daughter back from prison? You can’t be serious.”

“Thanks, Reeb. That’s nice.”

“I’m saying I was wrong. Truth is, it shocked the hell out of me when Misty said you showed. I still don’t get how you did it.”

“I have my little ways. I hope you called for something more important than congratulating me for being less incompetent than you thought.”

“We need to talk.”

“Tell me when and where and I’ll be there with bells on.”

“We’ll be at Misty’s until noon.”

“Great. Give me the address and I’ll be over in a bit.”

“I thought you’d already have the address.”

“Guess I’m not perfect,” I said, though as a matter of fact I was. She recited the address and I pretended to make a note.

Once she hung up, I got out of bed and crossed to the window. I pushed open the drapes and winced at the harsh desert sun. My room looked out over the backside of another dingy two-story motel, so there wasn’t much to see. By resting my forehead against the glass, I could see the flashing neon sign on the casino down the street still winking its invitation. How could anyone drink or gamble at this hour?

I brushed my teeth and showered again, trying to jumpstart myself. I dressed and then sat down on the edge of the bed and put a call through to Reba’s father. Freddy told him I was on the line and he took the call in his room, sounding frail. “Yes, Kinsey. Where are you?”

“At the Paradise. It’s a motel in downtown Reno. I thought I’d give you an update. Reba called a while ago. I’m on my way over to Misty’s to talk to her.”

“You found her, then. I’m glad. That didn’t take long.”

“I cheated. Someone gave me Misty’s home address before I left Santa Teresa. I kept an eye on the place for hours, but I didn’t think Reeb was there. Misty has a very promising career as a nude dancer at a strip joint called the Flesh Emporium. I followed her to work and chatted with her before she went on. When I asked about Reba, she never batted an eye. Swore up and down the two of ’em hadn’t been in touch since Christmas. I gave her the number of my motel and lo and behold, Reba called.”

“I hope you’ll be able to persuade her to come home.”

“Hey, me too. Wish me luck.”

“Ring me anytime you like. I appreciate your efforts on her behalf.”

“Happy to be of help.”

We exchanged a few more remarks and I was preparing to disconnect, when I heard a small click. I said, “Hello?”

“I’m still here.”

I hesitated. “Is Lucinda there?”

“Yes. She’s downstairs. Did you want to speak with her?”

“No, no. I was just curious. I’ll call you as soon as I know where we stand.”

After I hung up, I sat for a moment and stared at the phone. I was almost certain Lucinda had been listening in. Freddy would never be guilty of such an offense. Lucinda, on the other hand, was clearly someone who needed to insert herself in the thick of every situation, someone who needed to be informed so she could exercise control. I thought about how she’d pumped me for information, how much she’d resented being locked out of Nord’s room when he and I conferred. Under the guise of being oh-so-concerned, she’d wreaked havoc in Reba’s life, and she’d do so again if she had the chance. She was the kind of woman you didn’t want to turn your back on when leaving a room.

I crossed the motel parking lot to McDonald’s, where I ordered three large coffees, three OJs, three hash browns, and three Egg McMuffins to go. According to my calculations, Misty, Reba, and I—assuming we cleaned our plates—would each be supplied with 680 calories, 85 grams of carbohydrate, and 20 grams of fat. I amended my order, adding three cinnamon buns just to round things out.

I drove back to Misty’s, this time parking in the driveway. Reba was waiting when I knocked on the door. She was barefoot, in a pair of red shorts and a white tank top without benefit of a brassiere. I held the bag out. “Peace offering.”

“What for?”

“Invading your turf. I’m sure I’m the last person in the world you wanted to see.”

“Second to last, just ahead of Beck. You might as well come in,” she said. She took the bag and moved down the hall toward the kitchen, leaving me to close the door. I did a quick check of the living room in passing. The interior was sparsely furnished: bare linoleum flooring, wood-laminate coffee table, one of those brown tweed couches that can flatten to a bed. Brown tweed chair, end table, lamp with a flouncy shade. The next room on the right was the office I’d seen. There was a modest-size bedroom across the hall.

“Getting an eyeful?” Misty asked. She sat at the kitchen table in a black satin robe that was tied at the waist, boobs close to bulging out of her lapels. I was surprised the weight didn’t cause her to lose her balance and flop over in her plate.

Reba had a lighted cigarette on the ashtray in front of her. She was drinking a Bloody Mary.

Oh, perfect, I thought.

“You want one?”

“Why not? It’s after ten,” I said. I reached into the McDonald’s bag and unloaded the goodies while Reba made me a drink and set it at my place. I looked at Misty. “You’re not having a drink?”

“I got bourbon in here,” she said, pointing to her coffee with a red-lacquered nail.

I sat down and doled out hash browns and Egg McMuffins, leaving the cinnamon buns, orange juice, and coffee in the center of the table. “Sorry if I seem rude, but I’m starving to death.” Neither seemed to object as I unwrapped my Egg McMuffin.

There was a blissful few minutes while the three of us munched. I figured business could wait. I didn’t have a clue what we were doing anyway.

Reba finished first. She wiped her mouth on a paper napkin she kept wadded in her fist. “How’s Pop?”

“Not that well. I’m hoping to talk you into going home.”

She took a drag of her cigarette. The house felt chilly and I marveled at her bare arms and legs. I tried a sip of Bloody Mary—largely vodka with a thin mist of Bloody Mary mix on top, like blood in a toilet bowl. I could feel my eyes cross as the burning liquor went down. She said, “Does Holloway know?”

“What? That you left the state? That’d be my guess. Cheney told me he’d be getting in touch with her.”

“Lucky I’m having fun.”

“Mind if I ask why you left?”

“I got bored being good.”

“Must be a record. You lasted ten days.”

She smiled. “Actually, I wasn’t all that good, but I got bored anyway.”

“Is Misty in on this?”

“Meaning, can we talk in front of her? She’s my best friend. You can say anything you like.”

“You blew all the money, didn’t you? Salustio’s twenty-five grand.”

“Not all of it,” she said.

“How much?”

She shrugged. “Little over twenty. Well, maybe more like twenty-two. I have a couple of thousand left. I figure there’s no point talking to him if I don’t have the rest. What am I supposed to do, offer him small monthly payments until I’ve satisfied the debt?”

“You have to do something. How long do you think you can duck a guy like that?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m working on it. I’ll figure it out. Anyway, maybe I’ll be back in prison before he catches me.”

“That’s a happy thought,” I said. “I don’t understand why you can’t go back to Santa Teresa and talk to Vince. There’s still a chance the feds can cut you a deal.”

“I don’t need to make a deal with the feds. I got something in the works.”

I turned to Misty. “She’s nuts, right? I mean, how nuts is she?”

“Might as well leave her alone. Truth is, you can’t save anybody but yourself.”

“I’m afraid I’d have to agree with you there,” I said, then to Reba, “Look, all I want is to get you back to Santa Teresa before shit comes raining down on your head.”

“I get that.”

“So why don’t we leave it at this? You know where I’m staying. I’ll hang out until seven tomorrow morning. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’ll drive back alone. But I gotta warn you—at that point, I’m calling the Reno PD and telling ’em where you are. Fair enough?”

“Oh, thanks. You think that’s fair? Calling the Reno cops?”

“As fair as you’re going to get. You’d be wise to spend time with your dad while you can.”

“That’s the only reason I’d go back, assuming I do.”

“I don’t care about your motive—just getting you there.”

I went back to the motel, where I spent one of the most wickedly enjoyable days I’ve experienced in some time. I finished one paperback novel and started the next. I napped. At 2:30 I bypassed McDonald’s and ate at a rival fast-food place. Afterward, I would have taken a walk, but I really didn’t care what was out there. Reno is probably a very keen town, but the day was hotter than blue blazes, and my room, while glum, was at least habitable. I slipped my shoes off and read some more. At supper time, I called Cheney and brought him up to speed.

I went to bed at 10:00 and got up at 6:00 the next morning, showered, dressed, and packed my bag. When I got down to my car, I found Reba perched on her suitcase with her duffel at her feet. She had on the same red shorts and tank top she’d been wearing the morning before. Bare legs. Flip-flops.

I said, “This is a surprise. I didn’t think I’d see you.”

“Yeah, well, I surprised myself. I’ll go with you on one condition.”

“There aren’t any conditions, Reba. You go or you don’t. I’m not going to bargain with you.”

“Oh, come on. Hear me out. It’s no big deal.”

“Okay, what.”

“I need to make a stop in Beverly Hills.”

“I don’t want to make a detour. Why Beverly Hills?”

“I have to drop something off at the Neptune Hotel.”

“The one on Sunset?”

“That’s right. I swear it won’t take any time at all. Will you just do me this one tiny thing. Please, please, please?”

I swallowed my irritation, thankful she’d agreed to come at all. I unlocked the car door on the passenger side, flipped the seat forward, and tossed my duffel in the rear. As Reba added her two bags, I noted that the duffel bore a United Airlines tag and a small green sticker showing the bag had cleared security. I’d been right about the fact she’d flown to Reno.

“We might as well have a decent breakfast before we take off. My treat,” she said.

We had the McDonald’s to ourselves. We gorged on the usual, though even as I ate, I swore off junk food for life, or at least until lunch. A couple of guys came in after us and then the place began to fill up with people on their way to work. By the time we visited the ladies’ room and got into the car, it was 7:05. I gassed up at the nearest Chevron station and we headed out of town. “If you smoke in my car, I will kill you,” I said.

“Blow it out your butt.”

Reba was in charge of the map, directing me to the 395, which cut straight south to Los Angeles. Somehow I knew the detour would be a pain in the ass, but I was so relieved to have her with me, I decided not to make a fuss. Maybe she’d experienced a change of heart and she was ready to take responsibility for herself. Skittish as she was, I figured the best thing I could do was to keep my observations and opinions to myself.

Conversation was in short supply. The problem in dealing with people who are out of control is that the choices are so few—two being the actual number if you want to know the truth: (1) You can play counselor, thinking that perhaps no one (save yourself ) has ever offered the rare tidbit of wisdom that will finally cause the light to dawn. Or (2) You can play persecutor, thinking that a strong dose of reality (also delivered by you) will shame or cajole the person into turning her life around. In both instances, you’ll be wrong, but the temptation is so strong to take one role or the other that you’ll have to bite your tongue bloody to keep from jumping in with all the lectures and the finger wagging. I kept my mouth shut, though it required an effort on my part. She was mercifully quiet, perhaps sensing my struggle to mind my own business.

28

On the road, Reba fiddled with the radio until she found a station that didn’t sound like it was broadcasting from Mars. We listened to country-western tunes while I played bumper tag with the same three cars: a pickup with a camper shell, an RV, and a couple of college students in a U-Haul truck. One would pass me and then the next and then I’d pass one of them, a form of vehicular leapfrog that had us hopping over one another at irregular intervals. At the back of my mind, I wondered if we were being followed, but I couldn’t imagine how Beck or Salustio could manage to get a bead on us.

Where the 395 and Highway 14 intersected, the kids in the U-Haul went straight while we stayed on Highway 14, angling south and west. Eventually we connected to the San Diego Freeway and drove south. By then the RV had disappeared and I saw no sign of the pickup with the camper shell. Nervous-making nonetheless.

It was close to 3:00 when I got off the freeway at Sunset Boulevard, took a left, and followed the road east again through Bel Air and into Beverly Hills. Reba played navigator, tracking street addresses though it really wasn’t necessary. A few blocks beyond Doheny, the Hotel Neptune loomed into view, an Art Deco wonder that vaguely mimicked the Empire State Building, its shoulders narrowing to a point. I’d read an article about the place in a copy of Los Angeles Magazine. The property had recently been expanded to encompass a large parcel of land on each side, which allowed the creation of a sweeping entrance and additional guest parking. A name change and the multimillion-dollar renovation had propelled the old hotel into prominence again. Now it was the hot new destination for rock stars, actors, and wide-eyed tourists hoping to be considered hip.

I pulled into the sweeping semicircular drive, taking my place sixth in line behind two stretch limousines, a Rolls, a Mercedes, and a Bentley. This was clearly check-in time. A car-park valet and two to three uniformed bellhops hovered around each vehicle, assisting the guests as they emerged, unloading bag after bag from open trunks onto rolling brass luggage carts. A doorman in livery and white gloves whistled up a taxicab that cut around me on the left and pulled up in front. Two hotel guests dressed like tramps ducked into the cab and I watched it pull away.

Reba said, “This is nuts. Why don’t I just run in?”

“Forget it. I don’t want you out of my sight.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “What do you think, I’m going to duck out the back and leave you here by yourself?”

As that was exactly what I thought, I didn’t bother to reply. When our turn came, I handed the keys to the parking valet while Reba dazzled him with a smile and pressed a folded bill against his palm. “Hey, how’re you? We’ll be back in two minutes.”

“We’ll have it ready for you.”

“Thanks.” She moved on into the hotel, boobs jiggling, her slim legs flashing in her red shorts. The guy was so busy ogling her, he nearly dropped the car keys.

The interior of the hotel was a pastiche of dark green marble and mirrors, wall sconces, torchères, and potted palms. The carpet was done in shades of green and blue, stylized waves, which were part of the nautical motif. Not surprisingly, the Roman god Neptune was depicted in a series of massive gilt-and-stucco bas-relief panels, driving his chariot across the waters, shaking his trident to bring down floods, saving a damsel from a satyr. Artificial light glowed from a five-tiered fountain of glass. The chairs were blond wood, the occasional tables lacquered in black. A wide marble staircase curved up to the mezzanine, where I could see black pedestals set in green fluted niches, each bearing an urn filled with fresh flowers.

The lobby walls were curved, with banquettes covered in a fabric that mimicked undulating sea grasses. Swing tunes playing at almost subliminal levels. Two lines had formed in front of the marble-sheathed reception desk—guests checking in, picking up messages, conversing with the staff.

Reba paused to get her bearings and then said, “Wait here.”

I took a seat in a curved-back chair, one of four arranged around an etched-glass coffee table. In the center was a crystal bowl in which gardenias floated. I watched as she crossed to the concierge, a middle-aged man in a tuxedo. His desk was a sinuous curve of inlaid woods, banded in chrome and topped with a green glass counter, subtly lighted from below. She removed a manila mailing pouch from her purse, wrote something on the front, and handed it to him. After a brief conversation, he placed the manila envelope on a credenza against the wall behind his desk. She asked him a question. He consulted his files and extracted a white envelope, which he handed to her. She put it in her purse and then crossed to the house phone and picked up the handset. She had a conversation with someone and then returned. “We’re meeting in the cocktail lounge.”

“Oh, happy day. Can I join you?”

“Don’t be a smartass. Of course.”

The cocktail lounge was located on the far side of the lobby, across from the elevators. The bar itself was a streamlined curve, sheathed in glass panels that were etched with coral reefs, sea creatures, and goddesses in various states of undress. The space was large and dark, the indirect lighting augmented by a votive candle in the center of each table. The place was almost empty, but I was guessing that within the hour the bar would start filling up with hotel guests, starlets, hookers, and local business types.

Reba snagged a table close to the door. It was only 3:10, but knowing Reba, she’d be ready for a drink. A cocktail waitress wearing a snug gold satin vest, matching shorts, and gold mesh hose, delivered an order of drinks to a nearby table and then approached ours.

Reba said, “We’re expecting someone else.”

“You want to order now or wait?”

“Now is fine.”

The waitress looked to me.

“I’ll have coffee,” I said, already focused on the drive ahead. This was Saturday so at least we wouldn’t have to deal with rush-hour traffic, but it would still be a hard couple of hours, given the seven and a half we’d done.

“And for you?”

“Vodka martini with three olives and a double whiskey for my friend.”

The waitress moved toward the bar.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “You know drinking’s a parole violation. If Holloway finds out, she’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks.”

“Oh, please. It’s not like I’m doing drugs.”

“But you’re doing everything else. Don’t you want to hang on to your freedom?”

“Hey, you know what? I was free when I was in. I didn’t drink or smoke or do drugs or screw around with any dumb-ass guys. You know what I did? I picked up computer skills. I learned to upholster a chair, which I’ll bet you sure as shit can’t do. I read books and made the kind of friends who’d give their lives for me. I didn’t know how happy I was till I got out in this kiss-ass world. I don’t give a shit about Holloway. She can do anything she wants.”

“Okay by me. It’s your lookout,” I said.

Reba’s sullen gaze was fixed on the bank of elevators directly across from us. Above each elevator there was an old-fashioned half-moon of brass, with a moving brass arrow indicating the progress of the elevators going up or coming down. I watched as the last elevator in line paused at the eighth floor and then worked its way down. The doors slid open and Marty Blumberg emerged. Reba waved and he headed in our direction. When he reached our table, she tilted her head so he could kiss her cheek. “You’re lookin’ good,” he said.

“Thanks. So are you.”

Marty pulled out a chair with a glance at me. “Nice seeing you again,” he said. His attention shifted back to her. “Everything okay?”

“We’re cool. I left something for you at the desk. Thanks for this,” she said, patting her bag.

He reached into the pocket of his sport coat and took out a claim check that he slid across the table.

“What’s this for?”

“Surprise. A little something extra,” he said.

Reba glanced at the claim check and slipped it in her purse. “I hope it’s something good.”

“I think you’ll like it,” he said. “What’s your timetable? Can you hang out long enough to have dinner with me?”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Reba surprised me by wrinkling her nose, saying, “Nah, better not. Kinsey’s anxious to get home. Maybe some other time.”

“God willing and the creek don’t rise.”

Marty took out a cigarette pack and placed it on the table. Without asking, Reba helped herself to one, which she stuck between her teeth, giving it a waggle to request a light. Marty picked up a packet of hotel matches, struck one, held the flame to her cigarette, and then fired up one for himself.

The waitress returned with our order, placing the bill at Marty’s elbow. Reba took a sip of her martini and closed her eyes, savoring the vodka with such reverence that I could almost taste it myself. The two of them launched into an inconsequential conversation. I was peripherally included, but it was all low-key chat, a series of drifting subjects that didn’t signify much of anything as far as I could tell. I drank two cups of coffee while they tossed down their drinks and ordered a second round. Neither showed the slightest sign of inebriation. Marty’s face was more flushed than I’d seen it, but he was in control of himself. Eventually their cigarette smoke began to get on my nerves. I excused myself and retired to the ladies’ room, where I wasted as much time as I dared before returning to the table. I sat down again and sneaked a look at my watch. We’d been in the hotel bar forty-five minutes and I was ready to hit the road.

Reba leaned forward and put a hand on Marty’s arm. “We probably ought to get going. I’ll make a quick trip to the loo and meet the two of you out there.” She tipped her glass and sucked down the rest of her drink, chomping on the olive as she moved toward the ladies’ room.

I watched Marty calculate a tip and sign the drinks off to Room 817. “How long have you been here?” I asked.

“Couple of days.”

“I take it you won’t be driving back with us.”

“Don’t think so,” he said, amused.

I didn’t see the humor myself, but whatever he and Reba’d cooked up between them had left him feeling smug.

“What happened with your phone? Was the line tapped or not?”

“Don’t know. I decided not to hang around and find out.”

He pocketed his copy of the receipt and then got up, holding my chair politely. The two of us moved toward the elevators and stood together saying nothing while we waited for Reba. Across the lobby, I saw her emerge from the ladies’ room. Marty’s gaze followed mine. I saw his focus shift to the left. Two men in chinos and sport coats were crossing the lobby with purposeful strides. I thought they were heading for the cocktail lounge. I turned and looked behind me, half-expecting to see what was generating such urgency. Marty took a step to one side to get out of their path. One man caught the doors to the nearest elevator before they slid shut. He stepped in and extended his hand again as though to hold the door for his friend. The second man bumped up against Marty, who said, “Hey, watch it!”

The man gripped Marty’s arm, his forward motion forcing Marty to walk in lockstep into the waiting elevator. Marty flailed and struggled to free himself. He might have succeeded, but one of the two men knocked his feet out from under him. Marty went down on his back, flinging his arms across his face to ward off the savage kick he could see coming at him. The shoe made contact with a wet, thick sound that opened a split in his cheek. The other man pressed the button. In that moment before the doors slid shut, Marty’s gaze caught mine.

I said, “Marty?”

The doors closed and the floor indicator moved up.

Two other people in the lobby turned to see what was wrong, but by then everything appeared to be normal. The entire sequence took no more than fifteen seconds.

Reba reached my side, her eyes enormous, the color draining out of her cheeks. “We gotta get out of here.”

I banged on the Up button, transfixed by the sight of the arrow as it inched toward the eighth floor and came to a halt. Fear was bathing my internal organs with sufficient acid to eat through my chest wall. Two elevators down, the doors slid open. I grabbed her arm and turned her toward the lobby. “Go get hotel security and tell ’em we need help.”

She pulled at my fingers and then lifted her elbow and swung upward to break my grip. “Bullshit. Get off me. Marty’s on his own.”

I didn’t have time to argue. I pushed her as though I could propel her all the way to the front desk, and then I got on the waiting elevator and pushed the button for 8. I had no faith whatever that she’d do as I said. My heart thumped as adrenaline pushed through my system like a drug rush. I needed a game plan, but I didn’t know what I was facing. As the elevator climbed, I searched my shoulder bag, though I already knew there was nothing in it in the way of weapons. No gun, no penknife, no pepper spray.

The elevator doors slid open on 8. I stepped into the hall and trotted to the T intersection where the long and short corridors met. I spotted the sign indicating which grouping of room numbers were located on the left and which were on the right, but I could barely make sense of it. I was talking to myself, a litany of cuss words and instructions. I heard a muffled shout of pain, someone banging into a wall somewhere to my left. I race-walked in that direction, scanning room numbers as I went. The hall had a claustrophobic feel to it, Nile green paint, a low ceiling that consisted of four thick cutaway layers stair-stepped back from a central panel of dull artificial light. Every twenty feet there were fluted niches of the sort I’d seen when looking up from the lobby toward the mezzanine. In each niche, there were two black lacquered wooden chairs arranged on each side of a round, glass-topped table set with an urn of fresh flowers. I picked up a chair and held it in front of me, searching for 817 at a pace that reminded me of dreams I’d had: I couldn’t make my body move. I walked but I didn’t seem to get anywhere.

The door to Marty’s room was ajar. I kicked it inward, but the two guys were already on their way out, dragging Marty between them. I was saying Pick-one-pick-one-pick-one to myself, so I chose the guy on my right and thrust hard, hitting him bang-on in the face with the legs of the chair. I made contact, jamming hard. The sound he made was savage but the blow didn’t seem to do any harm. He grabbed the chair, wrenching it out of my hands. I saw his fist coming at me, low and fast, smacking into my solar plexus with a paralyzing punch that put me down on my butt. The sour taste of regurgitated coffee rose in my throat in a blinding burst of nausea. I couldn’t catch my breath and for a terrifying few minutes I thought I’d suffocate where I sat. I looked up in time to see the chair coming down at me. I felt the bang and registered the jolt, but no pain. I was gone.

29

I was lying on a bed, caught up in a confusion of conversations, which seemed to be about me. It reminded me of car trips as a kid, listening to the low, lazy buzz of adults talking in the front seat while I snoozed in the rear. I experienced the same sweet certainty that if I could just remain still, feigning sleep, others would take responsibility for the journey. Something flat and icy cold was pressed against the side of my head, causing a stinging sensation so sharp that I hissed. Someone put the towel-wrapped ice pack in my hand and encouraged me to hold it myself at a pressure I could tolerate.

The hotel doctor arrived and spent an inordinate amount of time checking my vital signs, making sure I still knew my name, the date, and how many fingers he was holding up—a number he varied in an attempt to trick and deceive. There was talk of paramedics, whose services I declined. Next thing I knew, there were two more guys in the room. One I gathered was the head of hotel security, a hefty gentleman in a business suit with a gaping lapel. I caught a glimpse of leather that I hoped was a shoulder holster and not a back brace. The notion of a man with a gun was comforting. He was in his sixties, balding and beefy-faced with a thick gray mustache. The man with him, I was guessing, was part of the hotel-management team. I turned my head slightly. A third man appeared in the doorway with a walkie-talkie in his hand. He was slim, in his forties, sporting what was surely a toupee. He entered and conferred with the other two.

The beefy-faced guy with the mustache introduced himself, saying, “I’m Mr. Fitzgerald, hotel security. This is my associate, Mr. Preston, and the manager, Mr. Shearson. How do you feel?”

I said, “Fine,” which was ridiculous, as I was flat on my back with a very tender lump on my head. Someone had removed my shoes and put a blanket over me that really wasn’t warm enough.

The manager leaned close to Fitzgerald and spoke to him as though I wasn’t there. “I notified corporate. The attorney suggested we have her sign a waiver, releasing us from any liability…” He glanced at me and then lowered his voice.

There was a squawk from the walkie-talkie. Mr. Preston retired to the corridor and conducted his conversation beyond my hearing. When he returned moments later, he chatted with Fitzgerald, but in a tone so subdued I couldn’t pick up the content. The manager excused himself and after a brief conference Mr. Preston left as well.

I struggled to get my bearings. They had apparently settled me in an empty guest room, though I didn’t remember how I’d arrived. For all I knew, they’d dragged me through the halls by my heels. I could see a desk, sofa, two upholstered chairs, and the Art Deco armoire that housed the minibar and TV. I’d never stayed in such an upscale hotel so it was all a revelation to me. The management at the Paradise in Reno could take a lesson from the Neptune when it came to interior design. I adjusted my ice pack and said, “What happened to Marty?”

Fitzgerald said, “We don’t know. They managed to get him out of the building without being seen. I had the parking lot attendant check for his car, but someone had already claimed it and had driven it away. No one remembered the driver so we’re not sure if Mr. Blumberg left on his own or in the company of the men who abducted him.”

“Poor guy.”

“The police are here talking to the woman with you. They’d like to ask you a few questions when you’re up to it.”

“I don’t remember much, but sure,” I said. In truth, I didn’t feel like conversation. I was cold. The knot on the side of my head throbbed sharply with every beat of my pulse. My midsection was sore. I had no idea what Reba was telling them, but I suspected she’d be less than candid. The whole situation was too complicated to explain, especially since I didn’t know how much the feds considered confidential. I was sick about Marty. My last glimpse of him—cheek split, blood running down the side of his face—he’d seemed resigned to his fate, like a man being hauled off to the gas chamber, priest at his side. It was the dread in his eyes I found haunting, as though he knew that something far worse was in store for him. I wanted to rewind the reel of film, let events unfold again so I could find a way to help him.

Fitzgerald said something else, but I wasn’t taking it in. I removed the ice pack and checked the soggy terry cloth with its blush of blood in the loops. I rearranged the fold and laid the fresh cold of a new spot against my poor banged-up head. I was shivering, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask for another blanket. “Sorry. Could you repeat that?”

“Had you ever seen these men before?”

“Not to my recollection. I thought they were on their way to meet someone else. They were coming right at us, but it’s like a stranger waving in your direction. You turn around and look back, assuming it isn’t you they mean. Reba might remember more than I do. Can I talk to her?”

He debated, wanting to press for information, trying at the same time to appear compassionate and concerned, hotel liability being what it was. “As soon as the police are finished, I’ll have her come in.”

“Thanks.”

I closed my eyes again. I was tired and I didn’t think I’d ever want to get out of this bed. I felt a touch on my arm. Reba now sat in a chair she’d pulled over close to the bed. Fitzgerald wasn’t in the room.

“Where’d Fitzgerald disappear to?”

“Who knows. I told the cops to call Cheney and he’d fill ’em in. I didn’t want to put my foot in my mouth with the FBI involved. How’s your head?”

“Hurts. Help me up and let’s see if I can sit up without passing out or puking.” She held my outstretched hand and eased me into an upright position. I pushed the blanket aside and placed my other hand on the bed table for stability. It really wasn’t as bad as I’d thought.

“You’re not planning to go anywhere, I hope.”

“Not until I know what kind of shape I’m in. You ever see those guys before?”

She hesitated. “I think so. In the pickup truck on the way down from Reno. They’re probably Salustio’s goons. Beck must have told him I took his twenty-five grand.”

“But why snatch Marty? He had nothing to do with it.”

“I don’t know what’s going on. Shit, I wish I’d never told Marty the feds were closing in. All that did was scare him into running. He’d have been better off if he were under arrest. At least he’d be safe.”

“What about the claim check he gave you? What was that about?”

She blinked. “I don’t know. I’d forgotten about that.” She rooted through her bag, pulled it out, and turned it over in her hand. “Hotel luggage claim. I should talk to the bell captain and see what this is. Will you be okay? It shouldn’t take me long.”

“Sure. Why don’t you wait for me downstairs? As soon as I’ve talked to the cops, I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

She said, “Great.”

I waited until she was gone and then made my way into the bathroom, where I washed my face and ran my head under the faucet to wash away the dried blood that was matted in my hair. I took a bath towel and blotted gingerly until the strands were dry enough to comb. Really, I was doing better than I’d expected, now that I was on my feet.

By the time the uniformed beat officer arrived, I was sitting in a chair, feeling somewhat restored. He was a clean-cut fellow in his twenties with a serious demeanor and a slight, disarming lisp. I repeated what I knew, watching him scribble in his notebook. We went over the sequence of events until he seemed satisfied that he’d wrung as much from me as I was able to remember. I gave him my Santa Teresa address and my phone number, as well as Cheney’s. He gave me a card and said I could request a copy of the crime report if I wrote to the Records Section, though it would take about ten days for processing.

Once the door closed behind him, I slipped on my shoes. Bending down to tie the laces was not a happy occasion, but I managed it. I found my shoulder bag and let myself out into the hall, then located the bank of elevators and went down.

In the lobby, I looked across to the bell captain’s desk, expecting to catch sight of Reba. No bell captain and no Reba. I’d been talking to the officer for a good ten minutes, so it didn’t surprise me to think she’d already retrieved whatever Marty had left for her. I circled the area, peering into the cocktail lounge, the ladies’ room, and the corridor near the public phones. I tried the gift boutique and the newsstand next door. Where the hell had she gone? I kept expecting to spot her, and it annoyed me no end that she’d wandered off without leaving me some word. I sat in the lobby for six or seven minutes and then stepped outside. The bell captain was tagging a set of suitcases. When he finished, I said, “I’m looking for a friend…petite, dark hair. She came down a little while ago with a claim check for—”

“Of course. She picked up the rolling bag and then she left.”

“Do you know where she went?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. I wish I could help.” He excused himself to tend to an incoming guest and left me standing there perplexed. Now what?

A car pulled up, the parking valet delivering the vehicle to a waiting guest. The driver got out and as the valet closed the door, he caught my eye. I realized he was the same kid we’d seen when we first arrived. “You looking for your friend?”

“Yes.”

“You just missed her,” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘missed her’?”

“The doorman whistled her up a cab a few minutes ago.”

“You mean she left the hotel? Going where?”

“I didn’t hear. She gave the driver instructions and then the taxi pulled away.”

“Was she alone?”

“Looked like it. She had her suitcase with her so maybe she was headed for the airport.”

“Thanks.”

Now what?

I couldn’t figure out what she was up to. I was anxious to hit the road, but how could I leave the hotel when I had no idea where she was or if she meant to return? Had she left on an impulse or had she intended to ditch me from the moment we left Reno? Whatever the reality, I felt I had to hang around for a while, at least until I was convinced she was gone for good.

In the meantime, there must be something I could do. I returned to the lobby, where I took a seat in the same chair I’d occupied when we first arrived. I closed my eyes and went back over the entire sequence of events. I pictured Reba crossing to the desk. She’d removed a mailing pouch from her purse, printed something on the face of it, and left it with the concierge. She’d then asked for and received an envelope. Which suggested what?

I got up and approached the concierge’s desk. There was only one man on duty—Carl, according to his name tag—and he was in the process of setting up dinner reservations for a well-dressed older gentleman. I waited. Once the gentleman left, Carl turned a blank look on me, his eyes straying to the side of my head, where I suddenly imagined a bump the size of the Palmdale Bulge. “May I be of assistance?”

“Is the manager available?”

“I can certainly check. Are you a guest of the hotel?”

“Well, no, but I seem to have a little problem and I could use his help.”

“I see. And will he know what this is in reference to?”

“Probably not. You can tell him the name is Millhone.”

He picked up his desk phone and punched in a number, gaze fixed on me. When the line was picked up on the other end, he turned away from me and conducted his conversation with a hand across his mouth like someone trying to be polite while picking his teeth in public. “He’ll be with you in just one moment.”

“Thanks.”

He smiled and his gaze slid past me as he busied himself. For some minutes he was occupied with a ledger and the phone. I started to speak, but he held up a finger—denoting, One minute, please—and then went on with his task. Was I being stonewalled? I remembered the comment the manager had made about the hotel’s liability in light of Marty’s (alleged) abduction and the assault on me. Perhaps he’d put a call through to corporate and his boss, or his boss’s boss, had warned him to avoid any further contact with me. Anything said might be used against the hotel in a court of law. I might as well have had a flashing sign on my forehead: LAWSUIT * LAWSUIT * LAWSUIT. “Excuse me. Sir?”

“If you’d care to have a seat, the manager will be with you.” His tone was pleasant, but this time he didn’t look at me at all. He picked up a sheaf of papers, rapped them against the counter to align the edges, and moved into the inner office as though on a mission related to national security.

Irritated, I noticed that my bad angel was now perched on my shoulder, pointing mutely. I could see the manila mailing pouch Reba’d left earlier. It was still lying on the credenza less than five feet away. From where I stood, Marty’s name was visible, printed in bold black ink. Here we go…I moved down the counter and caught the attention of an idle desk clerk, a kid about twenty, probably still in training for the job. He said, “Yes, ma’am. May I help you?”

“I hope so. My name is Mrs. Blumberg. My husband and I are guests of the hotel. He said he was leaving a package for me and I believe that’s it.” I pointed at the pouch.

The clerk picked it up. “You’re Marty?”

“Yes, I am.”

He handed it over, happy to be of service.

I was happy, too. “Thank you.”

I made my way to the ladies’ room, where I shut myself in a stall. I perched on the toilet seat despite the fact that it had no lid. In correctional facilities, lids are removed to prevent suicide attempts, though offhand it’s hard to imagine the procedure whereby one would hang oneself with a toilet seat, especially with that cunning gap in the middle separating the two halves. In some institutions, there’s no toilet seat at all, just a tankless one-piece commode, fashioned out of stainless steel. I propped my feet on the door, worried the clerk would burst in and raise a hue and cry about unlawful possession. The pouch had the bulk and heft of a couple of paperbacks. The flap was self-sealed, but I picked at it until the two lines of adhesive loosened their grip. I peered in.

Now this was the perfect example of why it’s so impossible to cure me of the naughty lies I tell. Fibs and related forms of deception often have the most remarkable rewards. Inside I found the following:

A United States passport, issued to one Garrisen Randolph, with a two-by-two photograph of Martin Blumberg.

A California driver’s license issued to Garrisen Randolph, with a slightly shrunken version of the same photograph. His residence address was listed in Los Angeles, 90024 zip code, which was actually Westwood. Sex: M HAIR: Brn EYES: Brn HT: 5-11 WT: 272 DOB: 08-25-42, this latter printed in red. Above the picture, also in red, was the license expiration date: 08-25-90.

In addition, there was an American Express card, a Visa credit card, and a MasterCard issued to the same Garrisen Randolph, plus a birth certificate from Inyo County, California, detailing the particulars of Garrisen Randolph’s birth.

These were, of course, versions of the phony documents Reba’d stolen from the hidden drawer in Alan Beckwith’s desk. The name on these documents was a variation on the name Garrison Randell, probably to ensure that a computer search wouldn’t pick up a match. Technically, Marty could leave the country anytime he liked and no one would be the wiser. There was no doubt in my mind that Misty Raine had done the work. I remembered Reba’s telling me Misty’s newly discovered forging talents had netted her the bucks to pay for that bodacious set of tits. The fellow she’d met in the lounge at the Silverado was probably supplying counterfeit paper, seals, or credit card blanks.

But what did it mean?

Phony documents of this caliber cost plenty. Reba was the one who’d made all the arrangements, but in exchange for what? Clearly she and Marty had a deal. I could see what he was getting out of it, but what was the benefit to her? I thought about the envelope she’d received at the desk. Maybe he’d given her the twenty-five thousand dollars she needed to pay Salustio. Which left the issue of the suitcase, which contained god knows what. I glanced at my watch. It was now close to 6:00. I shoved the manila pouch in my shoulder bag and left the ladies’ room.

I took the elevator up to 8. As I’d hoped, there were maid’s carts parked at intervals along the corridor. Many guests had departed for the evening, on their way to dinner. The maids were now going room by room, emptying the trash, replacing towels, replenishing amenities, and turning down the beds. I waited until the maid had entered Marty’s room and then I scurried down the hall. I paused near her cart, where I spotted a box of disposable latex gloves. I slipped a pair in my shoulder bag and rapped on the open door. I wondered if the cop had been through Marty’s room. Perhaps not, as there wasn’t any crime scene tape.

The maid looked up from the bed where she was folding the heavy quilted spread into something the size and shape of a giant Tootsie Roll.

I said, “Sorry to interrupt, but is there any way you can come back and finish this later? I have a dinner date in twenty minutes and I have to get dressed.”

She murmured her apologies, picked up her plastic carrier of supplies, and exited.

I hung the Privacy Please sign on the outside knob, pulled on my gloves, and did a thorough search. Marty must have had his wallet, room key, and other items on his person when his assailants hurried him away. I went through the hard-sided suitcase he’d left open on the luggage rack. Underwear, shirts, socks, a few toiletries he hadn’t transferred to the bathroom counter. I opened the closet door and ran a hand into the pockets of the pants he’d left. Empty. I made a systematic search of the hanging garment bag, but there was just what you’d expect: suits, trousers, belts, shoes. Aside from the hotel robe, there was no other clothing in the closet and no sign of the usual hotel safe with its four-digit combination lock.

I searched the bathroom, including the underside of the toilet tank lid, and found nothing. I opened the dresser drawers and ran a hand around the interiors. Empty. I pulled each drawer all the way out, wondering if there was something secured under or behind. When I reached the bed table, I went through the same routine. I removed the Gideon Bible. Inside the cover there was a Delta Air Lines ticket, first class to Zurich, issued in Garrisen Randolph’s name. The booking was one-way and the flight was scheduled to depart at 9:30 the next morning.

I replaced the ticket between the pages, returned the Bible to the drawer, and closed it. I didn’t believe Marty was coming back, but on the off-chance he made it, the ticket would be waiting. I removed my gloves, plucked the Privacy Please sign from the outside knob, and hung it on the inside. I took the elevator down. I went into the newsstand and bought three dollars’ worth of stamps, which I pasted on the front of the mailing pouch. I penned my home address under Marty’s name and then pinched the adhesive to secure the opening. I took a seat within sight of the concierge’s desk, watching to see if Carl was still on duty. Ten minutes passed and there was no sign of him. A smartly dressed woman, with a name tag pinned to her lapel, had stepped into the job.

I approached the desk. She appeared to be capable, her smile properly cool and professional. “Yes, ma’am.”

I put the mailing pouch on the counter. “I’d like to leave this for Mr. Blumberg in Room 817, but I wonder if you could attach a note. If he hasn’t picked it up by tomorrow afternoon, I’d appreciate someone’s dropping it in the mail to him.”

“Of course.”

She wrote the appropriate note and clipped it to the top edge of the pouch. I said, “Oh, and do you happen to have a stapler? This has popped open.”

“Not a problem.” She reached behind the counter and took out a stapler. I watched while she crunched a succession of staples into the upper edge of the pouch, tightly sealing it. She placed it back on the credenza where it had sat earlier. I thanked her, silently sending up a prayer for Marty’s survival.

At 7:15 I shelled out twenty-five bucks to the bell captain and retrieved my VW. I drove west on Sunset as far as the on-ramp to the northbound 405, traveling up the long hill toward the valley and down the other side. Once I connected to the 101, I pointed the car toward home.

30

I reached Santa Teresa at 9:00 that night. The summer temperatures had cooled rapidly as the sun inched its way down toward the horizon. Along Cabana Boulevard, the streetlights had flicked on and the wide stretch of ocean had turned all silvery and white. I stopped by my apartment, where I dropped my bags and wrote a quick note to Henry letting him know I was home. I left a message to the same effect on Cheney’s answering machine, saying I’d catch up with him when I could.

By 9:20 I was back in the car, heading south toward Montebello and the Lafferty estate. Gingerly I put a hand to the knot on my head—still sore, and still undiminished in size. Happily the headache was gone and I thought it safe to assume that I was on the mend. I didn’t think I’d jog for a day or two, but at least my thinking seemed clear.

The drive up from Los Angeles had given me a chance to reflect. I still had no clue how the two goons had found us in Reno. As odious as Beck was, I didn’t picture him with thugs on his payroll, which meant they were sent by Salustio Castillo. I was baffled by their snatching Marty. Reba’s theft of Salustio’s twenty-five grand made her the logical target. Unless Marty had done something even more foolish than she. Such as what? I wondered if he’d packed the remainder of Salustio’s money in the rolling bag. But to what end? From what he’d said that night at Dale’s, he’d set aside sufficient funds to take care of himself. So why steal more and why pass it on to Reba when all that would do was place her in greater jeopardy than she was in? Meanwhile, where was she?

I thought it was entirely possible she’d commissioned Misty to dummy up a passport and other phony documents for herself as well as for Marty. If that were the case, she might be on her way out of the country, though I couldn’t believe she’d go without saying good-bye to her dad. She might not confide her destination, but surely she’d find a way to let him know that she was okay. Not for the first time, I was thinking my relationship with Reba was at an end. She’d blow off her parole and take her chances as a fugitive.

When I reached the entrance to the Lafferty estate, the gates were closed. I pulled up to the keypad, rolled down my window, and pressed the call button. I could hear the line ring inside. Once. Twice. Freddy picked up, her voice sounding scratchy over the intercom system.

I stuck my head out the window and raised my voice. “Freddy? It’s Kinsey. Can you let me in, please?”

I heard a series of peeps and then a low humming noise as the gates swung open to the full. I flipped on my brights and eased my way down the drive. I could see house lights twinkling through the trees. As I rounded the last curve, I saw that the second story was dark but the lights were on in many of the first-floor rooms along the front. Lucinda’s car was parked in its usual spot and I could feel my eyes cross at the notion of encountering her. As I got out of the car, I caught motion to my right. Rags sauntered along the drive at a pace perfectly calculated to intercept my path. When he reached me, I leaned down and scratched between his ears. His long pumpkin-colored fur was silky, his purr becoming more pronounced as he arched his big head and pushed against my hand. “Listen, Rags. I’d be happy to take you in, but if Lucinda answers the door we got no shot at it.”

He trailed up the walk with me, sometimes running around in front to inspire additional stroking and conversation. I could see where owning a cat would render a grownup completely goofy in time. I reached for the bell, but the front door swung open in advance of my ring. Lucinda was framed in the porch light, wearing a crisp-looking yellow coatdress, with pale hose and matching yellow heels. She looked tanned and fit, her streaky blond hair arranged as though permanently swept by wind. She said, “Oh! Freddy said someone rang at the gate, but I didn’t realize it was you. I thought you were out of town.”

“I was. I just got back and I need to talk to Mr. Lafferty.”

She let that sink in. “I suppose you might as well come in.” She stepped aside to let me enter, frowning with annoyance when she caught sight of Rags. She barred him with a quick foot and pushed him out of the way. That’s the kind of person she was, a cat-kicker. What a bitch. As I stepped into the foyer, I spotted a small overnight case sitting near the door. She’d set her purse on the console table and she paused to check her reflection in the mirror, adjusting an earring and an errant strand of hair. She opened her purse, apparently searching for her keys. “Nord’s not here. He collapsed this morning and I had to call the paramedics. He’s been admitted to Saint Terry’s. I’m on my way over to take him his toiletries and robe.”

“What happened?”

“Well, he’s desperately ill,” she said, as though I’d been stupid to inquire. “All this upset over Reba has taken its toll.”

“Is she here?”

“Of course not. She’s never here when he needs her. That’s a job that falls to Freddy or me.” Her smile was self-satisfied and brittle, her manner brisk. “Well now. What can we do for you?”

“Is he allowed to have visitors?”

“You must not have heard me. He’s ill. He shouldn’t be disturbed.”

“That wasn’t what I asked. What floor is he on?”

“He’s on the cardiac ward. If you insist, I suppose you could speak to his private-duty nurse. What is it you want?”

“He asked me to do a job. I’d like to give him my report.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

“But I don’t work for you. I work for him,” I said.

“She’s in trouble again, isn’t she?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“You don’t understand what this has done to him. He’s had to rescue her all his life. Reba keeps putting him in the same position. She sets it up so that if he doesn’t step in, she’ll be doomed, or so she’d like him to think. I’m sure she’d deny this, but she’s really still a child, doing anything she can to get her father’s attention. If anything happened to her, he’d forever blame himself.”

“He’s her father. He gets to help her if he wants.”

“Well, I may have put an end to that.”

“How so?”

“I called Priscilla Holloway, Reba’s parole officer. I thought she should be aware of what’s been going on. I’m sure Reba’s been drinking and probably gambling as well. I told Ms. Holloway Reba left the state, and she was furious.”

“You’ll get her sent back to prison.”

“That’s my hope. We’d all be better off, including her.”

“Great. That’s perfect. Who else did you tattle to?” I meant the question as a piece of sarcasm, but the silence that followed suggested I’d scored an unexpected bull’s-eye. I stared at her. “Is that how Beck found out where she was?”

She dropped her gaze. “We had a conversation on the subject.”

“You told him?”

“That’s right. And I’d do it again.”

“When was this?”

“Thursday. He came to the house. Nord was sleeping so I spoke to him myself. He’d been looking for her and he was very concerned. He said he didn’t want to cause a problem, but he thought she’d taken something. He was quite uncomfortable and I had to work very hard persuading him to tell me what it was. He finally admitted she stole twenty-five thousand dollars. He said he didn’t want to make trouble, but I thought that was nonsense and told him where she was.”

“How’d you get Misty’s address?”

“I didn’t have her address, I had yours. Nord scribbled a note to himself the night you called. The Paradise Motel. I saw it written on the pad beside his bed.”

“Lucinda, Beck manipulated you. Don’t you see that?”

“Hardly. He’s a lovely man. After what she did to him, I’d have told him even if he hadn’t asked.”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? A man was kidnapped because of you.”

She laughed, tucking her purse under one arm as she picked up the overnight case. “No one was kidnapped,” she said, as though the notion were absurd. “Really. You’re just like her, creating drama where there is none. Everything’s a crisis. Everything’s the end of the world. It’s never anything she’s done. She’s always the victim, always expecting someone else to pick up after her. Well, this time she’ll have to take responsibility. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get over to the hospital and leave these items for Nord.”

She opened the door and snapped it shut behind her. In the face of her conviction, I hadn’t managed to challenge her view or express even the first shred of protest. There was an element of truth in what she’d said, but it wasn’t the whole truth.

“Miss Millhone?”

I turned to find Freddy standing in the hall behind me. “Did you hear her? The woman’s horrible,” I said.

“Now that she’s gone, I wanted to let you know. Reba was here. She arrived shortly before Miss Cunningham stopped by to pick up Mr. Lafferty’s things.”

“Where’d she go?”

“I don’t know. She came by cab and she was only home long enough to pick up her car and a change of clothes. She said she’d go over to the hospital to see her father, but she’d time it to avoid crossing paths with Miss Cunningham. She’s going to call Mr. Lafferty’s doctor and have his visitors restricted to family only, including me, of course.” Freddy permitted herself a sly smile. “That was my idea.”

“Serves Lucinda right. How serious is his condition?”

“The doctor says he’ll be fine. He was dehydrated and his electrolytes were out of balance. I believe he’s suffering from anemia as well. The doctor intends to keep him for a couple of days.”

“Well, good. That’s one less thing to worry about, especially if the staff can keep Lucinda at bay. Did Reba say anything at all about where she’d be?”

“Staying with a friend.”

“She doesn’t have a friend. Here in town?”

“I believe so. This was a fellow, someone she met after she got home.”

I thought about that briefly. “Maybe someone from AA…though now that I say that, it seems unlikely. I can’t see her at a meeting this late in the game. What about reaching her? Did she leave a number?”

Freddy shook her head. “She said she’d call by the house at nine, but she was concerned Mr. Beckwith would find her again.”

“I’ll bet. Lucinda’s been dishing out the information right and left,” I said. “Look, if you hear from her, tell her it’s important we talk. Did she leave a suitcase by any chance?”

“No, but she did have one with her. She put it in the trunk of her car before she left.”

“Well, let’s hope she calls in.” I glanced at my watch. “I’ll be at my office for the next couple of hours and then I’ll head home.”

My office always feels odd at night, its flaws and shabbiness exaggerated by the artificial light. As I sat at my desk, all I saw through the window was dinginess reflected back at me, the dust and ancient rain streaks barring any view of the street. On weekends this part of downtown Santa Teresa is dead after 6:00 P.M., city buildings closed for the night, the courthouse and public library dark. The bungalow I occupied was the middle unit of three; identical stucco structures that, at some point, represented modest housing. Since I’d moved in, the bungalows on both sides of mine had remained vacant, which afforded me the quiet I preferred, at the same time creating an unsettling sense of isolation.

I sorted through the mound of mail the carrier had shoved through my slot. Much junk, a few bills, which I sat down and paid. I was restless, eager to get home, but felt I should stay, in the hopes that Reba would call. I did some filing. I straightened out my pencil drawer. It was make-work but gave me something useful to do. I kept glancing at the phone, willing it to ring, so when someone rapped on my side window, I nearly leaped out of my skin.

Reba was outside, concealed in the shadowy space between my bungalow and its twin next door. She’d traded her shorts for jeans and her white T-shirt looked like the one she’d been wearing when she left CIW. I unlocked the window and raised the sash. “What are you doing?”

“You have access to those garages out back?”

“Sure, the one for this unit. I’ve never used it, but the landlord did give me the keys.”

“Grab ’em and let’s go. I gotta get my car off the street. I’ve had those goons on my tail ever since I left the house.”

“The ones we saw in L.A.?”

“Yeah, only one of ’em now has a black eye, like he walked into a door.”

“Oh, dear. Wonder if I did that with my widdle chair,” I said. “How’d you get away?”

“Fortunately, I know this town a lot better than they do. I led ’em around for a while, then sped up, doused my lights, turned down a little side road, and then behind a hedge. The minute I saw their car pass, I doubled back and came here.”

“Where have you been all this time?”

She seemed agitated. “Don’t ask. I’ve been busy as a little bee. Get a move on. I’m cold.”

“I’ll meet you out back.”

I closed the window and locked it. In my bottom desk drawer I lifted aside the phone book and picked up two silver keys hooked together on a paper clip. I picked up my bag and found my trusty penlight, checking the strength of the batteries as I moved down the hallway and out the rear door. A short patch of stubby grass separated the bungalows from the row of three garages along the alley. Reba’d parked her car in the shadow of a pyracantha bush that had probably scratched the shit out of the paint on the right-hand side. I could see her at the wheel, smoking a cigarette while she waited for me.

There was a light fixture with a forty-watt bulb attached to the wood beam above the middle garage, which was the one assigned to me. The bulb yielded just enough light to see by if your eyes were good. I fumbled with the padlock and finally popped it open. I unhooked it from the hasp and hauled up the overhead door with a labored groaning of wood and rusty hinges. I flashed my penlight across the walls and floor, which were bare, smelling of motor oil and soot. There were cobwebs everywhere.

Reba flipped her cigarette out the window and started her car. I stood back as she pulled into the garage. She got out, locked her car door, and came around to the rear. She popped the trunk lid and hauled out a suitcase of a size appropriate for an airplane carry-on, though you’d have to maneuver it to get it in the overhead bin. The bag had an extendable handle and a set of wheels. She seemed preoccupied, caught up in a mood I couldn’t read.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Fine.”

“Just for the yucks, are you going to tell me what’s in there?”

“Want to see?”

“I do.”

She collapsed the handle and laid the suitcase flat, unzipped the top portion and flipped it open.

I found myself looking at a metal box, maybe fifteen inches high, eighteen inches long, and eight inches deep. “What the hell is that?”

“You’re joking. You don’t know?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t ask, Reeb. I’d exclaim with joy and surprise.”

“It’s a computer. Marty took his with him when he left. He also stopped by the bank and picked up all the floppy disks from the safe-deposit box. You’re looking at Beck’s business records—the second set of books. Hook it up to a keyboard and monitor, you’ve got access to everything: bank accounts, deposits, shell companies, payoffs, every dime he laundered for Salustio.”

“You’re turning it over to the feds, right?”

“Probably. As soon as I’m done…though you know how cranky they get about stolen property.”

“But you can’t even think about keeping this. That’s why those guys went after Marty, to get it back. Isn’t it?”

“Exactly. So let’s put a call through to Beck and offer him a trade. We get Marty, he gets this.”

“I thought you just said you’d turn it over to the feds?”

“You weren’t listening. I said ‘probably.’ I’m not sure their crappy investigation is worth Marty’s life.”

“You can’t handle this yourself. Negotiate with Beck? Are you out of your mind? You have to tell Vince. Bring in the cops or the FBI.”

“No way. This is my only chance to get even with that son of a bitch.”

“Oh, I get it. This isn’t about Marty. It’s about you and Beck.”

“Of course it’s about Marty, but it’s also about settling the score. It’s like a test. Let’s see what Beck’s made of. I don’t think it’s such a bad deal—Marty in exchange for this. The fact the feds want it is what makes it so valuable.”

“There are more important things in life than revenge,” I said.

“Well, that’s bullshit. Name one,” she said. “Besides, I’m not talking about revenge. I’m talking about getting even. Those are two different things.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Yes, they are. Revenge is you hurt me and I grind you underfoot until you wish you were dead. Getting even restores the balance in the Universe. You kill him, I kill you. Now we’re even. What else is capital punishment about? Getting even is just what it sounds like. Tit for tat. You hurt me, I hurt you back. We’re square again and all’s right with the world.”

“Why not get even by turning him over to the IRS?”

“That’s business. This is personal, between him and me.”

“I don’t get what you want.”

“I want him to say he’s sorry for what he did to me. I gave up two years of my life for him. Now I have something he wants so let him beg for it.”

“That’s asinine. So he pulls a long face and says sorry. What difference will that make? You know what he’s like. You can’t ever do business with a guy like him. You’ll get screwed.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Reba, would you listen to me? He’ll work you over the first chance he gets.”

Her face was set. “Why don’t you go get your car and bring it around? I’ll wait for you here.”

I shut my mouth and closed my eyes. Why argue the point when her mind was made up? “You want help with this garage door?”

“I can handle it.”

I returned to the office. I locked the back door behind me, then moved down the hall turning off lights as I went. I grabbed my shoulder bag and went out the front door, pausing long enough to lock up. I stood for a moment, scanning the darkened street. All the cars in range belonged to neighbors, vehicles I’d seen before and could identify on sight. I let myself into my car and fired up the engine. I drove around the corner and nosed my VW into the alleyway.

Reba had closed and padlocked the garage. She opened the passenger-side door, put the suitcase in the backseat, and got in. I reached over into the rear and grabbed my denim jacket. “Here. Put this on before you catch cold.”

“Thanks.” She shrugged into the jacket and locked her seat belt in place.

“Where to?”

“The nearest public phone.”

“Why not my office, as long as we’re here?”

“I don’t want you tied into this in any way.”

“Tied into what?”

“Just find a phone,” she said.

31

Reba wanted me to make the call to Beck. We found a phone booth outside a supermarket. The store was a bright island, icy fluorescent lights reflected in the shiny paint finish of the dozen or so cars in the parking lot out front. This was the store where I did my weekly shopping, and I longed for nothing so much as to buy milk and eggs and then wend my way home.

Reba put a handful of coins and a slip of paper with Beck’s home and office numbers on the metal shelf under the phone. “Try his home phone first. If Tracy answers, maybe she’ll think he has a girlfriend,” she said.

“He does. Her name is Onni.”

“She probably knows about her. I’m talking someone new. Might as well bug the shit out of her while we can.”

“That’s not nice. I thought women were supposed to be nice.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it if I were you.”

I picked up the handset. “So what am I supposed to say to him?”

“Tell him to meet us at the East Beach parking lot in fifteen minutes. As soon as he hands Marty over, he gets his computer.”

I held the handset against my chest. “Please don’t do this. I’m begging you. What’s to prevent him from snatching the damn thing? You don’t even have a gun.”

“Of course I don’t have a gun. I’m a convicted felon. I can’t carry,” she said, as though offended by the very idea.

“What if Beck has one?”

“He doesn’t even own a gun. Besides, we’ll be right out in plain sight. Anyone driving along Cabana Boulevard can see us. Here, give me that.”

She grabbed the handset and put it against my ear, picked up some coins, and dropped them in the slot. In addition to the dial tone, I could have sworn I heard the buzz of electricity running through my frame. My heart rate was picking up and my insides felt like a fuse box with all the lines shorting out. She punched in Beck’s home number just to hurry things along. At the first ring, Reba leaned her head against mine and tilted the handset so she could listen in. I said, “This feels like high school. I hate this.”

“Would you shut up?” she hissed.

After three rings, he picked up. “Yes.”

My mouth was dry. “Beck, this is Kinsey.”

“God damn you! Where’s Reba? The fuckin’ bitch. I want what’s mine and she better make it quick.”

Reba grabbed the handset, all sweetness and light now that she had him by the balls. “Hey, baby. How’s by you? I’m right here.”

Whatever Beck’s reply, it must have been tart because she laughed with delight. “Oh my, now. You don’t have to be crude. I was thinking we should get together and have a chat.”

I waited, staring off across the parking lot, while she spelled out the proposal and the nature of the trade. Then they argued about the rendezvous, tussling to see which of them was going to come out on top. The East Beach bathhouse, at the corner of Cabana and Milagro, was where I did the turnaround on my morning runs. Even at night, the area is exposed and well lighted, the Santa Teresa Inn just across the street from the entrance to the parking lot. There’s a small separate lot at the far end of the building, but she’d opted for the more public of the two. This showed a grain of common sense unusual for her. She insisted on meeting in fifteen minutes while he swore he couldn’t be there any sooner than half an hour. To this, she finally agreed. Score one for him. I was uneasy. I figured the more time she gave him, the more likely he was to round up some help. This must have occurred to her as well. “And Beck, one more thing. You bring anyone but Marty and you’ll eat it, big time. Yeah, well, same to you, you little shit!” She slammed down the phone and then shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. “God, I hate him. What a hairball.”

I picked up the handset and reached for some coins. “I’m calling Cheney.”

She took the handset and returned it to the cradle. “I don’t want Cheney. I don’t want anyone but us.”

“I can’t do this. You and Beck can play all the games you want, but I’m out of it,” I said.

“Okay. Fine. Take a hike. Drop me at my car and you’re off the hook,” she said. She turned and walked off.

I’d hoped to jolt her into getting help, but she was having none of it. I blinked, staring at the pavement. What were my choices? Do it her way or risk…what? That she’d die or get hurt? Because Marty’d stolen the computer, she’d assumed Beck was the one who’d ordered the snatch, but what if he hadn’t? It might have been Salustio Castillo, who had just as much to lose. Beck might be bluffing. He might not have a clue where Marty was being held, and then what? All he had to do was grab the suitcase and what could she do? If it came right down to it, what could I do? Nothing. At the same time, she knew I wouldn’t leave her. There was too much at stake.

Reluctantly, I followed. The car doors were locked and she waited, gaze averted, while I let myself in and tossed my bag on the backseat. I slid under the wheel, leaned over, and opened the door on her side. Reba got in and we sat there. I had my hands on the steering wheel, stalling while I racked my brain for some alternative. “There has to be a better way to do this.”

“Great. Spell it out. I’m all yours,” she said.

I didn’t have an answer. The meeting was scheduled for 11:00 P.M., in roughly twenty-five minutes. Technically we had time enough to drive to my place, where I could pick up my gun. I nearly banged my head on the steering wheel. What was I thinking? A gun was out of the question. I wasn’t going to shoot anyone. Over a computer? How absurd.

On the other hand…shit…on the other hand…if Marty’s home phone was tapped, the FBI must have a tap on Beck’s telephone lines as well. One of their agents must have heard Beck and Reba wrangling, so maybe they’d taken note and the cavalry was already on the way.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Reba check her watch, saying, “Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Time’s a-wasting.”

“So where’s Marty all this time?”

“He didn’t say. I’m assuming somewhere close.”

I shook my head in frustration. “I don’t believe I’m doing this.” I turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the space. “Let’s at least take a minute to scope out the area, or have you done that?”

“Not really. Why bother? I figure you’re the expert.”

The drive seemed to take forever. I cut over to the freeway, thinking to speed our progress. Big mistake. Traffic was heavy, taillights stacked up, as two lanes of cars amassed in the wake of an accident in one of the northbound lanes. I could see lights flashing where the CHP and the emergency vehicles had converged on the scene. There wasn’t actually an obstruction on our side of the road, but we were at a dead stop, anyway, while people paused to gawk.

By the time we reached the off-ramp at Cabana, we had less than a minute to spare. I confess I sped the final mile and a half, hoping a cop would spot us and make a traffic stop. No such luck. The ocean was to our right, separated from the road by the beach, a bike path, and a wide strip of grass that was dotted with palm trees. On our left, we passed a string of motels and restaurants. The sidewalk was populated with tourists, which was oddly comforting somehow.

At Milagro, I turned into the designated parking lot. There were no cars in evidence, which meant (perhaps) that if Beck was bringing goons, at least they hadn’t arrived before us. Reba told me to make a U-turn at the far end of the lot and circle back to the entrance. I did as instructed and then backed into a parking space, my car facing the street in case we needed to make a hasty retreat. We got out of the car. She flipped her seat forward and removed the suitcase. She popped the handle, extending it, and then rolled the case to the front of the car. “Might as well let him know we mean business,” she said.

Behind us, the waves were drumming on the sand, gathering momentum before they battered the shore and then rolled back again. The water was intensely black with a fine sheen of white where moonlight caught the peaks of each wave. A damp breeze buffeted my hair and pushed against the legs of my jeans. I turned and scanned the beach behind us, hopping from foot to foot to keep warm. So far, to all appearances, we were alone.

Reba leaned on the front fender, lit a cigarette, and smoked. Ten minutes passed. She checked her watch. “What’s this about? Does he want the friggin’ thing or not?”

Across the street, hotel guests pulled in at the entrance to the Santa Teresa Inn. There were two valet parkers and a smattering of pedestrians. In the restaurant on the second floor, tables were arranged along the big curved front window. Diners were visible, though as dark as it was now, I doubted they could see us. A black-and-white patrol car approached and turned right, speeding up Milagro. I could feel my hopes flare and fade.

“I think we should get out of here. I don’t like this,” I said.

She looked at her watch again. “Not yet. If he doesn’t show by 11:30, we’ll bail.”

At 11:19 two cars crawled into view and turned into the lot. Reba dropped her cigarette and stepped on it. “That’s Marty’s car in front. The second one’s Beck.”

“Is that Marty at the wheel?”

“I can’t tell. It looks like him.”

“Well, great then. No sweat. Get it over with,” I said.

Reba crossed her arms, whether from cold or tension, I couldn’t be sure. Once in the lot, Marty’s car turned left, circled as we had, and made a slow return. He stopped his car thirty feet away and sat, engine idling, while Beck pulled up fifteen feet closer to us. The two sets of headlights formed a line of harsh spots. I raised a hand and shaded my eyes. I could see Beck at the wheel of his car, but I wasn’t at all convinced the second driver was Marty.

A minute passed.

Reba shifted restlessly. “What’s he doing?”

“Reba, let’s go. There’s something off about this.”

Beck got out of the car. He stood by the open door, his attention fixed on the rolling bag. He wore a dark raincoat, open along its length, sides flapping in the wind. “Is that it?”

“No, Beck, it’s not. I’ve decided to leave town.”

“Bring it over here and let’s have a look.”

“Tell Marty to get out so we can see it’s him.”

Beck called over his shoulder. “Hey, Marty? Give Reeb a wave. She thinks you’re someone else.”

The driver in Marty’s car waved to us and blinked his headlights, then revved his engine like a stock car driver at the start of a race. I touched Reba’s arm, warbling, “Run…”

I took off, breaking left, as Marty’s car pitched forward, tires chirping, the vehicle gathering speed as it bore down on us. Reba grabbed the handle of the rolling bag and scrambled after me. The suitcase teetered on the uneven surface of the parking lot and then toppled to one side. She headed for the street, dragging it after her. I could hear it scraping along the pavement, as awkward as an anchor if she hoped to escape. I yelled, “Dump that!”

The driver in Marty’s car slammed on his brakes and turned the wheel so his rear end swung around, missing my car by inches. Two men jumped out, the driver and a second man who suddenly appeared from the back where he’d been concealed.

Beck stood with his hands in his coat pockets, watching with detachment as Reba abandoned the suitcase and took off at a dead run. The two men were fast. She’d gone no distance at all when one tackled her from behind and the two of them went down.

I reversed myself and headed in her direction. I had no plan. I didn’t give a shit about the suitcase, but I wasn’t going to leave Reba on her own. She was struggling, kicking at the guy who’d tackled her. He punched her in the face. Her head jerked and banged against the ground. I reached him as he raised his fist to punch her again. I hooked my arms around his right arm and hung on for dear life. Someone grabbed me from behind. He pinned my arms against my sides, lifted me off the ground, and then swung me away from his pal. I craned my neck for sight of Reba, who’d rolled over on her side. I watched as she pulled herself up on her hands and knees. She seemed dazed, blood pouring out of her mouth and nose. The guy who’d punched her turned to me. He lifted my feet and the two hauled me over to Marty’s car. I arched my back, trying to free myself, but the guy simply tightened his grip and there was nothing I could do.

Beck crossed to Marty’s car and opened one of the rear doors. The guy in whose arms I was locked fell into the backseat and dragged me in on top of him. He flipped me so that I was pinned under him, my face mashed against the upholstery. His weight was so crushing, I couldn’t draw a breath. I thought my ribs would collapse, crushing my lungs in the process. I tried a groan, but all I could manage was a huffing sound, barely audible.

“Get the fuck off her,” someone snapped.

The guy dug an elbow in my back as he lifted himself off me. At the same time, he took my right wrist and wrenched my arm up behind me while he shoved my head toward the floor. I was staring at the floor mats, my nose six inches away. Someone folded my legs in and slammed the door. Half a second later, I heard Beck’s car door slam. He started his engine while the driver of Marty’s car slid under the wheel, shut the door, and started the car. He pulled away sedately. We slowed at the exit to the parking lot. No squealing of brakes. No calling attention to ourselves in any way. As far as I knew, Reba was still out there on the asphalt, trying to stanch the blood gushing from her nose. I’d caught a glimpse of my backseat companion, who had a white gauze patch taped across his left eye. Two harsh red and purple bruises ran along his cheek like streaks of paint. The chair leg must have come close to taking that eye out, which is probably why he’d so relished mauling me. I focused on the drive. I assumed we were forming a two-car motorcade. I thought about the kidnappings I’d seen in movies, how the heroine later identified the final destination by the sound of the tires crossing railroad tracks or the bleat of a foghorn in the distance. Most of what I heard was my companion’s labored breathing. Neither of the two guys was in as good a shape as they appeared. Or perhaps, more flattering to us, Reba and I had put up more of a fight than they’d expected.

We turned left onto Cabana Boulevard and proceeded at an easy pace for less than a minute before we slowed to a stop. I was guessing this was the light at the intersection of State and Cabana. The driver turned on the radio and music filled the car, a male vocalist singing, “I want your sex…”

My new best friend said, “Turn that shit off.”

The driver said, “I like George Michael.” But the radio did go off.

“Roll your window down and see what Beck wants.”

I could picture Beck’s car in the lane next to ours, him making that rolling gesture, leaning across the front seat of his car to converse. Annoyed, our driver said, “Okay, okay. Got it. I’m doing that!” And to the fellow in the backseat, “He has the key card, so we’re supposed to follow. How many times he tell us that?”

Faintly, in the distance, I heard sirens approaching. The wailing grew louder, the sound splitting in two. Two cop cars, oh please.

I tried turning my head, hoping for a glimpse of something out the window, but all that netted me was a searing jerk to my arm. The sirens were almost on top of us. I caught the strobe of lights from two patrol cars that passed in rapid succession. The sirens trailed down Cabana Boulevard, volume diminishing until it faded altogether. So much for help being on the way.

We turned right on what I was guessing was Castle. When we slowed to a second stop, I imagined the light at Montebello Street. We started up again, proceeding at maybe ten miles an hour. I caught the hollow sound of the road as it went under the freeway. We came up the incline on the other side, which would put us on Granizo. Left on Chapel. We had to be going to Beck’s office, which was only a couple of blocks away. I knew the stores along the mall would be closed and the office buildings locked. The “card” the driver had referred to probably triggered the mechanical barrier to the underground garage. Sure enough, I felt us slow and then turn right, easing down a ramp. At this hour, the garage would be empty. We drove the length of the cavernous space and pulled into a spot. Beck must have parked just ahead of us because I heard his car door slam before our driver had a chance to shut his engine down.

I was hauled unceremoniously from the backseat and set on my feet. I’d hoped to catch Beck’s eye, establish a connection, thinking I had a better chance of charming him than the goons on each side of me. He avoided my eyes, his face set. We waited while he opened his trunk and extracted the rolling bag. The sides were scraped gray, embedded with the beach sand accumulated from its being dragged across the pavement. The handle had snapped. Beck flipped the suitcase and knelt beside it. He unzipped the compartment and pulled open the flap.

Empty.

I stared as though trying to catch the mechanics of a magic trick. Reba had showed me the computer. It had been in there less than an hour ago, but where had it gone? The only time we’d been separated was when I’d left her in the alley while I went to fetch my car. She must have taken advantage of my absence to remove the computer and lock it in the trunk of her car. Which meant she’d anticipated Beck’s betrayal and she’d beat him to the punch. By the same token, he must have known she was going to pull a fast one, or why snatch me?

Beck stood up and pushed the bag with his toe, his expression thoughtful. I was expecting fury, but he seemed bemused instead. Maybe he liked Reba’s taking the conflict to such extremes, imagining his ultimate victory the sweeter for it. He turned and walked toward the elevators.

The three of us followed, our footsteps clattering like a herd of beasts in the vast empty space. The guy with the injured eye kept a steady pressure on the arm he’d wrenched up behind me. There was no way I could move without ripping my arm out like a cooked chicken wing. The elevator doors opened and the four of us trooped in. Beck pressed the button. The doors closed and the elevator began its ascent.

“Why here?” I asked.

“So Reba will know how to reach me. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re engaged in a little battle of wits.”

“That’d be hard to miss.”

Beck sent me a fleeting smile.

The doors opened at shop level. We emerged inside the Beckwith Building and trooped across the marble lobby to the public elevators that would take us to the fourth floor. I turned to look at Willard, who was sitting at his desk. He watched us pass without comment, his face the same handsome blank. I sent him what I hoped was a pleading look, but I got nothing in return. How could such a good-looking guy have so little life in his eyes? Couldn’t he see what was going on? Beck was his boss. Maybe he was paid the big bucks to look the other way.

We went up to the fourth floor. The elevator doors opened to reveal offices filled with artificial light, the colors as dazzling as a Disney cartoon. Long sweeps of green carpeting, bright abstract paintings in a line down the hall. Healthy plants, modern furniture. I expected to be marched off to Beck’s office, but he steered me around the corner to the freight elevator. He pressed the call button and the doors opened. He moved to the back wall of the elevator and pushed aside the gray quilted padding. He punched the code into the keyboard mounted on the elevator wall. The door to his counting room slid open. Beck pressed the Stop Run button and stepped aside, turning to look at me. He had his hands in his raincoat pockets.

Nobody said a word.

Peripherally, I saw the counting and bundling machines. In the same flash, I saw that all the cardboard boxes had been emptied of loose bills, which were now packaged and stacked on the countertop.

What I had no way to avoid was the sight of Marty. He’d been tied to a chair, beaten almost beyond recognition. His head was slumped on his chest. Even without a full view of his face, I knew he was dead. The curve of his cheek was puffy and dented, dried blood turning black at his hairline. Blood had oozed from his ears and coagulated along the collar of his shirt. I made a sound and jerked my head, blocking out the sight. Pain shot through me as though I’d been tapped with a taser gun. My palms were instantly damp and a flash of heat swept over me. I felt the blood drain out of my head. My legs buckled. The guy with the eye patch caught me and supported me briefly. Beck pressed a button and the doors to the counting room eased shut.

I was walked, rubber-legged, to Beck’s office, where I sank onto the couch and covered my face with my hands. The image of Marty was like a photograph that I saw now in negative, light and dark reversed. There was conversation going on above my head—Beck instructing the two guys to get the body out of there and dispose of it. I knew they’d take him down in the service elevator to the ground floor, where they could drag him through the service corridor and out to the garage. They’d stick him in the trunk of his car and dump his body by the side of the road. Odd, so odd. I’d seen it in his eyes—this ending, this death—but I’d been unable to intervene.

My vision condensed, threatening to shut down. Dark closed in from the periphery and I had that curious sensation in my ears—white noise—that told me how close I was to fainting. I put my head down between my knees. I remembered to breathe. Within a minute, the air seemed to cool and I could feel the darkness recede. When I looked up, the two guys were gone and Beck was sitting at his desk. “Sorry about that. It’s not what you think. He had a heart attack.”

“He’s dead all the same and it’s your fault,” I said.

“Reba had her share in it.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Take a look at what she did. We’re supposed to have a deal and she shows up with an empty suitcase? What’s she think, she can fuck with me and get away with it?”

“She didn’t steal the computer. Marty took it with him when he left.”

“I don’t give a shit who took it. All she had to do was give it back and he might be alive. The stress was what killed him. Couple of harmless punches and he was gone.”

I couldn’t argue with the man. He was so sure of himself and his thinking was so bent. Where was this going to end? The contest between them had spiraled out of control and matters could only escalate. Beck had the upper hand. It was as simple as that. He had me.

He smiled slightly. “You’re hoping she’ll call the police, but she won’t. You know why? Because it wouldn’t be any fun. She’s a gambler. She likes betting against the house. Poor girl’s not nearly as smart as she thinks she is.”

“I don’t want to talk about this shit. The two of you can hash it out.”

“I’m sure we will.”

We sat, the two of us, waiting for the phone to ring. I’d given up trying to predict what either would do. My job was taking care of me. The problem was, I was tired and feeling panicky. The jitters were causing my hands to shake and I was having trouble marshaling my thoughts. Beck rocked back in his swivel chair, fiddling with a paperweight, tossing it from hand to hand.

I noticed a row of cardboard boxes, lined up along the wall, all of them neatly taped and ready to be shipped. His office was a mess—shelves half empty, numerous bulging files on his desk. It looked as if Beck was all packed and ready to go. No wonder he was hell-bent on reclaiming his computer and his floppy disks. The disks and his hard drive contained his entire enterprise, every nickel he owned, all the money he’d salted away, shell corporations, Panamanian bank accounts. He wasn’t a man who remembered numbers or dates. He had to have it written down or it was lost to him. He knew as well as I did the data would be his undoing if it fell into the wrong hands.

I said, “I have to go to the ladies’ room.”

“No.”

“Come on, Beck. You can tag along with me and listen at the door while I tinkle.”

He shook his head. “Can’t do it. I want to be by the phone when she calls.”

“What if it takes an hour?”

“Tough.”

We waited in silence. I checked my watch. The crystal was smashed, the hands permanently frozen at 11:22. I couldn’t see a clock from where I sat. Time dragged on and on. If and when Reba called, I had one more chance to signal the agents recording Beck’s calls. I wasn’t sure how I’d manage it or what I’d say, but the possibility was there.

The silence went on for so long that when the phone finally rang, I jumped. Beck picked up the handset and held it loosely against his ear. He smiled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “Hey, Reeb, good girl. I knew you’d touch base. Are you ready to do business? Oh wait. Hang on a second. I have a friend of yours here and wondered if you wanted a chance to speak to her.”

He pressed the speaker function on the phone and the office was filled with the hollow sound of Reba’s voice. “Kinsey? Oh, geez…are you okay?”

I said, “I could use some help here. Why don’t you call Cheney and tell him what’s going on?”

“Forget him. Let me talk to Beck,” she said, irritated.

Now that his hands were free, Beck opened his desk drawer and took out a gun. He slipped the safety off and pointed it at me. “Hey, Reeb? Sorry to interrupt, but let’s cut to the chase. Listen to this.”

He pointed at the wall above my head and fired. A sound came out of my throat, half scream and half moan. Tears sprang into my eyes. He said, “Oops. I missed.”

She said, “Beck, don’t.”

“I’m not very good with this thing. Willard tried to show me, but I can’t seem to get the hang of it. Should I try again?”

“Ohmygod, ohmygod. Oh, please, Beck, don’t hurt her.”

“I didn’t hear your answer. You ready to do business?”

“Don’t fire again. Don’t shoot. Don’t do that. I’ll bring the thing. I got it. It’s in the trunk of my car. I put it in a duffel.”

“You said that before. I believed you then, but look what you went and did. You pulled the big switcheroo.”

“I swear. I’ll do it right this time. I’m not far. Give me two minutes. Just hang on. Please.”

His tone was skeptical. “Gee, I don’t know, Reeb. I trusted you. I thought you’d play fair. What you did was bad. I’d say very bad indeed.”

“This time I’ll bring it for sure. No tricks. I swear.”

Beck was watching me while she spoke. He winked and smiled, having a wonderful time. “How do I know you won’t pull the same old gag? Give me a duffel and there’s nothing inside.”

I stood up and pointed at the door, mouthing, “I have to pee.”

He motioned me to sit again while Reba, sounding desperate, was saying, “I know what we can do. I’ll come in through the service corridor. You can go to Willard’s desk and watch on the monitor. I’ll unzip the bag and show you the computer. You can see it with your own eyes.”

I clutched the crotch of my jeans and then clasped my hands, mouthing, Please… I pointed at the hall again.

Distracted, he waved the gun at me, motioning me to sit down. I was edging out of the room. I held up a finger, whispering, “I’ll be right back.”

I left the room and walked rapidly down the hall, footsteps soundless on the carpeting. I pulled office doors shut as I passed, letting them bang, bang, bang. I could hear him yell, “Hey!” He didn’t sound angry so much as annoyed at my disobedience.

I doubled my pace. I reached the vestibule. Mercifully, the service elevator doors stood open. I moved to the back wall and punched in the code for the counting room. 5-15-1955. Reba’s birthday. The doors slid open.

Out in the corridor, I could hear Beck shout my name, banging into offices in search of me. He fired a shot that made me jump even at this remove. While I’d known I wouldn’t shoot him, I wasn’t at all convinced he wouldn’t shoot me, accidentally if nothing else. I yanked off one shoe and set it in the path of the open elevator door. The door slid shut, encountered the shoe, and popped open again, a process that repeated like a tic. I turned and pressed the G button on the opposite panel, dispatching the freight elevator to the garage level. The doors were slow to respond, which gave me time enough to cross to the second set of doors. I yanked my shoe from the track and slipped into the counting room as the corridor doors slid shut. The doors to the counting room slid shut half a beat later, and I was safe. Temporarily, at any rate.

Marty’s body was still there.

I went on disconnect and blocked any and all emotional responses. Now was the wrong time. I tossed the shoe aside, not daring to take time to slip it on again. I looked at the ladder affixed to the wall, following the sight of it, rung by rung, all the way to the top. I started climbing, one shoe off and one shoe on, diddle-diddle-dumpling, my son John. I knew the trap door at the top opened onto the roof. Once there, I’d hide or hang over the parapet screaming until the cops showed up. Maybe officers were already scrambling—regular Santa Teresa cops, the SWAT team, hostage negotiators—all of them decked out in bulletproof vests.

I flicked a look at Marty, still bound to his chair. Why hadn’t the guys done as Beck instructed? They were supposed to get him out of there, but they’d left him where he was. My hands were perspiring, but I ventured a second quick look down, noting what I’d failed to spot earlier. The counting and bundling machines were still sitting on the counter. The currency was gone. Instead of disposing of the body, the goons must have packed up the cash and removed that instead.

I reached the top rung of the ladder and reached for the door directly above my head. I couldn’t find a lock or a knob or any means to open it. I ran my hand across the surface, looking for a hook or a handle, any kind of lever that might cause it to spring open. Nothing. I clung to the top rung, hanging on for dear life while I tried to get my fingertips in the crack. I banged on it with the flat of my hand, then pushed as hard as I could.

Below, I heard the elevator door slide open. I laid my head against the ladder and held my breath.

In a conversational tone, Beck said, “That door’s locked so you might as well come down. Reba’s on her way. Soon as we’ve settled up, you’re free to go.”

I looked down at him. He was wearing his raincoat, apparently in preparation for his departure. He had the gun in one hand and it was pointed right at me. He probably didn’t have a clue how much pressure it took to pull the trigger. If he inadvertently blew my head off, I’d be dead all the same. He leaned down and picked up my shoe.

He waggled the gun. “Come on. I don’t want to hurt you. This is almost over. Wrong time to cut and run when we’re down to the wire.”

I eased my way down, feeling for each rung with my foot, suddenly fearful of heights. I considered letting go, plunging down on top of him, but I’d only hurt myself and there was no guarantee I’d do him any harm at all. He watched me patiently until I reached the bottom. He probably preferred keeping his eyes on me to looking at Marty. He hadn’t seemed to register the fact that the body hadn’t been removed.

He smiled slightly. “Good try. You had me goin’ there. I thought you ran the other way…” He handed me my shoe. I paused, leaning against the wall while I pulled the shoe on.

He took my elbow and urged me through the service elevator to the corridor. He was right. It was almost over so what was the point of risking my neck. In the end, this had nothing to do with me. I hunkered, taking my time while I tied my shoelaces. Beck was getting short on patience, but I didn’t like to walk with laces flapping loose. He took me by the elbow again and steered me around the corner to the public elevators. He’d left his briefcase in the hall. He picked it up and used the knuckle of his index finger to push the call button. The elevator must have been sitting right there because the doors opened instantly. The two of us got on. Beck pressed the button for the lobby. Like strangers, we stood silently against the back wall, eyes on the digital readout while the floor numbers dropped from 4 to 3 to 2 to the lobby. I had one brief hope that when the doors opened, I’d see cops, guns drawn, ready to arrest him and put an end to this.

The lobby was empty except for Willard, sitting at his desk. The fountain in the center of the lobby was gushing like a toilet. My bladder was so full I could have drawn a diagram of its shape and size. Outside the plate-glass windows, the walkway was dark, not a soul in sight. The stores across the way were shut down tight. Willard was on his feet, his attention focused on his bank of ten monitors. He held an arm out and snapped his fingers rapidly. Beck and I crossed the lobby and rounded the end of Willard’s desk. He pointed. The image on one of the black-and-white screens showed the underground parking lot. Reba, driving my VW, nosed down the ramp and turned right. The car passed from our view. Three minutes later, we saw her enter the service corridor, one floor below. She was using two hands to haul the duffel, which was clearly heavy. She eased it down on the floor and looked up at the corner-mounted security camera. “Hey, Beck?” Her cheek was swollen from the blow she’d taken, lips puffy, one eye black. Her nose looked as though it had been flattened across the bridge.

She waited, looking up at us.

Willard handed Beck the handset from the phone on his desk. He pressed a button and we could hear the wall phone ring in the service corridor. Reba picked up, her gaze fixed on the camera.

Beck said, “Hey, baby. How’s by you?” Mocking her earlier greeting.

“Knock it off, Beck. You want this or not?”

“Show me first.”

She dropped the handset and it banged against the wall, bouncing on its spiral cord. Beck jerked his head back, murmuring “Shit.” Below, Reba leaned over and opened the duffel bag. The computer was clearly visible.

“And the floppy disks?”

She opened a side pocket and extracted a handful of disks, probably twenty by the look. She held them toward the camera, holding them face forward so he could read the sequence of dates he’d probably written himself. “Okay. Good enough,” he said.

She slipped them back inside and zipped the duffel shut. “Happy now, you asshole?”

“I am. Thanks for asking. Come on up to the lobby and behave yourself. I’ve got Kinsey right here in case you want to get cute about this.”

Reba flipped him the bird. Attagirl, I thought. That would show him.

I glanced at Willard. “You just going to stand there?”

No response. Maybe Willard had died and no one had remembered to mention it. I wanted to wave a hand in front of his eyes to see if he would blink.

The service elevator reached the lobby level and the doors slid open. Reba stepped forward, struggling with the weight of the duffel. Beck, gun in hand, watched her for any hint of rebellion or treachery. She set the duffel on the floor in front of him.

He motioned with the gun. “Open it.”

“Oh, geez. You think it’s booby-trapped?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

She leaned down and unzipped the duffel, exposing the computer for the second time. Without his having to ask, she took out the floppy disks and handed them to him.

“Now step back.”

She backed up about ten feet, her hands in the air. “So worried,” she remarked.

Beck passed the gun to Willard. “Keep an eye on both.”

He knelt and freed the computer case from the duffel. He reached in his coat pocket and took out a small Phillips-head screwdriver, which he used to loosen the screws that held the housing in place. He tossed the screws aside and then took off the back panel. I couldn’t figure out what he was up to.

The inner workings of the computer were now exposed. I don’t own a computer and I’d never seen the inside of one. What a complex assortment of multicolored connectors, wires, circuits, transistors, or whatever they were called, lots of weensy things at any rate. Willard held the gun steady, barrel pointing first at Reba and then at me, but almost idly I thought. Beck opened his briefcase and took out a glass beaker with a glass stopper wedged in the top. He opened it and dolloped a clear liquid across the circuits like salad dressing. It must have been acid because a hissing went up and the smell of chemical burning filled the air. Insulated wires dissolved, small parts curling as though alive, shriveling and shrinking as the caustic liquid made contact. He took out a second beaker and poured acid over the floppy disks, spreading them out so as not to miss any. Holes appeared instantly, and a sizzling smoke developed as the disks disintegrated.

Reba said, “You won’t remember all that stuff.”

“Don’t worry about it. I have dupes in Panama.”

“Well, goody for you.” Her voice sounded odd.

I glanced at her. Her mouth had begun to tremble and tears glistened in her eyes as she watched. Hoarsely, she said, “I really loved you. I did. You were everything to me.”

I found myself staring at her with interest. Why did I think she was faking?

“Geez, Reeb, you never learn, do you. What’s it going to take to get it through that thick head of yours? You’re just like a kid. Someone tells you there’s a Santa Claus and you believe.”

“But you said I could trust you. You said you loved me and you’d take care of me. You said that.”

“I know, but I lied.”

“About everything?”

“Pretty much,” he said, ruefully.

I caught a glimpse of motion on one of the monitors. In the underground garage, two Santa Teresa black-and-whites were coming down the ramp. Two unmarked cars followed.

Meanwhile, Beck was intent on his task. He took the screwdriver and jammed it into the workings of the computer, twisting metal parts, snapping wires, careful to avoid any direct contact between the acid and his hands. He had his back to the big plate-glass windows so he didn’t see Cheney step out of the shadows with his gun drawn. Vince Turner appeared along with four agents in FBI vests.

Too late to salvage the data, but I was grateful nonetheless.

Reba caught sight of them. I saw her gaze flick to the window and back to Beck. “Oh, poor Beck. You are so screwed,” she said.

He stood up and reached for his briefcase. He looked at her, his expression pleasant. “Really? How do you figure that?”

Reba was silent for a beat, a slow smile lighting her battered face. “The minute I got back to town, I put in a call to a man who works for the IRS. I spilled the beans, spelled it all out—names, numbers, dates—everything he needed to get his warrants. He had to call the judge at home, but he was happy to be of help.”

Facetiously, Beck said, “Oh, Jesus, Reba, get a grip. I’ve known for months they were on to me. This is the only thing I was really worried about and now it’s taken care of. How much incriminating data you think they’ll salvage from this mess?”

“Probably none.”

“That’s right. Thank you very much.”

Beck saw Reba’s attention shift. He looked over his shoulder and spotted Cheney, Vince Turner, and assorted cops and federal agents lined up on the walk. His smile might have faltered, but he didn’t seem concerned. He signaled to Willard to let them in. Willard set the gun on the floor, raised his hands to show he had no weapons, and used his jumble of keys to unlock the doors.

Reba wasn’t finished. “Only one problem.”

Beck turned back to her. “Which is?”

“That’s not Marty’s.”

Beck laughed. “You’re full of crap.”

Reba shook her head. “Nope. Not so. The feds didn’t like the fact the computer had been stolen so I swapped it back.”

“How’d you get into the building?”

“He let me in,” she said, indicating Willard.

“Give it up, baby. The man works for me.”

“Maybe so but I’m the one who’s been screwing his brains out. We’re just like this.” She raised her left hand and made a circle with the thumb and index finger. She stuck her right index finger in the hole and pumped it like a piston. Beck winced at the crudity, but Reba laughed.

I shot a quick look at Willard, who dropped his gaze with appropriate modesty. Cops and FBI agents were crowding into the lobby. Cheney picked up Beck’s gun and flicked the safety before he handed it to Vince.

Reba was saying, “After Willie let me in, I took Marty’s computer up to your office. I disconnected your computer, pulled it out, and put Marty’s in its place. Then I put your computer under Marty’s desk. That one’s Onni’s. Nothing much on it but personal correspondence and a bunch of stupid computer games. I can’t believe you paid her so well when all she did was waste time.”

Beck still wasn’t buying it. He shook his head, sliding his tongue across his front teeth while trying to suppress a smile. She might as well have been telling him she’d been abducted by aliens for use in sexual experiments.

She said, “Want to know what else I did? I’m tellin’ you, Beck, I’ve been a busy little girl. After I swapped computers, I drove over to Salustio’s and paid him the twenty-five grand I stole. Marty gave me the cash in exchange for documents he never got to use. Truth is, Salustio didn’t give a damn where the money came from. Problem is, I pay him and he’s still pissed at me. So I figure to compensate him for the inconvenience, I’d warn him about the raid. That gave him just enough time to get his money out of here. So now all’s forgiven. He and I are square. You’re the one who’s left standing out in the cold.”

Beck’s expression was opaque. He was never going to give her the satisfaction of ceding the win, but she knew it was hers.

Epilogue

That wasn’t the end of it, of course.

Beck was indicted on charges of murder, assault with a deadly weapon, kidnapping, money laundering, income tax evasion, conspiracy to defraud the United States government, tampering with evidence, obstruction of justice, failure to report currency transactions, and corruption of public officials. At first, Beck was undismayed. After all, he knew he had enough money stashed away to support an army of attorneys for as long as it took. There was just that one small matter Reba had neglected to mention. This was something I guessed at, but couldn’t persuade her to confirm. Before she swapped the two computers, she’d tapped into Beck’s accounts, consolidated all his funds, and moved the money out of the country, probably to another of Salustio’s numbered accounts. I’m sure she’d thought of some way to repay him for holding the money until she could lay claim to it.

The feds suspected this as well because the cranky little shits refused to cut her a deal. Reba was returned to CIW on the first sheriff ’s bus. I don’t worry about her. In prison, she has good friends, she’s fond of the staff, and she knows her only choice is to behave herself. In the meantime, her father’s doing fine. He’s not going to die as long as Reba needs him.

As for Cheney and me, that’s still up in the air, but I’m feeling the teeny-tiniest bit optimistic. I’m about due, don’t you think?

So here’s what I’ve learned. In the passing drama of life, I’m usually the heroine, but occasionally I’m simply a minor character in someone else’s play.

Respectfully submitted,
Kinsey Millhone

S IS FOR SILENCE

SUE GRAFTON

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

S IS FOR SILENCE

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2002 by Sue Grafton.

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
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ISBN: 9781101360644

BERKLEY®
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

For my granddaughter, Addison,
with a heart full of love

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of the following people: Steven Humphrey; Ben Holt, Ben Holt Equipment; Ken Seymour, www.1953chevrolet.com; John Mackall, Counselor-at-Law, Seed Mackall LLP; Greg Boller, Deputy District Attorney, Santa Barbara County District Attorney’s Office; John Lindren, D&H Equipment; Bill Turner, Detective Sergeant (retired), Santa Barbara County Sheriff ’s Department; G. David Dyne, M.D.; T. J. Dwire, Title Officer, Lawyers Title Company; Emily Craig, Forensic Anthropologist, Kentucky State Medical Examiner’s Office; John White, KellyCo Metal Detector Superstore; Dale Kreiter, Library Technician, and the Staff of the Santa Maria Public Library; Leslie Twine; Florence Michel; C. L. Burk; and Don Gastiger.

Thank you, Hairl Wilson, for the use of your first name, and Bob Ziegler, for the use of your name in its entirety.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

This is a work of fiction. All the characters are conjured out of whole cloth, which is to say, the persons inhabiting this novel are figments of my imagination and have no real-life counterparts. Anyone who knows the city of Santa Maria and the surrounding countryside will not only recognize the setting for this book but will also note the many liberties I’ve taken with geography. There is no abandoned two-story Tudor residence in the center of that flat, agricultural landscape. The towns of Serena Station, Cromwell, Barker, Freeman, Tullis, Arnaud, and Silas are invented. Some of the roads exist, but as I’ve recently appointed myself Acting Chair and sole member of the Santa Teresa County Regional Transportation Planning Agency, I’ve relocated, rerouted, and renamed these roads according to the dictates of the story. Please do not write me those notes telling me I got it wrong, because I didn’t.

Contents

1 LIZA

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

5 KATHY

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

9 CHET

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

12 JAKE

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

15 TOM

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

18 CHET

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

21 JAKE

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

24 TOM

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

27 LIZA

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

30 KATHY

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

EPILOGUE

1

LIZA

Saturday, July 4, 1953

When Liza Mellincamp thinks about the last time she ever saw Violet Sullivan, what comes most vividly to mind is the color of Violet’s Japanese silk kimono, a shade of blue that Liza later learned was called “cerulean,” a word that wasn’t even in her vocabulary when she was fourteen years old. A dragon was embroidered in satin-stitch across the back, its strange dog-shaped face and arched body picked out in lime green and orange. Flames twisted from the dragon’s mouth in curling ribbons of bloodred.

That last night, she’d arrived at the Sullivans’ house at 6:00. Violet was going out at 6:15 and, as usual, she wasn’t dressed and hadn’t done her hair. The front door was open, and as Liza approached, Baby, Violet’s three-month-old buff-colored Pomeranian, started yapping in a shrill little doggie voice while she pawed at the screen, punching holes here and there. She had tiny black eyes and a black button nose and a small pink bow affixed to her forehead with stickum of some kind. Someone had given Violet the dog less than a month before, and she’d developed a fierce attachment to it, carrying the dog around in a big straw tote. Liza disliked Baby, and twice when Violet left the dog behind, Liza put her in the coat closet so she wouldn’t have to listen to her bark. She’d gotten the idea from Foley, who disliked the dog even more than she did.

Liza knocked on the door frame, a sound barely audible above the dog’s yap-yap-yap. Violet called out, “Come on in. I’m in the bedroom!”

Liza opened the screen door, pushed the dog aside with her foot, and walked through the living room to the bedroom Violet and Foley shared. Liza knew for a fact that Foley often ended up sleeping on the couch, especially when he’d been drinking, which he did almost every day, and even more especially after he’d busted Violet in the chops and she’d stopped speaking to him for two days or however long it was. Foley hated it when she gave him the silent treatment, but by then he’d be sorry he’d slugged her and he wouldn’t have the nerve to protest. He told anyone who would listen that she brought it on herself. Anything bad that happened to Foley was someone else’s fault.

Baby pattered into the bedroom behind her, a fluff ball of nervous energy with a party favor of a tail. She was too small to jump up onto the bed, so Liza scooped her up and put her there. Violet’s tow-headed daughter, Daisy, was lying on the bed reading the Little Lulu comic Liza had given her the last time she sat, which was the night before last. Daisy was like a cat—always in the room with you but busy pretending to be doing something else. Liza took a seat on the only chair in the room. Earlier in the day when she’d stopped by, there had been two brown paper bags sitting on the chair. Violet said it was stuff going to Goodwill, but Liza recognized a couple of Violet’s favorite things and thought it was odd that she’d give away her best clothes. Now the brown bags were gone and Liza knew better than to mention them. Violet didn’t like questions. What she wanted you to know, she’d tell you outright, and the rest was none of your business.

“Isn’t she adorable?” Violet said. She was talking about the dog, not her seven-year-old child.

Liza didn’t comment. She was wondering how long it would take to suffocate the Pomeranian while Violet was out. Violet was sitting on the bench at her makeup table, wearing the bright blue kimono with the dragon across the back. As Liza watched, Violet loosened the tie and shrugged the wrap aside so she could examine a bruise the size of Foley’s fist that sat above one breast. Liza could see three versions of the bruise reflected in the trifold mirror that rested on the vanity. Violet was small and her back was perfect, her spine straight, her skin flawless. Her buttocks were dimpled and ever so slightly splayed where they pressed down against the seat.

Violet wasn’t at all self-conscious about Liza seeing her undressed. Often when Liza came to sit, Violet would emerge from the bathroom naked, having dropped the towel so she could dab behind her knees with the violet cologne she used. Liza would try to keep her gaze averted while Violet strolled around the bedroom, pausing to light an Old Gold that she’d leave on the lip of the ashtray. Liza’s gaze was irresistibly drawn to the sight of Violet’s body. No matter where Violet went, eyes were drawn to her. Her waist was small and her breasts were plump, drooping slightly like sacks filled nearly to capacity with sand. Liza’s boobs were barely sufficient for her AA brassiere, though Ty would close his eyes and start breathing hard every time he felt her up. After they kissed for a while, even if she resisted, he’d find a way to unbutton her shirt, nudging aside her bra strap so he could cup a budding breast in his palm. Then he’d grab Liza’s hand and press it between his legs, making a sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan.

In her church youth group, the pastor’s wife often lectured the girls about heavy petting, which was not recommended, as it was the quickest road to sexual intercourse and other forms of loose behavior. Oh, well. Liza’s best friend, Kathy, was currently taken up with the Moral Rearmament Movement, which preached Absolute Honesty, Absolute Purity, Absolute Unselfishness, and Absolute Love. The last was the one that appealed to Liza. She and Ty had started dating in April, though their contact was limited. He couldn’t let his aunt hear about it because of things that happened at his last school. She’d never been kissed before, had never done any of the things Ty introduced her to in their times together. Of course, she’d drawn the line at going all the way, but she couldn’t see the harm in Ty’s fooling with her boobs if it made him feel good. This was exactly Violet’s point of view. When Liza finally confessed what was going on, Violet said, “Oh please, Sweetie, what’s it to you? Let him have his fun. He’s a good-looking boy, and if you don’t give in to him some other girl will.”

Violet’s hair was dyed an astonishing shade of red, more orange than red and not even intended to look real. Her eyes were a clear green, and the lipstick she wore was a pinky rose shade. Violet’s lips formed two wide bands across her mouth, as flat as the selvage on a remnant of silk. Her pale skin had an undertone of gold, like fine paper in a book printed long ago. Liza’s complexion was freckled, and she tended to break out at “that time of the month.” While Violet’s hair was as silky as an ad for Breck shampoo, Liza’s ends were crinkled and split from a miscalculation with the Toni Home Permanent Kathy’d given her the week before. Kathy had read the directions wrong and fried Liza’s hair to a fare-thee-well. The strands still smelled like spoiled eggs from the lotions she’d applied.

Violet liked going out, and Liza babysat Daisy three and four times a week. Foley was gone most nights, drinking beer at the Blue Moon, which was the only bar in town. He worked construction, and at the end of the day, he needed to “wet his whistle” was how he put it. He said he wasn’t about to stay home babysitting Daisy, and Violet certainly had no intention of sitting around the house with her while Foley was out having fun. During the school year, Liza ended up doing her homework at the Sullivans’ after Daisy was in bed. Sometimes Ty came to visit, or Kathy might spend the evening so the two could read movie magazines. True Confessions magazine was preferable, but Kathy was worried about impure thoughts.

Violet smiled at Liza, their eyes connecting in the mirror until Liza looked away. (Violet preferred to smile with her lips closed because one of her front teeth was chipped where Foley’d knocked her sideways into a door.) Violet liked her. Liza knew this and it made her feel warm. Being favored by Violet was enough to make Liza trot around behind her like a stray pup.

Breast inspection complete, Violet shrugged herself back into the kimono and tied it at the waist. She took a deep drag of her cigarette, then rested it in the ashtray so she could finish putting on her face. “How’s that boyfriend of yours?”

“Fine.”

“You be careful. You know he’s not supposed to date.”

“I know. He told me and that is so unfair.”

“Unfair or not, his aunt would have a fit if she knew he was going steady, especially with someone like you.”

“Gee, thanks. What’d I do to her?”

“She thinks you’re a bad influence because your mother’s divorced.”

“She told you that?”

“More or less,” Violet said. “I ran into her at the market and she tried to pump me for information. Someone saw you with Ty and ran blabbing straight to her. Don’t ask who tattled because she was very tight-lipped. I told her she was nuts. I was polite about it, but I made sure she got the point. In the first place, I said, your mother wouldn’t let you date at your age. You’re barely fourteen…how ridiculous, I said. And in the second place, you couldn’t be seeing Ty because you spent all your spare time with me. She seemed satisfied with that, though I’m sure she doesn’t like me any better than she likes you. Guess we’re not good enough for her or her precious nephew. She got all pruney around the mouth and went on to say that at his last school, some girl got herself in trouble, if you get my drift.”

“I know. He told me he felt sorry for her.”

“So he did her the big favor of screwing her? Wasn’t she the lucky one?”

“Well, it’s over now anyway.”

“I’ll say. Take it from me, you can’t trust a guy who’s hell-bent on getting in your pants.”

“Even if he loves you?”

“Especially if he loves you, and worse if you love him.”

Violet picked up a wand of mascara and began to sweep her lashes, leaning into the mirror so she could see what she was doing. “I’ve got Cokes for you in the fridge and a carton of vanilla ice cream if you and Daisy want some.”

“Thanks.”

She recapped the wand and used a hand to fan her face, drying the dramatic fringe of black goo. She opened her jewelry box and selected six bracelets, thin silver circles that she slipped over her right hand one by one. She shook her wrist so they jingled together like tiny bells. On her left wrist she fastened her watch with its narrow black-cord band. Barefoot, she got up and crossed to the closet.

There was very little evidence of Foley in the room. He kept his clothes jammed in a pressed-board armoire shoved in one corner of Daisy’s room, and as Violet was fond of saying, “If he knows what’s good for him, he better not complain.” Liza watched while she hung the kimono on a hook on the inside of the closet door. She was wearing sheer white nylon underpants but hadn’t bothered with a bra. She slipped her feet into a pair of sandals and leaned down to fix the straps, her breasts bobbling as she did. Then she pulled on a lavender-and-white polka-dot sundress that zipped up the back. Liza had to help her with that. The dress fit snugly, and if Violet was aware that her nipples showed as flat as coins she made no remark. Liza was self-conscious about her figure, which had begun developing when she was twelve. She wore loose cotton blouses—usually Ship’n Shore—mindful that her bra and slip straps sometimes showed through the fabric. She found this embarrassing around the boys at school. Ty was seventeen and, having transferred from another school, didn’t act stupid the way the others did, with their mouth farts and rude gestures, fists pumping at the front of their pants.

Liza said, “What time are the fireworks?”

Violet reapplied her lipstick and then rubbed her lips together to even out the color. She recapped the tube. “Whenever it gets dark. I’m guessing nine,” she said. She leaned forward, blotted her lipstick with a tissue, and then used an index finger to clean a line of color from her teeth.

“Are you and Foley coming home right afterward?”

“Nah, we’ll probably stop by the Moon.”

Liza wasn’t sure why she’d bothered to ask. It was always like that. They’d get home at 2:00 A.M. Liza, dazed and groggy, would collect her four dollars and then walk home through the dark.

Violet took the bulk of her hair, twisted it, and held it high on her head, showing the effect. “What do you think? Up or down? It’s still hotter than blue blazes.”

“Down’s better.”

Violet smiled. “Vanity over comfort. Glad I taught you something.” She dropped her hair, shaking it out so the weight of it went swinging across her back.

That was the sequence Liza remembered—beginning, middle, and end. It was like a short loop of film that ran over and over. Daisy reading her comic book, Violet naked, and then being zipped into the polka-dot sundress. Violet lifting her bright red hair and then shaking it out. The thought of Ty Eddings was wedged in there somewhere because of what happened later. The only other brief moment that stayed with her was a time jump of maybe twenty minutes. Liza was in the cramped, not-quite-clean bathroom with its moldy-smelling towels. Daisy, her fine blond hair caught up in a barrette, was taking her bath. She was sitting in a cloud of bubbles, scooping them up and draping them across her shoulders like a fine fur coat. Once Liza had Daisy bathed and in her baby doll pajamas, she’d give her the pill Violet left for her whenever she went out.

The air in the bathroom was damp and warm, and smelled like the pine-scented bubble bath Liza had squirted into the rush of running water. Liza was sitting on the toilet with the lid down, watching to make sure Daisy didn’t do something dumb, like drown or get soap in her eyes. Liza was already bored because babysitting was tedious once Violet left the house. She only did it because Violet asked, and who could turn her down? The Sullivans didn’t have a television set. The Cramers were the only family in town who owned one. Liza and Kathy watched TV almost every afternoon, though lately Kathy had been sulky, in part because of Ty and in part because of Violet. If Kathy had her way, she and Liza would spend every waking minute together. Kathy had been fun at first, but now Liza felt like she was suffocating.

As Liza leaned over and swished a hand in the bathwater, Violet opened the door and stuck her head in, holding Baby in her arms. The dog yapped at them, bright-eyed and happy in a braggy sort of way. Violet said, “Hey, Lies, I’m off. See you kids later.”

Violet liked to call her “Lies,” a shortened form of “Liza” but spelled differently, or at least as Liza pictured it.

Daisy tilted her face up, puckering her lips. “Kiss!”

Violet said, “Kiss, kiss from here, Honeybunch. This lipstick’s fresh and Mama doesn’t want it messed up. You be good now and do everything Liza says.”

Violet blew Daisy a kiss. Daisy pretended to catch it and then blew it back, her eyes shining at the sight of her mother, who was looking radiant. Liza waved, and as the door closed, a waft of violet cologne entered the room on a wisp of chill air.

2

The puzzle of Violet Sullivan was dumped in my lap via a phone call from a woman named Tannie Ottweiler, whom I’d met through my friend Lieutenant Dolan, the homicide detective I’d worked with the previous spring. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a licensed private investigator, typically working twelve to fifteen cases that range in nature from background checks to insurance fraud to erring spouses in the midst of acrimonious divorces. I’d enjoyed working with Dolan because he provided me a reason to leave my usual paper searches behind and get out in the field.

The minute I heard Tannie’s voice, an image popped to mind: forties, good face, little or no makeup, dark hair held back by tortoiseshell combs and framed in a halo of cigarette smoke. She was the bartender, manager, and sometime waitress at a little hole-in-the-wall known as Sneaky Pete’s. This was where Dolan had first talked me into helping him. He and his crony, Stacey Oliphant, who’d retired from the Santa Teresa County Sheriff ’s Department, were investigating an unsolved homicide that had been sitting on the books for eighteen years. Neither man was in good health, and they’d asked me to do some of the legwork. In my mind, that job and Tannie Ottweiler were inextricably connected and generated feelings of goodwill. I’d seen her a couple of times since then, but we’d never exchanged more than pleasantries, which was what we did now. I could tell she was smoking, which suggested a minor level of uneasiness.

Finally, she said, “Listen, why I called is I’m wondering if you’d sit down and have a chat with a friend of mine.”

“Sure. No problem. About what?”

“Her mother. You remember Violet Sullivan?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Come on. Sure you do. Serena Station, north county? She disappeared years ago.”

“Oh, right. Gotcha. I forgot about her. That was in the ’40s, wasn’t it?”

“Not that far back. Fourth of July, 1953.”

When I was three, I thought. This was September 1987. I’d turned thirty-seven in May and I noticed I was starting to keep track of events in terms of my age. Dimly I dredged up a fragment of information. “Why am I thinking there’s a car involved?”

“Because her husband had just bought her a Chevrolet Bel Air and that disappeared, too. Great car—a five-passenger coupe. I saw one just like it at the car show last year.” I could hear Tannie take a hit from her cigarette. “Rumor had it she was having an affair with some guy and the two ran off.”

“Happens every day.”

“Don’t I know it. You ought to hear the stories I get told, people crying in their beers. Tending bar has really warped my point of view. Anyway, lot of people are convinced Violet’s husband did her in, but there’s never been a shred of proof. No body, no car, no evidence either way, so who knows?”

“What’s this have to do with the daughter?”

“Daisy Sullivan’s an old friend. She’s here on vacation, hanging out with me for a couple of days. I grew up in north county, so we’ve known each other since we were kids. She was two years behind me from grade school all the way through high school. She’s an only child, and I’m telling you this business with her mother has messed her up bad.”

“How so?”

“Well, for starters, she drinks too much, and when she drinks she flirts and when she flirts she gloms on to the nearest loser. She has terrible taste in men…”

“Hey, half the women I know have bad taste in men.”

“Yeah, well, hers is worse. She’s always looking for ‘true love,’ but she doesn’t have any idea what that’s about. Not that I do, but at least I don’t marry the bums. She’s been divorced four times and she’s sitting on a ton of rage. I’m the only friend she has.”

“What’s she do for a living?”

“Medical transcription. Sits in a cubicle all day long with a headset, typing up all this crap dictated by the docs for their medical charts. She’s not unhappy, but she’s beginning to see how she’s limited herself. Her world’s been getting smaller and smaller until it’s coffin-sized by now. She figures she’ll never get her head straight until she knows what went on.”

“Sounds like this has been going on for years. How old is she?”

“Well, I’ll be forty-three this month, so Daisy must be forty, forty-one…somewhere in there. I can hardly keep track of my birthday, let alone hers. I know she was seven when her mother bugged out.”

“What about her father? Where’s he at this point?”

“He’s still around, but his life’s been hell. Nobody wants to have anything to do with him. He’s been shunned, like that old tribal shit. The guy might as well be a ghost. Listen, I know it’s a long shot, but she’s serious. If he did it, she’s gotta know, and if he didn’t, well think about the service you’d be doing. You have no idea how screwed up she is. Him, too, for that matter.”

“Isn’t it a little late in the game?”

“I thought you liked challenges.”

“After thirty-four years? You gotta be kidding.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad. Okay, so maybe a few years have gone by, but look at it this way: the killer might be ready to bare his immortal soul.”

“Why don’t you talk to Dolan? He knows a lot of north county cops. Maybe he can help, at least steer you in the right direction.”

“Nah, no deal. I already talked to him. He and Stace are taking off on a three-week fishing trip, so he told me to call you. He says you’re a terrier when it comes to stuff like this.”

“Well, I appreciate that, but I can’t track down a woman who’s been gone thirty-four years. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“You could read the articles in the newspaper at the time.”

“That goes without saying, but Daisy’s capable, I’m sure. Send her to the library periodicals room—”

“She already has all that stuff. She said she’d be happy to give you the file.”

“Tannie, I don’t mean to sound rude, but there are half a dozen other PIs in town. Try one of them.”

“I’m not comfortable with that. I mean, it’d take me forever just to fill them in. At least you’ve heard about Violet Sullivan. That’s more than most.”

“I’ve heard about Jimmy Hoffa, too, but that doesn’t mean I’d go out and start looking for him.”

“All I’m asking you to do is talk to her—”

“There’s no point in talking—”

“Tell you what,” she cut in. “Come on over to Sneaky Pete’s and I’ll make you a sandwich. Gratis, on me, completely free of charge. You don’t have to do a thing except listen to her.”

I’d already zoned out, distracted by the promise of free food. The sandwich she referred to was the Sneaky Pete house specialty, which Dolan claimed was the only thing worth ordering—spicy salami on a kaiser roll with melted pepper Jack cheese. Tannie’s innovation was to put a fried egg on top. I’m ashamed to admit how easily I can be seduced. I glanced my watch: 11:15 and I was famished. “When?”

“How about right now? My apartment’s only half a block away. Daisy can walk over from there quicker than you can drive.”

I elected to walk the six blocks to Sneaky Pete’s in a futile effort to delay the conversation. It was a typical September morning, the day destined to be a carbon copy of the days on either side: abundant sunshine after patchy morning clouds, with highs in the mid-seventies and lows sufficient to encourage sleeping under a down comforter at night. Above me, migrating birds, alerted by changes in the autumn light, were making a V-line to winter grounds. This was the upside of living in Southern California. The downside was living with monotony. Even perfect weather palls when that’s all there is.

That week, local law enforcement was preparing for the California Crime Prevention Officers Conference, which was set to run from Wednesday through Friday, and I knew Cheney Phillips, who worked Vice for the Santa Teresa Police Department, would be tied up for the duration. That suited me just fine. Being a woman with a prickly disposition, I was looking forward to the time alone. Cheney and I had been “dating” for the past three months, if that’s a word you want to use to describe a relationship between divorced singles in their late thirties. I wasn’t clear about his intentions, but I didn’t expect to marry again. Who needs the aggravation? All that togetherness can really get on your nerves.

Without even having heard Daisy’s long, sad tale, I could calculate the odds. I didn’t have a clue how to search for a woman who’d been missing for three decades. If she was alive, she must have had her reasons for running away, electing to keep her distance from her only child. Then, too, Violet’s husband was still around, so what was his deal? If he’d wanted her found, you’d think he’d have hired a PI himself instead of leaving it to Daisy all these years later. On the other hand, if he knew she was dead, why go through the motions when he could save himself the bucks?

My problem was that I liked Tannie, and if Daisy was a friend of hers, then she was automatically accorded a certain status in my eyes. Not much of one, I grant you, but enough for me to hear her out. Which is why, once we were introduced and I had my sandwich in front of me, I pretended to pay attention instead of drooling on myself. The kaiser roll had been buttered and laid on the grill until the bread was rich brown and crunchy at the edge. Rings of spicy salami had been soldered together with melted cheese—Monterey Jack infused with red pepper flakes. When I lifted the top, the yolk of the fried egg was still plump, and I knew it would ooze when I bit into it, soaking into the bread. It’s a wonder I didn’t groan at the very idea.

The two sat across the table. Tannie kept her comments to a minimum so Daisy and I would have the chance to connect. Looking at the woman, I had a hard time believing she was only two years younger than Tannie. At forty-three, Tannie’s skin showed the kind of fine lines that suggested too much cigarette smoke and not enough sun protection. Daisy had a pale, fine-boned face. Her eyes were small, a mild anxious blue, and her lank light-brown hair was pulled back and secured in a messy knot held together with a chopstick. Several loose strands were trailing from the knot, and I was hoping she’d remove the chopstick and have another go at it. Her posture was poor, her shoulders hunched, perhaps because she’d never had a mother nagging her to stand up straight. Her nails were bitten down so far it made me want to tuck my own fingertips into my palms for safekeeping.

While I savored my sandwich she picked away at hers, breaking off small portions she mounded on her plate. One out of three bites she’d put in her mouth while the others she set aside. I didn’t think I’d known her long enough to beg for one. So far I’d left her in charge of the conversation, but after thirty minutes of chitchat, she still hadn’t brought up the subject of her mom. This was my lunch hour. I didn’t have all day. I decided to jump in myself and get it over with. I wiped my hands on a paper napkin, crumpled it, and tucked it under the edge of my plate. “Tannie tells me you’re interested in locating your mother.”

Daisy glanced at her friend as though for encouragement. Having finished her meal, she started gnawing on her thumbnail in much the same way a smoker would light a cigarette.

Tannie gave her a quick smile. “Honestly, it’s fine. She’s here to listen.”

“I don’t know what to say. It’s a long, complicated story.”

“I gathered as much. Why don’t you start by telling me what you want?”

Daisy’s gaze flicked across the room behind me as though she were looking for a way to bolt. I kept my eyes fixed politely on her face while she struggled to speak. I was trying to be patient, but silences like hers make me want to bite someone.

“You want…what?” I said, rolling my hand at her.

“I want to know if she’s alive or dead.”

“You have any intuitions about that?”

“None that I can trust. I don’t know which is worse. Sometimes I think one thing and sometimes the opposite. If she’s alive, I want to know where she is and why she’s never been in touch. If she’s dead, I might feel bad, but at least I’ll know the truth.”

“An answer either way would be a stretch by now.”

“I know, but I can’t live like this. I’ve spent my whole life wondering what happened to her, why she left, whether she wanted to come back but couldn’t for some reason.”

“Couldn’t?”

“Maybe she’s in prison or something like that.”

“There’s been absolutely no word from her in thirty-four years?”

“No.”

“No one’s seen her or heard from her.”

“Not that I know.”

“What about her bank account? No activity?”

Daisy shook her head. “She never had checking or savings accounts.”

“You realize the implications. She’s probably dead.”

“Then why weren’t we notified? She took her purse when she left. She had her California driver’s license. If she was in an accident, surely someone would have let us know.”

“Assuming she was found,” I said. “The world’s a big place. She might have driven off a cliff or she might be at the bottom of a lake. Now and then someone slips through the cracks. I know it’s hard to accept, but it’s the truth.”

“I just keep thinking she might have been mugged or abducted, or maybe she had some disease. Maybe she ran away because she couldn’t face up to it. I know you’re wondering what difference it makes, but it matters to me.”

“Do you really believe she’ll be found after all this time?”

She leaned toward me. “Look, I have a good job at a good salary. I can afford whatever it takes.”

“It’s not about that. It’s about the probabilities. I could waste a lot of my time and a shitload of your money, and at the end of it, you’d be right back where you are. I can as good as guarantee it.”

“I’m not asking for any kind of guarantee.”

“Then what?”

“Help me, that’s all. Please tell me you’ll try.”

I sat and stared at her. What was I supposed to say? The woman was earnest. I had to give her that. I looked down at my plate, then used an index finger to pick up a fallen glop of cheese that I put on my tongue. Still tasty. “Let me ask you this. Didn’t someone investigate the disappearance at the time?”

“The sheriff ’s department.”

“Great. That’s good. Have you asked what they did?”

“That’s something I was hoping you’d do. I know my dad filled out a missing-persons report. I’ve seen a copy so I’m sure he talked to at least one detective, though I don’t remember his name. He’s retired now I think.”

“That’s probably easy enough to find out.”

“I don’t know if Tannie mentioned this, but Dad thinks she was having an affair and the two of them ran off.”

“An affair. Based on what?”

“Based on her past behavior. My mother was wild…at least that’s what everybody says.”

“Assuming there’s a guy, do you have any idea who?”

“No, but she did have enough money tucked away to support herself. For a while, at any rate.”

“How much?”

“That’s a subject of debate. She claimed fifty thousand dollars, but that was never verified.”

“Where’d she get that kind of money?”

“From an insurance settlement. As I understand it, there was a problem when I was born. I guess the doctor botched the delivery, and she had to have an emergency hysterectomy. She hired a lawyer and sued. Whatever she collected, she signed a confidentiality clause promising she wouldn’t disclose the details.”

“Clearly, she did.”

“Well, yes, but nobody believed her. She did keep something in a safe-deposit box she rented in a bank down here and she emptied that the week she left. She also took the Chevy my dad bought her the day before.”

“Tannie says there’s been no sign of that either.”

“Exactly. It’s like she and the car were both vaporized.”

“How old was she when she disappeared?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Which would make her what, now, fifty-eight or so?”

“That’s right.”

“How long were your parents married?”

“Eight years.”

I may be lousy at math, but I picked up on that. “So she was sixteen when she married him.”

“Fifteen. She was sixteen when I was born.”

“How old was he?”

“Nineteen. They had to. She was pregnant with me.”

“I could have guessed that.” I studied her face. “Tannie tells me people in Serena Station think he killed her.”

Daisy flicked a look at Tannie, who said, “Daisy, it’s the truth. You have to level with her.”

“I know, but it’s hard to talk about this stuff, especially when he’s not here to tell his side.”

“You can trust me or not. It’s up to you.” I waited a couple of beats and then said, “I’m trying to make a decision here. I can’t operate in a vacuum. I need all the information I can get.”

She colored slightly. “I’m sorry. They had what you’d call a ‘volatile relationship.’ I can remember that myself. Big screaming fights. Slaps. Broken dishes. Doors slamming. Accusations, threats.” She put an index finger in her mouth and began to worry the nail with her teeth. I was getting so tense watching her, I nearly slapped her hand.

“Either of them ever hit you?”

She shook her head with certainty. “I usually stayed in my room till it was over.”

“Did she ever call the cops?”

“Two or three times that I remember, though it was probably more.”

“Let me take a guess. She’d threaten to file charges, but in the end, she’d always back down and the two of them would get all lovey-dovey again.”

“I think someone from the sheriff ’s department was working on that. I remember him coming to the house. A deputy in a tan uniform.”

“Trying to talk her into taking action.”

“That’s right. He must have made headway. Somebody told me she’d asked for a restraining order, but there was some kind of screwup and the judge never signed.”

“So given their marital history, after she disappeared, the sheriff ’s department talked to your dad because they thought he might’ve had a hand in it.”

“Well, yes, but I don’t believe he’d do that.”

“But what if I find out he did? Then you’ve lost both parents. At least now you’ve got him. Do you want to take that risk?”

Tears formed a bright line of silver along her lower lids. “I have to know.” She put a hand against her mouth to still the trembling. Tears had made her complexion a patchy red, like a sudden case of hives. It took courage to do what she was doing, I had to give her that. Stirring up old dirt. Most people would have been happy to sweep it under the rug.

Tannie pulled a tissue from her jeans pocket and passed it over to her. Daisy took a moment to wipe her eyes and blow her nose, composing herself before she put the tissue away. “Sorry about that.”

“You could have done this years ago. Why now?”

“I started thinking. There are still a few people left who knew her back then, but they’re scattering and a lot of them are dead. If I put it off much longer, they’ll all be gone.”

“Does your dad know what you’re up to?”

“This isn’t about him. It’s about me.”

“But it could affect him nonetheless.”

“That’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

“Because?”

She sat on her hands, putting them under her thighs, either to warm them or to keep them from trembling. “I’m stuck. I can’t get past this. My mother took off when I was seven. Poof. She was gone. I want to know why. I’m entitled to the information. What did I do to deserve that? That’s all I’m asking. If she’s dead, okay. And if it turns out he killed her, then so be it. At least I’ll know it wasn’t about her rejecting me.” Tears welled and she blinked rapidly, willing them away. “Have you ever been abandoned? Do you know how that feels? To think someone just didn’t give a shit about you?”

“I’ve had experience with that,” I replied with care.

“It has been the defining fact of my life,” she said, enunciating every word.

I started to speak, but she cut me off. “I know what you’re going to say. ‘What she did had nothing to do with you.’ You know how many times I’ve heard that? ‘It wasn’t your fault. People do what they do for reasons of their own.’ Well, bullshit. And you want to know the hell of it? She took the dog. A yappy Pomeranian named Baby she hadn’t even had a month.”

I couldn’t think of a response so I kept my mouth shut.

She was silent for a moment. “I can’t have a man in my life because I don’t trust a soul. I’ve been burned more than once and I’m petrified it’s only going to happen again. Do you know how many shrinks I’ve been through? Do you know how much money I’ve spent trying to make my peace? They fire me. Have you ever heard of such a thing? They throw up their hands and claim I won’t do the work. What work? What kind of work can you do around that? It sticks in my craw. Why’d she leave me when she turned around and took the fuckin’ dog?”

3

I met Daisy Sullivan at my office at 9:00 the next morning. Having shown me a glimpse at her rage, she’d retreated into calm. She was pleasant, reasonable, and cooperative. We decided to set a cap on the amount of money she’d pay me. She gave me her personal check for twenty-five hundred dollars, essentially five hundred dollars a day for five days. When we reached that point, we’d see if I’d learned enough to warrant further investigation. This was Tuesday, and Daisy was on her way back to Santa Maria, where she worked in the records department at a medical center. The plan was that I’d follow her in my car, drop it off at her place, and then we’d take hers and head out to the little town of Serena Station, fifteen miles away. I wanted to see the house where the Sullivans were living when her mother was last seen.

Driving north on the 101, I kept an eye on the rear end of Daisy’s 1980 Honda, dusty white with an enormous dent across the trunk. I couldn’t think how she’d done that. It looked like a tree trunk had fallen on her car. She was the kind of driver who stayed close to the berm, her brake lights flashing off and on like winking Christmas bulbs. As I drove, the flaxen hills appeared to approach and recede, the chaparral as dense and scratchy-looking as a new wool blanket. A gray haze of dried grass undulated at the side of the road, whipped by the breeze created by the passing cars. A recent fire had created an artificial autumn, the hillsides as bronze as a sepia photograph. Tree leaves were scorched to a papery beige. Shrubs were reduced to black sticks. Tree stubs, like broken pipes, protruded from the ashen earth. Occasionally, only half a tree would be singed, looking as though brown branches had been grafted onto green.

Ahead of me, Daisy activated her turn signal and eased off the highway, taking the 135, which angled north and west. I followed. Idly I picked up the map I’d folded into thirds and laid on the passenger seat. A quick glance showed a widespread smattering of small towns, no more than dots on the landscape: Barker, Freeman, Tullis, Arnaud, Silas, and Cromwell, the latter being the largest, with a population of 6,200. I’m always curious how such communities come into existence. Time permitting, I’d make the rounds so I could see for myself.

Daisy’s house was off Donovan Road to the west of the 135. She pulled into a driveway that ran between two 1970s-era frame-and-stucco houses, mirror images of each other, though hers was painted dark green and the one next door was gray. Against her house, bougainvillea grew from thick vines that climbed as far as the asphalt shingle roof in a tangle of blossoms the shape and color of cooked shrimp. I parked at the curb and got out of my car while she pulled the Honda into the garage and removed her suitcase from the trunk. I stood on the porch and watched her unlock the door.

“Let me get some windows open,” she said as she went in.

I stepped in after her. The house had been closed up for days and the interior felt hot and dry. Daisy moved through the living and dining rooms to the kitchen, opening windows along the way. “The bathroom’s off that hall to the right.”

I said, “Thanks,” and went in search of it, primarily because it gave me the opportunity to peek into other rooms. The floor plan was common to houses of this type. There was an L-shaped living-dining room combination. A galley-style kitchen ran the depth of the house on the left, and on the right, a hallway connected two small bedrooms with a bathroom in between. The place was clean but leaned toward shabby.

I closed the bathroom door and availed myself of the facilities—a polite way of saying that I peed. The tile in the bathroom was dark maroon, the counter edged with a two-inch beige bullnose. The toilet was the same deep maroon. Daisy’s robe hung on the back of the door, a silky Japanese kimono, dense sky blue, with a green and orange dragon embroidered on the back. I gave her points for that one. I’d imagined something closer to a granny gown, rose-sprigged flannel, ankle-length and prim. There must be a sensual side to her that I hadn’t seen.

I joined her in the kitchen. Daisy had put a kettle on the stove, flames turned up high to speed along the process. On the table, she’d set out tea bags and two heavy ceramic mugs. She said, “I’ll be right back,” and disappeared toward the bathroom, which allowed me the opportunity to peer out the kitchen window. I studied the neatly kept yard. The grass had been trimmed. The rose bushes were thick with blooms—pink, blush, peach, and brassy orange. Tannie had told me Daisy drank to excess, but whatever angst had been generated by her mother’s disappearance, her exterior life was in order, perhaps in direct counterpoint to the emotional mess inside. While she was gone…as a courtesy…I refrained from peeking into the trash to see if she’d tossed any empty vodka bottles. The kettle began to whistle, so I turned off the burner and poured sputtering water into our cups.

When she returned she carried a manila folder that she placed on the table. She settled in her chair and put on a pair of drugstore-rack reading glasses with round metal frames. She removed a sheaf of newspaper articles, clipped together, and a page of notes, neatly printed, the letters round and regular. “These are all the newspaper accounts I could find. You don’t have to read them now, but I thought they might help. And these are the names, addresses, and phone numbers of the people you might want to talk to.” She pointed to the first name on the list. “Foley Sullivan’s my dad.”

“He now lives in Cromwell?”

She nodded. “He couldn’t stay in Serena Station. I guess a few people reserved judgment, but most thought poorly of him to begin with. He’d been a drinker before she left, but he quit cold and hasn’t had a drop since. This next name, Liza Clements? Her maiden name was Mellincamp. She’s the babysitter who was watching me the night my mother ran off…escaped…whatever you want to call it. Liza had just turned fourteen and she lived one block over. This gal, Kathy Cramer, was her best friend—still is for that matter. Her family lived a couple of houses down—big place and nice, relative to everything else. Kathy’s mother was a dreadful gossip, and it’s possible Kathy picked up a few tidbits from her.”

“Is the family still there?”

“The father is. Chet Cramer. Foley bought the car from his dealership. Kathy’s married and she and her husband bought a place in Orcutt. Her mother died seven or eight years after Mom disappeared, and Chet married some new gal within six months.”

“I bet that was a popular move.” I indicated the next name on the list. “Who’s this?”

“Calvin Wilcox is Violet’s only brother. I think he saw her that week, so he may be able to fill in a few gaps. This guy, BW, was the bartender at the dive where my parents hung out, and these are miscellaneous customers who witnessed some of their famous public shoving matches.”

“Have you talked to all these people?”

“Well, no. I mean, I’ve known them all for years…but I haven’t asked about her.”

“Don’t you think you’d have better luck than I would? I’m a stranger. Why would they open up to me?”

“Because people like to talk, but a lot of stuff they might not be willing to say to me. Who wants to tell a woman how often her dad punched her mother’s lights out? Or refer to the time when her mom got mad and threw a drink in some guy’s face? Now and then I get wind of these things, but mostly people are falling all over themselves keeping the truth under wraps. I know they mean well, but I get weirded out by that. I hate secrets. I hate that there’s all this information I’m not allowed to have. Who knows what’s being said behind my back even to this day?”

“Well, I’ll be giving you regular written reports, so whatever I learn you’ll be hearing about.”

“Good. I’m glad. About time,” she said. “Oh, here. I want you to have this. Just so you’ll know who you’re dealing with.”

She handed me a small black-and-white snapshot with a scalloped white rim and then watched over my shoulder as I studied the image. The print was four inches square and showed a woman in a floral-print sleeveless dress, smiling into the camera. Her hair, which could have been any color, was a medium-dark tone, long and gently wavy. She was small and pretty in a 1950s kind of way, more voluptuous than we’d consider stylish in this day and age. Over one arm she carried a straw tote from which a tiny fluffy pup appeared, staring at the camera with bright black eyes. “When was this taken?”

“Early June, I think.”

“And the dog’s name is Baby?”

“Baby, yes. A purebred Pomeranian everyone hated except my mom, who really doted on the little turd. Given the chance, Dad would have taken a shovel and pounded her into the ground like a tent peg. His words.”

A two-by-four porch post appeared to be growing from the top of Violet’s head. Behind her, on the porch rail, I could read the last two house numbers: 08. “Is this the house where you lived?”

Daisy nodded. “I’ll take you by when we’re over there.”

“I’d like that.”

We were silent on the drive to Serena Station. The sky was a flat pale blue, looking bleached by the sun. The hills rolled gently toward the horizon, the grass the color of brown sugar. Daisy’s was the only car on the road. We passed abandoned oil rigs, rust-frozen and still. To my left I caught a glimpse of an old quarry and rusting railroad tracks that began and ended nowhere. On the only visibly working ranch I saw, ten head of cattle had settled on the ground like brawny cats in the slatted shade of a corral.

The town of Serena Station appeared beyond a bend in the two-lane road, with a street sign indicating that it was now called Land’s End Road. The street ran in a straight line for three blocks and ended abruptly at a locked gate. Beyond the gate, the road wound up a low hill, but it didn’t look like anyone had traveled it for quite some time. There were numerous cars parked in town—in driveways, along the streets, behind the general store—but nothing seemed to move except the wind. A few houses were boarded up, their exteriors bereft of color. In front of one, the paint on the white picket fence had been stripped to the wood, and portions of it sagged. In the small patchy lawns, what little grass remained was dry, and the ground looked hard and unforgiving. In one yard, a camper shell sat under an overhang of corrugated green plastic sheets. There were tree stumps and a tumble of firewood. What had once been the automobile-repair shop stood open to the elements. A tall, dark palm tree towered above a length of chain-link fence that extended across the rear. A stack of fifty five-gallon oil drums had been left behind. Weeds grew in dry-looking puffs that, in time, the wind would blow free, sending them rolling down the middle of the road. A hound trotted along a side street on a doggie mission of some kind.

Behind the town the hills rose sharply, not mountains by any stretch. They were rugged, without trees, hospitable to wildlife but uninviting to hikers. I could see power lines looping from house to house, and a series of telephone poles stretched away from me like hatch marks on a pencil drawing. We parked and got out, ambling down the middle of the cracked blacktop road. There were no sidewalks and no streetlights. There was no traffic and, therefore, no traffic lights. “Not exactly bustling,” I remarked. “I take it the auto-repair shop went belly-up.”

“That belonged to Tannie’s brother, Steve. Actually, he moved his operation into Santa Maria, figuring if someone’s car broke down, the owner would never manage to get it out here. He wasn’t about to offer to go get them. At the time, he only had one tow truck and that was usually out of commission.”

“Not much of an advertisement for auto repair.”

“Yeah, well he was bad at it anyway. Once he moved, he hired a couple of mechanics and now he’s doing great.”

Daisy pointed out the house where Chet Cramer lived with his current wife. “The Cramers were the only family with any sizeable income. They had the first television set anybody’d ever seen. If you played your cards right, you could watch Howdy Doody or Your Show of Shows. Liza took me over there once, but Kathy didn’t like me so I wasn’t invited back.”

The Cramers’ house was the only two-story structure I’d seen, an old-fashioned farmhouse with a wide wooden porch. I’d stuck a pack of index cards in my jacket pocket, and I used one now to make a crude map of the town. I’d be talking to a number of current and former residents, and I thought it would help to have a sense of where they’d lived relative to one another.

Daisy paused in front of a pale green stucco house with a flat roofline. Up came the hand so she could gnaw on herself. A short walkway led from the street to the walk-out porch. A chain-link fence surrounded the property, with a sign hanging from the open gate that read NO TRESPASS. The yard was dead. Raw plywood sheets had been nailed over the windows. The front door had been lifted from its hinges and left leaning against the outside wall. The house number was 3908.

“That’s where you lived. I recognize the porch rail from the photograph.”

“Yep. You want to come in?”

“We’re not trespassing?”

“Not now. I bought it. Don’t ask me why. My parents rented from a guy named Tom Padgett, who sold it to me. You’ll see his name on the list. He was in the bar on a couple of occasions when the two of them pitched a fit. Daddy worked construction so sometimes we had money and sometimes not. If he had it, he’d spend it, and if he didn’t have it, too bad. Owing people money never bothered him. Bad weather he’d be out of a job or else he’d get fired for showing up drunk. He wasn’t exactly a deadbeat, but he operated with a similar mentality. He’d take care of the bills if he was in the mood, but you couldn’t count on that. Padgett was forever pounding on him for the rent because Daddy tended to pay late, if he paid at all. We’d be threatened with eviction, and when he finally coughed up the rent, it was always with the attitude that he was being abused.”

I followed her through the gate. I knew she must have been back a hundred times, but looking for what? An explanation, a clue, an answer to the questions that were plaguing her?

Inside, the layout was elementary. Living room with a dining cove, a kitchen with just enough room for a table and chairs, though those were long since gone. The kitchen appliances had been removed, pipes and wires sticking out of the wall. Blocks of relatively clean linoleum indicated where the stove and refrigerator had once sat. The sink was still there, along with the chipped Formica counters with metal rims. Cabinet doors stood open, revealing the empty shelves where paper was curling up from the corners. Without even meaning to, I moved forward and closed one of the cabinet doors. “Sorry. Things like that bug me.”

“I’m the same way,” Daisy said. “You wait. Leave the room and come back and the door will be open again. Almost enough to make you wonder about ghosts.”

“You’re not tempted to fix it up?”

“Maybe one day, though I can’t imagine ever living here again. I like the house I’m in.”

“So which bedroom was yours?”

“In here.”

The room was barely nine feet by twelve, painted an unpleasant shade of pink that I supposed was meant to be girlish.

“My bed was in this corner. Chest of drawers there. Armoire. Toy box. Little table and two chairs.” She leaned against the wall and surveyed the space. “I felt so lucky to have a room of my own. I didn’t know from tacky. Most of the people we knew were as bad off as we were. Or that’s what I realize now.”

She moved from her room to the second bedroom and paused in the door. This one was painted lavender with a wallpaper border of violets along the low ceiling line. I backtracked three steps and checked the bathroom, where the sink and bathtub were still anchored in place. The toilet had been removed and a rag was stuffed in the hole, which still emitted the spoiled-egg smell of flushes gone by. This was possibly the most depressing house I’d ever been in.

She moved in behind me, perhaps seeing the house as I did. “Believe it or not, my mother did what she could to pretty things up. Lace curtains for the living room, throw rugs, doilies for the furniture—stuff like that. One of the last fights I remember, my dad went berserk and tore down one of her precious lace panels. I don’t think he could have done anything worse. That’s how they were, always going to extremes, pushing each other over the edge. She tore down the rest, ripped them off the rods and threw them in the trash. I could hear her screaming she was finished. Done. She said he destroyed everything beautiful she tried to do and she hated him for that. Blah, blah, blah. That was a couple of days before she left.”

“Did it scare you? The fights?”

“Sometimes. Mostly I thought that’s just how parents behaved,” she said. “Anyway, the upshot is I’m a chronic insomniac. Shrinks have a field day with that. The only time I remember sleeping well was when I was a little kid and my parents went out. It must have been the only time I felt safe, because Liza was in charge and I knew I could trust her to take care of me.”

“You remember anything else from those last few days?”

“A bubble bath. It’s the little things that get you. I was sitting in the tub and she was on her way out. She stuck her head in the door…that little yappy dog in her arms…and she blew me a kiss. If I’d known it was the last one I’d ever get, I’d have made her come back and kiss me for real.”

4

Daisy took an alternate route on our return to Santa Maria, swinging north in a wide loop that, according to the map, encompassed the townships of Beatty and Poe. In point of fact, I didn’t see either one. I squinted, saying, “Where’s Poe? The map says it’s right here close to a little town called Beatty.”

“I think those are company names. Poe, I don’t know about, but there’s a Beatty Oil and Natural Gas. If there were ever towns in those spots, they might’ve left the names on the map so the area wouldn’t seem so desolate.”

The surrounding countryside was flat, entirely given over to agriculture: fields of lettuce, sugar beets, and beans as far as the eye could see. The air smelled of celery. Bright blue port-o-potties stood like sentinels along the road. Cars were parked along the berm adjacent to some fields. Wooden crates were stacked high on flatbed trucks, and migrant farmworkers bent above the rows, harvesting a crop I didn’t recognize on sight, flying by as we were at sixty miles an hour. The road made a wide curve north. Oil rigs dotted the land and in one section, there was a small refinery that threw off an odor reminiscent of burning tires. In sections, I could see a line of stationary boxcars that must have stretched for a quarter of a mile.

I looked past her through the driver’s-side window. Tucked in a stand of pines, a grand old stone-and-stucco house sat close to the road, abandoned to all appearances. The architecture had elements of English Tudor with a touch of Swiss chalet thrown in, the whole of it incongruous in the midst of tilled and untilled fields. The second story was half-timbered with three gables punctuating the roofline. “What the heck is that?”

Daisy slowed. “That’s why we came this way. Tannie and her brother, Steve, inherited the house and three hundred acres of farmland, some of which they lease out.”

Two massive stone chimneys bracketed the house on each end. The narrow third-story windows suggested rooms reserved for household servants. A magnificent oak had been planted at one corner of the house, probably ninety years before, and now overshadowed the entrance. Across the road, there was empty acreage.

The yard was completely overgrown. Weeds had proliferated and once decorative shrubs were close to eight feet high, obscuring the ground-floor windows. Where there had been a gracious approach, defined by boxwoods on both sides of a wide brick path, the passage was now close to impenetrable. Someone was using a small tractor to clear the overgrowth near the road, piling it in a mound. The brush closer to the house would probably have to be hacked away by hand. Daunting, I thought.

“Catch the back side,” she said as we passed.

I shifted in my seat and glanced over my shoulder, looking at the house from another angle. A wide dirt-and-gravel lane, probably the original driveway, now doubled as a frontage road with a service road splitting off to the right. I was guessing that the service road intersected one of the old county roads that was rendered obsolete once New Cut Road went in.

On the back side of the house, most of the third-story windows in the rear were missing, the frames and timbers charred black from a fire that had eaten half the roof. There was something painful in the sight and I could feel myself wince. “How’d that happen?”

“Vagrants. This was a year ago. Now there’s a raging debate about what to do with the place.”

“Why was the house built so close to the road?”

“Actually, it wasn’t. The house used to sit dead center on the land, but then the new road was cut through. The grandparents must have needed cash, because they sold off a big chunk, maybe half of what they owned. The ink wasn’t dry on the check before negotiations were under way for a housing tract that never went in. Talk about local politics. Now Tannie’s in a quandary, trying to decide whether to restore the house or tear it down and build in a better location. Her brother thinks they should sell the property while they have the chance. Right now, the market’s good, but Steve’s one of those guys who’s always predicting doom and gloom, so they’ve been butting heads. She’ll have to buy him out if she decides to hang on. She’s hired a couple of guys to help her clear brush on her days off. The county’s been testy about the fire hazard, given last year’s burn.”

“Does she want to farm the land?”

“I doubt it. Maybe she plans to open a B-and-B. You’d have to ask her.”

“Amazing.” I could feel the shift in my perception of Tannie Ottweiler. I’d pictured her barely making ends meet on a bartender’s salary, never guessing she was a land baroness. “I take it she’s thinking about moving up here.”

“That’s her hope. She’s been driving up Thursdays and Fridays, so if she’s here again this week maybe the three of us could have lunch.”

“Sounds great.”

There was a silence that lasted fifteen miles. Daisy was communicative in small doses, but she seemed to feel no obligation to chatter full time, which suited me fine.

“So what’s your story?” she asked, finally.

“Mine?”

“You’ve been asking questions about me. Fair is fair.”

I didn’t like this part, where I was forced to pony up. As usual, I reduced my past to its basic elements. I didn’t want sympathy and I didn’t want additional questions. In any version I told, the ending was the same and I was bored with the recitation. “My parents were killed in a car wreck when I was five. I was raised by a maiden aunt, who didn’t parent all that well.”

She waited to see if I’d go on. “Are you married?”

“Not now, but I was. Twice, which seems like plenty.”

“I’ve got four divorces to your two so I guess I’m more optimistic.”

“Or maybe slower to learn.”

That netted me a smile, but not much of one.

When we got back to Daisy’s house, I picked up my car and drove the hour back to Santa Teresa, returning to my office, where I worked for the balance of the afternoon. I took care of the phone messages that had accumulated in my absence and then sat down and read the newspaper accounts about Violet in the weeks following her vanishing act. The initial item about the missing woman didn’t appear until the eighth of July, Wednesday of the following week. The article was brief, indicating that the public’s help was being sought in the disappearance of Violet Sullivan, last seen on Saturday, July 4, when she’d left to join her husband at a park in Silas, California, nine miles from her home in Serena Station. She was believed to have been driving a violet-gray two-door Chevrolet Bel Air coupe, with the dealer’s sticker displayed on the windshield. Anyone with information was encouraged to contact Sergeant Tim Schaefer at the Santa Teresa County Sheriff ’s Department. The telephone number for the north county substation was listed.

Daisy had clipped two more articles, but there was little additional information. There were references to Violet’s having money, but no dollar amount had been confirmed. A bank manager in Santa Teresa had called the sheriff ’s department to report that Violet Sullivan had arrived at the Santa Teresa Savings and Loan early in the afternoon on Wednesday, July 1. She’d spoken first to him, presenting her key and asking for access to her safe-deposit box. He was already late for lunch so he’d turned her over to one of the tellers, a Mrs. Fitzroy, who’d dealt with Mrs. Sullivan previously and recognized her on sight. After Mrs. Sullivan signed in, Mrs. Fitzroy verified her signature and accompanied her into the vault, where she was given her box and shown into a small cubicle. She returned the box some minutes later. Neither the teller nor the bank manager had any idea what was in the box or whether Violet Sullivan had removed the contents.

In a third article, which ran on July 15, the county sheriff ’s department’s public relations officer stated they were interviewing Foley Sullivan, the missing woman’s husband. He was not considered a suspect, but was a “person of interest.” According to Foley Sullivan’s account, he’d stopped off to have a beer after the fireworks ended at 9:30. He got home a short time later and saw the family car was gone. He assumed that he and his wife had missed each other at the park and that she’d arrive shortly. He admitted to being mildly intoxicated and claimed he’d gone straight to bed. It wasn’t until his daughter woke him at 8:00 the next morning that he realized his wife had failed to return. Anyone with information, etc.

Occasionally, in the years since then, feature articles had been written about the case—puff pieces in the main. The tone was meant to be hard-hitting but the coverage was superficial. The same basic facts were spun out and embellished with little in the way of revelation. As nearly as I could tell, the subject had never been tackled in any systematic way. Violet’s uncertain fate had elevated her to the status of a minor celebrity, but only in the small farming community where she had lived. No one outside the area seemed to take much interest. There was a black-and-white photograph of her and a separate photo of the car—not the identical vehicle, of course, but a similar make and model.

The car caught my attention and I read that part twice. On Friday, July 3, 1953, Foley Sullivan had filled out the loan papers on a purchase price of $2,145. Since the vehicle was never seen again, he’d been compelled to make payments for the next thirty-six months until the terms were satisfied. Title had never been registered. Violet Sullivan’s driver’s license had expired in June of 1955, and she’d made no application for renewal.

What struck me as curious was that Daisy had described her father as close to a deadbeat, so I couldn’t imagine why he’d continued paying for the car. How perverse to have to go on forking out the dough for a vehicle your wife may or may not have used in running off with another man. Since there was no way the dealer could repossess the car, Foley was stuck. I couldn’t understand why he cared, one way or the other, whether the dealer sued him for the balance or turned him over to a collection agency. Big deal. His credit was already shot, so what was one more debt? I put the question in a drawer at the back of my mind, hoping an answer would be sitting there the next time I looked.

At 5:00 P.M. I locked the office and went home. My studio apartment is located on a side street a block from the beach. My landlord, Henry, had converted the space from a single-car garage to a rental unit, attached to his own house by a glass-enclosed breezeway. I’ve been living there quite happily for the past seven years. Henry’s the only man I know whom I’d be willing to marry if (and only if ) we weren’t separated by a fifty-year age difference. It’s tough when the perfect man in your life is an octogenarian…though a young eighty-seven years old. Henry’s trim, handsome, smart, white-haired, blue-eyed, and active. I can go on in this manner, reciting his many virtues, but you probably get the point.

I parked and passed through the squeaky gate that announces my arrival. I went around to the rear and let myself into my apartment, where I wrestled with my conscience briefly, and then changed into my running clothes and did a three-mile jog along the beach. Home again forty minutes later, I found a message from Cheney Phillips waiting on my machine. He proposed a quick bite of supper and said unless he heard otherwise, he’d meet me at Rosie’s close to 7:00. I showered and got back into my jeans.

“Well, it’s an interesting proposition. I’ll give you that,” Cheney said when I’d laid it out to him. Rosie had taken our order, asking us what we wanted, and then writing down what she’d already decided to serve—an unpronounceable dish that she pointed to on the menu. This turned out to be a beef-and-pork stew with more sour cream than flavor, so we’d spent a few minutes surreptitiously adding salt and enough pepper to make our eyes sting. Rosie’s cooking is usually tasty, so neither of us could figure out what was going on with her. Cheney was drinking beer and I was drinking bad white wine, which is all she serves.

“You know what’s hanging me up?” I asked.

“Tell.”

“The thought of failing.”

“There are worse things.”

“Name one.”

“Root canal. IRS audit. Terminal disease.”

“But at least those things don’t impact anyone else. I don’t want to take Daisy’s money if I can’t deliver anything, and what are the odds?”

“She’s a grown-up. She says this is what she wants. Do you have any reason to doubt her sincerity?”

“No.”

“So why don’t you put a cap on the money end?”

“I did that. It doesn’t seem to help.”

“You’ll do fine. All you can do is give it your best shot.”

In the office Wednesday morning, I made a series of phone calls, setting up appointments with the principals on my list. I didn’t think the order of interviews would make any difference, but I’d arranged the names in order of personal preference. In quick succession, I talked to Sergeant Timothy Schaefer, who’d been the investigating officer when Violet disappeared. I wanted to see how things had looked from his perspective and I thought he’d be good at laying in the background. We agreed to meet that afternoon at 1:00, and he gave me directions to his house in Santa Maria. Foley Sullivan was next on my list. Daisy had told him I’d be calling, but I was still relieved to find him cooperative. I made an appointment to talk to him after my interview with Sergeant Schaefer. My next call was to Calvin Wilcox, Violet’s only sibling. I got a busy signal on that number so I moved to the next.

Fourth on my list was the babysitter, Liza Clements, née Mellincamp, one of the last people who’d spent time in Violet’s company. I was hoping to create a calendar of events, starting with Liza and working my way backward as I reconstructed Violet’s activities and encounters in the days before she vanished. I dialed Liza’s number and she picked up after six rings, just at the point where I’d about given up.

When I identified myself, she said, “I’m sorry, but could we talk another time? I’ve got a dental appointment and I’m just now walking out the door.”

“How about later this afternoon? When will you be home?”

“Really, today’s a mess. What about tomorrow?”

“Sure, that would work. What time?”

“Four o’clock?”

“Fine.”

“Do you have my address?”

“Daisy gave it to me.”

“Great. See you then.”

I moved on to Kathy Cramer. She and Liza were fourteen at the time, which put them in their late forties now. I knew Kathy was married, but she’d apparently elected to keep her maiden name, because Cramer was the only reference I had. I dialed her number and once I had her on the line, I told her who I was and what I was doing at Daisy’s behest.

“You’re kidding,” she said, her voice flat with disbelief.

“Afraid not,” I said. So tedious. I didn’t relish having to go through this routine with every other call I made.

“You’re looking for Violet Sullivan after all these years?”

“That’s what I was hired to do. I’m hoping you can fill in some blanks.”

“Have you talked to Liza Mellincamp?”

“I see her tomorrow afternoon. If you could spare me half an hour, I’d be grateful.”

“I can probably manage that. Can we say tomorrow morning at eleven?”

“Sure thing.”

“What address do you have? We just moved.”

I recited the address on my list, which was out of date. She gave me the new one with a set of directions that I scribbled down in haste.

My last call was to Daisy, telling her I was making a run to Santa Maria and back. On Thursday, I expected to have a block of free time, so I was proposing lunch and a quick verbal report. She was agreeable and said we could try a coffee shop close to her work. Since Tannie would be in Santa Maria on Thursday as well, she’d give her a call and see if she could join us. Her lunch hour was flexible, so I agreed to call as soon as I had a break.

After I hung up, I folded the list and gathered my index cards, gassed up the VW, and headed north. I was already getting bored with the hour drive each way and not all that happy about the miles I was putting on my thirteen-year-old car.

5

KATHY

Wednesday, July 1, 1953

Kathy Cramer was working in the office at her father’s Chevrolet dealership when Violet pulled up in Foley’s rattletrap pickup and started looking at cars. She carried a big straw tote with a little dog tucked inside, its head popping up like a jack-in-the-box. This was Kathy’s first real job, and her father was paying her a dollar an hour, twenty-five cents over the minimum wage and twice what her best friend, Liza, made for babysitting. A dollar an hour was pretty good for a fourteen-year-old, even if his hiring her was not entirely voluntary. When his secretary left to get married, he’d wanted to advertise for a permanent full-time replacement, but Kathy’s mother put her foot down, insisting he could find somebody in the fall when Kathy went back to school.

Her responsibilities entailed answering the phone, filing, and “lite” typing, which she generally messed up. At the moment business was slow, so she occupied her time reading the movie magazines she kept in her lap. James Dean was already her favorite of the new Hollywood stars. Also Jean Simmons, with whom she completely identified. She’d seen Androcles and the Lion and, most recently, Young Bess, in which Jean Simmons had starred with her husband, Stewart Granger, who was second only to James Dean in Kathy’s mind.

This was July and the office was small. Glass on all sides let the sunlight slant in, heating the space to unbearable temperatures. There was no air-conditioning, so Kathy kept an electric fan beside her on the floor, the face tilted toward hers for maximum effect. The air was still hot, but at least it was moving. She didn’t think it was possible to sweat so much sitting down. In the spring, her gym teacher had suggested it really wouldn’t hurt if she lost thirty-five pounds, but Kathy’s mother was having none of it. Girls paid entirely too much attention to superficial matters like weight, clothing, and hairstyles when what counted was inner beauty. It was more important to be a good person, setting an example for those around you. Kathy’s mother said her complexion would clear up in time if she’d just quit picking at it. Kathy used Noxzema every night, but it didn’t seem to help.

Kathy took off her glasses and polished the lenses with the hem of her skirt. These were new glasses with stylishly tilted black cat’s-eye frames that Kathy thought looked especially wonderful on her. She found herself following Violet’s progress across the lot. She had vulgar dyed-red hair and wore a tight purple sundress with a deeply scooped neckline. Winston Smith, the salesman Kathy’s dad had hired the month before, had his eye on the crevice between her boobies. Everybody was always mooning over Violet, which made Kathy sick. Especially her friend, Liza, who thought Violet could do no wrong. Kathy was struck by a sharp emotional jolt, which later in life she might concede was a feeling of jealousy. At the moment she wondered if it was possible to have hot flashes at so young an age. She’d seen her mother fanning herself, suddenly dripping with sweat, and thought what she experienced might be similar.

Winston worked strictly on commission, which probably explained why he was so interested in talking to Violet as she strolled between the aisles of used cars. Winston was twenty years old. His hair was dark blond with a ridge of curls on top. The sides were swept back and met at the nape in a style known as a DA, which was short for “duck’s ass,” though that wasn’t a term Kathy would dream of saying out loud. Kathy could see him gesturing, pretending to be knowledgeable when, in fact, he’d never made a sale. She found it endearing, how transparent he was to her. His goal was to make enough money to pay for his sophomore year in college, and he’d confided his belief that selling cars was the perfect way to jack up his savings. He admitted he didn’t have quite the knack for it that he’d hoped. He didn’t even enjoy it much, but he was determined to develop his skills, taking Mr. Cramer as his role model. Temporarily, of course.

He was easily handsome enough to be a movie star himself. She thought he looked wonderful in his front-pleated slacks, open-neck shirt, and white bucks. He actually reminded her of James Dean—same cheekbones and long lashes, and the same slender build. His expression was soulful, suggestive of troubles untold. Kathy could picture him working for her father after graduation, but he had bigger dreams, possibly law school, he said. Kathy often asked him about himself, encouraging him to open up to her.

In her pencil drawer, she kept the box of pretty pink stationery she was using for the volume of poems she was writing. She liked the roses around the edge and the pale blue butterfly in each corner. She did the actual composition on wide-lined tablet paper and then transcribed the finished verse onto good paper when she was finally satisfied. Originally she’d bought the stationery for Liza, whose birthday was coming up on Friday, July 3, but when she realized how perfect it was, she’d decided to keep it for herself. She could always give Liza the lily of the valley dusting powder someone had given her last year.

The poem she was working on was half-finished. This was only the fourth poem she’d written, but she knew it was her best. Maybe not perfect yet, but her English teacher said every good writer did constant revisions, and Kathy’d found that to be the case. She’d been working tirelessly on this poem for the better part of the morning. She took out the lined sheet and read it to herself. She was thinking of calling it “To W…” without giving any other hint of whom the poem was written for. She knew many poets, such as William Shakespeare, wrote sonnets and titled them that way.

To W…

When I gaze in your beautiful brown eyes

I feel my throbbing heart increase in size

With all the love I hold inside for you

I promise, my darling, I will always be true.

I loved you deeply right from the start

And now no one can ever sunder us apart.

If I could only hold you tightly in my arms…

She hesitated. That word “arms” was a stumper. “Charms” would rhyme, but she couldn’t figure out how to work it in. She tapped her pencil against her lips and then crossed it out. She’d come up with something better. Her thoughts returned to Winston. As a seventh grader, she’d taken a class in dating etiquette, anticipating the opportunities that would crop up for her in eighth grade. She’d learned what topics were suitable for conversation with a boy and what to say at the door at the end of a date. In her mind, the boy’s face was amorphous, his features shifting to resemble whatever movie star she was currently smitten with. She imagined him kind and gentle, appreciative of her many fine qualities. She’d had no idea then how soon Winston would appear in her life, the epitome of all her dreams. She did think he’d exhibited a certain interest in her, at least until Violet showed up.

Violet and Winston were approaching the showroom floor, where the best car on the lot—a two-door Chevrolet Bel Air coupe—was displayed under bright lights to emphasize its sleek lines. Violet had spotted the vehicle from halfway across the lot, and Winston was laying on his spiel as though his life depended on it. Like Violet might actually buy it. Very funny! Ha ha! She’d heard Violet and Foley were so poor they could barely afford the rent.

Winston held open the plateglass door, allowing Violet to pass through. Kathy caught sight of a big blue bruise on her chin. Violet was all the time walking around like that, making no effort whatever to cover the marks. No dark glasses. No makeup. No wide-brimmed hat, which might have helped. She went about her errands—supermarket, post office, walking Daisy to school—with one or both eyes black, cheek swollen, her lips puffy and plump from one of Foley’s blows. She made no excuses and she never explained, which left Foley looking like a fool. How could he defend himself when she never accused him of anything? Everyone in town knew he hit her, but no one intervened. That was considered their personal business, though Kathy’s mother often said it was a total disgrace. Kathy’s mother thought Violet was trash and she said Liza was asking for trouble if she hung out with her. Just the night before, sitting at the top of the stairs while her parents were in the living room, she heard her mother talking about Violet and Jake Ottweiler, who’d been seen slow-dancing at the Blue Moon. Violet was oversexed, a regular nymphomaniac (whatever that was), and her mother was disgusted that Jake would have anything to do with her. She was getting all worked up, her voice rising (which made it easier for Kathy to hear) when her father blew his stack. “Christ, Livia! Is that all you have to do, sit around and pass along ugly gossip? What the hell is wrong with you?!”

They’d argued, and her mother had hushed him because she was worried Kathy might overhear them. Personally, she’d agreed with her mother. Violet was a tramp. Kathy picked up a batch of papers and crossed to the filing cabinet by the door so she could hear what Violet and Winston said. The two were focused on the car and didn’t seem to notice her hovering nearby. Winston was saying, “Make no mistake, this is not your basic sedan. This is Chevrolet’s five-passenger coupe. A 235 engine, Powerglide, dual carbs, and exhaust. Full hub caps, even has a beehive oil filter, if you can imagine such a thing.”

Violet clearly didn’t know a filter from a fish fillet. “It’s the color I love,” she said, running a hand along the front fender. The hood ornament looked like an eagle or a hawk in full flight, beak foremost, wings back, speeding through the air in a stylized pose.

“The color’s custom—only one of its kind. Know what it’s called? ‘Violet Slate.’ I kid you not.”

Violet flashed him a smile. She made a point of wearing shades of violet: purple, lavender, lilac, mauve. Winston leaned past her and opened the door on the driver’s side, revealing the orchid pink trim on the lower dash panel. “Here, have a seat.” He cranked down the window and then stood back so she could get a better view. The seats were plush, trimmed in a robin’s egg blue with insets and side panels in a pink-and-blue pattern that looked like flame-stitching, the two colors bleeding into each other to form violet shade. When the car had come in, Mr. Cramer had opened the trunk for Kathy, showing her the interior, which was upholstered in the exact same two shades. Even the spare tire in the wheel mount was covered in blue plush, like a tire cozy.

Violet slid in behind the wheel, hands at ten o’clock and two o’clock, nearly feverish with excitement. “It’s beautiful. I love this!” She ran a reverent hand across the seat. “How much?”

Winston laughed, thinking she was making a joke.

“What’s so funny?”

He stared at the toe of his shoe, looking up at her from under dark lashes, dimples showing, his brow furrowing. “Well, nothing, Mrs. Sullivan, but I believe it’s beyond your means. I know it’s beyond mine.”

“I’ve got money.”

“Not this much,” he said, in a jocular tone, keeping things light. Kathy could see he was trying to cushion her disappointment when he told her the price. She thought Violet was getting a bit above herself, putting on airs. Boy, was she in for a rude surprise.

Violet’s smile faded. “You think I can’t afford to buy a nice car like this?”

“I didn’t say that, Mrs. Sullivan. By no means.”

Kathy couldn’t believe the woman was still pushing the point, but Violet said, “Then answer my question.”

“Sticker price is $2,375. My boss might be willing to dicker some, but not a lot. Car like this is considered top of the line and there’s not much wiggle room, as we like to say.”

Kathy checked Violet’s expression, hoping she’d realize how far out of line she was. Violet kept her eyes on Winston, who seemed somewhat distracted by the gap that appeared at the neck of her dress, which was cut low to begin with. She said, “I’d want to take it for a test drive.”

“Well, sure. We can arrange that.”

She extended her hand out the window, palm up. “You have the keys?”

“No, not on me. They’d be in the office…in there,” he said, gesturing unnecessarily.

“Well, Winston, you’ll have to go and get them. You think you can manage that?” Her tone was silky and flirtatious even though what she said seemed insulting to Kathy’s ear.

“Unfortunately, my boss has gone to lunch, and I’m the only one on the lot.”

“And?”

“And, you know, I can’t just take off, because he left me in charge.”

“If I’m not mistaken, there’s a mechanic on the premises. Two of them, in fact. What’s that one’s name? Floyd, isn’t it?”

Both Kathy and Winston checked the service bay where Floyd could be seen, servicing a used car that had just come in. Mr. Padgett had been talking about a trade-in but then decided he’d hold off until fall when the new ’54 models arrived. In the meantime, he’d said he’d just as soon have the cash in hand, so he’d sold it outright.

Winston seem relieved, as though Violet had given him the perfect out. “Mrs. Sullivan, Floyd can’t work the floor. He wouldn’t know what to do any more than I could go back in the service bay and do his job for him.”

“Why do I need you? All I’m going to do is drive around the block. Don’t you trust me?”

Winston’s Adam’s apple dipped. “I do. It’s not that. I just think it’d be better to wait until my boss gets back so you can talk to him. He knows this car inside and out, far better than I do. Besides, if it comes to that, he’s the one who handles all the paperwork, so it only makes sense.”

“Paperwork?”

“You know, down payment, terms—stuff like that. You’d have to have your husband come in and sign.”

Violet was amused. “Why? Foley doesn’t have a dime. I intend to pay cash.”

“Outright?”

“Do you know how much money I have? I’m not supposed to tell, but I know I can count on your discretion,” she said, lowering her voice.

“You shouldn’t be telling me anything personal, Mrs. Sullivan. You should talk to Mr. Cramer about your finances.”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

Winston laughed, unnerved. “Seriously?”

“Of course. Why would I joke about a thing like that?”

“What’d you do, rob a bank?”

“It was an insurance settlement. I wanted more, but that’s what the company offered me right off the bat. My lawyer said take it, so that’s what I did. The two were probably in cahoots. I’ve never even told Foley the full amount. He’d be on me in a flash and squander every dime. See this?” Violet pointed to the bruise on her chin. “One day Foley’s going to push me too far and that’s it. I’ll be gone. The money’s my ticket out.” She held out her hand. “Now. May I have the keys?”

Kathy watched Winston struggle with the request. She knew he wasn’t much for confrontation, especially with a woman like Violet. On the other hand, she knew her dad had given him explicit instructions: No test drive without a salesman. No leaving the floor unattended.

“What’s your commission on a sale like this?” Violet asked, as though the sale were a foregone conclusion.

“Somewhere in the neighborhood of four percent.”

“Enough to cover your tuition and books for the next two years, or am I wrong about that?”

“That seems about right,” he said.

Even Kathy was transfixed by the notion of all that money coming to him.

“So do you want the sale or not?”

Winston glanced at his watch. “I don’t know what to tell you, Mrs. Sullivan. Mr. Cramer’s due back any minute now…”

“Oh for Christ’s sake! Give me the keys and let’s get on with it. I’m just taking it around the block.”

Kathy closed the file drawer, rolling her eyes in disgust. Pushiness was unbecoming in a woman—everyone knew that—but blasphemy was inexcusable. She returned to her desk and took a seat. The woman was insane. There was no way Winston was going to let her drive away in that car. Without so much as a dollar changing hands? Very funny. Ha ha. Kathy picked up a stack of papers and tamped them against the desk, then opened and closed a drawer, pretending to be absorbed in her work.

Winston appeared at her desk. There were big damp circles under his shirt sleeves, and she could smell his sweat. “I got a problem.”

“I know. She is so full of herself, it makes me sick.”

“Can I have the keys to the Bel Air?”

She stared at him, blinking. “Why ask me?”

“Could you give them to me, please? She’s buying the car and she wants to see how it drives.”

“I don’t have them.”

“Yes, you do. I saw him give them to you.”

Kathy didn’t move because she’d suddenly had a thought. At dinner the night before, her dad told her mom he was top-heavy on inventory and light on cash. What if Violet really had the money and the sale got messed up? If Kathy made a fuss and then the deal fell through, she’d never live it down. She could feel her face burn.

Exasperated, Winston leaned over and opened her pencil drawer. There, big as life, were the keys on a ring with the Chevrolet logo, the make and model of the car inked on a round white tag. He helped himself to the set.

“You’ll be sorry,” she said, not looking at him.

“No doubt,” he said, and then returned to the floor. Violet was still sitting in the car.

Kathy’s dad would have a fit the minute he found out, but what was she supposed to do?

Winston held out the keys to Violet. She took them without a word and then started the car. She put the gear in reverse and began backing toward the wide steel door at the rear of the showroom. Kathy watched as Winston crossed to the door and gave the handle a yank. The door ascended on its track with a low rumbling sound. He leaned toward the driver’s-side window, probably to offer her advice, but Violet swung the car into the alley and took off without so much as a backward look.

Kathy saw Winston glance at his watch, and she felt a little thrill of fear because she knew exactly what was on his mind. Even if Violet took the long way around, the drive couldn’t take more than five minutes. Which meant he could have the car on the floor again before her dad returned from lunch.

6

I found Sergeant Timothy Schaefer in a workshop at the back of his property on Hart Drive in Santa Maria. The house itself was built in the 1950s by the look of it—a three-bedroom frame structure so uniformly white that it had been either freshly painted or recently covered in vinyl siding. His workshop must have been a toolshed at one time, enlarged by degrees until it was now half the size of a single-car garage. The interior walls were all raw wood and exposed studs. He’d used layers of newspaper as insulation, and I could probably read a year’s worth of local news items if I peered closely enough.

Schaefer had told me he’d retired from the Santa Teresa County Sheriff ’s Department in 1968 at the age of sixty-two, which made him eighty-one years old now. He was heavyset, his loose gray pants held up with tan suspenders. The brown and blue in his plaid flannel shirt had been washed to a blend of softly faded hues. His hair was a flyaway white, as fine as spun sugar, and he wore bifocals low on his nose, fixing me with an occasional sharp look over the rims.

In front of him, on a chunky wooden workbench that lined the shop on three sides, he’d set a newly refinished rocking chair, its seat in need of recaning. His tools were neatly lined up: a pair of needle-nose pliers, two ice picks, a knife, a ruler, a container of glycerin, and loops of cane held together with clothespins. On the chair he was currently caning, he’d used golf tees to hold the cane in place until he could tie them off underneath.

“My daughter got me into this,” he said idly. “After her mother died, she thought a hobby would keep me out of trouble. Weekends, we make the rounds of flea markets and yard sales, picking up old beat-up chairs like this. Turns out to be a money-making proposition.”

“How’d you learn?”

“Reading books and doing what they said. Took a while to get the hang of it. Glycerin helps the cane slide. Don’t soak it long enough and it’s hard to work with. Soak it too long and it’ll start to weaken and break. Hope you don’t mind if I keep on with this. I promised a fellow I’d have his rocker ready by the end of the week.”

“Be my guest.”

For a while, I was content to watch without saying a word. The mechanics of it reminded me of needlepoint or knitting, something close to a meditation. There was a certain hypnotic quality to the process, and I might have stood there observing for the better part of the day if time had permitted.

When I’d called the day before, I’d mentioned Stacey Oliphant by name, thus according myself instant credibility since the two had worked together for a number of years. Schaefer and I had spent a few minutes on the phone discussing the man. When I told him I was looking for information about Violet Sullivan, I’d asked if he needed to clear anything with the department before we spoke. “Nobody cares about that anymore,” he’d said. “Only a few of us remember the case. She’s still classified as a missing person, but I don’t think you’ll have much success after all these years.”

“It’s worth a try,” I’d said.

“Did you know her?” I asked now.

“Sure did. Everybody knew Violet. Feisty little thing with that fiery red hair. She was a beautiful girl with a defiant streak. If Foley blackened her eye, she made no attempt to hide it. She’d sport a bruise like a badge of honor. Damndest thing you ever saw. Black and blue, she was still prettier than any other woman in town. I wasn’t smart enough to keep my trap shut, and my wife was so jealous I thought she’d spit nails. Violet was the kind of woman men fantasize about. A lot of wives ended up with their noses out of joint.”

“How well did you know Foley?”

“Better than I knew her, given his numerous contacts with law enforcement. That’s how I ended up dealing with him in the first place, because of his smacking her around. I probably went to the house half a dozen times. None of us liked going out on domestic calls. Dangerous for one thing, and for another, it made you wonder what the hell was wrong with folks. Violet and Foley were skating close to the edge. Bad situation. Her little girl was of an age where she’d end up standing in the line of fire. Abuse spills over. It might start with the spouse, but the kids aren’t far behind.”

“What about Violet? Did she have any criminal history?”

“Nope.”

“Foley never had her arrested for assault?”

“Nope. If she hit him, he must have been too embarrassed to call us.”

“Shoot. No mug shots and no fingerprints. That’s too bad,” I said.

“She was clean as they come. She didn’t have a Social Security number because she never held a job, so that’s one more dead end. The only outside dispute she had, she took Jake Ottweiler into small-claims court. His pit bull attacked her toy poodle and killed it outright. I think she collected a couple hundred bucks. Foley probably borrowed every cent of it to pay the bills.”

“Daisy remembers the two brawling. She says neither one went after her, but it had an effect.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he said. “We sat Foley down more than once and gave him a talking-to, but like most abusers, he was busy blaming someone else. He maintained Violet was provoking him, which made it her fault, not his.”

“This was over what period of time?”

“Two, three years, running right up to the last anybody ever saw of her. After we spoke yesterday, I called one of the deputies and had him pull the old file. He went back through the reports and says the two got into a bad one on June 27, a Saturday, the week before she disappeared. Foley flung a pot of coffee at her and it caught her on the chin. She called us. We went out to the house and arrested his sorry ass and then held him overnight until he had a chance to cool down. Meanwhile, she filed a complaint charging him with misdemeanor battery…”

“Why misdemeanor?”

“Injuries weren’t that serious. He’d broken her jaw, it’d have been another matter. We advised her right then to get a restraining order out against him, but she said she was fine. Minute he got out, he went straight to the house. He begged her to drop the charges, but before anything could come of it, she was gone and that was that.”

“When did he report her missing?”

“July 7. In those days, the law required a seventy-two-hour wait if there was no suggestion of foul play, which there wasn’t. So Sunday passed, and then Monday without a word from her. Tuesday morning, Foley came over to the station and asked to file a report. I was the one who took the information, though the story was already out by then, and we knew we had a problem on our hands.”

“How did he seem?”

“He was obviously upset, but in my estimation, mostly for himself. Given his history, he had to figure he’d be first in line when it came to close scrutiny. We put out a countywide bulletin, giving a description of Violet and the car she was believed to be driving, and then expanded that to statewide within two days. We contacted the papers up and down the coast. Didn’t generate much interest, to tell you the truth. Most ran two column inches in the second section, if they bothered at all. Radio, same thing. The story got some local airplay, but not that much.”

“Why no splash? What was that about?”

“The media wasn’t prone to jumping on stories the way they do now. Violet was an adult. Some had the feeling she’d run off of her own accord and she’d come back when it suited her. Others leaned toward the notion she’d never left at all, at least not alive.”

“You think Foley killed her?”

“That’s what I thought at the time.”

“Why?”

“Because the violence had escalated and she was serious about pressing charges, which would’ve been bad news for him. It’s like the deputy DA told me, ‘You don’t have a witness, you don’t have a case.’ If he’d gone to trial, chances are he’d have ended up in jail. It certainly worked to his advantage that she was gone.”

“I’m assuming there was an investigation.”

“Oh, yes. We could pretty much trace her activities up until the time she left the house that night. This would have been six fifteen or so, after the babysitter showed. It wasn’t dark yet and wouldn’t turn dark until closer to nine o’clock. Couple of people saw her drive through town. They said it looked like she was alone except for her little dog, standing in her lap yapping out the window. She stopped and bought gas, filling up her tank at a service station near Tullis, so we know she made it that far.”

“What time was that?”

“Six twenty-five, round about then. The fellow at the pump cleaned her windshield and checked her tires, which he needn’t have done. The car was brand new and he was interested in hearing how she handled. They spent a few minutes talking about that. I asked him if he noticed anything unusual because I was curious about her mood. If she was leaving her little girl for good, you’d think she’d be down in the mouth, but he said she seemed happy. ‘Giddy’ was his word. Of course, he’d never laid eyes on her before, so as far as he knew, she was always that way. I was hoping she’d said something about her destination, but no such luck. Her dog was barking up a storm, jumping from the front seat to the back. She finally let it out to do its business in the grass. After she put the dog back in the car, she went in the office, paid the clerk for her gas, and bought a Coca-Cola from the cooler. Then she got in the car and off she went, driving toward Freeman.”

I opened my shoulder bag and took out a pen and my map of Santa Maria. “Can you show me the location of the service station? I’d like to take a look.”

He adjusted his bifocals and studied the map, opening it to the full and then refolding it. “That’d be here,” he said, making a mark on the page. “Place is still there, though the pump jockey and clerk have both left the area. From that point, she could have gone anyplace. Down one of these side roads and out to the 101—south to Los Angeles, north to San Francisco. She could have circled back and gone home. We calculated how far she could get on a tank of gas and checked with every station within that radius—no easy task. No one remembered seeing her, which struck me as odd. That car was a beauty and so was she. You’d think someone would have noticed if she’d stopped for anything—meal, restroom, to walk the dog. I don’t know how she could have vanished like that, literally, without a trace.”

“The papers said Foley wasn’t considered a suspect.”

“Of course he was. Still is. We put that out, hoping to coax him into telling what he knew, but he was a wily one. He went straight out and hired an attorney, and after that, he wouldn’t say a word. We never did come up with anything to hang him on.”

“He gave no explanation at all?”

“We managed to get a little bit out of him before he clammed up. We know he stopped by the Blue Moon and had a couple of beers. He claimed he got home a short time after that, which would have made it somewhere between ten and ten thirty. Trouble is, the babysitter, Liza Mellincamp, said she didn’t see him until sometime between midnight and one, which means if he killed her he had time to dispose of the body.”

“He must have done a good job of it if she’s never been found.”

Schaefer shrugged. “I imagine she’ll turn up one of these days, assuming there was something left of her once the critters got through.”

“Also assuming he killed her, which he might not have.”

“True enough.”

“Not that I’m arguing for or against,” I said.

“I understand. I go back and forth myself, and I’ve had years to ponder the possibilities.”

“Did anybody support Foley’s claim that he got home when he said?”

Schaefer shook his head. “Far from it. They know roughly when he left the Moon, but no one seems to know where he went after that. Might or might not have been home. Liza’s word against his.”

“What about the car? I understand there’s never been any sign of that either.”

“My guess is it’s long gone, probably broken down for parts. If not that, there’s always a demand for stolen cars in Europe and the Middle East. In California, L.A. and San Diego take the biggest hits.”

“Even back then?”

“Yes ma’am. The numbers might be different, but percentages are the same. Something like eighty-five thousand cars stolen out of those two cities just this past year. They steal ’em, take ’em to local ports, and crate ’em up for shipping. The other option is to drive a car across the border and dispose of it down there. Places in Mexico and Central America, if a vehicle doesn’t find a buyer, it’s left on the street and ends up sitting in an impound lot. You go down to Tijuana, you can see thousands—cars, trucks, RVs. Some have been there for years and never will be reclaimed.”

“Was the car his or hers?”

“He was the one signed the loan papers, but the car was hers. She made sure everyone knew that. In those days, wives couldn’t get credit even if they worked. Everything was done in the husband’s name.”

“But why would he do that? Buy her a car and then kill her the next day. That doesn’t make sense.”

“He might have killed her on impulse, struck her in a rage. Doesn’t have to be something he planned in advance.”

“But why buy the car at all? Daisy told me he could barely pay the bills. I’ve also heard she had enough cash to buy it outright.”

“I’ll tell you what I think. He did it out of guilt. That was his pattern. He’d get mad, beat the hell out of her, and then do something nice to make up for it. Maybe he realized she was on the verge of taking him to court so he tried to buy her off. She was nuts about that car.”

“From what I heard, Foley was stuck making all the payments even though he never had a thing to show for it. That seems strange.”

“Depending on his agreement with the dealer,” he said. “The fellow you want to talk to on that subject is Chet Cramer of Chet Cramer Chevrolet in Cromwell. I’ll give you his address.”

“Thanks. Daisy mentioned him. I’m surprised he’s still in business after all these years.”

“Oh, sure. He’ll never retire. He’s got his hands on the reins and he’ll be happy to drop dead before he ever lets go.”

Mentally I went back and skimmed the newspaper accounts I’d read. “One of the papers reported Violet going into a Santa Teresa bank that week and getting into her safe-deposit box. Any idea what was in it?”

“Nope. I’d assume valuables of some kind. Like you, I’ve heard she had a sizeable sum of cash, but you’d have to take that on faith. We got a court order and had the box drilled when it was clear she was gone. It was empty.”

“What about since then? I know how Stacey feels about a case like this. An open-ended situation bugs the hell out of him.”

“You’re right about that. Once in a while someone goes back to take a look, but there’s not much to go on. We never got a break on this one and we haven’t had the manpower to devote to a second full-on investigation. Detectives down in S.T. have enough on their plates. Some rookie might noodle around with it from time to time, but that’s about it.”

“What about the theory she was having an affair?”

“That’s what Foley maintains, but I have my doubts. Ask around and you’ll find out most people who heard the rumor heard it from him. Violet screwed around—no question about that—but if she ran off with someone, how come no one else was gone?”

7

The service station where Violet was last seen was near Tullis, a dot-sized town you could probably miss if you weren’t paying strict attention. Several hamlets, like stars in a constellation, were clustered in a patch with small two-lane roads forming the irregular grid that connected them. Tullis was to the east on a straight line that led to Freeman and from there to the 101.

Service stations in the area were few and far between, so it was easy to see why Violet had chosen this one. At that point, she’d only had the car for one day, but she’d apparently done sufficient driving to empty her tank. Or maybe she was topping it off in preparation for whatever she did next, which is to say died or left town. I noticed myself shifting from one position to the other. She behaved like someone who was on her merry way, but to where? And more important, did she ever arrive?

When I reached the service station, I pulled in to one side and parked near the entrance to the ladies’ room, taking advantage of the facilities while I had the chance. The toilet did flush, but the hand dryer was busted and since paper towels had been eliminated in the interest of sanitation, I ended up drying my hands on my jeans while I walked around outside.

The station sat at the junction of two roads, Robinson and Twine. The afternoon was hot and still, the sunlight relentless. This was September, and I was imagining the heat in July was fierce. There were endless flat fields on all sides; some looking ragged from the harvest and some newly planted with sprigs of green. It had been late day when Violet stopped here, and it must have looked then much as it did now. The area was windy and dry, without so much as a stand of trees to provide shade. I pictured Violet’s red hair whipping across her face while she stood chatting with the fellow who pumped her gas that day. What did she think was coming next? That’s what bothered me—the idea of her intentions and her innocence.

In my car again, I headed west, turning left out of the station onto Twine Road. I passed a sign for New Cut Road and realized Tannie’s property had to be less than a mile away. Sure enough, the big farmhouse loomed in the distance, hugging the blacktop as though hoping to thumb a ride. The incongruity of the house in the flat agricultural landscape struck me anew.

Once in Cromwell, I consulted the directions Daisy’d given me. Foley Sullivan worked as a custodian for the Cromwell Presbyterian Church on Second Street. The building was plain in the nicest sense of the word, white frame with a steeple, set on a wide lawn of green. A large brick wing had been added to one end. I parked in the side lot and took the walkway to the front of the church.

Starting with the obvious, I tried one of the big double doors and I was surprised to find them unlocked. I let myself in. The foyer was empty. The doors to the sanctuary stood open, but there was no one in sight. I said yoo-hoo-type things to announce my presence, hoping to avoid any appearance of trespassing in a house of God. The sanctuary was bathed in quiet, and I found myself tiptoeing down the center aisle in response. There were elaborate stained-glass windows on each side of the room and deep wine-colored carpeting underfoot. The massive brass organ pipes made an inverted V behind the chancel. The empty wooden pews were gleaming in the light. The air smelled of carnations and lilies, though there were none in evidence. To the right, behind the pulpit, the choir loft was visible. At the front of the church on the right-hand side, I could see a door that I was guessing led into the minister’s study. To the left, double doors with glass uppers probably opened into the corridor that connected the church with its more modern addition.

I pushed through the double doors and found myself in a broad carpeted hallway. Sunday school rooms opened off to the right, most with folding chairs, two with low tables and chairs designed for little kids. Everything was in order. I could smell Windex, Endust, and furniture polish. I pushed through a second set of double doors into a large social hall. Long banquet-style tables had been set up, but the metal folding chairs were still stacked on rolling carts pushed up against the wall. I imagined the room could be furnished or emptied for just about any activity or any size crowd. I wondered if church members still held potluck suppers. I hoped so. Where else could you get beef-and-macaroni pies and green-bean casseroles made with cream of mushroom soup? As a child I’d been expelled from numerous denominations of Sunday schools, but I bore no grudge. As usual, thoughts of food prevailed, softening the experience to recollections as rich and sweet as warm homemade brownies.

I entered the kitchen through a swinging door, again saying “Hello?” and pausing to see if there would be a response. The room was flooded with sunlight. The counters were stainless steel, and huge soup cauldrons hung from racks above the two restaurant-size stainless-steel stoves. The white enamel sinks were snowy. I was running out of places to look. Any minute now, Foley, I thought to myself. I was so focused on finding him that when he appeared behind me and tapped me on the shoulder, I jumped and clutched my chest, barking with surprise.

“Sorry if I scared you.”

“I just wasn’t expecting it,” I said, wondering how long he’d been trailing me. The notion generated an uneasiness I had to struggle to suppress. “I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.”

“That’s quite all right.”

He was tall and gaunt, with sleeves slightly too short for the length of his arms. His wrists were narrow and his hands were big. He was clean shaven, his cheekbones prominent and his jawline pronounced. His face reminded me of certain black-and-white photographs taken during the Depression—haunted-looking men in breadlines, whose gazes were fixed on the camera in despair. His eyes were a deep-set blue, the orbital ridge darkly smudged. I’d seen someone else with the same demeanor, though the reference eluded me in the moment. There was no animation when he spoke. He looked out at me from some remove, a curious distance between his inner self and the life of the outside world. I could see nothing of Daisy in his features, except perhaps the marks of unhappiness for which Violet was the source. He was only sixty-one years old, but he might have been a hundred from the wariness in his eyes.

“Come on with me. I’ll show you where I live. We can talk down there where it’s private.”

“Sure, fine,” I said, and followed him, wondering at the wisdom. Alone with a guy like him in this big empty church. Daisy was the only one who knew where I was. We descended one flight of stairs to the basement level, which was dry and well maintained. Foley opened the door to what I first mistook for a large storage closet.

“This is my apartment. Help yourself to a chair.”

The room he’d shown me into was maybe ten feet by ten, white walls, gleaming beige linoleum tile floor. In the center was a small wooden kitchen table with four matching chairs. He had a hot plate and a small refrigerator tucked into a counter along the wall, a sofa, one upholstered chair, and a small television set. Through a doorway I could see a smaller room with the suggestion of a roll-away bed poking into view. I was guessing at the presence of a bathroom beyond that.

I sat down at the table. In the center was a bowl of unshelled peanuts. He sat in apparent relaxation. The gaze he rested on mine was direct but curiously empty. He indicated the nuts. “Have some if you want.”

“Thanks. I’m fine.”

He picked up an unshelled peanut, broke open one end, and tilted the kernel into his mouth. He opened the second half of the nut and ate that kernel, too. The sound reminded me of a horse crunching on its bit. He held on to the empty shell. I could see him feeling the waffled surface, the tips of his fingers moving across the edges where the fibers extended from the shell. I’ve been known to eat peanuts shell and all to eliminate the mess.

He took a fresh one from the bowl and rolled it, pressing slightly, measuring its give. His fingers might have been moving with a will of their own. Rolling, pinching. “You’re a private detective. Where from?”

“Santa Teresa. I’ve been in business ten years. Before that, I was a cop.”

Foley shook his head. “Why’s Daisy doing this?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

“But what’d she say when she hired you on?”

“She’s upset. She says she’s never made peace with her mother’s leaving her.”

“None of us made peace with that,” he said. He looked away from me and then shrugged, as if in response to some inner debate. “All right. I guess we best get it over with. You can ask anything you like, but I want to say this first: Pastor of this church is the only man in town with any charity in his heart. After Violet left, I got laid off and I couldn’t get work. I did construction before, but suddenly no one would hire me to do anything. Based on what? I was never arrested. I was never charged. I never spent a day in jail in regard to her. The woman ran off. I don’t know how many times I have to say that.”

“You hired an attorney?”

“I had to. I needed to protect myself. Everybody thought I killed her, and what was I supposed to do? I had Daisy to support and I couldn’t get a paying job to save my soul. How can you prove you didn’t do a thing when the whole town believes you did?”

“How’d you earn a living?”

“I couldn’t. I had to go on welfare. I was ashamed of myself, but I had no choice. All the time we were married, Violet wouldn’t take a job. She wanted to stay home with Daisy and that was fine with me, though I could have used the help. Some months, I couldn’t pull in the money we needed to cover the bills. That was hard. There’s people who seem to think I didn’t care if I was behind on my bills, but that’s just not true. I did what I could, but once she was gone, I didn’t know where to turn. If I left Daisy for a single minute, she’d come unglued. She had to have me in her sights. She had to know where I was. She had to hang on my pant leg for fear I’d up and disappear. That’s how it was. Violet did what suited her, regardless of us. She was a self-centered woman, and mothering wasn’t something she did all that well.”

“What was?”

“Come again?”

“What did she do well? I’m asking because I’d like to get a sense of her…not just how she behaved, but who she was.”

“She was a party girl. She stayed out late and drank. Sometimes she danced.”

“What about you? Did you go dancing as well?” I asked, wondering if he was using the word as a metaphor.

“Not often enough to suit her.”

He replaced the unshelled peanut in the bowl and put his big hands in his lap under the table. I could hear a popping sound and I knew he was systematically cracking his knuckles.

“Did she have hobbies or interests?”

“Like what, did she do macramé?” he asked with a touch of bitterness. “Not hardly.”

“Cooking, for instance. Anything like that?”

“She fixed things out of cans. Tamales wrapped in paper. Sometimes she didn’t even bother to dump them in a pan and put them over heat. I know I sound negative and I apologize. She might have had good qualities, just none I could see. She was beautiful, I’ll give her that. She had her hooks in me deep.”

“Why’d you stay?”

“Dumb, I guess. I don’t know, it seems so long ago. Sometimes I can hardly remember what it was like. Not good, I know. Why I stayed was I loved that woman more than life itself.”

“I understand,” I said, though the statement was preposterous, given what I’d heard.

He went on. “Anyway, I’m not the only one who had complaints. She wasn’t happy, but she stayed on, too. At least until she went.”

“Daisy tells me you believe she was having an affair.”

“I know she was.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Aside from the fact that she told me?”

“Really. What’d she say?”

“She said he was twice the man I was. She said he was a tiger in bed. I don’t want to go into that. She cut me to the quick, which is what she intended.”

“Maybe she was making it up.”

“No, ma’am. Not her. There was someone all right. You can trust me on that.”

“Do you have any idea who?”

“No.”

“There was no one you suspected even the tiniest bit?”

He shook his head. “At first, I thought it was someone from Santa Maria or Orcutt, somewhere like that, but there was never a claim from anyone else about a missing spouse, which is why no one gives credence to anything I say.”

“Let’s talk about you. What’s your story?”

“I don’t have a story. Like what?”

I shrugged. “Were you ever in the military?”

He shook his head, his expression sour, as though I was adding one more item to his list of grievances. “Army wouldn’t take me: 1941 when the war broke out, I was fifteen years old. As soon as I turned eighteen, I tried to enlist, but the physical messed me up. Teeth were bad. You were supposed to have six biting teeth and six chewing teeth lined up right. I didn’t get mine fixed until later. By then, I could see how being in the army wasn’t such a hot idea. Bunch of boys from around here went off and never did come back.”

“Daisy told me Violet was fifteen when you married her.”

“Bet she told you why, too.”

“I know she was pregnant. Did you ever think about putting the baby up for adoption?”

“Violet would have done that or worse, but I stood in her way. I wanted that child. I wanted to get married and raise a family. She acted like I forced it on her, which maybe I did, but I thought she’d adjust.”

“Fifteen is young,” I said, stating the obvious to keep the conversation afloat.

“Violet was never young. She told me once she was fooling around by the time she was twelve. I wasn’t the first to have her and I certainly wasn’t the last.”

“Did that bother you?”

“Her past? I didn’t care about that. What bothered me was everything she did after. You probably heard I hit her, but there’s two sides to every story. She was unfaithful—time and time again—and I defy any man who says he can live with a thing like that. Could you live with it?”

“That’s what divorce is for,” I said, blandly.

“I know, but I loved her. I didn’t want to live without her. I thought I might knock a little sense into her. That’s all I was trying to do. I know I was wrong. Sometimes I can’t believe I ever thought that way, but I did. She was stubborn…willful…and she never changed her ways. I was as good to her as I knew how and she left us anyway. About broke my heart.”

“And you’ve never remarried?”

“How could I? I have nothing to offer. I can’t say I’m divorced, can’t say I’m a widower. Not that any woman’s asked. Once Daisy left home, I took this job. Pastor gave me a place to live and I’ve been here ever since.” He was silent for a moment, emotion churning under the surface.

“Tell me about the car.”

“I can tell you exactly. Her and me had a fight. I forget now over what. I tore down a panel of her lace curtains and she went berserk, tore down the rest and threw them in the trash. She went over to the Moon and I followed her. We started drinking and she calmed down some. I thought everything was okay, but that’s when she up and told me she was leaving me. She said it was over and she’d be gone the next day. I didn’t believe a word. Violet said things like that every other week. This time she was crying so hard it tore me up. I was sorry for what I’d done. I knew those lace curtains meant something to her. I wanted to make up for that and everything else.

“She’d seen the car a couple days before and that’s all she talked about, so I went down to the dealership and bought it. I drove it home that same day and parked it out in front, then went in and told her to look outside. When she saw the car, she was like a little kid. It’s the happiest I’d ever seen her.”

“When was that? What date?”

“July third. Day before she left.”

“Did she talk about going somewhere, a road trip?”

“Not a word. She was nicer than she’d been in a long, long time, so I thought things were fine. We spent Saturday morning together, the three of us—her, me, and Daisy. I had a job at work to take care of in the early afternoon, but after that I came back and we did some stuff around the house. At five, she fixed Daisy’s supper—bacon and scrambled eggs, which was Daisy’s favorite. Violet had a babysitter coming at six. She was going to put Daisy in the bath and get her ready for bed. She wanted to change clothes and she said we’d meet at the park in time for the fireworks.

“I stopped by the Blue Moon on the way. I’ll admit I had a couple of beers…more than a couple, if you want to know the truth. By the time I got to the park, it was almost dark and the fireworks display was about to begin. I looked everywhere for her and finally took a seat and enjoyed the show by myself.”

“People saw you there?”

“Yes, indeed. That’s one thing people had to give me. Livia Cramer was sitting right there talking to me, big as life. When I got to the house, I could see the car wasn’t in the drive. I went in and realized Violet was gone as well.”

“But the babysitter was there, yes?”

“That’s what she says. My thinking wasn’t all that clear.”

“Why was that?”

“I had a couple more beers at the park and then stopped off at the Moon on my way home. That’s why I wasn’t too steady on my feet. I went in the bedroom and laid across the bed. I didn’t look in Daisy’s room because it didn’t occur to me. I thought she was out with Violet, riding in the car. I figured Violet changed her mind and decided Daisy should see the fireworks. Next thing I know it’s morning and Daisy’s tugging on my hand.”

“And then what?”

“Then I went through the roughest two days of my life. Sunday morning, I called the sheriff ’s department to see if they knew anything. I thought she might have been arrested, or in a car wreck. Deputy said no, but if I hadn’t heard from her by Tuesday, I could come in and file a missing-persons report, which is what I did when she hadn’t come back. I gave up drinking that day and I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since.”

“And she never got in touch?”

“Not a call. Not a postcard. No word of any kind from that day to this.”

“Why’d you keep making payments on the car?”

“To show I loved her. To show I was sincere about changing my ways. I believed she’d come back, and on the day she did, if she ever did, I wanted her to know that I’d never lost faith.”

“It didn’t make you angry to have to pay for the car she went off in?”

“It made me sad, but in a way…if she had to go…I was happy she had that. Like a parting gift.”

“By then, everybody thought you’d done something to her.”

“That’s been my burden to bear and I hope I’ve done it like a man. I might sound bitter, but it’s not about her. It’s about the fact that I’ve been judged and condemned.” He reached for the bowl of peanuts and took one, then changed his mind and put it back. The dark sunken eyes came up to mine. “Do you believe me?”

“I don’t have an opinion. I’ve been on this one day. You’re only the second person I’ve talked to so I’m not in a position to believe or disbelieve. I’m gathering information.”

“And I’m telling you what I know.”

“What about the fifty thousand dollars she was said to have?”

“That was after Daisy’s birth. I don’t know the details except the labor went on for hours. Her water broke at nine o’clock on a Friday night, but nothing much went on. She was having contractions now and then, but she wasn’t in much pain. She thought it might not be as bad as she’d heard. I don’t know why but the minute any woman finds out she’s pregnant, other women haul out some terrible tale about how hard it was, how somebody’s cousin ended up hemorrhaging to death, about babies born deformed. She was scared to death and she wanted to hold off going to the hospital as long as she could. We stayed up all night playing cards—gin rummy—and she played me for a penny a point. I think she took something like fifteen dollars off me. After a while, the pains started coming harder and she got so she couldn’t concentrate. I told her we ought to go and she finally gave in. We got to the hospital and they took her off to the labor room. That was at six A.M. The nurse came out and said she was only four centimeters dilated, so they took me in the back and let me sit with her. She was suffering something awful, but the doctor didn’t want give her anything for pain for fear it’d slow her down. Noon, I went out to get something to eat. I got back to the waiting room as the doctor arrived. The nurse had called him because she didn’t think Violet’s labor was progressing like it ought. I don’t know the particulars about what happened next. I know something went wrong and Dr. Rawlings was at fault. Daisy was okay. She was finally born around seven that night by forceps. There were female complications and the upshot was that he removed Violet’s womb. There she was, sixteen years old, and she could never have another child. I don’t think she gave a hoot about that, but she saw the opportunity to get some cash. I think she sued him for half a million dollars and got considerably less. She was tight-lipped about that and never would tell me the amount. She said the money was hers and it was none of my affair. Said she earned it the hard way and she wanted to make sure I never got my hands on it. She wouldn’t put it in a regular savings account because she was afraid of community property laws. She got a safe-deposit box and kept the cash in there. I told her it was foolish. I said she ought to invest, but she was adamant. I think the money made her feel powerful.”

We sat and stared at each other while I digested the information. Finally, I said, “I appreciate your candor. At the moment, I can’t think what other ground we need to cover. I may have questions for you later on.”

“I understand,” he said. “All I ask is you’ll keep an open mind.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. “And if further questions come up, I hope I can talk to you again.”

“Of course.”

8

After I left the church parking lot, I found a quiet side street and pulled over to the curb. I shut off the engine and took out a handful of index cards, jotting down what I remembered about the conversation. During interviews early in my career, I tried using a tape recorder, but the process was awkward. It made some people self-conscious, and both of us tended to watch the tape reel going around and around, assuring each other the device was working. Sometimes a reel came to an end and clicked off while the interviewee was in the middle of a sentence. I’d have to turn the tape over and then backtrack, which was off-putting to say the least. Transcribing a tape afterward was a pain in the rear because the sound quality was often poor and the ambient noise made some of it impossible to hear. Taking notes in longhand was just as distracting. I finally gave up and started winging it, quieting the chatter in my brain so I could hear what was being said. My memory has improved to the point where I can remember the bulk of an interview, but I still find it helpful to nail down the details while they’re fresh in my mind. Over time, a portion of any recollection fades, and while I might remember the gist, it’s the minutia that sometimes makes all the difference.

Cynic that I am, I did wonder if Foley had quit drinking because he was afraid alcohol would one day loosen his tongue, tricking him into saying something he shouldn’t. For the same reason, I questioned his reasons for the lack of an intimate relationship since Violet had disappeared. Guilt produces a loneliness of its own. The temptation to confide has to be overwhelming at times. His suffering had been intense, but he’d never sought solace, or so he claimed.

I looked at the map again, noting the distance between the service station where Violet had filled her tank, the park in Silas, and the Sullivans’ house. Must have been fifteen or twenty miles from point to point. It was possible, I supposed, that Violet had bought gas and then driven home, in which case she might well have been there when Foley returned. If that were the case, surely the babysitter would have said so. I put a rubber band around my fat stack of cards, then fired up the engine, put the car in gear, and headed for home.

As I was unlocking my front door, Henry emerged from his kitchen and locked the door behind him. He was looking very spiffy for a guy who favors shorts and flip-flops. He waved and I waited while he crossed the patio. It was close to cocktail hour and I figured he was on his way to Rosie’s. “Actually, I’m driving down to Olvidado to take Charlotte to the movies. We’ll catch the five-o’clock show and have dinner afterwards.” Charlotte was a real estate agent he’d dated twice. I was happy to see him take an interest after his recently failed romance.

“Sounds like fun. What are you seeing?”

“No Way Out with that actor, Kevin Costner. You think this is okay?” He held his arms out, asking me to make a judgment about his slacks and collared T-shirt.

“You look fine.”

“Thanks. What are you up to?”

“I’m on a job up in the Santa Maria area. I’ll be driving back and forth, but I don’t want you to worry if you don’t see me for a couple of days. You better get a move on. Traffic’s tricky at this hour.”

I watched him cross to his two-car garage, pausing long enough to see which car he took. His pride and joy is a 1932 Chevrolet, the five-window coupe, painted bright yellow. His other car is a workaday station wagon, which is serviceable but no great shakes. He backed down the drive in the vintage Chevy, waving at me as he disappeared from sight.

Once in my apartment, I dropped my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool and went through my usual ritual of phone messages and mail. Cheney had called to say hi and he’d catch me later. Mail was boring. When I peered into the refrigerator, the sight that greeted me was no big surprise. The contents consisted of condiments—mustard, pickles, olives, and a jar of jalapeños—a stick of butter, a head of browning lettuce, and a six-pack of Diet Pepsi. I hadn’t been to the grocery store for days, which meant I’d either have to make a supermarket run or eat out again. While I debated, I returned Cheney’s call. I knew he’d be gone, but I left a lengthy message, telling him what I was up to. I wasn’t sure what my schedule would look like after tomorrow, but I said I’d be in touch. Already this was feeling like the same sort of absentee relationship I’d had with Robert Dietz. How do I get myself into these situations with men?

I was halfway to Rosie’s, less than thrilled with the prospect, when I thought about Sneaky Pete’s. I knew Tannie would be working, and it occurred to me that we could chat about Daisy and Violet while I indulged in another spicy salami concoction on a kaiser roll. I trotted back to my car and drove into town.

Sneaky Pete’s is a neighborhood hangout, serving a loyal clientele in much the way Rosie’s does. Tannie spotted me when I walked in. I took a stool at the bar, waiting while she finished drawing two beers for a couple near the window. It was not quite six and quiet for a Wednesday night. Even the volume on the jukebox had been turned down to a tolerable level.

She returned to the bar and took out a wineglass and a bottle of Edna Valley, saying, “You drink Chardonnay, right?”

“Good memory.”

“That’s my job. Daisy says the three of us are having lunch tomorrow.”

“That’s the plan. I told her I’d call her as soon as I’m free. What time are you driving up?”

“I’m not sure yet, but early. I’ll find out where you’re going and I’ll meet you there.” She poured my wine and then picked up her cigarette and took one last drag before she stubbed it out. “One of these days I’ll quit. Working here, you have to smoke in self-defense. So how goes the battle? Daisy says you’re already hard at work.”

“Well, I’m doing what I can. She drove me around the area so I could get the lay of the land. Serena Station’s depressing.”

“Isn’t it,” she said. “You meet Foley?”

“I spoke to that retired sheriff ’s department sergeant first and then to him.”

“That must have been intense.”

“Very,” I said. I took a sip of my wine. “You didn’t tell me you had a house up there. Daisy took me by yesterday afternoon so I could see. Too bad about the fire.”

“We’re lucky they caught it when they did or the house would be gone. We’ve got a deputy patrolling now to keep the riffraff out. My brother hates the place.”

“Daisy says you hope to buy him out.”

“If I can get him to agree. He’s being his usual bullheaded self, but I think he’ll knuckle under in the end. His wife’s on my team. She’s got no interest in being saddled with a house like that. I love it, but talk about a white elephant.”

“The land must be worth a fortune.”

“You ought to see our tax bill. The tricky thing is there’s a move afoot to rezone. The rumor around town is that the old packing plant has been sold and the buildings will be demolished. That property butts right up against ours, so I’ve had developers wooing me all year, trying to get the jump on it before word leaks out. I’d love to hang on, but we’d net ourselves a bundle if we sell out to them.” She reached under the bar and pulled out a roll of paper, secured with a rubber band. “You want to see what they have in mind?”

I took off the rubber band and opened the large furl of heavyweight paper. What I was looking at was a watercolor mockup, showing the grand entrance to a walled community called the Tanner Estates. There were two big stone pillars leading into the development, with lush lawns on both sides of a winding drive. A few rooftops were visible in the distance, the houses widely spaced and nestled among mature trees. To the left, Tannie’s house was beautifully rendered, restored to its original state, thanks to the artist’s skill. “Geez, what I saw this afternoon didn’t look anything like this. Where are all the big nasty oil tanks and barbed-wire fences?”

“I guess if you have bucks enough, you can make it look any way you please. I can’t believe the county will approve the plans, but Steve says that’s all the more reason to sell while we can.”

“That makes no sense. If the rezoning’s approved, the value of the land would go up, which is reason to hang on.”

“Try telling that to him. He wants out from under.”

I released the edges of the paper and it rolled itself up of its own accord. “Was that where you grew up?”

Tannie shook her head. “It belonged to my grandparents, Hairl and Mary Clare. Mom and Steve and I lived there while Pop was away at war. When he joined the army in 1942, my mother moved back into the house. She didn’t have job skills to speak of and Pop couldn’t support us on his military pay.”

“Did you say your grandfather’s name was ‘Hairl’?”

She smiled. “His name should have been Harold, but my great-grandmother couldn’t spell so that’s what she wrote on his birth certificate. My mother was named for both her parents—Hairl and Mary Clare—so she became ‘Mary Hairl.’ Thank god the linking names stopped there or no telling what I would have been called.”

“Where’d ‘Tannie’ come from?”

“It’s actually ‘Tanner’—my mother’s maiden name.”

“I like it. It suits you.”

“Thanks. I’m fond of it myself. Anyway, Hairl and Mary Clare lived in the house from 1912, when it was built, until 1948, when she had a stroke and went into a nursing home. Granddaddy bought a duplex in Santa Maria to be close to her.”

“You guys stayed in the house?”

“My mother couldn’t manage on her own so we moved into the other side of his duplex. That way, she could make sure he was taking care of himself. He ate all his meals with us.”

“Big change for you.”

“And a tough one, too. I missed living in the country. I didn’t have any friends, but I was free to roam. We had dogs and barn cats. It was idyllic from my perspective, but as she pointed out, the new place was closer to town, which meant I could walk or ride my bike to school. I finally got used to the idea. Once Pop came out of the army, he went through a series of jobs, the last of them at Union Sugar. He’d always loved farming—not that he ever made a dime—but after the war his heart wasn’t in it and he couldn’t handle the work. Mom would have pitched in if we’d had the chance to move back. Even after my grandmother died, I held on to that hope, though I can see now the chances were getting dimmer with every passing year. Granddaddy would have left the house to my mother, but she died before he did.”

“How old was she?”

“Thirty-seven. She was diagnosed with uterine cancer in 1951 and died two years later, when Steve was sixteen and I was nine.”

“Must have been hard on all of you.”

“My dad in particular. He was a mess. We moved from Granddaddy’s duplex to a little house in Cromwell. I went to various schools in north county, which is how I knew Daisy. She and I were a couple of sad sacks in those days. We’d both lost our mothers and our lives had been turned upside down.”

“You were coping with a lot.”

“I was and I could have used some continuity. Steve and I saw Granddaddy every chance we got, but he was a sour old man by then and very bitter about life. There was a time when he’d ruled over his very own magic kingdom. Then suddenly, his wife was gone and his only child was dead. It was like he held Pop responsible for everything that went wrong.”

“Your father? How so?”

“Who knows? Maybe by association. Seeing Pop must have been too painful a reminder of the past. Granddaddy was probably happiest those three years when my father was gone and he ruled the roost. He died a month after my mom.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hang on.” She broke away and picked up a food order from the kitchen window, delivering it to the guy at the end of the bar. I could see him tuck into the kaiser roll, fried egg dripping onto his plate, and I could taste the hot salami and cheese. When Tannie caught sight of my face, she placed an order for me without my even having to ask. I must have looked as mournful as a dog begging for table scraps. “Tell you who you ought to talk to is Winston Smith. Is he on your list? He’s the guy who sold Violet the car.”

“Name doesn’t sound familiar, but I can check. What’s the story on him?”

“Nothing in particular. It’s just this feeling I have. I always thought he knew more than he let on.”

“What’s your opinion of Foley? I don’t believe you’ve said. I’m talking about him as a person, not what he may or may not have done.”

I saw her attention shift. Another customer had come in and she moved halfway down the bar, as he was claiming a stool. He told her what he wanted, and I watched her make his drink, though it was not one I recognized from the liquors she poured. She obviously knew the guy and chatted with him while pulling bottles from the shelf, doing pours with a carelessness that comes from long experience. Having served him, she took advantage of the interruption to make a round of the tables, where she picked up three drink orders and tended to them before she came back to me. She paused to light a cigarette, answering the question as though she’d never been gone: “He was always a creep. I don’t buy into that pious act of his. I’ve heard he’s given up booze, but that doesn’t cut any ice with me. A guy like that—scratch the surface, he’s the same as he’s always been. Only now he hides it better.”

“Did you have much contact with him?”

“Enough. Daisy and I were friends, but my dad never let me spend the night at her house. For one thing, the place they moved into was a nasty little dump, and for another, he saw Foley as the kind of guy young girls shouldn’t be left alone with. Daisy was welcome to come to our house. When Foley dropped her off, he’d try to chat me up. I’m only ten years old and I can already tell that he’s a world-class jerk.”

“You thought that at ten?”

“I could see straight through him. Kids operate at gut level and they’re hard to fool. I never told Daisy what I thought of him—she had problems enough—but I avoided him like the plague. Even Pop, who’s what they call ‘a man’s man,’ didn’t have any use for him.”

“Your father’s still alive?”

“Oh, sure. Hale and hearty. Daisy says she put his name on the list of people you should talk to. I don’t think he knew Violet. I mean, he knew her—everybody knew Violet—but mainly because she and Foley hung out at the Blue Moon. Pop’s a part owner now.”

“Isn’t that the Blue Moon where the Sullivans threw some of their big screaming fights?”

“That’s it,” she said. “You can ask the bartender, BW. He witnessed most of ’em. In fact, he and Pop pooled their resources and bought the Moon not long after Violet disappeared. They’ve talked me into taking over the management, if I move back to town.”

The crowd was picking up, and after Tannie brought my sandwich, I left her alone to tend to business. In my bag I had my index cards, so while I ate, I shuffled through my notes, trying to get a sense of where I was and where I needed to go next. The wall of years between me and Violet Sullivan felt as impenetrable as ever, but I was catching glimpses of her.

9

CHET

Wednesday, July 1, 1953

Chet Cramer was late getting back from lunch, having spent an interminable three hours in discussion with Tom Padgett about a partnership in his heavy-equipment business. In Chet’s opinion, Padgett was a fool. He’d married a woman fifteen years older than he was. Tom was forty-one now, which put her somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty-six years old, a shriveled-up old bag. Everyone in town knew it was her money he was after. She’d been widowed after twenty-five years of marriage to Loden Galsworthy, who’d died of a heart attack. Loden owned a string of funeral parlors, and Cora not only inherited those, but the rest of his estate, which was valued at a million dollars and included the house, two cars, stocks, bonds, and life insurance. Tom was a man with big schemes and precious little in the way of common sense. He’d hit her up for one loan in order to set up his business in the first place. He’d borrowed an additional sum from the bank. He admitted he’d been underfunded from the get-go, but now he wanted to expand, capitalizing on the inevitable demand for John Deere equipment as Santa Maria grew. The builders had to lease from someone and why not him? Chet could see his point, but he didn’t much like Padgett, and he sure as shit didn’t want to go into business with him. His suspicion was that Tom had a big balloon payment coming up, and this was nothing more than a push to find the dough before the note came due. Cora must have put her foot down and refused to bail him out.

At the country club, over grilled trout, Chet had been polite, feigning interest when, in truth, he had an agenda of his own. He and Livia were eager for membership, and he was hoping Tom and Cora would agree to sponsor them. The place had an old-money respectability he’d always admired. The furnishings were refined, though he noticed a touch of shabbiness in the corridor on his way in to the dining room. Only rich people had the confidence to offer leather chairs so old they had cracks along the seat. The point was that members here were movers and shakers in town, and membership would put Chet on a first-name basis with most of them. Even at lunch, men were required to wear jackets and ties. He liked that. He’d looked around the room, picturing the entertaining he could do here. Livia was an avid but lousy cook, and he’d done everything he could to steer her off inviting folks for dinner. She didn’t believe in alcohol consumption, which she said was against Scripture. That made meals a dreary proposition. From his perspective, heavy drinking was the only way to survive her enthusiasms, and he employed every manner of ingenuity to keep his glass filled with something more palatable than the sweetened iced tea she served.

Here he could see that members and guests to a man were enjoying midday cocktails—martinis, Manhattans, whiskey sours. Chet wanted to take up golf, and he liked the idea of Livia and Kathy lounging around the pool while colored waiters in white coats served them sandwiches held together with frilly toothpicks. You weren’t even expected to pay for the meal. You signed your name to a chit and then paid in full at the end of the month.

Of course, Padgett was sly. He seemed to sense Chet’s ambition, and he was probably hoping to use it as leverage for the so-called partnership. Chet had stalled him off, suggesting that Tom put together a business plan so he and his accountant could take a look. Chet said as soon as he knew what kind of money they were talking, he’d have a chat with the bank. Which was all a bunch of crap. He didn’t need his accountant to point out the folly of underwriting Padgett’s proposal when he, Chet, was struggling to keep his dealership afloat. In some ways, he and Padgett were in the same fix. Chevrolet expected him to expand his salesroom, services, parts and accessories facilities, along with his presence in the used-car market. The company also insisted that he pay for a product sign, a service sign, and “other necessary signs,” none of which were cheap. He was in hot competition with nine other car dealerships in town—Studebaker, DeSoto, Packard, Buick, Dodge, Plymouth, Chrysler, Hudson, and Cadillac. At the moment, he was holding his own, but he knew it would require a sizeable investment if he wanted to pull ahead.

Poor dumb Padgett had bombed out twice with his get-rich-quick schemes: the first, an amusement park that would have cost the moon; the second, some hare-brained idea about buying a television station. Television was fine, but it wasn’t going anywhere. An Ardmore table-model TV set—like the one he owned—was retailing for $359.95, and how many people could afford to pay that? Less than ten percent of households in the country owned a TV. Besides which, there were already 326 television stations in the country. Los Angeles had nine. What was the point of one more?

The heavy-equipment business was at least practical, though Padgett would probably find a way to drive it into the ground, figuratively speaking. Chet was banking on the fact that Padgett didn’t know the first thing about putting together a business plan. If he managed to come up with the numbers, Chet could always blame his accountant when he finally turned him down. If he was clever about it, he could hold him off long enough for his country club membership to be approved before he delivered the bad news. He’d have to come up with the ten thousand dollars’ initial club-membership fee, but he’d figure that out.

Chet pulled into the dealership and parked in his usual spot. Passing through the showroom, he noticed the big gleaming coupe was gone and he felt a flash of hope. The car was prime, high-powered and streamlined, with all the latest gadgets. Of course, the factory had shipped the car with accessories he hadn’t ordered, but he was good at persuading buyers to accept pricey options. The car had arrived on the lot only two days before, and a sale this quick would be impressive in his ten-day report. Every month, he had to provide the factory with a sales estimate for the next three months. These figures were used to determine factory production, but if he didn’t have the sales, he wasn’t accorded the inventory, and if he didn’t have a good selection of cars his business would steadily diminish.

The dealership felt deserted that afternoon because two of his three salesmen were off for a variety of reasons that annoyed him no end. One had called in claiming he had a head cold, for pity’s sake. What kind of man was that? In all his years in the business, he’d never taken a sick day. Jerry Zimmerman, his other salesman, had come up with an excuse just as lame, which meant he was left with Winston Smith, the new hire, in whom he had no particular faith. Winston had been through the same extensive training every Chevrolet salesman enjoyed, but he didn’t have the fire. Chet wasn’t sure what the kid wanted out of life, but it wasn’t selling cars. His ambitions were airy-fairy, all talk and no substance. He probably pictured sales as a means to an end instead of a calling, which is how Chet saw it. At first Chet thought the boy had promise, but it hadn’t come to much. Winston wasn’t hungry and he couldn’t for the life of him get the concept of closure. Selling wasn’t about having nice long chats with folks. It was about making the deal, getting a signature on the dotted line. He’d have to learn to take control and bend others to his will. In the meantime, the boy was earnest and good-looking, and maybe that would be sufficient to carry him while he developed a spine.

Chet passed through the outer office, ignoring the fact that his potato-faced daughter was busily scribbling on a piece of pink notepaper that she slipped into a drawer as soon as she caught sight of him. It galled him that he was paying a dollar an hour when she had no office skills. Her phone manners were atrocious, and he was forever scrambling around behind her, trying to make amends for her moodiness and her snippy tone of voice.

She was their only child. Livia had lobbied for three, eager to start a family as soon as possible. Chet hadn’t married until he was thirty-two, hoping to be properly settled in life. At the time he met Livia, he was selling Fords in Santa Maria and he was tired of working for someone else. He’d been carefully setting money aside, and according to his reckoning he’d be able to buy his own dealership within the year. He’d insisted on postponing children for at least five years until he’d bought the franchise and gotten the business on solid ground. Livia had “slipped up,” or so she said, and she was pregnant within six months of the wedding, which meant his life plan had taken another hit. He was fine now, but it grieved him to think how much better off he’d be if she’d done as he asked. He’d made a surreptitious visit to a doctor in Santa Teresa, investing in a quick snip that eliminated any further slipups in that department.

Even so, when Kathy was born—six weeks premature—he’d felt so proud he thought his heart would burst. He’d first seen her in the nursery through the plateglass window, with a hand-printed sign that said BABY GIRL, CRAMER. She was such a tiny little thing—three pounds, fourteen ounces. Livia had been in the hospital for two weeks, and the hospital kept the baby for an additional four weeks until she topped five pounds. That bill had set him back yet again, and he didn’t recuperate for years. He hadn’t complained. He was happy the baby was healthy with all her fingers and toes. He’d pictured her developing into a beautiful young lady, smart and accomplished, devoted to her dad. Instead, he’d been saddled with this lump of a girl, pudgy and sullen, who had all the brains of a sprinkler head.

Depressed, Chet went into his office and took a seat in his leather chair, swiveling so he could look out at the side lot with its row after row of gleaming trucks. The Advance Design Series truck had hit the market in June of 1948, and he still marveled at its features—the front-opening hood; the concealed door hinges; the tall, fixed two-piece windshield. Two years later, the company had introduced the NAPCO four-wheel-drive conversion. Since the kit wasn’t factory installed, the customer first had to buy a new Chevrolet or GMC truck, but the light truck was coming into its own and profits had soared.

He knew the specs on every vehicle that came onto the lot and he knew the needs of workers in the area—farmers, plumbers, roofers, and carpenters. As a result, he moved more trucks than any other dealer in the county, and he intended to keep it that way.

“Mr. Cramer? Could I speak to you?”

Chet turned to find Winston in the doorway. The afternoon temperatures had climbed into the nineties and Winston was sweating unattractively. He’d have to find a way to instruct him in the use of antiperspirant. Chet got to his feet and moved around his desk, holding out his hand for Winston to shake. “Good, son. Glad you’re back. I saw you’d taken the coupe. I hope you’ve got a live one on the line. Let’s see if you remember what I taught you about reeling in a sale.”

He intended to go out to the showroom with Winston so he could offer the potential buyer a handshake and his personal greeting. Customers liked to meet the man who owned the place. It made them feel important. He’d answer any questions the fellow had, ask a few of his own, and generally smooth the way. Winston was inexperienced, and Chet thought he’d appreciate his boss stepping in to show him how it was done.

Winston’s forehead was beaded with perspiration, and he had to use his pocket handkerchief to mop his upper lip. His Adam’s apple dipped. “Well, that’s just it. The customer took the car out to get a feel for how she handles…”

“With one of the mechanics? Son, that’s a very bad idea. This is a sales situation. That’s your job. Any question about the nuts and bolts can wait until the deal’s in place. I’ll find a way to turn the situation to our advantage, but you can’t let this happen again.”

He could see Winston was uncomfortable at the correction, but there was a right way and a wrong way to go about these things, and he might as well conform to management guidelines straight off the bat. Chet passed Kathy’s desk on his way to the floor, with Winston hard on his heels. Kathy was suddenly very busy, fussing around her desk, but she flicked a look at Winston as the two men went by. Chet had seen her mooning around and he knew she had a crush on the young man, but her expression today held a touch of guilt. Surely Winston hadn’t made a pass at her. He couldn’t be that dumb.

He caught sight of both his mechanics in the service bay, but there was no sign of the car. He stopped in his tracks, and Winston nearly bumped into him like a cartoon character.

“Mr. Cramer? What happened was…the customer? She’s extremely interested in the car. I talked to her at length and she as good as said she’d be buying it. She even went so far as to mention an all-cash deal. So when she asked for a test drive, I explained for sure that I couldn’t leave the lot, and she said that was fine—she didn’t need my help, because all she was going to do was drive around the block and she’d be right back.”

Chet turned and stared. He felt his heart give a thump, as though someone had punched him, boom boom, in the chest—blows that pumped a thick, cold liquid through his veins. He must have misunderstood, because what he heard Winston say simply couldn’t be true. Cora Padgett was the only woman in town who had the wherewithal to walk into a dealership, take a car off the floor, and pay cash on the spot. But Tom had told him over lunch that she was out of town. Cora had gone to Napa to tour the wineries with her sister, Margaret, who lived in Walnut Creek. She wouldn’t be back until Wednesday of the following week—unless this was meant as a surprise and she’d told Tom a story so she could buy the car without his knowing in advance. “What are you talking about? What customer?”

“Mrs. Sullivan.”

“Sullivan?”

“Yes, sir. Violet Sullivan came in. She’s in the market for a car—”

“You let Violet Sullivan take that car out by herself? What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m sorry. I can see how it might look, what with company policy and everything like that. I told her to come right back, you know, that it wasn’t a good idea—”

“How long has she been gone?” His voice sounded shrill and he knew he was losing control. He made a point of never speaking to an underling in anything other than a civil tone. But the enormity of the error, the possible consequences…

“I didn’t check the time—”

“Approximately, you dolt!”

“I’d say sometime around noon. Well, I don’t know, maybe a little bit before then, but close enough.”

Assume he minimized and what were we talking about here, four hours? Five? Chet closed his eyes and his voice dropped. “You’re fired. Get out.”

“But sir. I can explain.”

“Get off the lot. Right now. I want you out of my sight or I’m calling the police.”

The boy’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment, and the look Winston pinned on him was bleak.

Chet waited until he could see the boy was leaving, and then he turned and walked back to his office. He’d have to notify the sheriff ’s department and the highway patrol. If she’d been involved in a wreck, or if she’d stolen the car outright, she could be anyplace by now. He had liability insurance, blanket coverage for anything on the lot, but his premiums would double the minute he made a claim. Money was already tight. He sat down in his swivel chair and reached for the phone.

“Daddy?” Kathy was in the doorway.

“What!”

“Mrs. Sullivan just pulled in.”

Through the glass he spotted the car and relief washed over him. The vehicle didn’t appear to be damaged, at least the parts he could see. He went out to the floor, knowing that in no way possible could she afford to buy the coupe. Violet turned as he approached, and he was startled by her vibrancy—the flaming hair, the creamy skin, her eyes a vivid green. He’d never seen her at close range because Livia made a point of crossing the street, tugging him by the arm, if she spotted Violet anywhere in town. She thought Violet was a tramp, wearing those sheer nylon blouses you could see right through. The sundress Violet wore today emphasized the suppleness of her arms, and the flowing skirt showed her legs to advantage. Livia was thick-waisted and narrow-minded, critical of others whose circumstances or beliefs or behaviors were an affront to her own. Chet was irritated by her scathing pronouncements, but he’d kept his mouth shut. From afar, he’d seen Violet’s flirtations with married men, and he’d wondered how it would feel to have her attentions lavished on him.

“Hello, Chet. Sorry I was gone so long.”

He circled the car until he was satisfied no harm had come to it. On impulse, he leaned in and checked the odometer: 257 miles. For a moment he was speechless. She’d turned this beautiful new Bel Air into a piece-of-shit used car. “Come into the office,” he snapped.

Violet caught up with him and tucked a hand through his arm, forcing him to slow his pace. “Are you mad at me, Chet? May I call you ‘Chet’?”

“You can call me ‘Mr. Cramer’ like everyone else. You put two hundred fifty-seven miles on that car? Where the fuck did you go?” He regretted the swear word the minute it was out of his mouth, but Violet didn’t seem to care. As he opened his office door, she passed in front of him and he could smell her cologne.

His heart gave another double thump, this time warming his blood. He moved away from her. “Take a seat.”

“Yes, sir.”

He went around and sat down behind his desk, suddenly conscious of the power he wielded. She had to know she was in the wrong, that he could extract any price he named. Two hundred and fifty-seven miles on a brand-new car? He wondered if she’d set it up that way. Maybe she’d had her eye on him at the same time he’d had his eye on her. She stared at him with interest, apparently undismayed by his rage or the fact that he was ordering her around.

She extracted a pack of cigarettes from her purse. Ever the gentleman, he took out his lighter and fanned the striker. She leaned across the desk, allowing him a glimpse of the swell of her breasts as she accepted his light. There was a bruise on her chin and he knew what that was about. She reclaimed her seat and crossed her legs. He glanced at Kathy, visible in the outer office beyond his glass-enclosed cube. She was watching the back of Violet’s head with her mother’s same spiteful stare, constructing new and better ways to feel superior. When Kathy caught him looking at her, she got up and walked to the water cooler. Fourteen, and she was already as rigid, nasty-minded, and prissy as her mom. She’d taken out a piece of pink notepaper and it sat squarely in the middle of her desk. He could see the heavy black writing on it even at that distance, an angry-looking scrawl that slanted across the page.

He picked up a pencil and tapped on his desk while he rearranged his thoughts. He had no idea how he should play it, but he loved feeling in command. “So what are we going to do about this, Mrs. Sullivan?”

Her smile was slow, smoke drifting from her lips as though she was smoldering at the core. “Well, Mr. Cramer, Sweetie, I can make a suggestion, but I’m not sure you want to talk about it here. Buy me a drink and I’m certain we can work something out.”

Every syllable she spoke was weighted with promise. Her gaze was fixed on his mouth with a hunger he’d never seen in a woman and had certainly never experienced in himself. How could this be happening? She was his for the taking. He knew that as surely as he knew his name. Though he’d never admit it, he was a man of conventional inclinations. He was forty-seven years old, and in fifteen years of marriage, he’d never been unfaithful to his wife, not for lack of opportunity, but for lack—he saw now—of comprehension. After the first few months with Livia, the sex was workaday—pleasurable, and of course a blessed relief, but in no way compelling. Livia might not be wildly attractive, but whatever his ordinary irritations with her, she’d never denied his needs, and she’d never implied that she found sex onerous. While he wasn’t dissatisfied, he’d never understood what all the fuss was about.

In one stroke that had changed.

Here before him, Violet Sullivan, with her insolence and her boldness, had ignited him, sparking a desire so consuming he could barely breathe. He thought maybe this was what it meant to sell your soul to the devil, because he knew in that moment he’d be willing to rot in hell for her.

10

Thursday morning, I went through my usual routine, waking at 6:00 to do my three-mile jog. I prefer to have exercise under my belt before I start my day. In the late afternoon, it’s too easy to think of reasons to sit around on my buns. The morning air had a faint chill to it, and the sky was layered with salmon and amber clouds, overlapping like ribbons sewn on the borders of a bright blue tablecloth. I used the brief walk to the beach as a way of warming up before I eased into a trot. Along the bike path, the palm trees were still, no breeze at all ruffling the fronds. A fifteen-foot expanse of ice plant stretched between the bike path and the beach. Beyond that the ocean tumbled and churned. A man had parked his car in the public lot and he was tossing bread-crumbs in the grass. Gulls were wheeling in from all directions, shrieking with delight. I picked up my pace, feeling my body warm and my muscles become loose. It wasn’t the best run I ever had, but it felt good nonetheless.

Home again, I showered, threw on my jeans, my boots, and a T-shirt, and then ate a bowl of cereal while I cruised through the local paper. I reached the office at 8:30 and spent an hour on the phone, taking care of business unrelated to Violet Sullivan. At 9:30 I locked up, hauled my portable Smith-Corona typewriter out to the car, and drove to Santa Maria for my meeting with Kathy Cramer. I didn’t expect to get much from her. At the time, she’d been too young to qualify as a keen observer of adults, but I figured it was worth a try. You never know when a fragment of information or an offhand remark might fill a blank spot on the canvas I was painting bit by bit.

The Uplands, the golf course subdivision Kathy Cramer had just moved into, was still a work in progress. The course itself was an irregular series of fairways and bright greens that formed an elongated V the length of a shallow valley. A man-made lake sat in the angle between the front and back nine holes. View homes were perched on the ridge that ran along one side of the course while on the opposite hill, I could see the lots laid out and marked with small flags. Many homes had been completed, with sod lawns and an assortment of shrubs and saplings in place. Other houses were under construction, some framed and some consisting solely of the newly poured slabs. Across the low undulating hills, I could see a hundred houses in various phases of completion. Kathy’s house was finished, but the landscaping wasn’t in. I’d seen its twin or its mirror image replicated up and down the street—buff-colored stucco with a red tile roof. I parked at the curb, where moving boxes had been piled in anticipation of a garbage pickup. I took the walkway to the front door. The shallow porch had already been furnished with a faux-wicker couch, two faux-wicker chairs, and a welcome mat.

As I was knocking, a car pulled into the driveway and a woman got out, her frizzy mane of blond hair held back with a navy headband. She was dressed in tennis shoes and navy shorts and a matching navy jacket, with a white leotard visible where the jacket was unzipped. Her legs were as lean and muscular as a biker’s. She said, “Sorry. I hope you haven’t waited long. I thought I’d get here before you did. I’m Kathy.”

“Hi, Kathy. I’m Kinsey. Nice meeting you,” I said. “Your timing’s perfect. I just arrived.”

We shook hands and then she turned and unlocked the front door. “I switched to an earlier Jazzercise class, but got caught in traffic coming home. You want ice water? I need to rehydrate.”

“I’m fine, thanks. You like Jazzercise?”

“I should. I’m taking six to eight classes a week.” She dropped her bag on a console table just inside the front door. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a sec.”

She disappeared down the hallway, moving toward the kitchen, her rubber soles squeaking on the gray ceramic tile. I turned right and went down two stairs into the sunken living room. The walls were painted a dazzling white, and the only artwork in sight was an oversize painting from a chain of commercial galleries devoted to one man’s work. The autumnal scene was of a mare and foal in a gauzy-looking pasture at dawn.

There were no window coverings and the light spilled in through a haze of construction dust. The powder blue wall-to-wall shag carpeting had been installed recently, because I could still see bits and pieces—tufts and scraps—left behind by the flooring guys. The couch and two matching chairs were upholstered in a cream-colored chenille. On the coffee table, she’d arranged a stack of decorator magazines, a centerpiece of pale blue silk flowers, and a cluster of color photographs in silver frames. The three girls portrayed were variations of their mother—same eyes, same smile, and the same thick blond hair. Their ages seemed to fall within a six-year range. The oldest was probably thirteen, braces gleaming on her teeth. The other two girls stair-stepped down from eleven to nine. The middle girl was decked out in a majorette’s uniform, a baton held aloft.

Kathy returned to the living room with a tumbler of ice water in hand. She found a coaster and moved toward a conversational grouping of navy blue club chairs with a glass-topped table in the center as though for a conference of some kind. I pictured a meeting of the neighborhood association during which other people’s tacky yard ornaments would come under fire. She took one chair and I sat across from her, taking a mental snapshot without having to stare. I pegged her at a youthful forty-eight or forty-nine. She was thin in a way that suggested strict attention to her weight. She seemed high-strung, but having caught her on the back end of a workout, I knew her energy level might have been the result of an hour of strenuous exercise. She looked as though she’d spent the summer working on her tan, and I imagined an above-ground pool in the backyard of the house she’d just left.

“Those are your daughters?” I asked.

“Yes, but the pictures are out of date. Tiffany was twelve when that was taken. She’s twenty-five now and getting married June of next year.”

“Nice fellow?”

“A doll. He’s in law school at UCLA, so they’ll be living down there.”

“And the other two?”

“Amber’s twenty-three; she was a majorette in her junior high school band. She’s technically in her senior year of college, but she’s taking a year off to travel. Brittany turns twenty next month. She’s at Allan Hancock,” she said, naming the local community college.

“They look just like you. Must be quite a crew.”

“Oh, they’re great. We have a good time together. You want to see the rest of the house?”

“I’d love to.”

She got up and I followed her.

“When did you move in?”

“A week ago. The place is still a mess,” she said, talking over her shoulder as we moved down the hall. “I’ve got half the boxes unpacked and most things in place, but some of the rooms won’t be furnished until god knows when. I need to find a decorator I can get along with. Most are so pushy. Have you ever noticed that?”

“I’ve never worked with one.”

“Well, don’t if you can help it.”

She walked me through the house, pointing out the obvious: the empty dining room, butler’s pantry, eat-in kitchen, mud room, and laundry room. Through the kitchen windows I could see the backyard, which consisted of a poured concrete patio sitting like an island in a sea of raw dirt. Upstairs there were five bedrooms—a master suite, a bedroom for each of the girls, and a guest room, devoid of furniture. She chattered on and on, her prime interest focused on her decorating schemes. I found myself making chirpy, insincere remarks. “Oh, I’ve always been crazy about Louie the Fourteenth. That’ll look great in here.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely. You couldn’t do better than that.”

Tiffany’s bedroom walls were painted a pale cream. The furniture was in place, but I got the impression that she wasn’t moving in. Her sights were set on the future, when she’d be married and coming back for holidays with her husband and kids in tow. Amber’s room was stark purple and had the same unoccupied air. Brittany, at nineteen, still clung to her collection of stuffed animals. The color scheme she’d chosen was pink and white—stripes, checks, and florals. Everything had ruffles, including the dressing table, the bed skirt, and the canopy that arched over her four-poster bed. Kathy detailed a number of triumphs each of the girls had chalked up, but I’d tuned her out by then.

Tramping down the stairs, I said, “The house is wonderful.”

“Thanks. I like it,” she said, flashing me a smile.

“What sort of work does your husband do?”

“He sells cars.”

“Like your father.”

“He works for Daddy.”

“Great. I’ll introduce myself. I’ll be going by the dealership in the next couple of days to chat with your father about Violet. Didn’t he sell her that car?”

“Yes, but I doubt he can tell you any more than I can.”

“Every little bit helps. It’s like working on a jigsaw puzzle without the picture on the box. Right now, I don’t even know what I’m looking at.”

Returning to the living room, Kathy sat on the couch and I took a matching upholstered chair. She picked up her glass and rattled the ice, drinking off the half an inch of water that had accumulated in our absence.

“How well did you know Violet?” I asked.

“Not well. I was fourteen years old and never had much to do with her. My mother hated her guts. The irony is, six months after Mom died, Daddy married a woman who looked just like Violet—same dyed red hair, same white-trash ways. Caroleena’s pushing forty-five, three years younger than me, if you can believe that. I’d hoped it was a phase, but they’ve been married twenty years so I guess she’s here to stay. More’s the pity.”

I said, “Ah,” for lack of anything better.

She caught my tone and said, “It’s embarrassing, but what’re you going to do? I guess I should be glad he has someone to look after him. Saves me the aggravation. Of course, I’d be willing to bet if he ever gets sick, Caroleena’s heading out the door.”

“What’s the age spread between the two?”

“Thirty-six years.”

“Wow.”

“‘Wow’ is right. When they married, he was sixty-one and she was twenty-five. Don’t even bother asking me what’s in it for her. She lives well and she knows how to get anything she wants,” she said, rubbing her thumb against her index finger, indicating money.

I felt my brow lift, wondering if the “new” Mrs. Cramer would be acing Chet’s only daughter out of her inheritance. “What about Violet? You must have had some sense of her.”

“Oh, please. I had the same opinions my mother did. She made sure of that. Violet was flashy, but that was about it. Men followed her around like a pack of dogs so I guess she had something. Whatever it was, it went over my head.”

“You went to the fireworks that night?”

She straightened the edges of the decorator magazines. “Yes. Liza and I were supposed to go together, but Violet asked her to babysit so that was that. I think Liza went over there at six o’clock to get Daisy bathed and ready for bed.”

“Did you happen to see Foley at the park?”

“Sure. For a while, he was talking to my mom. He’d stopped off at the Blue Moon and he was drunk as usual, so he and my mom got into it.”

“About what?”

“Who knows?”

“Did you talk to him yourself?”

“Not me. I was scared of him as it was and I didn’t want to have anything to do with him.”

“Did you ever keep Liza company when she was babysitting?”

“Once in a while. I’m glad Mom never found out, or she’d have had a fit. She was a teetotaler who thought all the evil in the world came out of a bottle.”

“What was it about Foley that scared you?”

“What didn’t? His violence, his temper, the way he lashed out. With him, you never knew what was coming next. I figured if he was willing to hit Violet, why not Liza or me?”

“Did you ever see him hit Violet?”

“No, but I saw the evidence after the fact. That was good enough for me.”

“When did you hear Violet was gone?”

“Sunday morning. I didn’t know she was gone gone, but I knew she hadn’t come home. Mr. Padgett came over for lunch after church and he was the one who told my mom.”

“How’d he hear about it?”

“Town the size of Serena Station, everybody knows everything. Maybe someone noticed the car wasn’t parked out front. That would’ve set tongues to wagging.”

“Was there any gossip about who Violet was seeing? Someone must have come under suspicion.”

“Not necessarily. Violet was a tramp, so it could have been anyone. Some guy she picked up in a bar.”

“I gather it didn’t surprise you to think she’d run off.”

“Oh, heck no. Not her.”

“Even though it meant leaving Daisy behind?”

Kathy made a face. “Daisy was a whiny little brat in those days. And look how they lived. The Sullivans were dirt poor, their house was disgusting, and Foley beat Violet up every chance he could. The better question is why she waited as long as she did.”

I drove from Kathy Cramer’s subdivision into Santa Maria proper, where I found a phone booth in the parking lot of a strip mall. I dialed the work number I’d been given for Violet’s brother, and the woman who picked up on the other end said, “Wilcox Construction.”

“Hi. My name’s Kinsey Millhone. I’m trying to reach Calvin Wilcox.”

“May I ask what this is in reference to?”

“His sister.”

A pause. “Mr. Wilcox doesn’t have a sister.”

“Maybe not now, but he did. Would you ask him if he can spare a few minutes? I’d like to talk to him.”

“Hang on and I’ll see if he’s in.”

I figured she was saying that so she could comfortably claim he was “away from his desk,” but the next thing I knew, the man himself picked up the call. “Wilcox.”

I went through my spiel again, trying to be succinct since he sounded like a man who liked to get right to the point.

“If you can make it over here in the next half hour, fine. Otherwise, I can’t do it until early next week.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Wilcox Construction was located out on Highway 166, housed in a prefabricated steel building on a narrow lot surrounded by a chain-link fence. Both exterior and interior were utilitarian. At a desk just inside the door, there was a secretary-receptionist whose responsibilities probably included typing, filing, coffee making, and walking the sleeping German shepherd beside her desk. “He’s the yard dog,” she said, giving him a fond glance. “May look like he’s sleeping on the job, but he’s called into service once the sun goes down. I’m Babs, by the way. Mr. Wilcox is on a call, but he’ll be right out. You want coffee? It’s already made.”

“I better not, but thanks.”

“Well, have a seat in that case.”

She filled her mug from a stainless steel urn, and once she sat down again, her phone gave a chirp. “That’s him. You can go on in.”

Calvin Wilcox was in his early sixties, wearing a short-sleeve denim work shirt and jeans belted under a modest swell of abdomen. I could see the outline of a hard-pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. He had thinning red hair and ginger freckles on his arms. His cheeks were wind-burned, which made his green eyes look electrified in the ruddy glow of his face. I knew I was looking at a male variation of Violet’s green eyes and her faux red hair.

We leaned toward each other across the desk to shake hands. He was a big guy, not tall, but solid. He waited until I sat down and then settled in his swivel chair. He tipped it back in what was probably a typical move, one work boot propped on the edge of his desk. He lifted his arms and laced his fingers above his head, which gave him an air of relaxation and openness I doubted was there. Behind him, on the wall, was a black-and-white photograph of him at a construction site. His hard hat shaded his eyes, while the businessmen on each side were bareheaded and squinting. One held a shovel and I assumed the occasion was a ground-breaking ceremony.

He smiled, watching me with a certain shrewdness evident in his eyes. “My sister, Violet. Here she comes again.”

“Sorry about that. I know the subject comes up every couple of years.”

“I should be used to it by now. What’s that old saying? ‘Nature abhors a vacuum.’ People want closure. Otherwise you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop. How long have you worked for Daisy?”

“Not that long.”

“I guess she can spend her money any way she wants, but what’s she hope to accomplish?”

“She wants to find her mother.”

“Yeah, I get that and then what?”

“That depends on where Violet is.”

“Hard to believe it’s still bugging her after all this time.”

“What about you? Does it bother you?”

“Not a bit. Violet did what suited her. Her life was her business. She seldom consulted me, and if I offered her advice, she’d turn around and do just the opposite. I learned to keep my mouth shut.”

“Did she ever talk about Foley beating her?”

“She didn’t have to talk about it. It was obvious. He broke her nose, broke her tooth, broke two ribs. I don’t know why she put up with it. If she’d wanted out, I’d have helped, but she went back time and time again, so I finally gave up.”

“Were you older or younger?”

“Older by two years.”

“Any other siblings?”

“Don’t I wish. Parents get old, it’d be nice to have someone to help shoulder the burden. Violet wasn’t about to do it, that’s for sure.”

“Are your parents still alive?”

“No. My father had a series of heart attacks in 1951. Three in rapid succession, the last one fatal. The doctors blamed it on a defect he’d carried since birth. He was forty-eight years old. So far I’ve managed to outlive him by thirteen years. Mother died a couple of years ago, at eighty-four.”

“You’re married or single?”

“Married. How about yourself?”

“Single, but my parents are both gone.”

“You’re fortunate. My mother was in a nursing home for years. Well, let’s call it a ‘facility.’ I wouldn’t label it a home. She used to phone me six and seven times a week, begging me to come get her. Up to me, I’d have done it, but my wife was opposed. She’s a stockbroker. No way would she have given that up in order to take care of Mother. I didn’t blame her, but it was tough.”

“You have children?”

“Four boys, all grown and gone. Two live here in town. I got one in Reno and another one in Phoenix.” He took a quick peek at his watch. “You want to ask about Violet, be quick about it. I got a meeting coming up.”

“Sorry. I get curious about people and I forget myself.”

“All right with me. It’s your call.”

“I take it you and Violet weren’t close?”

“You got that right. Last time I saw her, she came by the office and asked for money that I was dumb enough to give.”

“How much?”

“Two grand. That was the first of July, in case you’re wondering. After she left here, she went over to my mother’s house and hit her up as well. Mother didn’t have much, but Violet managed to wheedle five hundred dollars out of her. Month later, we found out she’d stolen Mother’s good jewelry: diamond bracelets, earrings, two pearl necklaces—the works. Three thousand dollars’ worth we never saw again.”

“How do you know it was her?”

“Mother remembered her asking to use the bathroom, which you could only get to by going through her bedroom. Jewelry box was on the dressing table. Mother didn’t have occasion to open it until her birthday that year when Rachel and I were taking her to dinner at the club. She wanted to get all gussied up and that’s when she realized everything was gone.”

“Did you report it to the police?”

“I wanted to, but she refused. She said if Violet needed it that bad, she could have it.”

“Had Violet stolen things before?”

“No, but she borrowed money every chance she got, usually small amounts. She’d claim it was for Daisy so we wouldn’t turn her down.”

“That seems curious. She bragged about having fifty thousand dollars of her own, which Foley says she got from an insurance settlement. He can’t confirm the amount, but he knows she collected.”

“She told me the same thing, but I thought it was b.s. If she had that much money, why bother to weasel the two grand from me?”

“Suppose she was putting a stash together so she could take off?”

“Always possible.”

“Could she have kept in touch with your mother? I keep thinking that even if she managed to make a new life for herself, she might still want some tie to the past.”

“Certainly not with me. Violet didn’t have any sentimental attachments that I know of. There’s no way Violet could have made contact with Mother without my knowing. For one thing, her number was unlisted, and any mail she got had to go through me first. For a while, the scam artists had her on their radar screens and they were sending her letters proposing ‘lucrative’ financial schemes or telling her she’d won the lottery and needed to send in the processing fee. She was so gullible she’d give away the furniture if anybody asked.”

“And security at the facility was tight?”

“You’re thinking Violet could have sneaked in? Forget it. She had no use for Mother beyond ripping her off. Of course, it’s irrelevant now since Mother’s passed away, but if Violet had managed to make a new life, she wouldn’t risk discovery for a woman she didn’t give a shit about.”

“Any idea where she might have gone?”

“Wherever the road took her. She was a creature of impulse, not one for long-range plans.”

“But what’s your take on it? You think she’s out there somewhere?”

“I never said that. If she were alive, she’d have come back to beg, borrow, or steal what she could. I don’t think she went a month without a handout.” He took his foot off the desk and leaned in on his forearms. “You want my take on it?”

“Sure, why not?”

“You want to make Daisy happy? Fine. Earn a few bucks for yourself? It’s no skin off my nose. But don’t turn it into your holy mission in life. You find Violet, you’ll only be making trouble.”

“For whom?”

“Everyone—and I’m including Daisy in that.”

“What do you know that I don’t?”

“Nothing. I know Violet. It’s just a wild-ass guess.”

11

Chet Cramer Chevrolet was located on Main Street in Cromwell, three acres of shiny cars, fifteen capacious service bays, and a two-story showroom with floor-to-ceiling plateglass windows. Inside, at ground level, there were six small glass-fronted offices, each outfitted with a desk, a computer, a run of file cabinets, two chairs for customers, and prominent displays of family photographs and sales awards. One cubicle was currently occupied by a heavyset salesman in earnest conversation with a couple whose body language suggested they were not as eager to do business as he had hoped.

I didn’t see a reception desk, but I spotted a sign with an arrow pointing to the parts department. I walked down a short hallway, passing the restrooms and a lounge with comfortable chairs, where two people sat reading magazines. Doughnuts were available and a vending machine dispensed tea, hot chocolate, coffee, cappuccino, and lattes without charge. I found the cashier and told her I had an appointment with Mr. Cramer. She took my name and rang his office to tell him I was there.

While I waited, I wandered back to the showroom floor, moving from a Corvette convertible to a Caprice station wagon. The best-looking car was an Iroc-Z Camaro convertible, bright red with a tan interior. The top was down and the leather seats were soft. Try tailing someone in a car that slick. I turned to find Mr. Cramer standing with his hands in his pockets, admiring the car as I did. I knew from counting on my fingers that he was in his early eighties. I could see he’d been handsome in his youth, and I sensed, like an aura, the volume of air he must have displaced before he shrank from age. His suit was a size that a young boy might wear. He said, “What kind of car you drive?”

“1974 VW.”

“I’d make you a pitch, but you look like a woman knows her own mind.”

“I’d like to think so,” I said.

“You’re here about Mrs. Sullivan.”

“I am.”

“Let’s go on up to my office. People see I’m down here, I never get a moment’s peace.”

I followed him across the showroom floor and up the stairs. When we reached his office, he opened the door and stepped aside to let me in. The room was plain—a straight-legged wooden desk, a couch, three chairs, and white walls on which he’d mounted numerous black-and-white photographs of himself with various local bigwigs. The Cromwell Chamber of Commerce had given him a citation for community service. The furniture might well have been the set he started business with. “Did you graduate from college?” he asked as he rounded his desk and took a seat.

I sat down across from him, putting my shoulder bag on the floor at my feet. “Hardly. I had two semesters of junior college, but I don’t think that counts.”

“Better than I did. My father dug ditches for a living and never saved a dime. My senior year in high school, he was killed in an auto accident. It’d been raining for a week, highway was slick as glass, and he went off a bridge. I was the oldest of four boys and I had to go to work. One thing my dad taught me was never do manual labor. He hated his job. He said, ‘Son, if you want to make money, find a job where you have to shower before you go to work instead of when you get home.’ He maintained there was always someone for hire when it came to the dirty work, and I’ve followed that to this day.”

“How’d you end up selling cars?”

“Desperation. Everything turned out fine in the end, but it didn’t look so promising at first. The only fellow who’d hire me was George Blickenstaff, owner of the local Ford dealership. He was an old family friend and I guess he took pity on me. I started selling Fords when I was nineteen years old. That was 1925. I didn’t much care for it, but at least I wasn’t working with my hands. Turns out I had a knack for sales. Four years later, the stock market crashed.”

“That must have put a dent in the business.”

“Some areas, yes, but not as much out here. We were always small potatoes and we didn’t take the same hit the bigger dealers did. By the time the Depression came along, I was doing pretty well, at least compared to what a lot of other folks endured. By then, I’d turned into Blickenstaff ’s star salesman. You’d have thought it was something I was born to do. Of course, I was full of myself and thought I deserved a dealership of my own.”

“Is that when you bought this place?”

“Took me years. Problem was, every time I had money in the bank, something came along that took the wind right out of my sails. I put my brothers through college and just about had my mother’s house paid off when she got sick. The hospital bill alone was enough to wipe me out. Factor in the funeral expenses and the headstone and I was flat broke. I didn’t marry till I was thirty-two years old and that set me back again because suddenly I was saddled with a family.”

“But you did persevere,” I said.

“Oh, I did better than that. By 1939, I could see what was coming. The minute Germany invaded Poland, I talked old man Blickenstaff into stockpiling tires, car parts, and gasoline. He didn’t want to listen, but I knew it was an opportunity we couldn’t pass up. U.S. involvement was a given. Any fool could see that—except him, of course. I knew when the time came, rationing would be inevitable, and we couldn’t afford to be caught short. He argued the point, but I knew I was right and I never let up. My instincts were dead on. Once the war started, there wasn’t another dealer in the area who’d had the same foresight. Guys were coming out of the woodwork, begging for gasoline, begging for tires, which was music to my ears. I told ’em I was happy to be of help as long as sufficient cash changed hands. The point was delivering product and service to the customer, and if Chet Cramer could make a buck in the process, then what’s wrong with that? Blickenstaff didn’t have the stomach for it. He lost a son in the war and he thought it was morally reprehensible—that was the phrase he used, ‘morally reprehensible’—to profit when all those boys had sacrificed their lives. In truth, he was tired and it was time he stepped aside.”

“You bought the dealership from him?”

“No ma’am. I bought the Chevrolet franchise and drove that old geezer into the ground: 1945 he closed his doors and I picked up his dealership for pennies on the dollar. May sound cold, but it’s a simple fact of life: You can’t accomplish anything unless you’re willing to act. Make a plan. Take a risk. That’s how you get what you want.”

“What about your brothers? Did any of them come into the business with you?”

“This is mine. I don’t share. I did enough for them and now they’re on their own.” He shifted in his chair, leaning forward on his desk. “Anyway, you didn’t come here to talk about me. You want to know about Violet Sullivan.”

“I do, but I’m also curious about the car. Can we start with that?”

He made a dismissive gesture. “Foley had no business buying that car. He ought to’ve been ashamed of himself. The Sullivans didn’t have a pot to piss in—I hope you’ll forgive the language.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” I said.

“Violet got it in her head she had to have that car, and Foley knew better than to stand in her way. I wasn’t about to turn away a sale, so I cut him a deal.”

“Which was what?”

“I took his truck in trade, for whatever that was worth. Purely a courtesy on my part, but I made one thing clear: The first time he missed a payment, I’d repossess. No excuses, no slow pays, and not one penny short. I didn’t care what the law said, that car was coming back.”

“Given his history, you were taking quite a chance.”

“Oh, I never thought he’d do it. I fully expected to have the car on the lot again within three months and then I’d take it for myself.”

“I thought Winston Smith made the sale.”

“He’s the one Violet dealt with up front. He was a pip-squeak, all of twenty years old. Woman like Violet, she’s always going to find a way to get what she wants. She comes waltzing in here when I’m off the lot and she starts working on him. I’d’ve put a stop to it if I’d seen what was going on. First thing you know she talks him into letting her take that Bel Air on a test drive—alone. I’m serious. Without him in the car. He never should have agreed, but he’s so busy trying to impress her, he doesn’t know what hit him. When she finally shows up again, she’s put two hundred and fifty-seven miles on a brand-new car. I fired him on the spot and then called Foley and told him to get his butt in. He finally came around Friday morning and I completed the deal—approved the loan and handled all the paperwork.”

“I still don’t understand why you sold it to him. From what I’ve heard, his finances were a mess.”

“I have no use for Foley; man doesn’t have a brain in his head. I felt sorry for Violet. I thought she deserved something nice for putting up with him, fool that she was.”

“What was in it for you?”

His smile was sheepish. “Hey, even an old dog like me can do a good turn now and then. Everybody thinks I’m a hard-ass, but I can be generous when it suits. Of course that might’ve been the last time I ever did a good deed. When that car went missing, I was sick to death. Foley did pay it off. I have to give him that.”

“So you weren’t out anything?”

“Not one red cent.”

“Violet didn’t tell you how she managed to put two hundred and fifty-seven miles on the odometer?”

“No, but I can make a pretty good guess. That’s the day she showed up at a Santa Teresa bank and emptied her safe-deposit box. I figured it out afterward, because the distance was about right—hundred and twenty-five miles each way. She said the day was gorgeous and she couldn’t resist. At the time, I was under the impression she drove north along the coast, but she never said as much.”

“If she wanted to drive to Santa Teresa, why not take Foley’s truck?”

“That thing was on its last legs. No surprise she’d prefer to tool around in a fancy car like mine. Maybe she was planning to sweet-talk the bank manager into making her a loan.”

“Did she give any indication she intended to leave town?”

“Never said a word. Not that she had any reason to confide in me. I barely knew the woman. So what was in her safe-deposit box? I never heard.”

“Foley thinks it was cash from an insurance settlement. Fifty thousand is the number I’ve heard. In addition to that, her brother says he lent her two thousand dollars on Wednesday of that week.”

“Calvin Wilcox. Now there’s a piece of work.”

“As in what?”

“Those two were always at each other’s throats. He assumed the full care of their parents and Violet wouldn’t lift a hand. He didn’t give a damn if she disappeared or not. I’m sure it cheered him no end that when his mother died, all the money came to him. If his sister had been around, he’d have had to split it with her.”

I felt my attention narrow like a cat’s at the sound of a little mousie scratching in the wall. “Money?”

“Oh, yes. It was a sizeable estate. Roscoe Wilcox made a fortune perfecting phosphorescent paint. Got a patent on some new, improved formula, or so I’ve heard. Every time you see a paint job that glows, it’s money in the bank—or Calvin’s pocket in this case.”

“How well do you know him?”

“We’re both members of the same country club and the same association of local businessmen. He built that company from scratch, which I’ve always admired, but the fellow himself? I got my doubts about him. Maybe it’s just that he and that wife of his have never cared for me.”

“What happened to Winston Smith? I’d like to talk to him if you know where he is.”

“That’s easy. The week after I fired him, I took him back and he’s worked for me ever since. It’s like I told him: You don’t want to act in haste. What seems tragic in the moment can sometimes turn out to be the best thing in the world.”

“Meaning what?”

“He ended up married to my daughter and now they have those three gorgeous girls. He’s a very lucky man.”

12

JAKE

Wednesday, July 1, 1953

Jake Ottweiler pulled up a chair beside his wife’s hospital bed and sat with her as he had every evening since June 17 when she’d been admitted. Mary Hairl was on heavy medication. She slept deeply and often, her face in repose as sculpted as stone. Her hand lay in his, her palm against his, her cold fingers threaded through his warmer ones. She was as pale as a piece of paper, lavender veins showing through the skin on her arms. She was thin, brittle-looking, and she smelled like death. He was ashamed for noticing, ashamed of himself for wanting to recoil.

Mary Hairl was thirty-seven years old and she’d given Jake two wonderful children. Tannie, at nine, was a sturdy, fearless girl, boisterous and outgoing, all bony elbows, skinned knees, and joy. She had a talent for playing the piano, and she read books way above her grade level. She’d never be pretty, he knew that about her without even waiting to see what puberty would bring. The growth spurt—the breasts, the loss of baby fat—none of this would alter the basic plainness of her face. But she was a bright, funny child, and he treasured that in her.

At sixteen, his son, Steve, was not only handsome, he was smart as well—not at the top of his class, but not far from it. Played varsity football and won his letter jacket as a sophomore, the first season he played. Eagle Scout. Sang tenor in the church youth choir. He’d signed a pledge that he’d abstain from alcohol for life, and Jake knew he’d do it, no matter the peer pressure brought to bear. Steve was baby-faced and had a boyish demeanor Jake was hoping he’d outgrow. Hard enough to be a man in this world without looking half his age. Mary Hairl had been a good mother to those kids, and he wasn’t sure how he’d manage when she went. He’d do what she did—be firm, listen carefully, and let them make their own mistakes as long as it wasn’t anything too serious. It would never be the same, but they’d muddle through somehow. What choice did they have?

He put his head down and rested his face against the edge of the hospital bed. The sheet was crisp and cool against his sunburned cheek. He was incredibly weary. After he’d come back from overseas just after the war, he hadn’t had the will or the strength to return to farming. He’d taken a series of jobs, most recently with Union Sugar. He’d missed so many days of work because of Mary Hairl’s illness, he’d been fired. Now money was impossibly tight, and if it weren’t for her father’s financial help, they’d be out on the street. He hadn’t understood how much work his wife did. Now that he was essentially sole parent, he was in charge of the meal planning, grocery shopping, laundry, and most of the major household chores. Mid-April, just before she was hospitalized for surgery, she’d put in the truck garden, which was flourishing. She’d always been an uncomplaining soul, and by the time she’d seen the doctor for abdominal tenderness and bloating, the tumor was advanced. Surgery confirmed the cancer, which had spread to so many organs there was nothing to be done. The surgeon closed her up again and now they were waiting for the end. The weeding, mulching, and plucking of suckers from the numerous tomato plants was another set of tasks Jake’d added to his list. After school, Steve pitched in with mowing the lawn and washing the truck, while Tannie was in charge of keeping the house tidy and making their brown-bag lunches. Hairl Tanner, Mary Hairl’s father, was still joining them for the evening meal, so the four of them ate supper together nightly, a ritual that seemed cheerless without Mary Hairl. Once the meal was finished, Hairl would disappear, leaving Tannie to clear the table. Steve washed the dishes while Tannie dried them and put them away. At that point, Jake would pick up his jacket and head over to the hospital, arriving about 7:00 P.M.

Jake was scarcely aware that he’d fallen asleep. He’d been thinking about the night in early May when Mary Hairl was admitted for the second time in as many months. She’d made sure her father and the kids were fed before she finally, reluctantly, agreed to call the doctor, who’d met them within the hour in the emergency room. Steve had stayed at home to look after Tannie, and when Jake and Mary Hairl left house, both the kids were doing their homework. She’d been in excruciating pain for much of the day, and he’d handed her over to the charge nurse that night with the blessed sense that at least now she’d get relief. Her suffering only reminded Jake how ineffectual he was in the face of her illness. He’d stayed with her until 9:00, watching the drip in her IV line, waiting for the medication to take effect. He’d kept an eye on the clock, willing the hands to move, and when she’d finally fallen asleep, he’d fled the premises.

He retrieved his truck from the hospital parking lot in Santa Maria and headed straight for the Blue Moon, the only place in Serena Station where a fella could buy a beer. It had been raining intermittently. The May evening was chilly, and he cranked up the heat until the cab felt like an incubator. The roads were dark, and the lighted houses in Serena Station seemed as isolated as campfires. He needed to drink. He needed to unwind in an atmosphere that carried no suggestion of blood, suffering, or impending loss.

The Moon was close to empty. Tom Padgett sat at the bar, nursing a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, chatting with Violet Sullivan and the bartender, BW McPhee. BW was a stocky fellow, barrel-chested and tough, who doubled as a bouncer when the occasion arose. Jake took a stool at the bar, glancing idly at the two sitting four stools down. Violet’s eyes were puffy with tears and her hair was disheveled. Clearly something had gone on. Tom was trying to talk her out of whatever funk she was in. Jake was inclined to ignore Violet, minding his own business, but while BW uncapped his bottle of Blatz, he told him she and Foley had gotten into a shoving match that ended with her slapping him square across the face. Foley had gone berserk, overturning a table and breaking a chair. BW’d given him one minute to clear out or he was calling the police.

By the time Jake arrived, Foley was gone. While Padgett’s comments were too low to hear, Violet’s responses were audible. She was talking about her money in a tone that was half braggadocio and half aggrieved. He’d heard the claim before, usually when Foley’d just popped her one and she was threatening to leave. He didn’t know if it was true or not, the bit about her personal funds. She never mentioned an amount, and it struck him as odd that she didn’t simply take the cash and get on with it.

For a while, Padgett dropped a steady stream of coins into the jukebox, and he and Violet danced. The dress she wore was an emerald green, cut low in the back. Behind the bar, BW was watching them as they moved around the floor. Now and then Jake would turn, looking over his shoulder, following their progress with a shake of his head. He and BW exchanged glances.

“That’s what got Foley raging in the first place, her dancing with him,” BW remarked.

“Just about anything sets him off. Piece of shit,” Jake said.

BW studied him. “I don’t suppose you want to talk about Mary Hairl.”

“Not especially. No offense.”

“None taken. You tell her we’re thinkin’ about her, Emily and me.”

“I’ll do that.”

“How’s that beer coming?”

“I’m fine for the moment.”

Violet and Padgett settled at the bar again, but he’d no more than sat down than he glanced at his watch, startled at the time. Jake watched as he threw some bills on the bar and said his good-nights. Once the door shut behind him, Violet turned her head, looking down the bar in Jake’s direction. He made a point of looking the other way to avoid her gaze. She was the type who went to bars intent on conversation, while he was the type who went in hopes of being left alone. Dimly he was conscious of her crossing the room behind him, heading for the ladies’ room. He ordered another beer and was in the process of lighting a cigarette when she appeared at his side. Her hair was now combed and her green eyes assessed him with curiosity. She was holding a cigarette and, well-mannered fella that he was, he extended his match. By then the flame was burning so close to his fingers, he was forced to drop it and strike another one for her. She eased onto the stool next to his. “You want company?”

“No.”

“That’s funny. You look like a man who could use a friend.”

He had no reply to that. Jake probably hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words with Violet in the six years he’d known her. There’d been that business about the dog, but that was about as far as it went. He’d heard the rumors about her. The whole town of Serena Station buzzed with stories about the Sullivans—Foley’s drinking, the fisticuffs, her screwing around. Quite the happy little pair. Jake despised Foley. Any man who raised a hand to woman or child was the lowest of the low. Violet, he wasn’t sure about. Mary Hairl seemed to like her, but his wife was a good-hearted soul, who’d put out a bowl of scraps for any stray cat that wandered up on the porch. He put Violet in that camp—hungry, wary, and needy. “You still mad about the dog?”

“I got my money. Not that it was mine for long,” she said. “How’s Mary Hairl?”

“He just asked me that,” Jake said, indicating BW with a wave of his cigarette.

“What’d you tell him?”

“Said I didn’t want to talk about it, thanks all the same.”

“Because it’s painful.”

“Because it’s nobody’s business.” He was quiet for a moment and then surprised himself by going on. “They’ve got her on a drip. Morphine, most likely. The doctor won’t tell me anything and what he says to her, she keeps to herself. She doesn’t want me to worry.”

Violet said, “Well, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It has nothing to do with you.” He glanced off across the room. He could feel tears sting his eyes. He’d made a point of not discussing his wife’s illness. Acquaintances would ask, but he tended to cut them short. He didn’t like the idea of exposing the intimate details of Mary Hairl’s condition. He couldn’t talk particulars with her father, even if he’d known. Hairl had been a surly son of a bitch ever since his wife died. He was burdened enough as it was, knowing he was on the verge of losing his only child. Which left who? Jake certainly couldn’t talk about her sickness with the kids. Both he and Mary Hairl had agreed early on to spare them. Steve, at sixteen, was aware of what was happening, but he kept himself detached. Tannie was mercifully oblivious, which left Jake on his own.

Violet studied him. “How’re you holding up? You don’t look so hot yourself.”

He lifted his beer bottle. “This helps.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” she said, and clinked her wineglass against his bottle. “Why is it men are always trying to prove how tough they are? Situation like yours, what harm would it do to talk about it?”

“What for? I live with it from day to day. Last thing I need is talk on top of that.”

“You sound just like me. Too proud to admit when you’re hurting. I can sit here in tears and everybody thinks it’s just something I do. You’re the first guy ever offered to have a decent conversation.”

“I don’t call this a conversation.”

“But there’s hope of one,” she said.

“What about Padgett? He was talking to you.”

“He’s about as popular as me. People think I’m a whore and he’s a fool. Gives us something in common.”

“Is that true?”

“What, about him or me?”

“I couldn’t care less about him. What’s the deal on you?”

She smiled. “It’s like that song about the Whiffenpoofs…. What the hell’s a Whiffenpoof? You ever ask yourself that?”

“What song?”

“The duet Bing Crosby and Bob Hope sang in Road to Bali.” She started to sing a fragment in a voice that was surprisingly sweet. “‘Damned from here to eternity. Lord have mercy on such as we.’” Her smile was weary. “That’s the deal on me. Damned.”

“Because of Foley?”

“Everything wrong in my life is because of him.”

“I thought you liked tussling with him. You do it often enough.”

“Tussling? Well, I guess that’s one way to put it. Foley pounds the shit out of me on a regular basis and I got the black eyes to prove it, but does anybody ask how I’m doing? He could knock me to the floor and nobody’d offer me a hand. I don’t want pity, but once in a while I’d like to think someone gives a shit.” She stopped and then smirked. “Listen to me. I sound like a victim. Nobody likes a victim, least of all me.”

“Why do you put up with it? That’s what I don’t get.”

“What choice do I have? I can’t leave him. He’s threatened to kill me and I know he’d do it for sure. Foley’s a psychopath. Besides, if I left what would become of Daisy?”

“You could take her with you.”

“And do what? I got married at fifteen and never held a job in my life. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“What about that money you’re always talking about.”

“I’m biding my time. I figure I’ve got one shot and I’m not about to blow it. Anyway, Daisy’s crazy about her daddy.”

“Most girls are crazy about their daddies. I’m sure she’s crazy about you, too. What’s that got to do with it?”

“Daisy’s crazier than most. She thinks Foley hung the moon, so why should I get in the way? Sometimes I think they’d be better off without me. I mean, it’s one thing if I leave, but take away his little girl? He’d rip my heart out, if he hadn’t already done it.”

Jake shook his head. “He doesn’t deserve either one of you.”

“No fooling.”

“So what’d you see in him?”

“He was a sweet guy when the two of us hooked up. It’s the alcohol does him in. Sober, he’s not all that bad. Well, some bad, but not as horrible as you’d think. Of course, he says he’s forced to drink to put up with the likes of me.”

“What’s he have to put up with? You’re a beautiful woman. I can’t picture any big hardship living with you.”

“I’m a pain.”

“How’s that?”

“I got a reputation as a party girl for one thing. According to him, I don’t do anything right and that sets him off. No matter what I do, he’s never satisfied. After work, he walks in the door and starts in on me. Either the house is a mess or his dinner’s not hot enough or I forgot to take the dirty clothes to the Laundromat again. He wants to know where I’ve been, wants to know who I talked to, and where I was every time he tried to call me during the day. I’m thinking, what am I, his slave? I’m entitled to a life. I try to keep my mouth shut, but he lays into me and I have to fight back. How else can I hang on to my self-respect?”

“There’s bound to be a way out.”

“Well, if there is I’d sure like to hear it.” She put out her cigarette. “You have any change?”

“What for?” he asked, but he was already digging in his pants pocket, coming up with a handful of coins.

She took a nickel and slid off the stool. He watched her cross to the jukebox, where she inserted the coin and punched in a number. After a moment, he heard the opening strains of Nat King Cole singing “Pretend.”

She came back to him, holding out a hand. “Come on. Let’s dance. I love this song.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Yes, you do.” She looked over at the bartender. “BW, tell the man he has to dance with me. It’s time to lighten up the mood.”

Jake felt himself smiling as she tugged on his hand, pulling him toward the tiny bare spot between tables that served as a dance floor. She slid into his arms, ignoring the awkward back-and-forth rocking motion that was the only kind of dancing he knew. She sang against his neck, her smoky wine breath tickling his ear. He could smell violets and soap and the same kind of shampoo Mary Hairl had used before she got so sick. Over Violet’s shoulder, he could see BW busy himself behind the bar, studiously ignoring what was going on. Jake had never much cared for music, but he could see now how it might have the power to make you forget. If there was one thing Jake needed, it was the blessedness of forgetting, even for a little while.

At midnight, BW started turning off lights. “Sorry about that, folks,” he said, as though the bar were filled with people. His tone was bored, but Jake could hear the underlying irritation. BW didn’t want to be a party to what was going on. Jake went up to the bar and paid the tab, peeling off bills and adding a generous tip, in part to remind the man of his place.

BW said, “You driving her home?”

“I might, if it’s any of your business.”

“I know you mean well, but you don’t know what you’re getting into when it comes to her. Ask Padgett. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

“Thanks, BW, but I don’t believe I asked for your advice.”

“I’m saying this as a friend.”

“I don’t need that kind of friend. Your job is to tend bar. I can look after myself, but thanks all the same.”

“Don’t ever say I didn’t warn you.”

Jake helped Violet into her raincoat and held the door for her. As they emerged from the bar, the air seemed as fresh as a florist’s shop. The May rain had passed, leaving a mist in the air. The blacktop was damp, looking shiny in places where shallow puddles had formed. He opened the truck door on the passenger side and handed her in. There were no lights in the parking lot, except for the reflected blue from the sign for the Blue Moon, the neon pulsing and blinking. Jake got in on his side and sat, watching the light, fascinated, not really sure what came next. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t strayed occasionally in the course of his marriage, but he was never sure what he was getting into and that lent a sick thrill to the proceedings.

Violet said, “This is like a time-out. It doesn’t count for anything. I like Mary Hairl.”

“Me, too,” he said. He kept his hands on the steering wheel as though he might actually start the car and drive away.

BW turned the neon sign off and moments later, he came out of the rear door, locked it, and walked to his car.

Jake knew both their faces must have flashed with white as BW passed, his headlights raking across the front of Jake’s truck.

And then he was gone.

Violet was drunk and Jake’d had too much to drink himself, but he needed a friend, someone to feel close to for just this one night. Blindly he held a hand out and she took it. They made love. The leather seat was surprisingly commodious. The night was growing cold, and through the open window he could smell the orange blossoms from the orchard nearby. The scent was so dense he could scarcely breathe. He could hear crickets and frogs, and then the night became dead quiet except for the rustling of clothes and his harsh, rasping breath. He felt as though he’d had to run for miles just to get to her.

13

Downstairs, Chet Cramer introduced me to his son-in-law and then excused himself. Winston Smith was the same heavyset salesman I’d seen earlier, and I wondered if his sales pitch had been successful. Probably not, given his energy level, which seemed low if not depressed. We sat in his cubicle, my back to the glass partition that looked out onto the floor. Winston’s desk was arranged so he could keep an eye out for customers without appearing inattentive.

At close range, the word “corpulent” was more appropriate than “heavyset” in capturing his girth. He looked as though a simple walk to his car would leave him wheezing and short of breath. There was no ashtray in sight, but I smelled the cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes and breath. Under his chin, a second chin bulged, leaving his shirt collar so taut it might choke him to death if he bent to tie his shoes. He still had most of his hair, which he wore long and curly on top, brushed back in a style I hadn’t seen since the days when Elvis Presley got his start.

I’d scarcely sat down when his telephone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, and picked up. “This is Winston Smith.” And then, with caution, “What’s up?”

I had no way of knowing who was on the other end of the line, but he flicked a quick look in my direction and angled his body for privacy. “Hang on a sec.” He put the caller on hold. “Let me take care of this and I’ll be right back.”

“Sure thing.”

He left the cubicle. I watched line one blink red until he picked up the call from a nearby phone. On the wall across from me, his sales manuals were lined up on a built-in credenza. In a prominent position, there was a color photograph of a bride and groom on what I assumed was their wedding day. I crossed and picked up the framed photo for closer scrutiny. Winston must have been in his midtwenties, slim, handsome, curly-haired, and boyish, his tuxedo contributing an air of casual elegance. At his side, a hefty Kathy Cramer was squeezed into a wedding dress so tight it must have hurt to breathe. Above the sweetheart neckline, her breasts were plumped like two homemade yeast rolls that had risen and were ready to pop in the oven. In the years since that day, the two had reversed roles. Now she was trim, an exercise addict, while he’d apparently surrendered all hope of getting into shape. What was up with that? I kept thinking about Tannie’s offhand remark, that Winston knew more about Violet than he’d admitted.

I replaced the photo and took my seat again mere moments before he returned, murmuring, “Sorry about that.” He sat down again, but something in his manner had shifted. “My wife,” he said, by way of explanation. “She called while I was with a customer and I had to put her off. Don’t want to do that twice.”

“No problem. I had a chat with her earlier and she showed me the house. Nice place.”

“Should be for the price we paid,” he said with a quick forced smile.

“You play golf?”

He shook his head. “She’s the golfer. I keep my nose to the grindstone. If you notice me limp, it’s from dragging my ball and chain.” He laughed when he said it and I smiled in response, thinking, Ding, ding, ding, ding.

I said, “I could never see the point of golf myself. Chasing a ball and then hitting it with a stick? Though now that I think about it, that describes a lot of sports. What about your daughters? Are they golfers?”

“Amber was taking lessons before she left for Spain, but we’ll see where that goes. She’s easily bored so she’ll doubtless move on to something else. Brittany’s not athletic by any stretch. I’m sure Kathy’d tell you that she takes after me.”

“I understand Tiffany’s getting married in June.”

“Ka-ching, ka-ching,” he said, pretending to punch up sales on a cash register. “You know how much weddings cost these days?”

“Not a clue.”

“Me, neither. Kathy keeps me in the dark so I can’t object. I’m sure it’s something close to the national debt.”

We both laughed at that, though the observation didn’t seem at all funny to me. Clearly Winston and his wife weren’t operating off the same page.

He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted his upper lip where a subtle sheen of moisture had appeared. He returned the handkerchief to his back pocket. “Anyway, she tells me you have questions about Violet Sullivan.”

“If you don’t mind,” I said, expecting the standard assurance that the subject was really no big deal.

“Doesn’t matter if I do or not, I’m under orders,” he said, again with that quick, easy laugh to show what a wag he was.

Mentally I squinted, listening to the second set of comments embedded in the first. I’m not a fan of doublespeak. His asides were the sort offered by married couples who banter in public, airing their grievances with an eye to soliciting outside support. If Kathy had been with us, she’d have countered with a few ha-has of her own, thus guaranteeing a laugh at his expense. He would have joined in the merriment, which is what seemed pitiful to me. The man was in pain.

“What orders?”

“What?”

“What orders did she give?”

“Skip it. Long story.”

“I love long stories.”

“You don’t have other people you have to talk to?”

“I’m supposed to meet Daisy, but if you let me borrow your phone, I can change that. You want to go somewhere and grab a cigarette?”

I called Daisy at work and had a quick conversation with her, telling her something had come up and I wasn’t going to make it for lunch. I suggested that if Tannie was driving up I could hang out in Santa Maria and the three of us could have dinner at the Blue Moon instead. She seemed to like that idea, so I said I’d call her again later in the afternoon and we could finalize our plans.

I’d expected Winston to step out into the vestibule to grab a smoke, but he took out his car keys and walked me to the side lot where he’d parked his car. He handed me into the passenger side of a metallic blue 1987 Chevrolet Caravan station wagon. When he got in on his side, he said, “This is only mine until the ’88s come in. Then they swap it out.”

“Slick.”

“You think so until you look at the underlying attitude. No matter how fond you are of what you have, there’s always something hotter coming down the pike. It’s a recipe for discontent.”

“If you buy into it,” I said.

“That’s my job—promoting the concept. Coaxing the gullible into taking the bait.”

“So why don’t you quit and do something else? No one has a gun to your head.”

“I’m fifty-four years old, a little long in the tooth for any big career change. Can I buy you lunch?”

“In matters of food, you can always count me in.”

I pictured McDonald’s, but then I was always picturing McDonald’s. I’d take a Quarter Pounder with Cheese over just about any other foodstuff on earth.

He drove us across town and pulled into a supermarket parking lot where a fellow and his wife had set up a portable barbeque that was attached to a camper shell. The rolling metal rig was black, about the size of a double-wide utility sink, with a pulley and chain that allowed for the raising and lowering of a rack. Chunks of meat had been laid on the grill over hot coals, and the smoky smell of charred beef filled the air. To one side, buttered rolls had been cut in half and placed on the grill.

A steady stream of cars was turning into the lot, taking advantage of the numerous empty parking spaces. On a card table, I could see piles of paper napkins, paper plates, plastic cutlery, and numerous plastic tubs of salsa and beans. Nearby three portable picnic tables were set up with aluminum lawn chairs. An ice chest contained cold cans of soda for a quarter apiece.

We parked as close as we could and eased into a line that was easily twenty-five people long. The wait was worth it, and I made no attempt to tidy up my manners as we ate.

“Geez, how do they do this? It’s great!” I said with my mouth half-full.

“Santa Maria barbecue. That’s tri-tip,” he said. “You rub it with salt, pepper, and garlic salt, and cook it over red oak.”

“Fabulous.”

Both of us licked our fingers before opening the moist towelette packets provided with the meal. When my hands were clean, I said, “Thanks. What a treat.”

“You’re welcome.”

We walked back to his car, freeing up our lawn chairs for the people waiting to sit down. We lingered outside his car while he lit his aftermeal cigarette. His thin candy-coating of mirth had dropped away and something darker had emerged. This was not a happy man. There was a heaviness about him that seemed to taint the very air. Apropos of nothing, he held up his cigarette. “Know why I’m doing this?”

“She won’t let you smoke inside.”

He flicked a look at me. “How’d you know?”

“I was in the house. No ashtrays.”

“She runs a tight ship.”

“A lot of people feel that way about smoking,” I said mildly, not mentioning that I was one.

“Hey, don’t I know it. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about that.”

I didn’t ask what “that” he was referring to. Instead I said, “Fine. We can talk about Violet, then.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “She was a tramp.”

Kathy had used the same term. I said, “Come on. Everybody says she was a tramp. Tell me something I haven’t heard.”

I watched his face, wondering what was going on behind his eyes.

He studied the bright ember of his cigarette. “Kathy’s jealous of her.”

“Is or was?”

“Is.”

“That takes some doing. Violet’s been gone for thirty-four years.”

“Try telling her that.”

“I thought they barely knew each other.”

“Not quite true. Liza Mellincamp was Kathy’s best friend. Then Violet came along and Liza got caught up in the Sullivan family drama. Liza’s parents were divorced, which in those days was a much bigger deal than it is today. Now it’s the norm. Back then it wasn’t scandalous, but it was looked on as low-class. And there was Violet, already outside the pale. She took Liza under her wing. Kathy couldn’t stand it.”

“Is that why she hated Daisy?”

“Sure, she hated her. Daisy was another link to Violet. Liza spent a lot of time at the Sullivans’. She also had a boyfriend that summer, though he broke off the relationship the same weekend Violet disappeared.”

“I don’t get it. So many events seem connected to Violet. Maybe not directly, but peripherally. You got fired. Tannie’s mother died.”

“Sometimes I think there are people who generate that stuff. They don’t mean to do it, but whatever happens to them ends up affecting everyone else. Day I got fired was the worst day of my life. Twenty years old and there went any hope of a college education.”

“What were you planning to do?”

“I don’t even remember. Something better than what I got. I’m not a salesman. I don’t like manipulating people. Cramer sees it as a game and it’s one that he wins. The whole deal makes me sick.”

“But it looks like you’re doing okay.”

“You ought to see my credit card bills. We can barely make ends meet. Kathy’s out there spending money faster than I can earn it. Country club membership. The new house. The clothes. Vacations. She doesn’t like to cook, so most nights we eat out…” He stopped and shook his head. “You know the irony?”

“Oh, do tell. I love irony,” I said.

“Now she tells me she needs her ‘space.’ She broke the news to me last night. She says with the girls as good as gone, she thinks it time for her to reevaluate her goals.”

“Divorce?”

“She’s not using the word, but that’s what it amounts to. Tiffany’s wedding will keep her entertained, but after that, it’s every man for himself. Meanwhile, she thinks I should find a place of my own. When she called earlier today? I was hoping she’d changed her mind, but all she wanted was to make sure I didn’t mention it to you.”

“Oops.”

“Yeah, oops. I’ve spent years doing what I’m told, giving her everything she wants, for all the good it did. Now it’s freedom she wants and I’m supposed to foot the bill for that, too. She probably has a stud in the wings. Not that I’ve asked. She’d lie to me anyway so what’s the point? The only good part is I don’t have to take any more crap off of her.”

“Counseling’s not an option?”

“Counseling for what? She won’t admit we’ve got a problem, just that she needs ‘distance’ so she can get ‘clarity.’ I should get a little clarity myself—hire some hotshot attorney and file before she does. That would shake her to her shoes.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I had advice for you.”

“Who needs advice? I could use some comic relief.”

“Maybe she means what she says; she needs breathing room.”

“Not a chance. She must have been planning this for months, waiting until we moved before she lowered the boom.” He smoked in silence, leaning against the door on the driver’s side while I leaned against the fender near him, both of us watching the crowd thin around the barbecue. Like a trained therapist, I let the silence extend, wondering what he’d offer by way of filling it in. I was just about to get antsy and jump into the breech myself, when he spoke up. “Here’s something I never told anyone about Violet. This is minor, but it’s weighed on my mind. The night she disappeared? I saw the car.”

I didn’t look at him for fear of breaking the spell. “Where?”

“Off New Cut Road. This was long after dark. There was road construction going on so everything was torn up. I’d been driving around for hours, more depressed than I’ve ever been in my life. Except maybe now,” he added, drily.

I could feel the hairs go up along the back of my neck, but I didn’t want to push. “What was she doing?”

“I didn’t see her. Just the Bel Air. I figured she was having car trouble…like maybe she’d run out of gas…but I didn’t give a shit. I thought, she’s so smart, let her figure it out herself. Later, when I heard she was gone, I should have mentioned it to the cops. At first, I didn’t think it was relevant, and later, I worried it would look like I’d had something to do with it.”

“‘It’?”

“Whatever happened to her.”

“Why you?”

“For obvious reasons. I’d lost my job because of her and I was pissed off.”

“Weird. If she’d run out of gas, you’d think the pump jockey would have seen her at the station again.”

“Well, yeah. I thought maybe somebody else had seen the car, but nobody ever said. It was way out in the boonies, but I still can’t believe I was the only one who spotted it. When the sheriff ’s department didn’t come up with anything, I decided to leave it alone.”

“And you’ve never told anyone?”

“Kathy,” he said. “This was after we were married. I don’t believe in couples keeping secrets and it bothered me a lot. So one night I’d had too much to drink and I blurted it out. She didn’t think it was a big deal. She told me to forget about it and that’s what I did. The detective had already talked to me a couple of times, same way he was talking to everyone else, but he never asked when I’d seen her last and I didn’t volunteer.”

“And the car was just sitting there?”

“Right. Maybe fifteen, twenty yards off the side of the road. I could see it in my headlights, plain as day.”

“You’re sure it was hers?”

“Positive. There was only one like it in the county. She’d been driving it around since the minute Foley gave it to her. Absolutely, it was hers.”

“Had she had a flat tire?”

“That’s possible. I didn’t see a flat, but it could have been that. Could have been anything.”

“Was the engine idling or off?”

“Off and the headlights were off. The road was really rough, and I’d slowed to a stop, intending to turn around. That’s when I saw the car. I rolled down the window and looked out, but everything was still as stone. I actually sat there a couple of minutes, but nothing happened, so I said to hell with it and went back the way I’d come.”

“Could she have stopped to let the dog out?”

“I didn’t see the dog. At the time, it didn’t occur to me there was anything creepy going on. Now, I don’t know.”

14

Winston drove us to the location on New Cut Road where he’d seen Violet’s car. I wanted to take a look at the spot but didn’t intend to press the point since he was due back at work.

He laughed when I expressed my concern. “Don’t sweat it. Chet won’t fire me. I’m the schmuck who pays his daughter’s bills.”

He took Highway 166 east out of Cromwell and after three miles, turned right onto New Cut Road, which was laid out on a diagonal that intersected Highway 1 to the south. Before September of 1953, when New Cut was finished, drivers were forced to go miles out of their way when heading from Santa Maria to Silas, Arnaud, or Serena Station. The old Tanner homestead appeared, its Tudor façade jarring now that I saw it again. The acreage across the road had been planted and harvested, leaving a pale haze of wispy stalks interspersed with lush weeds.

Winston pulled into the Tanner driveway and we got out. I left my shoulder bag in the car but carried the map with me.

“Somewhere along in here,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “I remember the heavy equipment and big mounds of dirt. The road was being graded, and there was this line of big orange cones and a temporary barricade across the unpaved portion to discourage through traffic, not that there was much. Now that I’m looking at it though, it’s hard to pinpoint the spot.”

He crossed the road and I followed, watching as he pivoted. He walked backward for a few steps, trying to get his bearings. “I didn’t realize the road ran so close to the Tanner property. I’m almost sure the barrier was off in that direction, like a big detour, but I might be wrong.”

I said, “Maybe it’s like a house under construction. When all you have is the slab, the rooms seem so small. Then the walls go up and everything suddenly looks much bigger.”

He smiled. “Right. I never have figured out how that works. You’d think it’d be the other way around.”

“Any chance you passed her on the road? If she had car trouble she might have tried walking to the nearest phone.”

“Oh no. There’s no way I’d have missed her if she’d been out there. I did keep an eye out, but you can see for yourself, she’d have had to hike for miles. Funny thing is, until now I put the incident out of my mind because I felt guilty and I didn’t want to deal with it. I should have stopped to see what was going on.”

“Don’t do that to yourself. It’s probably not important in the overall scheme of things.”

“I suppose not. She was going to do whatever she did regardless of me. I just wish I’d been a gentleman and done the right thing.”

“On the other hand, she didn’t do you any favors.”

I opened the map and then folded it in thirds so I could check the relative distances between points. “Here’s what puzzles me. The service station near Tullis couldn’t be more than three miles away. She filled her tank at roughly six thirty so it’s hard to believe she’d run out of gas so soon.”

Winston shrugged. “She could have been waiting for someone. This is a hell of an isolated spot. I was only out here by happenstance. I’d been driving around randomly. I got this far and realized there wasn’t any place else to go. This was literally the end of the road.”

“Did you see any other cars?”

“No. I just remember the pitch-black dark. It was a clear night, and I could hear the muffled sound of the fireworks in Silas, off in that direction.”

“Which means it had to be before nine thirty when the fireworks display ended.”

“True. I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Foley swears he was at the park and I gather there were people willing to vouch for him. Meanwhile, what was she doing out here? By nine thirty she should have been two hundred miles away.”

We chatted idly of other things on our way back into town. When we pulled into the dealership, Winston dropped me at my car. I got out and then leaned in the window. “Thanks for lunch,” I said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your telling me about the car. I’m not sure it’s significant, but it’s fresh information and that’s encouraging.”

“I’m glad.”

“One more quick question and then I’ll let you get back to work. This business about you and Kathy. Is that classified?”

“You mean, is it a secret? By no means.”

“I’m asking because I’ll be talking to Daisy later, bringing her up to speed. I can certainly keep the information to myself if you’d prefer.”

“I don’t care who knows. Kathy’s always airing our problems, blabbing to her girlfriends and then sharing their opinions, as long as they coincide with hers. You can tell anyone you want. The more the merrier. Let her see how it feels.”

Once I left him, I pulled off on a side street and made notes. I’d been the happy beneficiary of Winston’s anger at his wife. His report about the car had created more questions than it answered, but at least he’d placed her on New Cut Road when the sheriff ’s department assumed that she’d already left town. Or died. But if Foley killed her and buried her, how had he pulled it off? The Sullivans had only one car, and if it was parked out on New Cut Road, how did he get there and back? The park in the little town of Silas was six miles away. Granted, there was a three-hour gap between the end of the fireworks and his arriving home, but it would have taken him that long just to walk as far as New Cut Road and back. And what could he have done with the car? Winston had speculated that Violet might have been out there waiting for someone, in which case they might have hightailed it out of town as soon as he showed up. That possibility was at least compatible with the facts. What seemed worrisome was the dog. From all reports, Baby yapped incessantly, so why hadn’t Winston heard her bark?

At 4:00 I presented myself at Liza Clements’s front door. The house itself was plain, a long wood-frame box with a nondescript porch built across the front. The Santa Maria neighborhood was nicely maintained, but it had seen better days. Trees and shrubs had grown too large for the lots, but no one had had the nerve to cut them down. Consequently, the yards were dark and the windows were obscured by evergreens that towered above the rooflines. The shade created a chilliness that seemed to shroud all the houses on the block.

The woman who answered the door looked much younger than her years. She wore tennis shoes, baggy pants, and a double-breasted white chef ’s jacket that buttoned across the front. Her fair hair was shoulder-length, parted down the middle, and pulled back behind her ears. She had blue eyes, wide straight brows, and a wide mouth. Her complexion was pale and creamy, with a smattering of freckles across her nose. She wore a silver heart-shaped locket that glinted in the V of her shirt. She stood and looked at me blankly. “Yes?”

“You’re Liza?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Kinsey Millhone.”

It took another half a beat before she remembered who I was and then she put a hand to her mouth. “I’d forgotten you were coming. I’m so sorry. Please come in.”

“Is this an okay time?”

“Fine. I didn’t mean to cut you short yesterday, but I was halfway down the walk when I heard the phone ring.”

I stepped into a living room that was ten feet by twelve, furnished out of Pier 1 Imports with very little money but a good eye for design: wicker, plump Indonesian tan-and-black block-print pillows, a reed rug on the floor, and lots of houseplants that, on a second glance, turned out to be fakes.

“No problem. Thanks for seeing me today. Are you a chef?”

“Not with any formal training. I bake as a hobby, but I’ve been doing it for years. I make wedding cakes in the main, but just about anything else you’d want. Why don’t you have a seat?”

I took one of the white wicker chairs with sturdy canvas cushions forming both the seat and the back. “My landlord was a commercial baker in his working days. He’s retired now, but he still bakes every chance he gets. Your house smells like his—vanilla and hot sugar.”

“I’ve lived with it so long I don’t even notice it. I guess it’s like working in a brewery. Your nose eventually goes dead. My husband always thought that was just how our house smelled.”

“You’re married?”

“Not now. I’ve been divorced for six years. He owns a party rental business in town. We’re still good friends.”

“You have kids?”

“One boy,” she replied. “Kevin and his wife, Marcy, are expecting their first baby, a little girl, sometime in the next ten days unless the little bugger’s late. They’re naming her Elizabeth, after me, though they plan to call her Libby.” Her fingers moved to the silver locket, touching it as though for luck.

“You look too young to be a grandmother.”

“Thanks. I can hardly wait,” she said. “What can I help you with?”

“Daisy Sullivan’s hired me in hopes of finding her mother.”

“That’s what I heard. You talked to Kathy Cramer earlier.”

“Nice woman,” I lied, hoping God wouldn’t rip my tongue out.

She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear. “I wish you luck. I’d love to know where Violet ended up. She changed the course of my life.”

“Really. For better or for worse?”

“Oh, for better. No question. She was the first adult who ever took an interest in me. What a revelation. I’d grown up in Serena Station, which has to be one of the crappiest little places on earth. Have you seen it?”

“Daisy showed me around. It’s like a ghost town.”

“Now it is. Back then, a lot more people lived there, but everyone was so boring and conventional. Violet was like a breath of fresh air, if you’ll pardon the cliché. She didn’t give a hoot about obeying the rules and she didn’t care what other people thought about her. She was such a free spirit. She made everybody else seem stodgy and dull by comparison.”

“You’re the first person I’ve talked to who’s had anything nice to say.”

“I was her lone defender even back then. I can see now she had a self-destructive streak. She was impulsive, or maybe ‘reckless’ is the better word. People were attracted to her and repelled at the same time.”

“How so?”

“I think she reminded them of all the things they wanted but didn’t have the courage to pursue.”

“Was she happy?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. She was desperate to get away. She was sick of being poor and sick of Foley’s knocking her around.”

“So you believe she left town?”

She blinked at me. “Of course.”

“How’d she manage it?”

“The way she managed everything else. She knew what she wanted and she outfoxed anyone who got in her way.”

“Sounds ruthless.”

“Again, that’s a matter of semantics. I’d say ‘determined,’ but it sometimes amounts to the same thing. It about broke my heart that she left without saying good-bye. Then again, I had to say ‘Go and God bless.’ I wasn’t that articulate at fourteen, but that’s how I felt. I couldn’t bear it for my sake, but I was glad for her. Do you know what I mean? She saw a chance and she took it. A door flew open and she zipped right through. I admired her for that.”

“You must have missed her.”

“It was awful at first. We always talked about everything and suddenly she was gone. I was crushed.”

“What’d you do?”

“What could I do? I learned to get by on my own.”

“She never got in touch?”

“No, but I was so sure she would. Even if it was a postcard with one line, or no message at all. A postmark would have been sufficient. Anything to let me know she’d made it to wherever. I used to imagine her in Hawaii, or Vermont—someplace completely different than this. I haunted the mailbox for months, but I guess she couldn’t take the chance.”

“I don’t see how a postcard could have put her in jeopardy.”

“You’re wrong about that. Sonia, the woman at the post office, would’ve spotted it when she was sorting the mail. I wouldn’t have told a soul, but word would’ve gotten out. Sonia was a blabbermouth, which Violet well knew.”

“You were the last person who had any substantial contact with her.”

“I know and I’ve thought about that night. It runs like a loop in my head. You ever get a song on your brain and no matter what you do, it keeps playing and playing? That’s how it is with her. Even now. Well, maybe not so much now. The images do fade, but you know what? I smell violet cologne and bang, she’s there again. It brings tears to my eyes.”

“Did it ever cross your mind something might have happened to her?”

“You mean, foul play? People talked about that, but I didn’t believe it for a minute.”

“Why not? You’d seen what Foley did to her. Didn’t it occur to you she might have come to grief?”

She shook her head. “I thought it was something else. I was there earlier that day and saw these brown paper bags sitting on the chair. I recognized some of her favorite things on top and I asked her what she was doing. She said she’d cleaned out her closet and the stuff was going to Goodwill. Well, that seemed looney even at the time. Later—this was after she was gone—it occurred to me that she’d been packing.”

“To go where?”

“I don’t know. A friend’s house? There must have been some place.”

I blinked. “Did she say anything to that effect?”

“Not a word. Foley was gone—I don’t know where—and I’d gone over to the house to hang out. She went on talking about something else so I let it drop.”

“How come this is the first I’ve heard of it? I’ve read all the articles about Violet, but I didn’t see a reference to any bags of clothes.”

“I don’t know what to say. I told the sheriff ’s deputies, but they acted like they didn’t want to hear. By then they were busy quizzing Foley about where he was on Saturday night. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. I figured since she hadn’t mentioned it, she didn’t want anyone to know.”

“But you had to think someone would have been in touch with the authorities once word got out that she was considered a missing person. Surely someone could have contacted the police without compromising her safety.”

“Exactly, but the papers ran the story twice and no one came forward, so then I figured I must have made a mistake. She might have left town instead.”

“And that’s what you told them?”

“Well, no. I got worried that if they thought she’d run off, they’d put up road blocks or something.”

“What for? She was an adult. If she left of her own accord, they’d have no right to interfere. Cops aren’t in the business of chasing runaway spouses, assuming that’s what she did.” I was trying not to sound accusatory. She’d been fourteen years old and the account she was giving me was her adolescent reasoning, untempered by later maturity or insight.

“Oh. I guess what you’re saying makes sense, but I didn’t understand it at the time. Foley was a basket case by then, and I didn’t want him hearing about it either, for fear he’d go after her.”

“But this was what, five or six days later? She could have been in Canada by then.”

“Exactly. I thought the bigger head start she had, the safer she’d be.”

Inwardly I was rolling my eyes. “It didn’t bother you that your silence left Foley on the hot seat?”

“He put himself there. I didn’t do anything to him.”

“He’s always maintained she ran off. You could have backed him up.”

“Why would I help him? He beat her up for years and no one ever said a word. She finally got away from him and good for her. He could stew in his own juices as far as I was concerned. I wasn’t going to lift a hand.”

“I’m curious why you’d tell me when you never mentioned it before. Reporters must have asked.”

“I wasn’t under any obligation to them. For one thing, I don’t like journalists. What do they call themselves…‘investigative reporters.’ Oh, please. Like they think they’ll get a Pulitzer out of the deal. They’re rude, and half the time they treated me like I was on the witness stand. All they cared about was selling papers and promoting themselves.”

“What about the sheriff ’s department? You didn’t think to go back and set the record straight?”

“No way. By then they’d made such a federal case of it I was scared to say a word. I’m willing to admit it now because I’m fond of Daisy and I’m glad she’s doing this.”

I thought about it briefly, wondering how this fit in with what I knew. “Something else came up today. Winston Smith told me he saw her car out on New Cut Road that night. This was sometime before the fireworks ended because he could hear ’em in the distance. He didn’t see Violet or the dog, but he knew the Bel Air. I can’t understand why she wasn’t gone by then if she’d left the house at six fifteen.”

Liza shook her head. “I can’t help you there. How does that fit in?”

“I have no idea.”

“So why didn’t he bring it up before? You talk about me keeping quiet. He could have said something years ago.”

“He did. He mentioned it to Kathy and she shrugged it off. It was one of those occasions where the longer he kept quiet, the harder it was for him to speak up. If she’d given him any encouragement, he might have passed the information on.”

Liza’s expression held a tinge of distaste. “I’m not sure how much credence you can give him. He and Kathy are having a hard time. He’d probably say anything to make her look bad.”

“Maybe so, but the point is it shores up Foley’s claim.”

“I never said Foley killed her. Just the opposite.”

“But a lot of people thought he did. His life has been ruined. The point is, with the car all the way out there and him at the park, how’s he going to kill her and get away with it?”

“Dumb luck, I guess.”

“I’m serious.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be flippant.”

“Am I overlooking something here?”

Her gaze shifted to the floor and I could see her running the possibilities through her mind. “Not that I believe this, but just for the sake of argument, what if she was already dead by then?”

“That’s not out of the question,” I said. “But if Foley was the one who killed her, how’d he pull it off? He was at the park until the fireworks ended, then he went to the Moon. How’s he going to get out there, get rid of her body, and then dispose of the Bel Air. He doesn’t have transportation because he’s traded in his truck and she’s driving the only car they own.”

“He could have borrowed a car or even stolen one. He drives out and buries her. What’s so hard about that?”

“But then he’s stuck with two cars, the Bel Air and the one he borrowed or stole. You said he came in after midnight, but the timing’s still too tight. What’d he do with her car? If he drove it off a cliff or pushed it down a ravine, he still has to walk back to the stolen-slash-borrowed car, pick that up, and drive home. It’s too elaborate and it’s way too labor intensive. It would have taken him all night.”

I saw a tint of pink rise in her cheeks. She said, “You really don’t even know if she was there. You’re just arguing for the sake of it. She could have abandoned her car and gone off with someone else.”

“Ah. You’re right about that. I like that. But then what? A car thief conveniently arrives and makes off with her Bel Air?”

Liza was getting impatient. “Oh, who knows? I don’t even care by now. I care what happened to her, but not the car.”

“All right. Skip that. Let’s go back to your point and say she ran off with some guy. Any idea who?”

“I never saw her with anyone. Besides, I’m not sure I’d tell you even if I had.”

“You still feel protective?”

“Yes, I guess I do. If there was a guy and they figured out who, it might tip them off to where she went.”

“I thought you said you wanted to help Daisy. If you have any ideas, it’d be nice to hear.”

“I didn’t say that. I said I was glad she was doing this for her sake. It’s not like I’m withholding information. I mean, what if Violet doesn’t want to be found? Shouldn’t she be left in peace?”

“Unfortunately, Daisy’s interests and her mother’s may not coincide.”

“Look, all I know is I don’t like being put in the middle like this. I’ve told you as much as I know. The rest of it is your problem. I hope Daisy gets what she wants, but not at Violet’s expense.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “I guess in the long run, it’s theirs to deal with. I’ll find her if I can. What the two of them do with it is up to them. Daisy’s struggling with the notion of rejection. She doesn’t want to think her mother walked off and left her without a backward glance.”

“Violet wasn’t necessarily rejecting her. Maybe she was saying yes to something else.”

“Bottom line in that case? She put her interests above Daisy’s.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a woman did that. Sometimes the choices are hard. If she had a guy and he was really good for her, it might have been worth the price. I don’t mean to keep defending her, but the poor woman isn’t here to defend herself.”

“That’s fine. I understand. She meant a lot to you.”

“Correction. Not ‘a lot.’ She meant everything to me.”

“Which puts you and Daisy in the same boat.”

“Not quite. I didn’t think I’d recover, but here I am and life goes on. Daisy should learn to do the same.”

“Maybe she’ll get to that one day, but for now she feels stuck.” There was a momentary pause while I roamed over the stories I’d heard, looking for something else. I’m sure she was wishing I’d leave her alone. “What happened to your boyfriend?”

“What?”

“Your boyfriend. Weren’t you going steady with a guy back then?”

“That was Ty Eddings. How’d you hear about that?”

“Somebody mentioned him. I forget now who. We were talking about all the stuff that went on in the same time frame. The two of you broke up, right?”

“More or less. He left the day after Violet.”

“Because?”

“I have no idea. I mean, it’s not like we had a falling out. Sunday morning, we were going to meet and spend the day together. Instead, his mother drove in from Bakersfield and hauled him off. I never heard from him again.”

“That’s a tough one.”

“Yes, it was. He was the love of my life. He was a bad boy, but so adorable. I was crazy about him. He was seventeen—three years older than me. He’d been in trouble—truancy and poor grades—things like that. His parents sent him to Serena Station so he could start fresh. I thought he was doing fine.”

“There was no relationship between him and Violet?”

“You mean like he’s the one she ran off with?”

“Bad boys can be appealing if you have a reckless streak.”

“Ah, I see what you mean, but there’s no chance. We spent every waking minute together, and if I wasn’t with him I was with her.”

“Just a thought.”

“It wasn’t him. I can guarantee you that.”

“You really suffered a double whammy, losing Ty and Violet virtually the same day.”

Her smile was fleeting. “Luck of the draw. You play the hand you’re dealt. There’s no point in dwelling on it afterwards.”

15

TOM

Wednesday, July 1, 1953

Tom Padgett sat in the Blue Moon, working on his second beer while he brooded about life. Thinking about it later, he could visualize that sequence of events—narrow slivers of reality lined up like the pickets in a fence. Or maybe not the pickets so much as the spaces between. Over the course of three months, his perception had shifted, and suddenly he realized the world was not as he’d imagined it—fair, equitable, or just. People were grasping and self-centered. People were busy looking out for themselves. That had actually shocked him, discovering that truth, though it was apparently obvious to everyone else. In a remarkably short period of time, he’d gone from hope and optimism to a much bleaker view of human nature until, finally, reluctantly, he’d realized he was among the disenfranchised, which was perhaps where he’d been all along.

The first glimpse he’d had of what was coming his way occurred in a counseling session back in the spring. April Fool’s Day in point of fact, which should have been a clue. He and Cora had been married for three years, knocking heads for the better part of two. They were like two dogs tugging on opposing ends of a towel, going round and round, yanking and jerking, but neither one giving ground. Basically the struggle was about power, and the measure of power was related to control of the funds, of which she had the bulk. He couldn’t remember who’d suggested the meeting with the minister at the church where he and Cora attended services. He wasn’t a religious man himself, but Cora felt church was important and that was good enough for him. She was, of course, fifty-six years old, closer to her demise than he was at the age of forty-one, so that might have had its effect. Where he’d sworn up and down the age difference between them didn’t mean a thing to him, he could see that it was going to be tougher as the years went by. Cora looked every bit of her fifty-six years. Her face, not beautiful to begin with, had suffered a collapse in the course of one year, right after she turned fifty-five. He had no idea why, but it was as if somebody yanked a chain and a curtain of wrinkles descended with a thud. Her neck looked like something that had sat unattended in the dryer for days. Her hair had thinned. She started going to the beauty parlor twice a week to have it fluffed and back-combed into an appearance of volume. The problem was he could see right through the ratting to the scalp beneath. She needed constant reassurances, anything to soothe her insecurities. The one thing that gave her confidence was all the money she had. Tom was coming into his prime, but he hadn’t made quite the success of himself that he’d hoped. Part of that was Cora’s fault because she had the wherewithal to help, but she refused to lift a finger. Which is what had brought them to the pastor’s study. Tom had made a cursory study of the Old and New Testaments, and he was pleased with the many admonitions about a wife’s duty to her spouse. She was meant to be his helpmeet, submissive in everything. It said so right there in 1st Peter 3, verses 1 through 12.

That’s what he was hoping to get down to.

Here’s how it went instead.

The pastor, in a mild and caring tone, had asked him what he saw as the problem.

Tom had his answer all set. “In a nutshell, I see marriage as a partnership of equals, like a team, but that’s not what I’m dealing with here. She has no faith in me, and that undercuts any faith I might have in myself. I’m no expert on the Bible, but Scripturewise, that doesn’t seem right.”

Cora had jumped in, giving the minister her side. “But we’re not equals. I brought a fortune into this marriage and he didn’t have a dime. I don’t understand why I have to sacrifice half of what I have so he’ll feel like a whole man.”

The minister said, “I understand what you’re saying, Cora, but there has to be a little give here.”

Cora blinked at the man. “Give?”

The minister turned to him. “Tom?”

“I’m not asking for a nickel of her money. All I want is a little help getting on my feet.”

“Why don’t you direct your comments to her?”

“Sure. Of course. I’d be happy to. What I can’t understand is your attitude. It’s not like you earned the money. Loden Galsworthy did that. When you met him, you were clerking in a dry goods store. He was a shrewd businessman. His funeral parlors are a big success, and I admire that about him. Who else would be ghoulish enough to make money off the dead? I’m asking for the chance to show you that I’m just as good or better.”

“Why do you insist on seeing yourself in competition with him?”

“I don’t. I’m not. How can I compete when the man is dead? Cora, I’m not a taker. That’s not my nature. Given half a chance, I can prove it to you. All I need is a stake.”

“Loden didn’t have money handed to him. He earned it all himself.”

“But he was born a man of privilege as you well know. I admit I come from humbler stock. You come from humble stock yourself and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. What I don’t see is why you’d begrudge me the opportunity.”

“What do you call the twenty thousand dollars I loaned you last fall?”

“That wasn’t enough to do me any good. I tried telling you at the time. You might as well have made it twenty dollars instead of twenty thousand. You can’t start a business without capital outlay, especially one like mine. But look at what I’ve accomplished. I got myself up and running and I did it on my own. What I’m talking about now is a little boost.”

“If your business were up and running, you wouldn’t be sitting here trying to browbeat me into giving you more.”

Tom looked at the minister. “Browbeating? Is this browbeating when I’m practically down on my hands and knees?”

The minister said, “I think Cora can appreciate your position in this.”

Tom said to Cora, “No, wait a minute. Who’s idea was this? Mine. I’m here trying to work things out, trying to resolve our differences with precious little help from you.”

“You’re here because you thought you could use him to pressure me into it. I’m sorry, but I won’t give you a cent. It’s out of the question.”

“I’m not asking you to give me the money. We’re talking about a loan. We can draw up any kind of papers you like and I’ll sign on the dotted line. I don’t want charity. I want your trust and respect. Is that too much to ask?”

Cora stared at her hands.

Tom thought she was formulating a reply, but then he realized this was her reply. He could feel the heat rise in his face. Her silence said everything. She had no respect for him and she had no trust. What it all boiled down to was she’d married him knowing full well that his financial situation was limited. She’d said it didn’t matter, but he could see now that what she wanted was the upper hand. Money was control and she had no intention of surrendering her advantage. When she’d been married to Loden he’d held the whip and she’d been dependent, jumping through hoops. Now she was doing the same thing to him.

He couldn’t remember how the session ended. Certainly not with Cora making a concession of any kind.

They’d been silent walking to the car, silent on the way home. He’d dropped her at the house and headed straight for the Moon. Violet was there that night. She’d perched on the stool next to his and he’d bought her a glass of red wine. She was half in the bag, but then again, so was he by this time. “What has you so down in the dumps?” she’d asked.

“It’s Cora. We had a counseling session with the minister and somewhere in the middle, the light finally dawned. The woman doesn’t trust me and she has no respect. I don’t understand it. She married me for better or for worse. This is worse, where I am, but she won’t lend a hand to pull me out of a hole.”

“What kind of hole?”

“Money, what else? My business needs a boost. That’s all I’m talking about.”

Violet had laughed. “She’s supposed to give you money? Why should she do that?”

“I’d do it for her. What’s marriage about if not sharing fifty-fifty? Doesn’t that sound fair?”

“Sure, but in this case, both halves belong to her. What do you have to offer?”

“Business savvy. I’m a businessman.”

“You’re a horse’s ass. You sound just like Foley. He’d love to get his big mitts on my money. It’s like the Chinese water torture. Drip, drip, drip.”

“You don’t see yourselves as a team?”

“Sure. We’re made for each other. He’s the boxer and I’m the punching bag.”

“You wouldn’t give him anything? Even if it might make a difference in his life?”

“Of course not. Why should I? He’d piss it away.”

“You women are hard. I’ve never seen anything like it. The Bible says wives should be submissive to their husbands. Didn’t you ever hear about that?”

“No.”

“Well, neither did my wife. It’s not even her money. She got it from that old fart she was married to. Hell, I’d have married the man myself if he’d asked me nice.”

Violet’s eyebrows went up. “Why? Are you one of them?”

“No, I’m not one of them. I’m just making a point.”

“You don’t know what women go through to get money.”

Tom said, “Well, I can make it easy for you. That money you got? You give it to me and I’ll promise you a forty percent return in three months. Guaranteed.”

“Bullshit.” She took out a cigarette and Tom leaned forward with a light. She blew out a stream of smoke and gave him a speculative look. “I got a question for you. How come you never come on to me? Don’t you find me attractive?”

“I do. Of course I do. What kind of question is that?”

“You’re a stud. I can tell by looking at you.”

Tom laughed, embarrassed. “Well, I appreciate your confidence. I’m not sure Cora would agree.”

“I’m serious. How long have we been talking like this? How many times we been in here dancing and clowning around? But you never make a move. What’s that all about?”

“I can’t believe you’d criticize me when I’m the only guy in town who’s not trying to get in your pants. You know why that is? I’ll tell you why. I’m more interested in this,” he said, tapping his head. “Sure, we could take a tumble in the hay. And then what? You’d move on to someone else. I’d rather be your friend.”

“Oh, please.”

“You know what grieves me? To see a mind like yours go to waste. You’re so busy fending off that psychopath you’re married to you don’t have the time or energy to do anything else. Why don’t you use your brain for a change and get away from the guy.”

“I don’t know. Foley’s kind of sweet in his way.”

“That’s poppycock and you know it. You can’t let emotion rule you in these things. You gotta be hard-nosed.”

“But I’m not.”

“Call it practical if you like. Look at me and Cora. There’s nothing wrong with her. I admire the woman, but what good is that? The marriage is dead. She knows it as well as I do, but you want to know what happens if I ask for a divorce? I’ll be out on my ass. Same thing with you. You can walk away, but all you’ll take with you are the clothes on your back.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. If I could get free, I’d be willing to leave it all behind. Who cares about possessions? Anything I have can be replaced. I got money of my own.”

“You just can’t get off that, can you?”

“You’re the one brought up money.”

“Now you sound just like Cora.”

“Anyway, what the hell do you have to complain about? You got that big house and those cars. You know what I’d give to have a car like yours?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Violet. Four thousand for a car? That’s chump change. You’re out there with your head down, hunting for pennies on the ground. You gotta look at the bigger picture.”

“You paid four thousand dollars for a car? You can’t be serious.”

“See, that’s what’s wrong with you. You think small. You think if you keep a real-tight hold on your money you can keep the dollar bills from flying away. Doesn’t work like that. You gotta loosen up. Put your money to work. Okay, so you got what in the bank, twenty?”

Violet jerked her thumb up, indicating more.

“Thirty-five?”

“Fifty,” she said.

“That’s good. Great, but every day it sits, you’re losing money on your money—”

She cut him off. “Nun-hun. I know what you’re getting at and it’s no deal.”

“You have no idea what I’m getting at so would you listen for a change? I’m saying we pool our funds.”

“Oh, sure, pool our funds. I bet you’d like that. You know why? Because I got more than you.”

“I got money.”

“How much?”

He tilted his head, calculating. “I’ll be honest with you. I got a lot, but not as much as you. That’s what I’m working on right now.”

“Super. I’m thrilled on your behalf. I’m still not giving you a dime.”

“That’s what I like about you. You’re stubborn as hell. Tell you what, though, you change your mind, all you have to do is say the word.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

16

I arrived at the Blue Moon that night in advance of Tannie and Daisy. It was 6:45 and the whole of Serena Station was bathed in golden light. The air smelled of bay laurel, the scent underscored by the faint suggestion of wood smoke. In the absence of a visible autumn, Californians are forced to fabricate, stockpiling wood for the fireplace, hauling heavy sweaters out of the bottom drawer. Many residents live in exile; eastern-seaboard and midwestern transplants who end up on the West Coast in search of good weather. No more ice storms, no 108-degree days, no tornadoes, and no hurricanes. First comes relief at being delivered from bugs, humidity, and climatic extremes. Then the boredom sets in. Soon they’re making nostalgic trips home at considerable expense to revisit the very elements they’d sought to escape.

The patron parking lot was full and cars were lined up along the road. I made one circuit of the lot, found a small, probably illegal spot and managed to squeeze in. As I made my way to the entrance, I glanced back, amused at how conspicuous my VW looked in the midst of all the pickups, camper shells, vans, and RVs.

The exterior of the restaurant was rough-hewn, its weathered board-and-batten façade as squared up and staunch as a saloon on a western movie set. The interior was a continuation of the theme: wagon wheels, oil lamps, and wooden tables covered in red-and-white-checked cloths. Happy hour was under way. Where I’d anticipated the odor of cigarettes and beer, the air was rich with the scent of prime beef being grilled over oak.

Tannie had reserved us a table on the left side of the bar area, which was jammed with people. On the right, through an arch, I could see two or three dining rooms, but my guess was the regulars preferred to eat here, where they could keep an eye out for pals. I was probably one of the few unfamiliar faces they’d seen in a while, judging by the curious looks being turned on me.

The hostess showed me to the table and moments later a waitress approached. She handed me a menu printed on plain white paper. “You want something to drink while you wait for your friends? Wine list is on the back.”

I glanced at the list of wines by the glass, bypassing hard liquor in favor of something more familiar. I ordered a glass of Chardonnay and then caught sight of a man, sitting at the bar, whose gaze seemed to be fixed on me. I turned to see if he was staring at someone else, but I seemed to be it. Once the waitress went off to fetch my wine, he eased off the bar stool and headed in my direction. He was tall, with a lean, rangy body, and long arms. His face was narrow, as lined and weathered as a contour map. Broken capillaries in his cheeks made him appear flushed, and exposure to the outdoors had mottled his skin to a nutty brown. His hair, once dark, was now a salt-and-pepper mix.

When he reached the table, he held out his hand. “Jake Ottweiler, Tannie’s father. You must be her friend.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Kinsey. How are you?”

“Welcome to the Blue Moon, which most of us refer to as ‘The Moon.’ I saw you when you came in.”

“So did everyone else. You must not get a lot of walk-in trade.”

“More than you’d think. Folks from Santa Teresa drive up on a regular basis.” His eyes were a piercing blue against the sunburned darkness of his face. Tannie had told me he’d farmed the land for years, but his part-ownership in the Blue Moon had apparently introduced an element of gentility. He’d traded in his work boots and overalls for slacks and a nicely cut navy sport coat over a soft white shirt.

When the waitress reappeared and set down my glass of white wine, he murmured, “I’ll take care of that” with scarcely a glance at her. It was clear they’d dealt with each other for so long the need for conversation was reduced to a minimum.

I said, “Will you join me?”

“Briefly. At least until Tannie gets here. I’m sure you girls have lots to talk about.” He pulled out a chair and ordered a drink with the lift of one hand. When the waitress had moved off again, he leaned back in his chair and studied me. “You don’t look like my idea of a private eye.”

“These days, we come in all shapes and sizes.”

“How’s it going?”

“An investigation like this requires the patience of a saint.”

“Seems like a fool’s errand, if you want to know the truth.”

“No doubt,” I said. “Can I ask you a few questions as long as I have you here?”

“Be my guest. I don’t know that I can help, but I’ll tell you what I can.”

“How well did you know Violet?”

“Well enough, I guess. I used to see her in here two and three times a week. She was a troubled soul, but not a bad person by any means.”

“I heard she took you to small-claims court because of an incident in which your dog killed hers.”

“That was bad. I felt sorry for her, but I had my dog under control. Hers was running loose, so she was as much at fault as I was. In the end, I had to put my dog down, but it had nothing to do with her. Anyway, we settled it. I could have argued the point, but to what end? Her toy poodle was dead and she was brokenhearted until she got Baby.”

“Were you at the park for the fireworks the night she disappeared?”

“I was. Tannie was supposed to go with her brother, but he took off with his friends so the two of us went.”

“Did you see Foley?”

“No, but I know he and Livia Cramer got into it. She didn’t approve of the Sullivans. She thought they were heathens, which was none of her concern, but the woman never could leave well enough alone. She got on him about Daisy. The little girl had never been baptized and Livia thought it was disgraceful. Foley was drunk by then and told her exactly what she could go and do with herself. Livia made sure everyone in town heard what he’d said. In her mind, it was one more example of what a lowlife he was.”

“You didn’t see Violet?”

He shook his head. “Last time I saw Violet was the day before. She was driving around town in that new car of hers and she stopped to have a chat.”

“You remember the subject?”

“Mostly she was showing off. She’d come back from taking Daisy and Liza Mellincamp to lunch and a movie in Santa Maria. She had errands to run, so she’d dropped the girls at the house while she was out and about.”

“You’ve got a good memory.”

He smiled. “I’d like to take credit, but the subject comes up every other year—some journalist in town. I’ve told the story so often, I could do it in my sleep.”

“I’ll bet. When you talked to Violet, she seemed okay to you?”

“As much as she ever did. She had her ups and downs, what I believe they call bipolar these days.”

“Really. That’s new. No one’s mentioned mood swings.”

“That was my observation. I’m not up on these things so it’s only a guess on my part. She did a lot of crying in her beer, so to speak.”

“Daisy remembers her parents getting into a big fight the night before. This would have been Thursday night. She says Foley tore down a panel of her mother’s curtains. Violet blew her stack, tore down the rest of them and threw ’em in the trash. Did you hear about that?”

He shook his head slightly. “Sounds like something she’d do. Why bring that up?”

“I’ve heard that’s why Foley ended up buying her the car, to make amends.”

“Must not have done much good if she left anyway,” he said. “Fellow you want to talk to is my partner, BW, who tended bar back then. Unfortunately, he’s not in tonight or I’d introduce you.”

“Daisy suggested his name, too. Could you let him know I’m trying to get in touch?”

“How about I tell you where he’ll be at seven in the morning and you can talk to him yourself? Maxi’s Coffee Shop. It’s right on the road between Silas and Serena Station. He’s there every morning for an hour or so.”

I could feel my eyes cross at the notion of an early morning drive. I’d have to leave S.T. at dawn. “I’d hate to pop in unannounced. He might not like being quizzed while he’s enjoying his morning coffee and eating his eggs.”

“BW won’t care. He’s an easygoing guy and he loves to hold court.”

“How would I recognize him?”

“Easy. He weighs three hundred pounds and his head is shaved.”

He glanced at the entrance behind me, and I turned to see Daisy and Tannie coming in the door. They spotted us and crossed to the table with Tannie leading the way. She was sunburned from a day spent outside battling the brush, but she’d managed in the interim to shower and change clothes. Her jeans were freshly pressed and her white blouse was crisp, her hair still damp and tucked under a baseball cap. Daisy wore a red cotton cardigan over a red-and-white-print dress. She’d pulled her blond hair back, clamping it in place with a red plastic clip.

Jake rose as they approached. Tannie gave her dad a buss on the cheek. “Hey, Pop. I see you’ve met Kinsey,” she said, and then slipped into the chair beside mine.

He pulled out a chair for Daisy. “How’re you doing, Daisy? You’re looking good.”

“Thanks. I’m fine. Place smells divine.”

“I got an eight-ounce filet with your name on it.”

Tannie lowered her gaze, but the comment she made was directed to me. “Don’t look now, but Chet Cramer just walked in with Caroleena, the Violet Sullivan clone.”

Of course, I looked straight up, catching Chet Cramer’s eye. His smile was friendly, but I noticed he promptly steered his wife toward another part of the bar. From the glimpse I had, she looked too old to be dying her hair such a harsh shade of red. Her pale complexion was more the result of makeup than the delicate Irish coloring she hoped to simulate. Tight dress, big boobs, getting thick in the waist.

“Does she really look like Violet?”

“Oh, hardly,” Daisy scoffed. “That woman’s a cow. My mother was a natural beauty. Poor Kathy Cramer. I’d be mortified if my father connected up with someone like that.”

The dinner crowd was picking up, so Jake excused himself to tend to business while the three of us settled in with our drinks and a serious contemplation of the menu. We all ordered the filet mignon, medium rare, with a salad up front and a side of baked potato. We were finishing the meal when the subject of Kathy Cramer surfaced again. Having been granted immunity from any accusation of gossiping, I naturally passed along the news about the collapse of the Cramer-Smith marriage.

“Well, good for him. She is such a bitch. I’m happy to hear he’s finally busting out,” Tannie said.

Daisy said, “I’m with you. About time he got a backbone.”

“I’m not sure you can call it ‘busting out’ when she’s giving him the boot,” I said.

Tannie made a pained face. “But he used to be so cute. And really, the name Winston. Could you just die?” she said. “I do think someone should tell him to drop the weight. Even twenty pounds would make a difference. He goes back on the market, I know half a dozen women who’d snap him up.”

“Including me,” Daisy said, offended that Tannie would offer him up without consulting her.

“Oh, right. Just what you need, another guy with an ax to grind. Wait till Kathy hits him up for alimony and child support. He’ll never get out from under.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“What choice does he have?” Tannie asked. “They’ve been married close to thirty years. She had a crush on him since eighth grade. Remember that? No, you wouldn’t. You were still in elementary school. But I’m telling you, even when I was ten, I’d see her moping around town. So pathetic. She’d find ways to bump into him and she’d be going, ‘Oh gee, Winston, I had no idea you’d be here.’ She’d sit behind him in church and stare at him like she could eat him alive. The guy never had a chance.”

I said, “I saw the wedding photo he keeps in his office. He was very trim.”

Tannie said, “True. And she was big as a tank.”

“How’d she lose the weight?”

“How do you think? She’s popping pills like after-dinner mints.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. Black-market speed. She’s got a source, from what I heard.”

“Now that I think about it, she did seem amped,” I said.

The busboy removed our plates and the waitress showed up again to offer us dessert, which all three of us declined.

I watched as a man leaving the bar did a detour toward our table. From across the room, I placed him in his midforties, but by the time he’d reached us, I’d added thirty years. His wavy hair was dark, but the color was a shade I imagined Grecian Formula would produce. His eyes were blue behind heavy black-frame glasses that had hearing aids built into the stems. He was roughly my height, five-six, but the heels on his boots gave him another couple of inches. He wore jeans, a red plaid shirt with a string tie, over which he’d buttoned a powder blue western-cut sport coat, nipped in at the waist.

He greeted Daisy and Tannie with familiarity, taking each by the hand. When all the air-kissing was over, Tannie introduced us. “This is Kinsey Millhone. Tom Padgett. He owns Padgett Construction and the A-Okay Heavy Equipment yard in Santa Maria. Daisy bought her old house from him.”

“Nice meeting you,” I said.

We made polite noises at each other and then he and Tannie chatted while Daisy excused herself.

Tannie gestured toward the empty chair. “Join us for a drink.”

“I don’t want to barge in.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ve been meaning to call you anyway to pick your brain.”

“What’s left of it,” he said.

He treated us to a round of after-dinner drinks, and the conversation moved from the general to the specific, that being the Tanner house and the debate about rehabilitation. Padgett’s expression was pained. “House hasn’t been lived in since 1948. You forget I did a lot of work for Hairl Tanner, and he showed me around. Plumbing and wiring were both a mess even back then. Recent fire aside, the house looks good from the outside, but once you go in, you got a real disaster on your hands. Hell, I don’t have to tell you. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Let a house like that sit empty and first the raccoons move in. Then the termites, then the bums. It was grand once upon a time, but try bringing it back and you’ll go broke. You’re looking at well over a million bucks.”

“So I take it you’re opposed,” she said, and then laughed. “I know it’s bad, but that’s a piece of my childhood. I can’t see knocking it down. Besides, we do make some money from the property, between the oil and gas leases.”

“Well, you asked and I’m giving you my opinion. You know the rumors about rezoning. You want to save the house, you’re better off selling to developers and letting them do the work. They could turn it into offices or a party center in the middle of a housing tract.”

“Steve’s point exactly. Don’t tell me you’re in league with him.”

“I got no stake in the matter one way or the other. You ought to get a contractor out there and have him take a look.”

“Why not you?”

“You already know what I think. You need to hear it from someone else. You’ll be happier that way. I’d be willing to meet with anyone you want and throw in my two cents.”

“You’d poison the well.”

“I wouldn’t open my mouth until you heard what he had to say.”

“Who do you recommend?”

“Billy Boynton or Dade Ray. Both are good men.”

“I guess I better do that. I know I’m only postponing the inevitable. I keep thinking, one step at a time, but who am I trying to kid? It’s like having to put a dog down. You know the mutt’s too sick to go on, but it’s just that you don’t want to do it today.”

“I understand. You have to do it in your own time.”

“Enough said. I got it and I appreciate your input.”

“Anytime,” he said. His attention shifted to me. “Pardon my bad manners. Jake was just telling me about you. You’ve got quite a job on your hands.”

“Well, it’s a challenge at any rate. At first the idea seemed absurd, but now I’m enjoying myself. Me against Violet. It’s like playing hide-and-seek.”

“So what’s your theory?”

“I don’t have a theory. Right now I’m talking to anyone and everyone, filling in the blanks. The questions don’t change, but sometimes I get an answer I don’t expect. One of these days, I’m going to pick up a thread and then I’ll see where it goes. From what I’ve heard about Violet, she might have been devious, but she wasn’t good at keeping secrets. Somebody knows where she is.”

“You really think so?”

“I do. Either the guy she ran off with or the guy who did her in. It’s really just a matter of tracking him down.”

He shook his head, his tone skeptical. “I have to hand it to you, you’re an optimist.”

“That’s what keeps me on my toes. What about you? Where do you weigh in on the debate?”

“What, whether she’s dead or alive? Personally, I think she ran off and I said it from the get-go. I spent more than one night listening to Violet bitch. I promise, it was only a matter of time before she found a way out.”

“But where would she have gone; have you ever asked yourself?”

“Sure, I’ve thought about that. She was young and in her own way she was innocent. A small-town kind of girl. She had experience with men, but she didn’t know anything about the world at large. I can’t picture her in a big town like San Francisco or L.A. I can’t even picture her in the state. California’s as expensive now as it was back then, relative to income. Given the cash she had—which probably didn’t amount to much—I’m guessing she’d go someplace she could afford. Midwest, the South—someplace like that.”

“You heard about her money?”

“Half a dozen times. She’d get on a tear and threaten to pull out if Foley didn’t straighten up and fly right.”

“Like that was ever going to happen,” Tannie put in.

The subject shifted. There were only so many ideas you could bounce around with so little information. At 10:30, Padgett made his excuses and headed for the door.

Daisy, meanwhile, was feeling no pain. She’d had enough to drink that some merrier, more loquacious personality had taken over her ordinary self. She was flirting with some guy, laughing too loudly. From a distance, she appeared to be having fun. Up close, I was betting, she was out of control. It was the first indication I’d seen of the trouble she was capable of getting into. Tannie followed my gaze, and the two of us locked eyes briefly. “Once she reaches this point, it’s all over,” Tannie said. “He’ll end up in her bed and things will go downhill from there.”

“We can’t intervene?”

“This time, sure, but she’ll be in here again tomorrow night and the night after that. You want to take on that kind of responsibility? Because I sure don’t. After this round, at any rate. Tannie to the rescue. What an idiot. Wish me luck.”

She left the table and joined Daisy, who was dancing with her cowboy. She took some persuading, but she did return to the table without her new best friend. By the time we were ready to part company, it was 11:00 and I’d had one too many glasses of wine. I was fine for the short haul, but I didn’t like the idea of driving all the way home. “You know what, guys? It’s not such a hot idea my being on the road. Is there a motel around here, or maybe a B-and-B?”

17

The Sun Bonnet Motel was stuck out in the middle of nowhere, a one-story stucco building that was plain, shabby at the seams, but allegedly clean. My room was the kind you’d be wise to avoid examining with a black light after dark because the stains illuminated—bedding, carpeting, furniture, and walls—would suggest activities you wouldn’t want to know about. It was a family business, Mr. and Mrs. Bonnet having owned the place for the past forty years. Its single virtue was that Mrs. Bonnet—Maxi—owned and ran Maxi’s Coffee Shop, which was attached to one end. Oh happy day. In the morning, I could intercept BW within a hundred yards of my bed.

Daisy had been apologetic that she couldn’t put me up at her house, but that’s where Tannie was staying, and she had only the one spare room.

“Sorry ’bout that, but I got dibs,” Tannie injected, clearly pleased with herself.

“You could sleep on my couch,” Daisy said.

“Oh no, not me. I’m too old for that stuff. Maybe some other time.”

After I checked in, I left the registration desk and returned to my car. Mrs. Bonnet had put me in 109, which was down at the end of the line, the second to last of ten rooms. All the other rooms were dark, but there was a car parked on each side of the slot for 109. I left my car in front of my door, only slightly worried by the sight of the drapery sagging off the hooks. I unlocked the door, went in, and flipped on the light. The room was small, the color scheme leaning toward cantaloupe and peach. A double bed was centered on the wall to my right. The pillows looked flat, and there was a trough down the middle of the mattress where my body would just fit, thus saving me needless tossing and turning. The bed tables and the chest of drawers were paint-grade wood with a wood-laminate veneer. The easy chair didn’t look that easy, but I didn’t plan to sit.

I went into the bathroom, floor squeaking as I walked, and pulled my toothbrush, toothpaste, and a change of underpants from my shoulder bag, where I keep them for such occasions. My only serious lament was that I hadn’t brought a book, but I’d expected to drive up and back without any opportunity to read. I checked all the drawers, but there wasn’t so much as a Gideon’s Bible or a stray paperback. I stripped off my jeans and brassiere, and slept in the very T-shirt I’d worn all day. During the night, I could hear—like the sound of a train passing—thunder in the walls as the guests in rooms on both sides of mine flushed their toilets at random intervals. My bedspread smelled musty, and I was happy I didn’t see the article about dust mites until the following week.

At 6:00 A.M. my eyes popped open. For a moment I couldn’t think where I was, and when it finally occurred to me, I was annoyed with myself for waking up so early. I had neither sweats nor running shoes, which meant a morning run was out of the question. I closed my eyes to no avail. At 6:15 I threw the covers back, went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and showered, as those were the only options open to me. I put on my clothes again and sat on the edge of the unmade bed. I didn’t want to walk over to Maxi’s Coffee Shop until 7:00, when I was hoping to meet BW.

I got out my index cards and reviewed my notes, which were beginning to bore me senseless. None of the items were monumental. I’d been asking the same six to eight questions for two days, and while nothing revolutionary had come to light, I had to admit I was better informed. I started working on the timeline for the days leading up to Violet’s disappearance. The story I kept coming back to was Winston’s account of spotting the Bel Air on New Cut Road at the point where construction ended. What had she been doing out there? I thought his guess had merit, that the site was the rendezvous point of Violet and someone else—male, female, lover, friend, family member, or passing acquaintance, I knew not which. The landscape out there was flat, and Winston’s headlights would have been visible for at least a mile. She’d had time enough to move the car, but there was no place to hide it unless she’d driven it to the far side of the Tanner house or across the open fields. A better bet was to conceal herself (alone or with her theoretical companion) in hopes that the approaching driver would turn around and go back without stopping to investigate. If she’d had car trouble and needed help, why not step out of the shadows and flag him down? And what of Baby, the yapping Pomeranian pup? This was not a Sherlockian situation where silence suggested familiarity between the dog and someone else. The dog barked at everyone, at least according to reports. It was still a puzzlement why Violet had chosen the place, but that was an issue I’d have to table for the time being.

At 6:58 I packed my toiletries in my shoulder bag and emerged from my room. The motel parking lot was now packed with cars. I left mine where it was and walked to the coffee shop, which was located in front. The moment I stepped inside, I was assaulted by the noise: conversations, music from the jukebox, laughter, the clattering of china. It was like a party in progress, and the air of comradery suggested the gathering was a daily occurrence. Farmhands, construction workers, oil workers, gang bosses, husbands, wives, infants, and school-age kids—anybody who was out and about apparently made the trek from neighboring towns to have breakfast here. I could smell bacon, sausage, fried ham, and maple syrup.

I was fortunate to capture the one remaining stool at the counter. Specials were posted on a blackboard above the pass-through that opened into the kitchen. The menu was standard: eggs, breakfast meats, toast, muffins, biscuits and gravy, waffles, pancakes, and the usual assortment of teas, coffees, and juices. Two waitresses were working the counter, with another four busy serving the booths and tables that filled the room. I told Darva, the waitress who took my order, that I was looking for BW. I’d scanned the place myself and hadn’t seen anyone remotely fitting his description, but it was always possible I’d missed him in the crush. She did a visual survey, as I had, and shook her head. “Wonder what’s keeping him. He’s usually here by now. I’ll point him out to you the minute he comes in.”

“Thanks.”

She filled my coffee cup, set the cream pitcher within range, and moved down the line, offering refills and warm-ups before she put in my order. My breakfast arrived and I focused my attention on my orange juice, rye toast, crisp bacon, and scrambled eggs. This was my favorite meal, and I wasted no time putting it away. Darva slipped my check under my plate, and when she topped off my coffee cup she said, “That’s him.”

I looked over my shoulder at the fellow standing in the door. He was as Jake Ottweiler had described him, though I’d have put him at a good twenty-five pounds over the three hundred Jake had mentioned. His head was shaved, but a nap of white stubble had grown in again. His brows were dark and his features appeared diminished by all the weight he carried. His neck was thick, and I could see a roll of fat along his collar line in back. He wore jeans and a golf shirt. I watched him make his way across the room, pausing to chat with half the people he passed. Two men vacated a booth and he slid into it, undismayed by the dirty dishes they’d left behind. I waited until the busboy had cleared the table, giving him additional time to order before I paid my check and crossed the room.

“Hi. Are you BW?”

“I am.” He half-rose from his seat and held out his hand, which I shook. “You’re Kinsey. Jake called me last night and told me you’d be in. Have you had breakfast yet?”

“I just finished.”

He sat down again. “In that case, you can join me for a cup of coffee. Slide in.”

I eased into the booth across from him. “Congratulations on the Moon. It’s a great restaurant, and what a crowd.”

“Weekends are even busier. Of course, we’re the only game in town so that doesn’t hurt. First thing we did when we took possession was we bought a liquor license. We remodeled and expanded in the late fifties and then again about five years back. Before that the Moon was just a hole in the wall—beer and wine with a few prepackaged snacks, pretzels, potato chips, things like that. The clientele was mostly locals. We might get someone in from Orcutt or Cromwell, sometimes a few from Santa Maria, but that was about it. You enjoy your dinner?”

“I did. The steak was fabulous.”

The waitress appeared with a coffeepot and mugs. She and BW got into a minor conversation while she poured coffee. “Your order’s coming right up,” she said, and moved away.

He smiled. “I’m a creature of habit. Eat the same thing every day. Same time, same place.” He added cream to his coffee and then picked up three packets of sweetener and flapped them briefly before he tore off the tops. I watched five seconds’ worth of chemicals disappear into his cup. “So you’re making the rounds, asking about Violet. Must be frustrating.”

“Monotonous is more like it. People are trying to be helpful, but information is scarce and the story tends to be the same. Violet had a trashy reputation and Foley beat her. Try to make something out of that.”

“I don’t have much to add. I saw the two of them three and four nights a week, sometimes together, sometimes one or the other alone, but usually half in the bag.”

“So if Violet picked up a stranger, you’d have known about it?”

“You bet, and so would everyone else. People frequented the Moon because they knew the place. We were too small and too far out of the way to attract tourists or traveling salesmen.”

“Did you work every night?”

“I’d take a day off now and then, but I was pretty much the man in charge. The guy who spelled me, if I was sick or out of town, died a long time ago. Who else have you talked to?”

I rattled off the list of names and watched him nod in agreement.

“Sounds right. None of them could help?”

“That remains to be seen. I’m collecting bits and pieces, but I have no idea if anything I’ve picked up is relevant. Do you remember your reaction when you heard she was gone?”

“I wasn’t surprised. I can tell you that.”

“Were you suspicious of anyone?”

“Besides Foley? No.”

“You don’t know of anyone she might have run off with?”

He shook his head.

“Sergeant Schaefer tells me the locals were all present and accounted for. He says the rumors about Violet having a lover were all traceable to Foley, so if he did something to her, he’d provided himself a smoke screen.”

The waitress reappeared with his breakfast: waffles, fried eggs, link sausage, a side of hash browns, and a second side, of grits with a pat of melting butter.

“Makes a certain amount of sense, assuming Foley’s smart enough, which I tend to doubt.”

“At the time, did you think he might have killed her?”

“It crossed my mind. I know he decked her on more than one occasion, but it was usually behind closed doors. None of us would tolerate his abusing her in public.”

“People tell me the two of them got into wrangles all the time at the Moon.”

“Only for as long as it took me to get out from behind the bar with my baseball bat. I’d have been happy to clobber Foley if he put up resistance. He was usually cooperative if I made matters plain.”

“Was she abusive as well?”

“She went after him sometimes, but she was such a tiny thing she couldn’t do much harm. They’d get into it like two dogs, snarling and snapping. I’d go out there and separate them, put her on one side of the room and him on the other.”

“Did you ever hear her talk about leaving him?”

“Now and then,” he replied. “You know, she’d be crying and complaining, feeling sorry for herself. But it’s like I told her, I’m a bartender, not a damn marriage counselor. I did what I could, but it didn’t amount to much. Problem was, they were so used to brawling that as soon as it was over, they went about their business like nothing had gone on. Next thing you know they’d be at it again. I’d have thrown ’em both out for good, but I felt as long as they were in the Moon, at least I could keep an eye on them and intervene if necessary.”

“Did they fight about the same thing or was it different every time?”

“Usually the same. She’d be flirting with some guy and Foley would take offense.”

“Who, though?”

“Who’d she flirt with? Any guy in range.”

“What about Jake Ottweiler?”

“I’ll correct myself. Not him. The man was married and his wife was on her deathbed.”

“Sorry. I didn’t think Violet made many subtle moral distinctions.”

“She didn’t. I saw her throw herself at Tom Padgett and he was married. There was also a fellow who ran a little plumbing concern. Violet was all over him one night. Must have scared the hell out of him because he never came back.”

“Did she ever flirt with you?”

“Sure, if I was the last guy left in the bar.”

“I guess there’s no point in asking if you succumbed to her charms.”

“I wasn’t tempted. Maybe I saw too much and the idea lost its appeal. I liked her, but not that way. She was too messed up, but it wasn’t anything I could change. She was what she was, her and Foley both. Tell you one thing about him: he hasn’t stepped a foot in the Moon since the day she disappeared.”

“At what point did you buy the place?”

“Fall of 1953. Before that it was owned by a couple of guys from Santa Maria. I was the one who managed everything—kept the books, did the ordering, saw the bathrooms were clean.”

“How’d you end up buying it?”

“After Mary Hairl died that August, Jake was at loose ends. He’d had a series of jobs, but none he’d been happy with. He figured it was time for a change, so when he heard the Moon was for sale, he asked if I’d go into partnership with him in buying the place. I had a couple thousand dollars in the bank so I tossed that in the pot. I had years of experience, and he knew he could trust me not to skim the till.”

“It’s been a good deal for both of you?”

“The best.”

“Sorry to keep harping on this point, but do you have any idea who Violet might have been involved with? I’m really at a loss.”

“I probably already said more than I should. Business I’m in, I don’t look, I don’t ask, and I don’t want to know. Anything I do know, I don’t repeat.”

“Even thirty-four years later?”

“Especially thirty-four years later. What purpose would it serve?”

“None, I suppose.”

“Mind if I offer you a word of advice?”

“Why not? I may not take it, but I’m always willing to listen.”

“Something to keep in mind: This is a small community. We look after each other. Somebody like you comes scratching around, nosing in our business, that doesn’t sit well.”

“No one’s objected so far.”

“Not to your face. We’re too polite for that, but I’ve heard grumbles.”

“Of what sort?”

“Understand, this is not coming from me. I’m repeating what I heard.”

“I won’t hold you accountable. What’s the rest of it?”

“If Violet hasn’t been found so far, what makes you think you’re going to get anywhere? Seems nervy to some.”

“It takes a certain amount of nerve to do anything in life,” I said. “This is a fishing expedition. I may not get a bite and in that case, I’m gone.”

“You think if one of us knew where she was, we’d tell you after all these years?”

“I guess that would depend on why she left and how protective you felt. Liza Mellincamp believes she’s out there somewhere. She claims she doesn’t know where, but she sure doesn’t want to be responsible for Violet being exposed.”

“Suppose it’s true,” he said. “Suppose she left town like a lot of people think. Suppose she’s made herself a whole new life? Why track her down? Believe me, she’s suffered enough. If she managed to escape, then more power to her.”

“Daisy hired me to do this. If people have a problem, tell ’em they should take it up with her. My personal opinion? She’s entitled to any information I can find.”

“Assuming you come up with anything.”

“Right, but you know what? The years work on all of us. Secrets are a burden. If someone’s teetering on the brink, all it takes is a nudge, which is one of my jobs.”

He pushed his plate back and took out a pack of cigarettes. I watched him light up, extinguishing the match with a puff of smoke. He kept his cigarette in one corner of his mouth, squinting against the smoke as he leaned to his left and extracted a money clip from his pants pocket. He peeled off a ten and put it by his plate. “Well, I wish you luck. Meantime, I got business to take care of.”

“One more quick question: You think she’s dead or alive?”

“I really wouldn’t care to say. Happy travels.”

“Thanks.”

As soon as he was out the door, I took out my index cards and scribbled down as much of the conversation as I could capture off the top of my head. I glanced at my watch. 7:45. With luck, I could get a call through to Daisy and catch her before she went to work. I grabbed my shoulder bag and moved through the dwindling crowd.

I walked back to my room, intending to do a final quick walk-through before I checked out. I slowed as I approached. My door was ajar. I stopped in my tracks. Maybe the motel maid was in there cleaning the room. I moved forward with caution and used the tip of my finger to push the door open to the full. I did a slow visual survey and then stepped inside. Everything was just as I’d left it, at least to all appearances. I had no luggage, so if someone had broken in, there was nothing to search. The bed was still rumpled, covers thrown aside. In the bathroom, my damp towel was where I’d placed it earlier, over the rim of the tub.

I paused in the doorway between the two rooms and let my eyes do the traveling. Object to object, surface to surface. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. Still, I knew I’d locked the door securely because I’d tested the knob right after I’d pulled it shut. I walked to the front office, my room key in hand. The parking lot was now only half as full, but I didn’t spy anyone who seemed to take an interest in me.

Mrs. Bonnet was at the desk. I told her I was checking out, and while I waited for my credit card receipt, I said, “Did anyone come in this morning asking for me?”

“No ma’am. We don’t give out information about the paying guests. Were you expecting someone?”

“No. When I got back from breakfast, my door was standing open and I was curious.”

She shook her head, shrugging, unable to enlighten me.

I signed the slip. She handed me the carbon and I put it in my bag. I walked back to my car, which was parked in the slot outside my room. I unlocked the door and slid under the wheel, tossing my shoulder bag on the passenger seat. I turned the key in the ignition, wondering for one fleeting paranoid moment if I was about to be blown sky-high. Happily, I was not. I backed out and then shifted from reverse into first. The car seemed to waddle when I accelerated. Even with my limited knowledge of mechanical problems, this was not a good sign. I drove forward another couple of yards, thinking I’d run over an object and I was inadvertently dragging it behind. The waddle was still there. Puzzled, I put my foot on the brake and opened the door, leaning to my left. I shut the engine down and got out.

All four of my tires had been slashed.

18

CHET

Friday, July 3, 1953

Chet Cramer sat in his four-door Bel Air sedan, smoking a cigarette, a pleasure he relegated to the end of his day. The windows were cranked open, including the two wing windows, which he’d angled in hopes of capturing fresh air. He loved this car. The Bel Air series was top of the line, with four models: the two-door sport coupe, the two-door convertible, and the two-door and four-door sedans. All had automatic transmission, radio, and heater as standard equipment. His was two-toned; the top Woodland Green, the lower portion Sun Gold, a combination he’d personally selected for himself. The colors reminded him of the green and gold of the old Lucky Strike cigarette pack. When World War II came along, the government had needed the titanium used in the green ink and the bronze used in its gold, so Lucky Strike had abandoned the color scheme in favor of a white pack with a red bull’s-eye. When he first started smoking, he’d been attracted to Lucky Strike because of the slogan—Be Happy, Go Lucky—which seemed ironic in retrospect. He hadn’t been happy-go-lucky since the death of his father in 1925. Recently he’d switched brands, thinking to disassociate himself altogether from the notions of happiness and luck. The new Kent cigarette, with its Micronite filter, was billed as “the greatest health protection in cigarette history.” He wasn’t sure why he was concerned about protecting his health, but he didn’t think it hurt to cut down on tar and nicotine.

He popped open the glove compartment and took out the sterling silver flask he’d inherited from his dad. He kept it filled with vodka from his office supply, and he used it to fortify himself before he went home each day. He preferred rye whiskey but couldn’t afford to greet Livia smelling like a loaf of delicatessen bread. He unscrewed the lid and took a slug. He felt the heat of the liquor going down, but it didn’t dissolve the ache in his chest. He checked the clock on the dashboard. 5:22. By 6:15 he’d be having dinner with his wife and daughter, after which he thought he might as well go back to work. He’d taken advantage of the July 4th weekend to advertise a “Firecracker of a Sale.” During special promotions of this sort he devoted long hours to the dealership as a matter of course, and now that he’d fired Winston, he’d have to shoulder the kid’s load, such as it was. He saw work as a blessing, a way of immersing himself in the here and now. At the moment, he was only going through the motions, knowing it was easier to stick to his routines than to try to make sense out of what had happened to him.

He’d parked facing south on New Cut Road, halfway between Highway 166 and the point at which the road construction ended. The Tanner house was dead-center in his line of vision. To his immediate left was a gravel road leading back to the old Aldrich packing plant. The swing-arm gate across the entrance was padlocked and had been for years, so the spot was the perfect place to unwind. The midsummer air was humid. In his rearview mirror, he could see a breeze undulating across the fields, ruffling the dark green leaves of the sugar beets. A tractor trundled by hauling a bulldozer on a low-boy flatbed, the only traffic he’d seen for the past hour. While he watched, the driver did a clumsy K-turn and positioned his rig in preparation for unloading. Chet took another slug of vodka, dwelling on the trivial while he tried to assimilate the grand.

Wednesday seemed like a lifetime ago, though it was only two days. He hadn’t known how depressed he was until Violet cracked through his life like a lightning bolt. She’d been dazzling, and for the first time in his life he’d been engulfed by desire. He felt like she’d doused him with gasoline and set him afire. The minute she’d proposed a drink, he’d seen where she was headed. Dazed, he’d followed her out to his car, tossing an explanation to Kathy as he left. He couldn’t remember now what he’d said to her, some lame excuse she’d accepted with a shrug. For once, he’d been grateful his daughter was such a dunce. Despite her moony crushes on movie stars, she was sexually backward, too naive to recognize the chemistry that had flashed so suddenly between Violet and him.

After leaving the dealership, Violet abandoned all talk of his buying her a drink. They got in his car and she directed him to the Sandman Motel, which was two blocks away. He hadn’t noticed it before, but Violet was clearly well acquainted with the place. She’d instructed him to check in as a single, under an assumed name. She waited outside while he registered as William Durant, which was actually the name of the man who founded General Motors back in 1908. He was afraid the desk clerk would catch the joke, but she didn’t bat an eye. Having deceived her to that extent, he invented a fictitious home address and a detailed explanation of why he needed a room. He was more imaginative than he’d thought. He went on lying through his teeth, flirting with the girl until she blushed a becoming pink. He paid for the room, took the key, and returned to his car.

Violet was gone, but he spotted her at the far end of the parking lot, leaning against the wire fence that surrounded the swimming pool. She waited until he’d parked outside the room, and then she stepped on her cigarette and ambled in his direction, taking her sweet time. She must have known what a picture she made—sunlight shining on her red hair, her figure fully defined by the tight purple sundress. He was trembling at the prospect of having her.

When she reached him, she held out her hand. He dropped the key in her palm and watched as she unlocked the door. He followed her in, marveling at his calm. He had no idea what she expected of him. She set the key on the bed table and turned to him. “I bought you a bottle of vodka, but then forgot the damn thing and left it at home. Sorry ’bout that. I thought you might need a couple of belts to soothe your nerves.”

“You planned this?”

“Sweetie, do I look like an idiot? I’ve seen you watching me. You think I don’t know what’s been going through your head?”

“Our paths hardly cross.”

“No fault of mine. If you weren’t so straightlaced, I’d have done this ages ago. I got tired of waiting for you to make a move. So here we are—surprise, surprise.”

“But why?”

She laughed. “Don’t underestimate yourself. You’re a good-looking guy and you’re sexy as hell. I’ll tell you something else. You’ve been working too hard. I can see it in your face. When’s the last time you cut loose and had fun, for god’s sake?”

“I’m…I don’t know what to say.”

“Who asked you to talk? Did I say anything about chatting, Chet?” She was making a little joke of his name, but he found he didn’t mind. She sat down on the bed, patting the place beside her. “Look at you. All tense. Come over here and I’ll help you relax.”

He crossed to the bed, moving as though drugged. When he reached her, she rubbed the palm of one hand against the front of his pants. “My, oh my. This is going to be good.”

She’d been gentle and sweet, guiding him through a process so highly charged and novel he felt his heart would stop. Nothing with Livia had ever prepared him for such heat. Violet thought his shyness was a riot after all the bullshit he’d laid on her earlier. She’d said, “Big tough guy” in a way that made him laugh. How could she mock him and make him feel good at the same time?

Later, under her patient tutelage, she’d murmured. “Right there, Sweetie. Oh, that’s nice. Keep doing that.”

She seemed to enjoy bossing him around, inflicting occasional tiny jolts of pain that sent his pleasure soaring into the stratosphere. She liked being in charge, liked making him groan at certain little tricks she had. They made love for an hour, and at the end of it she pulled away from him, laughing and out of breath. “That’s it for you, Stud.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I gotta scoot, that’s all. Daisy’s parked with a neighbor and I can’t be late picking her up. Foley’s a psycho when it comes to how I spend my days. Plus, my neighbor’s a bitch and I wouldn’t put it past her to mention it to him. How’re you doing?”

He laughed. “Fine. I can’t move.”

“Good. I’m glad. Shows I treated you right.”

He remained stretched out naked on the bed as she pulled on her underwear and slipped her dress over her head. She crossed to him and sat down on the edge, holding her hair off her neck so he could run the zipper up the back of her dress. Once her dress was zipped, she continued to sit with her back turned to him. “I know people think I’m cheap, but this is not about that. What happened this afternoon is just between us, something both of us want. I know I could have gone about it some other way, but you wouldn’t have agreed. You’d have been worried about Livia, worried about Foley, worried we’d get caught. I don’t want you to think badly of me. I knew if I didn’t push, we’d never get here.”

She turned to look at him and he could have sworn she was on the verge of tears. He reached up and touched her face. She laughed self-consciously, dashing moisture from her cheeks. She pulled the sheet over him. “Gotta cover you up or next thing you know you’ll get me going again.”

He started to rise, but she put a hand on his chest. “No, no. You stay there. I like your hair all tussled and standing up on end. It looks cute. You ought to wear it like that all the time.”

“Don’t leave.”

“I have to.”

“Give me ten minutes more. An hour. Better yet, let’s just stay here together for the rest of our lives.”

She thought about it briefly. “Thirty seconds, but that’s it.” She sat down again. She took out a cigarette and lit it, passing it to him. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”

He touched her bare arm, marveling at the silky feel of her skin. “You’re beautiful.”

“I feel beautiful with you.”

“When can I see you again?”

“That’s not such a hot idea. You know it’s dangerous.”

“I like risk. I never knew that about myself until you came along.”

“That’s enough out of you, Stud. I’m out of here.”

She kissed her index finger and pressed it to his lips. She put on her sandals and got up, tucking her purse under her arm. “How about tomorrow at noon? I’ll have less than an hour, but that’s the best I can do.”

“Don’t you want me to drive you to your truck?”

“I can walk. It’s not far and it’s better this way.”

She left, closing the door behind her. He could hear her footsteps fading on the pavement. He wasn’t sure how he’d survive the hours until he saw her again.

When he arrived home late in the day—after his usual meditation out on New Cut Road—he thought he’d be weighted with guilt, but just the opposite was true. He was happy. Something akin to affection resurfaced, and he sat at the dinner table glowing with goodwill. Livia had made jellied salmon for supper, possibly the most disgusting thing he’d ever eaten except for her chicken livers. Nonetheless, he found himself watching her with a kindness rare for him of late. Where had that gone? He thought of himself as a good man, but he realized that as far back as he could remember, he’d been angry and cheerless. Now that had been erased. Even Kathy didn’t seem as tedious. He was secretly amused, knowing she’d never dream what her old dad had been up to. He could hardly believe it himself—the transformation from dead to half-dead to reborn. If she happened to mention his leaving with Violet, he’d invent something on the spot and he knew he’d get away with it. His was a whole new world. That it included lying, adultery, and certain acts that were biblically forbidden only made it all the more titillating. He asked for a second helping of canned lima beans, hoping he wouldn’t laugh out loud at the images still floating through his head.

He endured Thursday morning with his eye on the clock. At 11:50 he left the dealership, saying he was going out to lunch. When Kathy asked where, he said he hadn’t decided yet, but he’d be back in a bit. Feeling worldly, he checked into the same room at the Sandman. It was all so easy now. Violet arrived and moments later, in a flurry of discarded clothes, feverish kisses, agonizing groans, and grabbing at each other, they were both naked and lying on the bed. Her breath smelled of red wine and cigarettes, but he knew better than to ask what she’d been doing at the Moon so early in the day. What difference did it make?

The sex was even better this time, which he hadn’t believed possible. Already he felt comfortable in his skin, sure of himself. This wasn’t the lovemaking of strangers, but the intimacy of two adults. Violet could be rough, and she brought out the bawdiness in him. She was also outrageous, using language that sometimes shocked his staid sensibilities. She could be tender as well, in ways that made him want to weep.

Afterward, they shared a cigarette like lovers in a movie. He couldn’t get over this new sense he had of himself. Violet was tucked up under his arm, her head on his shoulder, face tilted back slightly so she could look at him. He looked down at her, saying, “What?”

She laughed. “How did you know I had something on my mind?”

“You’re not the only one with telepathic powers.”

“That’s good. I like that.” She was quiet, smile fading.

He gave her shoulder a shake. “Come on. Out with it.”

“I was thinking about what you said yesterday. You know, spending the rest of our lives in this room. That was sweet. That made me feel I was special to you, not just a cheap piece of ass.”

“Hey! Enough. Don’t say shit like that about yourself.”

“Well, it’s the truth. You know my reputation. I’m a wild child. I live fast and loose, but you know what it’s about? Under all the trashy talk and screwing around, I’m completely numb, like I’m already dead inside. So at least when I’m crazy drunk and out of control, I feel like I’m alive. Does that make any sense?”

“Jesus, you’ve just described my life. I don’t show it the way you do, but it’s exactly the same with me. You think I’m happy because I make a lot of money and live in a nice house? Doesn’t work that way. All my life I’ve been busy taking care of other people. This is the first thing I’ve done for myself. When I said that about spending the rest of my life with you, I meant it.”

“Thanks. That makes me feel good.” She seemed hesitant. “What happened yesterday, with the car? I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have taken it. I know I was wrong putting all those miles on it, but something came over me. It was like I’d just gotten out of prison and the world could be anything. The sunshine and the ocean. It was just so beautiful, flying down the road. I had all the windows cranked down and my hair was whipping across my face. I took it all the way up to forty miles an hour—”

“Shit, Violet. Don’t tell me that. You’ll give me a heart attack.”

“Well, it was an amazing experience and I have you to thank.”

“And for this.”

“Yes, for this.”

He was quiet for a moment. “You know I can make it happen.”

“Make what happen?”

“The car. I can set it up so it’s yours.”

She laughed. “Oh come on. Bullshit. You can’t do that. Are you nuts?”

“I’m serious. Tell Foley to come talk to me. If he shows up tomorrow morning, I can make him a deal.”

“Foley doesn’t have a dime.”

“I know, but we’ll work something out.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not just pulling my leg?”

“I’d do anything for you. I mean it. I’m crazy about you.”

“You don’t have to say that just because we ended up in bed.”

“You don’t know what you’ve done for me. Everything’s different now. I’ve changed.”

“Not changed at all. You’re finally yourself.”

“Tell me you’ll see me tomorrow,” he said. “Otherwise, I’ll never make it to next week.”

She was quiet again, making a study of his face before she formulated her reply. “All right. Tomorrow at four. I’ve got something to take care of first so you gotta promise you won’t get your undies in a wad if I’m late.”

Friday at 3:45, he checked into the Sandman. On Wednesday afternoon when he’d registered the first time, he’d told the desk clerk a pipe had broken in his house, badly flooding the downstairs. He spun the story off the top of his head, never realizing he’d be checking in again the very next day. Thursday, he told her he expected the repairs to be under way, but the contractor stood him up. She’d been sympathetic on the first day and skeptical the second. Today, she was snippy, saying if he was going to check in again, why not just keep the room instead of using it for an hour, checking out, and coming back the next day? He hadn’t realized she was keeping track. He felt compelled to elaborate, talking about the smell of mildew, having to put all his furniture in storage. The phone rang in the midst of his recital. She picked up and turned her back to him. She went on chattering with some friend until he realized she didn’t intend to listen to another word. He took his key and left. What a bitch. He was a respectable businessman. It was no concern of hers what he did or didn’t do, or with whom. He wasn’t sure why he’d even bothered to explain himself. There were other motels. Next time around he and Violet could find someplace else.

He returned to his car and drove the length of the parking lot and parked outside the room. On the way over, he’d stopped at the florist’s and bought Violet an armload of flowers that he wanted her to see the minute she entered the room. He took the bouquet with him and let himself in. They’d twice been in room 14. This was room 12, and he noticed it was quite a bit shabbier. Not that she’d care. He knew the car was already in her possession, because Foley had driven it off the lot at 10:30 that morning. He’d come into the dealership at 8:45, and Chet had made him a better deal than he had any reason to expect. He’d been jovial through the process, knowing he’d be bedding the guy’s wife by 4:15. He’d despised Foley previously, but now he pitied him as well. He was too doltish and too much the brute to appreciate what a rare and precious woman he had. She was clearly more than he could handle—young, sensual, beautiful, spirited. Foley’d tried controlling her with his fists, and all he’d done was drive her away. Chet knew how to treat a lady and he had the wherewithal to do it right. He’d already formulated half a dozen plans for getting her out of Foley’s house and stashing her somewhere close. At first he thought he’d have to leave Livia, which he was perfectly willing to do. A divorce would be messy and painful, but he was forty-seven years old and entitled to happiness. Of course, his daughter would be upset, but kids were resilient—everybody said so. Kids sensed when their parents were unhappy, and you didn’t do them any favors papering it all over and pretending everything was okay. Better to have it out in the open.

On further reflection, he wondered if his initial impulse was wrong. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how cruel it would be to put Livia through that—the public humiliation, the vituperative shouting matches, not to mention the reduced circumstances divorce would entail. After fifteen years of marriage, she’d be devastated. Better to take the high road and spare her the stigma of divorce and abandonment. His relationship with Violet was his to bear and he’d shoulder it like a man.

He’d checked the classified ads for apartments in Santa Teresa and spotted a rental he thought would serve. Clean and attractive, with an ocean view, it said. He could drive down to see Violet every chance he got. He’d fill her life with riches—clothes, travel, anything she wanted. She might resist at first, not wanting to be beholden, but now that the Bel Air was hers, she’d realize how far he was willing to go.

He filled the ice bucket with water and arranged the flowers, already fantasizing what was coming next. Compared to Violet, he was inexperienced and that was humbling. At the dealership, he was always on top—figuratively speaking—but here he yielded, allowing her to do with him as she would. Violet was the boss and he found himself giving up all power to her. The change was restful, a possibility that had never occurred to him. With Livia, he sometimes had to talk himself into making love. He had his physical needs, but it was just as easy to take care of them himself. With Violet, he was charged, half out of his mind in anticipation of her.

Oddly enough, he’d caught sight of her earlier in the day. Shortly after noon, he’d driven into Santa Maria to do his end-of-the-week banking, forgetting that the bank would be closed for the Fourth of July. He’d parked near the Savoy Hotel, and as he was passing the tea shop window, he chanced to look in. There sat Violet with her little daughter, Daisy, and Liza Mellincamp, having a gay old time of it. He smiled at how happy she looked, probably because the car was now hers. He was tempted to tap on the glass and wave to her, but he thought better of it. From now on, in public, he’d act like he didn’t have a clue who she was.

4:20. She was late, which she’d warned him about. At 4:26 he checked his watch again, wondering if something had gone dreadfully wrong. If she’d been unavoidably delayed, there was no way she could call because she couldn’t be sure what name he’d used when he was checking in. On the off chance Foley had arrived home unexpectedly, she could hardly excuse herself and go use the phone. Foley was paranoid as it was. Between bouts of lovemaking the day before, she’d let slip some of the things he’d done to her, the threats, promises of retribution if he ever found out she’d betrayed him again. Chet was appalled, but she’d shrugged it off as though it was no big deal. “But I’ll tell you one thing,” she’d said. “Next time he comes after me, that’s it for him. I’m out.”

4:29. Chet could feel anxiety roiling in his gut. What if Foley had gotten wind of their rendezvous? Chet didn’t dare leave. If she finally showed up and he was gone, she’d be furious.

At 4:36, he heard a tap on the door. He pulled the curtain aside, half-expecting to see Foley with a gun in his hand. It was Violet, thank god. He opened the door and in she strolled without a word of explanation. He waited, thinking surely she’d offer an excuse—errands, Daisy, heavy traffic on the road.

“Jesus, what happened? You said four.” He knew his tone was accusatory, but he was so relieved to see her he couldn’t help himself.

“That’s all you’ve got to say to me? I risk life and limb getting here and you’re pissed that I’m late? I told you not to get your shorts up your crack.”

“Of course I’m not pissed. I was just worried, that’s all. I’m sorry if I came off sounding like a jerk.”

“Where’d the flowers come from? You buy those for me?”

“You like them?”

“Sure, but it’s a lot of money for thirty minutes max.” She tossed her purse on the chair and slipped off her heels, which she kicked to one side.

“That’s all the time you have? I thought you said an hour?”

“That’s right. I got an hour and now half of it’s gone, so don’t hassle me, okay? We’ve got better things to do.” She began peeling off her clothes. Dress. Panties. She unhooked her bra, letting her breasts swing free. He couldn’t pinpoint her mood. Under the casual manner, there was an edginess he didn’t like. He waited for mention of the car, but she didn’t say a word. She might be uncomfortable expressing gratitude. She was staring at him. “Are you going to strip or just stand there and look at me all day?”

He undressed quickly while Violet pulled the covers down and got into bed. They made love, but with not quite the ardor he’d experienced the day before. His performance wasn’t all he’d hoped for either, though Violet was nice about it, saying, “Oh, quit fretting. Everybody has an off day. You’re fine.”

Afterward she swung her feet out of bed and sat up. Despite her reassurances, he was wary, wanting to make it up to her. He put his arms around her from behind, nuzzling her hair, kissing the smooth skin in the middle of her back. He could feel himself coming to life again where it counted. “Check this,” he said.

“Quit slobbering. You’re getting on my nerves.”

Teasingly he tugged on a strand of her hair. “So how does it feel to have your very own Bel Air?”

That brought a smile. She said, “Good. It’s great. When Foley came home this morning he parked it out in front and had me look through the window. I could hardly believe my eyes.”

She made it sound like Foley deserved the credit. Chet would have kidded her about it, but he sensed that under it all, she was depressed. “Hey, Henny Penny. What’s wrong? Has the sky fallen in on you?”

“I’m fine.”

“I know you better than that. What is it?”

“I just don’t see how I can keep doing this. Foley and I got into this huge fight last night and the fucker tore up the house. It’s like he can sense something’s off. He hasn’t figured it out, but it won’t take him long. Once he picks up the scent, he’s a regular bloodhound.”

“Has he said anything?”

“No, but there’s this look in his eye and it’s scaring me to death. I’m skating on thin ice. One wrong move and…”

“What?”

“I don’t know, but something bad.”

“Oh, come on. It can’t be as serious as all that.”

“Easy for you to say.”

He felt a whisper of fear. “So let’s take a little break until he calms down again. Tomorrow’s a holiday. I have work to do anyway so there’s no way to meet. This weekend, you can pal around with him. Go to the fireworks, take a picnic supper, do whatever you have to do. You’ll have him eating out of your hand.”

“Oh, sure. Make light of it. Good old Violet. Just hang out and jolly him along, kiss his ass, suck his dick, anything to pacify the guy, who’s been a maniac from birth.”

“I wasn’t making light.”

“Well, you don’t live with him. You don’t know what he’s like. You’re not the one he’s busting in the chops every other day. Lookit this, I still got a bruise from where he threw a friggin’ coffeepot at me.”

“So why not leave?”

“And go where? How far do you think I’d get?”

“As far as you like. If it’s a matter of money, I can help you out.”

“It’s not money, Chet. Is that all you think about?”

“What then?”

“Shit. How can I make myself clear? It’s just this feeling I get…like I’m in this alone. Who cares about me, right? In this town, I’m dirt, lower than the low.”

“I care.”

“Uh-hun.”

“I’m serious. I care deeply about you.”

“I know what you care about. Getting laid.”

“Now wait a minute—”

“I’m just kidding you, okay? I’m trying to lighten up. What good’s it ever done me to feel sorry for myself?”

“Violet, I’m on your side. That’s the point I’m trying to make. I’ve been thinking about it and it’s not a good idea for you to stay under his roof. So what occurred to me was finding you another place to live—”

“Yeah…well, not to worry. I’ll figure it out.”

“But why won’t you let me help when I’m seriously concerned?”

“Come on, Chet. ‘Seriously concerned?’ You think I don’t see what’s going on? This isn’t about me. This is about you and what you want. These past two days, you haven’t asked me one thing about myself except do I use birth control. Now how’s that for concern? Like you’re such a stallion I might get knocked up and ruin the rest of your life.”

He could feel his face go blank.

She caught his look and relented. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I don’t even know what I’m talking about. Why don’t we just chalk it up to that time of the month.”

“Is that it? Why didn’t you say so? Come here—”

“Would you quit with the phony tone of voice. That’s not going to solve my problem. Don’t you get that?” She got up and paced once across the room before she sat down again. She leaned forward, with her elbows on her knees, and put her face in her hands. She made a low exasperated moan. “You’re not hearing me, but it’s my fault. I’ll take all the blame. I should have made myself clear. What’s going to keep me safe, Chet, is to stay the hell away from you. You’re a nice guy and a good egg, but when it comes to screwing around, you’re an amateur. If I’m in jeopardy—which I am—it’s because of you.”

“But that’s what I’m trying to say. I can get you out of here.”

“No, you can’t. Look at you, goofy about me and all goofy for love. You think I’m the answer to your prayers, but I’m the quickest road to hell. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m telling you the truth. You can’t live this way, with all the sneaking around. It’s not in your nature. Basically you’re a decent man, which means you’ll miscalculate. You’ll make some stupid mistake and there goes my ass. I’m better off calling a halt to it right here.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“You see? That’s what I’m talking about. You’re not listening to me. You’re not only putting me in the path of a train, you’re tying me to the tracks. If you care—if you love me so much—why don’t you give me a fighting chance and keep the hell away. I can manage Foley, but not with you bumbling around. Because here’s how it’s going to go. One night you’ll walk into the Moon with a bullshit grin on your face. Foley will take one look at you and he’ll know everything. Then guess who’s dead meat? First me, then you, then him.”

“That won’t happen. He’s never going to know. Violet, I talked to him this morning. He sat at my desk not even this far away. I swear he doesn’t have a clue.”

“You wanna know why that is? Because it was about money and him trying to get something out of you. Also, because right now, we’ve been together three days and you haven’t had a chance to screw it up yet, but you will.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Let’s just think. No need to do anything rash. Look, how about this? I can rent you an apartment in Santa Teresa…under a fake name. You don’t like that idea, we’ll take off together and settle someplace else. I’d do that for you, I swear.”

She smiled and shook her head. “That’s your solution? You got a great imagination. I gotta hand it to you.” She found her brassiere and hooked herself into it. She bent over and maneuvered her breasts, arranging each in its cup. She retrieved her underpants and stepped into them. She settled her dress over her head and zipped herself up. This was a strip show in reverse. She came back as far as the bed table where she took a cigarette from his pack and tamped it on her thumbnail. “Look at this joint. They don’t even provide a friggin’ pack of matches. Can you give me a light?”

Numb, he flicked his lighter and watched her lean toward the flame, holding her hair out of the way. She took a drag, inhaled, and blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “Thanks.” She took the ashtray and her purse and went into the bathroom. Through the open doorway, he could see her putting on her face.

He followed as far as the door and caught her reflection in the mirror. “You’re telling me it’s over.”

“That’s right. No offense, but let’s bail while we can.”

He was silent for almost a full minute, while he thought about the last three days. “You did it for the car, didn’t you?”

Her mouth came open and she turned. “You said, what?”

“This was all so you could get the car and now that you have it, you’re finished with me.”

“Are you saying that I fucked you to get a car?! Thanks so much. What kind of whore does that make me? You’re the one telling me not to talk shit about myself, and listen to the shit that comes out of your mouth.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry—”

“If you’re so sorry then why don’t you quit pushing me around?” Abruptly she went back to her lipstick, following the outline of her mouth. “You want to be a bully, take a number and get in line. When it comes to abuse, Foley’s got it all over you.”

“Are you crazy? You’re crazy. Don’t stand there bragging about how bad the guy treats you. I came here prepared to offer you a life.”

“Listen, Buster, I have a life. Might not look like much to you, but I’m doing the best I can so don’t you condescend to me.”

“Violet…don’t.” He tried to speak, but his throat closed and his voice cracked.

“Jesus, Chet. Be a big boy about this. It’s been great, but let’s face facts. It’s sex. Right now, it might be firecracker hot, but how long does that last? In two months it’s gone, so don’t make more of it than it is. You’re not going to run off with me. You’re full of shit.”

Chet took the last drag of his cigarette and flipped it out the window. He took one more pull from his flask and put that away. The tractor and flatbed, deck empty now, passed him again, heading back toward the 166. On the Tanner property, the bright yellow bulldozer sat with two others, looking as big as a tank. He hadn’t been on a bulldozer since he was eighteen years old, that ball-busting summer before his father had been killed. He’d worked construction, thinking he could set aside some cash for his freshman year of college. Nowadays the union trained guys to operate heavy equipment, but in those days, you got on a dozer, fired it up, and hoped you wouldn’t drive yourself into a ditch.

He turned the key in the ignition and released the T of the emergency brake. He made a U-turn across the two lanes of deserted road. What he’d been through with Violet was the equivalent of a three-year affair compressed into three days. Beginning, middle, and end. Over and out. He couldn’t help thinking she’d made a bigger fool of him than he knew. He’d been set up, duped. She wanted the car. It was obvious now, but she’d played him well and he half-admired her finesse. She’d crooked her little finger and he’d scampered after her, as frisky as a pup. He didn’t feel it yet, the shame, but he would very soon, once the liquor wore off. He knew his humiliation was commensurate with his joy, but the joy had been fleeting while the rage would burn at his core like the fire in the bowels of a coal mine, year after year. What wounded him was knowing she felt none of his pain. Now every time he saw the car, every time Foley made a payment, he’d cringe, feeling powerless and small. He’d go home to Livia and that would be that. His life had been barely tolerable before, but what would it be like now that he knew the difference?

At the house, he pulled into the driveway and put his car in the garage. Mentally he shook himself off, struggling for control. He had a part to play. He couldn’t let Violet ruin his home life as she’d ruined his work. He let himself in the house. The hall smelled of cabbage that had cooked half a day. He wanted to weep. He couldn’t even look forward to a good meal at home. Livia, with her heavy hand and glum notions about food, served nearly inedible fare—mackerel loaf, creamed chicken on waffles, tapioca pudding that looked like a clot of egg-infested mucilage spawned by a fish. He’d eaten it all, every variation on a theme, sometimes too frightened to inquire what it was.

“Daddy, is that you?”

“Yes.”

He peered into the living room. Kathy was sprawled on the couch, her heavy legs flung over one end. She wore white shorts and a T-shirt, both inappropriate for someone her size. She had a strand of hair in her mouth and she was sucking on the end while she watched television. The Howdy Doody Show. Talk about a waste of time. A cowboy marionette with freckles and a flapping mouth. You could even see the strings that generated his movements, his wobbly boots dangling on tippy-toe as he pranced across the screen.

Chet took off his sport coat and hung it on a peg in the hall. What did he care if the shoulder got pulled out of shape? He undid his collar button and loosened his tie. He had to get a grip. But fifteen minutes later, as he was sitting down for supper, Livia made a half-assed remark, saying how ridiculous it was that the South Korean president, Syngman Rhee, called on Christians and non-Christians to pray for peace.

He stared at her, instantly incensed. “You think it’s ridiculous the war might come to an end? After we’ve lost thirty-three thousand U.S. troops? Where the hell is your head? Rhee’s the guy who released twenty-seven thousand North Korean POWs less than two weeks ago, sabotaging armistice talks. Now he’s softened his position and you want to sit there sneering at him?”

Livia’s lips tightened to such an extent he was surprised she could speak. “All I’m saying is there’s no point in non-Christians praying for peace when they don’t believe in God.”

“Non-Christians don’t believe in God? Is that what you think? Anyone who doesn’t go to your personal church and worship your personal deity is some kind of heathen? Livia, you can’t be that idiotic.”

He could tell she was offended, but he really didn’t care. Cheeks stained with indignation, she snapped his dinner plate on the table in front of him with a force that nearly cracked it in two. He looked down at the meal, which consisted of a main dish and a side of cabbage that had boiled so long all the color had cooked out. He pointed to the entrée. “What’s this?”

Livia sat down and arranged her napkin in her lap. “We’re having International Night. The first Friday of every month. Kathy prepared the dish and I think it’s lovely.”

“It’s Welch Rabbit,” Kathy said, happily, already lifting a fully loaded fork to her lips.

“Welch? There’s no such place as Welch. Are you out of your minds? This isn’t rabbit. It’s cheese goo on toast.”

“Would you sample a bite before you judge, or is that too much to ask after Kathy’s worked so hard?”

“This is shit! I can’t work a full day and sit down to a meal like this. There’s no meat.”

“Please watch your language. There’s a young lady present.”

He pushed his plate back. “Excuse me.” He left the table and went into the downstairs powder room, where he pulled out his flask and downed the remaining vodka in six swallows. It wasn’t nearly enough, but maybe he’d managed to survive the next fifteen minutes without going berserk.

He returned to the table and began to eat, trying to imagine how normal men behaved. Husbands all over America must be sitting down to dinners just like this, with wives and daughters like the two he faced. How did they do it? Making small talk? He could do that. Clearly there was no point discussing world peace. He glanced at Kathy, not looking too closely as she tended to chew with her mouth open. He said, “I saw your friend today.”

“Who?”

“Liza.”

“Oh.” She was so intent on stuffing her face, he wondered if she’d heard.

“Whatever happened to her?”

Kathy flicked him a look. “Nothing. Why’d you say that?”

“Six months ago the two of you were like Siamese twins, joined at the hip. She dump you or what?”

“No, Dad. She didn’t dump me.”

“Then how come you don’t see each other anymore?”

“We do. All the time. She was busy today. Is that against the law?”

“She didn’t look that busy to me. Unless a fancy lunch downtown counts.”

“Liza didn’t have lunch downtown.”

“I thought today was her birthday. Didn’t you say something to that effect here at dinner last night?”

“So?”

“So nothing. I thought she’d be spending the whole day with you.”

“We talked on the phone. She said her mother’s been sick and might even be contagious or she’d have come right over to celebrate.”

“Ohhh,” he said, drawing the word out. “Well, maybe that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“What she was doing all dressed up with Violet Sullivan. The two had their heads bent together over shrimp cocktails.”

Kathy put her fork down and stared. “They did not.”

“Yes, they did. Uh-hum. Yes, indeedy.”

“Where?”

“The Savoy Hotel. The tea room’s on the ground floor. I saw ’em through the window.”

Livia said, “Chet.”

“Very funny. Ha ha. And where’s Daisy all this time? Did you forget about her?”

“She was sitting right there with a big bowl of buttered noodles she was slurping through her lips.”

“You’re just saying that to bug me because you’re in a bad mood. Liza might have gone out, but it had nothing to do with Mrs. Sullivan.”

“Why don’t you ask her and see what she says?”

“Chet, that’s enough.”

“I can’t call her again. I just talked to her. She’s taking care of her mother, who’s extremely ill.”

“Okay. Fine. If that’s the way you want to play it. I’d feel bad if things went sour between the two of you. That’s my only concern.”

Kathy retreated into silence. Meanwhile, Livia sent him dark, meaningful looks that suggested a serious dressing-down to come. Chet didn’t intend to stick around for that. He wiped his mouth on his napkin and tossed it on his plate. He got up, working to control the urge to run. He could feel the spite rising in his chest. What the hell was wrong with him? He was never going to get back at Violet by making trouble somewhere else. Why put his daughter at odds with her best friend? The pettiness of what he’d done only fueled his rage. He thought he was close to madness, irrational, erratic, out of control.

He took his sport coat from the hook and shrugged himself into it. Livia had followed him into the hall. “Are you going out?”

“Yes.”

“But I’m expecting company. This is my canasta night. The girls are going to be here at eight. You said you’d take Kathy and go somewhere.”

He walked out the front door and slammed it behind him, so choked with fury he couldn’t utter a word.

19

I went back to the motel office and borrowed Mrs. Bonnet’s phone. I contacted the sheriff ’s office to report the incident and was told they’d send someone out. I then called Southern California Automobile Club and requested assistance. While I waited, I called Daisy’s house and Tannie answered the phone. She said Daisy had already left for work. When I told her about my tires being slashed, she was properly outraged. “You poor thing! I can’t believe someone would do that to you.”

“Personally, I’m thrilled. I mean, on one hand, I’m peeved. I hate to be without transportation and buying four new tires is the last thing I need. On the other hand, it’s like hitting all three cherries on a slot machine. Three days into the job and someone’s already nervous as a cat.”

“You don’t think it was vandalism?”

“Absolutely not. Are you kidding? I grant you my car’s conspicuous in a parking lot full of trucks, but the choice wasn’t random. This was supposed to be a warning, or possibly punishment, but I take it as a good sign.”

“Well, your attitude beats mine. I’d be raising six kinds of hell if somebody slashed my tires.”

“Shows I’m on the right track.”

“Which is what?”

“I have no idea, but my nemesis must think I’m close to figuring it out.”

“Whatever ‘it’ is.”

“Right. Meantime, I need the name of a garage, if you know someone good.”

“You forget my brother’s in the business. Ottweiler Auto Repair in Santa Maria. At least he won’t gouge you on the price.”

“Great. I’ll call him. What about you? What’s your day looking like?”

“I’ll be out on the property with a couple of guys. If I were so minded, I could be clearing brush for the rest of my life. I’m meeting with a contractor at eleven thirty, but you’re welcome to come by.”

“Let’s see how long it takes me to get my tires swapped out. If everything goes smoothly, I’ll stop and pick up some sandwiches and we can have lunch.”

“Tell Steve I sent you. That’ll surprise him for sure. Better yet, I’ll call him myself and tell him you’ll be in.”

“Thanks.”

A sheriff ’s deputy arrived at the Sun Bonnet within thirty minutes, and he spent an additional fifteen minutes, taking photographs and filling out information for his report. He said I could pick up a copy to forward to my insurance company. I couldn’t remember the amount of my deductible, but I’d doubtless end up paying for them myself. Shortly after he left, the tow truck arrived, and the driver loaded my car onto a flatbed truck. I hopped in the cab with him and we covered the fifteen miles to Santa Maria without saying much.

While the car was being unloaded, Steve Ottweiler appeared and introduced himself. He was seven years Tannie’s senior, an age spread that seemed to favor him. According to social standards other than my own, a man, at fifty, is just starting to look good, while a fifty-year-old woman is someone the eye tends to slide right past. In California cosmetic surgery is the means by which women stop the clock before the sliding begins. Lately the push is to get the work done earlier and earlier—age thirty if you’re an actress—before the slippage sets in. I could see the strong family resemblance between Tannie’s brother and their father, Jake, whom I’d met the night before. Steve had the same height and body type, lean and muscular. His face was broader than his dad’s, but his complexion was the same sun-stained brown.

I purchased four new tires, taking his advice about which brand I should buy, that being the one he had in stock. We sat in his office while the mechanic put my car up on a rack and started loosening lug nuts. Currently Steve Ottweiler was the only person in the area I didn’t suspect of slashing my tires, primarily because this was the first opportunity I’d had to piss him off. Somewhere in the last two days, I’d stepped on some toes, but I hadn’t stepped on his—as far as I knew.

I said, “You were, what, sixteen in Violet Sullivan’s day?”

“I was a junior in high school.”

“Did you know Liza Mellincamp’s boyfriend?”

“Ty Eddings? Sure, though more by reputation than anything else. I knew his cousin, Kyle. They were both a year ahead of me so we didn’t have much occasion to interact. Actually, I’m not sure anyone knew Ty that well. He transferred in from East Bakersfield High School in March of that year. By the time July rolled around, he was gone again.”

“Somebody told me he left the same weekend Violet did.”

“No connection that I know of. They were both troublemakers, but that’s about it. He’d been kicked out of EBHS and sent to live with his aunt in hopes he’d mend his wicked ways. Guess that idea flopped.”

“Meaning what?”

“Word had it that he’d taken up with Liza Mellincamp, who was all of thirteen. The year before, he’d knocked up a fifteen-year-old girl and she ended up dead from a botched abortion. Ty was accorded outlaw status. Very cool in those days.”

“He wasn’t disliked or avoided?”

“Not a bit. We were all big on drama back then. Ty was regarded as a tragic hero because everyone thought he and the dead girl were deeply in love and her parents had forced them apart. He was Romeo to her Juliet, only he came out of the deal a lot better than she did.”

“But is it out of the question that he and Violet might have gotten together? Two black sheep?”

“Well, it’s always possible, though it doesn’t seem likely. Violet was in her twenties and married to boot, so she hardly registered with us. We lived in a world of our own. You know how it is; the big event for us was two classmates who got killed in a car accident. Violet was a grownup. Nobody cared about her. Liza was the one I felt sorry for.”

“I don’t wonder,” I said. “I talked to her yesterday and she said she was crushed when Ty left town. What was that about?”

“The story I heard was Ty’s aunt got a phone call from someone who told her he was fooling around with another underage girl, namely Liza. That was Friday night. The aunt turned around and called his mother, who’d flown to Chicago for a wedding. She got back to Bakersfield late Saturday night and picked him up first thing Sunday morning.”

“You’d think he could have gotten word to Liza. She was dumped without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“I guess good manners weren’t his thing.”

“What happened after that? I asked, but she wasn’t happy about the question so I left it alone.”

“Things went from bad to worse. Her parents had divorced when she was eight. She’d been living with her mom—essentially without supervision, since her mother drank. When her dad got wind of her relationship with Ty, he flew out from Colorado, packed her up, and took her back to live with him. Of course that went nowhere. The two didn’t get along; she hated his new family and she was back the next year. No big surprise. You take a kid like her, used to freedom, and she’s not going to react kindly to parental control.”

“How’d he hear about Ty if he was in Colorado?”

“He still had contacts in town.”

“So she ended up living with her mom again?”

“Not for long. Sally Mellincamp died in a house fire the next year and a local family took Liza in. Charlie Clements was a good guy and didn’t want to see her sucked into the foster care system. He owned the auto-repair shop in Serena Station that I bought when he retired in 1962. Liza married his son.”

“So everything connects.”

“One way or another; it sure looks that way.”

Steve was called out to the service bay, but he urged me to stay where I was until my car was ready. His office was small and utilitarian—metal desk, metal chair, metal files, and the smell of oil. Parts manuals and work orders were stacked up everywhere. I took advantage of the moment to review my index cards, playing with the information every way I could. A moment would come when everything would lock into place (she said bravely to herself ). Right now, the bits and pieces were a jumble, and I couldn’t quite see where any of them fit.

It was Winston’s confession I kept coming back to. For years he’d kept quiet about seeing Violet’s car. Now I realized how lucky I was his wife was booting him out. Because he was pissed with her, all bets were off, and he felt no compunction about spilling the beans. If I’d talked to him a day earlier, he might not have said a word. It was a lesson I needed to keep in mind: People change, circumstances change, and what seems imperative one day becomes insignificant the next. The reverse is true as well.

My VW was returned within the hour, my tires looking as crisp and clean as brand-new shoes. In addition, I saw that someone had treated me to a complimentary car wash. The interior now smelled new, thanks to a deodorant tag hanging from the rearview mirror. I caught sight of Steve Ottweiler as I was pulling out and gave him a wave.

Heading west on Main, I realized I wasn’t that far from the neighborhood where Sergeant Schaefer lived. I took the next right-hand turn and circled back, parking out in front of his house as I had on my earlier visit. When he didn’t answer my knock, I followed the walkway around the side of the house to the rear, at the same time calling his name. He was in his workshop and when he heard my voice, he peered out the open doorway and motioned me in.

I found him perched on a stool with a miter box and clamps on his workbench. He’d cut lengths of framing and he was gluing them together. Today he wore denim overalls, and his white hair pushed out like foam from under a black baseball cap.

“I expected to find you working on a chair.”

“I finished that project and haven’t yet started on the next. These days, I’m so tied up with hobbies, it’s lucky I don’t work or I’d never fit it all in. What brings you this way?”

“I thought I’d give you an update.” I told him about my tires, my call to the sheriff ’s department, and my subsequent visit to Steve Ottweiler’s shop.

“Sounds like you’re making someone sweat.”

“That’s my take on it. The problem is, I have no idea who or how.”

“Tell me what you’ve done and maybe we can figure it out.”

I filled him in on my interviews, starting with Foley Sullivan, saying, “I hate to admit it, but I thought Foley made a pretty good case for himself.”

“Sounding sincere is a speciality of his. What about the others?”

“Well, the people I’ve talked to fall into two categories: those who think Violet’s dead—you, me, and her brother, Calvin—and those who think she’s alive, namely Foley, Liza, and possibly Daisy. I’m not sure where Chet Cramer stands on the question. I forgot to ask.”

“Too bad we can’t just put it to a vote,” he said. “I can see how Liza and Daisy ended up in the same boat. Neither wants to entertain the idea that Violet’s gone for good.”

“Maybe we’re the cynics, assuming she’s dead when she might be alive and well and living in New York.”

“Can’t rule that out.”

I went on down the list, telling him what Winston had confessed about seeing Violet’s car.

Schaefer said, “I’ve been thinking about that car. Couple of us old retirees get together for dinner once a month and talk about the old days. I was telling them about you and what you’re up to. The one fellow worked Auto Theft, and he said if the Bel Air landed in a junk yard, the VIN might have been stripped off and switched to another vehicle. You want to make a stolen car disappear, that’s how you go about it. The beauty of it is it then allows you to register a stolen car as salvage. You claim you bought some old clunker and fixed it up and who’s going to be the wiser? They call ’em ghost cars. Any rate, next day I phoned the SO and had one of the deputies read off the vehicle identification number from Violet’s Bel Air.”

“You had that?”

“Oh, sure. Chet Cramer gave it to us in one of the early interviews. I called up the Sacramento DMV and had them do a computer search. They show no record of the VIN. Dang. For a minute, I was hoping for a hit, but the car’s never surfaced, which sets me back to the notion it was shipped overseas.”

“You’re assuming the number Cramer gave you was correct,” I said. “All he had to do was alter one digit and the computer would spit it back as a no match.”

“That’s a troubling possibility. You’ll be careful?”

“I will.”

“And keep me in the loop.”

I assured him I’d be doing that as well.

I stopped at a delicatessen and picked up some sandwiches and Cokes, then took Highway 166 out of Santa Maria until it intersected New Cut Road. By now the route was familiar and I drove with only half my attention focused on the road. With the balance of my mental energy, I was sifting through the miscellany I’d collected over the past two days. I wasn’t much wiser but at least I was getting all the players sorted out.

I reached the Ottweiler property at 11:15. Tannie’s contractor had arrived early, and he pulled into the driveway the same time I did. She introduced him as Bill Boynton, one of the two Padgett had suggested the night before. I told her about the sandwiches I’d brought and then left her alone to chat with him while I took the opportunity to tour the interior of the house. From the porch, I could see two guys working at the edge of the property, cutting heavy brush as she had. A swath had now been cleared from the foundation to the depth of the yard. The ground looked naked and apologetic without all the high weeds, brambles, and old shrubs.

Even at first glance, I found myself agreeing with Padgett, who considered the place beyond redemption. No wonder her brother was urging her to sell. The first floor had all the charm of an inner-city tenement. I could see touches of former splendor—ten-inch crown molding, beautifully plastered ceilings with ornate medallions and cornices as delicate as cake icing—but in most rooms, decades of leakage and neglect had taken their tolls.

When I reached the stairs, I began to pick up the acrid scent of charred wood, and I knew that the floors above would be damaged not only by the fire, but by the water from the firemen’s hoses. I went up, following a once beautiful oak banister that was now dingy with soot and age. A fine layer of broken glass crunched underfoot, making my progress audible. Fixtures had been stripped. In the largest of the bedrooms at the front of the house, I was momentarily startled by what appeared to be a vagrant curled up in one corner. When I moved closer, I could see that the “body” was an old sleeping bag, probably left by a drifter taking shelter uninvited. In the large walk-in linen closet, I could still see labels written in pencil on the edges of the shelves—SINGLE SHEETS, DOUBLE SHEETS, PILLOW CASES—where the maids had been directed to place the freshly laundered linens.

The third floor was inaccessible. Yellow CAUTION tape had been stretched across what was left of the stairs. Gaping holes in the stairwell traced the course of the fire as it ate its way through the rooms above. There was something unbearably creepy about the ruin everywhere. I returned to the second floor and made a circuit, pausing at many of the windows to take in the view. Aside from the field across the road, there wasn’t much to see. One field over, a new crop of some kind was sprouting through layers of plastic sheeting that served to keep the weeds down. The illusion was of ice. Closer to the house, Tannie’s battle with the brush had uncovered meandering brick paths and a truck garden now choked with weeds. During the summer, a volunteer tomato plant had resurrected itself, and it sprawled over a wooden bench, cherry tomatoes in evidence like little red ornaments on a Christmas tree. I could see the outlines of former flower beds and trees stunted by lack of sun for all the overgrowth.

To the left, at an angle, I gazed down at an ill-defined depression that might have been a sunken pool, or the remnant of an old septic system. There wouldn’t have been sewer lines in place in the early 1900s when the house was built. A mound of newly cleared snowball bushes was visible along one edge. The uprooted plants boasted once bright blue blossoms as big as heads of cabbage. I felt bad at the sacrifice of bushes that had grown so impossibly grand.

In the side yard of the lot where our trailer had sat, my aunt had planted hydrangeas much the same color, though not quite so lush as these had been. The neighbor’s hydrangeas were a washed-out pink, and Aunt Gin took delight in her superior blooms. The secret, said she, was burying nails in the soil, which somehow encouraged the shift from pink to the rich blue shade.

Afterward I felt I’d been incredibly dense, taking as long as I had to add that particular two plus two. I stared down at the cracked and slightly sunken oblong of soil and felt a flash, the sudden gelling of facts that hadn’t seemed connected before. This was where Winston had last seen the car. Amid dirt mounds, heavy equipment, and orange plastic cones, he’d said. A temporary road barrier had been erected, denying access to through traffic. No sign of Violet, no sound from the dog, but from that night forward, the Bel Air was never seen again.

Perhaps because it was buried here. Maybe all these years, the rich blue hydrangeas had been feeding on the rust.

20

I drove to the service station near Tullis and used the pay phone to call Schaefer. I told him what had occurred to me and asked how we might confirm or refute my hunch about the oblong depression in the earth. Schaefer was dubious but said he had a friend who owned a metal detector. He agreed to call the guy. If the guy could help, they’d meet us at the property as soon as possible. Failing that, he’d drive out on his own and assess the situation. I hadn’t told Tannie what I was up to, but now that I’d set the wheels in motion, I worried I was making a colossal ass of myself. On the other hand, oh well. There are worse things in life and I’ve been guilty of most.

By the time I pulled up at the house again, she’d finished her business with Bill Boynton and he was gone. “Where’d you disappear to? I thought we were having lunch.”

“Yeah, well, something’s come up. I want you to take a look.”

“Can’t we eat first and then look?”

“This won’t take long.”

She followed me to the side yard and I pointed to the irregular rectangle that had attracted my attention. At ground level, the depression wasn’t as defined as it appeared from above, especially with half-dead hydrangea bushes piled to one side. At close range, it looked more like a mole had been tunneling across the yard. The soil was uneven, but it took a bit of squinting to see that it was sunken in relation to the surrounding lawn. This was about the same as staring at the night sky, trying to identify Taurus the Bull by visualizing lines between stars. I never saw anything remotely resembling livestock, a failing I attributed to my paltry imagination. Yet here I was pointing like a bird dog, saying, “Know what that is?”

“Dirt?”

“Better than dirt. I think it’s Violet Sullivan’s grave.”

Tannie stared down at her feet. “You’re shitting me.”

“Don’t think so, but we’ll find out.”

We sat on the porch steps waiting for Tim Schaefer. Tannie had lost her appetite and neither of us was in the mood to talk. “But I got dibs on the braunschweiger once we get around to the sandwiches,” she said.

At 1:10 Schaefer drove up in his 1982 Toyota and pulled into Tannie’s drive with his metal-detecting pal. The two got out, car doors slamming in unison, and crossed to the porch. Schaefer carried a shovel and a long steel implement, like a walking stick with a point on one end. He introduced his friend, whose name was Ken Rice, adding a two-line bio so we’d know whom we were dealing with. Like Schaefer, he was a man in his early eighties, retired after thirty-eight years with the Santa Maria Police Department, working first as a motorcycle officer, then foot patrol, Narcotics, and later as the department’s first K-9 officer. For the past twenty years, his passion had been the location and recovery of buried relics, caches of coins, and other forms of treasure. We shook hands all around and then Rice turned on his detector, which looked like the two halves of a toolbox, connected by a metal rod. “Let’s see what we got.”

The four of us trooped across the property to the side yard, me tagging behind Rice like a little kid. “How does that work?”

“System has a directional transmitter and directional receiver built into these interlocking cases. Powered up, it emits an electromagnetic field that penetrates the soil. This is the same equipment used by public-utility employees looking for pipes underground. When the search pattern encounters metal, the signal is interrupted and that generates an audio response.”

“How far down?”

“The Fisher’s capable of revealing a target as far down as twenty feet. Depending on soil mineralization and ground conditions, it’s possible to detect an object even deeper.”

When we reached the spot, the three of us watched as Rice swept the detector across the ground. He’d put on a headset, and I gathered the device made a continuous sound that grew louder when he made a find. On his first pass, I saw the needle on the gauge leap hard to the right and stay there as though glued. He pressed a hand to his ear, frowning to himself as he continued sweeping across the area. Having finished, he said, “You’ve got something the size of a boxcar down there.”

I laughed. “We do?”

“Schaefer tells me you’re looking for a car, but this might be something else.”

“Such as what?”

“A Dumpster, underground storage tank, a chunk of sheet metal roof.”

“So now what?” I asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

He and Schaefer conferred and then Schaefer returned to his car, where he opened the trunk. He came back bearing a ball of twine and a plastic bag full of the golf tees he used in recaning chairs. While Rice made a series of passes with his box, Schaefer followed in his wake and stuck golf tees in the ground, roughly conforming to the signal Rice was picking up. Tannie and I each took a turn listening, passing the headset from one to the other. If Rice moved the device too far left or right, the tone diminished. Schaefer ran a line of twine from tee to tee. When they finished mapping, the string was laid out in a rectangle eighteen feet long by approximately eight feet wide. I could feel the skin pucker on my arms at the notion of an underground object of that size. It must be equivalent to sailing on the ocean and realizing a whale was on the verge of surfacing under your boat. The very proximity seemed ominous. Unseen and unidentified, it radiated an energy that had me edging away.

Schaefer picked up the metal bar he was using as a probe. He chose a spot and pushed down, leaning his weight into the rod. It sank eight inches, but not easily. The soil in this part of the state has a high clay content, larded with numerous rocks and sizeable sandstone boulders. This makes digging tedious under the best of circumstances. Strike a boulder with a shovel blade and the impact will reverberate all the way up your arms.

Rice added his weight to the job. The probe sank another foot and a half and stopped. He said, “What do you think?”

“Let’s see if it’s rock or we’re hitting something else.”

Schaefer took his shovel and set to work, cutting into the hard-packed topsoil. I’d thought the ground would yield, but it proved to be slow going. Twenty minutes of steady effort produced a trench eighteen inches wide and about three feet long. Frail roots were exposed and hung from the perpendicular sides of the cut like a living fringe. The dirt pile beside the hole mounted.

At a depth of twenty-six inches, he made contact with an object, or a portion of an object. The four of us paused to stare.

“I’ve got a trowel if you want to dig by hand,” Tannie said.

“Might be smart,” Rice replied.

When she returned, she said, “May I?”

Schaefer said, “Have at it. It’s your land.”

Tannie got down on her hands and knees and began to scrape away the dirt. The object might have once been chrome though it was so badly rusted it was difficult to tell. I found myself tilting my head, saying, “What is that?”

By the time she’d dug down and cut an additional five inches, she’d uncovered something with a metal lip that extended over a shallow curve of glass. She looked up. “It’s a headlight. Isn’t it?”

Schaefer rested his hands on his knees and leaned closer. “I believe you’re right.”

Tannie scraped away another narrow trough of dirt, revealing what looked to be the rusted metal curve of a front right fender.

Rice said, “One of us better call the station and get some help out here.”

By 3:00 there were eight officers at the site: an ID detective and a young deputy from the Santa Maria Sheriff’s Department; a sergeant, two homicide detectives, and two nonsworn officers from Santa Teresa. In addition, an investigator had driven up from the State Crime Lab, which is located in Colgate, near the Santa Teresa Airport. A temporary parking area had been set up for official vehicles, including the crime scene van.

The first officer on the scene, the young Santa Maria deputy, had secured the area, relegating Schaefer, Ken Rice, Tannie, and me to a spot twenty-five yards away. Anyone in a secured crime scene is considered the same as a primary witness and might be asked to testify in court, which was why we were kept at such a distance. In addition, if this turned into a homicide investigation, there was always the risk that unauthorized persons might contaminate the site.

The lead investigator, Detective Nichols, came over and introduced himself, then briefed us on strategy for the excavation. He was a good-looking man in his forties, wearing a dress shirt and tie with a windbreaker, but no sport coat. He was slim, his light brown hair trimmed short. He glanced in my direction. “You’re Miss Millhone?”

“That’s right.”

“Could I speak to you?”

“Of course.”

We moved some distance away so we could talk in private.

“I understand Daisy Sullivan hired you to find her mother. You want to tell me how you came up with this?” he asked, indicating the site.

I backtracked, filling him in on my conversation with Winston and the tidbit he’d given me about spotting the car. I told him I’d been bothered by the fact that after that last sighting, the car was never seen again. “I was touring the house and when I looked down from one of the second-floor windows, I spotted the depression in the ground. At first I thought I was looking at an old planting bed, but then the car popped into my head. I called Sergeant Schaefer and he drove out with Ken Rice.”

“You had no information in advance?”

“None. In fact, I had only the dimmest recollection of Violet Sullivan’s disappearance. I’d read the occasional newspaper account, but I hadn’t paid much attention until Daisy contacted me this past Monday. Tannie was the one who introduced us, which is how I ended up here.”

He settled a look on me that was friendly enough, but had a no-nonsense undertone. “Anything else you find, you make sure I hear about it first.”

“Absolutely.”

We returned to the others. The five of us watched while one of the ID techs photographed the area and the other tech took measurements and drew a rough sketch, depicting what was believed to be the angle and orientation of the car. Given what they could see in the early phases of the work, the speculation was that whoever engineered the burial had used a bulldozer with an eight-foot blade, probably creating a ramp at a twenty-to thirty-degree angle. The car had been backed into the hole and then covered with fill. According to calculations, it would have taken approximately fifty feet of ramp to a maximum depth of fifteen feet in order to get the whole of the car underground with the front end sunk deep enough to prevent discovery. Now I could see what that pesky high school geometry class was about. There was no point in going to all the trouble of burying a car if the hood ornament was going to wash clear in the first big rain storm. If the job were poorly done, the car would emerge, little by little, over a period of time until it looked like an island in the middle of the lawn. Assuming the whole of the vehicle was there. Maybe we were looking at the bisected front end with nothing else attached. Detective Nichols excused himself and went back to the dig.

If speculation about the depth and angle was correct, the car was tilted beneath the surface like a sunken submarine, hung up on an underwater shelf. That being the case, the roof of the car and the top edge of the windshield would be approximately two paces back and some two and a half feet deep. To test the theory, Nichols whistled the young deputy over, handed him the shovel, and directed him to dig. He set to work, keeping his cuts shallow. Fifteen minutes later, the blade of his shovel scraped the surface of the roof.

There was a long debate about the use of an excavator, a motion that was quickly ratified. The idea of freeing the vehicle by hand was out of the question. The ID detective radioed and a deputy was dispatched to A-Okay Heavy Equipment to ask Padgett if he had one available. This generated an additional delay while the excavator was located, loaded on a low-boy flatbed truck, and driven out from town.

Tannie and I retired to her car, now parked a hundred yards down the road. We sat with the windows rolled down and ate our deli sandwiches, calling it lunch though it was already 4:00 P.M. I had no idea how word got out, but a trickle of people appeared, and before long the road was lined with vehicles. Two deputies controlled public access to the scene, which had been sealed off with tape. Steve Ottweiler arrived and he joined us, talking to his sister through the open window of her car. She said, “Does Pop know?”

“I called him and he’s on his way out. Let me go see what Tim Schaefer has to say. He’ll know more than we do.”

Steve crossed the road. Schaefer was standing in a small knot of men. During the course of their conversation, the flatbed truck arrived. Tom Padgett had followed in his car, and he supervised the off-loading of the compact John Deere excavator, after which the equipment operator was the only one allowed in the magic circle. Padgett was relegated to the sidelines in the same way we were, which seemed to annoy him no end. For the next hour, we watched in amazement as the operator maneuvered his equipment with the delicacy of a surgeon. He was directed by whistles and hand signals, his skill such that he could scrape as little as an inch or as much as a foot of dirt from the hole on command.

Ken Rice found a ride home while Schaefer remained. He stood sipping coffee from a foam cup someone managed to provide. Even retired, he was drawn to the drama unfolding before our eyes. Jake Ottweiler pulled up and parked his car down the road. His son walked out to meet him and the two returned to Tim Schaefer’s side. Having worked for the sheriff ’s department for thirty-some-odd years, he was the reigning civilian expert. I noticed BW McPhee was on hand, having appeared at some point. I also caught a glimpse of Winston, but didn’t have a chance to make eye contact before he disappeared again. A local TV station sent a crew, and Detective Nichols gave a brief, uninformative statement, essentially referring the reporter to the sheriff for further comment.

At 5:45 Daisy arrived. Tannie and I got out of the car and waved her over. She joined us, looking pale and subdued. She was still in her work clothes, navy slacks, a cotton sweater, and sensible low-heeled shoes. She was chewing on her thumbnail again but lowered her hand self-consciously when she caught sight of me. She tucked her fingers out of sight and shifted from foot to foot as though to warm herself. She hadn’t heard about my tires being slashed, so we talked about that just to get her mind off what was going on. “I don’t like the sound of it.”

“It’s a bit melodramatic, but I took it as a good sign,” I said.

“What are your plans for tonight?”

“I was expecting to head home, but now I think I’ll hang out until we know what we’ve got down there.”

“You can’t go back to the Sun Bonnet.”

“No, but there are other motels.”

“Spend the night at my place. Tannie leaves first thing tomorrow morning. You’ll survive one night on the couch. I’ve done it before myself. Meanwhile, we can lock your car in my garage and get it off the street in case the son of a bitch comes looking for it.”

“If I stay, I’ll either need to do laundry or borrow some underwear.”

“We’ll do both.”

“This is such guy stuff. I love it,” Tannie remarked, taking in the various gatherings of men.

Detective Nichols joined Tim Schaefer on the far side of the road, introducing himself to Jake and Steve Ottweiler. After a few more minutes of conversation, Nichols returned to us. He knew by then that the Ottweilers owned the property and that Daisy was the only child of the missing Violet Sullivan. He introduced himself to Daisy, and I could see her taking him in—glasses, clean-shaven, nice smile. There was a shift in her posture. Clearly she found him attractive.

He glanced at the clusters of onlookers out by the road. Even with their limited line of sight, there was something compelling about the work. “I’m about to have the deputies clear these people out of here. This is not a spectator sport. If we need to bring in additional equipment or manpower, I don’t want to have to work around all the looky-loos and parked cars. I’m going to have you give the deputy contact numbers in case I need to get in touch. I’d appreciate your keeping quiet about anything you’ve seen or heard. We don’t want details getting out. The less information we have in circulation, the better.”

“It’s all right if we stay?” Daisy asked.

“As long as you do what you’re told and keep out of the way.”

“How long will it take? I know you can’t say exactly…”

“I’m guessing two days. No point being hasty and damaging the car beyond what nature’s already done.”

“But you haven’t found anything?”

“Not so far. I understand your concern about your mother and I’ll keep you informed. As soon as we free the car, we’ll take it to the impound lot. We’ve got a storage facility, where we can warehouse the vehicle while we go over it. Right now we have no idea what evidence we’ll find, if any, after all this time. What about your father; have you talked to him?”

Daisy shook her head. “I came right from work. I assume somebody’s called him by now, but maybe not. I’m sure he’d be here if he knew.”

“One thing I’ll need to ask him—or maybe this is something you can tell me yourself—do you recall what your mother was wearing the day she disappeared?”

“A sundress. Lavender cotton with white polka dots. Leather sandals and thin silver bracelets, six of them. I don’t actually remember any of it. It was in the report my father filed at the time.” She seemed so tense, I expected her teeth to chatter. “Are you going to tell me if she’s down there?”

“I’d do that, of course. You have a right to know.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

As he walked away, she tracked his departure with a calculating eye. “Well, he’s cute. Married, no doubt.”

Tannie laughed. “Just your kind of guy. Too bad he works. He’d be perfect for you.”

Within minutes, we could see two deputies encouraging bystanders to move on. People began to drift away. Car doors slammed, engines coughed to life, and one by one the crowd dispersed. In truth, at that remove, there wasn’t much to see. The excavation was being treated like an archaeological dig—sketched, diagrammed, measured, photographed, and documented with a video camera as well. Two-man teams were set up, and as each scoop of dirt was freed, it was loaded into one of two sieves, shaken, and sifted for physical evidence.

At dusk, portable generators were brought in and high-intensity lights were set up. By then Daisy was shivering.

I linked my arm through hers. “Let’s get out of here. They’re not going to find anything tonight. You’re freezing and I’m starving. Plus, I gotta pee so bad I’m about to wet my pants.”

“Oh, me too,” Tannie said.

21

JAKE

Thursday, July 2, 1953

Jake Ottweiler drove into Santa Maria for his bimonthly haircut, pausing outside the barbershop to put a nickel in the vending machine and extract a copy of the Chronicle. In his truck he’d discovered Mary Hairl’s soiled nightgowns in a bundle on the front seat, where he’d inadvertently left them the night before. Once he got home, he’d do a load of wash and take her fresh clothes on his visit the next day. He usually went afternoons or evenings without fail, but she’d urged him to take a day off. He’d argued the point, more as a way of disguising his relief than with any desire to prevail.

As for the laundry, she’d insisted the hospital gowns were fine, not wanting to make more work for him when he was already strapped for time, but he’d seen how much happier she was in her own cotton nightie and robe. Now and then she even managed to put on her slippers and venture down the hall to visit the pastor’s mother, who was laid up with a broken hip.

Rudy greeted him when he entered the shop. He was finishing up a shave on the fella ahead of him, so Jake waited his turn. He took a seat in the barber chair. Rudy wrapped a paper band around his neck and then secured a cape over his shoulders. The two scarcely exchanged a word. Rudy had been cutting his hair for the past twenty-seven years and didn’t need advice. Jake flapped open the paper, skimming for information about the coming three-day weekend. He wasn’t much interested in the Fourth of July folderol, but Mary Hairl wanted the kids to enjoy themselves. Steve was old enough to entertain himself—which in fact he preferred to do—but Tannie was another matter. Jake thought he might take her to the annual Fourth of July Rodeo Parade in Lompoc, where the Santa Maria Valley Roping and Riding Club would be performing. His choices for the fireworks show were the Elks Field at 8:30 Saturday night or the little park in Silas, which was closer to home. He planned to take a picnic supper. He didn’t know how to cook, but his thought was to buy some hot dog buns and weenies that he could roast on one of the charcoal barbecue grills that dotted the park. He could buy potato salad and baked beans at the market and maybe candy bars for dessert.

As he flipped past the society news, Livia Cramer’s name caught his eye. Mrs. Livia Cramer had been the hostess of a home-demonstration party, at which prizes had been given to Miss Juanita Chalmers, Miss Miriam Berkeley, Mrs. R. H. Hudson, and Mrs. P. T. York. Refreshments of pizza pie and cake were served. Now why that was newsworthy was beyond him, but he knew she’d be full of herself at the attention. Livia was pretentious enough as it was. He was tempted to carry the article up to the hospital to Mary Hairl, but if he tried poking fun at the woman, Mary Hairl would only come to her defense. Livia was panting for the day when she could palm off that hulking child of hers on some poor unsuspecting chump. With all the prattling about the engagement party, bridal showers, the wedding, the reception, talk of the gown, the flowers, and the honeymoon details, Livia would have her name and likeness splashed across the society pages for a year and a half. Assuming anyone would have the girl.

He read the comics—Nancy, Freckles, Gordo, and Alley Oop—which he never thought were funny but couldn’t bear to miss. Then he checked the baseball scores and farm news while Rudy ran the clippers up the back of his neck. He drove home smelling like talcum powder. Despite Rudy’s best efforts, his back and neck were already feeling itchy from the newly trimmed hairs that had slipped down his collar.

Once home, he stripped off his work boots, Sears shirt, and overalls, and ran water in the shower. While he waited for the hot water to come through, he put his clothes in the hamper, and as he passed the bathroom mirror, he glimpsed the scabbed-over claw marks Violet Sullivan had left on his back not four days before. He stepped into the shower, feeling both appalled and aroused. If anyone else saw the marks his goose would be cooked. He was always surprised by the damage she managed to inflict. She was small, no bigger than a girl, all energy and sass, red hair hanging halfway down her back, with a waviness that made a pattern when he lifted it from her neck. He liked to thread his fingers through its thickness, grab a fistful of hair, and pull her head back so hard her mouth would come open with surprise. He’d run a rough palm across her breasts and down the length of her spine while she shuddered with desire. He’d never known a woman like her, so savage and so insatiable. She wore a delicate violet perfume, her trademark she said. She dressed in purple and lavender, sometimes a dark vivid green that set her green eyes afire. The fabrics were soft and clung to the front of her legs, making a crackling sound when he pulled the skirt away from her thighs.

He’d never cared for violets himself. Weeds, to his way of thinking, taking over the lawn. Mary Hairl loved them, the white ones in particular, and she fussed at Jake every time he threatened to spray. He couldn’t see the point in letting something wild and uncontrollable encroach on the grass. That spring, which he knew now would be Mary Hairl’s last, he’d lain facedown among the violets, letting the light, sweet scent saturate his skin. He’d run his hand across the dark green leaves, snatching up the blossoms in the much same way he’d torn into Violet the last time they met. The motel carpeting had a strange metallic smell that he associated with their sex.

At the hospital the night before, he found himself ruminating on the differences between the two women. Of late, Mary Hairl’s eyes had begun to look sunken, hollow, smudged dark, and Jake felt as guilty as if he’d struck her. He’d been patient and tender, dogged in his attentions, but his brain had disconnected, returning to Violet in spite of his best intentions. While he’d dabbed Mary Hairl’s face with a damp cloth, he’d be thinking about Violet, the last time they’d been to bed, the ferocity with which she bit and sucked at him, clinging like a woman drowning among the bedsheets. She could tease, withhold, letting her red hair sweep over his thighs while he struggled for control, thrusting himself toward her. Violet would pull away, smiling, her eyes glittering. She’d lick the length of him, and he knew he’d never learn to stifle his groan when she finally took him in her mouth.

He looked down. Mary Hairl had asked for ice water, which Jake went to fetch for her, replenishing her glass. She was thirsty, as trusting as a child, sucking at the clear bent glass straw that he held to her lips. She murmured a thank you and lay back against the pillows. He knew he couldn’t go on with Violet. Every other day he’d decide he had to break it off, but each time the opportunity presented itself, he’d think Once more…just once more, and then he’d hope to find the strength necessary to sever the relationship.

There was a weight in his chest, a heaviness reminding him of all he’d betrayed. Sometimes the anxiety was so intense he felt sick. He was grateful to Violet. He’d always be grateful for what he’d learned. She’d brought him to life after years of ministering to Mary Hairl’s pain. If Mary Hairl would go—if she’d only get on with it—he knew the suffocating sense of desperation would pass. At the same time, though he could barely admit it to himself, he harbored the fantasy that with his wife gone, Violet might become a permanent part of his life, filling the void that Mary Hairl had left.

He turned off the shower knobs with a screech, stepped out, and then dried himself off. He dressed, pulling on the jeans he’d hung on a peg behind his closet door. He picked up the bundle of Mary Hairl’s soiled nightclothes and moved into the mud room, where he’d hooked up the washer and dryer. He opened the washer lid and found himself staring down at the tight coil of wet clothes he’d neglected to remove. He couldn’t remember running a load, but when he pulled out the first article, he realized it was Mary Hairl’s laundry from the week before. The clothes were still damp and now smelled of mildew because the garments had sat so long. How could he have done such a thing? Bringing Mary Hairl clean clothes was something he’d taken on to demonstrate his care and concern. She’d never mentioned the fact that he’d failed to return her nighties and her step-ins. What had she worn all week?

Face burning, he started the load again, adding this week’s clothing to the one before, hoping that a strong dose of soap powder would eliminate the rank odor of wet cotton gone sour. He went into the bedroom and opened Mary Hairl’s dresser drawer, relieved to see she had plenty of other nighties. Everything was neatly folded, a plain virginal white. He pulled out four nightgowns and piled six pairs of step-ins on top. He hesitated and then laid the pile on top of the dresser.

He went through the remaining drawers, searching her belongings, something he’d never dreamed of doing before this moment. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to forage among her things. Perhaps some morbid curiosity about the personal effects it would soon be his job to pack up and give away. What did he hope to find? A dildo, evidence of some hidden vice—drink, kleptomania, pornography? He knew, without having to look, that the dresses hanging in her closet were washed colorless, starched and fastidiously ironed. Why did this generate such anger in him? Why was his life filled with degradation while hers was so barren and apologetic?

In the second drawer from the bottom, hidden under her cotton slips, he saw the corner of a bright yellow box. He moved the slips aside. The drawer was lined with unopened gift sets of Jean Naté After Bath Splash and Cologne. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought of giving her anything else. Why would he? Birthdays, she always asked for Jean Naté. He thought she loved it. Opening his gift, which he inevitably prevailed on the clerk to wrap, she’d seemed pleased and surprised, her appreciation sounding so heartfelt that he hadn’t thought to question her sincerity. Christmas meant nothing to him. They gave gifts to the children, but the exchanging of gifts between the two of them felt awkward so now they skipped the practice on mutual agreement. Or so he’d assumed.

Seeing the Jean Naté, he was deeply ashamed. He’d been complacent about her, so oblivious that it hadn’t occurred to him to give her anything more personal, lavish, or spontaneous. He was embarrassed that she hadn’t felt comfortable telling him the truth, that she’d thought so little of herself she hadn’t been able to ask for what she wanted. She probably didn’t even know what that was. By her birthday, which would fall on September 12, she’d be gone, and in a flash it occurred to him that if he’d betrayed the marriage, so had she. The difference was that she’d die being thought of as saintly and good, and he’d be forced to live on without her, burdened by rage, corruption, and guilt. He might be a man without character, but she was a woman without courage. Of the two, which was worse?

Once the laundry was done, he left the house and drove to Serena Station. It was only 10:35 in the morning, but BW opened the Blue Moon at 9:00. There was no explanation for the absurdity of the hour. The place sat empty most of the day, half dark, door open, as cool and welcoming as a church. He parked and went in. At a table to one side, Winston Smith sat by himself, his back to the bar, his expression withdrawn. He had a Miller beer in front of him, though Jake knew for a fact he wasn’t legally of age. Given his dark mood, maybe BW had taken pity on the boy, figuring he’d take his chances with the ABC agent, who’d been in the week before.

Jake took a seat at the bar and BW set a Blatz in front of him. Jake knew Violet stopped by two and three times a week after Foley left for work. He hadn’t seen her since Sunday, but he needed to talk to her before he lost his resolve. Sure enough, she walked in twenty minutes later. Winston, in the process of ordering another beer, turned and stared at her sullenly. “I need to talk to you.”

Violet paused by his table. “So talk.”

“Please join me,” he said. He was speaking with care, but Jake noticed that his consonants had turned soft around the edges. Violet sat down. Whatever Winston had to say to her, he kept his voice low, and Violet’s expression never registered more than bemusement. Finally, she leaned forward. Her reply was inaudible, but whatever she’d said, Winston seemed taken aback. She got up and moved to the far end of the bar.

Winston said, “Bitch,” to himself.

Jake looked from the boy to BW. “What’s his deal?”

BW glanced at Winston. “Kid lost his job.”

BW moved to Violet’s end of the bar. She ordered and Jake watched while BW poured her a glass of red wine. Jake picked up his beer, walked the length of the bar, and took the stool next to hers. He waited until BW put the wineglass in front of her.

“I’ll take care of it,” Jake said. BW went to the cash register and punched in the charge, adding it to his tab, then disappeared into the back room to leave the two of them alone. Jake had thought he’d feel anxious about what he had to do, but he found himself regarding her with fondness. “I thought I’d see you yesterday afternoon.”

“Something came up. I had business to take care of.”

“I wasn’t complaining.”

“It sure sounded like that to me. If you’re here to whine, don’t bother. I already had a big dose of self-pity from Winston.”

“Why’s he so mad?”

“Because he’s a jerk. Know what he said? He wanted me to lend him the money for his college tuition. Can you picture it? The nerve! I said, ‘Why would I do that? What do I look like, a damn bank manager? I wouldn’t lend you a dime if my life depended on it, you little creep.’”

“You’re always talking about your money. Maybe he thought you’d be willing to help.”

“Yeah, well, any money I have is mine and I’m not giving it away. So what are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.”

“That’s what he said. About what?”

Jake lowered his voice. “I know you’ve been pulling away. It’s been going on for weeks and it’s okay. I don’t want you to feel bad. That’s all I want to say. It’s probably for the best and so be it.”

Violet’s tone was flat. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“Feels to me like you’ve gone and found someone else.”

“What if I have? I can’t count on you, that’s for damn sure. You’ve got Mary Hairl and I’m out here in the cold trying to look after myself. I need to get the hell out of Dodge and what do you have to offer? Nothing. A big fat zero.”

“I’m not blaming you, I swear. I know I don’t have anything to offer and I’m sorry about that because I’d help if I could. I guess the best we can say is we never made each other any promises.”

She turned and squinted at him. “Wait a minute, what is this? Are you breaking it off?”

He motioned a palm flat against the air, trying to get her to lower her voice. “I’d just like to be a good husband to Mary Hairl in whatever time she has left. You think I want to do this? You’re all I’ve thought about for months. For a while, I didn’t see how I could live without you. Even now, I’m not sure how I’ll make it. As much as you’ve meant…”

“As much as I’ve meant? I couldn’t have meant much if you’re chucking me aside like a piece of garbage. What’s the problem, wasn’t I good enough? You sure took advantage while it suited you, you dumb fuck, and now that you’re tired of me—”

“Don’t say things like that. You know how it was. Both of us were hurting so we helped each other out. I’m grateful for that, but you need something better and it seems like you found it. I just want you to know that I’m happy for you and wishing you the best.”

“Well, that’s damn generous. You’re wishing me the best. Wonder what you’ll wish for when Foley finds out.”

He could feel his heart skip and all the warm feelings drained away. “Let’s hope that never happens for your sake as well as mine.”

“Oh, it’ll happen all right. You know how I know?” She glanced at her watch. “Because about six o’clock tonight, minute he gets home, I’ll have an attack of conscience and ’fess right up. I’ll tell him how shocked and appalled I was when you forced your unwanted sexual attentions on me and how poor Mary Hairl has no idea you’re strutting around with a big old hard-on, rubbing up against every woman who walks by.”

“Oh, don’t do that.” His tone sounded plaintive, even to his own ears.

“Why not? I gotta protect myself.”

“He’s not going to believe you. Why would he take your word for anything? God only knows how many guys you’ve screwed—”

Violet picked up her wine and flung it in his face, then tossed the glass aside. It hit the floor, bounced once, and smashed. She took up her purse and walked out without looking back. Winston turned his head, watching her departure, and then his gaze traveled back to the bar, where Jake sat as though shot, his heart pounding at the shock. The jolt of lukewarm red wine had drenched his face and soaked into the front of his shirt. BW appeared from the back room. He took one look at Jake, reached for a towel, and passed it across the bar. Jake pressed the towel against his face, wishing he could disappear. Thank god only BW and Winston were there to bear witness.

Outside he could hear the engine turn over in Foley’s rattletrap truck. Violet took off with a squeal, throwing up gravel against the underside with a rapid rata-tat-tat. He could feel the panic mount his frame. Surely she wouldn’t do anything so dangerous as to tell Foley about him. He knew she was furious, but she’d taken it the wrong way. He wasn’t rejecting her, he was setting her free.

He looked up as Tom Padgett appeared in the door. Tom was staring back over his shoulder, the light glinting off his glasses. He brought his gaze around to the scene in front of him: Jake’s shirt soaked, Winston drunk, BW behind the bar, looking rooted in place. “What the hell is going on?”

Jake tried calling Violet twice on Thursday afternoon, but the phone rang and rang, apparently to an empty house. The third time he called, Foley Sullivan picked up and Jake returned the handset to the cradle without saying a word. He spent Thursday evening at the hospital with Mary Hairl, which he hadn’t meant to do, but she seemed so pleased and grateful to see him, he nearly convinced himself that he’d done it for her. In truth, he was too anxious to stay home. A whisper of fear had settled in his gut. Violet was reckless, and he wouldn’t put it past her to bring the roof down around her head if she thought she was getting even with him. He felt safe in Mary Hairl’s company, as though in looking after her, he could look after himself. Or maybe it was more accurate to say that by staying at her side, he hoped to ward off the disaster that was heading his way.

He called Friday at lunchtime, but again there was no answer. He drove through Serena Station, looking for any sign of her. He ran an errand in Silas and then swung back through town and parked across the street from the post office so he could pick up his mail. Miraculously he spotted her, driving the brand-new Chevrolet he’d seen in Chet Cramer’s showroom. He was just crossing the street when she slowed to a stop. She leaned over and waited until he was even with the open window. “So what do you think?”

She looked radiant. Gone was the dark rage and in its place was a Violet Sullivan as tickled as a kid with a shiny new bike. He found himself smiling. “Where’d you get that? It’s pretty slick.”

“It’s mine. Foley bought it for me.”

“Bought it? I thought Foley was broke.”

“Oh, he has his little ways. He must have pulled a fast one on Chet because he went off this morning before nine, came home an hour later, and parked this little beauty at the curb.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Who needs an occasion? He’s nuts about me. Of course it doesn’t hurt that he went berserk last night and tore the house apart. My brand-new lace curtains ended up in the trash. Where’re you off to? You want a ride around the block?”

“Nah, I got things to take care of. Maybe another time,” he said. He noticed a pair of white cardboard glasses sitting on the front seat. “Those your sunglasses?”

She glanced down. “No, what, these?” She picked them up and put them on. “I took Daisy and Liza Mellincamp to that 3-D movie this afternoon. Bwana Devil. Daisy’s going to have nightmares for a month.”

“Kids will do that,” he said mildly.

“Anyway, I gotta be some place so I better let you go. Tahtah,” she said. She put her foot on the gas and took off.

He’d never seen her so cheerful or so full of goodwill. He returned to his car with an overwhelming sense of relief. Maybe everything was okay and he could breathe again.

He went back to the hospital late that afternoon, feeling lighter than he had in months. It was not quite 5:00, but the dinner carts were already in the hall. He’d sit with her through dinner and spend the evening with her until she was settled in for the night. He’d bought Mary Hairl a little houseplant to keep beside her bed. The gal at the florist’s shop had wrapped it in a high cone of green tissue paper with a bright purple bow. Jake thought she’d be pleased to have something colorful to look at. He got on the elevator and went up to the second floor. As the doors opened, he stopped in his tracks. Mary Hairl’s father was standing in the hall, his face stony. Something had happened to Mary Hairl. Maybe she’d taken a turn for the worse; maybe she was dead. Cold seeped up from the floor and climbed his frame.

Hairl held a Bible in one hand, and in the other he clutched a piece of pink notepaper, covered with a slanting scrawl of black ink. “You son of a bitch. Tell me on this Bible you never lusted in your heart. Tell me you never lain with Violet Sullivan and don’t you lie. My poor girl, my only girl, she’s in there dying as we speak. She probably doesn’t have but a week to live. So you tell me you didn’t put that pecker of yours in that vile whore’s mouth! Swear on this book! This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, Son. You think I don’t know that? Word gets around and I heard about every single one of your affairs. You thought you were being sly, but you never fooled me. I could barely stand to look you in the eye, but I kept hush for Mary Hairl’s sake. I should have said something years ago, but she worshiped you. Worshiped the ground you walked on. You’re a failure. You’re worthless. You can’t even manage to earn a decent wage. Weren’t for me, you’d be on welfare. And now there you are, off in some bar making a public display of yourself.”

Hairl lost his momentum. His voice broke and the pink notepaper shook in his trembling hand. He sobbed once and then gathered himself again. “If I had the strength, I would choke the life out of you. My beautiful girl. She’s the soul of goodness and what of you, sir? You are low-down, stinking trash. You’ve made her an object of pity in this town, and she’ll go to her grave looking like a fool, but there’s worse in store for you. I can promise you that.”

Jake’s mind went blank. He was speechless with horror. What had she done? What in god’s name had Violet Sullivan gone and done?

22

The three of us drove to Daisy’s in separate cars, like a very short motorcade. Having warned them, I peeled off at Broadway and made a stop at JC Penney, where I bought a cotton nightie, two T-shirts, and cheap underwear. I made a second stop at a nearby drugstore and bought three paperback novels, shampoo, conditioner, and deodorant, figuring if I was in town for any length of time I might as well smell good. Even if the Bel Air was magically unearthed and I went home the next day, the purchases would be useful. It’s not like the underpants were stamped with a sell-by date.

I reached Daisy’s house at 8:00, when the autumn dark had fully settled and the streetlights had come on. She’d left the garage door open, so I pulled my car in, locked it, and triggered the automatic-door device as I emerged. Once in the house, I found Tannie stretched out on the living room floor, trying to get the kinks out of her back after a morning of hacking brush and an afternoon watching cops dig a car out of her lawn. Daisy was in the kitchen brewing a fresh pot of tea. She’d changed out of her work clothes and into her sweats, but she looked just as stressed as she had at the site. Her face had the pinched look of someone in the throes of a migraine, though she claimed she was fine. The discovery of the car had generated tension in each of us, but our remedies were different. Daisy longed for a bath and Tannie wanted a drink. For my part, I’d have given anything to be by myself, an impossible desire as things currently stood. I couldn’t even take to my bed because Daisy’d brought her cup of tea into the living room and now sat on the couch, where I would ultimately sleep. From the floor, Tannie said, “Hey, gang. I don’t remember eating dinner, unless I missed an episode. Is anybody else hungry? I’m about to eat my own arm.”

After a brief negotiation, Daisy picked up the phone and ordered a large pizza, which was delivered thirty minutes later. We ate with enthusiasm, though Tannie declined any portion of the pizza that butted up against the anchovies Daisy and I had voted for. Just when I assumed we were done for the day, free to read or watch mindless TV, the telephone rang. Daisy picked up. “Oh, hi, BW. What’s up?”

As she listened I watched her expression change. The color rose in her cheeks as though controlled by a dimmer switch. “How did that happen?” She closed her eyes, shaking her head at the nature of his response. “I see. No, no. It’s not your fault. I understand. I’ll be right there.”

She hung up.

“What is it?” I asked.

“My father’s over at the Blue Moon and he’s drunk on his ass. BW wants me to get him out of there before a fight breaks out.”

“Foley’s drunk?”

“That’s what he says. I’ll take care of it. Why don’t you two stay here?”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll go. You can’t manage by yourself if he’s that far gone.”

Daisy turned to Tannie. “What about you? It’s entirely optional.”

“Count me out. I’ll go if you need me, but I’m beat. I gotta get up early and hit the road. We get over to the Moon, I’ll end up having a drink and that’ll be it. I’m tempted, but trying to behave myself.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll be back as soon as we figure out what to do with him.”

Daisy found her purse and car keys. She said she’d be warm enough in her sweats, but she found a spare jacket for me. The evening was already chilly, and neither of us was sure how long we’d be out. On the fifteen-mile drive from Santa Maria to Serena Station, she kept shaking her head. “I can’t believe it. He’s been sober for thirty-four years and here we go again.”

“He must have heard about the car.”

“That’s what BW said.”

“But why would that set him off?”

“Beats the hell out of me. I don’t even want to speculate.”

The Blue Moon that Friday night was jammed. Happy hour had ended at 7:00, but the drinking sailed right on. The energy level seemed manic, bespeaking much joy that the work week was done. This time the place did smell of beer and cigarette smoke. Between the loud talk, the jukebox, and alcohol-amped laughter, the noise was overwhelming.

Foley Sullivan sat at the bar, oblivious to everything, like a man submerged in a deprivation tank. He and his whiskey had been separated for three decades. Now, like old lovers, they’d been reunited, and he was busy reestablishing their relationship, leaving no room for anyone or anything else. He sat ramrod straight. His face was still gaunt, but his deep-set eyes were now bright with relief. His was the kind of drunkenness that had him two sips away from a blind, flailing rage.

Daisy approached, making sure he saw who she was before she laid a hand on his back. She leaned in close in order to make herself heard. “Hey, Dad. How’re you doing? I heard you were here.”

He didn’t bother to look at her, but he did raise his voice. “I see you whipped right over to look after me. Well, I’m fine, girl. No need. I can handle myself. Appreciate your concern, but I believe it’s misplaced.”

“What prompted this?”

“I guess I was born with a taste for brimstone. You ought to have one yourself. Whiskey will melt the sorrow right out of your soul.”

The man on the stool next to Foley’s had caught their exchange. I wasn’t sure whether he knew Daisy and her father or simply understood that this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to hear. He vacated his place and Daisy slid onto the stool.

Foley had gone back to his contemplation, staring into his glass as though into the dark heart of mankind. When Daisy touched his arm, he seemed surprised that she was still there. The smile he gave her was sweet. “Hello, Sweet Pea.”

“Hello, Dad. Could we go outside and talk? I need some fresh air, don’t you?”

“Nothing to talk about. That car was the final tie.” He made a slicing motion with his hand. “Severed. Just like that. She knew it’d cut me to the core if it ever came to light.”

“If what came to light?”

“The car. She buried it before she left. I paid and I paid because I loved her and thought she’d be back. Dear god, I wanted her to know she didn’t owe me anything.”

“What are you talking about?”

He focused on her face. “They found her Bel Air. I thought you knew.”

“Of course, I knew. The sheriff ’s office called me this afternoon.”

“Well then, fair enough. We have to accept the fact. Your mother laid it in the ground and then she went off. We have to make our peace with her abandonment.”

“She didn’t bury it. You can’t believe that. How could she manage?”

“Obviously, she had help. Fella she ran off with must have helped dig the hole.”

“That doesn’t make sense. If she was running off, why wouldn’t she take the car with her? If she had no use for it, she could have sold it.”

“It was her way of taunting me. The car was my final gift to her and she rejected it.”

“Dad, please stop. You know what’s going on. There’s a good possibility she’s buried down there. That’s why they’re taking their time, so they won’t destroy evidence.”

He shook his head, his mouth pulled down as though he regretted having to deliver the news. He wasn’t slurring his words, but his brain was operating at half speed and his concentration was, of necessity, intense. He thumped his chest. “She’s not dead. I’d feel it here if she were.”

“I’m not going to argue with you. Can we just get out of here?”

“Sweet Pea, you’re not responsible for the state I’m in. I’m doing this in deference to your mother with whom I drank for many years. This is my farewell. I’m giving up all claim. Violet Sullivan is free.” He gestured with his whiskey, toasting his wife before he drank it down.

I wasn’t sure where his grandiosity was coming from and I couldn’t judge his mood. He seemed dangerous—testy and unpredictable despite the formality of his speech. Daisy shot me a look. Our unspoken pact was to sweet-talk him out of there before he blew. I put a hand on his shoulder and leaned close.

When he realized who I was, he rared back slightly. “So she’s got you here, too.”

“We’re both concerned. It’s late and we thought you might like to finish your drinking at home.”

His gaze was out of focus, giving him a cross-eyed look. “I don’t have whiskey at home. Pastor would disapprove. I live in a church cell that’s fit for a monk.”

“Why don’t we go to Daisy’s? We can take you out for breakfast and then we’ll stop by her place or we’ll drop you at home.”

“You’ve never attended an Al-Anon meeting, have you?”

“I haven’t. That’s correct.”

“This is not your job. It has nothing to do with you. I don’t need to be rescued. I don’t need to be saved. I want to sit and enjoy myself so leave me be. I absolve you of any responsibility.” He waved a hand, airily, absolving me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw BW approaching, and I remember thinking, thank god. He’d had years of experience dealing with Foley drunk. Though both hands were empty, he was clearly in bouncer mode. Jake Ottweiler was two paces behind him.

BW said, “Foley, I want you out of here right now.”

Foley’s eyes jerked from BW to Jake and that’s all it took. Foley’s demons spilled out, though he smiled as he spewed. “There’s the man who fucked my wife.”

“Dad. Please lower your voice.”

Jake had stopped in his tracks. Foley eased off his stool and steadied himself. BW moved swiftly and locked his arms around Foley’s so he couldn’t move. Foley raised his voice to a shrieking pitch. “You son of a bitch. Admit it! You used my wife and then you cast her aside like she was common as dirt. You never even had the decency to own up to it.”

“That’s it,” BW said. He lifted Foley and force-marched him through the bar. “You ever set a foot in here again and it’s the last thing you’ll ever do. I’m warning you.”

In BW’s grip, Foley’s feet scarcely touched the floor. He looked like a ballerina, up on his toes, taking light, dainty steps with remarkable speed and grace. “Warn me? Why not warn him? Why not warn every man in town has a wife as beautiful as mine. I’m telling you the truth, which he damn well knows—”

Daisy grabbed BW’s arm and she was being dragged along at the same quick clip. “Stop it! Let go of him. He can’t help himself.”

“Maybe I can help. Here, try this.” BW bumped the door open with his foot and flung Foley out. Foley landed on one hip, his momentum toppling him over onto his hands and knees. Before anyone could intervene, BW swung one boot back and his fast-moving kick caught Foley squarely in the face. The cartilage in his nose went flat with a sound like a watermelon hitting concrete. Blood spurted out of his nose and his mouth welled with red. A row of white teeth, false, had popped out intact, but others were damaged and his tongue seemed swollen as though he’d bitten himself. His eyes rolled back in his head until all we could see were two white slits. Then he went still. Daisy screamed.

My heart was knocking against my chest so hard I thought I’d see bruises the next day. Daisy dropped down beside her father, who groaned and rolled over on his back. She looked up at BW with horror, both of us expecting a second kick to land. BW turned away. He grabbed the door and his tone was filled with disgust. “Fuck. I’ll call an ambulance and send out some ice for his face.”

23

The ambulance arrived and three paramedics alighted, like firemen on a run. By then Foley had staggered to his feet and was ready to fight the son of a bitch who’d knocked him on his buns. He was belligerent, lashing out, fending off the paramedic who was offering first aid. With the blood oozing out of his nose and welling across his upper lip, he looked like a vampire interrupted in the course of a gory feast. The waitress brought him a plastic bag packed with ice and wrapped in a kitchen towel. Grimacing, she passed it to him and returned to the restaurant as quickly as possible. While his upper bridge had gone flying, his lower teeth had been forced through his lip. He held the ice pack to his mouth, the towel turning a saturated red. He declined medical attention, so the paramedics had no choice but to climb back in the ambulance and drive away.

Foley slumped onto the wooden steps and leaned his head against the rail, talking to himself.

Daisy bent over him. “Dad, listen to me. Would you listen? You need to see a doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor. Leave me be.” He scanned the area around him, his eyes out of focus. “Where’d my bridge go? I can’t hardly talk without my teeth.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got it. I need your keys.”

He leaned sideways, nearly losing his balance as he dug in his pants pocket and came up with the keys.

Daisy snatched them and passed them to me before she turned back to him. “I want you to get in the car. I’m taking you to the emergency room. Kinsey’s going to follow us in your truck. And don’t argue.”

“I wasn’t arguing,” he said in a cranky, argumentative tone.

We helped him to his feet. He was woozy from the whiskey and woozy from the blow to his face. The two of us guided him, staggering, to Daisy’s car, which was parked on the street and mercifully close. She unlocked the passenger’s-side door and opened it. Foley shrugged off any further help, claiming he could manage. He held on to the door frame, eased himself half the distance to the seat, and then fell the rest, groaning at the jolt.

“It’s your own fault,” she snapped. “Move your hand.”

He managed to remove his hand from the frame half a second before she slammed the door. She opened the trunk and snatched a terry-cloth towel from her gym bag. Disgusted, she opened the door again and tossed it to him. “Don’t bleed on the upholstery.”

She pointed out his truck in the parking lot and then slammed the trunk lid shut as she rounded the back of the car. I walked over to the truck and let myself in while she started her car. She waited until I was nosing out of the parking lot before she put her car in gear and pulled onto the street ahead of me.

She drove him to the ER at the hospital where she worked. By that time Foley had settled down, perhaps recognizing the enormity of his sins. Even having his nose broken wasn’t going to be sufficient penance to redeem him in Daisy’s eyes. She put his name on the register, and when he was called she accompanied him into the examining room. I sat in the waiting room, leafing through a magazine while Foley was being worked on. After forty minutes, she came out and sank into the chair next to mine.

I said, “How’s it going?”

“He’ll be fine. They’ve called in an ear, nose, and throat specialist to reset his nose. The doctor’s also ordered a CAT scan since he suffered a brief loss of consciousness. They said they’d bring me in again when he’s back from radiology.”

“Will they keep him overnight?”

“Doesn’t look that way,” she said as she got up. “Let me see if I can find a pay phone and call the pastor. There’s no way I’m taking him home with me.” She took her purse and headed off down the hall. Less than five minutes later she was back. “Blessings on the man. He asked a few questions and then said he’d be waiting whenever Dad was released. The parish house is right next door to the church, and he says he’s welcome as a guest as long as he needs help. I don’t know where he’d be if it weren’t for that man.”

Friday night was apparently the equivalent of date night in the ER world, a popular occasion for accidents and mishaps, pain, suffering, and near-death experiences. A kid was brought in with a bean stuck up his nose. There was a woman hacking and feverish from a case of the flu, and a man with a sprained ankle swollen to elephantine proportions. A teen arrived holding his badly broken thumb, smashed by a car door and looking so mangled I nearly passed out.

Unfazed, Daisy pulled the clip out of her hair and gathered it in a tidy sheaf before she secured it again. Foley’s accusation about Jake’s affair with Violet seemed to hang in the air between us. “All I can say is thank god Tannie wasn’t there.”

“She’s bound to hear about it,” I said.

“You bet. My phone would be ringing off the hook if anybody knew she was there.”

I set the magazine aside. “You have to wonder what went on. Was there really an affair, or did your dad imagine the whole thing?”

“He’s not famous for his imagination. Tannie’s mother was sick for a good two years. It was ‘female trouble,’ too, so there’s every possibility their sex life sucked.” She shook her head and let out a deep breath. She extended her legs and slouched down on her spine so that her head was resting on the back of the seat. “Was there anyone she didn’t screw? My mother must have been crazy as a loon.”

“Well, it’s like the fella said. You’re not responsible for what she did.”

“But I’m responsible for stirring this up. I should have left well enough alone.”

The big digital wall clock read 10:16. I got up, too restless to sit another minute in the midst of all the medical chaos. “I’m going to see if I can find a cup of coffee. You want one?”

“Not me. My nerves are jangled enough.”

The fluorescent lights in the public hallways shone brightly on the gleaming vinyl-tile floors. Most departments I passed were dark; hospital administration, the cardiovascular, EKG, and EEG departments. I turned a corner and followed the corridor until I reached the main lobby. A sign indicated that the cafeteria was one floor down, but when I got off the elevator in the basement, the place was dark and the door was locked. According to the sign, the coffee shop was open from 7:00 A.M. until 7:15 P.M. on weekdays. I’d missed by hours. A maintenance man appeared with a mop and an industrial-size bucket. Together we waited for the elevator, which had stopped on the first floor.

“Is there a vending machine around here?”

He shook his head. “Wish there were. I could use a candy bar about now.”

The elevator doors opened and we got on. When we emerged on the first floor, I glanced to my left and spotted Liza Clements sitting in the lobby. Her complexion looked washed out and her jeans and T-shirt were wrinkled. I called out to her and moved in her direction. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

“My granddaughter was born a few minutes ago. I’m keeping out of everybody’s hair until she’s cleaned up. Kevin’s upstairs with Marcy, and both of her parents are here. Six pounds, six ounces. She’s absolutely beautiful.”

“That’s great. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. It’s been pretty intense. What about you? I didn’t expect to see a familiar face.”

I gave her a quick rendition of Foley’s nose-busting adventure, neatly omitting the remarks that had gotten him tossed out of the Moon.

“Is there any way to get a cup of coffee at this hour?” she asked.

“Nope. I tried. I guess we could find a water fountain but that’s about it.”

We ended up sitting together in the main lobby for lack of any place better. It was a small cheerless area clearly not intended as a waiting room. At least the ER had offered a television set and a few live green plants. I said, “You heard about the car?”

“That’s all anybody’s talking about. I guess there’s no doubt it’s hers.”

“Not in my mind. I mean, what are the chances another car would be buried out where hers was last seen?”

She shifted in her chair. “I’m going to ’fess up to something, but I don’t want to hear you scream. You promise?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“As it so happens, I saw Foley at the Tanner property that Friday night.”

“Doing what?”

“Tinkering with a bulldozer that was parked near the road. I heard him start it up.”

“You’re positive it was Foley?”

“I couldn’t swear it was him, but who else could it be?”

“Just about anyone,” I said. “In the as-it-so-happens department, what were you doing there?”

“Ty and I had gone out to the house. We weren’t supposed to be dating, and it was the only place we could think of where we wouldn’t be seen. We were in that second-floor bedroom in front when we heard him drive up.”

“And you were…what—smoking dope? Making out?”

She rolled her eyes, tucking a strand of blond hair behind one ear. “Oh, please. None of us smoked dope in those days. We’re talking about the ’50s. We were square as they come.”

“So you were doing what?”

“Okay, we were necking if you must know the truth. When the car pulled up, we thought it was a security guard coming to check on the house, so we hightailed it out the back and waited until we heard the ’dozer start up. Ty figured that would cover the sound of the truck.”

“So you didn’t actually see Foley face on?”

“I just told you that. The point is, if it was him, he had plenty of time to dig a hole.”

“What kind of car? I’m assuming you’d have recognized the Bel Air.”

“Of course. Most of the time I can’t tell one kind of car from another, but I know it wasn’t Violet’s. Her car was pale and it would have stood out. There was enough of a moon that it would have been obvious.”

“What do you remember about the car? Two-door? Four-door? Light? Dark?”

She made a face, shaking her head in the negative. “I saw it, but I didn’t really look. I was scared we’d get caught and that’s all I cared about. And before you even ask, no, I didn’t tell the guys from the sheriff ’s department.”

“Because you didn’t want to admit you were trespassing?”

“Because at the time, it didn’t mean anything. Violet wasn’t even missing. When we saw the guy—Foley, or whoever—it wouldn’t have occurred to me he’d be doing anything like that. Digging a grave. God, it gives me goose bumps. I’m only telling you now because we know the car is buried there.”

“You remember anything else?”

“No. Well, yes. The guy was smoking. I remember that because we could smell it through the open window all the way upstairs.”

“Height? Weight? Anything like that?”

“Nope. It was dark and I only caught a glimpse. You think I should talk to the detective?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Even if it gets Foley in more trouble?”

“You can’t even claim it was him. All you can say is there was a guy out there working on a bulldozer. The detective’s name is Nichols. He needs to know.”

By the time I got back to the emergency room, Foley had been released. He emerged from the examining area, clutching a head trauma precaution sheet and the pain pills he’d been given to take home with him. His eyes were already looking bruised, and I imagined that by the next day, the purple would be intense. He had a splint taped over the bridge of his nose, and it made his eyes seem as close together as a collie’s. Both nostrils had been packed with half-inch-wide strips of white cloth, and I could see sutures across his chin. I had to guess there were others on the inside of his mouth. Luckily for him, the pain medication was wiping out the ill effects of his drinking binge. He looked subdued. His eyes were fixed on Daisy’s with the mute, pleading look a puppy lays on you when there are table scraps at stake.

Daisy drove him into Cromwell, me trailing along behind in his truck as I had before. When she pulled into the driveway of the parish house, the porch light came on. The pastor pushed a curtain aside and peered out, then opened the front door in his slippers, pajamas, and a soft flannel robe. I parked in front, locked the truck, and crossed to Daisy’s car, where I handed Foley his keys. He wouldn’t meet my eyes and I could feel the embarrassment rolling off him like sweat. The pastor held open the screen door and Foley disappeared inside. Daisy had a few words with the man and then returned to her car.

We got in. For a moment, she sat staring through the windshield, her hands on the steering wheel.

“You okay?”

“I’ll tell you what’s weird. You know when you see a movie they have those previews of coming attractions? This feels like a preview of past attractions. I don’t remember seeing my father drunk, but this has to be what he was like when he was married to my mom. Not nice.”

“Yeah, and I’ll bet he looks about like she did when he beat the hell out of her.”

She turned the key in the ignition. “At least now you know why I’m so screwed up.”

“You know something, Daisy? You’re not that screwed up. I’ve seen a lot worse.”

“Oh, thanks. I feel much better now that you’ve said that.”

We drove to Santa Maria in silence. The two-lane road was deserted at that hour, dark agricultural land stretching out on both sides as far as the eye could see. We passed a corrugated metal building sitting in a sea of asphalt and surrounded by chain-link fencing. The area was awash in a cold, silver light, but there was no sign of life. To the west, concealing the sight of the ocean beyond, a swell of low-lying hills formed a scalloped silhouette against the night sky. Daisy checked her rearview mirror as a set of headlights popped into view. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting the car to speed up and pass. Daisy was cruising at a sedate sixty miles an hour, but drivers on country roads get impatient.

The car behind us maintained the same distance for a mile and then began closing the gap. Daisy flicked another look in the mirror. “Shit. I recognize the Mercedes. That’s Jake.”

“How’d he know where we were? You think he was waiting in the ER parking lot?”

“I didn’t see him if he was.”

We reached Santa Maria and turned down Daisy’s street with Jake right behind us. He wasn’t doing anything threatening and he made no attempt to conceal himself, but in the wake of the violence, I wasn’t crazy about seeing him again. BW might have delivered the kick, but Jake had been the catalyst. Daisy pulled into her driveway and doused her headlights. I checked the house. An overhead fixture burned in the kitchen, but the living room and guest room at the front of the house were both dark. Jake eased in behind us and doused his headlights. He killed the engine, as Daisy had, and then he got out and approached us along the drive.

“You think we ought to get out?” she asked.

I put a hand on the door handle. “Let’s. I don’t like the idea of his towering over us.”

She got out on her side and I got out on mine, moving around the front of the car so we were side by side. It was dark and the night was chilly as anticipated, which made me happy I’d accepted the offer of a jacket. I crossed my arms, not feeling the cold so much as residual tension. The neighboring houses were locked and barred for the night. I wasn’t uneasy about Jake, but it did occur to me that if either of us screamed, no one would hear us and respond.

Daisy said, “Hey, Jake. What can I do for you?”

“Sorry to bother you. I stopped by to ask about your dad. Is he all right?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but the doctor treated him and sent him home so I guess that tells you something. You know you could have called instead of following us home like this.”

“There’s something else I wanted to talk about and I didn’t think it should wait. I promise I won’t take up too much of your time…”

“Good because we spent the last two hours at the emergency room and I’m beat. Tannie’s gone to bed if you were hoping to see her.”

“It’s you I’d like to talk to. You, too,” he said, with a quick nod at me.

“Why don’t you come on in the kitchen and we’ll close the door. I don’t imagine you want Tannie hearing this.”

“Out here is fine. I intend to talk to her myself as soon as I have the chance. My son, Steve, too.”

“Smart move,” she said.

Jake ignored her testiness. “I came to apologize for what happened to Foley tonight. We’re fully prepared to pay his medical expenses. You can send the bills straight to me and I’ll take care of them. BW had no right to do what he did.”

“Shit, really? Kick a guy in the face and bust his nose?”

“Daisy, I said I was sorry and I mean that. BW was way out of line and I told him so. I’m not saying he was wrong to hustle your dad out of there. Foley had that coming, but not the violence. BW’s a hothead. He tends to act first and think about it later. It wouldn’t surprise me if Foley pressed charges.”

“Forget it. He’s not going to do that. So what else? I’m sure you didn’t tail us to inquire about his health.”

“I feel I owe you an explanation.”

Daisy nearly offered him a smart remark, but apparently decided against it. Better to let him fumble through the conversation on his own.

Jake kept his gaze pinned on the middle distance, but his manner was otherwise straightforward. “It isn’t true, what he accused me of, but I believe I know how he came by that impression, even if he’s mistaken. I hope you’ll bear with me.”

“Have at it. I’m all ears.”

“There was an incident at the Moon…this must have been a month and a half before your mother disappeared. I’d been up at the hospital, visiting Mary Hairl, and I stopped off for a nightcap. Both your parents were at the bar and had been for some time. I think it’s safe to say neither one of them was feeling any pain. By the time I arrived, your dad was in a sulk. Violet started flirting with me—I think to aggravate him as much as anything else. My wife was sick. I was lonely and maybe I gave your mother the wrong impression. We started dancing, which seemed harmless to me, but after a while she was behaving in a way that was an embarrassment. Community’s small. You know how it is. Everybody knows everybody’s business. I couldn’t have her rubbing up against me, or putting her hands on my butt. Anyway, I’ll skip the details out of respect for her. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but I knew I had to set her straight.

“Problem was, Violet was accustomed to getting her way and she wasn’t about to take no for an answer. She got mad and said I’d insulted her. About then she walked off the floor and I followed her. I hadn’t meant anything of the sort. I tried telling her it wasn’t my intent. I liked your mother…don’t get me wrong…but I was taken aback. Long and short of it, she ended up throwing a glass of wine in my face.”

“That was you? I’d heard the story, but I had no idea. Your name was never mentioned.”

“That was me all right. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of it. She started screaming and cussing. She was hot-tempered to begin with and sensitive to slights. She threatened to tell Foley we’d had sex, that I’d come on to her, and when she turned me down, I’d forced myself on her. Nothing could have been farther from the truth, but what could I do? BW could see something was going on and he got Foley out of there on some pretext.

“Once he was gone, I tried to reason with her. I hadn’t meant to offend her and I apologized for any misunderstanding. She seemed to calm down. I hoped that would be the end of it, but I couldn’t be sure. I was in a sticky position. I couldn’t go to Foley and tell him what she’d said. If she never mentioned it herself, I’d only be opening up a can of worms. He’d either take issue with me for rejecting her, or else he’d accuse her of screwing around and she’d deny everything, claiming I’d raped her. In that case, I’d end up looking like my only interest was in covering my tracks. At any rate, I thought it best to keep quiet and that’s the last I heard of it until tonight. Clearly, she did what she’d threatened. She must have told him I’d pushed her into something against her will and that’s what he believed.”

Daisy was quiet. I could see her testing his story in the same way I was. “I don’t know what to say. Dad and I haven’t talked about any of this. He’s a mess right now and I’m sure he’s ashamed of himself for getting drunk. I do understand your wanting to set the record straight. If you like, I’ll tell him what you said.”

“I leave that to your judgment. At least now you know my side of it. You can believe it or not. And your dad, when he sobers up, can do with it what he wants. I don’t mean any disrespect to Violet, but he knows how capable she was of turning things around. If he’d stop and think about it, he might be willing to concede the point. As for me, I’m sorry for any part I played. I never meant to cause him any grief.”

“I appreciate that, Jake. Is there anything else?”

“No, that’s it. I’ve had my say. I know it’s late and I won’t keep you.”

The two of them went through a bit of conversational back-and-forth before Jake finally said his good-nights and returned to his car.

Once he’d left, I waited half a minute and said, “What do you think?”

“I’ve got no proof, but offhand I’d say the man is a lying sack of shit.”

24

TOM

Thursday, July 2, 1953

The morning after Cora left for Walnut Creek, Tom slept in, sprawled across the bed in a luxury of sheets. Among the many things they disagreed about was the temperature in the bedroom at night; he liked it cold, windows open to the wide, while Cora liked the windows shut and the heat cranked up. They also disagreed about blankets, the firmness of the mattress, and the nature of bed pillows. Alone, he could do it all exactly as he liked. With Cora out of the way, he was an entirely different man. It was like having a separate personality, one he called forth and wore like a smoking jacket while she was gone. He had two such personalities, as a matter of fact. When he drank, especially at the Blue Moon, he relaxed into the blue-collar type from which he sprang. He was a good old boy at heart. He liked his boots and jeans, adding a western-cut sport coat when he felt like dressing up. Here in Cora’s fancy house, sober and unobserved, he activated another side of his nature, playing Lord of the Manor. He was jaunty and dapper. He used a cigarette holder when he smoked and affected a snooty accent when he talked to himself.

He got up at 10:00, showered, dressed, and popped over to Maxi’s Coffee Shop for breakfast. He checked on a couple of pieces of equipment that he had out, and when he reached the house again, he saw the mail truck just pulling away. He angled the car in close to the mailbox and retrieved the stack of envelopes and two of Cora’s magazines. He left the car in the driveway and entered the house, calling, “Yoo hoo, I’m home!” purely for the pleasure of knowing he was on his own.

He carried the mail into Cora’s office and laid it on the corner of her desk, intending to peruse later at his leisure. He sat down in her office chair and began a systematic search. She was secretive about her personal papers, keeping everything locked up—desk drawers, file cabinets, even the closet where she kept her jewelry and furs. The good news was he’d long ago figured out where she hid the keys. It amused him to let her go on believing herself secure while he kept an eye on her every move. He knew better than to try to siphon money from her bank accounts—she could be such a bitch about those things—but he did occasionally fudge an endorsement on a dividend check. One had arrived the day before, and he’d culled it out of the batch before he gave the mail to her. In his bathroom, with the door locked, he opened the envelope to see what his deception had netted him. Ah. $356.45 from some shares of stock she owned. He liked walking-around money, just the odd few bucks. She never seemed to notice. Dividend checks came periodically and the face amount varied, so it wasn’t something she counted on as a regular event. He wasn’t proud of himself, but he did enjoy his little forays into her private affairs. Really, she brought it on herself.

He opened her desk drawer and found the folder in which she kept her canceled checks. He extracted one, pleased with the sample of her signature. Cora A. Padgett with a little loop on the last t. He had a nice supply of tracing paper and he could whip out a decent approximation in no time at all. He endorsed the check—well, “Cora A. Padgett” endorsed the check—and then he put his tools away and picked up the stack of mail. He sorted through rapidly, disregarding bills except for the ones he didn’t want her to see. The last envelope in the pile was a letter addressed to Loden Galsworthy from an out-of-state bank. He reached for the letter opener, slit the envelope, and read the correspondence signed by a “Lawrence Freiberg,” one of two vice presidents. Mr. Freiberg, or “Larry,” as Tom was already fond of calling him, was writing to inquire about the above-referenced account on which there’d been no activity for the better part of five years. Interest had been accruing and was, of course, properly credited, but the bank was wondering if perhaps there was something more they might do for him. They’d recently established an investment arm for valued customers. Since Loden Galsworthy was numbered among their very best, Mr. Freiberg suggested that perhaps the bank might put him in touch with one of their financial experts for an analysis of his portfolio. Tom read the letter twice. This had to be an account of Loden’s that Cora had either overlooked or knew nothing about. Mr. Freiberg had probably never met his valued customer and clearly had no idea he was writing to the deceased—the late Loden Galsworthy. When he turned to the next page and his eye settled on the account balance, he barked out a laugh. $65,490.66.

He couldn’t believe his good fortune. For weeks he’d walked around with his head in a noose and suddenly he was free. He knew exactly what to do. He got up from the desk and crossed to the closet where Cora maintained what amounted to a shrine to her dead husband’s memory. Being the sentimental fool she was, she’d held on to a number of items that had belonged to him, among them his personalized stationery and his Mont Blanc fountain pen. Tom extracted an envelope, several sheets of letterhead, and a few pieces of blank paper. He then sat down at Cora’s typewriter (Loden’s before his death) and flexed his fingers, preparing himself as though for a piano recital. Using the blank paper and a bit of ingenuity, he composed a letter thanking the vice president for his concern. He confessed he’d been out of the country and had just returned to the States after four years away. Having the account brought to his attention was fortunate, as he was currently entertaining an investment opportunity for which the above-referenced funds would be swiftly set to work. He requested that the account be closed and the money forwarded to him at the post office box he’d maintained during his absence. This was, in fact, a post office box that Tom had set up some time ago so that any private business of his wouldn’t come under Cora’s nose. He rolled a sheet of Loden’s stationery into the typewriter and went to work. His typing was clumsy, but he managed to get a clean copy after three tries. If the bank had kept any previous correspondence from Loden Galsworthy, it might be noted that the typeface, the writing paper, and the fountain pen nib were all a match. Now all he needed was Loden’s signature.

On Cora’s office wall, there was a certificate of appreciation for work she’d done as a Red Cross volunteer in 1918, when she was twenty-one years old. It was a boilerplate document, hundreds of which must have been doled out to the women who’d donated thousands of hours of free labor, but she’d framed it and hung it as though she were the sole recipient. Loden Galsworthy had been one of the three signatories. She’d told Tom that she and Loden often spoke of the amazing coincidence of this link between them before they’d even met.

He took down the framed certificate and spent twenty minutes or so perfecting Loden’s signature. Then he signed the letter, folded it, placed it in the envelope, and added a stamp. All in a day’s work. He’d drop it in the mail on his way to the bank. This was truly a gift from the gods, an answer to his prayers. He felt incredibly light and free. He hadn’t realized how anxious he’d been until the crisis had passed. Now he didn’t have to worry about Cora’s penury. No more wheedling, no more maneuvering. In one stroke, all his problems had been solved. As icing on the cake, his lunch with Chet Cramer the day before had gone very well. He knew Chet had agreed to listen to his pitch only because he and Livia coveted membership in the country club to which the Padgetts belonged, but he thought his presentation had been effective. Chet had not only seemed interested, but he’d asked Tom to work up a business plan to pass on to his accountant. Tom intended to work on that shortly after lunch.

He drove to the bank and made a deposit, tucking the forged dividend check in with some miscellaneous checks of his own. With the $65,490.66 that would soon be his, he no longer needed the measly $356.45, but he’d already forged Cora’s signature so why not proceed? He’d learned never to waste his efforts. Once he made a plan, he carried it out—a principle that had always paid off handsomely for him.

He chatted with the teller, completed his business, and was just on his way out when he ran into the loan officer, Herbert Greer, who’d clearly made a point of intercepting him. Tom had been avoiding him because he knew the guy was going to press him for the money he owed. Now, with his newfound funds waiting in the wings, he greeted Greer like an old friend, shaking his hand with real warmth. “Herb, how are you? I’m glad I ran into you.”

Herb was clearly not prepared for Tom’s friendliness after weeks of evasions and excuses. Herb said, “I thought you were out of town. I left a couple of messages with Cora earlier this week, and when you didn’t respond I assumed you were off gallivanting around.”

“Not me. Cora’s the one who’s gone. She took off this morning to visit her sister up in Walnut Creek. Naughty girl. She didn’t mention you’d called. I had no idea.”

“It must have slipped her mind.”

“No doubt. She’s usually good about these things, but she was in a rush to get packed and on the road. Anyway, I was going to stop by your desk earlier, but I saw you were on the phone.”

Herb was cautiously pleased at the suggestion, probably imagining he’d have to tackle Tom and bring him down before any such appointment would be made or kept. “Why don’t you have a seat at my desk and we can do that right now?”

Tom looked at his watch, his expression tinged with regret. “Can’t. Daggone it. I’m having lunch at the country club with Chet Cramer and I’m late as it is.”

“I thought I saw you at the club with him yesterday.”

“True. I didn’t realize you were there. You should have stopped by the table to say hello. I think I might have mentioned we’re in discussions about a partnership. He knows the heavy-equipment business, which he says isn’t that different from a dealership.”

“I had no idea you had a deal in the works. Good for you.”

“Well, we’ve yet to hammer out the details, but you know him. There’s a guy who takes his time. No point in pushing him. He likes to have all his ducks in a row before he takes the plunge.”

“We’ve worked with Chet for years. He’s solid as they come.”

“Tell you what, if we can reach an agreement, I’ll bring him along and maybe we can talk about ways to make this thing work.”

“Always amenable. I hope you’ll give him my regards.”

“Happy to.”

“Shall we say Monday? Ten o’clock?”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

And for the first time in his life, Tom left the bank feeling optimistic. As soon as Loden Galsworthy’s money came in, he’d be able to expand. Now all he needed was another big whack of cash so he could pay off his bank loan on Monday.

25

By the time Daisy came out of her bedroom at 8:00 Saturday morning, Tannie had left for home. From my makeshift pallet on the couch, I’d heard her come out of the guest room and creep into the bathroom, quietly closing the door. I must have dozed because the next thing I knew, she was slipping through the living room with an overnight case in hand. Out on the street, I heard her car start and then all was quiet again until Daisy got up.

Tannie had stripped her sheets and left them on the guest-room floor with her damp towel on top. Daisy shoved everything in the washing machine and then loaned me a pair of sweatpants so I could add my jeans to the mix. We took turns in the bathroom. I grabbed a quick shower while she started the coffee and then I ate a bowl of cereal while she took my place. By 8:35 we were dressed, fed, and on our way to the Tanner property to check the progress on the excavation. We took her car, leaving mine in her garage. The day was clear and sunny, the air rapidly warming as we made the drive.

The road was still blocked to through traffic, but the deputy waved us past the barrier when Daisy identified herself. I’d apparently been given dispensation to accompany her. We parked the requisite twenty-five yards from the dig and got out of the car. The sagging yellow crime-scene tape trembled in the breeze with a light snapping sound. I recognized the faces from the day before: both crime-scene techs, Detective Nichols, the young deputy, and Tim Schaefer, who’d made himself a permanent fixture, although confined to the periphery like the rest of us. Despite the restrictions, we hovered on the sidelines as though magnetized. Conversations were restrained, and I noticed no laughter at all, unusual in a situation that generated an eerie tension of its own.

Judging by the mountain of dirt, I could tell that the hole had been considerably deepened, and the operation had shifted from machinery back to shoveling by hand. From our vantage point, there was nothing visible of the vehicle, but I gathered a narrow channel had been created on each side as additional sections of the car were exposed. Tom Padgett stood as close to the excavation as he could manage without risking arrest. His bulldozer was on call, as was a flatbed truck that had been brought over from the yard, and he was behaving as though this gave him proprietary rights, which perhaps it did. When he wasn’t focused on the excavation, he was chatting with Detective Nichols like an old pal of his.

Calvin Wilcox was parked behind Daisy, about twenty feet down the road. He’d arrived shortly after we had and he was sitting in a black pickup truck with his company name emblazoned on the sides. He smoked a cigarette, his left arm resting on the open windowsill. I could hear his radio blasting country music. Like Daisy, he was permitted at the site by reason of his relation to Violet. There was no interaction between the two of them, which struck me as odd. As far as I knew, Calvin was Daisy’s only uncle, and it seemed natural to assume they’d established a relationship over the years. Not so, judging by their manifest uninterest. Neither acknowledged the presence of the other by so much as a nod or a wave.

“What’s the deal with you and your uncle Calvin?”

“Nothing. We get along fine. Just no warm, fuzzy feelings between the two of us. When I was growing up, he and my aunt made very little effort to maintain contact. It’s been so long since I’ve seen my cousins, I doubt I’d recognize them.”

“Mind if I talk to him?”

“About what?”

“Just some questions I have.”

“Be my guest.”

Calvin Wilcox watched without expression as I approached. I saw him flip aside his cigarette butt and then he leaned forward and turned off the radio. Up close, I could see he hadn’t shaved that morning, and the stubble along his jaw was a mixture of gray and faded red. With his ruddy complexion, his green cotton shirt made his eyes look luminous. As before, I felt I was looking at a version of Violet—same coloring, opposite sex, but electric nonetheless. “Looks like you pulled a rabbit out of a hat,” he said when I reached the open driver’s-side window. “How’d you come up with this?”

The question seemed ever so faintly hostile, but I smiled to show what a good sport I was. “I’d say ‘dumb luck’ but I don’t want to be accused of false modesty.”

“I’m serious.”

“Me, too.” I went through my standard explanation, trying a variation just to keep the story interesting. “Someone saw Violet’s car parked out here the night she disappeared. After that, it was never seen again so it dawned on me maybe it hadn’t gone anywhere. In retrospect, it seems dumb I didn’t twig to it before.”

“Who saw the car?”

I went through a lightning-quick debate with myself and decided naming Winston was a very bad idea. It was as Detective Nichols had said: the less information in circulation, the better. I waved the question aside. “I don’t remember offhand. It’s one of those things I heard in passing. What about you; how’d you hear about this?” I asked, indicating the excavation.

“I was listening to the radio on the way home from work when it came on the news. I called the sheriff ’s office as soon as I got home.”

“Were you out here last night?”

“For a while. I wanted to see for myself, but the deputy wouldn’t let me get anywhere near. They knocked off at ten and said they’d be starting again this morning at six.”

“You have a guess about how long it would take to dig a hole that size? I’m talking way back when.”

“I don’t know the details. You’ll have to fill me in.”

“From the scuttlebutt yesterday, the guy made a long shallow ramp, eight feet wide and maybe fifteen feet at its deepest point. The back end of the car is buried at the bottom with the front on an incline about like this.” I held my arm out at roughly a thirty-degree angle.

He sat, blinking, while he ran the numbers through his head. “I’d have to do the math to give you any kind of accurate answer. In 1953, the guy would’ve used a bulldozer. If you’re telling me he backed the car in, then he must have dug the hole with a long sloping ramp on either end and scooped out dirt until the hole was deep enough at its deepest point to sink the car completely. I’d say two days, maybe a day and a half. It wouldn’t take long to fill it in again. Someone must have seen what he was up to, but he might have had a cover story.”

“The Fourth fell on a Saturday that year so most people were given Friday off, too. If the road crew was idle for the three-day weekend, then the excavation could have been done without anyone on hand.”

“I can see that,” he said. “With the road unfinished, there wouldn’t have been any traffic to speak of.”

“What about the excess dirt? Wouldn’t there have been quite a bit leftover when the hole was filled in?”

He fixed his green eyes on mine. “Oh, yes. The car would have displaced somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty cubic yards of dirt. Rough guess.”

“So what’d he do, haul it all away?”

“Not likely. The biggest dump truck in operation back then had a capacity of five cubic yards, so it would have taken too long, especially if he ferried the load any appreciable distance. The easiest solution would have been to push it across the road and spread it out on that field.”

“But wouldn’t someone have noticed the sudden appearance of all the fresh dirt?”

“Not necessarily. If I remember correctly, the field you’re looking at belonged to a co-op at the time, and it was only being cultivated intermittently. With road construction under way, things were already torn up, so no one would have paid attention to a little more dirt.”

“We have to be talking about someone who’s worked in construction, don’t you think? The average joe doesn’t jump on a bulldozer and dig a hole that size. Seems like you’d have to know what you were doing.”

“True, but that’s not going to help you narrow the field. After World War Two a lot of guys around here worked construction, Foley being one. Building trade was booming, so it was that, farmwork, the oil fields, or the packing plant.”

“Well. I guess we don’t have to worry about it. I’m sure Detective Nichols will figure it out.”

At noon I took Daisy’s car and made a run to the delicatessen I’d patronized the day before. Since Tannie had commandeered yesterday’s braunschweiger on rye, I ordered one for myself. Daisy said she’d be happy with whatever I picked up, so I had the counterman put together a sliced-turkey sandwich on sourdough bread. I ordered a second one and then added potato chips, sodas, and a bag of cookies. As long as we were stuck there we might as well enjoy ourselves.

We ate in her car, watching the excavation as though we were at a drive-in movie. A tow truck appeared, the most exciting occurrence in the past three hours. Tom Padgett must have gotten bored because I saw him back away and start heading in our direction. He had his fat-stemmed glasses in hand, polishing one lens with a white handkerchief. His jeans, cowboy boots, and western-cut shirt gave him the air of a rodeo rider, complete with slightly bowed legs.

I said, “Hang on.” I opened the car door and got out. “Hi, Tom. Are you off to lunch?”

“Come again?” He put on his glasses and cupped a hand to one ear.

“I wondered if you were on your way to lunch.”

“Yes, ma’am. I thought I’d grab a bite somewhere.”

“I can save you the trip. We have an extra turkey sandwich, if you’re interested.”

“That’d be nice if you’re sure it’s okay. “

“If you don’t eat it, we’ll have to toss it out.”

He used the front fender of Daisy’s car as a makeshift picnic table. I popped open the remaining soda and passed it to him. He shook his head to the offer of potato chips but later accepted a cookie that he downed with enthusiasm.

I said, “How’s it going? You’ve managed to get a lot closer to the hole than we have.”

He cleared his mouth and ran a paper napkin across his lips, nodding as he did. “They’re making good progress. Looks like they’re about to try pulling the car out of the hole.”

“Really, that close?”

He wadded up his sandwich wrappings. “That’s why they got the tow truck. Might not work, but it’d sure be a lot easier than what they’ve done.”

“How long did you hang around last night?”

“As long as I could. I had paperwork to catch up on, so I left before they called it a wrap. I was surprised how much they’d accomplished. Lot of dirt.”

“Was it your equipment they were using when the road was built?”

“Sure was. Those days, there were only two of us. Me and a fellow named Bob Zeigler. Road construction, the county hired private companies like us, so we took advantage of the need. We were competitors, but neither of us had enough equipment to cover the whole job. Most of what I carried was tractors, and he was already spread thin because there were so many housing tracts under construction.”

“How’d you get into the business in the first place?”

“I could see the niche and decided to step in. I borrowed from the local-yokel bank and hit up family members for as much as I could. First thing I did was pick up a couple of used farm machines. I didn’t have an office or a yard. I worked out of a truck I kept parked beside a public pay phone, and did the mechanical repairs myself. Heavy equipment’s low margin, high volume, so every cent I got went right back to the John Deere factory to buy more equipment. Gradually things picked up. Around here, what with the old boy network, you could slip a few bucks to a private contractor and you were set. At least for a while.”

“You have a guess about what the guy used to dig the hole? Calvin Wilcox says a bulldozer.”

“Had to be: 1953 the bulldozer or a track loader would’ve been the only mobile equipment available. The track loader was new technology in those days. I believe Caterpillar brought one out in 1950, but it was too expensive for me, and if Zeigler owned one, I’d have known about it. So a bulldozer for sure.”

“One of yours?”

“Had to be mine or his. We were the only game in town.”

“You wouldn’t by any chance have records going back that far?”

“Can’t help you there. You’re hoping I can tell you who rented that machine, but no dice. I keep records for as long as the IRS requires and after that, files get tossed. Seven years back is the extent of it.”

“Too bad.”

“I’m surprised Detective Nichols lets you nose around like this. He strikes me as the type to run a pretty tight ship.”

“Right now we don’t even know what we’re dealing with.”

“I guess that’s right. Far as I know, there’s no law against burying a car. Same token, sheriff ’s office can get pretty testy about people messing in their business.”

“Happily, I’m not ‘messing in their business.’ Detective Nichols knows anything I learn will go straight back to him. I made a promise.”

We heard the steady peep-peep-peep of a vehicle backing up. The tow truck driver had the door open, and he was leaning out so he could see where he was going. Most of the law-enforcement personnel had assembled near the hole—detectives, deputies, and crime-scene techs. Daisy seemed rooted to the earth, but both Padgett and I crossed the road to get as close as we could. There was some dickering around while the cable was secured to the front axle of the car. I could hear the high whine of the hydraulic lift and the cable pulled taut. With a groan, the car was wrested from the earth and hauled, rattling and banging, up the long incline. When the vehicle finally rolled into view, the tow truck driver pulled on his emergency brake and got out to take a look.

The sad remains of the Bel Air hunkered in the light like some hibernating beast whose rest had been disturbed. Moisture had chewed into the rubber on all four tires, leaving them flat. The rust was so extensive that the exterior paint might have been any color. The backseat window on the passenger side was gone. On the same side of the roof, the weight of the soil had caused a portion to collapse, leaving it looking as soft as a rotting melon. Dirt must have filtered into the interior, creating the depression that I’d seen from the second floor of the house. Though we couldn’t see anything from where we stood, we were later told that condensation had caused the upholstered seats to decay down to the springs. The windshield and hood were intact, but the gas tank had rusted through and all the gas had leaked out, visible as a darkened patch at the bottom of the hole. Even from that distance, I picked up scents, as subtle but unmistakable as a whiff of skunk—rust, rotting upholstery, and decomposing flesh.

One of the techs blew on the windshield, managing to clear a small patch of glass. He directed the beam from a heavy-duty flashlight across the interior. He moved to the missing rear window so he could peer into the backseat. Daisy turned away, gnawing on her thumbnail. The tech motioned the detective over and he peered in. While the second tech took a set of photographs, Nichols approached Daisy and eased her away from the rest of us. He talked to her for some time, his manner serious. I knew the news wasn’t good. I could see her nod, but she made very few comments in response, her expression impossible to read. He waited until he’d assured himself that she was okay before he crossed back to the tow truck. At a signal the car was loaded on the deck and secured with heavy chain.

Daisy returned. Her face was drawn and her eyes held the blank look of someone who hasn’t yet made sense of the world. “What’s left of the dog is on the floor. They can see skeletal remains in the backseat. The body’s wrapped in a shroud of some kind, though most of the fabric’s rotted away. Nichols says they won’t know cause of death until the medical examiner takes a look at her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It gets worse. He says the shroud looks like badly disintegrating lace, probably a curtain, judging by the row of broken plastic rings they can see along one edge.”

26

We drove back to Daisy’s house. My impulse was to have her drop me off so I could pick up my VW and head for home, but she asked me to go with her to tell her father about the discovery of Violet’s body. I wasn’t sure she’d fully absorbed the impact of her mother’s death. Under the surface calm, she had to be in a fragile emotional state. She’d longed for closure, but surely not this kind. Though she hadn’t said as much, she’d probably had her hopes pinned on the notion that Violet was still alive, which would have afforded them the option of reconciliation. The certainty about Violet’s fate created more questions than answers, and none of the options seemed good.

In the meantime, ever practical, I made a quick dash inside and moved the clothes from the washer to the dryer so I could have my jeans back before I hit the road. We drove to Cromwell in Daisy’s car, and when we pulled up in front of the rectory, we could see Foley sitting on the porch in a wooden rocker, his hands in his lap. In the aftermath of the assault, his face looked painfully swollen. His cheeks and eye sockets had ballooned up as though tight with air, and his bruises were a deeper shade of dark blue and more widespread. He’d showered and his clothes were fresh, but the packing in his nostrils and the splint on his nose had precluded washing his hair. A residue of dried blood matted the strands. Watching us approach, Foley had to know the news was bad, in the same way you know you’re in for a jolt when a somber-looking state trooper comes knocking at your door.

Daisy stopped a few feet short of the porch. “Has anyone told you?”

“No. Pastor said there was a call, but I refused to take the phone until I heard from you.”

“They found her buried in the car. ID hasn’t been confirmed, but the dog was buried with her and there’s no doubt as far as I’m concerned.”

“How was she killed?”

“They won’t know until the autopsy tomorrow or possibly the day after.”

“At least she didn’t leave us. I take comfort in that.”

“Not in the way we thought.”

“Do you think it was me that harmed her?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“I did love her. I know you don’t believe me, but I loved her with all my heart.” A tear trickled down each side of his face, but the effect was odd, like he’d suddenly sprung pinhole leaks. Personally, I thought it was the wrong time to try defending himself. Daisy didn’t seem receptive and she sure wasn’t interested in seeing him play victim. We all knew who the real victim was in the overall scheme of things.

“That’s no way to love, Daddy. With a fist? My god. If that’s what love is about, I’d just as soon do without.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“So you say. All I remember is your punching her out.”

“I can’t argue the point. Sometimes I hit her. I don’t deny the fact. What I’m saying is you can’t fix on one part and think you understand the whole. Marriage is more complicated than that.”

“You better hire yourself another lawyer, Daddy, because I’ll tell you what’s complicated. She was wrapped in a lace curtain and the dog’s skull was crushed.”

In the car driving back to her place, I kept my mouth shut, sensing she was in a dangerous mood. Finally she said, “I swear to god, if he killed her I want you to nail his ass.”

“I wish it were that simple, but it’s not up to me. This is a homicide investigation and believe me, the sheriff ’s department doesn’t need my help or interference. I may be a licensed PI, but that cuts no ice with local law enforcement. The quickest way to alienate the cops is to tromp on their turf.”

Daisy’s face seemed set. “You owe me a day. I gave you a twenty-five-hundred-dollar retainer. Five hundred a day for five days and you’ve worked four.”

“Well, that’s true.”

“One day. That’s all I’m asking for.”

“Doing what?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. I understand what you’re saying about the sheriff ’s department, but at this point you know more about the case than they do.”

“True again,” I said. I had my own curiosity to satisfy, and I was already thinking of ways to do it that wouldn’t entail stepping on their toes. In times past, I may have been a teeny tiny bit guilty of crossing the line, but I was feeling virtuous this round. So far, at any rate.

When we reached her house, I slipped my jeans on hot out of the dryer, gathered my toiletries and the few remaining articles of clothing, and shoved it all in a plastic bag. I grabbed my shoulder bag, tossed both bags in the backseat of my car, and backed out of the garage. It was Saturday afternoon. Government offices were closed, but the Santa Maria public library was open and might be worth a look-see. I drove into town, heading north on Broadway as far as the 400 block, where I pulled into the parking lot.

The library is housed in a two-story Spanish-style structure with the ubiquitous red-tile roof. Santa Teresa architecture shares certain similarities with Santa Maria, though much of the latter looks less than twenty-five years old. I hadn’t seen an “old town” or anything resembling the mix of Spanish, Victorian, post-Victorian, Craftsman, and contemporary houses that Santa Teresa boasts. Many neighborhoods, like Tim Schaefer’s, date to the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s, decades in which single-family residences were miraculously charm free.

Once inside, I asked for the reference department and was directed to an elevator that took me to the second floor. My first job was to pull the roll of microfilm for the Santa Maria Chronicle covering June 1, 1953, to August 31, 1953. I threaded the film through the machine and scrolled day by day, looking for anything of significance.

On a national level, June 19, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg were executed at Sing Sing. There was apparently new hope for a truce in Korea. On the local scene, according to the advertisements, gas was selling for twenty-two cents a gallon, a loaf of bread cost sixteen cents, and a sixteen-ounce jar of Kraft Cheez Whiz cost fifty-seven cents. Livia Cramer had given a home-demonstration party, whatever that was, and the ladies who’d been awarded prizes were listed. Cecil B. DeMille’s Cleopatra, starring Claudette Colbert and Warren William, was playing at the local theater, along with a 3-D movie called Bwana Devil. Approaching the Fourth of July weekend, I saw that the Santa Maria Indians had a game scheduled with the San Luis Obispo Blues at 8:30 in the Elks Field, and the 144th Field Artillery Battalion was having a Fourth of July Reunion BBQ. As I’d surmised, while many businesses were open on Friday, banks and government offices were closed. Eventually I came across the article about Violet’s disappearance, a copy of which Daisy had tucked in her file. I started printing out pages, beginning with June 30 and continuing into the following week.

I went into a room devoted to genealogy and local history. I checked the volumes on the left-hand wall and located the county directory for 1952. The 1953 edition was missing, but I thought the 1952 data would be more useful in any event. I set my shoulder bag on the floor and took a chair at one of the tables.

In going over my notes, I’d come across the map I’d sketched on my first trip to Serena Station. I’d met many people who’d been intimately connected to Violet, but I hadn’t talked to those on the periphery. In a murder investigation, anyone with something to hide could lie, obfuscate, or point a finger at someone else. A disinterested observer was a better source of information.

Serena Station was accorded two pages in the city-county directory: roughly sixty families listed by address, name, and occupation. I counted forty-seven homemakers, eleven oil workers, a nurse, a bartender (BW McPhee), a ranch hand, four railroad workers, eight laborers, a postmaster, and a teacher. Foley was calling himself a construction worker in those days, and Violet was listed as a housewife, not a homemaker, I noted. The Blue Moon, a Laundromat, and the auto-repair shop were the only three businesses in town. The Sullivans’ neighbors to the left were Jon and Bernadette Ericksen, and on the street behind them, backing up to their rental house, was a couple named Arnold and Sarah Treadwell. One house down from the Ericksens, there was a family named Hernandez. I made notes, not knowing at this point what information would be worth pursuing. I spotted Livia and Chet Cramer’s names, but no family named Wilcox or Ottweiler. I checked the five pages devoted to the small town of Cromwell, spotting both sets of names. Businesses there were more numerous but still covered only eight additional columns. I photocopied all the pages on the off chance I’d need to look at them again. No point in being forced to make a return trip.

I put that volume back and pulled the 1956 city directory, checking for the same three names—Ericksen, Treadwell, and Hernandez. Two of the three families were gone, which indicated death, divorce, or a simple move to another town. I noticed that after 1956, the county directory had been converted to a city directory that covered only Santa Maria and Lompoc, with no mention of Serena Station at all. I pulled the 1986 telephone book and searched again, hoping to find a trace. The Hernandez family was a wash, there being so many listed I knew I’d never track down the one I wanted. I had slightly better luck with Ericksen. I didn’t find a “J” or a “B,” but there was an “A. Ericksen” in Santa Maria, possibly Jon and Bernadette’s offspring. A family named Treadwell was living in Orcutt, and though the husband’s first name wasn’t a match, I thought there might be a connection. I wrote down both sets of phone numbers and street addresses.

At the desk, while I paid for my photocopies, I spoke to one of the librarians and explained what I needed. “Where else can I get information about Serena Station in 1953? I’ve gone through the old directories.”

He said, “You might want to look at the Index to Precinct Registers for Santa Teresa County. I believe we have ’51 and 1954.”

“Great.”

Or not great, as it happened. We returned to the shelves and he found me the requisite volume from 1951. Again I sat down and looked up the community of Serena Station. The listings included names, addresses, occupations, and party affiliation (more Republicans than Democrats, for what that’s worth), but all the addresses listed were post office boxes, which didn’t do me any good. I flipped back to the pages devoted to Santa Maria, running a finger down page after page of residents. I gave up after ten minutes because the numbers were overwhelming, and I was hoping I’d already snagged what I needed. I gathered my notes and took the elevator to the ground floor in search of a pay phone.

I tried the Treadwells’ number first and bombed out big time. The Mrs. Treadwell who answered had never lived in Serena Station, had never known the Sullivans, and couldn’t be any help at all when it came to tracking down the former Serena Station Treadwells. She suspected I was trying to sell her something and declined any further questions.

I tried A. Ericksen and got a machine, on which I left the following message: “Hi, my name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator from Santa Teresa and I’m wondering if you’re the same Ericksen who lived in Serena Station in 1953. I’d appreciate a call back when you get this message.” I recited my Santa Teresa phone number and repeated my name. Then I went out to my car and headed for the 101.

I unlocked my apartment door at 5:15. I’d been away since Thursday morning, and the living room was stuffy, smelling of old cleaning products and hot dust motes. I put my portable typewriter on the desk. I had two messages from Cheney, asking me to call him when I got home. I tried his number and got a busy signal. I didn’t have a duffel, but my newly purchased clothing was folded and packed in a handsome plastic bag. I trotted up the spiral stairs and unloaded the bag.

I fired up the kettle and made myself a cup of tea, which I sipped while I sat at the kitchen counter and sorted through my notes. I thought it was entirely possible that I’d already spoken to Violet’s killer. The motive might have been anything—jealousy, hatred, greed, revenge—but I knew the killing itself was cold-blooded because the hole had been dug well in advance of the burial. The killer couldn’t have been sure the necessary equipment would be on the scene unless he’d set it up that way. When Violet disappeared, her money had disappeared as well. Ostensibly, she’d taken possession of the fifty thousand dollars in her safe-deposit box. She’d also borrowed two thousand from her brother and five hundred dollars from her mother, in addition to the jewelry she’d stolen. So where did all the money and the jewelry end up? It was always possible the stash would be found in the car, but if the killer knew she had it, why not help himself to the money before he bulldozed the dirt back into the hole?

He had to be someone she knew and probably a local, since he was sufficiently familiar with both the Tanner property and the building of New Cut Road to feel assured he’d have privacy. He must have had a cover story to account for the time he’d spent digging the hole. That meant he was either his own boss, in which case he could take all the time he needed, or if he was a nine-to-five kind of guy, he was off on vacation or he’d called in sick. With the holiday weekend, he might have had the time off.

Foley Sullivan was still at the top of my list. Granted, I’d found the man sympathetic, but he’d had years of practice declaring his innocence. I believed him when he spoke of his love for Violet, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t killed her.

I went back to the notes I’d taken after talking to Chet Cramer. I couldn’t see what he had to gain, but I didn’t rule him out. He didn’t strike me as a fellow with much experience operating heavy equipment, but I’d jotted down an offhand remark he’d made. He’d said you could always hire somebody to do your dirty work.

I thought about Winston Smith, who’d been fired because of Violet. While Cramer had rehired him the following week, he hadn’t known about that when she vanished. I was iffy about him. He was convinced she’d ruined his life, which in some ways she had. If he’d gotten the education he’d planned, he wouldn’t be selling cars and he might not be married to the woman who now proposed booting his butt out the door.

I knew little about Tom Padgett, but he was worth checking out. Steve Ottweiler? Nah. I put a tick by his name, but only in the interest of being fair. As long as I was suspicious of the other guys, I might as well include him. He’d been sixteen at the time, and from Violet’s point of view, he was probably fair game. However, if the two had engaged in a torrid affair, why kill the golden goose? I added BW’s and Jake’s names to the list.

I kept thinking I’d overlooked something obvious, but I couldn’t think what it was.

I took a break and made myself a peanut butter and pickle sandwich for my supper. I substituted a paper napkin for a plate and thus reduced the dirty dishes to a bare minimum. I was just in the process of washing my knife when the telephone rang.

The woman on the other end of the line said, “This is Anna Ericksen. I believe you left a message on my machine.”

“Are you the Ericksen who once lived at 3906 Land’s End Road in Serena Station?”

There was a cautious silence. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m sorry. I should have explained myself earlier. I’m interested in contacting the family who lived next door to Foley and Violet Sullivan in 1953.”

“That was my parents’ house, where I grew up.”

“Really? Wow, that’s great. I’m lucky you didn’t get married or I’d have never tracked you down.”

“Oh, honey. I’m gay. You couldn’t pay me to get married. I got troubles enough.”

“Do you remember Violet?”

“Not directly. I was a little kid back then, but people have been talking about her for years and years. We lived next door to the Sullivans when I was growing up. I suppose you know they found her buried in her car.”

I said, “So I heard. Look, I know this is a long shot, but is there anything you can tell me about Violet?”

“No, I’m sorry to say I don’t remember her, but I do remember that Fourth of July.”

“You’re kidding. You remember that particular Fourth of July?”

“I sure do. We’d gone to the fireworks and afterwards Daisy’s friend Tannie spent the night with me. I can’t tell you how thrilled I was. I was five years old and she was nine, and I just admired everything about her. She talked me into jumping on the bed in my room, which I wasn’t allowed to do. So there we were bouncing away, having the time of our lives. She bumped me and I toppled off and broke my arm. The bone didn’t heal right and I got a hump in it to this day. It’s one of my first concrete memories.”

I could feel myself blinking, wondering if the woman had made a fundamental mistake. “I was told Tannie went to the fireworks with her dad.”

“Oh, she did, but we ran into them at the park, and Tannie’s father asked Mother if we could keep her overnight. He said he had something to take care of and wasn’t sure what time he’d be back.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“If he did, it didn’t register with me. He might have told Mother, but she’s long dead. Why not ask Tannie? She might know.”

“I’ll do that, thanks. I truly appreciate your help.”

“You’re entirely welcome.”

27

LIZA

Saturday, July 4, 1953

Liza Mellincamp often thought about her fourteenth birthday, which fell on July 3, 1953, the day before Violet Sullivan left Serena Station. Years later, she found it hard to believe so much changed in that forty-eight-hour period. She’d spent the morning of her birthday cleaning her room. Violet was taking her out for lunch, and Liza wanted to be ready in plenty of time. She had never eaten in a real restaurant and she could hardly contain herself. She and her mother had shared sandwiches at drugstore lunch counters, but that wasn’t the same.

At 9:30 she turned on her Philco clock radio and listened to The Romance of Helen Trent and Our Gal Sunday while she made her bed, emptied the wastebasket, and shoved her dirty clothes into the hamper. Monday, she’d take everything to the Laundromat as she did every week. She’d end up doing most of the household chores in any event because her mom was usually too drunk to do much except lie on the couch in the living room, smoking cigarettes and burning holes in the rim of the wood coffee table. She tidied and dusted her desktop, night table, and bookshelves. She shook out the scatter rugs off the porch rail and left them there to air. She wet-mopped the linoleum on her bedroom floor and then went over it with Johnson’s Jubilee, liking the glossy wet shine, though she knew it would dull as it dried. In the bathroom, she scrubbed the tub, toilet, and sink with Bab-o cleanser. There were too many chips and stains to make a difference, but she felt better knowing it was done.

At 11:00 she ironed her best white Ship’n Shore blouse with the Peter Pan collar and baby doll sleeves. She took a shower and got dressed. Violet had called to say she had a big surprise, and when she and Daisy swung by the house at 11:45, she was driving a brand-new Chevrolet. She laughed at Liza’s wide-eyed response. Liza couldn’t remember ever even sitting in a new car, and here she was marveling at the white sidewall tires, the dashboard, the interior upholstery, and shiny chrome window cranks.

Violet drove into Santa Maria, where the three of them had lunch in the tea room at the Savoy Hotel. Liza and Violet both had shrimp cocktails for a first course and then this tiny cup of chicken soup and a plate of finger sandwiches—brown bread with cream cheese and chopped nuts, egg salad, ham salad, even one with watercress and thinly sliced radishes. She and Violet ate with their little fingers crooked up, pretending to be oh so lah-di-dah. Daisy had buttered noodles, which was just about the only thing she’d eat except for Welch’s grape jelly on bread. They had layer cake for dessert, and Liza’s arrived with a candle in it, which she blew out, blushing with pleasure as the waiters and waitresses stood around and sang to her. Just when she thought life couldn’t be any more perfect, Violet handed her a small box wrapped in beautiful lavender paper. Liza opened the gift with trembling fingers. Inside there was a silver heart-shaped locket about the size of a fifty-cent piece. Inside there was a tiny photograph of Violet. “And look at this,” she said.

She pulled the photo aside to reveal a second heart-shaped compartment behind the first. “That’s for your true love,” Violet said, pointing to the blank space. “I predict within a year, you’ll know exactly who it is.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, Sweetie, don’t cry. It’s your birthday.”

“This is the best day of my life.”

“You’ll have others much better, but enjoy. Here, let’s put it on.”

Liza turned around and lifted her hair while Violet fixed the clasp. Liza put her hand against the locket that was nestled in the hollow of her throat. The silver was already warm from contact with her skin. Her lucky charm. She could hardly quit touching it.

Violet paid for lunch out of a thick wad of bills, making sure everybody noticed. She seemed pleased as Punch and more than once remarked that life was soon going to be one hundred percent improved. Liza thought if that were really true, she wouldn’t have to repeat it four times during the meal, but Violet was like that.

“Oh geez Louise, I almost forgot,” she said. “I need a babysitter tomorrow night. Are you free?”

Liza’s smile faded. “Not really. Kathy and I are going to the fireworks.”

Violet looked at her with a momentary consternation, having assumed she’d agree. “Couldn’t you skip just this once?”

“I don’t know. I told her I’d go with her, and I don’t want to break a date.”

“Trust me, if you’re going out with a girl, it’s not a date. It’s marking time.”

“Couldn’t you get someone else?”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Lies. At this late date? There’s no chance. Besides, Kathy’s a sourpuss. I’ve seen the way she bosses you around. Aren’t you ever going to stand up to her?”

“Maybe I could come for a little while. Until eight forty-five. We could hold off going over to the park till then.”

Violet fixed Liza in her clear green gaze. “If you sat the whole evening, you could have Ty come over. You know I wouldn’t care. Missing the fireworks isn’t that big a deal. There’s always next year.”

Liza was stricken. What was she supposed to say? The day had been so perfect, all because of Violet, who wanted only this one small thing.

Violet’s eyes widened. “Please, please, please? You can’t let Kathy take up all your time. I really need the help.”

Liza didn’t see how she could refuse. She sat for Violet all the time. Violet had been counting on her even if she forgot to ask. And Kathy had been such a pill of late. “All right, I guess. Maybe I can do something with her on Sunday instead.”

“Thank you, Sugar Bun. You are too too sweet.”

“That’s okay,” Liza said, flushing with pleasure. Praise of any kind always made her warm.

After lunch, for the finale, Violet took Liza and Daisy to see a 3-D movie called Bwana Devil, with Robert Stack and Barbara Britton. It had been in the theaters for seven months, but it hadn’t come to Santa Maria until recently. The three of them settled in front-row seats with their cardboard glasses, wearing wax lips for fun, munching popcorn and Milk Duds. Violet told her that for the early 3-D movies, one lens of the give-away glasses was green and the other was red. This was new technology, Polaroid, with both lenses clear, though Violet wasn’t quite sure how either process worked. Why one green and one red lens would produce a 3-D effect was beyond her, she said. The credits began and they settled in. Unfortunately, the first time a lion jumped straight out of the screen at them, Daisy got hysterical and cried so hard Liza had to take her out to the lobby and sit for an hour. Still, it was the best birthday Liza could remember, and she hated to see the day come to an end.

After they got back to the Sullivans’, Liza sat with Daisy for an hour while Violet ran an errand. Thankfully, Foley didn’t get home until 6:00, so she didn’t have to deal with him. True to form, Violet took longer than she said, so it was close to 5:45 by the time Liza finally got to her house. Her mother heard her come in and called her into the living room. Liza stood at the door while her mother struggled into a sitting position. Her mother had that fuzzy look that made Liza want to scream.

“What,” she said. She didn’t want to spoil the good mood she was in, but she knew better than to ignore her mom.

“Word of warning. Kathy Cramer came by with your birthday present, and when she found out you weren’t here, she got that look on her face.” Her mother’s consonants were only slightly soft. In her own curious way, she was aware of what was going on.

Liza felt her heart sink. The last thing in the world she wanted was for Kathy to find out she’d had lunch with Violet and had seen Bwana Devil afterward. Kathy had been talking about Bwana Devil for weeks, trying to get her dad to drive them into town and drop them at the theater. Liza didn’t feel she was under any obligation to wait and go with her, but she knew Kathy would see it differently. “What’d you tell her?”

“I forget. I made some excuse for you. She woke me from a sound sleep, standing on the porch, pounding on the front door like the house was burning down. I hollered for her to hold her horses, but by the time I got there, she was already acting like she had a stick up her butt. I told her I didn’t have a clue where you were and she got all snotty and sullen. Honestly, Liza, what do you see in her? She’s chained to you like a rock and she’s dragging you down.”

“You didn’t mention Violet?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Where’d you put the present?”

“She took it to your room and said she’d leave it on your desk.”

Liza made a beeline for her room, suddenly worried that Kathy had taken advantage of the opportunity to snoop. Her room was much as she’d left it, but when she went to check her diary, hidden behind the bookcase, she couldn’t be sure if it had been moved or not. She sat on the bed and leafed through the pages, waves of anxiety coursing through her. She’d recorded every detail of her romance with Ty Eddings, and if Kathy had read the last few entries, she was doomed. According to Kathy, even the use of Junior Tampax was an affront to the notion of Absolute Purity.

Liza found a new hiding place for the diary and then sat on her bed and opened Kathy’s present, which was beautifully wrapped in pink-flowered paper with a pretty pink bow on top. Pink was Kathy’s favorite color. Liza herself preferred shades of purple, which was also Violet’s favorite.

When she saw what Kathy had given her, she could hardly believe her eyes. The box of lily of the valley dusting powder was the same one she’d given Kathy for her birthday in March of the year before. She checked the bottom of the box and, sure enough, there was the same drugstore sticker she’d torn in half when she’d tried to peel it off. Clearly Kathy hadn’t used the powder and didn’t remember who’d given it to her. Now what?

Liza didn’t want to call her at all. On the other hand, she thought she’d be smart to get it over with. If Kathy had read her diary, she’d never pass up the opportunity to chide and condemn her, superior as always.

Liza went to the phone in the hall and dialed Kathy’s number. Mrs. Cramer picked up.

“Hi, Mrs. Cramer? This is Liza. Is Kathy home?”

“Just a moment.” She put a hand across the mouthpiece and Liza could hear her holler up to the second floor. “Kathy? Liza’s on the phone.”

There was a long pause while Kathy clumped down the stairs. “Hope you had a good birthday,” Mrs. Cramer remarked while they waited.

“I did. Thanks.”

“Here she is.”

Kathy took the handset and said, “Hello,” in a voice that was dead and remote.

“Hi. I called to say thanks for the bath powder. It’s really nice.”

“You’re welcome.” Even the two words sounded snippy and clipped.

“Is something wrong?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Kathy, if something’s bothering you, just tell me.”

“Well, where were you? That’s what’s bothering me. We had a date.”

“We did?”

“Yesss. This afternoon. My mother was supposed to take us to the five-and-dime…”

Liza could feel the cold envelop her body as Kathy went on in her martyred, accusatory tone. “We were supposed to pick out a pattern and fabric so we could sew matching skirts and weskits for our new fall wardrobe. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember you mentioned it, but that was weeks ago and you never said what day.”

“Because it was so obvious. It was for your birthday, Liza. I didn’t think I had to spell it out. We drove over to pick you up for lunch and you were gone. Your mom didn’t even know where you were.”

“I’m sorry. I forgot—”

“How could you forget? We always spend our birthdays together. It’s traditional.”

“We’ve done it twice,” Liza said. She knew she’d pay for the sass, but she couldn’t help herself.

“Well, I guess it means more to me than to you,” Kathy said.

Liza couldn’t think of a response so she said nothing.

“So where did you go?” Kathy asked.

“No place in particular. Just out.”

“I know you were out. I’m asking where.”

“Why do you care?” Liza couldn’t believe she was being so ornery, but she was sick of catering to Kathy’s moods.

“I care, Liza, because I want to know what’s so important you had to stand me up.”

“I didn’t stand you up. I forgot, okay?”

“I know you forgot. You already told me that a hundred times! You don’t have to rub it in.”

“Why are you so mad? It was an honest mistake.”

“I’m not mad. Why should I be mad? I asked for an explanation. Since you were so rude as to violate our agreement, I think you owe me one.”

Liza felt her temper climb, Kathy having neatly maneuvered her into a corner. If she told her where she’d been, Kathy would raise a big stink or she’d sulk for days, or she’d do both, but in no way would she ever leave the subject alone. Liza had seen it before. Once someone made Kathy mad, she never let ’em off the hook. “I was busy.”

“Doing what?” Kathy said, exasperated.

“What difference does it make?”

“In other words, you won’t tell. Thanks so much. I’d never do anything that horrible to you—”

“Oh, stop exaggerating. It’s not horrible.”

“I thought we were best friends.”

“I didn’t say we weren’t.”

“But that’s not how you treat a best friend—keeping secrets and being mean.”

“I’m not being mean.”

“You know what? That’s the difference between us, what you just said. You can’t admit the truth. Moral Rearmament has made me a better person, but Absolute Unselfishness doesn’t mean a thing to you. It’s whatever you want, whatever you feel like doing, and then you lie about it afterward…”

Liza said, “I have to go. My mom’s calling me.”

Kathy’s voice had a quaver now. “You know what? Absolute Honesty? You hurt me. Deeply. All week long, I looked forward to seeing you. It was going to be the bright spot of my day. Put yourself in my place and think how I felt when I heard you hadn’t even left a note.”

“Kathy, it’s not like I did it on purpose. I made a mistake.”

“Then why didn’t you call me when you got home?”

“That’s what I’m doing. I’m on the phone. I’m calling you. What else could this be?”

“Oh sure, hours later.”

“I just now walked in the door!”

“You were gone all day?”

“Why are you making such a fuss?”

“I’m making a fuss? So now it’s my fault?”

“I didn’t say it was your fault, but you don’t have to make such a big deal of it. You do things without me. Why can’t I do one tiny thing without you?”

“Fine. Be that way. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

Liza could feel herself crumble. This would go on for the rest of her life unless she found a way out. “Look, I’m really sorry, okay? I apologize.”

There was a momentary silence. Kathy didn’t like giving up the power position. “Do you mean that?”

“I do. Sincerely. I didn’t want to say where I was because it had to do with my mom and her…you know…her problem.”

“Oh you poor thing. Why didn’t you say so?”

“I was embarrassed. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“Of course. I completely understand. But really, if you’d confided in me, we could have avoided this misunderstanding.”

“Next time I will. I’m sorry I wasn’t completely honest with you.”

“That’s all right. Liza, it’s not your fault what she is.”

“I appreciate your being so nice about it.” Having capitulated, why not grovel as well?

“So what time do you want to go to the park tomorrow night? You think six is too early? I made some deviled eggs. I thought we could take a picnic.”

Liza was at a loss for words.

“Liza?”

“I’m here. The problem is I can’t go. That’s another reason I called. My mom’s kind of sick and I have to stay home because she needs me.”

“But won’t she be better tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. She doesn’t look good.”

“You can’t even leave her for an hour?”

“I better not.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know. I’m calling the doctor as soon as I hang up from you. She’s been sick all day so it might be serious.”

“You want me to come keep you company? I don’t mind skipping the fireworks. We could make popcorn.”

“We better not. She could be contagious. She’s calling me right now so I gotta go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure. I hope she feels better.”

“Me too.”

When Liza placed the handset back in the cradle, the small of her back was damp. She played the conversation over and over in her mind, reconstructing Kathy’s tone, wishing she’d been quicker on the draw when Kathy tried to shoot her down. She shouldn’t have lied about her mom, but what else could she do? She didn’t see how Kathy would ever find out. She knew Kathy was full of pity for her because of her mother’s drinking and often told her she prayed for her in church, citing Absolute Love. Didn’t feel like love to Liza, but what did she know?

She decided to fix her mother an early supper, since she and Ty were going out that night. She couldn’t wait to tell him all the stuff Kathy said. He didn’t like Kathy in the first place and he’d be tickled to hear she’d finally stood up to her. For as long as she had. You couldn’t handle everything at once.

She set the water on to boil for the Minute Rice and then opened a can of Libby’s corn and a can of Libby’s green beans. She tried to make sure her mother got a balanced meal, but half the time her mother didn’t want to eat, no matter what it was. Liza had fixed Spam two nights before, so she took the chunk out of the refrigerator and cut a fresh slice, which she fried in oleo. Once the meal was fully prepared, she arranged everything on a tray, added a paper napkin and utensils, and took it into the living room. Her mother was dead to the world, cigarette still burning in the ashtray. Liza put it out and took the dinner tray back to the kitchen. She set it on the counter where her mother would see it later. Then she washed the pots and pans and put them away.

Ty picked her up at 9:00, driving his uncle’s truck, which he did whenever he could cadge it. When she got in, he handed her a package with a bow clumsily affixed. “What’s this,” she asked, taking out a bottle of what looked like Champagne.

“Cold Duck. I got it at the minimart so we could celebrate. Happy birthday.”

“You bought alcohol?”

“I look like I’m twenty-one so I do it all the time. The guy never even carded me.”

“You better hope your aunt doesn’t find out.”

He smiled, flashing white teeth and dimples. “I got something else for you too, but that’s for later.”

Liza smiled, cheeks burning. She’d never received a present from a boy. Right away, she hoped for an ID bracelet, engraved with both their names, something to commemorate their love.

They drove out to the Tanner property as they had on two previous occasions. They couldn’t very well ride around town. If the two were seen together, he’d be in trouble with his aunt.

The new road had been graded, but only partially paved. A trench had been dug to form a culvert, and lengths of corrugated pipe had been brought in by crane. Now as Ty swung off the frontage road, they could see that a temporary Road Closed sign had been set up, blocking access. A line of orange cones ran across the road to further discourage traffic, and a No Trespass sign had been posted. Guess they meant business. Since the Fourth fell on a Saturday, government offices were closed on Friday, the day before. No court, no mail delivery, no library, and no banks. The county road crew had apparently been given the three-day weekend as well.

Ty drove around the barrier, passing the dirt mounds and heavy equipment. A bulldozer seemed to glow in the fading light of day. He’d scoped out the house and grounds in advance of their first visit and discovered the open shed he now used to conceal his pickup. He helped her out of the passenger side, leading her by the hand as far as the expansive wooden porch that ran along the back of the house. Faintly, in the distance, they could hear the hush of passing cars out on the 101.

He said, “Hang on a sec.” He went back to the truck and returned moments later with a bundle under one arm. “Sleeping bag,” he said. He kept a hand on her back, guiding her as they made their way through the darkened kitchen and up the servants’ stairs. The house was stuffy after being closed up for so long. Once they reached the master bedroom at the front of the house, Ty opened all the windows to let the heat out. The breeze coming in across the sill was warm, but at least it created some circulation. He laid out the bulky sleeping bag and stretched out a hand, pulling her down beside him.

He opened the bottle of Cold Duck and offered her the first swig. It tasted better than she expected, and she liked how warm and fuzzy it was making her feel. They passed the bottle back and forth until half of it was gone. She lay on one side, head propped on her hand while they talked in whispers. She started to tell him about Kathy, but he kept interrupting her with kisses and deep, meaningful looks. He said, “Your present. I almost forgot.”

He took out a small jar of Vaseline, holding it out to her with a smile.

“What’s that for?”

“You know. Just in case.”

Liza felt her stomach knot and she sat up. “I don’t think we should do this. It’s not a good idea.”

“Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to decide anything right now. It’s completely up to you,” he said. He pulled her down beside him and kissed her again. By now they’d progressed from the innocent petting of their early dates into more treacherous territory, and Ty took it as a given that each time they were together they’d pick up where they left off. He was already intent on the business of stripping her down. Liza wasn’t entirely willing, but she knew she couldn’t refuse. The kissing did feel good, and she was lucky he’d chosen her when any other girl in school would be happy to take her place. She found herself floating in the moment, carried along by his determination and her own inability to resist. In the back of her mind, a tiny voice was whispering that his insistence and Kathy’s bullying weren’t all that different, but the Cold Duck had made her feel sleepy and too relaxed to care. Easier to give in than to raise any more objections. It’s not like it wasn’t nice.

He was kissing her bare boob when she saw a flash of headlights swing across the ceiling. Down below, gravel crunched, the vehicle so close to the house they could hear the driver pulling on his brake. Liza gasped and broke free, scrambling to her hands and knees as the car door slammed. “Oh my lord, someone’s here!”

Ty crawled over to the window and peered out. “Don’t panic. It’s fine. He isn’t coming this way.”

Liza eased in behind him, her eyes just above sill level. The driver was on the far side of the vehicle, which was ten yards away. She picked up the smell of smoke before she saw the speck of red hot ember at the end of his cigarette. Liza said, “Who is that?”

“He must be a security guard. Looks like he’s checking the equipment.”

“We gotta get out of here.” She crawled back to the sleeping bag and snatched up her clothing, piling her shoes on top. Ty pulled on his jeans and they scurried across the room to the walk-in linen closet, where they shut themselves in. They finished dressing in haste, Liza feeling so anxious she nearly wet her pants. Ty looked over at her, saying, “You okay?”

“What if he sees the truck? He’ll know someone’s here.”

Ty opened the closet door and peered around the frame. The house was dark, but she could make out his profile. So beautiful. He motioned to her and the two emerged from their hiding place. Liza listened intently but picked up no sounds of activity inside the house itself. Ty reached for her hand and the two eased over to the window and peered out again. Liza could see the swinging beam of a flashlight as the fellow walked across the road, adjusting cones as he went.

Ty said, “Let’s move it. I think we can make it to the truck before he turns around and comes back.”

They picked their way out of the room and tiptoed along the corridor until they reached the back stairs and started down. Liza nearly fell over Ty, not realizing he’d stopped to listen again. Nothing. Liza held on to his T-shirt as they passed the butler’s pantry and from there traversed the cavernous kitchen, which was bathed in soft gray light. The moon, in its last quarter, was visible through one of the kitchen windows.

Outside they race-walked across the grass to the shed. Ty felt his way down the length of the truck until he could open the driver’s-side door. Liza climbed in first and crawled across the seat to make room for him. Ty climbed in after her and slid under the wheel. He pulled the door shut without slamming it, careful not to make a sound. They sat then, scarcely daring to breathe. Ty torqued himself around, staring out the rear window at the darkened yard. The width and breadth of the house blocked all view of the front, but there was an illusion of hearing more acutely when one stared at the source.

Liza said, “Do you think we should risk it?”

“Not yet.”

Liza had a sudden thought and put a hand on his arm. “We forgot the sleeping bag!”

“Don’t worry about it. We can pick it up next time.”

“But what if he comes across it?”

Ty held a finger to his lips and they fell silent again. Ten long minutes passed and then they heard the grumbling of one of the big machines, engine grinding to life, shattering the stillness. When the racket continued, Ty took advantage of the noise to cover the starting of his truck. He backed out of the shed and crept along the service road with his headlights out.

When they cleared the house, they could see a shape as lumbering as a tank crawling in the opposite direction. Ty continued down the service road with Liza praying he wouldn’t steer them into a tree. Finally, he felt safe enough to turn on his fog lights, which provided sufficient illumination for their agonizingly slow escape.

Saturday morning, the Fourth, Liza called the Cramer house. She hoped to have a conversation with Kathy in which she could casually mention her mother’s illness to reinforce the fib. Telling the same lie more than once made it seem more real. Mrs. Cramer answered and said Kathy really wasn’t able to come to the phone. Her voice was chilly, and Liza knew Kathy had blabbed to her about their fight. “Well, would you tell her I called?”

“Of course.”

Liza didn’t see how Kathy would ever find out she was babysitting for Violet instead of staying at home with her mother as she’d claimed. Ty had begged her to let him come over to the Sullivans’ and keep her company and, of course, she’d agreed. Early in the afternoon she wandered over to Violet’s. Foley was off somewhere, and Liza was hoping she and Violet could have a heart-to-heart talk. Unfortunately, Daisy was in the bedroom, playing with her paper dolls, and it didn’t seem advisable, given the subject matter. She’d hung out for a while and then she’d gone home. She sat on the front porch in an old aluminum lawn chair, hoping Kathy would pass the house and see her there.

By 6:15 she was back at the Sullivans’, minding Daisy in the bathtub while Violet and the yapping Pomeranian went out the door. She made sure Daisy dried herself and got in her pj’s. They sat at the kitchen table and ate vanilla ice cream until 8:15. Daisy was easily confused about telling time, so Liza said it was 9:00 and marched her off to bed. Liza gave her the pill Violet’d left and watched as Daisy swallowed it with half a glass of milk. Twenty minutes later she was safely tucked in bed and limp with sleep.

Liza went out the back door and sat down in one of the two lawn chairs that overlooked a scruffy patch of grass. The wooden fence was less than six feet tall, but a thick tangle of honeysuckle spilled over the top, obscuring her view of the street. It was hot and her T-shirt was sticking to her back. She went inside again and sat in the living room, where she turned off the overhead light and let the table fan blow across her face.

At 9:00 she heard Ty scratching at the back screen. He stood outside the door, and the gaze he fixed on her was as hungry and as patient as a fox’s. She let him in and he kissed her, pressing himself against her. For once, she had the presence of mind to slip out of his grip.

“Ty, I’m not going to neck with you in here. What if Daisy wakes up or the Sullivans come back?”

“Come on. Foley’s at the park and I saw Violet barreling down the road in that fancy car of hers. Neither one of them are coming back for hours.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going to do it.”

“How about we go out to my pickup? It’s parked in the alley out back. I spread some blankets in the bed so we can lay there together and look at the stars.”

“Are you crazy? I can’t leave Daisy by herself.”

“I didn’t say we’d go anywhere. It’s just someplace private where we can talk without waking her.”

“I don’t think it’s right. I’m supposed to stay in the house.”

“Did Violet say that specifically?”

“No, but that’s what she pays me to do.”

“Half an hour. An hour. No one’s ever going to know.”

He’d wheedled and coaxed, making it all sound easy and insignificant. Finally, she’d given in and followed him through the yard to his pickup. Of course, the minute they were stretched out in the truck bed he’d started in on her. The night was warm, but Liza found herself shivering. Her fingers were so icy, she had to tuck her hands in her armpits. Ty was solicitous. He’d brought two paper cups and another bottle of Cold Duck. Liza drank more than her share, hoping to quiet her nerves. While they talked, the fireworks display started in Silas. They’d hear thumps and then sprays of green and blue sparkles would erupt, showers of red like umbrellas raining out of the sky. For thirty minutes they watched, transfixed. It was like a movie Liza had seen where this man and woman had been kissing and kissing and the curtains had blown open at the window and the sky had been alight.

After a while she lost track of time, didn’t even care how long they’d been there. She was feeling so close to him. He wrapped his arms around her and murmured against her neck. “How’re you doing, Lies? I gotta take good care of you so you won’t catch cold.” He slid his hand underneath her shirt.

“Oh, don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.” He unbuttoned her shorts and moved his hand down along her belly.

“Maybe we should stop.”

“Stop what?”

“We can’t keep doing this.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“I do, but I don’t want to go too far, okay?”

“Just let me touch you once,” he said. He’d managed to get a finger between her legs.

She grabbed his hand and held it. “Wait. I can’t do this. I have to go in. What if they get home?”

“They won’t. They never come in before the Moon closes. You know that about them. They’re off drinking and having fun, and we’re right here close by. Violet won’t care. She likes me.”

“I know, but we have to be careful.”

“I will. I’ll be careful. Here, have one more little sip of wine. I’m just so crazy about you, Liza. Don’t you love me even a little bit? I know you love me.” He took the empty cup from her hand and whispered against her hair, kissing her neck and her breasts until she burned. “Be sweet. Please be sweet to me just this one time.”

She should have pulled away, but she felt suspended, passive, as though she had no control over what would happen next. On he went, telling her he loved her, that it was torture not having her when he loved her so much. By then he had her shorts off. “Let me put it in,” he whispered. “Just one time. Please.”

She’d said no at first, but he’d been so excited at the idea and so persistent, she’d relented. What was the harm when she wanted him, too. “You promise you’ll pull out in time?”

“Of course. I swear. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. I love you. You know I do. Angel, I want you so much it’s driving me insane.”

She felt at the same time powerful and afraid, but he was so beautiful and fearless. No one had ever said such incredible things to her. He seemed so sweet and eager. She had her eyes closed, but she could hear the rustling of his clothes. She made a sound at the shock of his naked body against hers. He was smooth and muscular. His skin was hot and he smelled of soap. She couldn’t remember where the jar of Vaseline came from, but there it was. And he was pressing himself and putting her hand on him and moving against her and wanting her to open up to him and then she did. She knew he’d already gone too far, but he’d pushed in. Then he was moving and didn’t seem to hear her feeble protest. He moved and he was moving and then he made a sound like he was lifting something heavy. He groaned, out of breath, and then he slumped over her, relaxed. “Oh, Lies. Oh geez. That was fantastic. That was so beautiful.”

It hadn’t even been a minute. She shifted her hips and he slipped out of her, leaving her goopy and wet.

“What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. You said you’d pull out!”

“I’m sorry. I meant to, but I couldn’t help myself. Baby, it just felt so good. I went crazy for a minute and the next thing I knew, it just happened.”

“Shit. What time is it? I gotta go.”

“Not yet. It’s not hardly midnight. Don’t leave me. Here, feel this.” He took her hand and pressed it against him.

She’d stayed where she was, half-underneath him, warm only in the places where his body covered hers. The rest of her was cold, her limbs pinned to the blanket by the weight of him. “I have to go in. What if they come home and I’m not there?”

“You can tell ’em you came out for a breath of air.”

“Let go of me. Please,” she whispered, but he kissed her again, murmuring, “You’re great. You’re amazing. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said. “Ty, I have to go in.” She twisted out of his grasp and groped along the truck bed until she found her underpants. She pulled them on and then searched for her shorts and T-shirt.

“Look, I’ll see you tomorrow morning, right?”

“Maybe.”

“All day. We’ll spend the whole day together.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Meet me out on Porter Road. I’ll borrow my uncle’s truck and we’ll go for a drive. Eight o’clock.”

She could tell her underpants were on wrong-side out. She lifted one hip so she could strip them off. “Damn it! Now I got stuff running down the inside of my leg. Give me a handkerchief or something so I can clean myself off.”

He handed her his T-shirt, which he’d wadded up and tossed aside. She jammed it between her legs and cleaned herself as well as she could. She eased into her underpants again and hooked herself into her bra. She pulled on her T-shirt and shorts and used her fingers to get the snarls out of her hair. Once dressed, she climbed over the tailgate.

Ty said, “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning. You’re not there, I’m knocking on your door and I don’t care who sees.”

She kissed him in haste, told him that she loved him, and then hurried toward the house and let herself in the back door. The screen whined softly. The kitchen light was off, but she could see the luminous hands on the wall clock. 1:15. Violet and Foley usually didn’t get home until after 2:00 so she was fine. Everything was okay. The same table lamp was burning in the darkened living room. The fan rotated at a steady pace, pushing hot air this way and that. Both bedrooms were dark. She paused outside Daisy’s room, listening to the child’s slow, deep, regular breathing. She was fine.

Liza crept into the bathroom. In the glow from the night-light, she pulled down her shorts and checked her underpants. The crotch was wet with semen, stained with blood. She had to talk to Violet. She knew she should have made him use a rubber, but he promised he’d pull out, and now what? Violet would know. Violet knew everything there was to know about sex. Liza returned to the living room, where she lay on the couch, hugging herself. What was done was done. He’d told her he loved her—he’d actually said that to her—and he was the one who brought up the subject of seeing her again, so it wasn’t like she was chasing him or anything like that. Still, she wished she hadn’t done it. She could feel her eyes burn as the tears spilled out. As soon as Violet came in, the two of them would talk and she’d be fine.

28

I put a call through to Sneaky Pete’s. I could hear the strains of the jukebox in the background and a steady hum of voices. This was Saturday night, but it was only 6:45 and the place wasn’t going to rock until well after 9:00. Tannie answered the phone.

“Hi, Tannie. This is Kinsey. You have a minute?”

“Sure, if you don’t mind the interruptions. I’m tending bar and the gal who’s scheduled to work called in sick an hour ago.”

“I’ll try to be quick. You heard about Violet?”

“I did. What happened to the poor woman? I know she was killed, but nobody’s said how.”

“I haven’t heard a word about the cause of death. I guess we’ll know more after the autopsy’s done.”

“Autopsy? Somebody told me she was just a bunch of bones wrapped up like a mummy so you couldn’t even see her face.”

“Well, that’s not quite true. As I understand it, she was wrapped in a length of fabric, but it was falling apart. That’s hardly mummylike,” I said.

“Did you get a look at her?”

“Not me, and Daisy didn’t either. Detective Nichols gave her the news, but he didn’t want anyone getting close to the car.”

“How’s she taking it?”

“She’s okay. I don’t think the reality has sunk in.”

“I thought about calling, but I didn’t have the nerve. Maybe tomorrow. So what’s up with you?”

“I’ve been putting together a timeline for that Fourth of July weekend, trying to figure out where everyone was. You went over to the park with your dad?”

“Didn’t we talk about this? I was supposed to go with my brother, but he went off with his friends so Pop ended up taking me himself.”

“Were you there the whole time?”

“I don’t remember for a fact, but I can’t think why not.”

“Here’s why I ask. I managed to track down the woman who lived next door to the Sullivans back then. Anna Ericksen. Do you remember her? She was five at the time.”

“Vaguely.”

“We just had a chat, and according to her recollection, she and her mother ran into you at the park. She says your dad asked if her mother could look after you because he had something to take care of, so you ended up spending the night at her house.”

“Nah, don’t think so. It doesn’t ring a bell. Are you sure she doesn’t have me confused with somebody else?”

“Do you remember bouncing on the bed? She says you bumped into her and she fell and broke her arm.”

Tannie let out a startled laugh. “That was her? Oh my god, I remember the little girl, but I’d forgotten her name. Was that the same Fourth of July? Shit, she had bone sticking through her skin. It was sickening.”

“You have any idea where your father went that night?”

“Probably the hospital to see Mom. He was there most nights. What’s this about?”

“I’m not sure. It’s really just a gap I was hoping to fill in.”

“I can ask the next time I talk to him and see what he says.”

“Why don’t you hold off and I can talk to him myself. I’m driving up again Monday, probably early afternoon.”

“You’re still working for Daisy? I thought you’d be done.”

“This is what you call mop-up. She paid me in advance and I owe her a day.”

After we hung up, I realized I should have downplayed the subject even more than I had. I didn’t want Jake to know I was pursuing the point. If Tannie mentioned it and he needed to cover his tracks, he’d have time to fabricate an excuse. Maybe he had left Tannie in Mrs. Ericksen’s care so he could visit Mary Hairl. The only time we’d talked, he hadn’t said anything about that. In fact, he’d spoken in such detail about Foley’s behavior at the park that I’d assumed he’d been there. Not to brag, but I myself am really quite skilled at lying and I can tell you how it’s done. Like a magic trick, you distract from the sleight-of-hand by focusing attention on the irrelevant.

I took a moment to call Cheney Phillips and we chatted for a while. I asked about the conference and then filled him in on my discovery. He offered to meet me at Rosie’s so he could buy me a drink, but I was feeling reclusive and thought I better level with him. “Nothing personal, but all I want to do is sleep in my own bed and not talk to a soul. The past four days I haven’t had a minute to myself and it’s driving me nuts.”

“Got it. Sounds like you’re in the thick of things, which I can understand. Call when you come up for air, and we’ll have dinner.”

“Perfect.”

“Hey, Kinsey? You be careful with yourself. Whoever this guy is, he’s gotten away with murder now for thirty-four years. He’s not going to let you march in and blow it for him.”

“All I’m doing is a records search and after that, my job’s done. Trust me. I’m leaving any rough stuff to the sheriff ’s department. That’s their bailiwick.”

After we hung up, I sat and thought about what he’d said. I knew he was right. I’d already had my tires slashed and that was before the car was unearthed and the bodies had been found. I unlocked the cabinet where I’d been keeping my handguns. I owned three. My favorite, a little .32-caliber semiautomatic my aunt Gin had given me as a kid, had been vaporized in an explosion that was meant to kill me. The next gun I acquired was a .32-caliber Davis that I bought because I liked the looks, thus opening myself to scorn and derision from all the gun nuts who considered it inferior. In deference to them, I bought an H&K P7 and an H&K P13, both serious weapons. The P13 was really more gun than I could comfortably handle, so I put it back in the cabinet with the Davis. I took out the box of Winchester Silvertips, loaded the P7, and put it in my shoulder bag.

I was now technically prepared, but far from feeling reassured, I was just flat scared.

I spent Sunday morning typing up my notes. After lunch I drove over to the office and sorted through the mail that was piled on the floor. The mailman had stuck so many envelopes through the slot that they’d spread out across the carpet like a welcome mat. I sorted through the bills and then had no choice but to sit down and write checks. I listened to my messages, which were surprisingly few; none required my immediate attention. On the way home I went by the post office and dropped my paid bills in the box at the curb. I spent the rest of the day cleaning my apartment—good therapy for those of us who cherish solitude. Scrubbing toilet bowls, you’re hardly ever troubled by others eager to pitch in.

Monday morning, I put my typewriter and all my notes in the car and drove into downtown Santa Teresa. I parked in the public lot across from the courthouse, put my handgun in the glove compartment, and locked my car. Everything I hoped to accomplish could be done in a two-block radius and none of it required me to be armed. My first stop was the title company on the corner. I was looking for information about Santa Maria property transactions in 1953. The original deeds are recorded and sent back to the new property owner, but photocopies are kept in the County Recorder’s office, quite possibly forever. The easiest way to get to them is to put in a request at the customer service counter at one of the local title companies. I do most of my business with Santa Teresa Title because their library is extensive and they’ll run a simple search without charge. Currently deeds are indexed according to the property address, but in the ’50s, transactions were indexed by name. I asked the clerk for anything they could find for me under the names Jake Ottweiler, Chet Cramer, and/or Tom Padgett. She asked me to come back in an hour.

I crossed the street to the Hall of Records in the Santa Teresa County Courthouse. Since 1964 the estates of Santa Maria residents have been administered in the Santa Maria branch of the probate court, but in 1953 wills were filed at the courthouse here. I’d never thought of wills as hostile instruments, but I was in for a surprise. Cora Padgett’s will was straightforward. On her death on March 2, 1959, she’d left everything to Tom, making him a very rich man. The attached Exhibit A indicated that the real property, including a house and four funeral parlors, was valued at close to two million dollars. Her personal assets—cash, stocks, bonds, and jewelry—bumped the number up another three quarters of a mill. I paid the fee for a certified copy of her death certificate, which listed the cause of death as bilateral bronchopneumonia. Nothing iffy about that.

I moved to the wills of Calvin and Violet’s parents. Roscoe Wilcox died May 16, 1951, leaving a will that was signed and dated December 21, 1949. The will had been filed for probate on May 24, 1951, proved, the assets collected and identified, and the claims of the creditors paid. The terms were simple. Violet’s brother, Calvin Wilcox, was appointed executor. There were two specific bequests: the first, the sum of ten thousand dollars, which Roscoe left to his church, and a second, which read “To my daughter, Violet, in appreciation for the love and devotion she evidenced during our lifetime, the generous sum of one dollar, which is twice what she is worth.” All of his tangible personal property and the remainder of his estate he left “to my wife, Julia Faraday Wilcox, if she survives me, and if not, to my son, Calvin Edward Wilcox.”

Julia Wilcox, by the terms of her will, also signed and dated December 21, 1949, left everything to her husband or, in the event that he predeceased her, to her son, Calvin. The remaining provisions of both wills spelled out the attendant clerical details: inventory valuation, the payment of funeral expenses, debts, Federal and California taxes, and any claims made against the estate. Clearly Violet had been denied any expectation of money (save that one surly dollar) by reason of her indifference, lack of compassion, or abundant bad character. Chet Cramer had implied that Calvin stood to profit by her death, but since both wills predated her disappearance, Calvin was already in line to inherit everything and therefore had nothing to gain by killing her. He might have disliked her, but I couldn’t see why he’d risk his life or his freedom to get her out of his hair. Violet was a nuisance, but that was about it.

Hairl Tanner’s will was the eye-popper. He’d apparently drawn up a new one on July 6, 1953, thereby revoking all previous wills and codicils. He named a trust officer at his bank to be executor and established two trusts, one for Steve Ottweiler and one for Tannie. The trusts were to accumulate all income, with no distributions whatsoever, until the two reached twenty-five years of age. He further specified that his tangible personal property was to be similarly held in trust until each was twenty-five years old. I had to go back and read that provision again. Essentially what he was saying was that Steve wouldn’t have access to the money in his trust until 1962 and Tannie wouldn’t be eligible for her portion until 1969. The valuation of his personal property—art, silver, and antiques—was estimated at six hundred thousand dollars, but neither grandchild could sell, borrow against, or enjoy ownership for years. What was that about? At first I thought he was being punitive toward his two grandchildren, but then it occurred to me that Jake Ottweiler was the object of his wrath. Old man Tanner apparently wanted to make sure Jake couldn’t collect one red cent of his money even in support of his own two kids. Given the terms of Tanner’s will, Jake would have been forced to dig into his own pockets to cover his children’s expenses in addition to his own. Had Hairl made Jake the executor or a trustee, he might have at least petitioned for reasonable sums of money related to their health, welfare, and education. So how had Jake come up with his share of the purchase price of the Blue Moon?

While I was at the courthouse, I asked about DBAs, those being a record of applications for fictitious business names, hoping to pick up a tidbit or two about how they’d taken ownership. Unfortunately, an application expires five years from the date it’s filed and those files are purged after ten years; 1953 had long been relegated to the shredder. I tried the tax assessor’s office across the street, again hoping for information related to the Blue Moon, but the clerk told me the basement of the courthouse had flooded and any records prior to 1962 were lost. Some guys have all the luck. Here I was trying to pry into Jake’s business and I was having no success.

I left the courthouse and returned to the title company, where I picked up a manila envelope full of photocopied documents. I went back to my car and sat in the parking lot, leafing through my little pile of treasures. I started with the information related to Tom Padgett. There was an Affidavit–Death of Joint Tenant, in which Cora’s name was removed from the deed to the house. Over the next several years, Tom Padgett had bought numerous properties on money borrowed from a Santa Maria bank, but most had been paid off according to the Full Reconveyances on file.

I gave a cursory look at the grant deeds in the names of Calvin and Rachel Wilcox, all of which seemed unremarkable, and then moved on to Jake Ottweiler. He and BW McPhee had purchased the property on which the Blue Moon was situated on December 12, 1953, for the sum of twenty-two thousand dollars, a figure I calculated from the line of tax stamps pasted along the left margin. I remembered BW mentioning the “couple thousand dollars” he’d thrown into the pot, which meant that Jake had come up with roughly twenty thousand dollars. There had to have been a hefty additional sum to cover the liquor license, expansion, and remodeling they’d done.

I sat and thought about what I’d found, then started the car and backed out of the slot. Time to hit the road.

29

As soon as I reached Santa Maria, I pulled into a gas station and filled my tank, then parked to one side of the service bay and used the pay phone. I put a call through to the hospital where Daisy worked and asked for the Medical Records Department. Once she was on the line, I told her I was back in town. “Is there any way I can park myself at your place? I’ve got notes to type up and some calls I want to make.”

“Sure, no problem. There’s a house key hidden under the flowerpot sitting on the porch.”

“That’s not such a keen idea, Daisy. Everyone hides the key under a flowerpot. Burglars know that and it’s the first place they look.”

“Well, goody. I’m happy to hear. Frustrate a burglar and next thing you know he’s busting your windows or gouging at the locks. Oh, and as long as you’re there, would you mind switching the clothes out of the washer and into the dryer?”

“You just ran a load. Is that all you do?”

“Hey, it’s a harmless vice,” she replied.

At Daisy’s, I let myself in and then did as she’d asked, after which I set my typewriter on the dining room table and assembled my notes. I picked my way through my index cards, looking for loose ends. I knew I’d missed something, but it wasn’t immediately obvious going over my notes. Or possibly it was so obvious I couldn’t catch sight of it. In the process of collating the bits and pieces, I came across Ty Edding’s name. He’d been at the Tanner property with Liza on Friday night, and while she remembered nothing of the car that had pulled up in front, he might make a better witness.

I put a call through to Liza. “Hey, this is Kinsey. I’m sitting here squinting at my notes and thinking it might be helpful if I could talk to Ty Eddings.”

“Why?”

“To ask about the guy you spotted at the Tanner property that night. You have any idea where Ty is at this point?”

“No.”

I waited and then tried a prompt. “Not even a guess?”

“I told you I never heard from him again so how would I know? Dead or in jail for all I care.”

“What about his aunt? What was her name?”

“York. Dahlia. She left town when her husband died and I don’t know where she went.”

“What about kids? Someone told me Ty had a cousin named Kyle. Is York his last name?”

“Yes.”

“Liza, why are you making this so difficult? Are you mad at me?”

There was a silence. Finally, frostily: “Not to chide you for your lack of sensitivity, Kinsey, but did it occur to you I might be upset about Violet’s death? You treat it like ‘Hohum, oh well. One down and on to the next.’”

I could feel myself wince. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that. You’re right and I apologize. I get focused on what I’m doing and I forget about the emotional end of things.”

Silence.

“You want to talk about it?” I asked. The question felt lame in the wake of her criticism. If you have to be told how to behave, it doesn’t count.

“Not particularly. I’d like time to grieve in private, if it’s all right with you.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to intrude. Look, I’m hanging out at Daisy’s. Why don’t you call me later if you feel like conversation.”

Silence. I could hear her breathing. Finally, she said, “Kyle York lives in San Luis Obispo. He’s an allergist.” She hung up abruptly, leaving me to deliver my penitent “Thank you” to dead air.

I tried Directory Assistance, asking for a listing for Kyle York, M.D. I expected an office number, but surprisingly the operator offered me a choice. “You want the office or his home?”

“I might as well take both.”

She gave me the numbers, which I jotted on a card. I knew if I called the office, I’d either be left on terminal hold, listening to shitty music, or some officious receptionist would quiz me at length about my need to speak to him. I was thinking I’d wait until the end of the day and try his home phone, but on impulse I dialed. After five rings, a woman picked up. I said, “Mrs. York?”

“Well, yes, but you’re probably looking for my daughter-in-law, and she’s not here right now. She’s taken the dog to the grooming shop and won’t be back for an hour and a half. May I tell her who called?” Her voice sounded slightly wobbly, as though from disuse.

“Are you Dr. York’s mother?”

“Yes, I am. May I help you with something?” She sounded pleased that I knew of her existence. I wasn’t sure that she’d be quite so pleased when I told her my purpose.

I had one split second to decide how to play the conversation. The truth didn’t have a chance. “I’m actually an old friend of Kyle’s from elementary school. We lost touch years ago, but someone said he had a practice in San Luis Obispo so I thought I’d give him a call.”

“That’s very sweet of you. What did you say your name was?”

“Tanner—Tannie—Ottweiler.”

“You must be Jake Ottweiler’s girl.”

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“How’s your father?”

“He’s fine. He sends his regards.”

“Oh, he always was the sweetest man. I haven’t seen him now for sixteen or seventeen years. I didn’t leave Serena Station until a couple of years ago, when I moved in with Kyle and his wife,” she said, warming to the subject. She went on for a bit, clearly lonely and desperate for human contact. Of course I felt like a heel, but I never set her straight. It’s not nice to lie to old ladies. Even I know that much.

We exchanged reminiscences, hers real, mine invented. Then I slithered my way over to the point. “Whatever happened to that cousin of his, the one from Bakersfield?”

“You mean Ty?”

“Exactly. As I remember, he went back to Bakersfield on the spur of the moment and that’s the last I heard. How’s he doing these days?”

“Fine.”

“Do you have a number for him?”

“Well, dear, he’s in Sacramento, but I don’t understand why you’d want to talk to him when you called to speak to Kyle.”

“I thought I might as well round up the whole gang while I was at it,” I said. I was trying to sound casual and jolly, but I couldn’t pull it off.

I could feel the chill through the line. The lady might be old, but her intuitions were alive and well. “You’re Liza Mellincamp, aren’t you?”

“Actually, I’m not.” This was the only moment in the conversation when I’d told her the truth and I was hoping to get credit.

“Well, whoever you are, I’ve already told you as much as I deem wise. Thank you for calling, but don’t call again.” She hung up with perhaps more force than I thought appropriate in a woman her age.

I hung up on my end and then took a quick break. Sometimes lying is sweaty work and leaves me feeling short of breath. I hadn’t expected to be put on the carpet like that. I went and folded some of Daisy’s clothes just to give my brain a rest.

I returned to the phone and called Directory Assistance in Sacramento and asked for a number for last name, Eddings; first name, initial T, Ty, or Tyler. This time my only option was his office number. As it turned out, Ty Eddings was an attorney in a law firm with a string of names that went on with all the lilt and cadence of a nursery rhyme.

The receptionist connected me with his secretary, who told me Mr. Eddings was in court. I gave her my name and Daisy’s number, asking her to have him return the call. “May I ask what this is in regard to?”

“A death.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the way it goes,” I said. “By the way, what kind of law does he practice?”

“Criminal.”

“In that case, tell him it’s about a murder and I need to hear from him as soon as possible.”

I spent the next hour typing up my notes. This was my last day on the job and I wanted to leave Daisy with an organized account of what I’d done. I wasn’t entirely satisfied with myself. There were too many loose ends and the legwork itself didn’t add up to much. On the other hand, she’d now found her mother, which was what she’d wanted to begin with. Among the many unanswered questions, one issue that troubled me was the lace curtain. Foley had torn down the first panel in the course of the fight he and Violet had Thursday night, the second of July. An infuriated Violet had torn down the rest and she’d thrown them in the trash. Foley claimed great remorse, so much so that he’d gone out and bought her the Bel Air the very next day. If he’d killed her and buried her in the car, why wrap the body in the curtain? If the body were ever found—which of course it was—why leave behind an item that would link the deed to him? Foley might be cursed with a limited imagination, but he wasn’t that dumb.

Having typed my way through to the end of my notes, I stacked the pages of my report and tucked them into a folder. I went back and read the various sections of the newspapers I’d photocopied, both before and after Violet’s disappearance. When I reached the item about Livia Cramer’s “home demonstration” party, I realized that the Mrs. York who’d been awarded one of the prizes was, in fact, the same Mrs. York I’d spoken to less than an hour before. This is the amusing thing about information: Facts exist within a framework. Data that might seem meaningless in one context can later serve as a little window on reality.

I was cruising through the remainder of the newspapers when I stumbled on an item I hadn’t seen before. On July 6, in the second section, there was a small item about a man named Philemon Sullivan, age twenty-seven, who was arrested for “drunk and disorderly conduct.” The fine was $150, and he was given a suspended sentence of 125 days in the county jail. Was that Foley? The age was right, and I knew from the names in the city directory that he and Violet were the only Sullivans in town. I checked the date again. July 6. The article didn’t specify when the fellow had been picked up, but Foley swore he’d never had another drink after Violet vanished. Until the other night, of course, but who cared about that?

I pulled out the phone book and looked up the number for the Presbyterian church where Foley was employed. I picked up the handset and then found myself hesitating. I didn’t want to have to drive to Cromwell, but it didn’t seem smart to question him by phone. Better to be present so I could see his reaction. There’s sometimes much to be learned from observing body language and facial expressions. Aside from that, I was hoping Ty Eddings would call, and if I tied up the line, he wouldn’t be able to get through. I made sure the message machine was on, shoved the file in my bag, then grabbed my car keys and headed out the door.

I found Foley in the sunny church kitchen, using an oversized polisher to buff the mottled beige-and-white vinyl floor tiles. He moved with the awkwardness of a man in pain. He was a mess. His facial swelling had diminished some, but that didn’t improve his looks. The adhesive tape was peeling from the splint on his nose. His eye sockets were deep lavender, as though he’d used eye shadow to intensify the blue of his eyes. The bruising had migrated down his cheeks, the pull of gravity creating a beard of subcutaneous blood that darkened the lower portion of his face. Black sutures sprung from his still-puffy lips like the whiskers on a catfish.

When he realized I was in the room, he shut down his machine and sank gratefully onto a kitchen stool.

I pulled out a second stool and perched. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I don’t like being idle. It’s better if I work so I can earn my keep. What brings you this way?”

“I’ve been thinking about the lace curtain the body was wrapped in.”

He dropped his gaze to his hands. “I wish I hadn’t torn those curtains down. That’s what drove her away. I know there’s no changing what is, but if she hadn’t left when she did, she might still be alive.”

“That’s not where I was heading, Foley. I didn’t drive all the way out here to make you feel bad,” I said. “When did your trash usually get picked up?”

He had to stop and think. “Fridays.”

“But it couldn’t have been picked up that Friday because of the holiday, right?”

He shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it. It was too many years ago.”

“Well, think about it. The banks were closed. No mail delivery, no government offices open, and no city services, except maybe the bus line if Serena Station had a bus back then.”

“That sounds right.”

“Which means the curtains were sitting in the trash for two full days—all day Friday and all day Saturday—before they landed in that car. The Bel Air wasn’t buried until after nine thirty that night.”

He gave me a startled look, but I headed him off. “Just bear with me here. Where did you keep the trash cans?”

“Alley behind the house.”

“So somebody could have stolen the curtains without being seen.”

“Stolen them? What for?”

“Because the guy already knew he was going to kill her and bury her in that hole. The curtain-ripping fight was common knowledge. Violet told the story all over town. So on the off chance someone stumbled across the car, his wrapping her in the curtain would point a finger at you.”

I could sense the wheels laboring in Foley’s head. I pushed on. “Who’s Philemon Sullivan? Is that you?”

“My mother laid that on me, but I always hated the name so I called myself Foley.”

“Weren’t you picked up for drunk and disorderly conduct right around that time?”

“Who told you that?”

“I saw an item in the paper about a suspended sentence and a hundred-and-fifty-dollar fine. This was on July sixth, but there was no mention of the date the arrest was made. When did that happen?”

“I don’t want to talk about it now. It was a long time ago.”

“Thirty-four years to be exact. So what difference would it make if you tattled on yourself?”

He was silent for a moment and then conceded the point. “I was arrested late Friday afternoon and spent the night in jail. I got drunk at the Moon and I guess I was out of line. BW phoned the sheriff ’s department and they came and arrested me. Once I was booked, I called Violet, but she wouldn’t come get me. Said it served me right and I could sit there and rot for all she cared. I was so hung over, I thought I’d die. They finally let me out the next morning.”

“On Saturday, the Fourth?”

He nodded again.

“Did anyone see you?”

“Sergeant Schaefer left the station the same time I did and he offered me a ride home. Tom Padgett would verify that as well because we picked him up along the way. His truck battery was dead and he was on his way home to pick up some jumper cables.”

“You told me you had ‘a job of work’ as you put it, early Saturday afternoon. Do you remember what it was?”

“Yes ma’am. Sergeant Schaefer asked if I’d help him put together a workbench he was building in his shed. I’m good at carpentry—maybe not finish work, but the kind of thing he needed. He already had the lumber and we knocked together a workbench for his power tools.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“August 4.”

“Well, here’s a belated birthday present. You’re off the hook for Violet’s murder. Somebody dug that hole between Thursday night and Saturday afternoon, but it couldn’t have been you. Thursday night you were home with Violet, tearing up the house. Later, the two of you went over to the Moon and got drunk. Somebody saw a guy operating a bulldozer out at the Tanner property Friday night, but you were in jail by then. So between your jail time and your work for Sergeant Schaefer Saturday afternoon, your whereabouts are accounted for.”

He stared at me. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“I wouldn’t celebrate quite yet. You’d be smart to go ahead and hire an attorney to protect your backside. In the meantime, I’ll be happy to tell Daisy about this.”

On the way back through Santa Maria, I stopped in at Steve Ottweiler’s auto-repair shop. The whole business about Hairl Tanner’s will was bugging me and I didn’t want to ask Jake. Steve showed me into his office, assuming I was there on automotive business. I waited until the chitchat subsided. “Can I ask you about something?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Tannie told me Hairl Tanner died a month after your mom.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Meaning what?”

“He shot himself.”

“Suicide?”

“That’s right. He was a bitter and disillusioned old man. My grandmother was gone. My mom had just died and he had nothing to live for, in his mind at any rate.”

“He left a note?”

“Yes. I still have it, if you doubt my word.”

“Did he give any explanation about the disposition of his estate?”

“What’s this about?”

“I’m wondering why Hairl Tanner was so angry with your dad.”

He snorted as though amused, but his eyes went dead. “What makes you think he was mad?”

“I saw the will.”

“Oh? And how’d you manage that?”

“I went down to the courthouse and looked it up. I checked a couple of other wills at the same time so don’t get the idea that I was picking on your dad. Your grandfather set it up so Jake couldn’t touch a nickel, not even for the two of you.”

“I don’t see the relevance.”

“This is my last day on the job. I leave it to the cops to figure out who killed Violet, but I hate to sign off without knowing why she died.”

“Aren’t those two questions the same thing?”

“I’m not sure.”

“It’s obvious you have a theory or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I think she was killed for the stash she’d put together so she could run away.”

“What’s that have to do with my father?”

“I’ve been wondering where he got the money to buy the Blue Moon.”

“You’re implying, what—that he killed her for the cash?”

“All I’m asking is how he financed the purchase of the bar.”

“If you want an answer to that question, you better go over to the Moon and ask him. In the meantime, I’m not going to sit here and put up with your half-assed interrogation on a subject you know nothing about.”

“Why don’t you answer the question and save me the trip?”

“To make your life easy?”

“To avoid a subject he might find embarrassing. I think you know more than you’ve told me so far.”

I knew he was angry, but I could see him wrestling with himself. “If it’s any of your fucking business, my mother had a life insurance policy. Dad collected sixty thousand dollars, put half in savings accounts for Tannie and me, and used the rest to buy the Moon. The subject is now closed and I want you out of here before I call the police.” He got up from his desk and with his hand on my elbow, escorted me unceremoniously from the premises.

By the time I got back to Daisy’s it was 4:00 and I was ready to pack it in. Clearly I’d reached the stage in the investigation where people were not only getting pissed off, but resorting to rudeness, sarcasm, and manhandling. Steve Ottweiler had to be as aware as I was that there was no way to verify his claim about his mother’s life insurance. Jake was never going to tell me which insurance company it was, and after thirty-four years, I couldn’t think how to get the information independently of him. I probably should have gone straight over to Jake’s and pressed him on the point, but in truth I was ever so faintly intimidated by the man. After I left Steve’s office, he had plenty of time to call his dad and tell him what was going on. All Jake had to do was repeat the story Steve had told me and I’d be none the wiser.

I sat down and typed the additional three conversations into my report. Mrs. York, Foley, and Steve Ottweiler. This was strictly make-work. By now it was not so much about being conscientious as it was about giving myself time to think. While my fingers traveled across the keys, my brain was busy with something else. I simply didn’t know what it was. The phone rang just as I was finishing up, and I answered with my attention still riveted to the page. “Hello?”

“Miss Millhone?”

“Yes.”

“This is Ty Eddings. You left a message for me.”

30

KATHY

Friday, July 3, 1953

Kathy stood behind the dining room door, forking cold Chef Boyardee ravioli from a can. The little pillows of dough were soft and the tomato sauce clung to the surfaces like cream. Dinner wasn’t coming up for half an hour, and Kathy was treating herself to a little snack beforehand. Kathy’s mother had decided it was important to experience food from foreign countries, so the first Friday of every month she’d try a new recipe. This she called “educating their pallets.” Last month she’d cooked this Chinese dish called Subgum Chicken Chow Mein that she served over English muffins with lots of soy sauce and crunchy brown noodle-things on top. In May she’d cooked Italian spaghetti, and in April she’d made a French dish called Beef Boigheenyawn, which to Kathy’s way of thinking was just like beef stew. Tonight they were having a Welch dish that Kathy herself had prepared under her mother’s watchful eye. First she’d opened a package of Kraft Old England American cheese slices that she melted in a double boiler with a can of evaporated milk. Then she’d stirred in Worcestershire sauce and half a teaspoon of dry mustard, and that was that. Oh, yum. She could hardly wait. The ravioli was just in case there wasn’t enough to go around.

The problem was that ever since the gym teacher, Miss Carrico, made that remark about Kathy’s losing thirty-five pounds, her mother had been keeping a close eye on her, serving her portions so small she left the table with a stomachache. The first time it happened Kathy thought she’d done it by mistake, but when she’d asked for a second helping, her parents had exchanged a look that made her cheeks burn. It was like they’d been discussing her behind her back and secretly agreed with the teacher, which didn’t seem fair.

When Kathy first told her mother what Miss Carrico had said about how fat she was, her mother had been livid. She’d gone straight to the school principal to complain about the teacher’s lack of tact and her sticking her nose into other people’s business where it didn’t belong. The principal must have turned around and given Miss Carrico a serious talking-to because now she made a point of ignoring Kathy, avoiding the sight of her altogether as though she didn’t exist. Not that Kathy cared. If Miss Carrico tried to make trouble over her PE grade, she intended to tell her mother about the way she acted around Miss Powell, the home economics teacher. When Miss Carrico thought no one was looking, she got all weird and intense. It was almost like she had a crush on the other woman, which Kathy didn’t think was right. She’d talked to her minister about it after one of the Moral Rearmament meetings, and he’d told her he’d look into it, but in the meantime to keep the information “under her hat.” Kathy wasn’t sure how long she was supposed to wait before she took matters into her own hands.

Actually, she thought it was possible Miss Carrico resented the Cramer family for their position in the community. On the second of June, for instance, for Queen Elizabeth’s coronation, the principal had especially asked if Kathy’s dad would bring in their tabletop Ardmore television set, so Kathy’s class could watch the pageant all the way from England. He’d carried the TV into school and set it up right there in her seventh-grade homeroom. All the kids had gathered around to watch the ceremony and afterward, the principal made a point of personally thanking her in front of everyone. Miss Carrico had been standing in the back of the room with a smirk on her face, obviously not realizing Kathy could see straight through to that jealous heart of hers.

By the same token, Kathy hoped the principal’s praise and recognition hadn’t made Liza feel bad. Liza might be prettier and get better grades, but that didn’t make up for the fact that Kathy came from a better family. Her father was a well-known businessman and her mother was often mentioned in the society section of the local paper. Kathy and her parents went to church together every Sunday, Kathy wearing her short white gloves and carrying the white leather Bible she’d been given at Easter. So what if she had to buy her clothes in the chubby department? Her mother said it was all baby fat and she’d turn into a swan. Poor Liza’s mother was divorced and she drank all day long. Kathy didn’t know how Liza could hold her head up, but Livia had explained that girls from broken homes deserved sympathy, not blame. She said Liza was doing the best she could under the circumstances. The important thing was not to lord it over her.

Kathy could see her point. Not only did Kathy have nice clothes, but her mother had a new two-door GE refrigerator with a separate freezer compartment. Also, the refrigerator came with a magic ice tray you twisted and the cubes popped right out. For Christmas, her father had given her mother a brand-new Waring blender that Kathy used to make real milkshakes after school every day until her mother stopped buying ice cream. Livia said Kathy should count her blessings, which she most certainly did. She knew how lucky she was to have a real job working at her father’s dealership while Liza could only earn money babysitting and ironing Violet’s clothes, which made her practically a servant.

Kathy’s mother wanted her to see the value of helping those who couldn’t help themselves—an important lesson in life that Kathy’d taken to heart. She was the one who’d come up with the sewing project. Her plan was that she and Liza could make their entire school wardrobes, using her mother’s Singer sewing machine. Liza hadn’t seemed that interested. She’d twice postponed their shopping trip to buy the pattern and fabric. She’d had a good excuse each time, but Kathy was still hurt. When she’d complained to her mother, Livia suggested Liza might be too embarrassed to admit she didn’t have enough money to pay her share. Kathy understood completely. She’d even set aside ten dollars from her own weekly allowance to share with her friend. She’d appeared at Liza’s door that morning, ready (finally!) to make the trip into town, thinking how excited Liza would be when she realized Kathy was going to make her dreams come true. Kathy could just picture them in their matching outfits, not the same fabric or color, of course, because each of them needed to express her individuality, like it said in Seventeen magazine. But at school, come fall, seeing the similar style of their skirts and weskits, everyone would know they were the very best of friends. She’d been furious when she found out Liza was gone, but she’d decided to turn the other cheek. The principle of Absolute Love had taught her she could rise above petty disappointments. She’d even left a lovely birthday gift in Liza’s room as a surprise for her friend.

At the five-and-dime, she was so caught up in the notion of her own largess, she bought two patterns, one for each of them. In part, this was to show that all was forgiven and in part because she needed a much larger size. She bought three yards of pink wool for herself and a nice big remnant of gray corduroy for Liza. She was eager to share the news, but when Liza called to thank her for the bath powder, Kathy forgot her resolve. Disappointment had welled up and she’d nearly burst into tears until Liza finally explained. Poor, poor thing. She couldn’t help it if her mother was weak.

When Kathy heard her father’s car pulling into the drive, she quickly hid the half-empty ravioli can behind the silverware canteen, then scampered into the living room and flung herself in a chair, her legs over one arm of it. The Howdy Doody Show was on, and for all he knew she’d been sitting in the same casual posture for half the afternoon. “Daddy, is that you?”

“Yes.”

One word and she could tell he was in a bad mood. She wasn’t in such a hot mood herself after her fight with Liza on the phone. It was true what she’d said to her. She’d sooo been looking forward to their shopping trip. They used to go shopping or see a movie every Saturday afternoon until Violet came along. Livia would drive them into Santa Maria and treat them to lunch at the soda fountain, after which she’d give them each a dollar and let them buy anything they wanted. Kathy could still picture the tuna melt and the BLT. Kathy had imagined the two of them walking arm-in-arm into adulthood, best friends, loyal and true, still thrilled to be together the same as they’d always been.

It had taken her half the school year to realize something was wrong. At first, Liza was just busy. Kathy could understand that because when they finally got together, it felt like it always had. They’d giggle and eat popcorn, pour Dr Pepper over ice and have burping contests. Gradually she realized how distant Liza had become. She seemed cool, evasive, and Kathy couldn’t think why. Her mother was the one who pointed it out: first, there’d been Violet, then Ty. Liza had her hands full, so it should come as no surprise she had little left to give. And now that she babysat all the time, what was Kathy supposed to do?

After she’d delivered the birthday present to Liza’s room, she’d spent a few minutes wandering around, touching Liza’s things. Her hairbrush smelled exactly like her and the teddy bear Kathy’d given her was still propped up against the pillows, which she thought was a good sign. She hadn’t meant to snoop, but when she spotted the diary wedged in that dark, cobwebby space behind the bookcase, she’d sat on the bed and leafed through the pages in hopes of feeling connected. She knew it was a form of make-believe, but she loved the illusion of Liza sharing secrets, even though she hadn’t actually confided anything for quite some time. She was also a tiny bit worried Liza was saying unkind things about her behind her back. It was possible Liza had an objection or complaint she was too scared to tell her to her face. Kathy thought perhaps if she could see herself from Liza’s point of view, she could correct whatever it was that was making Liza pull away.

On she read, somewhat discomfited to realize she wasn’t mentioned at all. The entries about Ty created a sharp pang. She suddenly understood that while she, Kathy, was focused on normal teen concerns, Liza was moving into womanhood. The details of Liza’s relationship with Ty created a weird sensation of heat between Kathy’s legs. At times she’d felt something similar when reading True Confessions and she’d known it was wrong. She’d done her best to steer Liza away from tawdriness and back to the safety of movie stars and movie magazines. She assumed she’d succeeded so it was doubly shocking to realize that Liza was caught up in the same conflicts that filled trashy publications. How degrading for her. No wonder she couldn’t bring herself to confide. Kathy could just imagine the stories: “Too Ashamed to Tell My Best Friend!” “His Love Is Leading Me Down the Wrong Path but I Can’t Stop Myself!” “If Only I Had Someone to Turn To: One Young Woman’s Struggle to Stay Pure.”

Instantly, Kathy knew she could be of help. As desperate as Liza was, she’d never be able to confess her plight. And, quite naturally, Kathy couldn’t admit that she’d read the diary behind Liza’s back. No wonder Liza was withdrawn. Given Kathy’s high standards, Liza probably thought she’d be repulsive to her. How could she aspire to Absolute Purity when she was already compromised? Tampax had been the first step. The insertion of a tampon might even have unleashed slumbering impulses of the lowest sort. She had to find a way to let Liza know there was hope, that she hadn’t strayed so far that there was no turning back. She was fully prepared to offer her friend whatever help she needed. It was just a matter of eliciting the information she wasn’t supposed to have.

While she’d waited for Liza’s call, she rehearsed various ways of broaching the subject. It wasn’t Liza’s fault. Liza’s father didn’t even live in the same state. Liza scarcely saw him, and when she did, it was only, like, every six months, and Liza said they didn’t really talk. In effect, she had no moral guidance whatever, so what could you expect? In most of these scenarios, Liza would weep with gratitude, and Kathy would comfort her at length.

Hours passed and Kathy was seriously alarmed by the time her mother finally hollered up the stairs. “Kathy? Liza’s on the phone.”

Kathy’s stomach was knotted with dread. What if Liza had spent the whole day with Ty? What if he’d kissed her and she’d found herself melting at his touch. Kathy had meant to convey her utter trustworthiness, but she’d forgotten about the bath powder and Liza’s thanking her for the gift had thrown her off. Next thing she knew, all her pain had poured out. She sensed how pathetic she was, but she longed for the familiar Liza, instead of this alien person who’d been locked in the arms of a “Boy from the Wrong Side of the Tracks!” Liza hadn’t even seemed contrite. She said she was sorry, but it didn’t sound that way. Kathy had been so relieved when she realized the problem was Liza’s mother. Sick and contagious? Well, no wonder. What did the woman expect at the rate she smoked cigarettes and drank? Kathy comforted her friend as best she could, but there wasn’t any way to steer the subject around to you-know-what. Even so, by the time they hung up, everything seemed fine. She’d still have to find a way to worm the truth out of Liza, but at least things were back to normal. The problem was, she didn’t feel happy and she couldn’t figure out why.

That’s what had driven her to the can of Chef Boyardee, not hunger so much as confusion and despair. Her mother called her for supper and she was finally able to sit down at the table. She ignored her parents’ little spat and focused on her plate. She’d been looking forward to the Welch Rabbit, which was every bit as good as she’d hoped. Soft, warm cheese oozing across the golden brown raft of Wonder Bread. She’d put oleo on the toast and the taste of melted margarine under the puddle of rich cheese was enough to make her weep. Her pain was receding and she was almost feeling safe when her father made an offhand remark about Liza. Kathy could hardly pay attention. She was starving. She hadn’t finished the can of ravioli and she knew if her parents noticed how eagerly she was plowing through her food, they’d snatch it away from her and leave her desolate. She’d suffered losses enough.

At first, the notion of Liza having lunch with Violet was absurd. Where’d he get that? She knew he said it to be mean, but he didn’t usually make things up. Then she caught his mistake. “Very funny. Ha ha. And where’s Daisy all this time? Did you forget about her?”

“She was sitting right there with a big bowl of buttered noodles she was slurping through her lips.”

That was the line that clinched it. Her father had never even been around Daisy. How could he know about her slurping her noodles unless he’d actually seen her do it? She’d protested, arguing the point, but only because she didn’t want him to see he’d gotten the best of her. Her mother’s feeble attempt to intervene only made it worse.

By the time her father left the house, Kathy was taking the steps two at a time, on her way to her room. She slammed the door and locked it. Weeping, she threw herself across her bed. This was the worst day of her life! She’d never felt so betrayed. Liza had lied about everything. On her very own birthday, she’d chosen to be with Violet Sullivan. They’d spent the whole entire day in a fancy restaurant, eating shrimp. All Kathy had ever wanted was to be with her friend and now look what she’d done.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been crying when she heard a little tap at her door and her mother calling her name. She knew her eyes were swollen to the size of Ping-Pong balls and her nose was so snotty she wondered if she was coming down with a cold. “Go away!”

“Kathy, I brought you something. Do you mind if I come in?”

“Just leave me alone.”

“I have a little treat for you.”

“What.”

“Open the door and you’ll see.”

Reluctantly Kathy blew her nose on a hankie and wiped her eyes with the hem of her T-shirt. She got up and unlocked the door.

Her mother stood holding a glass of milk and a plate of brownies. “I made these for my canasta club, but I have plenty. They’re your favorite—double chocolate with walnuts and pecans.”

“I don’t feel like eating.”

“Not even one? You hardly ate your supper so you must be a little hungry. Can I come in? Just for a minute?”

“I guess.”

Kathy went back to her bed and sat down. Her mother put the glass of milk and the plate of brownies on the bed table. She could tell the brownies were still warm because she could smell the chocolate, as heady as perfume. She couldn’t remember when her mother last offered her something to eat. Usually it was the other way around. Yet here they were, Kathy with her heart broken, her mother sitting on the other twin bed, her expression filled with concern. “Are you feeling better?”

“No.” Without looking at the plate, Kathy reached out and took a brownie and held it in her hand.

Her mother said, “I can see how upset you are.”

“So.”

“I can understand why you’re mad at Liza for lying, but is there anything else?”

“Like what?” She broke off a corner and put it on her tongue. She could feel tears sting her eyes.

“I don’t know, Sweetie. That’s why I asked. I get the impression there’s more here than meets the eye. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Kathy couldn’t figure out what her mother was getting at. “Not really.”

“Kathykins, I don’t want us keeping secrets. That’s not what a mother and daughter do when they want to feel close.”

Her mother hadn’t called her “Kathykins” since she started her menstrual periods a year and a half ago. Her mother had already bought supplies—a box of sanitary napkins and this strappy elastic-belt thing you had to wear around your waist to hold the pad in place. Demonstrating how to stick the long, gauzy part of the pad in the fastener, she’d had the same worrisome look on her face, like maybe Kathy was suddenly vulnerable in ways she couldn’t bear to explain. Her mother went on in that same loving tone. “I know you’re withholding something. Can you tell me what it is?”

“I’m not withholding anything.” She broke the remainder of the brownie in two and put half in her mouth.

“You know I’ll always love you, no matter what you’ve done.”

Kathy looked up with astonishment. “Muuther, I didn’t do anything! How can you think such a thing when I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Then what? I want you to be absolutely honest. Whatever you tell me will never leave this room.”

Kathy was silent, staring at the floor. She didn’t exactly have a secret but she did have something that seriously concerned her. She knew her mother would have good advice, but she wasn’t really sure she could trust her with this. “You’ll tell Dad.”

“No, I won’t. As long as it doesn’t have anything to do with your health or safety. Short of that, this is just between us.”

“It’s not about me.”

“Then who? Liza? Did she say something ugly about your weight?”

“No-oo.” Two syllables. Something ugly about her weight? What ugly thing could her mother possibly have in mind? She was the one who talked about inner beauty.

“But it has to do with her?”

“Sort of.”

“Has her mother’s drinking gotten worse?”

Kathy shook her head, avoiding her mother’s gaze. “I’m just worried, that’s all.”

“Oh? And why would that be?”

Kathy had vowed to herself she’d never utter a word of it. Once she figured out how to get Liza to confess, she pictured the two of them in long, heartfelt conversations, sitting up half the night the way they’d done in the past. They’d roll their hair in bobby pins and smear Noxzema on their faces so they wouldn’t get zits. Gently, she’d help Liza see the error of her ways and guide her to safer ground.

Her mother studied her. “I don’t understand what could possibly be going on with Liza that you’re too ashamed to say.”

Kathy felt she was under a certain amount of pressure here, torn between her loyalty to her best friend and her longing to throw herself into her mother’s arms. “I promised I wouldn’t tell.”

“Does this have anything to do with Liza touching herself?”

“Touching herself with what?”

She saw something shift in her mother’s face. “Oh my lord. Is she letting Ty Eddings have his way with her?”

Kathy could feel a little mustache of perspiration forming on her lip.

“Answer me.”

Kathy murmured a reply, keeping it as vague as possible to keep from lying to her mom.

“Speak up.”

“She let him touch her boobs and put his hand…” She managed to mumble that last.

“Where?”

“Down there.”

Livia looked at her, aghast. “She told you that?”

Kathy shrugged one shoulder.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

Kathy said nothing, but she moved her mouth in a way that suggested she was sure. After all, she’d read about it with her very own eyes.

Her mother’s gaze was searching. “You wouldn’t lie about a thing like this to get back at her?”

“No.”

“How far have they gone?”

“Not very. Just petting.”

“Petting? Is that what you call ‘petting’—when he puts his hand on her privates? That’s disgusting. Outside of her clothing or inside?”

She hadn’t expected her mother to probe for this kind of detail. The diary hadn’t been specific and Kathy didn’t like having to commit herself. Outside, inside. Pick one. “Out.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she would have told me if he put his hand inside.”

“Well, thank heaven for small favors. You wait right here. I’m going to take care of this.”

“What are you doing?” Kathy wailed. “You can’t tell anyone. You promised.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Ty Eddings was sent here to shape up after the unfortunate situation he created in Bakersfield. If Dahlia York ever found out I knew about this and didn’t go straight to her, she’d never speak to me again, and rightly so. I’ve entertained her in my own home and I owe her that much.”

“But what if Liza finds out?”

“She’s not going to find out. Trust me. Your name won’t come into it.”

Kathy listened with something close to horror as her mother went downstairs to the phone in the lower hall. Kathy hadn’t meant to tell on Liza, but her mother just seemed to jump to the right conclusion before Kathy even said a word. She heard Livia give the operator Dahlia York’s number and then there was a silence while she waited to be connected.

Kathy’s stomach felt queasy, like she might have to go to the bathroom and do number two. The situation had gotten out of hand, but it wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t lie to her very own mother, could she? What kind of person would that make her? Besides which, if Liza’d been honest to begin with, she never would have breathed a word of it because that’s what best friends do. Petting was wrong. The pastor said it created temptation, that kids might lose their self-control and go all the way. So maybe it was just as well she’d spoken up when she did. She couldn’t stand by and let something that horrible happen to her friend. It was like her mother said to Dahlia, her voice drifting up the stairwell: “That boy is sure to take advantage if the situation isn’t nipped in the butt.” Her mother’s voice went on and on until Kathy tuned her out.

Anyway, how would Liza ever know where Ty’s aunt got the information?

31

My conversation with Ty Eddings was polite and to the point. I gave him a brief synopsis of the situation—the discovery of Violet’s body buried in the Bel Air, the speculation about the hole and how long it would have taken to dig. I also repeated what Liza’d told me about the man she and Ty had seen at the Tanner property on Friday night. “Do you remember anything about the make or model of the car? Liza thought it was dark-colored, but that’s the extent of it. She says she was so scared she didn’t really look.”

“It wasn’t a car. It was a late-model black Chevrolet pickup truck.”

“It was? I’m amazed. How do you remember things like that?”

“Because my dad had one like it, only his was a ’48. This one was newer.”

“What about the guy? What did he look like?”

“I don’t remember him. Old.”

“Like what? You were seventeen.”

“Thirties, forties, something like that. In other words, he wasn’t a kid.”

“No one you recognized?”

“I’d been in town for all of three months. I didn’t know anyone to speak of except my high school classmates.”

“Good point.” I asked a couple of other questions, but he wasn’t any help.

I was moving into my wrap-up tone of voice, not wanting to waste his valuable lawyerly time, when he said, “How’s Liza doing?”

“Great. I’m so glad you asked. She’s divorced. She bakes cakes for a living. She’s just become a grandmother for the first time, but you’d never guess by looking at her because she’s gorgeous. Too bad you didn’t keep in touch.”

“Don’t blame me. That was her decision. I wrote six or seven times, but I never heard back. I assumed she wasn’t interested.”

“That’s not what she says. You disappeared the same weekend as Violet. She was devastated. Even now she says you were the love of her life. ‘A bad boy, but so adorable.’ Her words.”

“Are you matchmaking?”

I laughed. “I don’t know. Are you available?”

“Actually, I am. My wife ran off with my secretary eighteen months ago. Talk about a loss. The wife, I don’t miss. My secretary was the most efficient woman I ever met in my life.”

“Liza’s married name is Clements. She’s in the phone book. If you remember anything else, I’d appreciate your giving me a call.”

“Will do,” he said, and clicked off.

I tried Liza’s number. She was either out or screening her calls, so I left a message on her machine, asking her to get back to me. My purpose had nothing to do with her erstwhile boyfriend. She’d lied to me about Foley and I wanted to know why. I glanced at my watch. It was 4:35, and at best I owed Daisy another hour and a half. It’s not that I was punching a time clock, but I felt honor-bound. The problem was there was almost no point in confronting anyone else because who’d be dumb enough to volunteer the truth? You’d have to be a fool to admit anything when most claims couldn’t be proved or refuted after thirty-four years. The best I could hope for was to encourage folks to rat each other out. Even then, the answers wouldn’t be definitive. A clever killer would make it his business to implicate someone else. In any event, the problem wasn’t mine to solve. The sheriff’s department was handling the homicide, mustering all the authority, expertise, and technical advances at their disposal. All I needed to do, with Daisy’s permission, was to pass along my report, which might or might not help.

However.

Ty Eddings had given me one small lead to pursue. If anyone was going to know who once owned a black Chevrolet pickup it would be the man who sold them. I’d talked to Chet Cramer twice and he’d struck me as a nice enough man. He knew his inventory and his customers, and he was passionate about both. What harm would it do to run the question by him? For the second time that afternoon, I picked up my jacket and shoulder bag and went out to my car.

As I’d anticipated, Cramer was on the premises. In the interest of snagging business, the dealership stayed open until 9:00 every night. Chet told me that at the end of a hard day’s work (and a couple of stiff drinks), many a man found himself in the mood to look at new cars. What better reward for a job well done than to sit in a red-hot Corvette, with a salesman fawning over you, demonstrating all the bells and whistles, offering to cut you a deal. You might pretend you were window-shopping until you realized you could actually drive a new car home.

Cramer was schmoozing with a married couple when I walked in. He was such an old hand at selling that I doubted they even realized what was happening. He had Winston fetch the keys and he watched with something close to parental pride when Winston went off with them on a test drive. He caught sight of me and greeted me warmly, perhaps thinking I was finally in the mood to buy.

I said, “I’m here to test your memory. I’m trying to find out who owned a black late-model Chevy pickup truck back in 1953.”

He smiled. “Half the men in town,” he said. “Let’s go up to my office and I can check.”

“Glory be. You still have records from that era?”

“I have records dating back to 1925, the year I got into the business.”

I climbed the stairs behind him and followed him to his office. He opened a door and led me into a storage area easily as large as his office. File cabinets lined the walls on three sides, each drawer neatly labeled with dates and vehicle types.

I said, “I don’t believe this.”

“Well, I’ll tell you why I keep these. Every vehicle I sell represents a future sale. Customer comes in, I can talk about the cars he’s owned and every servicing he’s had. I can compare last year’s model to this year’s, compare this year’s model to the one he was driving six years ago. Good points and bad. He knows he can trust me because I have the facts at my fingertips, and I’ve taken the time to look them up before he walked in the door. Guy dies, I talk to his son, reminisce about the old man, and maybe sell him a car as well.”

Without mentioning Ty by name or detailing the circumstances, I told him what I knew.

Cramer regarded me with interest. “So you’re saying this fellow would have recognized the truck because his father had the 1948 model.”

“Right. And it couldn’t have been later than 1953 because the ’54 models wouldn’t have come out as early as July.”

“You’re correct on that point. So a span of five years. That shouldn’t be too hard. Have a seat and I’ll pull what I have. There’s a tin of chocolate chip cookies on my desk if you want to help yourself. My wife made them. Caroleena. She’s a fabulous cook.”

The cookies were incredible, so I treated myself to another while I waited for him. Five minutes later he emerged from the room with an armload of files, saying, “I keep these cross-referenced. Customer’s name with the type of vehicle he’s bought from me before. I don’t go so far as to color code, but I can lay hands on the contract for every vehicle I’ve sold. What I have here is the Advance Design Series, 1949 through 1953.”

He handed me a scratch pad, pen, and two of the files while he took the other three. We sat and went through them contract by contract, checking the color of the pickup, noting down the names of anyone who’d bought a black one. Twenty-five minutes later, we each had a list, though mine wasn’t at all enlightening. He got up and made copies of both lists and gave them to me.

I ran my eye down the names on his list. “No one I recognize.”

He shrugged. “The truck might have been repainted.”

“In that case, we’d have no way to find the owner.”

“Another possibility, the fella might have borrowed the truck. In those days, nobody locked their doors, and half the time people left their keys in the ignition.”

“I’ve heard that before and it actually makes sense. You go out to dig a grave, you don’t want use your own truck complete with California plates. Well. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

“I guess every lead you get isn’t going to pay off.”

“That’s for sure. Mind if I pick your brain about something else?”

“I’ll help if I can. It’s not like I have total recall of anything much beyond this dealership.”

“Understood. I’ve been digging and I’ve come up with something quirky.”

“That being?”

“Hairl Tanner’s will.” I went on to tell him what I’d discovered about the terms.

“I hadn’t heard about that. Sounds like the old man had a mad-on about something. Wonder what it was?”

“I think Jake and Violet had a fling and he found out.”

Some of the complacency faded from his eyes. “I don’t believe it.”

“What, that they had a fling or that Tanner found out?”

“Violet and Jake. I can’t imagine such a thing.”

“Why not? Jake must have been handsome. I mean, he’s not bad-looking now, and I can just imagine how he must have looked back then. His wife was dying of uterine cancer so his sex life couldn’t have amounted to much. If he ran into Violet at the Moon, what with all the drinking that went down, it wouldn’t be surprising if the two of them stumbled into a relationship. From what I’ve heard, she went after just about every man she saw.” I was so intent on persuading him that I hadn’t paid attention to his reaction. Now I caught a glimpse of his face and I flashed on the fact that he was married to a bloated Violet Sullivan clone. He had access to any number of pickup trucks and I had no idea what he’d been doing with his time in the days before she died. How dumb could I get? Here I sat, about to lay out the evidence I’d gathered, when for all I knew, he was as capable of killing her as anyone else.

“Go on,” he said.

I backpedaled. “That’s about it. I don’t have any proof. I was hoping you might’ve heard a rumor to that effect.”

“I did not and it would grieve me to learn it was true. Mary Hairl was a lovely woman, and if Jake fooled around on her he should be ashamed.”

“Well. I trust you’ll keep the notion to yourself. It’s pure speculation on my part and I wouldn’t want him to suffer your ill-opinion if he’s innocent.”

He straightened up abruptly, dismissing me with a wave. “I best get back to work. I’ve got things to do.”

“Sure. Sorry to keep you. I appreciate your help.” We shook hands across the desk. As I was leaving his office, I glanced back and noticed he hadn’t moved.

I went down the big staircase to the ground-floor showroom. I wanted to have a conversation with Winston to see if he had any reason to believe there was a link between Violet and Jake. He was in his office but so deeply engrossed in a telephone conversation he didn’t look up. I went out to the parking lot, where I unlocked my car and slid under the wheel. I was reaching for the ignition when the penny finally dropped. For days I’d been convinced I was missing something obvious, but the more I tried to pin it down, the more elusive it became. Now, without warning, I finally got what it was.

The dog.

Daisy’s car was in the drive when I arrived at the house. I’d returned the key to its hiding place beneath the flowerpot. Rather than walk in unannounced, I rang the bell politely and waited on the porch until she opened the door. I took one look at her and knew something was wrong. She was still wearing her work clothes. The pallor in her complexion had shifted to the gray end of the spectrum and her eyes were pinched with tension. I didn’t think she’d been weeping, but she’d suffered a shock.

“What is it?”

She put a hand against her mouth and shook her head. Like a sleepwalker, she crossed to an upholstered chair and sank down on the edge. I closed the front door behind me. I moved to the sofa and sat down with my knees nearly touching hers. “Can you tell me what it is?”

She nodded, but said nothing. I had to wait her out. Whatever it was, she’d been hit hard. A minute passed and she sighed. Was her father dead?

Another minute passed.

When she finally spoke, her voice was so low I had to lean close to hear. “Detective Nichols was here. He left a few minutes ago, and when you rang the bell, I thought he’d come back.”

“Bad news?”

She nodded and fell silent again. “They found two brown paper bags filled with my mother’s clothes in the trunk. It’s clear she was leaving us or at least she believed she was.”

“You must have guessed as much,” I said.

“That’s not it.”

I put a hand on her arm. “Take your time. It’s fine. I’m not going anywhere.”

“He said if there was any way to avoid telling me he would, but he was worried word would leak out and he didn’t want me to hear it from anyone else.”

I waited.

“The techs went over the car.”

I waited.

She took a deep breath and exhaled with an audible sound. “When the pathologist peeled the curtain away from her body, they realized my mother’s hands were bound behind her back. They think she was alive for some time. It looks like the dog was killed with a shovel they found in the bottom of the hole once they got the car out. It’s possible the guy knocked her out and he put her in the car, thinking she was dead. At some point she must have come to and realized what was going on.”

She stopped, fumbling in her pocket for a tissue. She blew her nose. “Even tied up, she’d tried to claw her way free. Her fingernails were broken off and some were caught in the upholstery fabric. There were tiny shards of glass embedded in the bones of her heels. She managed to kick out the window, but by then he must have started filling in the hole.”

She paused, struggling. All I could do was look on, allowing her to take whatever time she needed. The air felt heavy, and I could sense the weight of the darkness Violet must have known. Why scream for help when the silence would have been profound, thick yards of soil muffling any sound? The blackness would have been absolute.

Daisy went on, addressing her remarks to the crumbled tissue. “I asked him. I asked…what it would have been like for her. How she died. He said carbon dioxide poisoning. I forget some of it…the technical stuff. He said basically, how deeply you breathe is regulated by your arterial oxygen pressure and carbon dioxide tension, some kind of pH that controls the reflexes in your lungs and chest wall. If there’s not enough oxygen in the mix your breathing picks up. Your body has to have oxygen so it’s compelling…this instinctive drive to take in air. Her heart would have started racing and her body heat would have spiked. She’d sweat. She’d be having chest pains that would only get worse. She’d breathe faster and faster, but every breath she took would use up more oxygen and produce more CO_2. She’d start hallucinating. He said her systems would shut down, but eventually there might have been a kind of peace…once she resigned herself to her fate.

“Can you imagine dying like that? All I can think is how scared she must have been, how cold and dark it was, and how hopeless she felt.”

I found myself veering away from the images, searching for safety. I could understand the bind Nichols had been in. Once he laid out the facts, that’s the picture she’d carry for the rest of her life. But if word ever reached Daisy from an unofficial source, she’d be reeling anyway. Adding his betrayal to the horror would only confound any healing she might hope for in time.

Daisy blew her nose again and moved on to something else. I could see the shift. There was only so much she could process. Little by little she’d assimilate the information, but it was going to take a very long time. She picked up six round black circles that were lying on the table. She said, “He gave me these.”

“What are they?”

“My mother’s bracelets. Sterling silver. I’ll polish them and wear them, the last thing I’ll ever have from her.” She set them back on the table. “I thought you’d be gone by now.”

“Me too.”

“Are you finished?”

“Not quite. Let’s go sit in the yard. We need space.” I’d nearly said “air” but I’d caught myself in time. Daisy must have heard the unspoken word because she winced.

We sat together on the back patio in the waning light of day while I laid out my reasons for concluding that Foley was in no way connected to her mother’s death.

“That’s some comfort,” she said.

“Not much, but it’s the best I can do. The rest of it—what happened to your mother—makes my blood run cold.”

“Please let’s change the subject. Every time I think about it I feel like I’m suffocating myself. What’s left to do? You said you weren’t quite finished.”

“I’m wondering where your mother got the dog?”

The question wasn’t anything she expected. “It was a gift.”

“From whom?”

“I never heard. What difference does it make?”

“Did the dog have papers?”

“You mean, was she pedigreed? I think so. Why?”

“Because a purebred Pomeranian must have cost a fair penny, even in those days. I think the guy—the mystery lover—bought her the pup. That’s why she doted on the little bugger, because the dog came from him.”

She thought about it. “Yes, I can see that. You have anyone in mind?”

“I’ve got a feeling about Jake sitting in the middle of my gut. We know she took him to small-claims court because a dog of his killed hers.”

“I remember that. A toy poodle named Poppy. Mom had taken her outside. Jake’s pit bull attacked her and killed her on the spot. Mom was beside herself.”

“So maybe he thought giving her the new pup was a way of making it up to her.”

“Are you going to ask him?”

“I think not. There’s no way I can force him to tell the truth. I’d like to track down the breeder and find out who paid for the dog. I may not have any luck, but I think it’s worth a few calls. There are still lots of people around who were part of the picture back then.”

“I’ll make supper. We have to eat.”

While Daisy puttered in the kitchen, I sorted through my file and pulled the photocopies of the Serena Station and Cromwell business listings for 1952. There were no breeders. Damn. Nothing’s easy in this world. I did count two pet hospitals, five veterinarians, and three pet-grooming shops. I hauled out the local phone book and did a second search, coming up this time with still no dog breeders, six pet hospitals, fifteen grooming shops, and twenty-seven veterinarians. By comparing addresses, I could see that none of the earlier pet-related enterprises had survived to the present day. I didn’t picture a grooming shop being passed down tenderly from father to son, but I did think a profitable business might be bought and sold over the years and still retain the original name. Not so here.

I decided to fold pet stores into the mix, and I started making calls, telling my story until I had it down pat. I couldn’t think of a reason why anyone would want information about the sale of a pedigreed Pomeranian in the spring of ’53, so I was forced to tell the truth. Geez, I hate that. “The dog was killed some years ago and for reasons too complicated to go into, I’m looking for the breeder. This would have been the spring of 1953. Do you know if someone was breeding Pomeranians in the area back then?”

The responses varied from curt to conversational, long stories of much-loved dogs and how they perished, tales of cats crossing state lines to reconnect with owners after long-distance moves. There were more succinct replies:

“No clue.”

“Can’t help.”

“Sorry, the boss is gone for the day and I’ve only worked here three weeks.”

“You might try Dr. Water’s Pet Hospital out on Donovan Road.”

“I already talked to him, but thanks.”

“What makes you think it was someone around here. Pomeranians are bred and sold all over the country. The dog could have come from another state.”

“I’m aware of that. I was thinking along the lines of an impulse buy. You know, you pass a pet store, you glance in the window, and there’s the cutest little pup you’ve ever seen.”

I chatted with veterinarians and vet’s assistants, pet-store owners, clerks, and dog groomers. I felt as though my tongue were starting to swell. I was on call number twenty-one when the receptionist at a twenty-four-hour emergency facility dropped the first helpful suggestion I’d heard: “If I were you, I’d try Animal Control. They might keep records going back that far, especially if you’re talking about a puppy mill and there was ever a complaint.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that.”

As it turned out, Animal Control kept no such files. The man who answered the phone was apologetic, and I thought for a moment that would be the end of it, but he said, “What’s this about?”

I went through my truncated account at the end of which there was a moment of quiet. “You know who I think you’re looking for? There was a woman who operated a boarding facility about six miles out Highway 166, right where it intersects Robinson Road. I believe she got into breeding Pomeranians in the early fifties, though it didn’t come to much. Rin Tin Tin was the popular dog in that day.”

“Is she still in business?”

“No, the kennel shut down, but I know she still lives there because I pass her house two and three times a month when I go to visit my grandkids in Cromwell. House hasn’t changed—same bright blue wood frame and the yard’s a mess. If the place sold, I should think the new owner would have the good taste to clean up and repaint.”

“You have her name?”

“Daggone it, I sure don’t and I knew you’d ask. I was just trying to think. I can’t say for sure, but I’d say Wyatt…Wyman…something along those lines.”

“You’re my new best friend,” I said, and blew him a kiss.

I went back through the phone book and within thirty seconds I was talking to Millicent Wyrick, who sounded old and cranky and not all that happy to be hearing from me. “Hon, you have to speak up. You want what?”

I raised my voice a notch and repeated my spiel, hoping I sounded winsome and sincere while I was yelling at her. “Is there any chance you might have the information?”

I listened to a silence that seemed to bristle with aggravation. “Mrs. Wyrick?”

“Hold your horses. I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m setting here trying to think. I know I have it. Whether I can find it is another matter.”

“Is there any way I can help?”

“Not unless you want to dig through my shed. I’m fairly certain I can lay hands on the litter record, but not right this minute. I’m setting down to supper and then I have my shows to watch. Call back at nine and I can tell you if I’ve had any luck.”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll drive out to pick it up.”

32

Daisy and I finished supper a little after 7:00—salad and pasta with a sauce that came out of a can. Neither of us had much appetite, but the normality of eating seemed to lift her spirits. I left her to read the paper while I rinsed our few dishes and put them in the machine. I heard the phone ring. Daisy picked up and then called into the kitchen. “Hey, Kinsey? It’s Liza.”

“Tell her to hang on. I’ll be right there.”

I closed the dishwasher and dried my hands on a kitchen towel before I went into the living room. Daisy and Liza were chatting away so I waited my turn. I wanted to ask Liza why she’d lied about Foley, but I didn’t think I should raise the subject with Daisy in the room. She might have had a good reason, and there was no point in jeopardizing their relationship if what she had to say made sense. Daisy finally surrendered the phone.

“Hey, Liza. Thanks for returning my call.”

“I didn’t mean to be short with you earlier. Violet’s death has been hard. I know I should have seen it coming it, but I guess I was holding out that one small hope.”

“Understood,” I said, knowing she didn’t know the half of it. “Listen, can you spare me half an hour? There’s something we need to talk about.”

“That sounds serious. Like what?”

“Let’s don’t go into it now. I think it’s better in person.”

“When?”

“Now, if possible. It shouldn’t take long. I have an appointment at nine, but I could swing by in the next half hour.”

“That sounds okay. Kathy’s coming over in a bit, but I suppose that would work. Can you give me a hint?”

“I will when I get there. It’s really no big deal. See you shortly.”

I signed off before she had a chance to change her mind.

I leaned against the counter in Liza’s kitchen, watching her decorate a cake. She wore an oversize white apron over her jeans and white T-shirt. A scarf was tied around her head to keep her hair out of her eyes and off the cake. I could see one curve of the silver locket visible under the apron bib.

“How’s your granddaughter?”

“She’s great. I know everybody says this, but she really is gorgeous. Big eyes, little pink bow mouth, and this fine brown hair. I can’t wait to get my hands on her. Marcy let me hold her for a half a minute, but she was hovering the whole time so it was no fun at all.”

She’d smoothed on the first two coats of frosting before I arrived and she was now piping an elaborate design on the top. “This is for a kid’s birthday party. Actually, a thirteen-year-old who’s into Dungeons and Dragons, in case you’re wondering.”

She’d set up a series of parchment-paper cones, each filled with a different vividly tinted icing, each capped with a metal tip cut to produce a specific effect—leaves, shells, scrolls, flower petals, and rope bordering. With a practiced hand and steady pressure, she created a dragon with a strange dog-shaped face. Switching cones, she defined its arched body in vibrant lime green and orange frostings, and then added strong red frosting to detail the flames that twisted from the dragon’s mouth.

“I’ve seen that dragon. It was on a kimono hanging on the back of Daisy’s bathroom door.”

“That was her mother’s. I’ve got the image burned indelibly on my brain.”

I felt myself tripping backward to the notion of Violet buried alive, as though I were in the car instead. Given the size of the Bel Air, there would have been sufficient oxygen to last for a while. The suffocation would have been slow, shutting her down by degrees. Anyone with asthma or emphysema would identify with her panic and suffering. I could only guess. Still, I found myself breathing deeply for the pure pleasure and relief.

When Liza finished decorating the cake, she opened the refrigerator door and tucked it on a shelf. She untied her apron and tossed it over the back of a kitchen chair. “What’s this about?”

I’d hoped to be subtle, working my way around to the subject by some delicate route, but I’d been sidetracked by the image of the dragon and came right out with it. “I think you lied about Foley.”

“I did?” She seemed taken aback, her tone tinged with surprise, as though falsely accused. Thousands might have lied about Foley, but surely not her. “About what?”

“The time he came in.”

She picked up and then put down the tube of bright blue icing she’d used to form the ground on which the dragon writhed. Apparently my approach wasn’t that persuasive because she didn’t ’fess right up.

I tried again. “Look, Liza. His story’s been consistent for the past thirty-four years. He may have omitted an item or two, but most claims he’s made have been verified.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I did the work myself and I’m here to testify.”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“Liza, please don’t play games. It’s too late for that. My guess is he got home when he said he did and your account was just bullshit.”

“What do you want me to say, that I’m sorry?”

“No point apologizing to me. He’s the one you wronged.”

“I didn’t wrong him. Everything that’s happened to him he brought on himself.”

“With a little help from you.”

“Excuse me. Did you come over here to lay shit on me? Because that, I can do without. I’ve got a lot going on.”

I raised my hands. “You’re right. I take it back. Life is tough enough as it is.”

“Thank you.”

“Just tell me what happened. Look, I’m sorry about Violet, but I don’t understand what went on that night. Were you in the house or not?”

“Kind of.”

“Meaning what? Somewhere in the neighborhood?”

“Don’t be a shit or I won’t say another word.”

“Sorry. I forgot myself. Please go on.”

There was a pause and then, reluctantly, she said, “Ty came to the house. He parked his truck in the alley and we necked. I was less than twenty feet away so if anything had happened, I’d have been right there. Violet knew he was coming over because we talked about it and she said it was fine.”

“Good. That helps. How long was he there?”

“A while. When I finally came in, the bedrooms were dark. I looked in Daisy’s room and knew she was okay. I never thought to check their bedroom. He was probably there if he said he was. Afterwards, I couldn’t admit I was irresponsible so I made up a story about the time. Next thing I knew, this deputy was pressing me for answers so what was I supposed to do? By then, I’d painted myself into a corner and I had to stick to my guns.”

“Got it.”

“Good. So now you know.”

There was a moment wherein she was thinking that the subject was closed and I was thinking we were finally going to get some place. I had a theory and I was gingerly feeling my way. “You went to live with your dad in Colorado, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I hear that arrangement didn’t work out so hot.”

“It was short-lived. A failed experiment, but such is life.” She crossed to the kitchen faucet where she dampened a sponge so she could wipe down the counter. Preoccupied, she scooped a few crumbs into her palm and tossed them into the sink.

“Is this painful to talk about?”

She smiled briefly. “I don’t know. I’ve never had occasion to talk about it.”

“The first time we met, do you remember what you said?”

“About what?” She moved her decorating tips aside, wiping under them as well.

“Losing Violet and Ty. You said, ‘You play the hand you’re dealt. There’s no point in dwelling on it afterwards.’”

“I must have been waxing philosophical. It doesn’t sound like me.”

“Did you get pregnant?”

Her eyes sought mine. “Yes.”

“From that night?”

“First and last time with the guy and boom.”

“What happened to the baby?”

“I put her up for adoption. Would you like to see a picture?”

“Please.”

She set the sponge aside and reached for the heart-shaped locket, pulling it out from under the bib of her apron. She opened it and leaned forward, holding it so I could see. There was a black-and-white photograph of Violet. She flipped the inner rim, revealing a second frame hidden behind the first. In it there was a photo of a newborn. The baby looked frail and wizened, not one of the worst I’d ever seen but certainly not the best. Liza looked down, her expression wistful and proud. “She was so tiny. I couldn’t believe it when I saw her, how delicate she was. Know what Violet said when she gave me this? She said, ‘That’s for your true love. I predict within a year you’ll know exactly who it is.’ And so I did.”

“Did you get to hold her?”

“For a while. The nurse advised against it, but I knew it was the only time I’d ever get to spend with her. I was fourteen years old and my father wouldn’t consider my doing anything else. I should have stayed with my mom. Despite her problems, she was a good egg and would have found a way to make it work.”

“You have no idea where the baby is?”

“Probably in Colorado. A few years ago, I wrote her a letter and left it with the agency so if she ever wants to reach me, she’ll have my name and address.”

“Ty never knew?”

“I’d have told him, I think, if I’d ever heard from him.”

“I talked to him.”

“I know. He called me right afterward and said you’d given him my name and number.”

“Only your married name. He looked up your phone number on his own, which I think should count in his favor. He said he wrote to you. Did he tell you that as well?”

She nodded. “His mom probably intercepted his mail. Or maybe the letters reached my mom and she never sent them on.”

“Or maybe she sent them to your father’s house and he decided not to let you know.”

“That would fit. What a shit-heel he was. I’ve scarcely spoken to him since. I’m sure he thought he was doing what was best. God save us from the people who want to do what’s best for us.”

“What happens now?”

“I guess we’ll wait and see. Ty said he’d call again and we’d find a way to get together. Wouldn’t that be strange after all these years?”

“Will you tell him about his daughter?”

“Depends on how it goes. In the meantime, are the two of us square?”

“Totally.”

She flicked a look at the clock. “Your appointment’s at nine?”

“It is. I’ll hang out at Daisy’s until I have to hit the road.”

“Why don’t you stick around? Kathy should be here any minute. You could wait and say hello.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not all that fond of her, but thanks anyway.”

Liza laughed. “What about Winston?”

“Him, I like.”

“Well, he’s apparently on the warpath and she’s furious. That’s what she’s coming over to discuss.”

“Wow. I’m surprised. I’d love to hear about that.”

As though on cue, the doorbell rang and then Kathy opened the door and banged in with a bottle of white wine in hand. She tossed her purse on a chair, saying, “That guy is such an asshole!”

She was wearing heels and hose, a T-shirt, and a floral cotton skirt that was slightly too short for the shape of her legs. She stopped when she saw me. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you had company. I can come back later if you’re tied up.”

“No, no. Not a problem. Kinsey’s met Winston, but I’m sure her lips are sealed.”

I raised my right hand, as though being sworn in.

Kathy was in motion again, coming into the kitchen, where she placed the bottle on the counter. “Well, shit. I don’t care who knows about the prick. It serves him right.” She went about the business of opening the wine—cutting the foil, augering out the cork. She crossed to one of the kitchen cabinets and removed three wineglasses, which she lined up on the counter. I declined, so she filled the other two and handed one to Liza.

It was odd to see the contrast between the two blondes. Liza’s features were delicate—straight nose; fine, flaxen hair; and a wide mouth. She was slender, with small hands and long, narrow fingers. Kathy’s hair was thick, with a slightly frizzy wave that probably got worse when the humidity went up. She was built along sterner lines, with the look of someone who has managed to lose weight but will surely gain it back.

Liza said, “So what’s he gone and done?”

“He hired a divorce attorney. That guy, what’s-his-butt, Miller, the one whose brother got killed.”

Liza wrinkled her nose. “Colin Miller? Kathy, that’s bad news. He’s horrible when it comes to women. I don’t know how he gets away with it. He must have an in with the judges because his clients do great and all the ex-wives end up screwed. Joanie Kinsman wasn’t awarded enough support to cover the mortgage. She was forced to live in her car until Bart came along.”

“Perfect. That’s just what I need. I don’t know what got into him. He must have been burning up the phone lines because the jerk got me served. Can you believe it? I get home from my tennis lesson and there’s a process server on my doorstep, shoving all this shit in my face. I felt like a criminal. And get this. He’s refusing to leave. Last week I talked him into finding his own apartment and everything was set. Now he won’t budge. He says he’s paying for the house and he intends to live there and if that doesn’t suit me, I can move out myself. Where does he get off? You know what else he said? He says if I give him any guff, he’ll default on the loan, quit his job, and take off.”

“Geez, that’s extreme. Have you talked to your dad?”

“Of course! I called and told him everything.”

“What’d he say?”

“He said I should keep my mouth shut and get a good attorney of my own. He says Winston’s a great manager and as much as it would grieve him, he’d have to hang with him.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, ouch. Anyway, I’m sorry to bust in. I know I sound like a raving lunatic, but I’ll be feeling better in a minute. Cheers.” She lifted her wineglass in a toast and then drank it half down. I could hear her epiglottis working with every gulp she took.

Liza took a sip of wine and set it down. She was fiddling with the sponge again, but she wasn’t cleaning much. “Guess who called?”

For an instant Kathy seemed surprised that someone other than herself would be the topic of conversation. “Who?”

“Ty.”

“Eddings? You’re putting me on. Talk about a voice from the past. What the hell did he want?”

“Nothing. He was calling to touch base. He lives in Sacramento.”

“Doing what?”

“He’s a criminal lawyer.”

“Oh, please. Given his history, I’m surprised he didn’t wind up in jail.”

“I guess he saw the error of his ways.”

“Fat chance of that,” Kathy said. “Anyway, I called Winston the minute the process server left. I was so damn mad, I could hardly keep a civil tongue. I mean, I managed, but just barely—”

“He told me your mother was the one who blew the whistle on us.”

That stopped her cold. “Are you serious? Well, that’s weird.”

“According to Ty, Livia called his aunt Dahlia, who turned around and called his mom. And that’s why she drove in and hauled him off.”

“Huh, that’s funny. I had no idea.”

“Me neither. I was shocked.”

“Maybe she did you a favor.”

“A favor?”

“Come on. The guy was a loser. You were so ga-ga over him, you couldn’t even see straight.”

“Why was that any of Livia’s concern?”

“Liza, you know how judgmental she was. She thought she was right. You were barely fourteen years old and had no business taking up with the likes of him. If Ty’s mother hadn’t showed up, no telling what kind of trouble you’d have gotten yourself into. All that petting? Get real. Can’t you see that he was setting you up?”

“But how’d she find out?”

“What?”

“We know Livia told Dahlia, but who told her?”

“Don’t look at me. All the kids at school knew. That’s all they ever talked about—the fact that the two of you were fooling around. I can’t tell you how many times I had to come to your defense.”

Liza looked at the counter. “Really.”

“Trust me. I was on your team. Remember Lucy Speiler and that guy she was hanging out with? What a mess he was—”

“Kathy, don’t go on and on. You’re the one who told.”

“Me? I can’t believe you’d say that.”

“Well, I did. You were jealous of Violet and you were jealous of Ty. Remember the day you brought over my birthday gift and I wasn’t home? You went to my room and read my diary and that’s what you told your mom. God knows why. Maybe you thought you’d been anointed to save my immortal soul.”

“Maybe I was. Did it ever occur to you how gullible you were? You were so pathetic. Violet could make you do anything. Whatever she wanted—didn’t matter how outrageous it was—you’d lie down, roll over like a pup, and start licking her hand.”

“We were friends.”

“What kind of woman makes friends with a thirteen-year-old? You know why she did that? Because no one her age would have anything to do with her. She was cheap. She was sleazy and she slept all over town. She’d have liked nothing better than to have you in the same boat with her. You know what they say, misery loves company.”

“You didn’t know her the way I did.”

“I knew her well enough. Same thing with Ty. He might have been cute, but he had no class at all. Anyway, enough of this. It’s over and done. There’s no sense going over the same ground twice.”

“I agree. We can’t change the past. No matter what went down, we’re accountable.”

“Exactly.” Kathy reached for the bottle and topped off her wine, wiping her mouth against the back of her hand. “Lola says I should talk to that divorce attorney from San Luis Obispo. Stanley Blum. He’s a real shark according to her. He charges a fortune, but he’s good. She says I gotta fight back, and I better be quick.”

“You remember Moral Rearmament?”

“Ha. You’re talking to the all-time champ here. Moral Rearmament was my middle name.”

“You still think it’s right? Absolute Honesty?”

“Are you kidding? Of course.”

“And that’s what friends do, help one another when we stray from the path?”

Kathy rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Look, Lies, don’t think I’m unaware of your snotty tone. You can be as mad as you want, but I did it for you. I agonized—honestly—but I had to follow my conscience. I make no apology for that so I hope you’re not waiting for one. You want to blame me? Well, fine, you go right ahead, but you should be thanking me instead. What if you’d ended up married to the guy? Have you ever thought about that?”

“Aren’t you even sorry?”

“Haven’t you heard a word I said? I’m not going to apologize for doing what I thought was right. I didn’t want you making a mistake you’d regret for the rest of your life.”

“Never mind. All right. I get that.”

“At long last.”

“I guess, if it came down to it, I’d do the same for you.”

“I know you would and I appreciate your saying that. You’re a good friend.” Kathy leaned forward as though to hug her, but Liza remained upright and Kathy was forced to convert the gesture into something else. She brushed a speck from her skirt and then took another sip of wine with a hand that trembled slightly.

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

“Pardon?”

“I did the same thing for you. You meddled in my life so I decided I should meddle in yours.”

Kathy lowered her glass.

Liza’s tone was mild but her gaze was unwavering. “I called Winston this afternoon. I told him about Phillip.”

“You told him?”

Liza laughed. “I did. Every last detail.”

I hadn’t meant to stay at Liza’s as long as I did, but once Kathy left, we had to sit and do a postmortem. Liza seemed lighter and freer than I’d ever seen her. We laughed and chatted until I happened to glance at my watch. 8:39. “Wow, I gotta get out of here. I didn’t realize it was so late. Where’s the sheriff ’s substation?”

“It’s on Foster Road over by the airport. Here, I’ll draw you a map. It’s not hard,” she said. “The quickest route is to cut down from Highway 166 to Winslet Road on Dinsmore.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen that,” I said.

Liza drew a crude map on a paper napkin. The scale was off, but I got the general idea.

I tucked the napkin in my pocket. “Thanks. As soon as I get this last piece of information, I’m heading over there. I trust they have a copier. The originals are Daisy’s, but I want one set for my files and one set for theirs.”

“You’ll be driving home after that?”

“I have to. I’ve got a stack of files on my desk, plus mail, plus calls to return. If I don’t get back to work, I won’t eat this month.”

We hugged quickly. When I left, she was standing in the doorway, silhouetted in the light from the living room. She watched until I was safely in my car and then she waved. I started the engine and pulled away from the curb, taking another quick peek at my watch. Mrs. Wyrick struck me as a stickler for punctuality, someone who’d lock the door and turn the lights out if you were one minute late. She’d love nothing better than to shut me down.

The temperature had dropped and the night was considerably colder than it had been when I left Daisy’s. I sped over to Main Street, which turned into Highway 166. Traffic was light and once I had Santa Maria at my back, the darkness stretched out in all directions—broad fields of black rimmed in lights where a house or two backed up to the empty land. The air smelled damp. My headlights cut a path in front of me into which I rushed. I had only a rough idea how far away she was. This section of the county was uncomplicated, five or six roads that ran in straight lines, cattywumpus to one another so that they occasionally intersected. I was currently heading toward the ocean, which was somewhere ahead, fenced off by a low rim of hills marked in darker black against the gray-black of the sky.

Now and then I passed an oil rig and farther on a huge storage tank, lighted from below as though to emphasize its mass. Barbed-wire fences ran on both sides of the road. I could see the ghosts of irrigation pipes zigzagging across a field where the available moonlight picked out the lines of PVC in white. A stand of frail pines was the only feathery interruption to the skyline. I caught a flash of bright blue—Mrs. Wyrick’s house, a hundred feet off the highway and planted in the middle of a junkyard.

I slowed and turned onto the rutted dirt driveway. She lived in a landscape of rusted farm equipment, disabled vehicles, piles of lumber, wood pallets, and scrolls of chicken-wire fencing. This was apparently where old bathroom fixtures came to die once the renovations were done. I could see sinks, toilets, and upended bathtubs. In another area, sections of wrought-iron fencing had been laid against a wooden shed. There were sufficient discarded iron gates to enclose a pasture if you soldered them together side by side.

There was a doghouse, of course, and chained to it, a heavy-chested brindled pit bull. The dog’s choke collar made its bark sound like whooping cough was on the rise. I thought about Jake’s pit bull killing Violet’s toy poodle and hoped this dog was properly secured.

There was no place to park, but a hard-packed dirt lane encircled the house, where I could see lights still burning. I pulled in beside a vintage truck up on blocks, wheels gone, its black tailgate down. I killed the engine and got out. I kept my attention half-turned on the pit bull while I picked my way to the front porch. The wooden steps creaked emphatically, which threw the pit bull into a frenzy. The dog lunged repeatedly with such force that the shuddering doghouse humped closer by a foot. Looking out across the yard, I could see a number of old cars dotting the landscape. Maybe Mrs. Wyrick sold salvaged auto parts along with all the other junk.

The top half of the front door was glass, with a panel of cloth that might have once been a dish towel concealing the rooms from view. The sound from a television set suggested a sitcom in progress. When I knocked, the glass windowpane rattled under my knuckles. After a moment, Mrs. Wyrick peered out and then she opened the door. The overhead light was on in the living room and a brightly lighted kitchen was visible beyond it.

She was softer than I’d imagined her. When I’d spoken to her on the phone, I’d pictured a harridan, stooped, not quite clean, with flyaway white hair, rheumy eyes, and bristles on her chin. She’d mentioned her shed, and I had images of a crone who’d been saving Life magazines since 1946. I envisioned a house filled with newspapers, head-high, with narrow walkways between, stray cats, and filth. The woman who greeted me had a round, doughy face. Her body looked spongy, rising and swelling as she moved until the flesh filled all the little nooks and crannies in her dress. She may have had some fermentation action under way as well because the snappishness I’d encountered on the phone had now mellowed. She seemed vague and irresolute, and she smelled like those bourbon balls people give you at Christmastime. She was eighty-five if a day.

The minute she saw me, she turned and lumbered back to her easy chair, leaving me to close the door. The rise and fall of a laugh track churned the air, not quite camouflaging the fact that nothing being said was funny in the least. “Did you take out the garbage?” Screams of laughter. “No, did you?” The more witless the line, the more hilarious was the outbreak of merriment. Mrs. Wyrick picked up the remote and lowered the sound. I spotted the half-empty pint of Old Forrester sitting on the end table near her chair.

We skipped right past all the social niceties, which was just as well. She was too looped to do much more than navigate from the chair to the door and back. I said, “Did you have any luck?”

Something flickered in the depths of her blue eyes—cunning or guilt. She picked up a folded piece of paper that fluttered lightly from the palsy in her hands. “Why do you want this?”

“Do you remember Violet Sullivan?”

“Yes. I knew Violet many years ago.”

“You must have heard that her body was found.”

“I saw that on the television.”

“Then you know about the Pomeranian in the car with her.”

“I believe the fella said a dog. I don’t remember any mention of a Pomeranian.”

“Well, that’s what it was, and I think the dog was one you sold. Is that the litter record?”

“Yes it is, hon, but I can only tell you who bought the puppy. I wouldn’t know anything about where the dog went from here.”

“I understand. The point is I suspect the man who bought the dog gave her to Violet and he’s the one who killed both.”

She began to shake her head. “No, now you see, that doesn’t sound right. I can’t believe that. It doesn’t set well with me.”

“Why not?” I caught a flash of light and glanced over my shoulder, thinking a car was pulling into the drive. The dog barked with renewed vigor.

Mrs. Wyrick touched my arm and I turned back to her. “Because I’ve known the man for years. My late husband and I were longtime customers of his and he treated us well.”

“You’re talking about the Blue Moon?”

“Oh, no. The Moon is a bar. My husband didn’t hold with alcoholic beverages. He never had a drink in his life.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump to conclusions. Do you sell automobile parts?”

“Not for the kind of car you have. I heard you when you drove up. It sounded foreign to me. I may be deaf in the one ear, but the other one hears good.”

“What about Chevrolet parts?”

“Them and Fords and whatever, but I don’t see how that applies to this question of the dog.”

“May I see the paper?”

“That’s what I’m still talking over in my head, whether I should pass this on. I don’t want to cause any harm.”

“The harm’s already been done. I’d be happy to pay for the information if that would help you decide.”

“A hundred dollars?”

“I can do that,” I said. When I reached for my wallet, I noticed my hand was shaking. I had to get out of there.

She laughed. “I was just saying that to see what you’d do. I won’t charge you anything.”

“Then you’ll give it to me?”

“I suppose so since you drove all the way out.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

She held the paper out.

It was like the Academy Awards. And the nominees are… I opened the fold and looked down at the name, thinking about the presenter who pulls the card from the envelope and knows for one split second something the audience is still waiting to hear. And the winner is…

“Tom Padgett?”

“You know Little Tommy? We always called him Little Tommy to distinguish from his daddy, who was Big Tom.”

“I don’t know him well, but I’ve met the man,” I said. I thought about how rich he was now that his wife was dead, how desperate he must have been while she was still alive.

“Well, then I don’t see how you can think he’d ever do a thing like that.”

“Maybe I’m mistaken.” I could feel the fear welling up. I tucked the paper in my bag and put one hand on the door-knob, prepared to ease out.

She seemed to be rooted in place but fidgety at the same time. “He always said if anybody ever asked about the dog I should let him know. So I called and told him you were coming out.”

My mouth had gone dry and there was a sensation in my chest like a faraway electrical storm. “What did he say?”

“It didn’t seem to worry him. He said he’d drive over to have a chat with you and get it all straightened out, but he must have been delayed.”

“I thought someone pulled in just a moment ago.”

“Well, it must not have been him. He’d have knocked on the door.”

“If he shows up after I’m gone, would you tell him I was thinking of someone else and I’m sorry for the inconvenience?”

“I can tell him that.”

“Mind if I use your phone?”

“It’s right there on the wall.” She nodded toward the kitchen.

“Thanks.” I crossed the living room to the kitchen and picked up the handset from the wall-mounted phone. The line was dead. I set it back with care. “It seems to be out of order so I’ll just be on my way. I can probably find a phone somewhere else.”

“Whatever you say, Hon. I enjoyed the visit.”

I left by the front door, and the porch bulb went out as soon as my foot hit the step. For a minute I was blinded by the sudden shift from bright lights to darkness. The dog had taken up its barking, but he didn’t seem any closer to the house. I could hear the rattle of its chain as he paced back and forth. I stood there, waiting for my eyes to adjust. I scanned the area around the house. I spotted my VW, parked where I’d left it. There were no other cars in sight. The highway extended in both directions with no passing cars. I found my car keys and listened to them jingle as I went down the stairs. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely unlock the car door.

Automatically I checked the backseat before I got in. I made sure both doors were locked and then started the car, shoving the gear into reverse. I took my gun out of the glove compartment and laid it on the passenger seat, putting my shoulder bag over it to weigh it in place. I threw my right arm over the top of the passenger seat, my eyes on the path behind me as I backed out of the yard. I swung out onto the highway and shifted into first. All I had to do was reach the sheriff ’s substation, less than ten miles away. I’d have to cut south from Highway 166 to West Winslet Road, then cut south again on Blosser, which Liza had penned in parallel to the triangle of land where the airport sat. Foster Road was close to the southernmost boundary.

The alternative was to take 166 straight into Santa Maria and pick up Blosser on the outskirts. The problem was Padgett Construction and A-Okay Heavy Equipment sat on Highway 166 between me and the town. My car was conspicuous. If Padgett were looking for me, all he had to do was wait for me to pass. I shifted from second to third, engine whining in a high-pitched protest. I tried to picture the roads that connected the 166 and West Winslet. There were three that I remembered. The Old Cromwell and New Cut were now behind me so scratch that idea. The one choice remaining was a road called Dinsmore.

I leaned on the gas until I spotted the sign and took a hard right-hand turn. It was black as pitch out there. I kept scanning for headlights, my eyes flicking back and forth from the darkened road ahead of me to the darkened road behind me, spinning away in my rearview mirror. On my right, lengths of thirty-six-inch pipe were lined up along the road, in preparation for who knows what. An excavator and a bulldozer were parked across the road. I was guessing they were laying gas lines, collection mains, something of the sort.

I was on the verge of making a U-turn when a set of headlights popped into view behind me, filling the oblong of mirror with a glare that made me squint. The vehicle was closing rapidly, coming up behind me at a speed far greater than I could coax out of my thirteen-year-old tin can. I pressed down on the accelerator, but my VW was no match for the car behind. I picked up a blend of silhouettes as the car swung wide and passed me with a crew of teenage boys inside. One of them tossed an empty beer can out the window, and I watched the aluminum cylinder bounce and tumble before it disappeared.

The red of taillights diminished and winked out.

A minute later, I saw a fork in the road ahead where Dinsmore split. One arm continued straight ahead and a second road shot off to the left. There was a row of four barriers across that arm. The devices were hinged like sawhorses with a two-by-four-foot panel across the top, painted in series of diagonal orange and white stripes. Each had a reflecting light on top that seemed to blink an additional caution. I slowed to a stop, remembering Winston’s description of the barriers he’d seen the night he’d spotted Violet’s car.

I had two choices: I could take the barrier as gospel, warning of repairs or obstructions on the road ahead, or I could assume it was a ruse, drive around one barrier and straight onto Winslet Road. I flicked on my brights. I could see the front end of a truck parked about a hundred yards away. I understood the game. At that point the angle of the two roads was probably no more than forty-five degrees, the distance between them widening over the course of four hundred yards. Padgett could be waiting in between, biding his time until I chose one or the other. It really made no difference which I picked. I backed up and yanked the steering wheel hard to my right. I completed the turn, shifted from reverse into first, and headed back the way I’d come.

I checked my rearview mirror, expecting to see some sign of a vehicle. Nothing. I thought I might be okay until I heard the whap-whap-whapping of my tires. I struggled with the steering, which was suddenly clumsy and stiff, trying to control the car as the pressure in my tires diminished. I slowed to a stop. I was right. Padgett had stopped off at Mrs. Wyrick’s earlier that night. An ice pick would have been the perfect instrument to create four slow leaks. Not as dramatic as his tire-slashing methodology at the Sun Bonnet Motel, but he wanted to make sure I could drive on the tires for a while. At least long enough to find myself out here.

That’s when I saw the headlights behind me.

Padgett took his time. My engine was idling, but I knew I couldn’t outrun him. I wanted to open the door and flee, but I didn’t think I’d get far. Even if I ran as swiftly as I could across one of the wide dark fields, I wouldn’t be hard to catch as long as he was driving his truck. I reached for my handgun and pulled the slide back.

He pulled up behind me and slowed to a stop, his engine idling as mine was. He waited for a minute and then got out of his truck. He left his headlights on, flooding my car with an unearthly glow. He strolled along the road, coming up next to my car on the passenger side. He knocked on the window despite the fact that I was looking right at him.

“Flat tire?” His tone was conversational, his voice faintly muffled. I hated his smile.

“I’m fine. Get away from me.”

He leaned back and in an exaggerated display of skepticism as he checked the tires on that side. “Don’t look fine to me.” He rested his arm on the roof of my car, watching me with interest. “Are you afraid of me or what?”

I pulled the gun up and pointed at him. “I said get the fuck away from me.”

He said, “Whoa!” and put his hands up. “I believe you have the wrong idea, Missie. I’m here to offer help…”

I should have shot him right then, but I thought there had to be another way out, something short of killing the man where he stood. I simply couldn’t sit there and blast him in the face.

I stepped on the accelerator and the car jolted forward. This threw him off balance, but far from becoming angry, he seemed amused. Maybe because he recognized my fleeting moment of cowardice. I put the gun in my lap and pressed on at a much-reduced speed. I knew I was ruining my rims, risking a broken front axle, and god knows what else, but I had to reach civilization. As I shuddered my way forward, I could see Padgett shake his head, bemused. He ambled toward his truck.

He got in, shifted into gear, and followed me, taking his sweet time, knowing his vehicle was always going to be the faster of the two. The rims were now cutting through my tires, trimming off streamers of rubber. The rims ripped along the pavement, throwing up a rooster tail of sparks. The steering was almost impossible to control, but I hung on for dear life. We continued this slow-speed pursuit, Padgett riding up against my rear bumper, giving me the occasional quick bump just to remind me he was there.

I could see Highway 166 in the distance. It was 10:00 at night and there wasn’t any traffic to speak of, but there had to be a business open, a gas station at the very least. Cromwell was closer than Santa Maria and if I could make it as far as the highway, I’d head in that direction. Padgett had slipped his gear into neutral. I heard him revving his engine and then he popped it into first again and lurched into the back of my car with a thunderous bang. I clung to the steering wheel, my knuckles white with the tension of my grip. I spotted the construction site ahead, the bright yellow bulldozer and an excavator parked on the left. Padgett slammed into me twice, doing as much damage as he could, which turned out to be plenty. I smelled burning oil and scorched rubber, and something made a scraping sound every time my tires flopped around. Black smoke roiled across the rear window. My car limped along, like some sad, crippled beast while I listened to the screech of metal like the howling of the dead.

He tried another one of his gear-popping tricks, but he outsmarted himself and his engine stalled. He turned the key and I could hear the starter grind. Once the engine coughed to life, he backed up, veered around me and eased on down the road. I thought he’d given up, but that was just my inner optimist rearing her sunny little head. He pulled onto the gravel berm, cut the lights, and got out of his truck. I watched him as he proceeded at a casual pace, crossing to the bulldozer. He grabbed a handhold on the side and pulled himself up, using the track as a foothold as he climbed into the cab. He settled in the seat and leaned forward. He turned the key and the bulldozer grumbled to life. He flipped on the headlights and I watched him reach for the levers that controlled the big machine. I couldn’t figure out what his intention was—beyond the obvious, of course—until I spotted the mound of dirt in the middle of the field to my right. He’d dug a hole for me.

He was heading right at me. I braked and reached for the door handle. The engine died and by the time I turned back, he was on me. He laid the lip of the bucket up against the driver’s side of my car, making it impossible to open. He downshifted and began to push my car sideways toward the mound of dirt. I couldn’t see the hole, but I knew it was there. The VW was rocking, sliding sideways, raw dirt piling up against the passenger’s-side door. I stuck the gun down in the waistband of my jeans and slid over into the passenger seat. I pulled back on the door handle and then shoved, trying to push the door open against the rapidly increasing buildup of soil and rock on the other side. This was never going to work. I abandoned the effort and cranked down the window, working as fast as I could. By then the dirt accumulating against the side of the car was almost to the window. I hoisted myself onto the sill, making a low sound in my throat when I saw how fast we were moving. Five miles an hour doesn’t sound like much, but the pace was steady and relentless, leaving me very little room to negotiate. I rolled out, kicking to free myself, barely managing to clear the car as it scraped past me and tumbled into the hole. The ’dozer came to an abrupt halt while the VW hit bottom with a bang and a shudder that left the rear wheels spinning.

I staggered to my feet and headed out across the raw dirt field, hoping to make a wide circle back to the road. The ground had recently been plowed and the soil was broken into chunks that forced me to lift my feet high like a member of a marching band. Running across the rows was like running in a dream, agonizingly slow with no progress to speak of. Behind me, Padgett, in his ’dozer, trundled along at a same nifty five miles an hour, easily cutting the distance between us. I tried veering left, but he had no problem correcting the direction of the ’dozer, which proved to be remarkably agile for a machine weighing in at forty thousand pounds.

I pulled the gun from my waistband, for all the good it would do. In the time it would take me to stop, turn, and aim the gun, he’d mow me down. My only hope was to reach his truck, which I could see ahead and to my left. My breathing was ragged and my chest was on fire, my thigh muscles burning while the weight of my jogging shoes seemed to suck me deeper into the earth with every step. I headed left, stumbling toward the road at an angle while the ’dozer behind me clanked and banged, metal treads leveling the very ground that cost me everything to traverse. The size of the yellow excavator was diminished by distance, but I knew when I reached it, I’d be on the road. I felt like I was wading, my own weariness slowing me as I slogged on, trying to gain sufficient ground to make a stand. The yard-high lengths of pipe on the far side of the road grew marginally larger and the yellow excavator began to assume its proper dimensions. I was just about out of steam when I felt a change in the terrain. I was on the hard-packed berm. I reached the asphalt and ran. Once I gained the protection of the pickup, I turned and rested my arms on the side of the truck bed to steady my aim. I could see Padgett work to raise the bucket. In that split second, I squeezed the grip safety and then I fired off four rounds. I had to be dead-on or die, because there wasn’t going to be time to check for accuracy and then correct my aim.

The ’dozer rumbled on, continuing at full throttle. Its path was unwavering, its bulk aimed directly at the excavator. I backed up rapidly and moved to my left until I had Padgett in my sights again. He’d slumped sideways and I could see the blood pouring out of the hole that I’d nicked in his neck. The ’dozer slammed into the excavator and Padgett tumbled forward. I stood and waited, holding the gun until my arms trembled from the weight. Did I consider approaching him with an eye to rendering first aid? Never crossed my mind. I lowered the gun, went around the truck, and got in on the driver’s side. I put the gun on the seat and reached for the keys he’d left in the ignition. The truck started without complaint. I dropped it into first and headed toward the lights along the 166.

EPILOGUE

It was almost a year before I saw Daisy again. Technically, there wasn’t any reason to be in touch. I’d been paid in advance, and when my final written report was met with silence, I didn’t think much of it. As the weeks went by, however, I found myself feeling ever so faintly miffed. It’s not that I expected effusive gratitude or praise, but I would have appreciated some response. I had, after all, put my life at risk and killed a man in the process. In the wake of his death, I was subjected to the scrutiny of the Santa Teresa County Sheriff ’s Department, which (as it turns out) looks unkindly on fatal shootings, whether justified or not.

I suppose I could have initiated contact with Daisy, but I really thought the move should be hers. This was one of those rare instances where our professional relationship had veered closer to friendship…or so I’d thought. On the few occasions when I stopped in at Sneaky Pete’s, Tannie didn’t know anything more than I did, which generated a certain sulkiness on both our parts.

I went about my business, taken up with other matters in the intervening months. Then, late morning on the last day in August, I returned to the office to find her sitting in her car, which was parked out front. I unlocked the door, letting it stand open while I picked up the mail. Moments later, Daisy followed me in.

I tossed the stack of envelopes on the desk and said, “Hey, how are you?” in that breezy offhand manner that conceals emotional injury. I sat down in my swivel chair.

She took the seat on the other side of the desk. She seemed uncomfortable, but I wasn’t going to make it any easier on her. Finally, she said, “Look, I know I should have called you, and I’m sorry. I stopped by Sneaky Pete’s, and Tannie’s so mad she’s hardly speaking to me. I owe you both an apology.”

“You did leave us hanging.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said. Her gaze traveled over the surface of my desk. She was probably desperate for a cigarette, but the absence of an ashtray must have made her think better of it. “I know this sounds feeble, but I didn’t know what to say. It’s taken me this long to figure it out. I knew I was depressed, and it didn’t seem right to inflict myself on anyone until I felt better about life.”

“I can understand the depression,” I said.

“I’m glad you can. It surprised the hell out of me. I don’t know what I expected. I guess I thought if I ever found out what happened to my mother, everything would be different, so I was sitting around waiting for the big magical change. One day I realized my life was the same old shit heap it’s always been. I was still drinking too much and taking up with all the wrong men. I was also bored out of my mind.”

“With what?”

“You name it. My job, my house, my hair, my clothes. I had one session with a new shrink, and the whole time I was pissed off about the money I was having to spend.”

“What’d you do?”

“I quit therapy for starters and then I just waited it out. Yesterday I got it. I was sitting at my desk transcribing some doctor’s notes and doing a damn fine job of it as usual, when it occurred to me that I’d spent the first seven years of my life trying to be good so my mother would love me and take care of me. Well, that clearly didn’t work. Then, after she left, I kept on being good, thinking maybe I could make her come back.”

“And when she didn’t?”

Daisy shrugged, smiling. “I decided I might as well be bad and enjoy myself. Turns out she was dead the whole time, so my behavior didn’t matter one way or the other. Good, bad? What difference did it make?”

“And that made you feel better?”

She laughed. “No, but here’s what did. It dawned on me that if she’d lived…if she’d been alive…she might have come home of her own accord. She might have missed me a lot, and maybe she’d have realized how much she cared. She might have decided to swing back, pick me up, and take me with her this time. I’ll really never know, but I have just as much reason to believe in that possibility as the opposite. What made me feel better was realizing I don’t have to live like someone who’s been rejected and abandoned. I can choose any view I want. Death took away her options, but I still have mine.”

I studied her. “That’s nice. I like that. So now what?”

“I’ll look for a new job, maybe in Santa Maria, maybe somewhere else. I doubt I’ll quit drinking, but at least I’m not biting my nails. When it comes to men, I don’t know, but I decided it’s better to be by myself until I get my head on straight. That’s a big one for me.”

“That’s huge.”

“Thanks. I thought so.” She let out a big breath. “So now I’m wondering if you’re in the mood for a spicy cheese-and-salami sandwich. My treat,” she said.

“Sure, if I can have it with a fried egg on top.”

“You can have it any way you want. Tannie said she’d be heating up the grill.”

And that didn’t seem like a bad way to have the matter end.

T IS FOR TRESPASS

SUE GRAFTON

a marian wood book

Published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons
a member of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
New York

A Marian Wood Book
Published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons
Publishers Since 1838
a member of the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Copyright © 2007 by Sue Grafton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Grafton, Sue.
T is for trespass / Sue Grafton.
p. cm.—(Kinsey Millhone mysteries)
“A Marian Wood book.”
ISBN: 9781101360644
1. Millhone, Kinsey (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—California—Fiction. 3. Caregivers—Fiction. 4. Psychopaths—Fiction. 5. California—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3557.R13T15 2007 2007029368
813'.54—dc22

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

For Elizabeth Gastiger, Kevin Frantz,
and Barbara Toohey,
with admiration and affection

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of the following people: Steven Humphrey; Joe B. Jones, pharmacist (retired); John Mackall, Counselor-at-Law, Seed Mackall LLP; Dan Trudell, President, ARS, Accident Reconstruction Specialists; Robert Failing, M.D., forensic pathologist (retired); Sylvia Stallings and Pam Taylor of Sotheby’s International Realty; Sally Giloth; Barbara Toohey; Greg Boller, Deputy District Attorney, Santa Barbara County District Attorney’s Office; Randy Reetz, Santa Barbara Chamber of Commerce; Sam Eaton, Attorney, Eaton & Jones, Attorneys at Law; Ann Cox; Ann Marie Kopeikan, Director of Vocational Nursing, Lorraine Malachak, Nursing Programs Support Specialist, and Eileen Campbell, Administration, Santa Barbara City College; Christine Estrada, Santa Barbara County Court Administrator, Superior Court Information Records & Filing; Liz Gastiger; Boris Romanowski, Parole Agent, State of California Department of Corrections; Lynn McLaren, private investigator; Maureen Murphy, Maureen Murphy Fine Arts; Laurie Roberts, photographer; and Dave Zanolini, United Process Servers.

T IS FOR TRESPASS

Contents

PROLOGUE

1 SOLANA

2 DECEMBER 1987

3 SOLANA

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

10 SOLANA

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

17 SOLANA

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

24 SOLANA

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

31 SOLANA

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

I don’t want to think about the predators in this world. I know they exist, but I prefer to focus on the best in human nature: compassion, generosity, a willingness to come to the aid of those in need. The sentiment may seem absurd, given our daily ration of news stories detailing thievery, assault, rape, murder, and other treacheries. To the cynics among us, I must sound like an idiot, but I do hold to the good, working wherever possible to separate the wicked from that which profits them. I know there will always be someone poised to take advantage of the vulnerable: the very young, the very old, and the innocent of any age. I know this from long experience.

Solana Rojas was one…

1

SOLANA

She had a real name, of course—the one she’d been given at birth and had used for much of her life—but now she had a new name. She was Solana Rojas, whose personhood she’d usurped. Gone was her former self, eradicated in the wake of her new identity. This was as easy as breathing for her. She was the youngest of nine children. Her mother, Marie Terese, had borne her first child, a son, when she was seventeen and a second son when she was nineteen. Both were the product of a relationship never sanctified by marriage, and while the two boys had taken their father’s name, they’d never known him. He’d been sent to prison on a drug charge and he’d died there, killed by another inmate in a dispute over a pack of cigarettes.

At the age of twenty-one, Marie Terese had married a man named Panos Agillar. She’d borne him six children in a period of eight years before he left her and ran off with someone else. At the age of thirty, she found herself alone and broke, with eight children ranging in age from thirteen years to three months. She’d married again, this time to a hardworking, responsible man in his fifties. He fathered Solana—his first child, her mother’s last, and their only offspring.

During the years when Solana was growing up, her siblings had laid claim to all the obvious family roles: the athlete, the soldier, the cutup, the achiever, the drama queen, the hustler, the saint, and the jack-of-all-trades. What fell to her lot was to play the ne’er-do-well. Like her mother, she’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock and had given birth to a son when she was barely eighteen. From that time forward, her progress through life had been hapless. Nothing had ever gone right for her. She lived paycheck to paycheck with nothing set aside and no way to get ahead. Or so her siblings assumed. Her sisters counseled and advised her, lectured and cajoled, and finally threw up their hands, knowing she was never going to change. Her brothers expressed exasperation, but usually came up with money to bail her out of a jam. None of them understood how wily she was.

She was a chameleon. Playing the loser was her disguise. She was not like them, not like anyone else, but it had taken her years to fully appreciate her differences. At first she thought her oddity was a function of the family dynamic, but early in elementary school, the truth dawned on her. The emotional connections that bound others to one another were absent in her. She operated as a creature apart, without empathy. She pretended to be like the little girls and boys in her grade, with their bickering and tears, their tattling, their giggles, and their efforts to excel. She observed their behavior and imitated them, blending into their world until she seemed much the same. She chimed in on conversations, but only to feign amusement at a joke, or to echo what had already been said. She didn’t disagree. She didn’t offer an opinion because she had none. She expressed no wishes or wants of her own. She was largely unseen—a mirage or a ghost—watching for little ways to take advantage of them. While her classmates were self-absorbed and oblivious, she was hyperaware. She saw everything and cared for nothing. By the age of ten, she knew it was only a matter of time before she found a use for her talent for camouflage.

By the age of twenty, her disappearing act was so quick and so automatic that she was often unaware she’d absented herself from the room. One second she was there, the next she was gone. She was a perfect companion because she mirrored the person she was with, becoming whatever they were. She was a mime and a mimic. Naturally, people liked and trusted her. She was also the ideal employee—responsible, uncomplaining, tireless, willing to do whatever was asked of her. She came to work early. She stayed late. This made her appear selfless when, in fact, she was utterly indifferent, except when it was a matter of furthering her own aims.

In some ways, the subterfuge had been forced on her. Most of her siblings had managed to put themselves through school, and at this stage in their lives they appeared more successful than she. It made them feel good to help their baby sister, whose prospects were pathetic compared with their own. While she was happy to accept their largesse, she didn’t like being subordinate to them. She’d found a way to make herself their equal, having acquired quite a bit of money that she kept in a secret bank account. It was better they didn’t know how much her lot in life had improved. Her next older brother, the one with the law degree, was the only sibling she had any use for. He didn’t want to work any harder than she did and he didn’t mind bending the rules if the payoff was worthwhile.

She’d borrowed an identity, becoming someone else on two previous occasions. She thought fondly of her other personas, as one would of old friends who’d moved to another state. Like a Method actor, she had a new part to play. She was now Solana Rojas and that’s where her focus lay. She kept her new identity wrapped around her like a cloak, feeling safe and protected in the person she’d become.

The original Solana—the one whose life she’d borrowed—was a woman she’d worked with for months in the convalescent wing of a home for seniors. The real Solana, whom she now thought of as “the Other,” was an LVN. She, too, had studied to become a licensed vocational nurse. The only difference between them was that the Other was certified, while she’d had to drop out of school before she’d finished the course work. That was her father’s fault. He’d died and no one had stepped forward to pay for her education. After the funeral, her mother asked her to quit school and get a job, so that was what she’d done. She found work first cleaning houses, and later as a nurse’s aide, pretending to herself that she was a real LVN, which she would have been if she’d finished the program at City College. She knew how to do everything the Other did, but she wasn’t as well paid because she lacked the proper credentials. Why was that fair?

She’d chosen the real Solana Rojas the same way she’d chosen the others. There was a twelve-year difference in their ages, the Other being sixty-four years old to her fifty-two. Their features weren’t really similar, but they were close enough for the average observer. She and the Other were roughly the same height and weight, though she knew weight was of little consequence. Women gained and lost pounds all the time, so if someone noticed the discrepancy, it was easily explained. Hair color was another insignificant trait. Hair could be any hue or shade found in a drugstore box. She’d gone from a brunette to a blonde to a redhead on previous occasions, all of which were in stark contrast to the natural gray hair she’d had since she was thirty.

Over the past year, she’d darkened her hair little by little until the match with the Other was approximate. Once, a new hire at the convalescent home had mistaken the two for sisters, which had thrilled her to no end. The Other was Hispanic, which she herself was not. She could pass if she chose. Her ethnic forebears were Mediterranean; Italians and Greeks with a few Turks thrown in—olive-skinned and dark-haired, with large dark eyes. When she was in the company of Anglos, if she was quiet and went about her business, the assumption was that she didn’t speak much English. This meant many conversations were conducted in her presence as though she couldn’t understand a word. In truth, it was Spanish she couldn’t speak.

Her preparations for lifting the Other’s identity had taken an abrupt turn on Tuesday of the week before. On Monday, the Other told the nursing staff she’d given two weeks’ notice. Soon her classes were starting and she wanted a break before she devoted herself to school full-time. This was the signal that it was time to put her plan into operation. She needed to lift the Other’s wallet because a driver’s license was crucial to her scheme. Almost as soon as she thought of it, the opportunity arose. That’s what life was like for her, one possibility after another presenting itself for her personal edification and advancement. She hadn’t been given many advantages in life and those she had, she’d been forced to create for herself.

She was in the staff lounge when the Other returned from a doctor’s appointment. She’d been ill some time before, and while her disease was in remission, she’d had frequent checkups. She told everyone her cancer was a blessing. She was more appreciative of life. Her illness had motivated her to reorder her priorities. She’d been accepted to graduate school, where she would study for an MBA in health care management.

The Other hung her handbag in her locker and draped her sweater over it. There was only the one hook, as a second hook had a screw missing and dangled uselessly. The Other closed her locker and snapped shut the combination lock without turning the dial. She did this so it would be quicker and easier to pop the lock open at the end of the day.

She’d waited, and when the Other had gone out to the nurse’s station, she’d pulled on a pair of disposable latex gloves and given the lock a tug. It hadn’t taken any time at all to open the locker, reach into the Other’s bag, and remove her wallet. She’d slipped the Other’s driver’s license from its windowed compartment and put the wallet back, reversing herself as neatly as a strip of film. She peeled off the gloves and tucked them into the pocket of her uniform. The license she placed under the Dr. Scholl’s pad in the sole of her right shoe. Not that anyone would suspect. When the Other noticed her license was gone, she’d assume she’d left it somewhere. It was always this way. People blamed themselves for being careless and absentminded. It seldom occurred to them to accuse anyone else. In this case, no one would think to point a finger at her, because she made such a point of being scrupulous in the company of others.

To execute the remaining aspect of the plan, she’d waited until the Other’s shift was over and the administrative staff were gone for the day. All the front offices were empty. As was usual on Tuesday nights, the office doors were left unlocked so a cleaning crew could come in. While they were hard at work, it was easy to enter and find the keys to the locked file cabinets. The keys were kept in the secretary’s desk and needed only to be plucked up and put to use. No one questioned her presence, and she doubted anyone would remember later that she’d come and gone. The cleaning crew was supplied by an outside agency. Their job was to vacuum, dust, and empty the trash. What did they know about the inner workings of the convalescent wing in a senior citizens’ home? As far as they were concerned—given her uniform—she was a bona fide RN, a person of status and respect, entitled to do as she pleased.

She removed the application the Other had filled out when she applied for the job. This two-page form contained all the data she would need to assume her new life: date of birth, place of birth, which was Santa Teresa, Social Security number, education, the number of her nursing license, and her prior employment. She made a photocopy of the document along with the two letters of recommendation attached to the Other’s file. She made copies of the Other’s job evaluations and her salary reviews, feeling a flash of fury when she saw the humiliating gap between what the two of them were paid. No sense fuming about that now. She returned the paperwork to the folder and replaced the file in the drawer, which she then locked. She put the keys in the secretary’s desk drawer again and left the office.

2

DECEMBER 1987

My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator in the small Southern California town of Santa Teresa, ninety-five miles north of Los Angeles. We were nearing the end of 1987, a year in which the Santa Teresa Police Department crime analyst logged 5 homicides, 10 bank robberies, 98 residential burglaries, 309 arrests for motor vehicle theft and 514 for shoplifting, all of this in a population of approximately 85,102, excluding Colgate on the north side of town and Montebello to the south.

It was winter in California, which meant the dark began its descent at five o’clock in the afternoon. By then, house lights were popping on all over town. Gas fireplaces had been switched on and jet blue flames were curling up around the stacks of fake logs. Somewhere in town, you might’ve caught the faint scent of real wood burning. Santa Teresa doesn’t have many deciduous trees, so we aren’t subjected to the sorry sight of bare branches against the gray December skies. Lawns, leaves, and shrubberies were still green. Days were gloomy, but there were splashes of color in the landscape—the salmon and magenta bougainvillea that flourished through December and into February. The Pacific Ocean was frigid—a dark, restless gray—and the beaches fronting it were deserted. The daytime temperatures had dropped into the fifties. We all wore heavy sweaters and complained about the cold.

For me, business had been slow despite the number of felonies in play. Something about the season seemed to discourage white-collar criminals. Embezzlers were probably busy Christmas shopping with the money they’d liberated from their respective company tills. Bank and mortgage frauds were down, and the telemarketing scamsters were listless and uninterested. Even divorcing spouses didn’t seem to be in a battling mood, sensing perhaps that hostilities could just as easily carry over into spring. I continued to do the usual paper searches at the hall of records, but I wasn’t being called upon to do much else. However, since lawsuits are always a popular form of indoor sport, I was kept busy working as a process server, for which I was registered and bonded in Santa Teresa County. The job put a lot of miles on my car, but the work wasn’t taxing and netted me sufficient money to pay my bills. The lull wouldn’t last long, but there was no way I could have seen what was coming.

At 8:30 that Monday morning, December 7, I picked up my shoulder bag, my blazer, and my car keys, and headed out the door on my way to work. I’d been skipping my habitual three-mile jog, unwilling to stir myself to exercise in the predawn dark. Given the coziness of my bed, I didn’t even feel guilty. As I passed through the gate, the comforting squeak of the hinges was undercut by a brief wail. At first I thought cat, dog, baby, TV. None of the possibilities quite captured the cry. I paused, listening, but all I heard were ordinary traffic noises. I moved on and I’d just reached my car when I heard the wailing again. I reversed my steps, pushed through the gate, and headed for the backyard. I’d just rounded the corner when my landlord appeared. Henry’s eighty-seven years old and owns the house to which my studio apartment is attached. His consternation was clear. “What was that?”

“Beats me. I heard it just now as I was going out the gate.”

We stood there, our ears attuned to the usual sounds of morning in the neighborhood. For one full minute, there was nothing, and then it started up again. I tilted my head like a pup, pricking my ears as I tried to pinpoint the origin, which I knew was close by.

“Gus?” I asked.

“Possibly. Hang on a sec. I have a key to his place.”

While Henry returned to the kitchen in search of the key, I covered the few steps between his property and the house next door, where Gus Vronsky lived. Like Henry, Gus was in his late eighties, but where Henry was sharp, Gus was abrasive. He enjoyed a well-earned reputation as the neighborhood crank, the kind of guy who called the police if he thought your TV was too loud or your grass was too long. He called Animal Control to report barking dogs, stray dogs, and dogs that went doo-doo in his yard. He called the City to make sure permits had been issued for minor construction projects: fences, patios, replacement windows, roof repairs. He suspected most things you did were illegal and he was there to set you straight. I’m not sure he cared about the rules and regulations as much as he liked kicking up a fuss. And if, in the process, he could set you against your neighbor, all the better for him. His enthusiasm for causing trouble was probably what had kept him alive for so long. I’d never had a run-in with him myself, but I’d heard plenty. Henry tolerated the man even though he’d been subjected to annoying phone calls on more than one occasion.

In the seven years I’d lived next door to Gus, I’d watched age bend him almost to the breaking point. He’d been tall once upon a time, but now he was round-shouldered and sunken-chested, his back forming a C as though an unseen chain bound his neck to a ball that he dragged between his legs. All this flashed through my mind in the time it took Henry to return with a set of house keys in hand.

Together we crossed Gus’s lawn and climbed the steps to his porch. Henry rapped on the glass pane in the front door. “Gus? Are you okay?”

This time the moaning was distinct. Henry unlocked the door and we went into the house. The last time I’d seen Gus, probably three weeks before, he was standing in his yard, berating two nine-year-old boys for practicing their ollies in the street outside his house. True, the skateboards were noisy, but I thought their patience and dexterity were remarkable. I also thought their energies were better spent mastering kick-flips than soaping windows or knocking over trash cans, which is how boys had entertained themselves in my day.

I caught sight of Gus a half second after Henry did. The old man had fallen. He lay on his right side, his face a pasty white. He’d dislocated his shoulder, and the ball of his humerus bulged from the socket. Beneath his sleeveless undershirt, his clavicle protruded like a budding wing. Gus’s arms were spindly and his skin was so close to translucent I could see the veins branching up along his shoulder blades. Dark blue bruises suggested ligament or tendon damage that would doubtless take a long time to mend.

I felt a hot rush of pain as though the injury were mine. On three occasions, I’ve shot someone dead, but that was purely self-defense and had nothing to do with my squeamishness about the stub ends of bones and other visible forms of suffering. Henry knelt beside Gus and tried to help him to his feet, but his cry was so sharp, he abandoned the idea. I noticed that one of Gus’s hearing aids had come loose and was lying on the floor just out of his reach.

I spotted an old-fashioned black rotary phone on a table at one end of the couch. I dialed 9-1-1 and sat down, hoping the sudden white ringing in my head would subside. When the dispatcher picked up, I detailed the problem and asked for an ambulance. I gave her the address and as soon as I hung up, I crossed the room to Henry’s side. “She’s saying seven to ten minutes. Is there anything we can do for him in the meantime?”

“See if you can find a blanket so we can keep him warm.” Henry studied my face. “How are you doing? You don’t look so good yourself.”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be right back.”

The layout of Gus’s house was a duplicate of Henry’s, so it didn’t take me long to find the bedroom. The place was a mess—bed unmade, clothes strewn everywhere. An antique chest of drawers and a tallboy were cluttered with junk. The room smelled of mildew and bulging trash bags. I loosened the bedspread from a knot of sheets and returned to the living room.

Henry covered Gus with care, trying not to disturb his injuries. “When did you fall?”

Gus flicked a pain-filled look at Henry. His eyes were blue, the lower lids as droopy as a bloodhound’s. “Last night. I fell asleep on the couch. Midnight, I got up to turn off the television and took a tumble. I don’t remember what caused me to fall. One second I was up, the next I was down.” His voice was raspy and weak. While Henry talked to him, I went into the kitchen and filled a glass with water from the tap. I made a point of blanking out my view of the room, which was worse than the other rooms I’d seen. How could someone live in such filth? I did a quick search through the kitchen drawers, but there wasn’t a clean towel or dishrag to be found. Before I returned to the living room, I opened the back door and left it ajar, hoping the fresh air would dispel the sour smell that hung over everything. I handed the water glass to Henry and watched while he pulled a fresh handkerchief from his pocket. He saturated the linen with water and dabbed it on Gus’s dry lips.

Three minutes later, I heard the high-wailing siren of the ambulance turning onto our street. I went to the door and watched as the driver double-parked and got out with the two additional paramedics who had ridden in the back. A bright red Fire Rescue vehicle pulled up behind, spilling EMT personnel as well. The flashing red lights were oddly syncopated, a stuttering of red. I held the door open, admitting three young men and two women in blue shirts with patches on their sleeves. The first guy carried their gear, probably ten to fifteen pounds’ worth, including an EKG monitor, defibrillator, and pulse oximeter. One of the women toted an ALS jump bag, which I knew contained drugs and an intubation set.

I took a moment to close and lock the back door, and then waited on the front porch while the paramedics went about their business. This was a job where they spent much of their time on their knees. Through the open door I could hear the comforting murmur of questions and Gus’s tremulous replies. I didn’t want to be present when the time came to move him. One more of his yelps and they’d be tending to me.

Henry joined me a moment later and the two of us retreated to the street. Neighbors were scattered along the sidewalk, attentive in the wake of this undefined emergency. Henry chatted with Moza Lowenstein, who lived two houses down. Since Gus’s injuries weren’t life-threatening, we could talk among ourselves without any sense of disrespect. It took an additional fifteen minutes before Gus was loaded into the back of the ambulance. By then, he was on an IV line.

Henry consulted with the driver, a hefty dark-haired man in his thirties, who told us they were taking Gus to the emergency room at Santa Teresa Hospital, referred to fondly by most of us as “St. Terry’s.”

Henry said he’d follow in his car. “Are you coming?”

“I can’t. I have to go on to work. Will you call me later?”

“Of course. I’ll give you a buzz as soon as I know what’s going on.”

I waited until the ambulance departed and Henry had backed out of his drive before I got in my car.

On the way into town, I stopped off at an attorney’s office and picked up an Order to Show Cause notifying a noncustodial spouse that a modification of child support was being sought. The ex-husband was a Robert Vest, whom I was already fondly thinking of as “Bob.” Our Bob was a freelance tax consultant working from his home in Colgate. I checked my watch, and since it was only a few minutes after ten, I headed to his place in hopes of catching him at his desk.

I found his house and passed at a slightly slower speed than normal, then circled back and parked on the opposite side of the street. Both the driveway and the carport were empty. I put the papers in my bag, crossed, and climbed his front steps to the porch. The morning newspaper lay on the mat, suggesting that Bobby wasn’t yet up. Might have had a late night. I knocked and waited. Two minutes passed. I knocked again, more emphatically. Still no response. I edged to my right and took a quick peep in the window. I could see past his dining room table and into the darkened kitchen beyond. The place had that glum air of emptiness. I returned to my car, made a note of the date and time of the attempt, and went on to the office.

3

SOLANA

Six weeks after the Other left her job, she gave notice herself. This was a graduation day of sorts. It was time to say good-bye to her work as a lowly nurse’s aide and advance her career as a newly credentialed LVN. Though no one else knew it, there was now a new Solana Rojas in the world, living a parallel life in the same community. Some people saw Santa Teresa as a small town, but Solana knew she could go about her business without much risk of running into her namesake. She’d done it before with surprising ease.

She’d acquired two new credit cards in Solana Rojas’s name, substituting her own street address. To her way of thinking, her use of the Other’s license and credit wasn’t fraudulent. She wouldn’t dream of charging merchandise that she didn’t intend to pay for. Far from it. She took care of her bills the minute they came in. She might not cover the entire outstanding balance, but she was prompt about writing her newly printed checks and mailing them off. She couldn’t afford to be in arrears, because she knew if an account was turned over to a collection agency, her duplicity might come to light. This would never do. There must be no black marks against the Other’s name.

The only tiny snag she could see was that the Other’s cursive was distinct and her signature impossible to duplicate. Solana had tried, but she couldn’t master the slapdash way of it. She worried that some overzealous store clerk would compare her signature to the miniature signature reproduced on the Other’s license. To avoid questions arising, she carried a wrist brace in her purse and strapped it around her right wrist before she shopped. This allowed her to claim carpal tunnel syndrome, which netted her sympathy instead of suspicion at her clumsy approximation of the Other’s signature.

Even then, there’d been a close call at a department store downtown. As a treat, she was buying brand-new sheets, a new spread, and two down pillows, which she’d taken to the counter in the linen department. The saleswoman had rung up the items, and when she glanced at the name on the credit card, she looked up with surprise. “I can’t believe this. I just waited on a Solana Rojas less than ten minutes ago.”

Solana smiled and waved aside the coincidence. “That happens all the time. There are three of us in town with the same first and last names. Everybody gets us mixed up.”

“I can imagine,” the saleswoman said. “It must be irksome.”

“It’s really no big deal, though it’s comical sometimes.”

The saleswoman glanced at the credit card, her tone of voice pleasant. “May I see some ID?”

“Absolutely,” Solana said. She opened her handbag and made a show of rooting through the contents. She realized in a flash that she didn’t dare show the woman the stolen driver’s license when the Other had just been there. By now, the Other would have a duplicate license in her possession. If she’d used it for identification purposes, the saleswoman would be looking at the same one twice.

She stopped searching through the bag, her tone perplexed. “For heaven’s sake. My wallet’s gone. I can’t think where I could have left it.”

“Did you do any other shopping before you came here?”

“You know what? I did. I remember now I took out my wallet and put it on the counter when I was buying a pair of shoes. I was sure I picked it up again because I took out my credit card, but I must have left it behind.”

The saleswoman reached for the phone. “I’ll be happy to check with the shoe department. They’re probably holding it.”

“Oh, it wasn’t here. It was in a store down the street. Well, no matter. Why don’t you set these aside and I’ll pick them up and pay for them as soon as I have my wallet back.”

“Not a problem. I’ll have your purchases right here.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”

She left the store, abandoning the bedding, which she ended up buying at a shopping mall miles from downtown. The encounter frightened her more than she cared to admit. She gave the matter a great deal of thought in the days that followed and finally decided there was too much at stake to take chances. She went down to the hall of records and got a duplicate of the Other’s birth certificate. Then she went to the DMV and applied for a driver’s license under the name Solana Rojas, using her own Colgate address. She reasoned that there was surely more than one Solana Rojas in the world, just as there was more than one John Smith. She told the clerk her husband had died and she’d just learned to drive. She had to take a written exam and go through the motions of a driving test with an officious fellow sitting next to her, but she’d passed both with ease. She’d signed the forms and had her photo taken, and in return, she was given a temporary license until the permanent one could be processed in Sacramento and sent to her by mail.

That done, she had another perhaps more practical matter to address. She had money, but she didn’t want to use it to support herself. She kept a secret stash in case she wanted to disappear—which she knew she would at some point—but she needed a regular income. After all, she had her son, Tiny, to provide for. A job was essential. To that end, she’d been combing the classifieds day after day for weeks without luck. There were more jobs for machinists, house cleaners, and day laborers than there were for health care professionals, and she resented the implications. She’d worked hard to get where she was, and now it appeared that there was no demand for her services.

Two families were advertising for live-in child care. One specified experience with infants and toddlers, and the other made mention of a preschool-age child. In both instances, the ads said Mom was working outside the home. What kind of person opened her door to anyone who was bright enough to read? Women these days had no sense. They behaved as though mothering was beneath them, a trivial job that could be meted out to any stranger walking in off the street. Didn’t it occur to them that a pedophile could check the paper in the morning and have himself ensconced with his latest victim by the end of the day? All the attention paid to references and background checks was meaningless. These women were desperate and would snap up anyone who was polite and looked halfway presentable. If Solana were willing to settle for long hours and bad pay, she’d apply for those positions herself. As it was, she’d set her sights on something better.

She had Tiny to consider. The two of them had shared the same humble apartment for close to ten years. He was the object of much discussion among her siblings, who saw him as spoiled, irresponsible, and manipulative. The boy’s given name was Tomasso. In the wake of his thirteen-pound-six-ounce arrival, she’d suffered an infection in her female parts, which had cured her of both the desire for other children and the ability to bear them. He was a beautiful infant, but the pediatrician who examined him at birth said he was defective. She couldn’t remember the term for it now, but she’d ignored the doctor’s somber words. Despite her son’s size, his cry was feeble and mewing. He was listless, with poor reflexes and very little muscle control. He had difficulty sucking and swallowing, which created feeding problems. The doctor told her the boy would be better off in an institution, where he could be cared for by those accustomed to children like him. She was having none of it. The child needed her. He was the light and joy of her life, and if he had problems, she’d find a way to deal with them.

Before he was a week old, one of her brothers had tagged him with the nickname “Tiny,” and he’d been known by that name since. She thought of him fondly as “Tonto,” which seemed fitting. Like the Tonto in old Western movies, he was her tagalong, a loyal and faithful side-kick. He was thirty-five years old now, with a flat nose, deep-set eyes, and a smooth baby face. He wore his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, exposing ears set low on his head. He wasn’t an easy child, but she’d devoted her life to him.

By the time he was in the special-education equivalent of sixth grade, he weighed 180 pounds and had a doctor’s standing order excusing him from PE. He was hyperactive and aggressive, given to temper tantrums and destructiveness when thwarted. He’d done poorly through grade school and junior high because he suffered a learning disorder that made reading difficult. More than one school counselor suggested he was mildly retarded, but Solana scoffed. If he had trouble concentrating in class, why blame him? It was the teacher’s fault for not doing her job better. It was true he had a speech problem, but she had no trouble understanding him. He’d been held back twice—in the fourth grade and again in the eighth—and finally dropped out in his sophomore year of high school the day he turned eighteen. His interests were limited, and this, coupled with his size, precluded his holding a regular job, or any kind of job at all. He was strong and useful, but he really wasn’t cut out for much in the way of work. She was his sole support and that suited them both.

She turned the page and checked the “Help Wanted.” She missed the ad at first glance, but something made her scan the entries again. There it was, near the top, a ten-line ad for a part-time private-duty nurse for an elderly female dementia patient who needed skilled care. “Dependable, reliable, own transportation,” the ad read. Not a word about honest. There was an address and phone number listed. She’d see what information she could solicit before she actually went out for an interview. She liked having the opportunity to evaluate the situation in advance so she could decide if it was worth her while.

She picked up the phone and dialed the number.

4

At 10:45 I had an appointment to discuss a case that was actually my prime concern. The week before, I’d had a call from an attorney named Lowell Effinger, who was representing the defendant in a personal-injury suit filed as the result of a two-car accident seven months earlier. The previous May, on the Thursday before the Memorial Day weekend, his client, Lisa Ray, driving her white 1973 Dodge Dart, had been making a left-hand turn out of one of the City College parking lots when she was struck by an oncoming van. Lisa Ray’s vehicle was badly damaged. Police and paramedics were called. Lisa suffered a bump to the head. The paramedics examined her and suggested a trip to the ER at St. Terry’s. Though shaken and upset, she declined medical assistance. Apparently, she couldn’t bear the idea of waiting hours, just to be sent home with a set of cautions and a prescription for a mild pain reliever. They told her what to watch for in terms of a possible concussion and advised her to see her own physician if needed.

The driver of the van, Millard Fredrickson, was rattled but essentially unhurt. His wife, Gladys, sustained the bulk of the injuries, and she insisted on being taken to St. Terry’s, where the findings of the ER physician indicated a concussion, severe contusions, and soft-tissue injuries to her neck and lower back. An MRI revealed torn ligaments in her right leg, and subsequent X-rays showed a cracked pelvis and two cracked ribs. She was treated and referred to an orthopedist for follow-up.

That same day, Lisa had notified her insurance agent, who passed on the information to the adjuster at California Fidelity Insurance, with whom (coincidentally) I’d once shared office space. On Friday, the day after the accident, the adjuster, Mary Bellflower, had contacted Lisa and taken her statement. According to the police report, Lisa was at fault since she was responsible for making the left turn safely. Mary went out to the accident site and took photographs. She also photographed the damage to both vehicles, then told Lisa to go ahead and get estimates for the repair work. She thought the car was beyond help, but she wanted the figures for her records.

Four months later, the Fredricksons filed suit. I’d seen a copy of the complaint, which contained sufficient whereases and wherefores to scare the pants off your average citizen. Plaintiff was said to be “injured in her health, strength, and activity, sustaining serious and permanent physical injury to her body, shock and emotional injuries to her person, which have caused and will continue to cause Plaintiff great emotional distress and mental and physical pain and suffering, subsequently resulting in loss of consortium…(and so on and so forth). Plaintiff is seeking damages including but not limited to, past and future medical expenses, lost wages, and any and all incidental expenses and compensatory damages as permitted by law.”

Plaintiff’s attorney, Hetty Buckwald, seemed to think a million dollars, with that comforting trail of zeros, would be sufficient to soothe and assuage her client’s many agonies. I’d seen Hetty a couple of times in court when I was there on other matters, and I generally came away hoping I’d never have occasion to come up against her. She was short and chunky, a woman in her late fifties with an aggressive manner and no sense of humor. I couldn’t imagine what had left her with such a chip on her shoulder. She treated opposing attorneys like scum and the poor defendant like someone who ate babies for sport.

Ordinarily, CFI would have assigned one of its attorneys to defend such a suit, but Lisa Ray was convinced she’d do better with a lawyer of her own. She was adamant about not settling and she’d asked Lowell Effinger to represent her, sensing perhaps that CFI might roll over and play dead. Police report to the contrary, Lisa Ray swore she wasn’t at fault. She claimed Millard Fredrickson was speeding and that Gladys wasn’t wearing her seat belt, which was, in itself, a violation of California traffic law.

The file I’d picked up from Lowell Effinger contained copies of numerous documents: Defendant’s Request for Production of Documents, Supplemental Request for Production of Documents, medical records from the hospital emergency room, and reports from the various medical personnel who’d treated Gladys Fredrickson. There were also copies of the depositions taken from Gladys Fredrickson; her husband, Millard; and the defendant, Lisa Ray. I did a quick study of the police report and leafed through the transcripts of Interrogatories. I took my time over the photographs and the sketch of the site, which showed the relative positions of the two vehicles, before and after the collision. At issue, from my perspective, was a witness to the accident, whose comments at the time suggested he supported Lisa Ray’s account of the event. I told Effinger I’d look into it and then turned around and set up the midmorning meeting with Mary Bellflower.

Before I walked through the California Fidelity Insurance offices, I donned my mental and emotional blinders. I’d worked here once upon a time and my relationship with the company had not ended well. The arrangement was one whereby I was given office space in exchange for investigating arson and wrongful-death claims. Mary Bellflower was a recent hire in those days, a newly married twenty-four-year-old with a fresh, pretty face and a sharp mind. Now she had four years’ experience under her belt and she was a pleasure to deal with. I checked her desktop as I sat down, looking for framed photos of her husband, Peter, and any small tykes she might have given birth to in the interim. None were in evidence and I wondered what kind of luck she’d had with her baby plans. I thought it best not to inquire so I got on with the business at hand.

“So what’s the deal here?” I’d asked. “Is Gladys Fredrickson for real?”

“It looks that way. Aside from the obvious—cracked ribs, cracked pelvis, and torn ligaments—you’re talking about soft-tissue injuries, which are difficult to prove.”

“All this from a fender-bender?”

“I’m afraid so. Low-impact collisions can be more serious than you’d think. The right front fender of the Fredricksons’ van struck the left side of Lisa Ray’s car with sufficient force that it spun both vehicles in a postcollision rotation. There was a second impact when Lisa’s right rear fender came in contact with the van’s left rear fender.”

“I get the general idea.”

“Right. These physicians are all doctors we’ve dealt with before, and there’s no hint of fraudulent diagnoses or padded bills. If the police hadn’t cited Lisa, we’d be a lot more inclined to dig in our heels. I’m not saying we won’t fight, but she’s clearly in the wrong. I sent the claim on up the line so ICPI could take a look. If the plaintiff is claim-happy, her name should show up in their database. On a minor note—and we don’t think it pertains to this situation—Millard Fredrickson was handicapped in an automobile accident some years ago. Talk about someone plagued by misfortune.”

Mary went on to say she thought Gladys would end up accepting a hundred thousand dollars, not including her medical expenses, a bargain from the company’s perspective as they could sidestep the threat of a jury trial with its attendant risks.

I said, “A million bucks reduced to a hundred grand? That’s a hefty discount.”

“We see it all the time. The attorney tacks on a big price tag so the settlement will look like a good deal to us.”

“Why settle at all? Maybe if you stand your ground the woman will back off. How do you know she’s not exaggerating?”

“Possible, but not likely. She’s sixty-three years old and overweight, which is a contributing factor. With the office visits, physical therapy, chiropractic appointments, and all the medications she’s on, she’s not able to work. The doctor’s suggesting the disability may be permanent, which is going to add yet another headache.”

“What kind of work does she do? I didn’t see it mentioned.”

“It’s in there somewhere. She does billing for an assortment of small businesses.”

“Doesn’t sound lucrative. How much does she make?”

“Twenty-five thousand a year, according to her. Her tax returns are privileged, but her attorney says she can produce invoices and receipts to back up her claim.”

“And Lisa Ray says what?”

“She saw the van approach, but she felt she had ample time to make the turn, especially since Millard Fredrickson had activated his right-turn signal and slowed. Lisa started into the turn and the next thing she knew the van was bearing down on her. He estimated his speed at less than ten miles an hour, but that’s nothing to sniff at when a thirty-two-hundred-pound vehicle is banging into you. Lisa saw what was coming but couldn’t get out of the way. Millard swears it was the other way around. He says he slammed on his brakes, but Lisa had pulled out so abruptly there was no way to avoid plowing into her.”

“What about the witness? Have you talked to him?”

“Well, no. That’s just it. He’s never turned up, and Lisa has precious little in the way of information. ‘Old guy with white hair in a brown leather bomber jacket’ is as much as she recalls.”

“The cop at the scene didn’t take his name and address?”

“Nope, nor did anyone else. He’d disappeared by the time the police arrived. We posted notices in the area and we ran ads in the ‘Personals’ section of the classifieds. So far no response.”

“I’ll meet with Lisa myself and then get back to you. Maybe she’ll remember something I can use to track this guy down.”

“Let’s hope. A jury trial’s a nightmare. We end up in court and I can just about guarantee Gladys will show up in a wheelchair, wearing a collar and a nasty-looking leg brace. All she has to do is drool on herself and that’s a million bucks right there.”

“I hear you,” I said. I went back to the office, where I caught up with paperwork.

There are two items I suppose I should mention at this point: (1) Instead of my 1974 VW sedan, I’m now driving a 1970 Ford Mustang, manual transmission, which is what I prefer. It’s a two-door coupe, with a front spoiler, wide-track tires, and the biggest hood scoop ever placed on a production Mustang. When you own a Boss 429, you learn to talk this way. My beloved pale blue Bug had been shoved nose-first into a deep hole on the last case I worked. I should have bulldozed the dirt in on top and buried it right there, but the insurance company insisted that I have it hauled out so they could tell me it was totaled: no big surprise when the hood was jammed up against the shattered windshield, which was resting on or about the backseat.

I’d spotted the Mustang at a used-car lot and bought it the same day, picturing the perfect vehicle for surveillance work. What was I thinking? Even with the gaudy Grabber Blue exterior, I’d assumed the aging vehicle would fade into the landscape. Silly me. For the first two months, every third guy I met would stop me on the street to have a chat about the hemi-head V-8 engine originally developed for use in NASCAR racing. By the time I realized how conspicuous the car was, I was in love with it myself and I couldn’t bear to trade it in.

(2) Later, when you watch my troubles begin to mount, you’ll wonder why I didn’t turn to Cheney Phillips, my erstwhile boyfriend, who works for the Santa Teresa Police Department—“erstwhile” meaning “former,” but I’ll get to that in a bit. I did call him eventually, but by then I was already in the soup.

5

I have my office in a little two-room bungalow with a bath and kitchenette, located on a narrow side street in downtown Santa Teresa. It’s in walking distance of the courthouse, but more importantly it’s cheap. My unit is the middle one of three, set in a squat row like the cottages of the Three Little Pigs. The property is perpetually for sale, which means I could be evicted if a buyer comes along.

After Cheney and I broke up, I won’t say I was depressed, but I really didn’t feel like exerting myself. I hadn’t run for weeks. Perhaps “run” is too kind a word, as running is properly defined as six miles an hour. What I do is a slow jog, which is better than a brisk walk, but not by much.

I’m thirty-seven years old and many women I know were whining about weight gain as a side effect of aging, a phenomenon I was hoping to avoid. I had to concede that my eating habits were not what they should have been. I devour a lot of fast food, specifically McDonald’s Quarter Pounders with Cheese, while simultaneously consuming fewer than nine servings of fresh fruits and vegetables daily (actually, fewer than one, unless you want to count the french fries). In the wake of Cheney’s departure, I’d been driving up to the take-out window more often than was good for me. The time had now come to shake off the blues and take myself in hand. I vowed, as I did almost every morning, to start jogging again first thing the next day.

Between phone calls and clerical work, I made it to the noon hour. For lunch, I had a carton of nonfat cottage cheese with a dollop of salsa so fierce it brought tears to my eyes. From the time I removed the lid until I tossed the empty container in the trash, the meal took less than two minutes—twice as long as it took me to consume a QP with Cheese.

At 1:00 I got in my Mustang and drove over to the law firm of Kingman and Ives. Lonnie Kingman is my attorney, who’d also rented me office space after I’d been relieved of the position with California Fidelity Insurance that I’d enjoyed for seven years. I won’t go into the humiliating details of my being fired. Once I was out on the street, Lonnie offered me the use of an empty conference room, providing a temporary haven in which I could lick my wounds and regroup. Thirty-eight months later, I opened an office on my own.

Lonnie was hiring me to serve an Ex Parte Order of Protection on a Perdido man named Vinnie Mohr, whose wife had accused him of stalking, threats, and physical violence. Lonnie thought his hostility might be defused if I delivered the restraining order instead of a uniformed deputy from the county sheriff’s office.

“How dangerous is this guy?”

“Not that bad unless he’s drinking. Then anything can set him off. Do what you can, but if you don’t like the feel of it, we’ll try something else. In an odd way he’s chivalrous…or at any rate, partial to cute girls.”

“I’m neither cute nor girlish, but I appreciate the thought.”

I checked the paperwork, making sure I had the correct address. In the car again, I consulted my Thomas Guide to Santa Teresa and San Luis Obispo Counties Streets, flipping from page to page until I’d pinpointed my destination. I took surface streets to the closest freeway on-ramp and headed south on the 101. There was very little traffic and the drive to Perdido took nineteen minutes instead of the usual twenty-six. There’s no nice reason I can think of to be dragged into court, but by law a defendant in a criminal or civil suit must be given proper notice. I delivered summonses, subpoenas, garnishments, and assorted court orders, preferably by hand, though there were other ways to get the job done—by touch and by refusal being two.

The address I was looking for was on Calcutta Street in midtown Perdido. The house was a sullen-looking green stucco with a sheet of plywood nailed across the picture window in front. In addition to breaking the window, someone (no doubt Vinnie) had kicked a big knee-high hole in the hollow-core front door and then ripped it off its hinges. A series of strategically placed two-by-fours had since been nailed across the frame, rendering the door impossible to use. I knocked and then bent down and peered through the hole, which allowed me to see a man approaching from the other side. He wore jeans and had thin knees. When he leaned toward the hole on his side of the door, all I could see of his face was his stubble-covered cleft chin, his mouth, and a row of crooked bottom teeth. “Yeah?”

“Are you Vinnie Mohr?”

He withdrew. There was a brief silence and then a muffled reply. “Depends on who’s asking.”

“My name’s Millhone. I have papers for you.”

“What kind of papers?” His tone was dull but not belligerent. Fumes were already wafting through the ragged hole: bourbon, cigarettes, and Juicy Fruit gum.

“It’s a restraining order. You’re not supposed to abuse, molest, threaten, stalk, or disturb your wife in any way.”

“Do what?”

“You have to stay away from her. You can’t contact her by phone or by mail. There’s a hearing next Friday and you’re required to appear.”

“Oh.”

“Could you show me some ID?”

“Like what?”

“A driver’s license would suffice.”

“Mine’s expired.”

“As long as it bears your name, address, and likeness, that’s good enough,” I said.

“Okay.” There was a pause and then he pressed his license against the hole. I recognized the cleft chin, but the rest of his face was a surprise. He was not a bad-looking guy—a bit squinty through the eyes, but I couldn’t afford to be judgmental as the photo on my driver’s license makes me look like I top the list of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted.

I said, “You want to open the door or should I put the papers through the hole?”

“Hole, I guess. Man, I don’t know what she said, but she’s a lying bitch. Anyways, she drove me to it, so I’m the one should be filing papers on her.”

“You can tell the judge your side of it in court. Maybe he’ll agree,” I said. I rolled the papers into a cylinder and pushed them through the hole. I could hear paper crackle on the other side as the document was unfurled.

“Hey, come on now! Dang. I never did what’s wrote here. Where’d she get this? She’s the one hit me, not the other way around.” Vinnie was assuming the “victim” role, a time-honored move for those who hope to claim the upper hand.

“Sorry I can’t help you, Mr. Mohr, but you take care.”

“Yeah. You, too. You sound cute.”

“I’m adorable. Thanks for your cooperation.”

In the car again, I logged the time I’d spent and the mileage on my car.

I drove back into downtown Santa Teresa and parked in a lot near a notary’s office. I took a few minutes to fill out the affidavit of service, then went into the office, where I signed the return and had it notarized. I borrowed the notary’s fax machine and made two copies, then walked over to the courthouse. I had the documents file-stamped and left the original with the clerk. One copy I retained and the other I’d return to Lonnie for his files.

Once in my office again, I found a call from Henry waiting on my machine. The message was brief and required no reply. “Hi, Kinsey. It’s a little after one and I just got home. The doctor popped Gus’s shoulder back in, but they decided to admit him anyway, at least for tonight. No broken bones, but he’s still in a lot of pain. I’ll go over to his house first thing tomorrow morning and do some cleaning so it won’t be so disgusting when he gets home. If you want to pitch in, great. Otherwise, no problem. Don’t forget cocktails after work today. We can talk about it then.”

I checked my calendar, but I knew without looking that Tuesday morning was clear. I diddled at my desk for the rest of the afternoon. At 5:10, I locked up and went home.

A sleek black 1987 Cadillac was parked in my usual spot in front so I was forced to cruise the area until I found a stretch of empty curb half a block away. I locked the Mustang and walked back. As I passed the Cadillac, I noted the license plate, which read I SELL 4 U. The car had to be Charlotte Snyder’s, the woman Henry’d dated off and on for the past two months. Her real estate success was the first thing he’d mentioned when he’d decided to pursue the acquaintance.

I went around to the rear patio and let myself into my studio apartment. There were no messages on my home machine and no mail worth opening. I took a minute to freshen up and then crossed the patio to Henry’s place to meet the latest woman in his life. Not that he’d had many. Dating was new behavior for him.

The previous spring, he’d been smitten with the art director on a Caribbean cruise he took. His relationship with Mattie Halstead hadn’t worked out, but Henry had bounced back, realizing in the process that female companionship, even at his age, wasn’t such a terrible idea. A number of other women on the cruise had taken a shine to him and he’d decided to contact two who were living within geographic range. The first, Isabelle Hammond, was eighty years old. She was a former English teacher, still the subject of legend at Santa Teresa High School when I attended some twenty years after she retired. She loved to dance and she was passionate about reading. She and Henry had gone out on several occasions, but she’d quickly decided the chemistry was off. Isabelle was looking for sparks, and Henry, while flinty, had failed to ignite her flame. This she told him straight out, greatly offending him. He believed men should do the wooing, and, further, that courtship should proceed with courtesy and restraint. Isabelle was cheerfully aggressive and it soon became clear the two of them were ill-suited. In my opinion, the woman was a nincompoop.

Now Charlotte Snyder had entered the picture. She lived twenty-five miles south, just past Perdido, in the seaside community of Olvidado. At age seventy-eight, she was still active in the workplace and apparently showed no inclination to retire. Henry had invited her for drinks at his house and then for dinner at a lovely neighborhood restaurant called Emile’s-at-the-Beach. He’d asked me to join them for cocktails so I could check her out. If I didn’t think Charlotte was suitable, he wanted to know. I thought the assessment was his to make, but he’d asked for my opinion, so that’s what I’d be there to give.

Henry’s kitchen door was open, his screen on the latch, so I could hear them laughing and chatting as I approached. I picked up the scent of yeast, cinnamon, and hot sugar, and guessed, correctly as it turned out, that Henry had dealt with his predate nerves by baking a pan of sweet rolls. In his working days he was a baker by trade, and as long as I’ve known him, his skills have never ceased to amaze. I tapped on the screen and he let me in. He’d dressed up for his date, exchanging his usual shorts and flip-flops for loafers, tan slacks, and a short-sleeved sky blue dress shirt that exactly matched his eyes.

I gave Charlotte high marks on sight. Like Henry, she was trim and she dressed with classic good taste: a tweed skirt, white silk blouse over which she wore a yellow crewneck sweater. Her hair was a soft reddish brown, cut short, expensively dyed, and brushed away from her face. I could tell she’d had her eyes done, but I didn’t write it off to vanity. The woman was in sales, and her personal appearance was as much an asset as her experience. She looked like someone who could walk you through an escrow without a hitch. If I’d been in the market for a house, I’d have bought one from her.

She was leaning against the kitchen counter. Henry’d fixed her a vodka and tonic while he was having his usual Jack Daniel’s over ice. He’d opened a bottle of Chardonnay for me and he poured me a glass as soon as Charlotte and I had been introduced. He’d set out a bowl of nuts and a tray of cheese and crackers, with clusters of grapes tucked here and there.

I said, “While I’m thinking about it, Henry, I’d be happy to help you clean tomorrow if we can finish before noon.”

“Perfect. I’ve already told Charlotte about Gus.”

Charlotte said, “Poor old guy. How’s he going to manage when he gets home?”

“That’s what the doctor asked. He’s not going to release him unless he has help,” he said.

“Does he have any family left?” I asked.

“Not that I’ve heard. Rosie might know. He talks to her every other week or so, mostly to complain about the rest of us.”

“I’ll ask when I see her,” I said.

Charlotte and I went through the usual exchange of small talk, and when the subject shifted to real estate, she became more animated. “I was telling Henry how much these older homes have appreciated in recent years. Before I left the office, just out of curiosity, I checked the MLS for properties in the area and the median price—median, mind you—was six hundred thousand. A single-family residence like this one would probably sell for close to eight, especially since it has a rental attached.”

Henry smiled. “She says I’m sitting on a gold mine. I paid ten-five for this place in 1945, convinced it was going to put me in the poor house.”

“Henry’s offered me a tour. I hope you don’t mind if we take a minute for that.”

“Go right ahead. I’ll be fine.”

The two left the kitchen, moving through the dining room to the living room. I could track their progress as he showed her through the place, the conversation becoming largely inaudible when they reached the bedroom he used as a den. He had two other bedrooms, one facing the street, the other looking out onto his garden in the rear. There were two full baths and a half-bath off the entrance. I could tell she was being complimentary, exclaiming in a way that probably had some dollar signs attached.

When they returned to the kitchen, the subject segued from real estate to housing starts and economic trends. She could talk downturns, yields on government bonds, and consumer confidence with the best of them. I was a teeny tiny bit intimidated by her confidence, but that was my problem, not his.

We finished our drinks, and Henry put the empty glasses in the sink while Charlotte excused herself and retreated to the nearest bathroom. He said, “What do you think?”

“I like her. She’s smart.”

“Good. She seems nice and she’s well informed—qualities I appreciate.”

“Me, too,” I said.

When Charlotte returned, her lipstick had been brightened and she had a fresh dusting of blusher on her cheeks. She gathered her handbag and the two of us preceded Henry out the door, allowing him a moment to lock up.

“Could we take a quick look at the studio? Henry told me he designed the space and I’d love to see what he did.”

I made a face. “I should probably tidy up first. I’m a neatnik by nature, but I’ve been gone all day.” In truth, I didn’t want her casing the joint, calculating how much the studio would add to the asking price if she persuaded him to sell.

“How long have you been renting?”

“Seven years. I love the location and Henry’s the perfect landlord. The beach is half a block that way and my office downtown is only ten minutes from here.”

“But if you owned your own home, think of the equity you’d have built up by now.”

“I understand the advantages, but my income is up and down and I don’t want to be saddled with a mortgage. I’m happy to let Henry worry about taxes and upkeep.”

Charlotte gave me a look—too polite to express her skepticism at my shortsightedness.

As I left them, she and Henry had taken up their conversation. She was talking about rental properties, using the equity from his place as leverage for a triplex she’d just listed in Olvidado, where housing wasn’t so expensive. She said the units needed work, but if he made the necessary improvements and then flipped the place, he’d net a tidy profit, which he could then reinvest. I tried not to shriek in alarm, but I sincerely hoped she wasn’t going to talk him into something absurd.

Maybe I didn’t like her quite as much as I thought.

6

Under ordinary circumstances, I’d have walked the half block to Rosie’s Tavern to eat supper that night. She’s Hungarian and cooks accordingly, leaning heavily on sour cream, dumplings, strudels, creamed soups, cheesy noodles, cabbage-related side dishes, plus your choice of beef or pork cubes cooked for hours and served with tangy horseradish sauce. I was hoping she’d know whether Gus Vronsky had relatives in the area and if so, how to make contact. Given my newfound goal of better balanced meals and more wholesome nutrition, I decided to postpone the conversation until after I’d eaten supper.

My evening meal consisted of a peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwich on whole wheat bread with a handful of corn chips, which I’m almost certain could be considered a grain. I grant you peanut butter is nearly 100 percent fat, but it’s still a good source of protein. Further, there was bound to be a culture somewhere that classified a bread-and-butter pickle as a vegetable. For dessert, I treated myself to a handful of grapes. The latter I ate while I lay on my sofa and brooded about Cheney Phillips, whom I’d dated for two months. Longevity has never been my strong suit.

Cheney was adorable, but “cute” isn’t sufficient to sustain a relationship. I’m difficult. I know this. I was raised by a maiden aunt who thought to foster my independence by giving me a dollar every Saturday and Sunday morning, and turning me out on my own. I did learn to ride the bus from one end of town to the other and I could cheat my way into two movies for the price of one, but she wasn’t big on companionship, and because of that, being “close” makes me sweaty and short of breath.

I’d noticed that the longer Cheney and I dated, the more I was entertaining fantasies of Robert Dietz, a man I hadn’t heard from in two years. What that told me was that I preferred to bond with someone who was always out of town. Cheney was a cop. He liked action, a fast pace, and the company of others, where I prefer to be alone. For me, small talk is hard work and groups of any size wear me down.

Cheney was a man who started many projects and finished none. During the time we were together, his floors were perpetually covered with drop cloths and the air smelled of fresh paint though I never saw him lift a brush. The hardware had been removed from all the interior doors, which meant you had to stick your finger through a hole and pull when you passed from room to room. Behind his two-car garage he had a truck up on blocks. It was out of sight and the neighbors had no complaints, but the same crescent wrench had been rained on so often the rust formed a wrench-shaped pattern on the drive.

I like closure. It drives me nuts to see a cabinet door left ajar. I like to plan. I prepare in advance and leave nothing to chance, while Cheney fancies himself a free spirit, taking life on the wing. At the same time, I buy on impulse, and Cheney spends weeks doing market research. He likes thinking aloud whereas I get bored with debates about matters in which I have no vested interest. It wasn’t that his way was any better or worse than mine. We were simply different in areas we couldn’t negotiate. I finally leveled with him in a conversation so painful that it doesn’t bear repeating. I still don’t believe he was as wounded as he led me to believe. On some level, he must have been relieved, because he couldn’t have enjoyed the friction any more than I did. Now that we’d split, what I loved was the sudden quiet in my head, the sense of autonomy, the freedom from social obligations. Best was the pleasure of turning over in bed without bumping into someone else.

At 7:15 I roused myself from the sofa and tossed out the napkin I was using as a dinner plate. I rounded up my shoulder bag and jacket, locked my door, and walked the half block to Rosie’s. Her tavern is a homely mix of restaurant, pub, and neighborhood watering hole. I say “homely” because the rambling space is largely unadorned. The bar looks like every other bar you ever saw in your life—a brass foot rail along the front and liquor bottles against mirrored shelves behind. On the wall above the bar there’s a big stuffed marlin with a jockstrap hanging from its spike. This unsavory garment was tossed there by a sports rowdy in a game of chance that Rosie has since discouraged.

Crude booths line two walls, their plywood sections hammered together and stained a dark sticky hue. The remaining tables and chairs are of garage-sale quality, mismatched Formica and chrome with the occasional short leg. Happily, the lighting is bad, so many of the flaws don’t show. The air smells of beer, sautéed onions, and certain unidentified Hungarian spices. Absent now is the cigarette smoke, which Rosie’d banished the year before.

As this was still early in the week, the drinking population was sparse. Above the bar, the television set was tuned to Wheel of Fortune with the sound on mute. Instead of sitting in my usual booth at the back, I perched on a barstool and waited for Rosie to emerge from the kitchen. Her husband, William, poured me a glass of Chardonnay and set it down in front of me. Like his brother, Henry, he’s tall, but much more formal in his attire, favoring highly polished lace-up shoes while Henry prefers flip-flops.

William had removed his suit jacket and he’d made cuffs out of paper toweling, secured with rubber bands, to save the snow white sleeves of his dress shirt.

I said, “Hey, William. We haven’t chatted in ages. How’re you doing?”

“I’ve a bit of chest congestion, but I’m hoping to avoid a full-blown upper-respiratory infection,” he said. He took a packet from his pants pocket and popped a tablet in his mouth, saying, “Zinc lozenges.”

“Good deal.”

William was a bellwether of minor illnesses, which he took very seriously lest they carry him off. He wasn’t as bad as he’d once been, but he kept a keen eye out for anyone’s imminent demise. “I hear Gus is in a bad way,” he remarked.

“Bruised and battered, but aside from that, he’s fine.”

“Don’t be too sure,” he said. “A fall like that can lead to complications. A fellow might seem fine, but once he’s laid up in bed, pneumonia sets in. Blood clot’s another risk, not to mention a staph infection, which can take you out just like that.”

The snap of William’s fingers put an end to any misplaced optimism on my part. Gus was as good as buried as far as William was concerned. William stood at the ready when it came to death. In large part, Rosie had cured him of his hypochondria in that her culinary zeal generated sufficient indigestion to keep his imaginary ills at bay. He still leaned toward depression and found there was nothing quite like a funeral to provide a temporary emotional boost. Who could fault the man? At his age, he’d be hard-hearted indeed not to experience a little lift at the sight of a newly departed friend.

I said, “I’m more worried about what happens when Gus gets home. He’ll be out of commission for a couple of weeks.”

“If not longer.”

“Right. We were hoping Rosie knew of a family member who’d agree to look after him.”

“I wouldn’t count on relatives. The man is eighty-nine years old.”

“The same age as you, and you’ve got four living siblings, three of them in their nineties.”

“But we’re from hardier stock. Gus Vronsky smoked most of his life. Still does for all we know. Your best bet is a home health care service like the Visiting Nurses Association.”

“You think he has health insurance?”

“I doubt it. He probably didn’t imagine he’d live long enough to enjoy it, but he’ll be covered by Medicaid or Medicare.”

“I suppose so.”

Rosie came out of the kitchen through the swinging door, backside first. She had a dinner plate in each hand, one heaped with pan-fried pork steak and stuffed cabbage rolls, and the other with Hungarian beef stew over egg noodles. She delivered the entrees to the day drinkers at the far end of the bar. I was sure they’d been there since noon and she might well be comping their dinner in hopes of sobering them up before they staggered home.

She joined us at the bar and I filled her in briefly on the nature of our concerns about Gus. “Has a great-niece,” she said, promptly. “She hasn’t seen him in years so she’s very fond of him.”

“Really. That’s great. Does she live here in town?”

“New York.”

“That won’t do him any good. The doctor won’t release him unless he has someone to look after him.”

Rosie waved the notion aside. “Put in nursing home. Is what I did with my sister…”

William leaned forward. “…who died soon afterward.”

Rosie ignored him. “Is a nice place. Where Chapel crosses Missile.”

“What about his niece? Do you have any idea how I might get in touch with her?”

“He has her name in a book he keeps in his desk.”

“Well, that’s a start,” I said.

When the alarm went off Tuesday morning at 6:00, I dragged my sorry butt out of bed and pulled on my Sauconys. I’d slept in my sweats, which saved me one step in my newly inaugurated morning ritual. While I was brushing my teeth, I stared at myself in the mirror with despair. During the night, my errant hair had formed a cone on top that I had to dampen with water and flatten with my palm.

I locked my front door and tied my house key into the lace of one running shoe. As I pushed through the gate, I paused and made a big show of stretching my hamstrings in case anybody cared. Then I headed over to Cabana Boulevard, where I trotted along the bike path for a block with the beach to my right. In the weeks since I’d last jogged, the sun was slower to rise, which made the early morning hour seem even darker. The ocean looked sullen and black, and the waves sounded cold as they pounded on the sand. Some miles out, the channel islands were laid against the horizon in a dark ragged line.

Ordinarily, I’d have given little thought to my route, but when I reached the intersection of Cabana and State Street, I glanced to my left and realized there was something reassuring about the bright band of lights strung out on each side. There was no one else out at that hour and the storefronts were dark, but I followed my instincts and left the beach behind, heading toward downtown Santa Teresa, which was ten blocks north.

Lower State plays host to the train station, a bicycle-rental lot, and a Sea & Surf establishment where boards, bikinis, and snorkeling gear are sold. Half a block up, there was a T-shirt shop and a couple of fleabag hotels. The more upscale of the two, the Paramount, had been the lodging of choice in the forties when the Hollywood darlings journeyed to Santa Teresa by train. It was a short walk from the station to the hotel, which boasted a pool fed by natural hot springs. The pool had been shut down after workers discovered that seepage from an abandoned service station was leaking toxic chemicals into the aquifer. The hotel had changed hands and the new owner was rehabilitating the once-grand facility. The interior work had been completed and a new pool was now under construction. The public was invited to peek through holes in the temporary barrier erected to protect the site. I’d stopped to look myself one morning, but all I could see were piles of rubbish and sections of the old mosaic tile.

I continued running for ten blocks and then turned around, tuning in to my surroundings as a way of taking my mind off my heaving lungs. The chilly predawn air felt good. The sky had turned from charcoal to ashen gray. Nearing the end of my run, I could hear the early morning freight train rumble slowly through town with a muted blast from its horn. Dinging merrily, the signal gates came down. I waited while it passed. I counted six boxcars, a tank car, an empty livestock car, refrigerator car, nine container cars, three hard-top gondolas, a flat car, and finally the caboose. When the train was out of sight I continued at a walk, using the last few blocks to cool down. Mostly, I was happy to have the run out of the way.

I skipped my shower, figuring I might as well stay grungy for the housework to come. I rounded up rubber gloves, sponges, and assorted cleaning products, all of which I tossed in a plastic bucket. I added a roll of paper toweling, rags, laundry soap, and black plastic trash bags. Thus armed, I went out to the patio, where I waited for Henry. There’s nothing like the danger and the glamour of a private eye’s life.

When Henry appeared, we went over to Gus’s place. Henry did a walkabout to assess the situation and then returned to the living room and gathered up the many weeks’ worth of newspapers scattered on the floor. For my part, I stood assessing the furnishings. The drapes were skimpy and the four upholstered pieces (one couch and three easy chairs) were encased in dark brown stretchy slipcovers of the one-size-fits-all variety. The tables were made of a chipped laminate veneer meant to look like mahogany. Just being in the room was discouraging.

My first self-assigned task was to search Gus’s rolltop desk for his address book, which was tucked in the pencil drawer, along with a house key with a round white tag marked PITTS.

I held it up. “What’s this? I didn’t know Gus had a key to your place.”

“Sure. That’s why I have a key to his. Believe it or not, there was a time when he wasn’t such a grouch. He used to bring in the mail and water my plants when I went off to Michigan to visit the sibs.”

“Will wonders never cease,” I said, and returned to the task at hand while Henry carried the stack of papers to the kitchen and stuffed them in the trash. Gus’s financial dealings were well organized—paid bills in one pigeonhole, the unpaid in another. In a third, I found his checkbook, two savings account books, and his bank statements bound by rubber bands. I couldn’t help but notice the amount of cash he had in his accounts. Well, okay, I studied the numbers carefully, but I didn’t take notes. There was close to two thousand dollars in his checking account, fifteen thousand in one savings account, and twenty-two thousand in another. This might not be the whole of it. He struck me as the sort of fellow who stuck hundred-dollar bills between the pages of his books and kept untouched accounts in a number of different banks. The regular deposits he made were probably Social Security or pension checks. “Hey, Henry? What’d Gus do for a living before he retired?”

Henry stuck his head around the corner from the hallway. “He worked for the railroad back East. Might have been the L&N, but I’m not sure in what capacity. What makes you ask?”

“He’s got a fair amount of money. I mean, the guy’s not rich, but he has the means to live a lot better than this.”

“I don’t think money and cleanliness are connected. Did you find his address book?”

“Right here. The only person living in New York is a Melanie Oberlin, who has to be his niece.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and call?”

“You think?”

“Why not? You might as well put it on his phone bill. Meanwhile, I’ll start on the kitchen. You can take his bedroom and his bath as soon as you’re done.”

I placed the call, but as is usually the case these days, I didn’t talk to a live human being. The woman on the answering machine identified herself as Melanie, no last name, but she wasn’t able to take my call. She sounded pretty cheerful for someone who told me at the same time just how sorry she was. I gave a brief account of her uncle Gus’s fall and then left my name, my home and office numbers, and asked her to return the call. I tucked the address book in my pocket, thinking I’d try again later if I didn’t hear from her.

I toured Gus’s house as Henry had. In the hall, I could smell the fug of mouse droppings and perhaps a mouse corpse of recent vintage trapped in a wall nearby. The second bedroom was filled with an accumulation of unlabeled cardboard boxes and old furniture, some of it quite good. The third bedroom was devoted to items the old man evidently couldn’t bring himself to toss. Bundles of twine-bound newspapers had been stacked head-high, with aisles laid out between the rows for easy access in case someone needed to get in and collect all the Sunday funnies from December of 1964. There were empty vodka bottles, cases of canned goods and bottled water sufficient to withstand a siege, bicycle frames, two rusted lawn mowers, a carton of women’s shoes, and three stingy-looking TV sets with rabbit-ear antennas and screens the size of airplane windows. He’d filled an old wooden crate with tools. An old daybed was buried under jumbled mounds of clothing. An entire set of green-glass Depression-era dinnerware was stacked on a coffee table.

I counted fifteen ornate picture frames laid up against one wall. I flipped the frames forward and peered at the paintings from above, but I didn’t know what to make of them. The subject matter was varied: landscapes, portraits, one painting of a lush but drooping bouquet, another of a tabletop adorned with cut fruit, a silver pitcher, and a dead duck with its head hanging off the edge. The oil on most had darkened so much it was like looking through a tinted window. I know nothing about art, so I had no opinion about his collection, except for the dead duck, which I thought was in questionable taste.

I got busy in the bathroom, thinking to get the worst of it out of the way. I disconnected my emotional gears, much as I do at the scene of a homicide. Revulsion is useless when you have a job to do. For the next two hours, we scrubbed and scoured, dusted and vacuumed. Henry emptied the refrigerator and filled two large trash bags with unidentified rotting foodstuffs. The cupboard shelves held canned goods that bulged along the bottoms, signaling imminent explosion. He ran a load of dishes while I tossed a mound of dirty clothes in the washer and ran that as well. The bedding I left in a heap on the laundry room floor until the washer was free.

By noon we’d covered as much ground as we could. Now that a modicum of order had been restored, I could see how depressing the house was. We could have worked another two full days and the result would have been the same—dinginess, neglect, a pall of old dreams hovering midair. We closed up the house, and Henry rolled two big garbage cans out to the curb in front. He said he’d get cleaned up and then hit the supermarket to restock Gus’s shelves. After that he’d call the hospital and find out when he was being released. I went home, took a shower, and got dressed for work in my usual jeans.

I decided I’d make a second try at delivering the Order to Show Cause to my pal Bob Vest. This time when I parked and crossed the street to knock on his door, I noticed two newspapers lying on the porch. This was not a good sign. I waited, on the off chance that I’d caught him on the john with his knickers down around his knees. While I stood there, I spotted a scratching post on one side of the porch. The carpeted surface was untouched as the cat apparently preferred to sharpen its claws by shredding the welcome mat. A sooty-looking cat bed was matted with hair, dander, and flea eggs, but no visible cat.

I went out to the mailbox and checked the contents: junk mail, catalogs, a few bills, and a handful of magazines. I tucked the pile under my arm and crossed the lawn to his neighbor’s house. I rang the bell. The door was answered by a woman in her sixties, cigarette in hand. The air around her smelled of fried bacon and maple syrup. She wore a tank top and pedal pushers. Her arms were scrawny and her pants rested loosely on her hips.

I said, “Hi. Do you know when Bob’s getting back? He asked me to bring in his mail. I thought he was getting home last night, but I see his newspapers haven’t been taken in.”

She opened the screen door and peered past me at his drive. “How’d he manage to rope you in? He asked me to mind his cat, but he never said a word about the mail.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to bother you with that.”

“I don’t know why not. He’s happy to bother me about everything else. That cat thinks he lives here as often as I look after him. Scruffy old thing. I feel sorry for him.”

I wasn’t crazy about Bob’s neglect of the cat. Shame on him. “Did he mention when he’d be home?”

“He said this afternoon, if you put any stock in that. Sometimes he claims he’ll be gone two days when he knows it’ll be a week. He thinks I’m more likely to agree to shorter absences.”

“Oh, you know Bob,” I said, and then held up the mail. “Anyway, I’ll just leave this on his doorstep.”

“I can take it if you like.”

“Thanks. That’s nice of you.”

She studied me. “None of my business, but you’re not the new gal he keeps talking about.”

“Absolutely not. I’ve got problems enough without taking him on.”

“Good. I’m glad. You don’t look like his type.”

“What type is that?”

“The type I see leaving his house most mornings at six A.M.”

When I got to the office, I put a call through to Henry, who brought me up to date. As it turned out, the doctor had decided to keep Gus an extra day because his blood pressure was high and his red blood cell count was low. Since Gus was spaced out on pain medication, Henry was the one who dealt with the discharge planner in the hospital social services department, trying to find a way to accommodate Gus’s medical needs once he got the boot. Henry offered to explain to me the intricacies of Medicare coverage, but it was really too boring to take in. Beyond Part A and Part B, everything seemed to have three initials: CMN, SNF, PPS, PROs, DRGs. On and on it went in that vein. Since I wouldn’t have to navigate those rapids for another thirty years, the information was simply tedious. The guidelines were diabolically cunning, designed to confuse the very patients they were meant to educate.

There was apparently a formula that determined how much money the hospital could make by keeping him for a specified number of days and how much the same hospital could lose by keeping him one day longer. Gus’s dislocated shoulder, while painful, swollen, and temporarily debilitating, wasn’t considered serious enough to warrant more than a two-night stay. He was nowhere close to using up the days allotted him, but the hospital was taking no chances. On Wednesday, Gus was discharged from St. Terry’s to a skilled nursing facility, otherwise known as an SNF.

7

Rolling Hills Senior Retreat was a rambling one-story brick structure on a tenth of an acre without a hill of any sort, rolling or otherwise. Some attempt had been made to tart up the exterior by adding an ornamental birdbath and two iron benches of the sort that leave marks on the seat of your pants. The parking lot was a stern black and smelled as though the asphalt had just been redone. In the narrow front yard, ivy formed a dense carpet of green that had swarmed up the sides of the building, across the windows, and over the edge of the roof. In a year, the place would be covered by a jungle of green, a low amorphous mound like a lost Mayan pyramid.

Inside, the lobby was painted in bright primary colors. Maybe the elderly, like babies, were thought to benefit from the stimulation of strong hues. In the far corner, someone had taken a fake Christmas tree from its box and had gone so far as to stick the aluminum “branches” in the requisite holes. The conformation of branches looked about as realistic as recently transplanted hair plugs. So far, there were no ornaments and no tree lights. With so little late-afternoon sunlight penetrating the windowpanes, the overall effect was cheerless. Linked chairs of chrome, with bright yellow plastic seats, lined the room on two sides. Of necessity, lamps were turned on, but bulbs were the same paltry wattage used in cheap motels.

The receptionist was concealed behind an opaque sliding window, of the sort that greets you in a doctor’s office. An upright cardboard rack held brochures that made Rolling Hills Senior Retreat look like a “golden years” resort. In a montage of photographs, handsome, energetic-looking oldsters sat on a garden patio engaged in happy group-chat while playing a game of cards. Another image showed the cafeteria, where two ambulatory couples enjoyed a gourmet repast. In reality, the place had stimulated my hopes for an early and sudden death.

On the way over, I’d stopped at a market, where I’d stood for some time staring at the magazine rack. What kind of reading would amuse a cranky old man? I bought Model Railroading Magazine, a Playboy, and a book of crossword puzzles. Also, a giant-sized candy bar, in case he had a sweet tooth and hankered for one.

I hadn’t been in the lobby long, but since no one had opened the receptionist’s window, I tapped on the partition. The window slid back three inches and a woman in her fifties peered out. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was out there. Can I help you?”

“I’d like to see a patient, Gus Vronsky. He was admitted earlier today.”

She consulted her Rolodex and then made a phone call, keeping her palm close to the mouthpiece so I couldn’t read her lips. After she hung up, she said, “Have a seat. Someone will be out shortly.”

I sat down in a chair that allowed me a view of a corridor with administrative offices opening off each side. At the end, where a second corridor crossed the first, a nurse’s station diverted foot traffic like water flowing around a rock in the middle of a stream. I was guessing hospital rooms were located down the two peripheral halls. Living quarters for the active, healthy residents must be somewhere else. I knew the cafeteria was close because the smell of food was strong. I closed my eyes and sorted the meal into its component parts: meat (perhaps pork), carrots, turnips, and something else—probably yesterday’s salmon. I pictured a row of heat lamps beaming down on ten-by-thirteen stainless-steel food pans: one filled to the brim with chicken parts in milk gravy, another filled with glazed sweet potatoes, a third with mashed potatoes stiff and slightly dried around the edges. By comparison, how bad could it be to eat a Quarter Pounder with Cheese? Facing this muck at the end of life, why deny myself now?

In due course, a middle-aged volunteer in a pink cotton smock came and fetched me from the reception area. As she led me down the hallway, she didn’t say a word, but she did so in a very pleasant manner.

Gus was in a semiprivate room, sitting upright in the bed closest to the window. The only view was of the underside of ivy vines, dense rows of white roots that looked like the legs of millipedes. His arm was in a sling and the bruises from his fall appeared from the various gaping holes in his gown. His Medicare coverage didn’t provide private-duty nursing, a phone, or a television set.

His roommate’s bed was surrounded by a curtain on a track, pulled in a half circle that delivered him from sight. In the quiet, I could hear him breathing heavily, a cross between a rasp and a sigh that had me counting his inhalations in case he stopped and it was up to me to perform CPR.

I tiptoed to Gus’s bedside and found myself using my public library voice. “Hello, Mr. Vronsky. I’m Kinsey Millhone, your next-door neighbor.”

“I know who you are! I didn’t fall on my head.” Gus spoke in his normal tone, which came across as a shout. I glanced uneasily toward his roommate’s bed, wondering if the poor guy would be jarred out of his sleep.

I placed the items I’d bought on the rolling table beside Gus’s bed, hoping to appease his ill temper. “I brought you a candy bar and some magazines. How’re you doing?”

“What’s it look like? I hurt.”

“I can just imagine,” I murmured.

“Quit that whispering and talk like a normal human being. If you don’t raise your voice, I can’t hear a word.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t help. Before you ask another stupid question, I’m sitting up like this because if I lie on my back the pain is worse. Right now, the throbbing’s excruciating and it makes my whole body feel like hell. Look at this bruise from all the blood they’ve drawn. Must have been a quart and a half in four big tubes. The lab report says I’m anemic, but I didn’t have a problem until they started in.”

I kept my expression sympathetic, but I was fresh out of consolation.

Gus snorted with disgust. “One day in this bed and my backside is raw. I’ll be covered with sores if I’m here one more day.”

“You ought to mention it to your doctor or one of the nurses.”

“What doctor? What nurses? No one’s been in for the past two hours. Anyway, that doctor’s an idiot. He has no idea what he’s talking about. What did he say about my release? He better sign it soon or I’m walking out. I may be sick, but I’m not a prisoner—unless getting old is a crime, which is how it’s regarded in this country.”

“I haven’t talked to the floor nurse, but Henry will be here in a bit and he can ask. I did call your niece in New York to let her know what was going on.”

“Melanie? She’s useless, too busy and self-absorbed to worry about the likes of me.”

“I didn’t actually talk to her. I left a message on her machine and I’m hoping to hear back.”

“She’s no help. She hasn’t come to visit me for years. I told her I’m taking her out of my will. You know why I haven’t done it? Because it costs too much. Why should I pay a lawyer hundreds of dollars to make sure she doesn’t get a cent. What’s the point? I’ve got life insurance, too, but I hate dealing with my agent because he’s always trying to talk me into something new. If I take her name out as beneficiary, I have to figure out who to put in. I don’t have anyone else and I won’t leave a thing to charity. Why should I do that? I worked hard for my money. I say let other people do the same.”

“Well, there’s that,” I said, for lack of anything better.

Gus looked at the semicircle of curtain. “What’s the matter with him? He better quit that gasping. It’s getting on my nerves.”

“I think he’s asleep.”

“Well, it’s damned inconsiderate.”

“If you want, I can hold a pillow over his face,” I said. “Just kidding,” I added when he didn’t laugh. I took a peek at my watch. I’d been with him the better part of four minutes. “Mr. Vronsky, can I get you some ice before I have to take off?”

“No, just get on with you. To hell with it. You think I complain too much, but you don’t know the half of it. You’ve never been old.”

“Great. Okay, well, I’ll see you later.”

I made my escape, unwilling to spend another minute in his company. I had no doubt his testiness was a result of his misery and pain, but I wasn’t required to stand in the line of fire. I retrieved my car from the parking lot, feeling as irritable and out of sorts as he.

As long as I was in a bad mood anyway, I decided to try serving Bob Vest again. He might get away with neglecting his cat, but he better pay attention to his ex-wife and kids. I drove to his house and parked across the street as I had before. I tried my habitual knock on the door to no great effect. Where the hell was the guy? Given that this was my third attempt, I could technically pack it in and file an Affidavit of Inability to Serve Process, but I felt I was getting close and I didn’t want to give it up.

I returned to my car and ate the brown-bag lunch I’d packed—an olive pimento cheese sandwich on whole grain bread and a cluster of grapes, which made two servings of fruit in two days. I’d brought a book with me and alternated between reading and listening to the car radio. At intervals, I ran the engine, turned on the heater, and allowed the interior of the Mustang to fill with blessed warmth. This was getting old. If Vest didn’t show up by two, I was taking off. I could always decide later whether it was worth another try.

At 1:35, a late-model pickup truck appeared, moving in my direction. The driver turned to look at me as he pulled into the drive and parked. The truck and the license plate matched the vehicle information I’d been given. From the description, this guy was the very Bob I’d been hired to serve. Before I could make a move, he got out, retrieved a duffel from the truck bed, and toted it up the walk. A scruffy gray cat appeared out of nowhere and trotted after him. He unlocked the front door in haste, and the cat was quick to skitter in while he had the chance. Bob glanced in my direction again before he closed the door behind him. This was not good. If he suspected he was being served, he might get cute and scurry out the back door to avoid me. If I could demonstrate a reason for my presence, I might dampen his paranoia and lure him into my trap.

I got out, moved to the front of the car, and lifted the hood. I made a serious display of tinkering with the engine, then put my hands on my hips and shook my head. Gosh, a girl sure is baffled by a big old dirty engine like this. I waited a decent interval and then lowered the hood with a bang. I crossed the street and moved up his walk to the front porch. I knocked on his door.

Nothing.

I knocked again. “Hello? Sorry to bother you, but I wondered if I could use your phone. I think my battery’s dead.”

I could have sworn he was on the other side of the door, listening to me as I tried listening to him.

No response.

I knocked one more time, and after a minute I went back to my car. I sat and stared at the house. To my surprise, Vest opened the front door and peered out at me. I reached over and busied myself in the glove compartment as though searching for the service manual. Would a seventeen-year-old Mustang even have a service manual? When I looked back again, he had come down the porch steps and was heading in my direction. Oh shit.

Forties, gray at the temples, blue eyes. His face was marked by a series of tight lines—a grimace of perpetual discontent. He didn’t seem to be armed, which I found encouraging. Once he was in range, I lowered the window and said, “Hi. How’re you?”

“Was that you knocking on my door?”

“Uh-hun. I was hoping to use the phone.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I can’t get the engine to turn over.”

“Want me to give it a try?”

“Sure.”

I saw his gaze shift to the summons on the front seat beside me, but he must not have registered the reference to Superior Court and all the talk of Plaintive versus the Defendant because he didn’t gasp or recoil in dismay. I folded the document and shoved it in my shoulder bag as I emerged from the car.

He took my place in the driver’s seat, but instead of turning the key, he put his hands on the steering wheel and shook his head with admiration. “I used to own one of these babies. Jesus, the Boss 429, king of all muscle cars and I sold mine. Sold, hell. I as good as gave it away. I’m still kicking myself. I don’t even remember what I needed the money for—probably something dumb. Where’d you find it?”

“In a used-car lot on lower Chapel. I bought it on a whim. The dealer hadn’t had it half a day. He told me there weren’t many made.”

“Four hundred ninety-nine total in 1970,” he said. “Ford developed the 429 engine in 1968 after Petty started eating up NASCAR wins with his 426 Hemi Belvedere. Remember Bunkie Knudsen?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, well right around that same time, he left GM and took over as the new boss at Ford. He’s the one talked ’em into using the 429 engine in the Mustang and Cougar lines. Sucker’s so big the suspension had to be relocated and they had to stick the battery in the trunk. Turned out to be money losers, but the Boss 302 and the 429 are still the hottest cars ever made. What’d you pay for it?”

“Five grand.”

I thought he’d bang his head on the steering wheel, but he shook it instead, one of those slow wags denoting copious regret. “I never should have asked.” With that, he turned the key in the ignition and the engine fired right up. “You must have flooded the engine.”

“Silly me. I appreciate the help.”

“No biggie,” he said. “You ever want to sell the car, you know where I am.” He got out and stood aside to let me into the car.

I pulled the papers from my bag. “You’re not Bob Vest by any chance?”

“I am. Have we met?”

I held out the summons, which he took automatically when I tapped him on the arm. “Nope. Sorry to have to say this, but you’re served,” I said, as I slid under the steering wheel.

“I’m what?” He looked down at the papers and when he saw what he had, he said, “Well, shit.”

“And by the way. You ought to take better care of your cat.”

When I got back to the office, I put in a second call to Gus’s niece. With the three-hour time difference, I was hoping she’d be home from work. The phone rang so long that I was startled when she finally picked up. I repeated my original report in an abbreviated form. She seemed to draw a blank, like she didn’t have any idea what I was talking about. I went through my spiel again in a more elaborate rendition, telling her who I was, what had happened to Gus, his move to the nursing home, and the need for someone, namely her, to come to his aid.

She said, “You’re kidding.”

“That’s not quite the response I was hoping for,” I said.

“I’m three thousand miles away. You think it’s really that big of an emergency?”

“Well, he’s not bleeding out or anything like that, but he does need your help. Someone has to get the situation under control. He’s in no position to take care of himself.”

Her silence suggested she wasn’t receptive to the idea, in whole or in part. What was wrong with this chick?

“What sort of work do you do?” I asked as a prompt.

“I’m an executive VP in an ad agency.”

“Do you think you could talk to your boss?”

“And say what?”

“Tell him—”

“It’s a her…”

“Great. I’m sure she’ll understand the kind of crisis we’ve got on our hands. Gus is eighty-nine years old and you’re his only living relative.”

Her tone shifted from resistance to mere reluctance. “I do have business contacts in L.A. I don’t know how quickly I could set it up, but I suppose I could fly out at the end of the week and maybe see him Saturday or Sunday. How would that be?”

“One day in town won’t do him any good unless you mean to leave him where he is.”

“In the nursing home? That’s not such a bad idea.”

“Yes, it is. He’s miserable.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Let’s put it this way. I don’t know you at all, but I’m reasonably certain you wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that. It’s clean and the care is excellent, but your uncle wants to be in his own home.”

“Well, that won’t work. You said he’s not able to care for himself with his shoulder like it is.”

“That’s my point. You’ll have to hire someone to look after him.”

“Couldn’t you do that? You’d have a better idea how to go about it. I’m out of state.”

“Melanie, it’s your job, not mine. I barely know the man.”

“Maybe you could pitch in for a couple of days. Until I find someone else.”

“Me?” I held the phone away from me and stared at the mouthpiece. Surely she didn’t think she could drag me into it. I’m the least nursey person I know and I have people who’d back me up on the claim. On the rare occasions when I’ve been pressed into service, I’ve bumbled my way through, but I never liked it much. My aunt Gin took a dim view of pain and suffering, which she felt were trumped up purely to get attention. She couldn’t tolerate medical complaints and she thought all so-called serious illnesses were bogus, right up to the moment she was diagnosed with the very cancer she died of. I’m not quite as coldhearted but I’m not far behind. I had a sudden vision of hypodermic syringes and I thought I was on the verge of blacking out, when I realized Melanie was still wheedling.

“What about the neighbor who found him and called 9-1-1?”

“That was me.”

“Oh. I thought there was an old guy who lived next door.”

“You’re talking about Henry Pitts. He’s my landlord.”

“That’s right. I remember now. He’s retired. My uncle’s mentioned him before. Wouldn’t he have time to look in on Gus?”

“I don’t think you get it. He doesn’t need someone ‘looking in on him.’ I’m talking about professional nursing care.”

“Why don’t you contact social services? There has to be an agency to handle things like this.”

“You’re his niece.”

“His great-niece. Maybe even great-great,” she said.

“Uh-hun.”

I let a silence fall into which she did not leap with joy, offering to fly out.

She said, “Hello?”

“I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m just waiting to hear what you’re going to do.”

“Fine. I’ll be out, but I don’t appreciate your attitude.”

She hung up resoundingly to illustrate her point.

8

After dinner Friday night, I went with Henry to a Christmas-tree lot on Milagro to help him choose a tree—a decision he takes very seriously. Christmas was still two weeks away, but Henry’s like a little kid when it comes to the holidays. The lot itself was small, but he felt the trees were fresher and the selection better than at the other lots he’d tried. In the six-foot height he preferred, he had several choices: a balsam fir, a Fraser fir, a blue spruce, a Nordman, the Norway, or the noble spruce. He and the man who owned the lot got into a long discussion about the merits of each. The blue spruce, the noble, and the Norway had poor needle retention, and the Nordmans had spindly tips. He finally settled on a dark green balsam fir with a classic shape, soft needles, and the fragrance of a pine forest (or Pine-Sol, depending on your frame of reference). The tree branches were secured with heavy twine, and we hauled it to his station wagon, where we tied it across the top with an elaborate configuration of rope and bungee cords.

We drove home along Cabana Boulevard, the darkened ocean to our left. Offshore the oil rigs twinkled like a regatta with the capacity for spills. It was close to eight by then and the restaurants and motels across from the beach were ablaze with lights. The glimpse we caught of State Street in passing showed a steady march of seasonal decorations as far as the eye could see.

Henry parked in his driveway and we eased the tree out of its restraints. With him toting the trunk end and me struggling along at the midpoint, we wrestled the evergreen around to the street, up his short walk, and in the front door. Henry had rearranged the furniture to clear a place for the tree in one corner of the living room. Once we’d stabilized it in its stand, he tightened the T-bolts and added water to the reservoir below. He’d already pulled six boxes marked X-MAS from his attic and stacked them nearby. Five were filled with carefully wrapped ornaments, and the sixth box contained a formidable tangle of Christmas-tree lights.

“When are you doing the lights and ornaments?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. Charlotte has an open house from two until five and she’ll stop by when she’s done. You’re welcome to join us. I’m making eggnog to get us in the proper spirit.”

“I don’t want to horn in on your date.”

“Don’t be silly. William and Rosie are coming, too.”

“Have they met her?”

“William has and he gave her a thumbs-up. I’m curious about Rosie’s reaction. She’s a tough one.”

“Why the opinion poll? You either like her or you don’t.”

“I don’t know. Something about the woman bothers me.”

“As in what?”

“You don’t find her a bit single-minded?”

“I’ve only talked to her once and I got the impression she was good at what she does.”

“It feels more complicated. She’s smart and attractive, I’ll give you that, but all she talks about is sell, sell, sell. We took a walk after supper the other night and she calculated the value of every house on the block. She was ready to go door-to-door, drumming up sales, but I put my foot down. These are my neighbors. Most are retired and their homes are paid off. So she talks someone into selling, then what? They end up with a pile of cash but no place to live and no way to buy another home because the market’s so high.”

“What was her response?”

“She was good about it and backed off, but I could see the wheels going round and round.”

“She’s a go-getter. No doubt about that. In fact, I was worried she’d talk you into selling this place.”

Henry gestured his dismissal. “No danger there. I love my house and I’d never give it up. She’s still lobbying to get me into rental properties, but that doesn’t interest me. I have one tenant already so why do I need more?”

“Okay, so maybe she’s ambitious. That doesn’t constitute a character flaw. You get hung up in all the fretting and you’ll spoil what you have now. If it doesn’t work out, then so be it.”

“Very philosophical,” he said. “I’ll remember you said that and quote it back to you one day.”

“No doubt.”

At 9:30 I went back to my place and let myself in. I flipped off the porch light and hung up my jacket. I was ready to settle down with a glass of wine and a good book when I heard a knock at my door. At that hour, chances were good it was someone trying to sell me something, or passing out poorly printed pamphlets predicting the End of the World. I was surprised anyone would brave the walk to my door since the streetlights don’t penetrate Henry’s backyard and patio.

I turned on the outside light and peered through the porthole in my front door. The woman standing on my porch wasn’t anyone I knew. She was in her midthirties with a pale square face, thinly plucked eyebrows, bright red lipstick, and a thick bunch of auburn hair that she’d caught in a knot on the top of her head. She wore a black business suit, but I didn’t see a clipboard or a sample case so maybe I was safe. When she saw me looking out at her she smiled and waved.

I put the chain on and then opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

“Hi. Are you Kinsey?”

“I am.”

“My name is Melanie Oberlin. Gus Vronsky’s niece. Am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all. Hang on.” I closed the door and slid the chain off the track, then let her in. “Wow. That was quick. I talked to you two days ago. I didn’t expect to see you so soon. When did you get in?”

“Just now. I have a rental car out front. Turns out my boss thought the trip was a fabulous idea, so I flew into L.A. last night and met with clients all day. I didn’t start the drive up until seven, thinking I’d be clever and avoid the rush-hour traffic, but then I got stuck behind a six-car pile-up in Malibu. At any rate, I’m sorry to barge in, but it just dawned on me I don’t have a key to Uncle Gus’s place. Is there any way to get in?”

“Henry has a set of keys and I’m sure he’s still up. It won’t take me a minute, if you want to come on in and wait.”

“I’d love to. Thanks. Do you mind if I use the loo?”

“Be my guest.”

I showed her into the downstairs bathroom, and while she went about her business, I crossed the patio to Henry’s back door and tapped on the glass. The kitchen lights were out, but I could see the reflected flicker of the television set in the living room beyond. A moment later, he appeared in the doorway and flipped on the kitchen light before he unlocked the door. “I thought you were in for the night,” he said.

“I was, but Gus’s niece showed up and she needs a house key.”

“Hang on.”

He left the door open while he found the set of keys in his kitchen junk drawer. “The way you described your phone conversation, I didn’t think she’d come at all, let alone this fast.”

“Me, neither. I was pleasantly surprised.”

“How long will she stay?”

“I haven’t asked her yet, but I can let you know. You may end up dealing with her anyway since I have to go into the office first thing tomorrow morning.”

“On Saturday?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ve got paperwork to catch up on and I like the quiet.”

When I returned to the studio, Melanie was still in the bathroom, and the sound of running water suggested she was washing her face. I took two glasses from the cabinet and opened a bottle of Edna Valley Chardonnay. I poured six ounces for each of us and when she came out, I handed her Gus’s house key and a glass of wine.

“I hope you like wine. I took the liberty,” I said. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks. After three hours on the freeway, I could use a drink. I thought Boston drivers were bad, but people out here are lunatics.”

“You’re from Boston?”

“More or less. We moved to New York when I was nine, but I went to school in Boston and still visit friends from my BU days.” She sat down in one of the director’s chairs and did a quick visual survey. “Nice. This would be a palace in the city.”

“It’s a palace anywhere,” I said. “I’m glad you made it out here. Henry was just asking how long you might stay.”

“Until the end of next week if all goes well. In the interest of efficiency, I called the local paper and placed a classified ad that starts tomorrow and runs all next week. They’ll put it in the ‘Help Wanted’ section—companion, private-duty nurse, that sort of thing—and they’ll also run it in the ‘Personals.’ I wasn’t sure Uncle Gus had an answering machine so I gave his address. I hope that wasn’t a mistake.”

“I don’t see why it would be. You probably won’t be swamped with applicants at this time of year. A lot of people postpone job hunting until after the holidays.”

“We’ll see how we do. In a pinch, I can always try to scare up a temp. I do apologize for my response when you called. I haven’t seen Gus in years so you caught me off guard. Once I decided to fly out, I thought I might as well do it right. Speaking of Uncle Gus, how is he? I should have asked about him first thing.”

“I didn’t get over there to see him today, but Henry did and says he’s about as you’d expect.”

“In other words, screaming and shouting.”

“Pretty much.”

“He’s been known to throw things, too, when he’s really on a tear. Or he did way back when.”

“How are you related? I know he’s your uncle, but where on the family tree?”

“My mother’s side. He was actually her great-uncle, so I guess that makes him a great-great to me. She died ten years ago this past May, and once his brother passed on, I was the only one left. I feel guilty I haven’t seen him for so long.”

“Well, it can’t be easy if you’re on the East Coast.”

“What about you? You have family out here?”

“Nope. I’m an orphan child as well, which is probably for the best.”

We chatted for ten or fifteen minutes and then she glanced at her watch. “Oops. I better get going. I don’t want to keep you up. In the morning, you can give me directions to the nursing home.”

“I’ll be out of here early, but you can always knock on Henry’s door. He’ll be happy to help. I take it you’ll be staying next door?”

“I’d hoped to, unless you think he’d object.”

“I’m sure he won’t care, but I should warn you the place is grim. We cleaned what we could, but it’s iffy in my opinion. Who knows when Gus last had a go at it himself.”

“How bad?”

“It’s gross. The sheets are clean, but the mattress looks like something he dragged in from the curb. He’s a hoarder as well, so two of the three bedrooms aren’t usable at all, unless you’re looking for a place to toss trash.”

“He hoards? That’s new. He didn’t used to do that.”

“He does now. Dishes, clothing, tools, shoes. It looks like he has newspapers from the past fifteen years. There were items in the fridge that were probably capable of spreading disease.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You think it’s better if I stay somewhere else?”

“I would.”

“I’ll take your word for it. How hard is it going to be to find a hotel at this hour?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem. We don’t get many tourists at this time of year. There are six or eight motels just two blocks from here. When I run in the mornings, I always see the vacancy signs lighted.”

Maybe it was the wine, but I was noticing how friendly I felt, possibly because I was so grateful she’d arrived. Or maybe ours was one of those relationships where you butt heads up front and get along swimmingly from that point on. Whatever the dynamic, the next thing I knew I was saying, “You can always stay here. For tonight, at any rate.”

She seemed as surprised as I. “Really? That’d be great, but I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

Having offered, of course, I could have bitten off my tongue, but I felt bound by etiquette to assure her of my sincerity, while she swore it’d be no big deal to bumble around in the dark in search of accommodations—clearly something she was hoping to avoid.

In the end, I made up a bed for her on the fold-out sofa in my living room. She already knew where the bathroom was so I took a few minutes to show her how to work the coffeemaker and where the cereal box and bowls were stowed.

At 11:00 she retreated to her bed and I climbed the spiral staircase to the loft. Since she was still on East Coast time, she turned her light out long before I did. In the morning, I got up at 8:00 and by the time I came downstairs, showered, and dressed, she was already up and gone. Like a good guest, she’d stripped the sheets, which she’d folded neatly and placed on the lid of my washing machine, along with the damp towel she’d used for her shower. She’d refolded the sofa bed and put the cushions back in place. According to the note she’d left, she’d gone in search of a coffee shop and expected to be back by 9:00. She offered to buy me dinner if I was free that night, which as it happened, I was.

I left for the office at 8:35 that morning and I didn’t see her again for six days. So much for dinner.

9

Late Saturday afternoon, I joined Henry and Charlotte for the tree-trimming festivities. I declined the eggnog, which I knew contained a stunning quantity of calories, not to mention fat and cholesterol. Henry’s recipe called for a cup of superfine sugar, a quart of milk, twelve large eggs, and two cups of whipping cream. He’d made a nonalcoholic version, which allowed his guests to add bourbon or brandy to taste. By the time I arrived, the Christmas-tree lights had been threaded through the branches, and Rosie had already been there and gone. She’d accepted a cup of eggnog and then she’d left for the restaurant, as her dictatorial presence was required in the kitchen.

Henry, William, Charlotte, and I unwrapped and admired the ornaments, most of which had been in Henry’s family for years. Once the tree was trimmed, William and Henry had their annual argument about how to apply tinsel. William was of the one-strand-at-a-time method, and Henry thought the effect was more natural if the tinsel was tossed and allowed to form picturesque clumps. They settled on a little bit of both.

At 8:00 we walked the half block to Rosie’s. William went to work behind the bar, which left the table to Henry, Charlotte, and me.

I hadn’t paid attention to how much either had had to drink, which may or may not explain what followed. The menu that night was the usual strange assortment of Hungarian dishes, many of which Rosie had determined in advance would be our free choice for the occasion.

While we waited for the first course, I turned to Henry. “I saw lights on at Gus’s so I’m assuming you and Melanie connected this morning after I left for work.”

“We did and I found her most forceful and effective. She’s accustomed to dealing with the hassles of life in New York so she knows how to get things done. We were at Rolling Hills by nine fifteen. Of course, there was no sign of the attending physician and no way to get Gus released without the doctor’s official sanction. Somehow Melanie managed to hunt him down and get his signature on the form. She orchestrated the process with such efficiency, we had Gus out of there and back at his place by eleven ten.”

“She found a place to stay?”

“She checked into the Wharfside on Cabana. She also did the grocery shopping and ordered a wheelchair from a rental company. She had it delivered and was out pushing Gus around the neighborhood this afternoon. The attention worked wonders. He was really quite nice.”

I was about to make a comment in response, when Charlotte spoke up. “Who built that row of houses on your block? They seem very much alike.”

Henry turned and looked at her, faintly disconcerted by the change in subject. “Not so. My house and Gus’s are direct images of one another, but the house just past the vacant lot and Moza Lowenstein’s place, which is one more door down, have a very different feel. They might have been constructed around the same time, but with the changes people have made in the intervening years, it’s hard to tell what the original floor plans were like.”

Henry and I exchanged a quick look that Charlotte didn’t catch. Sure enough, she’d steered the conversation around to real estate. I hoped her question was idle, but she was apparently pursuing a train of thought.

“I take it none of them were designed by a name architect?”

“Not that I know. Over the years, a series of builders bought up the lots and threw together whatever was easy and cheap. What makes you ask?”

“I was thinking about the restrictions on houses over fifty years old. If a house has no historical significance, a buyer would be free to demolish the structure and build something new. Otherwise, you’re more or less limited to the footprint, which reduces the potential.”

“Why is that relevant? None of my neighbors have expressed any interest in selling.”

She frowned. “I understand there hasn’t been much turnover, but given the advanced ages of home owners in the area, some of these houses are bound to come up for sale—Gus’s being a case in point.”

“And?”

“What will happen when he dies? Melanie won’t have the first idea how to market his place.”

I flicked another look at Henry, whose face was now carefully composed. In the seven years I’ve known him, I’ve seen him lose his temper a handful of times, and his manner was always unfailingly mild. He didn’t quite look at her. “What are you proposing?”

“I’m not proposing anything. I’m saying someone from out of state might misread the situation and underestimate the market value.”

“If Gus or Melanie should raise the question, I’ll give them your business card and you can rush right in.”

Charlotte looked at him. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t realize you were here to cultivate clients. Are you planning to farm the area?” he asked. He was referring to the real estate practice of working an area—sending out flyers, calling on the residents, planting the seeds in hopes of harvesting a sale.

“Of course not. We’ve already discussed the subject and you made it clear you disapproved. If I offended you in some way, that wasn’t my intent.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t, but it does seem callous to be estimating home prices predicated on the deaths of people I’ve known for years.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Henry. You can’t be serious. There’s nothing personal in this. People die every day. I’m seventy-eight myself and I think estate planning is important.”

“Doubtless.”

“You needn’t take that tone. After all, there are tax implications. And what about the beneficiaries? For most people, a house is the largest asset they have, which is certainly true in my case. If I don’t have a clue about property values, how can I determine a fair division among my heirs?”

“I’m sure you’ll have it calculated down to the penny.”

“I wasn’t speaking literally. I’m talking about the average person.”

“Gus isn’t as average as you seem to think.”

“Where in heaven’s name is all the hostility coming from?”

“You’re the one who brought it up. Kinsey and I were discussing something else entirely.”

“Well, I’m sorry to interrupt. It’s clear you have your nose out of joint, but I haven’t done anything except express an opinion. I don’t understand what you’re afraid of.”

“I don’t want my neighbors to think I endorse solicitors.”

Charlotte picked up her menu. “I can see this is a point on which we can’t agree so why don’t we leave it that way?”

Henry picked up his menu as well and opened it. “I’d appreciate that. And while we’re about it, perhaps we could talk about something else.”

I could feel my face flush. This was like marital bickering except these two weren’t that well acquainted. I thought Charlotte would be embarrassed by his tone, but she didn’t bat an eye. The moment passed. The rest of the dinner conversation was unremarkable and the evening seemed to end on a pleasant note.

Henry saw her to her car, and while the two said good night, I debated about mentioning the clash, but decided it wasn’t my place. I knew what made him so touchy on the subject. At the age of eighty-seven, he had to be thinking about the financial aspects of his own demise.

After Charlotte pulled away, we fell into step, walking the half block home. “I suppose you think I was out of line,” he remarked.

“Well, I don’t think she’s as mercenary as you implied. I know she’s focused on her work, but she’s not crass.”

“I was irritated.”

“Come on, Henry. She didn’t mean any harm. She believes people should be informed about property values, and why not?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“It’s not a question of who’s right. The point is if you’re going to spend time together, you have to take her as she is. And if you don’t intend to see her again, then why pick a fight?”

“Do you think I should apologize?”

“That’s up to you, but it wouldn’t do any harm.”

Late Monday afternoon I’d scheduled an appointment with Lisa Ray to discuss her recollections about the accident, for which she was being sued. The address she’d given me was a new condominium development in Colgate, a series of frame town houses standing shoulder to shoulder in clusters of four. There were six exterior styles and four types of building materials: brick, frame, fieldstone, and stucco. I was guessing six floor plans with mix-and-match elements that would make each apartment unique. The units were arranged in varied combinations—some with shutters, some with balconies, some with patios out front. Each foursome sat on a square of well-tended lawn. There were shrubs and flower beds and small hopeful trees that wouldn’t mature for another forty years. In lieu of garages, the residents kept their vehicles in long carports that ran between the town houses in horizontal rows. Most of the parking spaces were empty, which suggested people off at work. I saw no evidence of children.

I found Lisa’s house number and parked on the street out front. While I waited for her to answer the door, I sampled the air without detecting the scent of any cooking under way. Probably too early. I imagined the neighbors would trickle home between five thirty and six. Dinner would be delivered in vehicles with signs on the top or pulled from the freezer in boxes complete with gaudy food photos, the oven and microwave instructions printed in type so small you’d have to don your reading glasses.

Lisa Ray opened the door. Her hair was dark, cut short to accommodate its natural curl, which consisted of a halo of perfect ringlets. She was fresh-faced, with blue eyes and freckles like tiny beige paint flecks across the bridge of her nose. She wore black flats, panty hose, a red pleated skirt with a short-sleeved red cotton sweater. “Yikes. You’re early. Are you Kinsey?”

“That’s me.”

She opened the door and let me in, saying, “I didn’t expect you to be so prompt. I just got home from work and I’d love to get out of these clothes.”

“That’s fine. Take your time.”

“I’ll be back in a second. Have a seat.”

I moved into the living room and settled on the couch while she took the stairs two at a time. I knew from the file that she was twenty-six years old, a part-time college student who paid her tuition and expenses by working twenty hours a week in the business office at St. Terry’s Hospital.

The apartment was small. White walls, beige wall-to-wall carpet that looked new and smelled of harsh chemicals. The furniture was a mix of garage-sale finds and items she’d probably managed to cadge from home. Two mismatched chairs, both upholstered in the same fake leopard print, flanked a red-plaid couch, with a coffee table filling the space between. A small wooden dinette table and four chairs were arranged at the far end of the room with a pass-through to the kitchen off to the right. Checking the magazines on the coffee table, I had my choice of back issues of Glamour or Cosmopolitan. I picked Cosmopolitan, turning to an article about what men like in bed. What men? What bed? I hadn’t had a close encounter with a guy since Cheney left my life. I was about to calculate the exact number of weeks, but the idea depressed me before I even started to count.

Five minutes later Lisa reappeared, trotting down the stairs in jeans and a sweatshirt with the University of California Santa Teresa logo on the front. She took a seat in one of the upholstered chairs.

I set the magazine aside. “Is that where you went to school?” I asked, indicating her shirt.

She glanced down. “This is my roommate’s. She’s a secretary in the math department out there. I’m at City College part-time, working on an AA degree in radiography. St. Terry’s has been great about my hours, pretty much letting me work when I want,” she said. “Have you talked to the insurance company?”

“Briefly,” I said. “As it happens, I used to be associated with California Fidelity, so I know the adjuster, Mary Bellflower. I chatted with her a few days ago and she gave me the basics.”

“She’s nice. I like her, though we’re in total disagreement about this lawsuit.”

“I gathered as much. I know you’ve been over this half a dozen times, but could you tell me what happened?”

“Sure. I don’t mind. This was Thursday, right before the Memorial Day weekend. I didn’t have classes that day, but I’d gone up to the college to do a review in the computer lab. After I finished, I picked up my car in the parking lot. I pulled up as far as the exit, intending to take a left onto Palisade Drive. There wasn’t a ton of traffic, but I had my signal on, waiting for a few cars to pass. I saw the Fredricksons’ van approaching from maybe two hundred yards away. He was driving and he’d activated the right-turn signal and reduced his speed, so I figured he was turning into the same lot I was pulling out of. I glanced right and checked to make sure I was clear in that direction before I accelerated. I was partway through the turn when I realized he was going faster than I thought. I tried speeding up, hoping to get out of the way, but he caught me broadside. It’s a wonder I’m not dead. The driver’s-side door was caved in and the center post was bent. The impact knocked my car sideways about fifteen feet. My head snapped right and then hit the window so hard it cracked the glass. I’m still seeing a chiropractor for that.”

“According to the file, you declined medical attention.”

“Well, sure. Bizarre as it sounds, I felt fine at the time. Maybe I was in shock. Of course, I was upset, but I didn’t have any actual medical complaints. Nothing broken or bleeding. I knew I’d have a big old bruise on my head. The paramedics thought I should be seen in the ER, but basically, they said it was my choice. They ran me through a couple of quick tests, making sure I wasn’t suffering memory loss or double vision—whatever else they’re concerned about when your brain’s at stake. They urged me to see my own physician if anything developed. It wasn’t until the next day my neck seized up. I tell you my weekend plans were really screwed. I lay around at my mom’s house all day, icing my neck and popping expired pain pills from some dental work she’d had done a couple of years ago.”

“What about Gladys?”

“She was hysterical. By the time I managed to wrench open my door, her husband was already out of the van in his wheelchair, screaming at me. She was shrieking and crying like she was on the verge of death. I thought it was a put-on myself. I walked around some, taking a look at both cars so I could get a sense of the damage, but I started shaking so hard I thought I was going to pass out. I went back to my car and sat with my head down between my knees. That’s when this old guy showed up and came over to see how I was doing. He was nice. He just kept patting my arm and telling me everything was fine and not to worry, it wasn’t my fault, and stuff like that. I know Gladys heard him because all the sudden, she went into this big theatrical slump, moaning and doing this fake boo-hoo stuff. I could see her getting herself all worked up, like my three-year-old niece, who barfs at will if things don’t go her way. The old guy went over and helped Gladys to the curb. By then, she was having fits. I don’t mean that literally, of course, but I know she was faking.”

“Not according to the ER report.”

“Oh, please. I’m sure she was banged up, but she’s milking the situation for all it’s worth. Have you talked to her?”

“Not yet. I’ll call and see if she’ll agree to it. She isn’t required to.”

“No sweat on that score. She won’t pass up the chance to tell her side of it. You should have heard her with the cop.”

“Back up a minute. Who called the police?”

“I don’t know. I guess somebody must have heard the crash and dialed 9-1-1. The police and paramedics showed up about the same time. A couple of other motorists had pulled over by then and a woman came out of her house across the street. Gladys was moaning like she was in all this pain, so the paramedics started on her first, you know, doing vital signs and stuff like that, trying to calm her down. The cop came over and asked me what happened. That’s when I realized the old guy who helped me was gone. Next thing I knew, Gladys was being rolled into the back of the ambulance strapped to a board with her head immobilized. I should’ve figured out right then how much trouble I was in. I felt terrible about the whole thing because I wouldn’t wish pain and suffering on anyone. At the same time, I thought her behavior was bullshit, pure showmanship.”

“According to the police report, you were at fault.”

“I know that’s what it says, but that’s ridiculous. The way the law’s written, they had the right-of-way so I’m technically the guilty one. When I first saw the van it was creeping along. I swear he wasn’t going more than three miles an hour. He must have floored it when he realized he could catch me before I finished the turn.”

“You’re saying he hit you deliberately?”

“Why not? He had the opportunity of a lifetime staring him in the face.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

“To collect the insurance money,” she said impatiently. “Check it out for yourself. She’s essentially self-employed. She works as an independent contractor, so she probably doesn’t have long-term medical coverage and no disability insurance. What a great way to support themselves in their retirement years, suing the shit out of me.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“What, her having no disability insurance? No, I don’t know it for a fact, but I’d be willing to bet.”

“I can’t picture it. How could Millard be sure she’d survive the crash?”

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t going that fast. Relatively speaking. I mean, he wasn’t driving sixty miles an hour. He must have known neither one of us would die.”

“Risky nonetheless.”

“Maybe that depends on the stakes.”

“True, but auto insurance fraud is usually highly organized and involves more than one person. The ‘mark’ might be maneuvered into rear-ending another vehicle, but it’s all a setup. The ‘victim,’ the lawyer, and the doctor are in cahoots on the claim. I can’t believe Gladys or Millard are part of anything like that.”

“They don’t have to be. He might have read about it in a book. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure how to set it up. He saw a chance for big bucks and acted on the spur of the moment.”

“How are we going to prove that?”

“Find the old guy and he’ll tell you.”

“What makes you so sure he saw the accident?”

“He must have because I remember catching sight of him as I approached the exit to the parking lot. I didn’t pay much attention because I was focused on the street ahead.”

“You saw him where?”

“On the far side of Palisade.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know. I guess he was waiting to cross the street, so he must have seen the van about the same time I did.”

“What age would you say?”

“What do I know about old guys? He had white hair and his jacket was brown leather, sort of dry-looking and cracked.”

“Can you recall anything else? Did the old guy wear glasses?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What about the shape of his face?”

“Kind of long.”

“Clean shaven?”

“I think so. For sure, he didn’t have a beard, but he might’ve had a mustache.”

“No moles or scars?”

“Can’t help you there. I was upset so I didn’t pay much attention.”

“What about height and weight?”

“He seemed taller than me and I’m five-six, but he wasn’t heavy or rail thin or anything like that. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific.”

“What about his hands?”

“Nope, but I remember his shoes. They were those old-time black leather lace-up shoes like the kind my granddad wore to work. You know the ones with holes punched around the instep?”

“Wing tips?”

“Yeah, them. They needed polishing and the sole on his right shoe was coming loose.”

“Did he have an accent?”

“Not one that I noticed.”

“What about his teeth?”

“A mess. Kind of yellow like he smoked. I’d forgotten about that.”

“Anything else?”

She shook her head.

“What about your injuries, aside from whiplash?”

“I had headaches at first, but those have gone away. My neck’s still sore and I guess that’s what’s throwing my back out of alignment. I lost two days at work, but nothing beyond that. If I sit for any length of time, I have to get up and walk around for a while. I guess I’m lucky things weren’t worse.”

“You got that right,” I said.

During that next week, I didn’t have occasion to talk to Melanie, but Henry kept me informed about her hassles with Gus, whose prickly disposition had resurfaced. Twice, in the early morning, I saw her arrive from the motel. I knew she stayed late, looking after him. I suppose I could have invited her to my place for a glass of wine or reminded her of her offer to buy dinner. Better yet, I could have put together a nourishing casserole, thus providing a meal for the two of them in the manner of a kindly neighbor. But does that sound like me? I didn’t extend myself for the following reasons:

(1) I can’t cook.

(2) I’d never been close to Gus, and I didn’t want to get caught up in the turbulence surrounding him.

In my experience, the urge to rescue generates aggravation for the poor would-be heroine without any discernible effect on the person in need of help. You can’t save others from themselves be-cause those who make a perpetual muddle of their lives don’t appreciate your interfering with the drama they’ve created. They want your poor-sweet-baby sympathy, but they don’t want to change. This is a truth I never seem to learn. Problematic in this case was that Gus hadn’t generated his troubles. He’d opened a window and in they’d crept.

Henry told me that the first weekend Gus was home, the Rolling Hills nursing director had recommended a private-duty nurse who was willing to work an eight-hour shift on Saturday and again on Sunday. This relieved Melanie of the more odious of medical and personal hygiene responsibilities while simultaneously providing Gus with someone else to abuse when his mood went sour, which it did on an hourly basis.

Henry had also told me Melanie had had no response from the classified ad she’d run. She’d finally contacted an agency and had been interviewing home companions, hoping to find someone to step into the breach.

“Has she had any luck?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t call it luck exactly. She’s hired three so far, and two didn’t make it to the end of the day. The third fared better, but not by much. I could hear him blasting her from across the back hedge.”

I said, “I guess I should have offered to help, but I decided I’d be better off if I learned to cope with my guilt.”

“How’re you doing with it?”

“Pretty well.”

10

SOLANA

Solana parked the car and rechecked the ad in the “Personals,” making sure the address was correct. There was no phone number listed, which was just as well. The last classified ad she’d responded to had been a dead end. The patient was an elderly woman living in her daughter’s house, confined to a hospital bed that had been installed in the dining room. The house was lovely, but the makeshift sick bay ruined the overall effect. High ceilings, light pouring in, all the furnishings done in exquisite taste. There was a cook and a housekeeper on the premises, and that put a damper on Solana’s enthusiasm.

Solana was interviewed by the daughter, who wanted someone to attend to her mother’s needs but felt she shouldn’t be required to pay private-duty rates since she would be present in the home as well. Solana would be expected to bathe, feed, and diaper the senile mother, change linens, do her laundry, and administer medication. These were responsibilities she was capable of handling, but she didn’t like the daughter’s attitude. She seemed to view a nursing professional as a household servant, on a par with a laundress. Solana suspected that the housekeeper would be treated better than she.

The haughty daughter made notes on her clipboard notepad and said she had several other job applicants to interview, which Solana knew was a bald-faced lie. The daughter wanted her to feel competitive, as though she’d be fortunate to be offered the position, which consisted of nine-hour days, one day off a week, and no personal calls. She’d be allowed two fifteen-minute coffee breaks, but she was expected to provide her own meals. And with a cook working right there in the next room!

Solana asked a good many questions, showing how interested she was, making sure the daughter spelled out particulars. In the end she agreed to everything, including the low wages. The daughter’s manner went from cold to prim to pleased with herself. It was clear she felt smug for having talked someone into accepting such ridiculous terms. Solana noticed there was no further mention of the other candidates.

She explained she didn’t have time just then to do the paperwork, but she’d bring the completed application with her when she came to work the next morning at eight. She jotted down her phone number in case the daughter thought of anything else she wanted to discuss. By the time Solana left, the daughter was falling all over herself, relieved that she’d managed to solve her problem at so little cost. She shook Solana’s hand warmly. Solana returned to her car, knowing she’d never see the woman again. The phone number she’d provided rang through to the psychiatric ward in a Perdido hospital, where Tiny had once spent a year.

Now Solana sat across the street and a few doors down from the address she’d been looking for. This was in response to an ad she’d seen over the weekend. She’d dismissed the possibility at first since there wasn’t a telephone number listed. As the week went on and no other jobs of interest appeared, she’d decided the house might be worth a quick look. The setting didn’t seem promising. The place had a neglected air, especially compared with the other houses on the block. The neighborhood was close to the beach and consisted almost entirely of single-family dwellings. Sandwiched here and there, between the small depressing houses, she could see a new duplex or fourplex in the Spanish-style architecture common to the area. Solana’s guess was that many of the residents were retired, which meant fixed incomes and little in the way of discretionary spending.

To all appearances, she was of a similar economic status. Two months before, one of her brothers had given her a banged-up convertible he was eager to junk. The car she’d been driving had thrown a rod, and the mechanic told her the repair bill would be two thousand dollars, which was more than the car was worth. At the time, she had no cash to spare, and when her brother offered her the 1972 Chevrolet, she’d accepted—though not without a certain sense of humiliation. Clearly, he thought the junker was good enough for her. She’d had her eye on a better car and she’d even been tempted to take on the hefty payments, but good sense prevailed. Now she was grateful she’d settled for the secondhand Chevrolet, which resembled so many other cars parked along the street. A newer model would have sent the wrong message. No one was interested in hiring help who appeared to be more prosperous than they.

So far she had no information about the patient beyond the brief clues in the ad. It was good he was eighty-nine years old and tottery enough to fall and hurt himself. His need for outside help suggested there weren’t any close relatives willing to pitch in. These days, people were self-centered—impatient about anything that interfered with their own comfort or convenience. From her perspective, this was good. From the patient’s, not so much. If he were surrounded by loving kids and grandkids, he’d be no use to her at all.

What worried her was his ability to pay for the in-home care. She couldn’t bill through Medicare or Medicaid because she’d never survive official scrutiny, and the chances of his having adequate private insurance didn’t look good. So many of the elderly made no provision for long-term disability. They drifted into their twilight years as though by mistake, surprised to discover themselves with limited resources, unable to cover the monstrous medical bills that accrued in the wake of acute, chronic, or catastrophic illness. Did they think the necessary funds would fall from the sky? Who did they imagine would shoulder the burden for their lack of planning? Fortunately, the last patient she’d taken on had ample means, which Solana had put to good use. The job had ended on a sour note, but she’d learned a valuable lesson. The mistake she’d made there was one she wouldn’t make again.

She debated the wisdom of inquiring about a job in such a modest neighborhood, but finally decided she could at least knock on the door and introduce herself. Since she’d driven in from Colgate, she might as well explore the possibility. She knew certain wealthy types took pride in maintaining a humble facade. This fellow might be one. Just two days before, she’d read an article in the paper about an elderly woman who’d died and left two million dollars to an animal shelter, of all things. Friends and neighbors had been stunned because the woman had lived like a pauper, and no one suspected she had so much money tucked away. Her prime concern was for her six ancient cats, which the estate attorney had ordered euthanized before the woman was even cold in her grave. This freed up thousands of dollars to pay the subsequent legal bills.

Solana checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. She was wearing her new glasses, a cheap pair she’d found that were a close match to the glasses on the Other’s driver’s license. With her hair dyed dark, the resemblance between them was passable. Her own face was thinner, but she wasn’t worried about that. Anyone comparing her face to the photo would simply think she’d lost weight. The dress she’d chosen for the occasion was a crisply ironed cotton that made a comforting rustling sound when she walked. It wasn’t a uniform per se, but it had the same simple lines and it smelled of spray starch. The only jewelry she wore was a watch with big numbers on the face and a sweeping second hand. A watch like that implied a quick and professional attention to vital signs. She took out her compact and powdered her nose. She looked good. Her complexion was clear and she liked her hair in this new darker shade. She tucked her compact away, satisfied that she looked the part—faithful companion to the old. She got out of her car and locked it behind her, then crossed the street.

The woman who answered the door was in her thirties and had a gaudy look about her—bright red lipstick, dark red hair. Her skin was pale, as though she seldom exerted herself and never went outdoors. She was definitely not a California type, especially with those eyebrows plucked to thin arches and darkened with pencil. She wore black boots and a narrow black wool skirt that hit her midcalf. Neither the shape nor the length was flattering, but Solana knew it was the current rage, as were the dark red nails. The woman probably thought she had an eye for high fashion, which wasn’t the case. She’d picked up the “look” from the latest magazines. Everything she wore would be dated and out of style before the new year rolled around. Solana smiled to herself. Anyone who had so little self-awareness would be easy to manipulate.

She held the paper up, folded so that the ad was in view. “I believe you placed an ad in the paper.”

“I did. Oh, how nice. I was beginning to think no one would ever respond. I’m Melanie Oberlin,” she said, and extended her hand. Solana might as well have been a fly-fisherman, casting out her line.

“Solana Rojas,” she replied, and shook Melanie’s hand, making sure her grip was strong. The articles she’d read all said the same thing. Keep the handshake firm and look your prospective employer in the eye. These were tips Solana committed to memory.

The woman said, “Please come in.”

“Thank you.”

Solana stepped into the living room, taking in the whole of it without any visible evidence of curiosity or dismay. The house smelled sour. The wall-to-wall carpet was beige, shabby and stained, and the upholstered furniture was covered in a dark brown crepey fabric she knew would be gummy to the touch. The lamp shades were tinted a deep parchment color by the infusion of large quantities of cigarette smoke over a long period of time. She knew if she put her nose against the drapes, she’d inhale decades’ worth of secondhand tar and nicotine.

“Shall we sit down?”

Solana took a seat on the sofa.

This was a place where a man had lived alone for many years, indifferent to his surroundings. A superficial order had been imposed, probably quite recently, but the rooms would have to be gutted to eliminate the many layers of grime. She knew, sight unseen, that the kitchen linoleum would be a dead gray and the aged refrigerator would be small and hunched. The interior light would be out and the shelves would be crusty with years of accumulated food spills.

Melanie looked around, seeing the place through her visitor’s eyes. “I’ve been trying to tidy up since I got into town. The house belongs to my uncle Gus. He’s the one who fell and dislocated his shoulder.”

Solana loved her apologetic tone because it signified anxiety and a desire to please. “And your aunt is where?”

“She died in 1964. They had one son who was killed in World War Two and a daughter who died in a traffic accident.”

“So much sadness,” Solana said. “I have an uncle in much the same situation. He’s eighty-six and living in isolation after the loss of his wife. I’ve spent many weekends with him, cleaning, running errands, and preparing food for the coming week. I think it’s the company he enjoys more than anything.”

“Exactly,” Melanie said. “Uncle Gus seems grumpy, but I’ve noticed how his mood improves with company. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Thank you, no. I had two cups this morning and that’s my limit.”

“I wish I could say the same. I must go through ten cups a day. In the city, we think of it as the addiction of choice. Are you a native of California?”

“Fourth generation,” Solana said, amused at the roundabout way the woman had come up with to ask if she was Mexican. She hadn’t actually said she was, but she knew Melanie Oberlin would imagine a once wealthy Spanish family. Solana said, “You yourself have an accent, no?”

“Boston.”

“I thought so. And this is ‘the city’ you referred to?”

Melanie shook her head in the negative. “New York.”

“How did you hear of your uncle’s unfortunate accident? Is there another family member here in town?”

“I’m sorry to say there’s not. One of the neighbors called. I flew out expecting to stay a few days, but it’s been a week and a half.”

“You came all the way from New York? That was very good of you.”

“Well, I didn’t have much choice,” Melanie said. Her smile was self-deprecating, but it was clear she agreed.

“Family loyalty is so very rare these days. Or that’s my observation. I hope you’ll forgive the generalization.”

“No, no. You’re right. It’s a very sad commentary on the times,” she said.

“It’s unfortunate there was no one else living close enough to help.”

“I come from a very small family and everyone else is gone.”

“I’m the youngest of nine. But no matter. You must be anxious to get home.”

“‘Frantic’ is a better word. I’ve been dealing with a couple of home health care agencies, trying to get someone on board. So far, we haven’t been able to make anything work.”

“It’s not always easy to find someone suitable. Your ad says you’re looking for a registered nurse.”

“Exactly. With my uncle’s medical problems, he needs more than a home companion.”

“To be truthful, I’m not an RN. I’m a licensed vocational nurse. I wouldn’t want to misrepresent my qualifications. I do work with an agency—Senior Health Care Management—but I’m more like an independent contractor than an employee.”

“You’re an LVN? Well, that’s pretty much the same thing, isn’t it?”

Solana shrugged. “There’s a difference in training and, of course, an RN earns far more than someone of my humble origins. In my own behalf, I will say that most of my experience has been with the elderly. I come from a culture where age and wisdom are accorded respect.”

Solana went on in this vein, inventing as she went along, but she needn’t have bothered. Melanie believed every word she said. She wanted to believe so she could make her escape without feeling guilty or irresponsible. “Does your uncle need around-the-clock care?”

“No, no. Not at all. The doctor’s concerned about his managing on his own during his recovery. Aside from the shoulder injury, he’s been in good health, so we might only need someone for a month or so. I hope that’s not a problem.”

“Most of my jobs have been temporary,” she said. “What are the duties you had in mind?”

“The usual, I guess. Bathing and grooming, light housekeeping, a little laundry, and maybe one meal a day. Something along those lines.”

“What about grocery shopping and transportation to his doctor’s appointments? Won’t he need to be seen by his primary care physician?”

Melanie sat back. “I hadn’t thought about that, but it’d be great if you’d be willing.”

“Of course. There are usually other errands as well, at least in my experience. What about the hours?”

“That’s up to you. Whatever you think would work best.”

“And the pay?”

“I was thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of nine dollars an hour. That’s the standard rate back East. I don’t know about out here.”

Solana covered her surprise. She’d meant to ask for seven fifty, which was already a dollar more than she usually earned. She lifted her brows. “Nine,” she said, infusing the word with infinite regret.

Melanie leaned forward. “I wish I could offer more, but he’ll be paying out of his own pocket and that’s as much as he can afford.”

“I see. Of course, in California, when you’re looking for skilled nursing care, that would be considered low.”

“I know and I’m sorry. We could maybe make it, you know, like nine fifty. Would that work for you?”

Solana considered. “Perhaps I could manage, assuming you’re talking about a straight eight-hour shift, five days a week. If weekends are necessary, my rate would go up to ten an hour.”

“That’s fine. If it comes down to it, I can contribute a few dollars to help offset the expense. The important thing is that he has the help he needs.”

“Naturally, the patient’s needs are paramount.”

“When would you be able to start? I mean, assuming you’re interested.”

Solana paused. “This is Friday and I do have a few things to take care of. Could we say early next week?”

“Would Monday be at all possible?”

Solana shifted with apparent uneasiness. “Ah. I might be able to rearrange my schedule, but much would depend on you.”

“Me?”

“You have an application you want me to complete?”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. We’ve covered the basics, and if something else comes up, we can discuss at the time.”

“I appreciate your confidence, but you should have the information for your files. It’s better for both of us if we put our cards on the table, so to speak.”

“That’s very conscientious. Actually, I do have some forms. Hang on a second.”

She got up and crossed the room to a side table where her handbag was sitting. She took out a folded set of papers. “You need a pen?”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll complete the application at home and bring it over first thing tomorrow morning. That will give you the weekend to verify my references. By Wednesday, you should have everything you need.”

Melanie furrowed her brow. “Couldn’t you go ahead and start work on Monday? I can always make calls from New York when I get home.”

“I suppose I could. It’s really a matter of your peace of mind.”

“I’m not worried about that. I’m sure everything’s in order. I feel better just having you here.”

“Your decision.”

“Good. Why don’t I introduce you to Uncle Gus and I can show you around.”

“I’d like that.”

As they moved into the hall, she could see Melanie’s anxiety surface again. “I’m sorry the place is such a mess. Uncle Gus hasn’t done much to keep it up. Typical bachelor living. He doesn’t seem to notice all the dust and disrepair.”

“He could be depressed. Elderly gentlemen in particular seem to lose their zest for life. I see it in their lack of personal hygiene, indifference to their surroundings, and limited social contacts. Sometimes there are personality changes as well.”

“I hadn’t thought about that. I should warn you he can be difficult. I mean, really, he’s a sweetheart, but sometimes he gets impatient.”

“Short-tempered, in other words.”

“Right.”

Solana smiled. “I’ve seen it before. Believe me, the shouting and tantrums roll right over me. I don’t take any of it personally.”

“That’s a relief.”

Solana was introduced to Gus Vronsky, in whom she took an avid interest, though she said very little to him. There was no point working to ingratiate herself. Melanie Oberlin was doing the hiring and she’d soon be gone. Whatever the old man was like, foul-mouthed or disagreeable, Solana would have him to herself. There’d be plenty of time for the two of them to sort themselves out.

That Friday afternoon, she sat at the round Formica table that served as her desk in the dining area of her small apartment. Her kitchen was cramped, with scarcely enough counter space to prepare a meal. She had an apartment-sized refrigerator, a four-burner stove that looked as inadequate as a toy, a sink, and cheap wall-mounted cabinets. She paid bills from this table, which was usually covered with paperwork and therefore useless for eating purposes. She and her son ate sitting in front of the television set, resting their plates on the coffee table.

She had the Vronsky job application in front of her. Close by she had the copy of the application she’d taken from the Other’s personnel file. Fifteen feet away, the television thundered, but Solana scarcely noticed. The living room was actually the long part of the L-shaped combination living-dining room with no discernible difference between the two. Tiny, her Tonto, was sprawled in his recliner, his feet elevated, his eyes fixed on the set. He was hard of hearing, and he usually had the volume turned up to levels that made her wince and encouraged her close neighbors to pound on the walls. After he dropped out of school, the only work he could find was as a bagger at a nearby supermarket. That didn’t last long. He thought the job was beneath him and he quit six months later. He was then hired by a landscape company to mow lawns and clip hedges. He complained about the heat and swore he was allergic to grass and tree pollens. Often he went to work late or he called in sick. When he did show up, if he wasn’t properly supervised, he’d leave when it suited him. He quit or was fired, depending on who was telling the tale. After that he made a few attempts to find work, but the job interviews came to nothing. Because of his difficulties making himself understood, he was often frustrated, lashing out at random. Eventually he stopped making any effort at all.

In some ways, she found it easier to have him at home. He’d never had a driver’s license so when he was employed it was up to her to take him into work and pick him up afterward. With the shifts she worked at the convalescent home, this presented a problem.

At the moment, he had a beer balanced on the arm of the chair and an open bag of potato chips resting against his thigh like a faithful hound. He munched while he watched his favorite program, a game show with lots of sound effects and lights. He liked to call out the answers to questions in that strange voice of his. He didn’t seem embarrassed that all his answers were wrong. What difference did it make? He enjoyed participating. In the mornings he watched soap operas, and later in the afternoon, he watched cartoon shows or old movies.

Solana studied the Other’s employment history with a familiar feeling of envy, mixed with a certain degree of pride since she was now claiming the résumé as her own. The letters of reference talked about how reliable and responsible she was, and Solana felt the attributes exactly described the sort of person she was. The only problem she could see was an eighteen-month gap, during which the Other was out on medical leave. She knew the details because the subject had been much discussed at work. The Other had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She’d subsequently undergone a lumpectomy, followed by chemotherapy and radiation.

Solana had no intention of incorporating that information in the application. She was superstitious about disease and didn’t want anyone to think she’d suffered from something so embarrassing. Breast cancer? My god. She didn’t need the pity or the fawning concern. In addition, she worried about a prospective employer voicing curiosity. If she included the talk of cancer, someone might inquire about her symptoms, or the nature of the drugs they’d used, or what the doctors had told her about her chances of recurrence. She’d never had cancer in her life. No one in her immediate family had ever had cancer, either. In her mind, having cancer was as shameful as being an alcoholic. Also, she was worried that if she wrote it down, the disease might actually manifest itself.

But how could she explain that interval when the real Solana—the Other—had been off work? She decided she’d substitute a position she herself had held right around that time. She’d worked as a companion for an old lady named Henrietta Sparrow. The woman was now dead so no one could call her to ask for a letter of reference. Henrietta was beyond complaining now (as she had at the time) that she was mistreated. All of that had gone to the grave with her.

Solana consulted a calendar and wrote the start and end dates for the job along with a brief description of the chores she’d been responsible for. She wrote in neat block letters, not wanting a sample of her handwriting to appear anywhere. When the application was completed, Solana joined her son in front of the TV set. She was satisfied with herself and decided to celebrate by ordering three large pepperoni pizzas. If it turned out Gus Vronsky didn’t have two nickels to rub together, she could always quit. She looked forward to Melanie Oberlin’s departure, and the sooner the better.

11

The following Monday, I stopped by my apartment at lunchtime, hoping to avoid the temptation of fast food. I heated a can of soup, of the do-not-add-water type, that I knew had enough sodium to approximate my swallowing a tablespoon of salt. I was washing up afterward when Melanie knocked on my door. Her black cashmere coat was form-fitting and long enough to bisect her black leather boots. She’d folded a wide black-and-red paisley shawl into a voluminous triangle and secured it across her shoulders. How did she have the confidence to carry it off? If I tried it, I’d look like I’d inadvertently walked through a clothesline and gotten tangled in a sheet.

I opened the door and stepped aside, letting her in. “Hi, how’s it going?”

She breezed by me and sat down on the couch, extending her legs in a gesture of collapse. “Don’t even ask. The man is driving me insane. I saw you parking your car and thought I’d catch you before you went out again. Is this a bad time? Please tell me it’s fine or else I’ll have to kill myself.”

“It’s fine. What’s going on?”

“I’m just being dramatic. He’s no better or worse than he’s always been. Anyway, I can’t stay long. I have a gal who started work this morning, which is what I want to talk to you about.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“This woman…this angel…named Solana Rojas showed up Friday morning for an interview. We chatted back and forth—Uncle Gus, his injury, and the kind of help he needs. Stuff like that. She said this was right up her alley and she’d be happy to have the job. She even ended up staying through the afternoon without charging a cent. I was afraid to expose her to the real Uncle Gus for fear she’d quit, but I felt honor-bound. I thought she should know what she was getting into and she seems fine with it.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I’m on a flight to New York tomorrow and I don’t have time to call and verify her references.”

“I’m surprised you stayed this long.”

“You’re not the only one,” she said. “I was scheduled to fly back last Friday, but Gus—as you well know—turned into a royal pain. Ditto my boss. I mean, she’s great and she was fine about my coming, but she called this morning in a lather. She’s got problems at work and she wants me back there. ‘Or else,’ is how she put it.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I should have known she’d do this. She’s generous until the first time it inconveniences her,” Melanie said. “I suppose I should be grateful for anything that gets me out of here. Which brings me to my point. Henry tells me you’re a PI. Is that true?”

“I thought you knew that.”

“I can’t believe I never asked. Naughty me,” she said. “I was hoping you could do a quick background check and let me know Solana’s okay. Of course, I’d pay you for your time.”

“How soon would you need to know?”

“Soon. For the next five days, she’s agreed to work an eight-hour shift. After that, assuming all goes well, we’ll tinker with the schedule until we figure out what suits. For now, she starts at three and leaves at eleven, which will take Gus through the supper hour, medications, and preparation for bed. As frail as he is, I know he needs more than that, but it’s the best I could do. Before she leaves at night, she’ll set up his breakfast for the following day. I’ve arranged for Meals on Wheels to deliver a hot noon meal and something simple for his supper. She offered to cook for him, but I thought it was too much to ask. I didn’t want to take advantage.”

“It sounds like you’ve got it covered.”

“Let’s hope. I’m a wee bit concerned about leaving on such short notice. She seems honest and conscientious, but I never laid eyes on her before Friday, so I probably shouldn’t take anything for granted.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. If she was referred by an agency, she’ll be fine. Any home health care service would make sure her references were good. She’d have to be licensed and bonded before they sent her out.”

“That’s just it. She works with an agency, but she called on her own in response to the ad. Matter of fact, hers was the only call I got, so I should count myself fortunate in that respect.”

“What’s the agency?”

“I have the business card right here. Senior Health Care Management. It’s not listed in the phone book and when I tried the number, it turned out to be a disconnect.”

“Did she have an explanation?”

“When I asked, she was completely apologetic. She said the number on the card was an old one. The company has since moved and she hadn’t had a chance to have new cards made up. She gave me the new number, but all I get is an answering machine. I left two messages and I’m hoping someone will call me back.”

“Did she fill out an application?”

“I have it right here.” She opened her handbag and took out the pages, which she’d folded in thirds. “This is a generic form I found in a legal kit. I hire people all the time at work, but the head of personnel has usually vetted them first. I’m a good judge of character when it comes to my field, but I don’t have a clue about nursing care. She’s an LVN, not an RN, but she’s worked with geriatric patients and it doesn’t bother her. Naturally, Uncle Gus was crabby and impossible, but she took it all in stride. She’s a better man than I am. The way he behaved, I was tempted to pop him one.”

I ran an eye down the page, which had been filled out by hand with a ballpoint pen. The information was rendered in tidy block letters, all caps, with no cross-outs. I checked the statement at the bottom of the page where the woman had signed her name, certifying that all the information she’d given was accurate and true. Built into the paragraph was a release, authorizing a prospective employer to verify her qualifications and employment history. “I understand and agree that any misstatement or omission of material facts will cause forfeiture on my part of all rights of employment.”

“This should cover it. I’ll handle some of it by phone, but many interviews are better done in person, especially when it comes to character issues. Most past employers are reluctant to put anything derogatory in writing for fear of being sued. Face-to-face, they’re more likely to offer up the salient details. How far back do you want me to go?”

“Honestly, a spot-check is fine—her degree, the last place she worked, and a couple of references. I hope you don’t think I’m being paranoid.”

“Hey, I do this for a living. You don’t have to justify the job to me.”

“Mostly, I want to know she’s not a killer on the lam,” she said, ruefully. “Even that’s not so bad if she can get along with him.”

I refolded the application. “I’ll run a duplicate at the office in the morning and get this back to you.”

“Thanks. I’m heading back down to Los Angeles at nine for a noon flight out. I’ll call you on Wednesday.”

“It’s probably better if I call you when I have something to report.”

I pulled a boilerplate contract from my top desk drawer and took a few minutes to fill in the blanks, detailing the nature and substance of our agreement. I jotted my home and office numbers at the top of the page. Once we’d both signed, she took out her wallet and gave me a business card and five hundred bucks in cash. “Will that suffice?”

“It’s fine. I’ll attach an itemized account when I send you my report,” I said. “Does she know about this?”

“No, and let’s keep it between the two of us. I don’t want her to think I don’t trust her, especially after I made such a point of hiring her on the spot. It’s fine if you want to tell Henry.”

“I’ll be ever so discreet.”

I’d mapped out a visit to the City College campus where Lisa Ray’s accident had occurred. Time to scout the area and see if I could run the missing witness to ground. It was close to 3:15 by the time I reached the Castle off-ramp and turned right onto Palisade Drive, which angled up the hill. The day was gloomy, the sky overcast in a way that made me think of rain, but California weather can be deceptive. In the East, dense gray clouds would signal precipitation, but here we’re subject to a marine layer that doesn’t mean much of anything.

Santa Teresa City College sits on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, one of 107 colleges in the California system of community colleges. The grounds are spread out over considerable acreage, east campus and west campus divided by a street called High Ridge Road, which forms a gentle downhill run to Cabana Boulevard and the beach. Driving by, I could see parking lots and various campus buildings.

There weren’t any retail establishments in the immediate vicinity, but a mile to the west, at the intersection of Palisade and Capillo, there was a string of storefront businesses: a café, a shoe-repair shop, a market, a card shop, and a drugstore that serviced the neighborhood. Closer to campus there was a gas station and a large chain supermarket that shared a parking lot with two fast-food restaurants. The old guy might live near the college or he might have had business in the area. From Lisa’s account, it wasn’t clear whether he was on foot or on his way to or from his car. There was also a possibility he was on the faculty or staff of the college itself. At some point, I’d have to start knocking on doors, fanning out from the site of the accident.

I passed the campus, circled back, and finally pulled in at the curb across from the entrance where Lisa Ray’s car had been stopped in preparation for her left-hand turn. There was a time when a private investigator might have done much of the digging in a lawsuit of this type. I’d once known a gumshoe whose specialty was making scale diagrams of accidents, taking measurements of street widths and reference points relevant to a collision. He’d also take photographs of tire tracks, angles of visibility, skid marks, and any other physical evidence left at the scene. Now this data is assembled by the accident-reconstruction experts, whose calculations, formulas, and computer models eliminate most of the speculation. If the lawsuit reached court, the expert’s testimony could make or break the case.

I sat in my car and reread the file, starting with the police report. The police officer, Steve Sorensen, was not one I knew. In the various categories that denoted conditions, he’d checked clear weather, midday, dry roadway surface, and no unusual conditions. Under “movement preceding collision,” he indicated that the Fredricksons’ Ford van (Vehicle 1) was proceeding straight, while Lisa’s 1973 Dodge Dart (Vehicle 2) was making a left-hand turn. He’d included a rough sketch with the proviso that it was “not to scale.” In his opinion, Vehicle 2 had been at fault, and Lisa had been cited for I 21804, public or private property, yield to approaching vehicles, and 22107, unsafe turn, and/or without signaling. Lowell Effinger had already hired a Valencia accident-reconstruction specialist, who’d assembled the data and was now in the process of preparing his report. He was also doubling as a biomechanical expert and would use the information to determine if Gladys’s injuries were consistent with the dynamics of the collision. With regard to the missing witness, old-fashioned legwork seemed to be my best bet, especially since I couldn’t come up with any other plan.

The few black-and-white views the traffic officer had shot at the time didn’t seem that helpful. Instead, I’d turned to the assortment of photos, both color and black-and-white, that Mary Bellflower had taken of the scene and the two vehicles. She’d arrived within a day of the collision, and her pictures showed fragments of glass and metal visible in the road. I scanned the street in both directions, wondering who the witness was and how I was going to find him.

I went back to the office, checked the file again, and found the number listed for Millard Fredrickson.

His wife, Gladys, answered on the third ring. “What is it?”

In the background, a dog barked incessantly in a range that conjured up images of a small, trembling breed.

“Hi, Mrs. Fredrickson. My name is…”

“Just a minute,” she said. She put a palm over the mouthpiece. “Millard, would you shut that dog up? I’m trying to talk on the phone here. I said, SHUT THAT DOG UP!” She removed her palm and returned to the conversation. “Who is this?”

“Mrs. Fredrickson, my name is Kinsey Millhone…”

“Who?”

“I’m an investigator looking into the accident you and your husband had last May. I’m wondering if we might have a chat with the two of you.”

“Is this about the insurance?”

“This is about the lawsuit. I’m interested in taking your statement about what happened, if you’d be so kind.”

“Well, I can’t talk now. I’ve got a bunion on my foot that’s giving me fits and the dog’s gone berserk because my husband went out and bought a bird without so much as a by-your-leave. I told him I don’t intend to clean up after anything lives in a cage and I don’t give a hang if it’s lined with paper or not. Birds are filthy. Full of lice. Everybody knows that.”

“Absolutely. I can see your point,” I said. “I was hoping I might stop by in the morning, say at nine o’clock?”

“What’s tomorrow, Tuesday? Let me check my calendar. I might be scheduled to see the chiropractor for an adjustment. You know I’ve been going in twice a week, for all the good it’s done. With all the pills and folderol, you’d think I’d be fine. Hold on.” I could hear her flipping pages back and forth. “I’m busy at nine. It looks like I’ll be here at two, but not much after that. I have a physical therapy appointment and I can’t afford to be late. They’re doing another ultrasound treatment, hoping to give me some relief from all the lower-back pain I got.”

“What about your husband? I’ll want to talk to him as well.”

“I can’t answer for him. You’ll have to ask him yourself when you get here.”

“Fine. I’ll be in and out of there as quickly as possible.”

“You like birds?”

“Not that much.”

“Well, all right then.”

I heard a high-pitched, astonished yelp, and Gladys slammed the phone down abruptly, possibly in order to save the dog’s life.

12

In the office Tuesday morning, I made a copy of Solana Rojas’s application and tucked the original in an envelope I addressed to Melanie. The five-hundred-dollar advance was my usual charge for one day’s work, so I thought I’d jump into it and make it worthwhile for both of us.

I sat at my desk and studied the application, which included Solana’s Social Security number, her driver’s license number, her date and place of birth, and her LVN certification number. Her home address in Colgate showed an apartment number, but the street itself wasn’t one I knew. She was sixty-four years old and in good health. Divorced, with no minor children living at home. She’d earned an AA degree from Santa Teresa City College in 1970, which meant she’d gone back for her degree when she was in her midforties. She’d applied for nursing school, but the waiting list was such that it took another two years before she was accepted. Eighteen months later, having completed the requisite three semesters in the nursing program, she had her certification as an LVN.

I studied her job history, noting a number of private-duty assignments. Her most recent employment was a ten-month stint at a convalescent home, where her duties had included the application and changing of bandages, catheterizations, irrigations, enemas, collecting specimens for lab analysis, and the administering of medications. The salary she listed was $8.50 an hour. Now she was asking $9.00. Under the heading “Background,” she indicated she’d never been convicted of a felony, that she wasn’t currently awaiting trial for any criminal offense, and that she’d never initiated an act of violence in the workplace. Good news, indeed.

The list of her employers, starting with the present and working backward, included addresses, telephone numbers, and the names of supervisors, where appropriate. I could see that the dates of employment formed a seamless progression that covered the years since she’d been licensed. Of the elderly private-duty patients she’d cared for, four had been moved into nursing homes on a permanent basis, three had died, and two had recovered sufficiently to live on their own again. She’d attached photocopies of two letters of recommendation that said just about what you’d expect. Blah, blah, blah responsible. Blah, blah, blah competent.

I looked up the number of Santa Teresa City College and asked the operator to connect me with Admissions and Records. The woman who took the call was in the throes of a head cold and the act of answering the phone had triggered a coughing fit. I waited while she struggled to get the hacking under control. People shouldn’t go to work with head colds. She probably prided herself on never missing a day while everyone around her came down with the same upper-respiratory distress and used up their annual sick leave.

“Excuse me. Whew! I’m sorry about that. This is Mrs. Henderson.”

I gave her my name and told her I was doing a preemployment background check on a Solana Rojas. I spelled the name and gave her the date she’d graduated from the STCC nursing program. “All I need is a quick confirmation that the information’s accurate.”

“Can you hold?”

I said, “Sure.”

While I was listening to Christmas carols, she must have popped a cough drop in her mouth because when she came back on the line, I could hear a clicking sound as the lozenge was shifted across her teeth.

“We’re not allowed to divulge information on the telephone. You’ll have to make your request in person.”

“You can’t even give me a simple yes or no?”

She paused to blow her nose, a sloppy transaction with a honking sound attached. “That’s correct. We have a policy about student privacy.”

“What’s private about it? The woman’s looking for a job.”

“So you claim.”

“Why would I lie about something like that?”

“I don’t know, dear. You’ll have to tell me.”

“What if I have her signature on a job application, authorizing verification of her educational background and employment history?”

“One moment,” she said, aggrieved. She put a palm across the telephone mouthpiece and murmured to someone nearby. “In that case, fine. Bring the application with you. I’ll make a copy and submit it with the form.”

“Can you go ahead and pull her file so the information’s waiting when I get there?”

“I’m not allowed to do that.”

“Fine. Once I get up there, how long will it take?”

“Five business days.”

I was annoyed, but I knew better than to argue with her. She was probably hyped up on over-the-counter cold medications and eager to shut me down. I thanked her for the information and then I rang off.

I made a long-distance call to the Board of Vocational Nursing and Psychiatric Technicians in Sacramento. The clerk who took my call was cooperative—my tax dollars at work. Solana Rojas’s license was active and she’d never been the subject of sanctions or complaints. The fact that she was licensed meant she’d successfully completed a nursing program somewhere, but I’d still need to make a trip to City College to confirm. I couldn’t think why she’d falsify the details of her certification, but Melanie had paid for my time and I didn’t want to shortchange her.

I went over to the courthouse and made a run through public records. A check of the criminal index, the civil index, the minor offenses index, and the public index (which included general civil, family, probate, and criminal felony cases) showed no criminal convictions and no lawsuits filed by or against her. The records of the bankruptcy court came up blank as well. By the time I drove up to City College, I was reasonably certain the woman was just as she represented herself.

I slowed to a stop at the information kiosk on campus. “Can you tell me where I can find Admissions and Records?”

“Admissions and Records is in the Administration Building, which is right there,” she said, pointing at the structure dead ahead.

“What about parking?”

“It’s open in the afternoons. Park anyplace you like.”

“Thanks.”

I pulled into the first open slot I came to and got out, locking my car behind me. From my vantage point, there was a view of the Pacific through the trees, but the water was gray and the horizon was obscured by mist. The continued overcast made the day feel colder than it was. I slung my bag across one shoulder and crossed my arms for warmth.

The architectural style of most campus buildings was plain, a serviceable mix of cream-colored stucco, wrought iron railings, and red-tile roofs. Eucalyptus trees cast mottled shadows across the grass, and a light breeze ruffled the fronds of the queen palms that towered above the road. There were six or eight temporary classrooms in use while additional facilities were being built.

It was odd to remember that I was enrolled here once upon a time. After three semesters, I realized I wasn’t cut out for academic studies even at the modest level of Everything 101. I should have known myself better. High school had been a torment. I was restless, easily distracted, more interested in smoking dope than learning. I don’t know what I thought I was going to do with my life, but I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t have to go to school to do it. That ruled out medicine, dentistry, and the law, along with countless other professions that I didn’t find appealing in the least. I realized that without a college degree, most corporations wouldn’t have me as a president. Oh dang. However, if I read the Constitution correctly, my lack of education didn’t preclude me from becoming the President of the United States, which only required me to be a natural-born citizen and at least thirty-five years of age. Was that exciting or was it not?

At eighteen and nineteen, I’d drifted through an assortment of entry-level jobs, though with most the “entry” part was about as far as I could get. Shortly after I turned twenty, for reasons I don’t remember now, I applied to the Santa Teresa Police Department. By that time, I’d cleaned up my act, as bored with dope as I was with menial work. I mean, how many times can you refold the same stack of sweaters in the sportswear department at Robinson’s? The pay scale was pathetic, even for someone like me. I did discover that if you’re interested in low wages, a bookstore ranks below retail clothing sales, except the hours are worse. The same holds for waiting tables, which (as it turned out) required more skill and finesse than I had at my disposal. I needed a challenge and I wanted to see just how far my street smarts might take me.

By some miracle, I survived the department’s selection process, passing the written exam, the physical-agility exam, the medical and controlled-substance screening, and various other interviews and evaluations. Somebody must have been asleep at the wheel. I spent twenty-six weeks in the Police Officer Standards and Training Academy, which was tougher than anything I’d ever done. After graduation I served as a sworn officer for two years and found, in the end, that I was not that well suited for work in a bureaucracy. My subsequent shift into an apprenticeship with a firm of private investigators proved to be the right combination of freedom, flexibility, and daring.

By the time I’d taken this split-second detour down memory lane, I’d entered the Administration Building. The wide corridor was bright, though the character of the light streaming through the windows was cold. There were Christmas decorations here and there, and the absence of students suggested that they’d already left for the holidays. I didn’t remember the place feeling so friendly, but that was doubtless a reflection of my attitude during that period.

I went into the Admissions and Records Office and asked the woman at the desk for Mrs. Henderson.

“Mrs. Henderson’s gone home for the day. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Gee, I sure hope so,” I said. I felt the thrill of a lie leaping to my lips. “I chatted with her an hour ago and she said she’d pull some information from the student files. I’m here to pick it up.” I put Solana’s job application on the counter and pointed to her signature.

The woman frowned slightly. “I don’t know what to tell you. That doesn’t sound like Betty. She never said a word to me.”

“She didn’t? That’s too bad. As sick as she was, it probably slipped her mind. Could you check the records for me since I’m already here?”

“I suppose so, though it might take a minute. I don’t know the files as well as she does.”

“That’s fine. No hurry. I’d appreciate it.”

Seven minutes later I had the confirmation I needed. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to coax any further information from the woman. I thought if Solana was a C– student, a prospective employer was entitled to know. As a friend of mine used to say, “On an airplane, you better hope your bomb-sniffing dog didn’t graduate at the bottom of his class.”

I returned to my car and pulled out my Thomas Guide covering Santa Teresa and San Luis Obispo counties. I had the address of the nursing home where Solana had last worked, which turned out to be walking distance from my office.

Sunrise House was a combination convalescent hospital and assisted-living facility, with room for fifty-two residents, some temporary and some permanent. The building itself was a one-story frame structure, with a number of additions laid nose-to-nose, in vertical and horizontal wings as random as a Scrabble board. The interior was tasteful, the decor done in shades of green and gray that were soothing without being apologetic. The Christmas tree here was also fake, but it was a thickly flocked specimen with tiny lights and silver ornaments in place. Eight large handsomely wrapped presents had been arranged on a white felt tree skirt. I knew the boxes were empty, but their very presence suggested wonderful surprises to come.

A large antique desk occupied the place of honor in the middle of an Oriental carpet. The receptionist was in her sixties, handsome, pleasant, and eager to be of help. She probably thought I had an aging parent in need of accommodations.

When I asked to speak to the head of personnel, she led me through a maze of corridors to the assistant administrator’s office. Over her shoulder, she said, “We don’t have a personnel department per se, but Mrs. Eckstrom can help you.”

“Thanks.”

Eloise Eckstrom was roughly my age, late thirties, very tall and thin, with glasses and a full head of bright red hair. She wore a vibrant green twin set, a plaid wool skirt, and flats. I’d caught her with her desk in disarray, drawers emptied and the contents arranged on chair seats and tabletops. An assortment of wire baskets and drawer dividers was packed in a box nearby. On the credenza behind her she had five framed photographs of a wire-haired terrier in various stages of maturity.

We shook hands across her desk, but only after she wiped her fingers clean with a moist towelette. She said, “Sorry the place is such a mess. I’ve been here a month and I swore I’d get organized before the holidays. Have a seat, if you can find one.”

I had a choice between two chairs, both of which were stacked with file folders and back issues of geriatric journals.

“That stuff will probably end up in the trash. You can put it on the floor.”

I shifted the weight of magazines from the seat to the floor and sat down. She seemed relieved to have the chance to sit as well.

“What can I help you with?”

I laid Solana Rojas’s application on the only bare spot I could find. “I’m hoping to verify some information about a former employee. She’s been hired to look after an elderly gentleman, whose niece lives in New York. I guess you’d call this ‘due diligence.’”

“Of course.”

Eloise crossed the room to a bank of gray metal file cabinets and opened a drawer. She pulled Solana Rojas’s personnel file, leafing through the pages as she returned to her desk. “I don’t have much. According to this, she came to work for us in March of 1985. Her job evaluations were excellent. In fact, in May of that year, she was Employee of the Month. There were no complaints and she was never written up. That’s the best I can do.”

“Why did she leave?”

She glanced back down at the file. “She apparently decided to go to graduate school. Must not have suited her if she’s already applying for private-duty work.”

“Is there anyone here who knew her? I was hoping for someone who’d worked with her on a day-to-day basis. The guy she’ll be caring for is a contrarian, and his niece wants someone with patience and tact.”

“I understand,” she said, and checked Solana’s file again. “It looks like she worked on One West, the post-surgery floor. Maybe we can find you someone who knows or remembers her.”

“That would be great.”

I followed her down the hall, not entirely optimistic about my chances. In doing a background check, fishing for personal data can be a tricky proposition. If you’re talking to a friend of the subject’s, you have to get a feel for the nature of the relationship. If the two are close buddies or confidantes, there’s probably a treasure trove of intimate information, but your chances of retrieving it are dim. By definition, good friends are loyal and, therefore, quizzing them on the down-and-dirty details about a pal seldom yields much of use. On the other hand, if you’re talking to a work mate or casual acquaintance, you have a better shot at the truth. Who, after all, can resist the invitation to trash someone else? An interpersonal rivalry can be exploited for potential bombshells. Bad blood, including overt conflicts, jealousies, petty grievances, or an inequity in pay or social status, can produce unexpected riches. For maximum success in prying, what you need is time and privacy so the person you’re talking to will feel free to blab to her heart’s content. The post-surgery floor wasn’t likely to yield the proper atmosphere.

Here I encountered a tiny stroke of luck.

Lana Sherman, the LVN who’d worked with Solana for the better part of a year, was just leaving the nurse’s station for a coffee break and she suggested I tag along.

13

On our way down the hall to the staff lounge, I asked her a few questions, trying to get a feel for the kind of person she was. She told me she was born and raised in Santa Teresa, that she’d been at Sunrise House for three years, and she liked it okay. “Effusive” was not an adjective I’d have been tempted to apply. Her dark hair was thin, with layers of drooping ringlets that looked dispirited. Already I wanted her to fire her “stylist” and try someone new. Her eyes were dark and the whites were bloodshot, as though she were trying her first contact lenses without much success.

The staff lounge was small but attractively furnished. There was a table with chairs drawn up to it, a modern couch, and two upholstered love seats arranged around a coffee table. A microwave oven, a toaster, a toaster oven, and a coffeemaker sat on the counter. The refrigerator was decorated with stern warnings about the sanctity of other employees’ food. I took a seat at the table while Lana poured coffee in a mug and added two packs of Cremora and two of Sweet ’N Low. “You want coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

She picked up a tray and carried it to the vending machine, where she put numerous coins in the slot. She punched a button and I watched her selection tumble into the bin below. She brought her tray to the table and off-loaded her coffee mug, her spoon, and a package of miniature chocolate-covered doughnuts.

I waited until she was seated before I went on. “How long have you known Solana?”

She broke the first doughnut in two and popped half in her mouth. “What’s the job?”

The question was a bit abrupt, but in the interest of priming the pump, I filled her in. “My next-door neighbor fell and dislocated his shoulder. He’s eighty-nine and needs home care while he recuperates.”

“So what’s she make?”

The doughnut looked dense and dry, and the dark chocolate frosting had the gloss of wax. For ten cents I’d have knocked her down and eaten one myself. I knew now that the many fruits and vegetables I’d consumed over the past few days had only made me hostile—not good in my line of work.

For an instant I’d completely lost my place in the conversation. “What?”

“What’s the pay?”

“I don’t know. I was asked to talk to people who’ve worked with her. I’m interested in a character reference.”

“In the neighborhood.”

“I won’t be talking to her neighbors unless I bomb out every place else.”

“I’m talking salary. Ballpark. What’s the hourly wage?”

“No one’s mentioned it. Are you thinking about changing jobs?”

“I might be.”

The second doughnut was gone though I’d hardly noticed, distracted as I was by the opening I saw. “If things don’t work out for her, I’d be happy to throw your name in the hat.”

“I’d consider it,” she said. “Remind me before you leave and I’ll give you my résumé. I have a copy in my purse.”

“Great. I’ll pass it along,” I said, and then shifted the conversation. “Were you and Solana friends?”

“I wouldn’t say we were friends, but we worked together for close to a year and we got along all right.”

“What’s she like?”

She shrugged. “So-so.”

“So-so?”

“I guess she’s nice enough. If you like that kind.”

“Ah. And what kind is that?”

“Fussy. If anyone was even two minutes late, she made a big deal of it.”

“So she was punctual,” I suggested.

“Well, yeah, if that’s what you want to call it.”

“What about personal traits?”

“Like what?”

“Was she patient, compassionate? Honest? Good-natured? That’s the kind of thing I’m looking for. You must have had many opportunities to observe her firsthand.”

She stirred her coffee, then licked the spoon clean before she laid it on her tray. She put the next doughnut in her mouth whole and chewed while she considered her reply. “You want my honest opinion?”

“I would love it.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against the woman, but she had no sense of humor and she wasn’t that good a conversationalist. I mean, you say something to her and maybe she’d answer and maybe not, depending on what suited her. She was all the time sitting with her nose in a chart or out on the floor checking on the patients. It wasn’t even her responsibility. She took it on herself.”

I said, “Wow. I had no idea. On paper she looks good.”

“That’s seldom the whole story.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m here, to fill in the blanks. Did you see her outside work?”

“Hardly. The rest of us, sometimes on Friday nights? We’d go out together, kind of letting our hair down at the end of the week. Solana went straight home. After a while, we didn’t even ask her to join us because we figured she’d say no.”

“She didn’t drink?”

“Nuh-uhn. Are you kidding? She was too uptight. Plus, she was always watching her weight. And on her breaks, she read books. Anything to make the rest of us look bad. Does that help?”

“Enormously.”

“You think she’ll be hired?”

“It’s not up to me, but I’m certainly going to make a note of what you’ve said.”

I left the place at 1:00 P.M. with Lana Sherman’s résumé in hand. Walking back to the office, I passed a sandwich shop and realized I hadn’t had lunch. In the press of work, I’ve been known to skip meals, but seldom when I was this hungry. I noticed that eating properly was antithetical to feeling full. A QP with Cheese and a large serving of fries will leave you close to comatose. The sudden onslaught of carbohydrates and fat makes you long for a nap, which means a gap of ten or fifteen minutes before you start thinking about your next meal. I did an about-face and veered into the sandwich shop. What I ordered is none of your business, but it was really good. I ate at my desk while I reviewed the Fredrickson file.

At 2:00, clipboard in hand, I arrived for my appointment with Gladys Fredrickson. She and her husband lived in a modest house near the beach on a street being overtaken by much grander homes. Given the exaggerated prices of local real estate, it made sense for buyers to snap up any house for sale and do extensive remodeling on the existing residence or raze the entire structure and start from scratch.

The Fredricksons’ one-story frame house fit the latter category, not so much a fixer-upper as something you’d bulldoze, pile in a heap, and burn. There was a shabbiness about the place that suggested years of deferred maintenance. Along the side of the house, I could see that a strip of aluminum gutter had come loose. Below the gap a clump of rotting leaves lay fallen in a makeshift compost heap. I suspected the carpet would smell damp and the grout between the shower tiles would be black with mildew.

In addition to the wooden porch stairs, there was a long wooden ramp that extended from the drive to the porch to allow wheelchair access. The ramp itself was mottled with dark green algae and doubtless became as slick as glass whenever it rained. I stood on the porch looking down at the ivy beds interspersed with the yellow blooms of oxalis. Inside, the dog was yapping at a rate that would probably net him a swat on his butt. Across the side yard, through a chicken wire fence, I caught sight of an elderly neighbor lady setting out what were probably the annual Christmas decorations on her lawn. These consisted of seven hollow plastic Santa’s helpers that could be lighted from inside. Also, nine plastic reindeer, one of which had a big red nose. She paused to stare at me and my quick wave was rewarded with a smile laced with sweetness and pain. There had once been little ones—children or grandchildren—whose memory she celebrated with this steadfast display of hope.

I’d already knocked twice and I was on the verge of knocking again when Gladys opened the door, leaning heavily on a walker, her neck encircled by a six-inch foam collar. She was tall and thick, the buttons of her plaid blouse gaping open across her ample breasts. The elastic waist on her rayon pants had given way and she’d used two large safety pins to affix the trousers to her shirt, thus preventing them from dropping and pooling around her ankles. She wore a pair of off-brand running shoes, though it was clear she wouldn’t be running any time soon. On her left foot, a half-moon of leather had been cut away to provide relief for her bunion. “Yes?”

“I’m Kinsey Millhone, Mrs. Fredrickson. We have an appointment to talk about the accident.”

“You’re with the insurance company?”

“Not yours. I’m working with California Fidelity Insurance. I was hired by Lisa Ray’s attorney.”

“Accident was her fault.”

“So I’ve been told. I’m here to verify the information she gave us.”

“Oh. Well, I guess you better come on in,” she said, already turning her walker so she could hump her way back to the La-Z-Boy where she’d been sitting.

As I closed the front door, I noticed a collapsible wheelchair propped up against the wall. I’d been wrong about the carpet. Theirs had been removed, revealing narrow-plank hardwood floors. Staples that once held the padding in place were still embedded in the wood, and I could see a line of dark holes where the tack strips had been nailed.

The interior of the house was so dense with heat that the air smelled scorched. A small brightly colored bird was fanning its way like a moth from one drapery panel to the next while the dog pranced across the sofa cushions, toppling the stacks of magazines, junk mail, bills, and newspapers piled along the length. The dog had a small face, bright black eyes, and a poufy cravat of hair spilling across its chest. The bird had left two white poker chips of poop on the floor between the end table and the chair. Gladys hollered, “Millard? I told you to get that dog out of here! Dixie’s up on the couch and I can’t be responsible for what she does next.”

“Goddamn it. I’m coming. Quit your hollering,” Millard called from somewhere down the narrow transverse hall. Dixie was still barking, dancing on her hind legs with her dainty front feet pawing the air, her eyes fixed on the parakeet, hopeful that she would be rewarded for her trick by getting to eat the bird.

A moment later Millard appeared, propelling his wheelchair into view. Like Gladys, I judged him to be in his early sixties, though he was aging better than she. He was a heavyset man with a ruddy face, a thick black mustache, and a head of curly gray hair. He whistled sharply for the dog and she hopped off the sofa, crossed the room rapidly, and leaped onto his lap. He did a rolling pivot and disappeared down the hall, grumbling as he went.

“How long has your husband used a chair?”

“Eight years. We had to have the carpet taken up so he could manage from room to room.”

“I’m hoping he’s made time for me today. As long as I’m here, I can talk to him as well.”

“No, now he said it didn’t suit him. You’ll have to come back another time if you want to talk to him.” Gladys shoved aside a pile of papers. “Make a space for yourself if you care to sit.”

I perched gingerly in the clearing she’d made. I set my shoulder bag on the floor and removed my tape recorder, which I placed on the coffee table in front of me. A tower of manila envelopes tilted against my thigh, most by way of a courier service called Fleet Feat. I waited while she maneuvered herself into position and then eased into the recliner with a grunt. During that brief delay, purely in the interest of securing the avalanche of bills, I did fan out the first five or six envelopes. Two had red rims and a hoary warning that read URGENT!! FINAL NOTICE! One was for a gasoline credit card, the other from a department-store chain.

Once Gladys was settled, I tried on my visiting-nurse voice. “I’ll be recording this with your permission. Is that agreeable to you?”

“I suppose.”

After I pressed the Record button, I recited my name, her name, the date, and the case number. “Just for the record, you’re giving this information voluntarily without threats or coercion. Is that correct?”

“I said I would.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. In answering my questions, please respond only with the facts within your knowledge. I’d ask you to avoid opinions, judgments, or conclusions.”

“Well, I’ve got my opinions like everyone else.”

“I understand that, Mrs. Fredrickson, but I have to limit my report to information as accurate as you can make it. If I ask a question and you don’t know or don’t remember, just say so. Please don’t guess or speculate. Are you ready to proceed?”

“I’ve been ready since I sat down. You’re the one dragging it out. I didn’t expect all this claptrap and folderol.”

“I appreciate your patience.”

She nodded in response, but before I could formulate the first question, she launched into an account of her own. “Oh hon, I’m a wreck. No pun intended. I can’t hardly get around without my walker. I got numbness and tingling in this foot. Feels like it’s fell asleep, like I’ve been laying on it wrong…”

She went on describing the pains in her leg while I sat and took notes, doing a proper job of it. “Anything else?” I asked.

“Well, headaches, of course, and my neck’s all froze up. Look at this—I can’t hardly turn my head. That’s why I got this collar here to help give support.”

“Any other pain?”

“Honey, pain’s all I’ve got.”

“May I ask what medications you’re taking?”

“I got a pill for everything.” She reached over to the end table, where a number of prescription bottles had been assembled along with a water glass. She picked up the vials one by one, holding them out so I could write down the names. “These two are pain pills. This one’s a muscle relaxant, and this here’s for depression…”

I was scribbling away but looked up with interest. “Depression?”

“I got chronic depression. I can’t remember when I’ve ever felt so low. Dr. Goldfarb, the orthopedic specialist, he sent me to see this psychiatrist who put me on these new pills. I guess the other ones don’t do much once you’ve taken them awhile.”

I made a note of the prescription for Elavil that she’d held out for my inspection. “And what were you on before?”

“Lithium.”

“Have you had other problems since the accident?”

“Poor sleep and I can’t hardly work a lick. He said I might not ever be able to work again. Not even permanent part-time.”

“I understand you do the bookkeeping for a number of small businesses.”

“The past forty-two years. Talk about a job that gets old. I’ve about had it with that stuff.”

“You have an office in your home?”

She nodded toward the hall. “Second bedroom back there. Thing is, I can’t sit for long on account of my hip gives me fits. You oughtta seen the big old bruise I had, all up and down this side. Purple as a eggplant. I still got a patch of yellow as big as the moon. And hurt? Oh my stars. I had tape on these here ribs and then, like I said, I have this problem with my neck. Whiplash and all and a concussion of the head. I call that ‘confusion contusions,’” she said, and barked out a laugh.

I smiled politely. “What kind of car do you drive?”

“Nineteen seventy-six Ford van. Dark green in case you mean to ask that next.”

“Thank you,” I said, and made a note. “Let’s go back to the accident. Would you tell me what happened?”

“Be happy to, though it was a terrible, terrible thing for me as you might imagine.” She narrowed her eyes and tapped a finger against her lips, looking into the middle distance as though reciting a poem. By the time she was halfway through the second sentence, it was clear she’d told the story so often that the details wouldn’t vary. “Millard and me were driving along Palisade Drive up by the City College. This was Thursday of Memorial Day weekend. What is that, six or eight months back?”

“About that. What time of day was this?”

“Middle of the afternoon.”

“What about weather conditions?”

She frowned slightly, forced to think about her answer instead of offering up her usual rote response. “Fine as near as I remember. We’d had rains off and on all last spring, but a dry spell come along and the papers was saying the weekend would be nice.”

“And which direction were you heading?”

“Toward downtown. He couldn’t have been driving more than five or six miles an hour. Might have been a bit more, but it was way under the posted limit. I’m positive about that.”

“And that’s twenty-five miles an hour?”

“Something along those lines.”

“Can you remember how far away Ms. Ray’s vehicle was when you first noticed it?”

“I remember she was over to my right in that entrance to the parking lot up at the City College. Millard was just about passing when she come flying out in front of me. Boom! He slammed on the brakes, but not near quick enough. I was never so surprised in my life and that’s the truth!”

“Was her left turn signal blinking?”

“I don’t believe it was. I’m sure not.”

“What about your turn signal?”

“No, ma’am. He didn’t intend to turn. We were fixing to continue on down the hill to Castle.”

“I believe there was some question about your seat belt?”

She shook her head emphatically. “I never ride in a car without a seat belt. It might’ve come loose on impact, but I was wearing one for sure.”

I took a moment to review my notes, wondering if there was any way to throw her off her stride. The well-rehearsed data was getting old. “Where were you going?”

That stumped her. She blinked and said, “Where?”

“I’m wondering where the two of you were going when the accident occurred. I’m filling in the blanks.” I held up my clipboard as though that explained everything.

“I forget.”

“You don’t remember where you were going?”

“I just said that. You told me to say so if I couldn’t remember and I can’t.”

“Fine. That’s exactly right.” I stared at my clipboard and made a mark. “If it would help refresh your memory, could you have been heading for the freeway? From Castle, you can take the north- or southbound on-ramps.”

Gladys shook her head. “Ever since the accident my memory’s shot.”

“Were you running errands? Grocery shopping? Something for dinner perhaps?”

“Must have been errands. I’d say errands. You know, I might have amnesia. Doctor says it’s not uncommon in accidents of this type. I can’t hardly concentrate. That’s why I can’t work. I can’t sit and I can’t think. Work I do, that’s all it is, except for add and subtract and stamping envelopes.”

I looked down at my notes. “You mentioned a concussion.”

“Oh, I banged my head good.”

“On what?”

“Windshield, I guess. Might have been the windshield. I still got me a knot,” she said, placing a hand briefly on the side of her head.

I placed my hand on the left side of my head as she had. “On the left side up here or in back?”

“Both. I got bumped ever which way. Here, feel this.”

I reached forward. She clasped my hand and pressed it against a hard knot about the size of a fist. “My goodness.”

“You better make a note of it,” she said, pointing at my clipboard.

“Absolutely,” I said, scribbling on the page. “What happened after that?”

“Millard was shook up as you might well imagine. He soon discerned he wasn’t hurt, but he could see I was out like a light, knocked completely unconscious. As soon as I regained my senses, he helped me out of the van. Wasn’t easy for him since he had to get situated in his chair and lever himself down to the pavement. I couldn’t hardly tell where I was at. I was all dizzy and discombobulated and shaking like a leaf.”

“You must have been upset.”

“Why wouldn’t I be when she pulled out in front of us?”

“Of course. Let’s just see now.” I paused to check my notes. “Aside from you and your husband and Ms. Ray, was there anyone else at the scene?”

“Oh, my yes. Someone called the police and they come pretty quick, along with the fellers in the amulance.”

“I’m talking about prior to their arrival. Did anyone stop to help?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t believe so. Not that I recall.”

“I understood that a gentleman was giving aid and assistance before the traffic officer showed up.”

She stared at me, blinking. “Well, yes, now you mention it. I’d forgot about that. While Millard was checking the van, this feller helped me over to the curb. He set me down and put his arm acrost my shoulders, worried I’d go into shock. That flew right out of my head until just now.”

“This was another motorist?”

“I believe this was someone come off the street.”

“Can you describe the man?”

She seemed to hesitate. “Why do you want to know?”

“Ms. Ray was hoping to find him so she could send a thank-you note.”

“Well.” She was silent for a full fifteen seconds. I could see her computing the possibilities in her head. She was wily enough to realize that anyone who showed up that quickly might well have been a witness to the accident.

“Mrs. Fredrickson?”

“What?”

“Nothing about the man sticks in your mind?”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that. Millard might recall better than me. By then, this right hip was giving me so much pain I’m surprised I was able to stand. If you had the X-ray here, I could point out the injured ribs. Dr. Goldfarb said I was lucky the crack in my hip wasn’t more severe or I’ve been laid up for good.”

“What about his race?”

“He’s white. I wouldn’t go to any other kind.”

“I mean the man who helped.”

She shook her head with a fleeting annoyance. “I wasn’t paying attention to much except I was glad my leg wasn’t broke. You’d have been glad, too, in my place.”

“What age would you say?”

“Now I can’t be answering questions like that. I’m getting all flustered and upset and Dr. Goldfarb says that’s not good. Not a bit good he said.”

I continued to look at her, noting her gaze flick away from mine and back. I returned to my list of questions and chose a few that seemed neutral and noninflammatory. In the main, she was cooperative, but I could see her patience was wearing thin. I tucked my pen in the clamp of the clipboard and reached for my shoulder bag as I got to my feet. “Well, I think that’s all for now. I appreciate your time. Once I type up my notes, I’ll stop by and have you read the statement for accuracy. You can make any necessary corrections, and once you’re satisfied it’s a faithful rendering, you can give me a signature and I’ll be out of your hair.”

As I clicked off the tape recorder, she said, “I’m happy to help. All we want is what’s fair, given the fault was entirely hers.”

“Ms. Ray is interested in that as well.”

From the Fredricksons’ house, I swung up to Palisade Drive and turned right, taking the same route Gladys had taken the day of the accident. I passed City College, eyes flicking to the entrance to the parking lot. I followed the road as it curved down the hill. Where Palisade intersected Castle, I took a left and followed it as far as Capillo, where I turned right. Street traffic was moving freely and it took me less than five minutes to reach the office. The sky was cloudy and there was talk of isolated thunderstorms, which I thought unlikely. For reasons I’ve never wholly understood, Santa Teresa has a rainy season but seldom any thunderstorms. Lightning is a phenomenon I’ve witnessed largely by way of black-and-white photographs, showing white threads lying flat against the night sky like irregular cracks in glass.

Once I was back in the office, I set up a file and then typed my notes. I put Lana Sherman’s résumé in the folder with Solana Rojas’s application. I could have tossed it, but why not hang on to it since I had it in hand?

Wednesday morning, when Melanie called, I gave her the Reader’s Digest condensed version of my findings, at the end of which, she said, “So she’s fine.”

“Looks that way,” I said. “Of course, I didn’t turn over every rock in the garden.”

“Don’t worry about it. There’s no point in going nuts.”

“That’s that, then. Looks like it’s working out as planned. I’ll have Henry keep an eye on the situation and if anything comes up, I can let you know.”

“Thanks. I appreciate your help.”

I hung up, feeling satisfied with the job I’d done. What I had no way of knowing was that I’d just, unwittingly, put a noose around Gus Vronsky’s neck.

14

Christmas and New Year’s Day slid past, leaving scarcely a wrinkle in the fabric of ordinary life. Charlotte was off in Phoenix, celebrating the holidays with her kids and grandkids. Henry and I spent Christmas morning together and exchanged gifts. He gave me a pedometer and a Sony headset so I could listen to the radio while I did my morning jog. For him, I’d found an antique egg timer six inches tall, an ingenious glass-and-tin device with pink sand inside. To activate it, you flipped up the three-minute timer until it rested against a lever at the top. Once the sand finished falling from the top portion to the bottom, the upper portion tipped over and rang a tiny bell. I also gave him a copy of Bernard Clayton’s New Complete Book of Breads. At 2:00, Rosie and William joined us for Christmas dinner, after which I went back to my place and took a long holiday nap.

New Year’s Eve I stayed home and read a book, happy that I wasn’t out risking life and limb with the many drunks on the road. I confess I abandoned my junk food resolve on New Year’s Day and enjoyed an orgy of Quarter Pounders with Cheese (two) and a large order of fries doused in ketchup. I did keep my new pedometer affixed to my person while I ate, and I made sure I walked ten thousand steps that day, which I hoped would count in my favor.

I started the first week of 1988 with a dutiful 6:00 A.M. three-mile jog, radio headset in place, after which I showered and ate breakfast. At the office, I whipped out my trusty Smith-Corona and composed a notice for the “Personals” section of the Santa Teresa Dispatch, detailing my interest in the witness to a two-vehicle collision that had occurred on Thursday, May 28, 1987, at approximately 3:15 P.M. I included the few particulars I had, listing the man’s age as midfifties, which was only a guess. Height and weight I said were medium and his hair, “thick white.” I also made reference to his brown leather bomber jacket and black wing tip shoes. I didn’t give my name but I posted a contact number and an appeal for help.

While I was about it, I called the Fredricksons’ house, hoping to set up an appointment with Millard to discuss the accident. The phone rang countless times, and I was about to put the handset back in the cradle when he picked up.

“Mr. Fredrickson! I’m glad I caught you. This is Kinsey Millhone. I stopped by your house and talked to your wife a couple of weeks ago and she said I should call so I can set up an appointment with you.”

“I can’t be bothered with this. You already talked to Gladys.”

“I did and she was very helpful,” I said. “But there are just a couple of points I’d like to go over with you.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t have my notes with me, but I can bring them when I come. Would Wednesday of this week work for you?”

“I’m busy…”

“Why don’t we say next Monday, a week from today. I can be there at two.”

“I’m tied up on Monday.”

“Why don’t you name the day?”

“Fridays are better.”

“Fine. A week from this coming Friday, that’s the fifteenth. I’ll make a note on my calendar and see you at two. Thanks so much.” I marked the date and time on my calendar, relieved I wouldn’t have to worry about it for another ten days.

At 9:30, I called the Santa Teresa Dispatch with the information and was told the ad would appear on Wednesday and would run for a week. Just after the accident, Mary Bellflower had placed a similar query, with negative results, but I thought it was worth another try. That done, I walked over to the copy shop near the courthouse and ran off a hundred flyers, describing the man and further indicating that it was hoped he had information concerning a two-vehicle accident on such-and-such a date. I stapled a business card to each flyer, thinking I might pick up a client in the bargain. Aside from that, I thought it lent an earnest air to my quest.

I spent most of the afternoon canvassing the hillside homes off Palisade across the road from the entrance to Santa Teresa City College. I parked my car on a side street near a two-story apartment complex and proceeded on foot. I must have knocked on fifty doors. When I was lucky enough to find someone at home, I explained the situation and my need to locate a witness to the accident. I underplayed the notion that he might end up testifying on behalf of the defendant. Even the most conscientious of citizens is sometimes reluctant to commit to a court appearance. Given the vagaries of the judicial system, a witness can spend hours sitting in a drafty corridor only to be excused when opposing parties reach a pretrial settlement.

After two hours I’d learned absolutely nothing. Most of the residents I spoke with were unaware of the accident and none had seen a man who matched the description of the witness I sought. If there was no response to my knock, I left a flyer in the door. I also tacked flyers to any number of telephone poles. I considered tucking a flyer under the windshield wipers of the cars I passed, but the practice is annoying and I always toss such notices myself. I did leave a flyer taped to the wooden bench at the bus stop. It was probably illegal to use city property for such purposes, but I figured if they didn’t like it, they could hunt me down and kill me.

At 2:10, having covered the area, I returned to my car, drove across the intersection, and into the college parking lot. I shrugged myself into the jacket I’d tossed on the backseat, locked the Mustang, and walked out to the point where the access road emptied onto the four-lane expanse of Palisade. A length of chain-link fence separated the eastbound from westbound traffic. To my right, the road curved gently down along a slope and out of sight. There was no turn lane designated for vehicles intending to enter the lot from either direction, but I could see that from Lisa Ray’s perspective, an oncoming vehicle would have been visible for approximately five hundred yards, a fact I hadn’t noted on my earlier visit.

I perched on a low fieldstone wall and watched cars speed by. There was a smattering of foot traffic to and from the campus. Most pedestrians were students or working moms there to pick up kids from a college-run day-care facility on the far corner, near the bus stop. I gathered the day-care operation had no parking spots of its own, so the moms took advantage of the City College lots when picking up their tots. Where possible, I engaged these hapless passersby in conversation, detailing my search for the man with white hair. The moms were polite but distracted, barely responding to my questions before they hurried away, anxious to avoid being dinged with after-hours charges. As the afternoon wore on, there was a steady stream of moms with their little tykes in tow.

Of the first four students I approached, two were new to the college and two had left town that Memorial Day weekend. A fifth wasn’t even a student, just a woman out looking for her dog. None had anything useful to contribute, but I learned a lot about the intelligence and superiority of the standard poodle. The campus security officer stopped to chat, probably concerned that I was homeless, casing the joint, or flogging designer drugs.

While he was busy quizzing me, I quizzed him in return. He had a dim recollection of the man with white hair but couldn’t remember when he’d seen him last. At least his response, though vague, gave me a modicum of hope. I handed him a flyer and asked him to get in touch if he should spot the guy again.

I continued in this manner until 5:15, two hours beyond the time when the accident had occurred. In May, it would have been light until eight. Now the sun set at five. In the back of my mind I was hoping the man had routine business that brought him to the neighborhood the same time each day. I planned to swing by again on Saturday and do a second neighborhood canvass. Weekends I might have better luck finding folks at home. If there was no response to my newspaper ad, I’d return on Thursday of the following week. I abandoned the project for the day and headed home, feeling tired and out of sorts. In my experience, loitering is an enervating act.

I turned onto my street and made the usual quick search for the parking spot closest to my studio apartment. I was puzzled to see that a bright red Dumpster had been unloaded at the curb. It was easily twelve feet long and eight feet wide, and might have served as housing for a family of five. I was forced to park around the corner and walk back. In passing, I peered over the five-foot-high rim and into the empty interior. What was that about?

I pulled the mail out of my box, went through the gate, and around the side of my studio apartment, which was once a single-car garage. Seven years before, Henry had relocated his driveway, constructed a new two-car garage, and converted the original garage into a rental, which I’d moved into. Three years later, an unfortunate incident with a bomb had flattened the structure. Henry had taken advantage of the free demolition and he’d rebuilt the studio, adding a half story that contained a sleeping loft and bath. The last Dumpster I’d seen on our block was the one he rented to accommodate the construction debris.

I dropped my bag inside my apartment and left the door ajar while I crossed the patio to Henry’s. I rapped on his kitchen door and he appeared moments later from his living room, where he was watching the evening news. We chatted briefly about inconsequential matters and then I said, “What’s the deal with the Dumpster? Is that ours?”

“Gus’s nurse ordered that.”

“Solana? That’s a bold move on her part.”

“I thought so, too. She stopped by this morning to let me know it was being delivered. She’s getting rid of Gus’s junk.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. She cleared it with Melanie, who gave her the go-ahead.”

“And Gus agreed?”

“Looks that way. I called Melanie myself just to make sure it was legitimate. She said Gus went through a rough patch and Solana stayed two nights, thinking he shouldn’t be alone. She ended up sleeping on the couch, which was not only too short but smelled of cigarettes. She asked Melanie for permission to move in a cot, but there wasn’t space for one. His second and third bedrooms are wall-to-wall junk and that’s what she intends to toss.”

“I’m surprised he said yes.”

“He didn’t have much choice. You can’t expect the woman to make up a pallet on the floor.”

“Who’s going to haul the stuff out? Must be half a ton of newspapers in that one room alone.”

“She’s doing most of it herself, at least as much as she can manage. For the bulkier items, I guess she’ll hire someone. She and Gus went through everything and he decided what he was willing to part with. He’s hanging on to the good stuff—his paintings and a few antiques—the rest is history.”

“Let’s hope she pulls up the crappy carpet while she’s at it,” I remarked.

“Amen to that.”

Henry invited me in for a glass of wine, and I would have taken him up on the offer but my phone started ringing.

“I better get that,” I said, and took off at a trot.

I caught the call just before my answering machine picked up. It was Melanie Oberlin.

She said, “Oh good. I’m glad I caught you. I was afraid you weren’t home. I’m just about to dash out, but I have a question for you.”

“Sure.”

“I called Uncle Gus earlier today and I don’t think he knew who I was. It was the oddest conversation. Kind of goofy, you know? He sounded drunk or confused, or maybe both.”

“That’s not like him. We all know he’s crabby, but he always knows exactly where he is and what’s going on.”

“Not this time.”

“Maybe it’s his meds. They’ve probably got him on pain pills.”

“At this late date? That doesn’t sound right. I know he was on Percocet, but they pulled him off that as soon as they could. Have you talked to him lately?”

“Not since you left, but Henry’s been to see him two or three times. If there was a problem, I’m sure he’d have mentioned it. You want me to look in on him?”

“If you don’t mind,” she said. “After he hung up, I called back and spoke to Solana, hoping to get her assessment of the situation. She thinks he may be showing early signs of dementia.”

“Well, that’s worrisome,” I said. “I’ll go over in the next couple of days and have a chat with him.”

“Thanks. And could you ask Henry if he’s noticed anything?”

“Sure. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something to report.”

Tuesday morning, I set aside an hour to serve a three-day pay-or-quit notice on a tenant in a Colgate apartment building. Ordinarily, Richard Compton, the owner of the building, would have delivered the eviction notice himself in hopes of goosing the renter into catching up. Compton had owned the property for less than six months and he’d been busy booting out the deadbeats. People who decline to pay their rent can sometimes be a surly lot and two had offered to punch his lights out. He decided it’d be smart to send someone in his place, namely me. I personally thought it was cowardly on his part, but he’d offered me twenty-five bucks to hand someone a piece of paper, and it seemed like adequate recompense for two seconds’ worth of work. Traffic was light and I made the fifteen-minute drive with my radio tuned to one of those talk shows where listeners call in to ask advice about marital and social woes. I’d become a big fan of the hostess and found it entertaining to test my reactions against hers.

I spotted the street number I was looking for and pulled in at the curb. I folded the eviction notice and tucked it in my jacket pocket. As a general rule, in serving papers of any kind, I don’t like to show up waving official-looking documents. Better to get the lay of the land before making my purpose clear. I hefted my bag from the passenger seat as I emerged and locked the car behind me.

I took a minute to scan the premises, which looked like a movie version of a prison. I was staring at four three-story buildings, arranged to form a square with the corners open and walkways between. Twenty-four apartments were lumped together in each unadorned block of stucco. Junipers had been planted along the foundations, perhaps in an attempt to soften the facade. Unfortunately, most of the evergreens had suffered a blight that left the branches as sparse as last year’s Christmas trees and the remaining needles the color of rust.

Across the front of the nearest building, I could see a short row of slab porches, one step high, furnished with the occasional aluminum lawn chair. An apologetic inverted V of roof had been tacked above each front door, but none were large enough to offer protection from the elements. In the rainy season, you could stand there, house key in hand as you fumbled to get in, and by the time the door finally swung open, you’d be drenched. Summer sunlight would beat down unrelentingly, converting the front rooms into small toaster ovens. Anyone climbing to the third tier would suffer heart palpitations and shortness of breath.

There was no yard to speak of, but I suspected if I went into the interior courtyard, I’d see covered barbecue grills on the second- and third-floor loggias, clotheslines and children’s playthings in the grassy patches at ground level. The garbage cans were standing in a ragtag line at one end of the structure that housed empty carports in lieu of closed garages. The complex had a curious unoccupied air, like housing abandoned in the wake of calamity.

Compton had nothing but complaints about his tenants, who were sorry sunza-bitches (his words, not mine). According to him, at the time he’d purchased the property, the units were already overcrowded and ill used. He’d made a few repairs, slapped a coat of paint on the exterior, and raised all the rents. This had driven out the least desirable of the occupants. Those who remained were quick to bellyache and slow to pay.

The tenants in question were the Guffeys, husband and wife, Grant and Jackie respectively. The previous month, Compton had written them a nasty letter about their failure to pay, which the Guffeys had ignored. They were already two months in arrears and perhaps intent on garnering another rent-free month before responding to his threats. I crossed the dead grass, went around the corner of the building, and up a flight of outside stairs. Apartment 18 was on the second floor, the center one of three.

I knocked. After a moment the door was opened to the length of the burglar chain and a woman peered out. “Yes?”

“Are you Jackie?”

A pause. “She’s not here.”

I could see her left eye, blue, and medium-blond hair caught up on rollers the size of frozen orange juice cans. I could also see her left ear, which had sufficient small gold hoops stuck through the cartilage to mimic a spiral-bound notebook. Compton had mentioned the piercings in his description of her, so I was reasonably certain this was Jackie, lying through her teeth. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“What makes you ask?”

Now I was the one who hesitated, trying to decide on my approach. “Her landlord asked me to stop by.”

“What for?”

“I’m not authorized to discuss the matter with anyone else. Are you related to her?”

A pause. “I’m her sister. I’m from Minneapolis.”

The best thing about lying are the flourishes, I thought. I myself am a world-class practitioner. “And your name is?”

“Patty.”

“Mind if I write that down?”

“It’s a free country. You can do anything you want.”

I reached into my shoulder bag and found a pen and a small lined notebook. I wrote “Patty” on the first page. “Last name?”

“I don’t have to tell.”

“Are you aware that Jackie and her husband haven’t paid rent for the past two months?”

“Who cares? I’m visiting. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Well, maybe you could pass along a message from the guy who owns the place.”

I handed her the eviction notice, which she took before she realized what it was. I said, “That’s a three-day pay or quit. They can pay in full or vacate the premises. Tell ’em to pick one.”

“You can’t do that.”

“It’s not me. It’s him and he warned them. You can remind your ‘sister’ of that when she gets home.”

“How come he doesn’t have to live up to his side of the deal?”

“As in what?”

“Why should they be prompt when the son of a bitch takes his time about making repairs, assuming he gets to them at all. She’s got windows won’t open, drains backed up. She can’t even use the kitchen sink. She has to do all the dishes in the bathroom basin. Take a look around. The place is a dump and you know what the rent is? Six hundred bucks a month. It cost a hundred and twenty dollars to get the wiring fixed or they’d’ve burned the building down. That’s why they haven’t paid, because he won’t reimburse ’em for the money they spent.”

“I can sympathize, but I can’t give you legal advice even if I had any to offer. Mr. Compton’s acting within his rights and you’ll have to do that, too.”

“Rights, my ass. What rights? I stay here and put up with his crap or I have to move out. What kind of deal is that?”

“The deal you signed before you moved in,” I said. “You want your side heard, you can join a tenants association.”

“Bitch.” She slammed the door in my face, at least so far as she could manage with the burglar chain in place.

I got back in my car and headed for the notary’s office, so I could dot all my i’s and cross my t’s.

15

When I got back to the office after lunch, the message light was blinking on my answering machine. I pushed the Play button.

A woman said, “Hello? Oh. I hope this is the right number. This is Dewel Greathouse. I’m calling in regard to a flyer I found in my door yesterday? The thing is, I’m almost sure I’ve seen that gentleman. Could you give me a call when you get this? Thanks. Oh. I can be reached at…” She rattled off the number.

I snatched up a pen and a pad of paper, and jotted down what I remembered, then replayed the message to verify the information. I punched in the number, which rang half a dozen times.

The woman who finally answered was clearly out of breath. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Greathouse? Is that Dewel, or did I misunderstand the name?”

“That’s right. Dewel with a D. Hang on a second. I just ran up a flight of steps. Sorry.”

“Not a problem. Take your time.”

Finally, she said, “Whew! I was on my way back from the laundry room when I heard the phone. Who’s this?”

“Kinsey Millhone. I’m returning your call. You left a message on my machine in response to one of the flyers I distributed in your neighborhood.”

“I sure did. I remember now, but I don’t believe you gave your name.”

“Sorry about that, but I appreciate your calling.”

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why are you looking for this gentleman? I wouldn’t want to get anyone in trouble. The flyer said something about an accident. Did he hit someone?”

I went back through my explanation, making it clear that the man didn’t cause or contribute to the accident. I said, “He was more the Good Samaritan. I’m working for an attorney who’s hoping he can give us a report of what went on.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that’s all right then. I don’t know that I can be much help, but when I read the description, I knew exactly who you meant.”

“Does he live in the area?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve seen him sitting at the bus stop at Vista del Mar and Palisade. You know the one I mean?”

“At City College?”

“That’s it, only on the opposite side.”

“Okay. Right.”

“I’ve noticed him because that’s my street and I pass him as I’m driving home. I have to slow to make the turn and I’m looking in that direction.”

“How often do you see him?”

“Couple of afternoons a week for the past year I’d say.”

“And this is since last May?”

“Oh yes.”

“Can you tell me which days of the week?”

“Not offhand. I moved to my apartment in June of ’86 after I took a new part-time job.”

“What sort of work do you do?”

“I’m in the service department at Dutton Motors. What’s nice is I’m only ten minutes from work, which is why I took this apartment to begin with.”

“What time of day, would you say?”

“Midafternoon. I get home at two fifty pretty much without fail. I’m just half a mile away so it doesn’t take me long once I’m on the road.”

“You know anything about him?”

“Not really. It’s mostly what you said. He’s got thick white hair and he wears a brown leather jacket. I only see him in passing so I really couldn’t guess age or eye color or anything like that.”

“You think he works in the neighborhood?”

“That’d be my guess. Maybe as a handyman or something of that nature.”

“Could he be employed at City College?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” she said, sounding skeptical. “He looks too old to be a student. I know a lot of older people are going back to school, but I’ve never seen him with a backpack or briefcase. All the college kids I see carry something of the sort. Books at the very least. If you want to talk to him, you might catch him at the bus stop.”

“I’ll try that. In the meantime, if you see him again, could you let me know?”

“Certainly,” she said, and with a click she was gone.

I circled her name and number on the desk pad and put it in the file. I was excited to have even a sketchy confirmation of the man’s existence. Like a sighting of the Loch Ness Monster or the Abominable Snowman, the report gave me hope.

I worked late that day, paying bills and generally getting my life in order. By the time I got home it was 6:45 and fully dark. The temperature had dropped into the forties from a daytime high of sixty-two degrees, and my turtleneck and blazer offered no protection from the wind picking up. The damp fog emanating from the beach amplified the chill. I knew once I was safely indoors, I wouldn’t want to venture out again. I saw lights on at Gus’s house and decided it was as good a time as any to pay a visit. I was hoping the supper hour was through so I wouldn’t be interrupting his meal.

As I passed, I saw the Dumpster was half full. Solana was evidently making progress in her junk-elimination project. I knocked on Gus’s door, my arms crossed tightly as I huddled with the cold. I shifted from foot to foot in a vain attempt to warm myself. I was curious to meet Solana Rojas, whose work history I’d researched three weeks previously.

Through the glass pane in Gus’s front door, I watched her approach. She flipped on the porch light and peered out, calling through the glass. “Yes?”

“Are you Solana?”

“Yes.” She wore glasses with black frames. Her dark hair was the uniform brown of a home-dye job. If she’d had it done in a salon, some “artiste” would have added a few phony-looking highlights. I knew from the application she was sixty-four, but she looked younger than I’d imagined.

I smiled and raised my voice, hooking a thumb in the direction of Henry’s place. “I’m Kinsey Millhone. I live next door. I thought I’d stop by to see how Gus is doing.”

She opened the door and a slat of warm air escaped. “The name again is what?”

“Millhone. I’m Kinsey.”

“Nice meeting you, Ms. Millhone. Please, come in. Mr. Vronsky will be happy for the company. He’s been a little down in the dumps.” She stepped back, allowing me to enter.

She was trim but carried a bulkiness in the belly that spoke of childbearing once upon a time. Young moms often lose the baby weight quickly, but it returns in middle age to form a permanent mocking pouch. Moving past her, I automatically gauged her height, which was five foot two or so to my five foot six. She wore a serviceable-looking pastel green tunic with matching pants—not quite a uniform, but wrinkle-free separates bought for comfort and washability. Stains from a patient’s blood or other body fluids would be easy to remove.

I was struck by the sight of the living room. Gone were the chipped veneer tables with their tacky little knickknacks. The stretchy dark brown slipcovers had been removed from the couch and three chairs. The original upholstery material turned out to be a pleasant mix of florals in tones of cream, pink, coral, and green, probably selected by the late Mrs. Vronsky. The limp drapes had come down, leaving the windows looking bare and clean. No dust, no clutter. The mouse-back carpeting was still in place, but a bouquet of dark pink roses now sat on the coffee table, and it took me a moment to realize they were fake. Even the smells in the house had changed from decades-old nicotine to a cleaning product that was probably called “Spring Rain” or “Wild Flowers.”

“Wow. This is great. The place has never looked this good.”

She seemed pleased. “There’s still work to do, but at least this part of the house is improved. Mr. Vronsky’s reading in his room, if you’ll come with me.”

I followed Solana down the hallway. Her crepe-soled shoes made no sound, and the effect was odd, almost as if she were a hovercraft floating before me. When we reached Gus’s bedroom, she peered in at him and then glanced back at me and put a finger to her lips. “He’s fallen asleep,” she whispered.

I looked past her and saw Gus propped up in bed, supported by a pile of pillows. A book was open across his chest. His mouth was agape and his eyelids were as transparent as a baby bird’s. The room was tidy and his sheets looked new. A blanket was neatly folded at the foot of his bed. His hearing aids had been removed and placed close at hand on his bed table. In a low tone, I said, “I hate to bother him. Why don’t I come back in the morning?”

“It’s entirely up to you. I can wake him if you like.”

“Don’t do that. There’s no hurry,” I said. “I leave for work at eight thirty. If he’s up, I can visit with him then.”

“He’s up at six o’clock. Early to bed and early to rise.”

“How’s he doing?”

She pointed. “We should talk in the kitchen.”

“Oh, sure.”

She retraced her steps and turned left into the kitchen. I trailed behind, trying to tread as quietly as she did. The kitchen, like the living room and bedroom, had undergone a transformation. The same appliances were in place, yellowed with age, but now a brand-new microwave sat on the counter, which was otherwise bare. Everything was clean, and it looked like the kitchen curtains had been laundered, ironed, and rehung.

In a belated answer to my query, she said, “He has good days and bad. At his age, they don’t bounce back so quick. He’s made progress, but it’s two steps forward, three steps back.”

“I gathered as much. I know his niece is concerned about his mental state.”

The animation dropped like a veil falling away from her face. “You talked to her?”

“She called me yesterday. She said when they talked on the phone he seemed confused. She asked if I’d noticed any change in him. I haven’t seen him for weeks so I really couldn’t say, but I told her I’d stop in.”

“His memory isn’t what it was. I explained that to her. If she has questions about his care she should address them to me.” Her tone was slightly testy and the color had risen in her cheeks.

“She isn’t worried about his care. She was wondering if I’d picked up on anything myself. She said you suspected dementia…”

“I never said any such thing.”

“You didn’t? Maybe I’m mistaken, but I thought she said you’d mentioned early signs of dementia.”

“She misunderstood. I said dementia was one of several possibilities. It could be hypothyroidism or a vitamin B deficiency, both reversible with proper treatment. I wouldn’t presume to make a diagnosis. It’s not my place.”

“She didn’t say you’d made any kind of claim. She was just alerting me to the situation.”

“‘Situation.’” She was looking at me intently, and I could see she’d somehow taken offense.

“Sorry. I guess I’m not expressing myself well. She said he sounded confused on the phone and thought it might have been his medication or something like that. She said she called you right afterward and the two of you discussed it.”

“And now she’s sent you to double-check.”

“On him, not on you.”

She broke off eye contact, her manner prickly and stiff. “It’s unfortunate she felt the need to have a conversation with you behind my back. Apparently, she wasn’t satisfied with my account.”

“Honestly, she didn’t call to talk about you. She asked if I’d noticed any change in him.”

Now her eyes bored into me, hot and dark. “So now you’re the doctor? Perhaps you’d like to see my notes. I keep a record of everything, which is what I was taught. Medications, blood pressure, his bowel movements. I’d be happy to send her a copy if she doubts my qualifications or my dedication to her uncle’s care.”

I didn’t actually squint at her, but I felt myself focus on the skewed exchange. Was she nuts? I couldn’t seem to extract myself from the misinterpretation. I was afraid if I uttered two more sentences, she’d quit the job in a huff and Melanie would be up a tree. It was like being in the presence of a snake, first hissing its presence and then coiled in readiness. I didn’t dare turn my back or take my eyes off her. I stood very still. I let go of my fight-or-flight defense and decided to play dead. If you run from a bear, it gives chase. That’s the nature of the beast. Likewise a snake. If I moved, she might strike.

I held her gaze. In that flicker of a moment, I could see her catch herself. Some kind of barrier had come down and I’d seen an aspect of her I wasn’t meant to see, a flash of fury that she’d covered up again. It was like watching someone in the throes of a seizure—for three seconds she was gone and then back again. I didn’t want her to realize the extent to which she’d revealed herself. I moved on, as though nothing had occurred. I said, “Oh. Before I forget, I wanted to ask if the furnace is working okay.”

Her focus cleared. “What?”

“Gus had a problem with the furnace last year. As cold as it’s been, I wanted to make sure you were warm enough. You haven’t had a problem?”

“It’s fine.”

“Well, if it starts acting up, feel free to give a yell. Henry has the name of the heating company that worked on it.”

“Thank you. Of course.”

“I better scoot. I haven’t had dinner yet and it’s getting late.”

I moved toward the door and I could feel her following at my heels. I glanced back and smiled. “I’ll pop over in the morning on my way to work.”

I didn’t wait for a reply. I gave a casual wave and let myself out the front door. As I trotted down the porch steps, I sensed her standing at the door behind me, watching through the glass. I resisted the urge to check. I took a left on the walk and the minute I was out of her sights, I allowed myself one of those shudders that shakes you from head to toe. I unlocked my apartment and spent a few minutes turning on all the lights to dispel the shadows in the room.

In the morning before I took off for work, I made a second trip next door, determined to talk to Gus. I thought it was odd that I’d found him asleep so early in the evening, but maybe that’s what old men did. I’d played and replayed Solana’s reaction to my question about Gus’s mental state. I hadn’t imagined the flash of paranoia, but I didn’t know where it came from or what it meant. In the meantime, I’d told Melanie I’d check on him and I wasn’t going to let the woman scare me away. I knew she didn’t start work until midafternoon, and I was just as happy at the notion of avoiding her.

I climbed the porch steps and knocked on the door. There was no immediate response so I cupped my hands against the glass and peered inside. There were no lamps turned on in the living room, but it looked like the kitchen light was on. I rapped on the glass and waited, but there was no sign of anyone. I’d borrowed the key Gus had given Henry, but I didn’t think I should take the liberty of letting myself in.

I went around to the back door with its glass upper section. A note had been taped to the inside:

Meals on Wheels Volunteer. Door is unlocked. Please let yourself in. Mr. Vronsky is hard of hearing and may not respond to your knock.

I tried the knob and sure enough, the door was unlocked. I opened it wide enough to stick my head in. “Mr. Vronsky?”

I glanced at the kitchen counters and the stove top. There was no sign he’d eaten breakfast. I could see a box of dry cereal set out beside a bowl and a spoon. No dishes in the sink. “Mr. Vronsky? Are you here?”

I heard a muffled thumping in the hallway.

“Hell and damnation! Would you quit all that hollering? I’m doing the best I can.”

Within seconds, the querulous Gus Vronsky appeared in the doorway, holding on to a walker for support as he shuffled into the room. He was still in his robe, bent nearly double by his osteoporosis, which left him staring at the floor.

“I hope I didn’t wake you. I wasn’t sure you heard me.”

He tilted his head and peered up at me sideways. His hearing aids were in place, but the left one was askew. “With all the racket you made? I went to the front door, but there was nobody on the porch. I thought it was a prank. Kids making trouble. We used to do that when I was young. Knock on the door and run. I was on my way back to bed when I heard the ruckus in here. What in tarnation do you want?”

“I’m Kinsey. Henry’s tenant…”

“I know who you are! I’m not an imbecile. I can tell you right now I don’t know who’s president so don’t think you can trip me up on that one. Harry Truman was the last decent man in office and he dropped those bombs. Put an end to World War Two, I can tell you that straight off.”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay. Do you need anything?”

“Need anything? I need my hearing back. I need my health. I need relief from this pain. I fell and put my shoulder out of commission…”

“I know. I was with Henry when he found you that day. I stopped by last night and you were sound asleep.”

“That’s the only privacy I have left. Now there’s this woman comes in, pestering the life out of me. You may know her. Solana something. Says she’s a nurse, but not much of one in my opinion. Not that that counts for much these days. I don’t know where she’s gone off to. She was here earlier.”

“I thought she came on at three o’clock.”

“What time is it now?”

“Eight thirty-five.”

“A.M. or P.M.?”

“Morning. If it were eight thirty-five P.M., it would be dark out.”

“Then I don’t know who it was. I heard someone fumbling around and assumed it was her. Door’s unlocked, it could have been anyone. I’m lucky I wasn’t murdered in my bed.” His gaze shifted. “Who’s that?”

He was looking past me at the kitchen door and I jumped when I saw someone standing on the porch. She was a heavyset woman in a mink coat, holding up a brown grocery bag. She motioned at the knob. I crossed and opened the back door for her.

“Thank you, dear. I have my hands full this morning and didn’t want to have to set this on the porch. How are you?”

“Fine.” I told her who I was and she did the same, introducing herself as Mrs. Dell, the Meals on Wheels volunteer.

“How are you doing, Mr. Vronsky?” She set her package on the kitchen table, talking to Gus as she unloaded the bag. “It’s awfully cold outside. Nice that you have neighbors concerned about you. Have you been doing well?”

Gus didn’t bother to reply and she didn’t seem to expect an answer. He made an irritated gesture, waving her away, and moved his walker toward a chair.

Mrs. Dell tucked boxes in the refrigerator. She moved to the microwave oven and put three cartons inside, then punched in some numbers. “This is chicken casserole, a single serving. You can have this with the vegetables packed in the two smaller containers. All you do is push the Start button. I’ve already set the time. But you be careful when you take it out. I don’t want you burning yourself like you did before.” She was speaking louder than normal, but I wasn’t convinced he’d heard her.

He stared at the floor. “I don’t want beets.” He said it as though she’d accused him of something and he was setting the record straight.

“No beets. I told Mrs. Carrigan you didn’t care for them so she sent you green beans instead. Is that all right? You said green beans were your favorite.”

“I like green beans, but not hard. Crisp is no good. I don’t like it when they taste raw.”

“These should be fine. And there’s a half a sweet potato. I put your brown-bag supper in the fridge. Mrs. Rojas said she’d remind you when it’s time to eat.”

“I can remember to eat! How idiotic do you think I am? What’s in the bag?”

“A tuna salad sandwich, coleslaw, an apple, and some cookies. Oatmeal-raisin. Did you remember to take your pills?”

He looked at her blankly. “What say?”

“Did you take your pills this morning?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Well, good. Then I’ll be on my way. Enjoy your meal. Nice meeting you, dear.” She folded the brown paper bag and tucked it under one arm before she let herself out.

“Meddlesome,” he remarked, but I didn’t think he meant it. He just liked to complain. For once, I was reassured by the crabbiness of his response.

16

My visit with Gus lasted fifteen minutes more, at which point his energies seemed to flag and mine did as well. That much high-decibel small talk with a cranky old man was about my max. I said, “I have to go now, but I don’t want to leave you in here. Would you like to go into the living room?”

“Might as well, but you bring that bag lunch in and set it on the couch. I get hungry, I can’t be running back and forth.”

“I thought you were having the chicken casserole.”

“I can’t reach that contraption. How am I supposed to manage when it’s up on the counter in the back? I’d have to have arms another three feet long.”

“You want me to move the microwave closer?”

“I never said that. I like to eat my lunch at lunchtime and my dinner when it’s dark.”

I helped him get up out of his kitchen chair and steadied him on his feet. He reached for his walker and shifted his weight from my supporting hands to the aluminum frame. I kept pace beside him as he crept into the living room. I couldn’t help but marvel at the inconsistencies of the aging process. The difference between Gus and Henry and his siblings was marked, even though they were all roughly the same age. The journey from the kitchen to the living room had left Gus exhausted. Henry wasn’t running marathons, but he was a strong and active man. Gus had lost muscle mass. Holding his arm lightly, I felt bony structure with scarcely any meat. Even his skin seemed fragile.

When he was settled on the couch, I returned to the kitchen and retrieved his lunch from the refrigerator. “You want this on the table?”

He looked at me peevishly. “I don’t care what you do. Put it anywhere you like.”

I placed the bag on the couch in easy reach. I was hoping he wouldn’t topple sideways and crush the damn thing.

He asked me to find his favorite television show, episodes of I Love Lucy on an off-channel that probably ran them twenty-four hours a day. The set itself was old and the channel in question had a certain snowy cast to it that I found bothersome. When I mentioned it to Gus, he said that’s what his eyesight was like before cataract surgery six years earlier. I fixed him a cup of tea and then made a quick check of the bathroom, where his container of pills was sitting on the rim of the sink. The plastic storage case was the size of a pencil box and had a series of compartments, each marked with a capital letter for each day of the week. Wednesday was empty so it looked like he’d been right about taking his pills. Home again, I left the key to Gus’s house under Henry’s doormat and headed off to work.

I spent a productive morning at the office, sorting through my files. I had four banker’s boxes, which I loaded with case folders from 1987, thus making room for the coming year. The boxes I stashed in the storage closet at the rear of my office, between the kitchenette and the bathroom. I made a quick trip to an office-supply company and bought new hanging files, new folders, a dozen of my favorite Pilot fine point rolling ball pens, lined yellow pads, and Post-its. I spotted a 1988 calendar and tucked that in my basket as well.

While I drove back to the office, I did some thinking about the missing witness. Hanging out around the bus stop in hopes of spotting him seemed like a waste of time, even if I did it for an hour every day of the week. Better to go to the source. At my desk again, I called the Metropolitan Transit Authority and asked for the shift supervisor. I’d decided to chat with the driver assigned to the route that covered the City College area. I gave the supervisor an abbreviated version of the Lisa Ray two-car accident and told him I was interested in speaking to the driver who handled that route.

He told me there were two lines, the number 16 and the number 17, but my best bet was a guy named Jeff Weber. His circuit started at 7:00 A.M. at the Transit Center at Chapel and Capillo streets, and ran a continuous loop through town, up along Palisade, and back to the center every forty-five minutes. He generally finished his shift at 3:15.

I spent the next couple of hours being a good secretary to myself, typing, filing, and tidying my desk. At 2:45 I locked the office and headed for the Metropolitan Transit Authority barn, which is located adjacent to the Greyhound bus station. I left my car in the pay lot and took a seat in the depot with a paperback novel.

The ticket agent pointed out Jeff Weber as he exited the locker room, a jacket over one arm. He was in his fifties, his name tag still affixed to the pocket of his uniform. He was tall, with a blond crew cut shot through with gray, and small blue eyes under bleached-blond eyebrows. His large nose was sunburned and his shirt sleeves were two inches too short, leaving his bony wrists exposed. If he were a golfer, he’d need clubs especially tailored to his height and the length of his arms.

I caught up with him in the parking lot and introduced myself, handing him my card. He scarcely glanced at the information, but he was politely attentive while I launched into the description of the man I was looking for.

When I finished, he said, “Oh, yes. I know exactly who you mean.”

“You do?”

“You’re talking about Melvin Downs. What’s he done?”

“Nothing at all.” Once again, I laid out the details of the accident.

Weber said, “I remember, though I didn’t see the accident itself. By the time I pulled up at that stop a police car and ambulance had arrived at the scene and traffic had slowed to a crawl. The officer was doing what he could to move cars along. The delay was only ten minutes, but touchy business nonetheless. That hour, none of my passengers complain, but I can sense when they’re annoyed. Many are just off work and anxious to get home, especially at the start of a long holiday weekend.”

“What about Mr. Downs? Did you pick him up that day?”

“Probably. I usually see him two days a week—Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“Well, he must have been there because both victims remember seeing him.”

“I don’t doubt it. I’m just saying I can’t remember for sure if he got on the bus or not.”

“You know anything about him?”

“Just what I’ve observed. He’s a nice man. He’s pleasant enough, but he isn’t chatty like some. He sits near the back of the bus so we don’t have much occasion for conversation. Bus is crowded, I’ve seen him give up his seat to the handicapped or elderly. I catch a lot in the rearview mirror and I’ve been impressed with how courteous he is. That’s not something you see much. Nowadays people aren’t taught the same manners we learned when I was growing up.”

“You think he works in the neighborhood up there?”

“I’d assume so, though I couldn’t tell you where.”

“I talked to someone who thought he might do odd jobs or yard work, that sort of thing.”

“Possibly. There’s a fair number of older women in the area, widows and retired professional ladies, who could probably use a handyman.”

“Where do you drop him?”

“I bring him all the way back here. He’s one of the last passengers I carry at the end of my route.”

“Any idea where he lives?”

“As it happens, I do. There’s a residence hotel on Dave Levine Street near Floresta or Via Madrina. Big yellow frame place with a wraparound porch. Weather’s nice, I sometimes see him sitting out there.” He paused to glance at his watch. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help, but my wife’s on her way.” He held up my business card. “Why don’t I hang on to this? Next time I see Melvin, I’ll be glad to pass your message along.”

“Thanks. Feel free to tell him what I want to talk to him about.”

“Well, good. That’s good then. I’ll be sure to do that. Best of luck to you.”

Once in my car again, I circled the block, making a long loop up Chapel and down on Dave Levine, which was one-way. I did a slow crawl, watching for sight of the yellow residence hotel. The neighborhood, like mine, was a curious combination of single-family dwellings and small commercial enterprises. Many corner properties, especially those closer to the heart of town, had been converted to mom-and-pop-style businesses: a minimart, a vintage-clothing store, two antique shops, and a secondhand bookstore. By the time I spotted the hotel, there were cars stacked up behind me, the closest driver making rude hand gestures I could see in my rearview mirror. I turned right at the first corner and drove another block before I found a parking space.

I hoofed back a block and a half, passing a used-car lot offering assorted nondescript vans and pickup trucks with prices and admonitions writ large across the windshields in tempera paint. MUST SEE! $2499.00 DON’T MISS!! SUPER PRICE. $1799.00. AS IS. PRICED TO SELL!! $1999.99. The latter was an old milk truck tricked out as a camper. The rear doors stood open and I could see a wee kitchenette, built-in storage units, and a pair of bench seats that folded down to make a bed. The salesman, arms crossed, was discussing its various advantages with a white-haired man in sunglasses and a porkpie hat. I nearly stopped to inspect the vehicle myself.

I’m a huge fan of tiny spaces and for less than two thousand dollars—well, one penny less—I could easily imagine myself curled up in a camper with a novel and a battery-operated reading light. Of course, I’d park in front of my apartment instead of camping out in Nature, which in my opinion couldn’t be more treacherous. A woman alone in the woods is nothing more than bear and spider bait.

The hotel was a Victorian structure that had been modified over time in a helter-skelter fashion. It looked like a rear porch had been added and then closed in. A covered walkway connected the house to a separate building that might be an additional rental. The flower beds were immaculate, the shrubs clipped, and the exterior paint looked fresh. The bay windows on opposite corners of the building appeared to be original, the second-story bay stacked neatly above the first, with crown molding jutting out along the roofline. The elaborate two-foot overhang was supported by ornate wood corbels pierced with circles and half-moons. Birds had built their nests in the eaves, and the shaggy clusters of twigs were as jarring as the sight of an elegant woman’s unshaven armpits.

The half-glass front door stood open and a hand-inked sign above the doorbell read, “Bell broken—can’t hear knocking—office in rear of hall.” I assumed this was an invitation to let myself in.

At the rear of the corridor three doors stood open. Through one I could see a kitchen that looked large and outdated, the linoleum faded to an almost colorless hue. The appliances were like those I’d seen once in a theme park attraction depicting American family life in every decade since 1880. On the far wall I could see a back stairway angle up and out of sight, and I imagined a back door nearby, though I couldn’t see it from where I stood.

The second door opened into what must have been a rear parlor, used now as a dining room by the simple insertion of a chunky oak table and ten mismatched chairs. The air smelled of paste wax, ancient cigar smoke, and last night’s cooked pork. A hand-crocheted runner covered the surface of a cumbersome oak sideboard.

A third open door revealed the original dining room, judging by its graceful proportions. Two doors had been blocked off by gray metal file cabinets, and an oversized rolltop desk was jammed up against the windows. The office was otherwise empty. I knocked on the door frame and a woman emerged from a smaller room that might have been a closet converted to a powder room. She was stout. Her gray hair was frizzy and thin, pulled up in a haphazard arrangement, with more hanging down than she’d managed to secure. She wore small wire-rimmed glasses, and her teeth overlapped like sections of sidewalk buckled by tree roots.

I said, “I’m looking for Melvin Downs. Can you tell me what room he’s in?”

“I don’t give out information about my tenants. I have their safety and privacy to consider.”

“Can you let him know he has a visitor?”

She blinked, her expression unchanged. “I could, but there’s no point. He’s out.” She closed her mouth, apparently not wanting to plague me with more information than I’d requested.

“You have any idea when he’ll be back?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, dear. Mr. Downs doesn’t keep me apprised of his comings and goings. I’m his landlady, not his wife.”

“Do you mind if I wait?”

“I wouldn’t if I were you. Wednesdays he doesn’t get back until late.”

“Like what, six?”

“I’d say closer to ten, judging from past behavior. You his daughter?”

“I’m not. Does he have a daughter?”

“He’s mentioned one. In point of fact, I don’t allow single women to visit the tenants after nine at night. It sends the wrong message to the other residents.”

“I guess I’ll try another day.”

“You do that.”

When I got home I went directly to Henry’s house and knocked on his door. We hadn’t had a chance to visit in days. I caught him in his kitchen pulling a big bowl from one of the lower cabinets. I tapped on the glass, and when he saw me he set the bowl on the counter and opened the door.

“Am I interrupting anything?”

“No, no. Come on in. I’m making bread-and-butter pickles. You’re welcome to lend a hand.”

In the sink I could see a large colander piled high with cucumbers. A smaller colander held white onions. Small glass jars of turmeric, mustard seeds, celery seeds, and cayenne pepper were lined up on the counter.

“Are those cucumbers yours?”

“I’m afraid so. This is the third batch of bread-and-butter pickles I’ve made this month and I’m still up to my ears.”

“I thought you only bought one plant.”

“Well, two. The one seemed so small, I thought I ought to add a second just to keep it company. Now I’ve got vines taking up half the yard.”

“I thought that was kudzu.”

“Very funny,” he said.

“I can’t believe you’re still harvesting in January.”

“Neither can I. Grab a knife and I’ll find you a cutting board.”

Henry poured me half a glass of wine and made himself a Black Jack and ice. Occasionally sipping our drinks, we stood side by side at the kitchen counter, slicing cucumbers and onions for the next ten minutes. When we finished, Henry tossed the vegetables with kosher salt in two big ceramic bowls. He pulled a bag of crushed ice out of the freezer and packed ice over the cucumber-onion combination and covered both bowls with weighted lids.

“My aunt used to make pickles that way,” I remarked. “They sit for three hours, right? Then you boil the other ingredients in a pot and add the cucumbers and onions.”

“You got it. I’ll give you six pints. I’m giving Rosie some, too. At the restaurant, she serves them on rye bread with soft cheese. It’s enough to bring tears to your eyes.”

He filled a big soup kettle with water and put it on the stove to sterilize the pint jars sitting in a box nearby.

“So how was Charlotte’s Christmas?”

“She said good. All four kids gathered at her daughter’s house in Phoenix. Christmas Eve, there was a power failure so the whole clan drove to Scottsdale and checked into the Phoenician. She said it was the perfect way to spend Christmas Day. By nightfall the power was on again so they went back to her daughter’s house and did it all again. Hang on a second and I’ll show you what she got me.”

“She gave you a Christmas present? I thought you weren’t exchanging gifts.”

“She said it wasn’t Christmas. It’s early birthday.”

Henry dried his hands and left the kitchen briefly, returning with a shoe box. He opened the lid and pulled out a running shoe.

“Running shoes?”

“For walking. She’s been walking for years and wants to get me into it. William may be joining us as well.”

“Well, that’s a good plan,” I said. “I’m glad to hear she’s still around. I haven’t seen much of her lately.”

“Nor have I. She’s got a client in from Baltimore and he’s driving her nuts. All she does is drive him around looking at properties that somehow don’t suit. He wants to build a fourplex or something of the sort, and everything he’s looked at is too expensive or in the wrong area. She’s trying to educate him about California real estate and he keeps telling her to think ‘outside the box.’ I don’t know where she gets the patience. What about you? How’s life treating you these days?”

“Fine. I’m getting my ducks in a row for the coming year,” I said. “I did have a curious run-in with Solana. She’s a prickly little thing.” I went on to describe the encounter and her touchiness when she realized I’d been talking to Gus’s niece long-distance. “The call wasn’t even about her. Melanie thought Gus was confused and she wondered if I’d noticed anything. I said I’d check on him, but I wasn’t meddling in Solana’s business. I don’t know beans about geriatric nursing.”

“Maybe she’s one of those people who sees conspiracies everywhere.”

“I don’t know…it feels like there’s something more going on.”

“From what I’ve seen of her, I’m not a fan.”

“Nor am I. There’s something creepy about her.”

17

SOLANA

Solana opened her eyes and flicked a look at the clock. It was 2:02 A.M. She listened to the hiss of the baby monitor she’d put in the old man’s room beside his bed. His breathing was as rhythmic as the sound of the surf. She folded the covers back and padded barefoot down the hall. The house was dark but her night vision was excellent, and there was sufficient illumination from the streetlights to make the walls glow with gray. She was drugging him regularly, crushing the over-the-counter sleeping medications and adding them to his evening meal. Meals on Wheels delivered a selection of hot foods for the noon meal and a brown-bag supper for later in the day, but he preferred his hot meal at 5:00, which was when he’d always eaten supper. There wasn’t much she could do with an apple, a cookie, and a sandwich, but a casserole was excellent for her purposes. In addition, he liked a dish of ice cream before bed. His sense of taste had faded, and if the sleeping pills were bitter, he never said a word.

He was easier to get along with now that she had him on the right routine. At times he seemed confused, but no more so than many of the elderly she’d had in her care. Soon he’d be completely dependent. She liked her patients compliant. Usually the angry and obstructive ones were the first to settle down, as though they’d waited all their lives for her soothing regimen. She was mother and ministering angel, giving them the attention they’d been robbed of in their youth.

It was her belief that the contentious oldsters had been contentious as kids, thus garnering anger, frustration, and rejection from the parents who were meant to give them love and approval. Raised on a steady diet of parental aggression, these lost souls disconnected from most social interactions. Despised and despising, they had a hunger masked by rage and loneliness masquerading as petulance. Gus Vronsky was neither more nor less cantankerous than Mrs. Sparrow, the acid-tongued old harridan she’d tended to for two years. When she’d finally ushered Mrs. Sparrow into the netherworld, she’d gone out as quietly as a kitten, mewing only once as the drugs took effect. The obituary said she’d died peacefully in her sleep, which was more or less the truth. Solana was tenderhearted. She prided herself on that. She delivered them from suffering and set them free.

Now while Gus lay immobilized, she searched his dresser drawers, using a penlight she shielded with her palm. It had taken her weeks of incremental increases in his doses before she’d been able to justify staying overnight. His doctor checked on him just often enough that she didn’t want to arouse suspicion. He was the one who suggested that Gus needed the supervision. She told the doctor he sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, disoriented, and would then try to get himself out of bed. She said she’d caught him on two occasions wandering through the house with no idea where he was.

Extending her hours had necessitated cleaning out one of the bedrooms so she’d have a place to stay. As long as she was about it, she’d gone through both spare bedrooms, setting aside items of potential value and discarding the rest. With the Dumpster at the curb, she was able to eliminate most of the junk he’d been saving lo those many years. He’d set up such a howl about it early on that she’d taken to working when he was asleep. He seldom went into those rooms anyway, so he didn’t seem to notice how much had disappeared.

She’d searched his bedroom before, but she’d obviously missed something. How could he have so little of value? He’d told her, complainingly, that he’d worked for the railroad all his life. She’d seen his Social Security checks and his monthly pension checks, which together were more than sufficient to cover his monthly expenses. Where had the rest of the money gone? She knew his house was paid off, disgusting as it was, but now he had her salary to pay and she didn’t come cheap. Soon she’d start billing Melanie for overtime, though she’d let the doctor suggest the added hours.

The first week she worked she’d found the passbooks for two savings accounts in one of the cubbyholes in his desk. One contained a pathetic fifteen thousand dollars and the other, twenty-two thousand. Obviously he wanted her to believe that was the extent of it. He was taunting her, knowing she had no way to get her hands on the funds. In her previous job, something similar had occurred. She’d persuaded Mrs. Feldcamp to sign countless checks made out to cash, but four more big savings accounts had surfaced after the old woman was gone. Those four held close to five hundred thousand dollars, which made her weep with frustration. She’d taken one last run at the money, backdating withdrawal slips that she forged with the old woman’s signature. She thought the effort was credible, but the bank had taken issue. There was even talk of prosecution, and if she hadn’t shed that particular persona, all her hard work might have come to nothing. Fortunately she’d been quick enough to vanish before the bank discovered the extent of her chicanery.

At Gus’s, the week before, after a diligent search through the chest of drawers in one of the spare bedrooms, she’d found some jewelry that must have belonged to his wife. Most of it was cheap, but Mrs. Vronsky’s engagement ring was mounted with a good-sized diamond and her watch was a Cartier. Solana had moved those to a hiding place in her room until she could get to a jeweler’s and have them appraised. She didn’t want to try a pawnshop because she knew she would net only a small percentage of their value. Items in pawnshops were easily traced and that would never do. Really, she was losing hope of unearthing assets beyond those in hand.

She crept to the closet, lifting the knob as she opened the door. She’d learned the hard way that the hinges screeched like someone stepping on a dog’s tail. That had happened the second night she’d spent in the house. Gus had sat up in bed, demanding to know what she was doing in his room. She’d said the first thing that had come into her head. “I heard you yelling and I thought something was wrong. You must have had a bad dream. Why don’t I warm you some milk?”

She’d laced the milk with cherry cough syrup, telling him it was a special drink mix for kids, full of vitamins and minerals. He’d swallowed it right down, and she’d made a point of oiling the hinges before she tried again. Now she went back through his jacket pockets, testing his raincoat, his only sports coat, and the robe he’d left hanging on the closet door. Nothing, nothing, nothing, she thought irritably. If the old man was worthless, there was no way she could put up with him. He could go on for years, and what was the point of helping if it netted her nothing? She was a trained professional, not a volunteer.

She gave up the search for the night and returned to bed, frustrated and out of sorts. She lay there, sleepless, roaming the house in her mind, trying to determine how he’d outwitted her. Nobody could live as long as he had without having a substantial sum of money somewhere. She’d obsessed about the subject from day one of her employment when she’d been certain of success. She’d quizzed him about his insurance policies, pretending that she was pondering the issue of whole life versus term. Almost gleefully he’d told her he’d let his policies lapse. She’d been sorely disappointed, though she’d discovered through Mr. Ebersole how difficult it was to insinuate oneself as a beneficiary. She’d done better with Mrs. Prent, though she wasn’t at all sure the lesson she’d learned there would apply to this situation. Surely Gus had a will, which might provide another possibility. She hadn’t found a copy, but she’d come across a safe-deposit key, which suggested he kept his valuables at the bank.

All the worrying was exhausting. At 4:00 A.M. she rose, put on her clothes, and made her bed neatly. She let herself out the front door and walked the half block to her car. It was dark and cold, and she couldn’t shake the sour mood he’d put her in. She drove to Colgate. In long stretches, the highway was deserted, as wide and empty as a river. She pulled into the carport at her apartment complex, her gaze moving across the line of windows to see who was awake. She loved the sense of power she experienced, knowing she was up and about while so many others were dead to the world.

She let herself in and checked to make sure Tiny was home. He seldom went out, but when he did, she might not see him for days. She opened his door with the same stealth she employed in searching Gus’s closets. The room was dark, dense with his body smells. He kept his heavy curtains closed because the morning light bothered him, nudging him awake hours before he was ready to get out of bed. He stayed up late at night watching television and he couldn’t face life before noon, he said. The soft wash of daylight from the hallway revealed his bulky outline in the bed, one beefy arm on top of the quilt. She closed the door.

She poured a tot of vodka in a jelly glass and sat down at the dining room table, which was piled high with junk mail and unopened bills, among them her new driver’s license, which she was thrilled to have in her possession. On top of the closest stack was a blank envelope with her name scrawled across the front. She recognized her landlord’s nearly illegible scrawl. He was actually the manager, a position he enjoyed because he paid no rent. The note inside was short and to the point, informing her of a two-hundred-dollar-a-month increase, effective immediately. Two months previously she’d been told the building had been sold. Now the new owner was systematically jacking up the rents, which automatically raised the value of the property. At the same time, he was making a few improvements, if that’s what you wanted to call them. He’d taken credit for having the mailboxes repaired when it was actually a post office regulation. The mailman wouldn’t deliver to any address where there wasn’t a clearly marked box. The dead bushes had been pulled away from the front of the building and left at the curb, where the trash collectors had ignored them for weeks. He’d also installed coin-operated washers and dryers in the communal laundry room, which had been abandoned for years and had served as a storage space for bicycles, many of which were stolen. She knew most of the tenants would ignore the washing machines.

Across the back alleyway from her apartment there was another complex he’d bought—twenty-four units in four buildings, each with its own unlocked laundry room, where a washer and dryer were available without charge. There were only twenty apartments in her building, and many of her fellow tenants took advantage of the free facilities. Small boxes of detergent were available from a vending machine, but it was easy enough to jimmy the mechanism and take what you needed. She wondered what the new owner was up to, probably snapping up properties right and left. Greedy people were like that, squeezing the last penny out of those like herself, who struggled to survive.

Solana had no intention of paying two hundred more a month for a furnished apartment that was barely habitable as it was. For a while Tiny had kept a cat, a big old white male that he’d named after himself. He was too lazy to get up and let the cat in and out, so the animal had taken to pissing on the carpet and using the heat registers to relieve itself in more serious ways. She was used to the smell by now, but she knew if she left the place, the manager would raise hell. She hadn’t paid a pet deposit because when the two of them moved in, they didn’t have a pet. Now she couldn’t see why she should be held responsible when the cat had died of old age. She wasn’t even going to think about the medicine cabinet Tiny had ripped out of the bathroom wall or the scorch mark on the laminate counter where he’d set a hot skillet some months before. She decided to hold off on paying the rent while she considered her alternatives.

She went back to Gus’s house at 3:00 that afternoon and found him awake and cross as a bear. He knew she’d been sleeping in the house three or four nights a week and he expected to have her at his beck and call. He said he’d been banging and thumping on the wall for hours. The very idea put her in a fury.

“Mr. Vronsky, I told you I was leaving at eleven o’clock last night just as I always do. I made a point of coming into your room to tell you I was on my way home and you agreed.”

“Someone was here.”

“It wasn’t me. If you doubt me, go in my room and look at the bed. You’ll see it hasn’t been slept in.”

She went on in this vein, insistent on her version of events. She could see how befuddled he was, convinced of one thing when she was standing there telling him the opposite.

He blinked rapidly and his face took on the stubborn cast she knew so well. She put a hand on his arm. “It’s not your fault. You’re overly emotional, that’s all. It happens with people your age. You might be having a series of small strokes. The effect would be much the same.”

“You were here. You came into my room. I saw you looking for something in the closet.”

She shook her head, smiling at him sadly. “You were dreaming. You did that last week. Don’t you remember?”

He searched her face.

She kept her expression kind and her tone sympathetic. “I told you then you were imagining things, but you refused to believe me, didn’t you? Now you’re doing it again.”

“No.”

“Yes. And I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Your niece called me right after she spoke to you on the phone earlier this week. She said you were confused. She was so worried about you, she asked a neighbor to come over and check up on you. Do you remember Ms. Millhone?”

“Of course. She’s a private detective and she intends to investigate you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Your niece asked her to pay a visit because she thought you were showing signs of senile dementia. That’s why she came, to see for herself. It wouldn’t take a private detective to determine how disturbed you’ve become. I told her it might be any number of things. A thyroid condition, for instance, which I also explained to your niece. From now on, you’d be wise to keep your mouth shut. They’ll think you’re paranoid and making things up—another sign of dementia. Don’t humiliate yourself in the eyes of others. All you’ll get is their pity and their scorn.”

She watched his face crumble. She knew she could break him down. As cranky and ill-tempered as he was, he was no match for her. He began to tremble, his mouth working. He was blinking again, this time trying to hold back tears. She patted his arm and murmured a few endearments. In her experience, it was kindness that caused the old ones so much pain. Opposition they could take. They probably welcomed it. But compassion (or the semblance of love in this case) cut straight to the soul. He began to weep, the soft, hopeless sound of someone sinking under the weight of despair.

“Would you like a little something to settle your nerves?”

He put a trembling hand over his eyes and nodded.

“Good. You’ll feel better. The doctor doesn’t want you to be upset. I’ll bring you some ginger ale as well.”

Once he’d taken his medicine, he sank into a sleep so deep she was able to pinch him hard on the leg and get no response.

She made up her mind to give notice at the first complaint. She was tired of catering to him.

At 7:00 that night, he’d toddled from the bedroom to the kitchen, where she was sitting. He was using his walker, which made a dreadful thumping sound that got on her nerves.

He said, “I didn’t have my dinner.”

“That’s because it’s morning.”

He hesitated, suddenly unsure of himself. He flicked a look at the window. “It’s dark out.”

“It’s four A.M. and, naturally, the sun isn’t up. If you like, I can fix your breakfast. Would you like eggs?”

“The clock says seven.”

“It’s broken. I’ll have to have it repaired.”

“If it’s morning, you shouldn’t be here. When I said I saw you last night, you told me I’d imagined it. You don’t come to work until midafternoon.”

“Ordinarily, yes, but I stayed last night because you were upset and confused and I was worried. Sit down at the table and I’ll make you something nice for your breakfast.”

She helped him into a kitchen chair. She could tell he was struggling to figure out what was true and what was not. While she scrambled eggs for him, he sat, silent and sullen. She put his eggs in front of him.

He stared at the plate but made no move to eat.

“Now what’s wrong?”

“I don’t like hard eggs. I told you that. I like them soft.”

“I’m so sorry. My mistake,” she said. She took his plate and dumped the eggs in the trash, then scrambled two more, leaving them so soft they were little more than rivers of slime.

“Now eat.” This time he obeyed.

Solana was tired of the game. With nothing to gain, it might be time to move on. She liked her patients with a little fight left in them. Otherwise, what did her victories mean? He was a loathsome man anyway, smelling faintly medicinal and reeking of wet. Right then and there she decided to quit. If he thought he was so smart, he could fend for himself. She wouldn’t bother to notify his niece she was leaving. Why waste the time or the energy on a long-distance call? She told him it was time for his regular pain medication.

“I took that.”

“No, you didn’t. I keep notes for the doctor. You can see for yourself. There’s nothing written here.”

He took his pills, and within minutes his head was drooping and she helped him to his bed again. Peace and quiet at last. She went to her room and packed her belongings, tucking his wife’s jewelry in her overnight case. She’d been paid accumulated overtime the day before by mail, a stingy check from his niece, who hadn’t even included a thank-you note. She wondered if she might borrow the car she’d seen sitting in the garage. He probably wouldn’t notice it was gone since he so seldom went out. As it was, the car was of use to no one, and Solana’s secondhand convertible was a mess.

She’d just finished zipping up her bags when she heard a knock at the door. Why would somebody stop by at this hour? She hoped it wasn’t Mr. Pitts from next door inquiring about the old man’s welfare. She checked her reflection in the mirror on the dresser. She smoothed her hair back and adjusted the clip she was using to hold it in place. She went into the living room. She flipped on the porch light and peered out. She couldn’t place the woman, though she looked familiar. She appeared to be in her seventies and was well put together: low heels, hose, and a dark suit with a froth of ruffles at the neck. She looked like a social worker. Her smile was pleasant as she glanced at the paper she carried, refreshing her memory. She opened the door a crack.

“Are you Mrs. Rojas?”

Solana hesitated. “Yes.”

“Am I pronouncing that right?”

“Yes.”

“May I come in?”

“Are you selling something?”

“Not at all. My name’s Charlotte Snyder. I’m a real estate agent and I was wondering if I could speak to Mr. Vronsky about his house. I know he took a tumble and if he’s not feeling up to it, I can come back another time.”

Solana made a point of looking at her watch, hoping the woman would get the hint.

“I apologize for the hour. I know it’s late, but I’ve been with a client all day and this was the first chance I’ve had to stop by.”

“What’s this about the house?”

Charlotte looked past her into the living room. “I’d prefer to explain it to him.”

Solana smiled. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll see if he’s up? The doctor wants him to get as much rest as possible.”

“I wouldn’t want to disturb him.”

“Not to worry.”

She let the woman in and left her sitting on the couch while she made a trip to the bedroom. She turned on the overhead light and looked at him. He was down in the depths of sleep. She waited a suitable interval and then flicked off the light switch and returned to the living room. “He’s not feeling well enough to come out of his room. He says if you’ll explain your business to me, I can pass the information along when he’s feeling better. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell me your name again.”

“Snyder. Charlotte Snyder.”

“I recognize you now. You’re a friend of Mr. Pitts next door, yes?”

“Well, yes, but I’m not here because of him.”

Solana sat and stared at her. She didn’t like people who were cagey about stating their business. This woman was uneasy about something, but Solana couldn’t figure out what it was. “Mrs. Snyder, of course you should do as you think best, but Mr. Vronsky trusts me with everything. I’m his nurse.”

“It’s a big responsibility.” She appeared to wrestle with the idea, whatever it was, blinking at the floor before deciding to go on. “I’m not here to promote anything one way or the other. This is purely a courtesy…”

Solana gestured impatiently. Enough with the preamble.

“I’m not sure Mr. Vronsky understands how much this place is worth. I happen to have a client who’s in the market for a property of this sort.”

“What sort is that?” Solana’s first impulse was to disparage the house, which was small, outdated, and in bad repair. Then again, why give the agent reason to offer less, if that’s what she was getting at?

“Are you aware that he owns a double lot? I checked with the county assessor’s office, and it turns out when Mr. Vronsky bought this lot, he bought the one next door as well.”

“Of course,” Solana said, though it had never occurred to her that the vacant lot next door belonged to the old man.

“Both are zoned for multiple-family dwelling.”

Solana knew very little about real estate, never having owned a piece of property in her life. “Yes?”

“My client’s here from Baltimore. I’ve shown everything currently listed, but then yesterday, it occurred to me…”

“How much?”

“Excuse me, what?”

“You can give me the figures. If Mr. Vronsky has questions, I can let you know.” Wrong move. Solana could see the woman’s uneasiness return.

“You know, on second thought, it might be better if I come back another time. I should deal with him in person.”

“What about tomorrow morning at eleven?”

“Fine. That’s good. I’d appreciate it.”

“Meanwhile, there’s no point wasting his time or yours. If it’s too little money, selling is out of the question, in which case it won’t be necessary to bother him again. He loves this house.”

“I’m sure he does, but being realistic, the land is worth more than the house at this point, which means we’re talking about a tear-down.”

Solana shook her head. “No, no. He won’t want to do that. He lived here with his wife and it would break his heart. It would take a lot to get him to agree.”

“I understand. Perhaps this is not a good idea, our discussing…”

“Fortunately, I have influence and I might talk him into it if the price is right.”

“I haven’t done the comps. I’d have to give it some thought, but everything depends on his response. I wanted to feel him out before I went further.”

“You must have an opinion or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I’ve already said more than I should. It would be highly irregular to mention a dollar amount.”

“That’s up to you,” Solana said, but in a tone that implied the door was closing.

Mrs. Snyder paused again to marshal her thoughts. “Well…”

“Please. I can help.”

“With the two lots together, I think it would be reasonable to say nine.”

“‘Nine’? You’re saying nine thousand or ninety? Because if it’s nine, you might as well stop right there. I wouldn’t want to insult him.”

“I meant nine hundred thousand. Of course, I’m not committing my client to a dollar amount, but we’ve been looking in that range. I represent his interests first and foremost, but if Mr. Vronsky wanted to list the property with me, I’d be delighted to walk him through the process.”

Solana put a hand to her cheek.

The woman hesitated. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. You have a business card?”

“Of course.”

Later, Solana had to close her eyes with relief, realizing how close she’d come to blowing everything. As soon as the woman was gone, she went into the bedroom and unpacked her bags.

18

Driving home from work on Friday, I spotted Henry and Charlotte walking the bike path along Cabana Boulevard. They were bundled up, Henry in a navy peacoat, Charlotte in a ski jacket with a knit hat pulled down over her ears. The two were engrossed in conversation and didn’t see me pass, but I waved nonetheless. It was still light out, but the air was the dull gray of dusk. The streetlights had come on. The restaurants along Cabana were open for happy hour and the motels were activating their vacancy signs. The palm trees stood at parade rest, fronds rustling in the sea wind coming in off the beach.

I turned onto my street and snagged the first parking spot I saw, sandwiched between Charlotte’s black Cadillac and an old minivan. I locked up and walked to my apartment, checking the Dumpster as I went by. Dumpsters are a joy because they cry out to be filled, thus encouraging us to rid our garages and attics of accumulated junk. Solana had tossed the bicycle frames, the lawn mowers, long-defunct canned goods, and the carton of women’s shoes, the weight of the trash forming a compact mass. The mound was almost as high as the sides of the container and would probably have to be hauled away before long. I pulled my mail out of the box and went through the gate. When I rounded the corner of the studio, I saw Henry’s brother William standing on his porch in a natty three-piece suit with a muffler wrapped around his neck. The January chill had brought bright spots of color to his cheeks.

I crossed the patio. “This is a surprise. Are you looking for Henry?”

“Matter of fact I am. This upper-respiratory infection has triggered an asthma attack. He said I could borrow his humidifier to head off anything worse. I told him I’d stop by to pick it up, but his door’s locked and he’s not responding to my knock.”

“He’s off on a walk with Charlotte. I saw them on Cabana a little while ago so I’d imagine they’ll be home soon. I can let you in if you want. Our doors are keyed the same, which makes it easier if I’m out and he has to get into the studio.”

“I’d appreciate your help,” he said. He stood aside while I stepped forward and unlocked the back door. Henry had left the humidifier on the kitchen table, and William scribbled him a note before he took the apparatus.

“You going home to bed?”

“Not until after work if I’m able to hold out that long. Friday nights are busy. Young people revving up for the weekend. If necessary, I can wear a surgical mask to prevent my passing this on.”

“I see you’re all dressed up,” I said.

“I just came from a visitation at Wynington-Blake.”

Wynington-Blake was a mortuary I knew well (Burials, Cremation, and Shipping—Serving All Faiths), having dropped by on previous occasions. I said, “Sorry to hear that. Anyone I know?”

“I don’t believe so. This is a visitation I read about when I checked the obituaries in the paper this morning. Fellow named Sweets. No mention of close relations so I thought I’d put in an appearance in case he needed company. How’s Gus doing? Henry hasn’t mentioned him of late.”

“I’d say fair.”

“I knew it would come down to this. Old people, once they fall…” He let the sentence trail off, contemplating the sorry end of yet another life. “I should call on him while I can. Gus could go at any time.”

“Well, I don’t think he’s on his deathbed, but I’m sure he’d appreciate a visit. Maybe in the morning when he’s up and about. He could use some cheering up.”

“What better time than now? Raise his spirits, so to speak.”

“He could use that.”

William brightened. “I could tell him about Bill Kips’s death. Gus and Bill lawn-bowled together for many years. He’ll be sorry he missed the funeral, but I picked up an extra program at the service and I could talk him through the memorial. Very moving poem at the end. ‘Thanatopsis’ by William Cullen Bryant. You know the work, I’m sure.”

“I don’t believe I do.”

“Our dad made us memorize poetry when the sibs and I were young. He believed committing verse to memory served a man well in life. I could recite it if you like.”

“Why don’t you step in out of the cold before you do.”

“Thank you. I’m happy to oblige.”

I held the door open, and William moved far enough into my living room so I could close it behind him. The chill air seemed to have followed him in, but he set to work with a will. He held on to his lapel with his right hand, his left tucked behind him as he began to recite. “Just the last of it,” he said, by way of introduction. He cleared his throat. “‘So live, that when thy summons comes to join / The innumerable caravan which moves / To that mysterious realm, where each shall take / His chamber in the silent halls of death, / Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, / Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed / By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave / Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch / About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.’”

I waited, expecting a perky postscript.

He looked at me. “Inspirational, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, William. It’s really not that uplifting. Why not something with a touch more optimism?”

He blinked, stumped for a substitute.

“Why don’t you give it some thought,” I said. “Meanwhile, I’ll tell Henry you stopped by.”

“Good enough.”

Saturday morning, I made another run over to the residence hotel on Dave Levine Street. I parked out in front and let myself in. I walked down the hall to the office, where the landlady was tallying receipts on an old-fashioned adding machine with a hand crank.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “Is Melvin Downs in?”

She turned in her chair. “You again. I believe he went out, but I can check if you like.”

“I’d appreciate that. I’m Kinsey Millhone, by the way. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Juanita Von,” she said. “I’m the owner, manager, and cook, all rolled into one. I don’t do the cleaning. I have two young women who do that.” She got up from the desk. “This might take a while. His room’s on the third floor.”

“You can’t call?”

“I don’t permit telephones in the rooms. It’s too costly having jacks installed, so I let them use mine when the occasion arises. As long as they don’t take advantage, of course. You might wait in the parlor. It’s the formal room to the left as you go down this hall.”

I turned and went back to the parlor, where I prowled the perimeter. While the surfaces weren’t cluttered, Juanita Von did seem to favor ceramic figures, knock-kneed children with sagging socks and fingers in their mouths. The bookshelves were free of books, which probably saved her cleaning women the effort of dusting. Limp sheer curtains at the window filtered sufficient light to make the air in the room seem gray. The matching sofas were unforgiving, and the wooden chair wobbled on its legs. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in one corner of the room. What kind of people lived in such a place? I pictured myself coming home to this at the end of each day. Talk about depressing.

I spotted six neatly stacked magazines on the coffee table. I picked up the first, a copy of last week’s TV Guide. Under it was the November 1982 issue of Car & Driver and under that was an issue of BusinessWeek from the previous March. A few minutes later Juanita Von reappeared. “Out,” she said, sounding entirely too satisfied for my taste.

“Not to get repetitive here, but do you have any idea when he’ll be back?”

“I do not. As a proprietor, I’m strictly hands-off. If it’s not my business, I don’t inquire. That’s my policy.”

Thinking to endear myself, I said, “This is a wonderful old house. How long have you owned it?”

“Twenty-six years this March. This is the old Von estate. You might have heard of it before. Property once stretched from State Street to Bay and covered twelve square blocks.”

“Really. It’s quite a place.”

“Yes, it is. I inherited this house from my grandparents. My great-grandfather built it at the turn of the century and gave it to my grandparents the day they were married. It’s been added onto over the years as you can tell. Corridors go every which way.”

“Did your parents live here as well?”

“Briefly. My mother’s people were from Virginia, and she insisted that they move to Roanoke, which is where I was born. She didn’t much care for California and she certainly had no interest in local history. My grandparents knew she’d talk my father into selling the property once they were gone so they skipped a generation and left it to me. I was sorry to have to break it up into rental units, but it was the only way I could afford the upkeep.”

“How many rooms do you have?”

“Twelve. Some are larger than others, but most of them have good light, and they all have the same high ceilings. If I ever come into money, I intend to redo the public rooms, but that’s not likely to happen any time soon. I sometimes discount the rent a bit if a tenant wants to paint or fix up. As long as I approve the changes.”

She began to tidy the magazines, her attention turned to the task so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s your business with Mr. Downs? I’ve never known him to have a visitor.”

“We believe he witnessed an accident in May of last year. This was a two-vehicle collision up near City College and he offered assistance. Unfortunately, one’s now suing the other for a large sum of money, and we hope he has information that might help settle the dispute.”

“Way too many people suing in my opinion,” she said. “I’ve served on juries in two different lawsuits and both were a waste of time, not to mention the taxpayers’ dollars. Now, if we’re done chatting, I’ll get on with my work.”

“Why don’t I leave Mr. Downs a note and he can contact me. I don’t want to turn into a pest.”

“Fine with me.”

I took out a pen and a spiral-bound notebook, dashing off a note, asking if he’d get in touch at his earliest convenience. I ripped the leaf from my notebook and folded it in half before I handed it to her with one of my business cards. “There’s a machine on both these numbers. If he can’t reach me directly, tell him I’ll return the call as soon as I can.”

She read the card and sent me a sharp look, though she made no comment.

I said, “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a quick tour.”

“I don’t rent to females. Women are usually trouble. I don’t like gossip and petty bickering, not to mention feminine-hygiene products interfering with the plumbing. I’ll see Mr. Downs gets your note.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

I stopped by the supermarket on my way home. For once, the sun was out, and while the temperature was still riding in the low fifties, the sky was a bright clear blue. Charlotte’s Cadillac was parked across the street. I let myself in and unloaded my shopping bags. I’d noticed a batch of fresh bread dough proofing in a cradle that Henry kept in the glass-enclosed breezeway between my place and his. He hadn’t made bread for ages and the notion put me in a good mood. Having been a professional baker by trade, he’d make eight to ten loaves at a time, and he was generous about sharing. I hadn’t talked to Charlotte in a week, so once my kitchen was tidied up, I trotted across the patio and knocked on Henry’s door. I could see Henry at work, and judging from the size of the kettle on the stove, he was making chili or spaghetti sauce to go with his bread. William was seated at the table, with a cup of coffee in front of him, an odd expression on his face. Charlotte stood with her arms crossed, and Henry was whacking an onion with a vengeance. He reached over and opened the door for me, but it wasn’t until I’d closed it behind me that I tuned in to the tension in the room. At first I thought there was a problem with Gus because the three of them were so silent. I figured William had gone next door to visit him and brought back a bad report, which was only partially true. I found myself looking from one stony face to the next.

I said, “Is everything okay?”

Henry said, “Not really.”

“What’s going on?”

William cleared his throat, but before he could speak, Henry said, “I’ll handle this.”

“Handle what?” I asked, still clueless.

Henry used the knife blade to sweep the onion aside. He laid out eight cloves of garlic and used the flat of the same blade to crush the cloves, which he then chopped. “William went over to Gus’s for a visit this morning and saw Charlotte’s business card on the coffee table.”

“Oh?”

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” William said.

Henry sent a hot look in Charlotte’s direction and I realized then that there was a dispute under way. “These people are my neighbors. I’ve known some of them for the better part of fifty years. You went over there to hustle real estate. Gus was under the impression that I sent you over there to talk about the sale of his home when I did no such thing. He has no interest in putting his property on the market.”

“You don’t know that. He was totally unaware of how much equity he’d built up or the use he could make of it. Of course he knew he’d bought the lot next door, but that was fifty years ago, and he didn’t understand how that half-acre ownership enhanced the overall value. People are entitled to information. Just because you’re not interested doesn’t mean he’s not.”

“Your efforts reflected poorly on me and I don’t appreciate it. From what his nurse says he was close to collapse.”

“That’s not true. He wasn’t the least bit upset. We had a nice chat and he said he’d think about it. I was there less than twenty minutes. There was no pressure whatever. I don’t operate that way.”

“Solana told William you were there twice. Once to talk to her and then a second time to discuss the matter with him. Maybe you don’t call that pressure, but I do.”

“He was sleeping the first time and she said she’d pass the information along. I went back at her request because she wasn’t sure she’d explained it properly.”

“I asked you not to do it at all. You did an end-run around me.”

“I don’t need your permission to go about my business.”

“I’m not talking about permission. I’m talking about simple decency. You don’t go into a man’s home and cause trouble.”

“What trouble are you talking about? Solana’s the one who has everyone all riled up. I drove all the way up from Perdido this morning and here you are being pissy with me. Who needs it?”

Henry was silent for a moment, opening a can of tomato sauce. “I had no idea you’d take such liberties.”

“I’m sorry you’re upset, but I really don’t think you have the right to dictate my behavior.”

“That’s entirely correct. You can do anything you want, but keep my name out of it. Gus has health problems, as you well know. He doesn’t need you waltzing in there acting like he’s on his deathbed.”

“I did no such thing!”

“You heard what William said. Gus was beside himself. He thought his house was being sold out from under him and he was being sent to a nursing home.”

Charlotte said, “Stop that. Enough. I have a client who’s interested…”

“You have a client in the wings?” Henry stopped and stared at her in astonishment.

“Of course I have clients. You know that as well as I do. I haven’t committed a crime. Gus is free to do anything he wants.”

William said, “At the rate he’s going, you’ll end up dealing with his estate. That should settle it.”

Henry banged his knife down. “Goddamn it! The man is not dead!”

Charlotte snatched her coat from the back of the kitchen chair and shrugged herself into it. “I’m sorry, but this discussion is at an end.”

“Conveniently for you,” Henry said.

I expected to see her stomping out the door, but the two weren’t ready to disengage. As with any clash of wills, each was convinced of his position and righteously annoyed with the other’s point of view.

“Nice seeing you,” she said to me, buttoning her coat. “I’m sorry you had to be a party to this unpleasantness.” She took out a pair of leather gloves and put them on, working the leather over her fingers one by one.

Henry said, “I’ll call you. We can talk about this later when we’ve both calmed down.”

“If you think so little of me there’s nothing left to say. You’ve as good as accused me of being insensitive, untrustworthy, and unscrupulous…”

“I’m telling you the effect you had on a frail old man. I’m not going to stand by and let you bulldoze right over him.”

“I did not bulldoze over him. Why would you take Solana’s word over mine?”

“Because she has nothing at stake. Her job is to look after him. Your job is to talk him into selling his house and land so you can take your six percent.”

“That’s offensive.”

“You’re damn right it is. I can’t believe you’d employ such tactics when I specifically asked you not to.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that. You’ve made your point.”

“Apparently, I haven’t. You’ve yet to apologize. You defend your so-called rights without any regard to mine.”

“What are you talking about? I mentioned the value of homes in this area and you assumed I intended to muscle my way in, abusing your neighbors in order to make a few bucks.”

“The man was in tears. He had to be sedated. What do you call that, if not abuse?”

“Abuse, my ass. William talked to him. Did you see anything of the sort?” she asked, turning to him.

William shook his head in the negative, studiously avoiding eye contact so one or the other wouldn’t suddenly lash out at him. I kept my mouth shut as well. The subject had now shifted from Charlotte’s visit to Solana’s account of it. At the rate they were going at it, there was no way to cut in and broker a truce. I wasn’t good at that stuff anyway, and I was finding it tough to get a handle on the truth.

Charlotte plowed right on. “Did you talk to him yourself? No. Did he call you to complain? I bet not. How do you know she’s not making it up?”

“She didn’t make it up.”

“You really don’t want to hear the truth, do you?”

“You’re the one who doesn’t want to listen.”

Charlotte picked up her handbag and let herself out the back door without another word. She didn’t slam the door, but there was something in the way she shut it that spoke of finality.

In the wake of her departure, none of us could think of a thing to say.

William broke the silence. “I hope I didn’t cause a problem.”

I nearly laughed because it was so obvious he had.

Henry said, “I hate to think what might have happened if you hadn’t brought it up. I’ll talk to Gus myself and see if I can persuade him that he and his house aren’t in jeopardy.”

William stood and reached for his own overcoat. “I should go. Rosie will be setting up for lunch.” He started to say something more but must have thought better of it.

Once he was gone the silence lingered. Henry’s chopping had slowed. He was preoccupied, probably replaying the argument in his head. He’d remember the points he scored and forget hers.

“You want to talk about it?” I asked.

“I think not.”

“You want company?”

“Not at the moment. I don’t mean to be rude about it, but I’m upset.”

“If you change your mind, you know where I am.”

I went back to my place and got out my cleaning supplies. Scrubbing bathrooms has always been my remedy for stress. Drink and drugs before noon on Saturday was too sordid to contemplate.

In the unlikely event that I hadn’t been exposed to enough conflict for one day, I decided to pay a visit to the Guffeys out in Colgate. Richard Compton had left a message the day before on my office machine, indicating that the Guffeys still hadn’t paid their rent. He’d gone into court Friday morning and filed a Complaint of Unlawful Detainer, which he wanted me to serve. “You can add it to your invoice. I’ve got the paperwork right here.”

I might have argued the point, but he’d given me a lot of work of late, and Saturday is a good day for catching people at home. “I’ll swing by your house on the way out there,” I said.

19

I fired up my trusty Mustang and made the detour to Compton’s house on the Upper East Side. Then I headed north on the 101. Deadbeats tend to be centrally located. Certain neighborhoods and certain enclaves, being run-down and cheap, apparently attract like-minded individuals. Perhaps some people, even those in the crudest circumstances, were still living beyond their means and therefore got sued, served, and summoned to court by those to whom they were indebted. I could imagine a population of the fiscally irresponsible exchanging tricks of the trade: promises, partial payments, talk of checks in the mail, bank errors, and lost envelopes. These were the people who imagined they were somehow exempt from accountability. Most matters that passed through my hands spoke of those who felt entitled to swindle and deceive. They cheated their employers, stiffed their landlords, and blew off their bills. Why not? Going after them took time and money and netted their creditors little. People without assets are bulletproof. You can threaten all you like, but there’s nothing to collect.

I circled the four-building complex, checking the space in the carport assigned to Apartment 18. Empty. Either they’d sold their vehicle (assuming they had one to begin with) or they were out on a happy Saturday jaunt. I continued around the block and pulled up across the street from their apartment. I took a paperback mystery novel from my shoulder bag and found my place. I read in the peace and quiet of my car, glancing up at intervals to see if the Guffeys had come home.

At 3:20, sure enough, I heard a car rattling and coughing like an old crop duster on approach. I looked up in time to see a banged-up Chevrolet sedan turn down the alleyway and into the Guffeys’ carport. The vehicle resembled many I’ve seen advertised by vintage-car nuts who buy and sell “classic” cars composed entirely of rust and dings. Dismantled, the parts were worth more than the whole. Jackie Guffey and a man I pegged as her husband came around the corner of the building with their arms loaded with bulging plastic bags from a nearby discount store. Their failure to pay their rent must have given them lots of extra cash to spend. I waited until they’d disappeared into the apartment and then I got out of my car.

I crossed the street, climbed the stairs, and knocked on their door. Alas, no one deigned to respond. “Jackie? Are you in there?”

After a moment, I heard a muffled “No.”

I squinted at the door. “Is that Patty?”

Silence.

I said, “Is Grant home?”

Silence.

“Anyone?”

I took out a roll of duct tape and affixed the notice of unlawful detainer to the front door. I knocked on the door again and said, “Mail’s here.”

On my way home, I slid by the row of boxes outside the main post office and sent a second copy of the notice to the Guffeys by first-class mail.

Monday morning, I woke early, feeling anxious and out of sorts. Henry’s quarrel with Charlotte had unsettled me. I lay on my back, covers pulled up to my chin, and stared up at the clear Plexiglas skylight above my bed. Still dark as pitch outside, but I could see a sprinkling of stars so I knew the sky was clear.

I have a low tolerance for conflict. As an only child, I got along with myself very well, thanks. I was happy being in my room alone, where I could color in my coloring book, using the crayons from my 64-shade box with the sharpener built right in. Many coloring books were dumb, but my aunt made a point of purchasing the better specimens. I could also play with my teddy bear, whose mouth would lever open if you pressed a button under its chin. I’d feed the bear hard candy and then turn him over and undo the zipper in his back. I’d remove the candy from the little metal box that passed for a tummy and eat it myself. The bear never complained. This is still my notion of a perfect relationship.

School was a source of great suffering to me, but once I learned to read, I disappeared into books, where I was a happy visitor to all the worlds that sprang full-blown from the printed page. My parents died when I was five, and Aunt Gin, who took over the parenting, was as unsociable as I. She had a few friends, but I can’t say she was intimate with anyone. As a result, I grew up ill prepared for disagreements, differences of opinion, clashes of will, or the need for compromise. I can handle contention in my professional life, but if a personal relationship turns testy, I head for the door. It’s simply easier that way. This explains why I’ve been married and divorced twice and why I don’t anticipate making the same mistake again. The spat between Henry and Charlotte was making my stomach hurt.

At 5:36, having abandoned the notion of going back to sleep, I rolled out of bed and into my running clothes. The sun wouldn’t rise for an hour. The sky was that odd shade of silver that precedes the dawn. The bike path glowed under my feet as though lit from below. At State, I veered left, following my new jogging route. I was wearing my headset, listening to the local “lite” rock station. The streetlamps were still on, throwing out circles of white, like a series of large polka dots through which I ran. Seasonal decorations were long gone and the last of the browning Christmas trees had been dragged to the curb and left for pickup. On the return I paused to check the progress on the pool rehabilitation at the Paramount Hotel. Gunite was being sprayed over the rebar, which I took as an encouraging sign. I jogged on. Running is a form of meditation, so naturally my thoughts turned to eating, a wholly spiritual experience in my book. I contemplated the notion of an Egg McMuffin, but only because McDonald’s doesn’t serve QP’s with Cheese at so early an hour.

I walked the last few blocks home, taking the time to review events. I hadn’t yet had the opportunity to talk to Henry about his falling out with Charlotte, which ran in an endless loop in my head. On reflection, what snagged my attention was the little side trip their argument had taken. Charlotte was convinced Solana Rojas had played a part in the rift between them. That bothered me. Without Solana’s help, there was no way Gus could manage living on his own. He was dependent on her. We were all of us dependent on her because she’d stepped into the breach, shouldering the burden of his care. That put her in a position of power, which was cause for concern. How easy it would be for her to take advantage of him.

I’d turned up no hint of trouble in the course of the background check, but even if Solana’s record was spotless, people can and do change. She was in her early sixties and maybe she hadn’t set anything aside for her retirement years. Gus might not be worth a lot, but he might have more than she did. Financial inequity is a powerful goad. Dishonest folks like nothing better than to shift assets out of the pockets of those who have them and into their own.

I turned the corner from Bay onto Albanil, pausing as I passed Gus’s place. Lights were on in the living room, but there was no sign of Solana and no sign of him. I glanced at the Dumpster as I passed. The grungy wall-to-wall carpeting had been ripped up and lay over the discards like a blanket of brown snow. I surveyed the remaining rubbish, as I did most days. It looked like Solana had tipped the contents of a wastebasket into the Dumpster. The avalanche of falling paper had separated, sliding into various crevices and crannies like snow settling on a mountaintop. I could see junk mail, newspapers, flyers, and magazines.

I tilted my head. There was an envelope with red line around the rim caught in a fold of the wall-to-wall carpeting. I reached down and retrieved it, taking a closer look. The envelope was addressed to Augustus Vronsky and bore the return address of Pacific Gas and Electric. The flap was still sealed. This was one of Gus’s utility bills. The red rim suggested a certain stern reprimand, and I was guessing his payment was overdue. What was this doing in the trash?

I’d seen the pigeonholes in Gus’s rolltop desk. His paid and unpaid bills had been neatly segregated, along with receipts, bank statements, and other financial documents. I remembered being impressed that he kept his affairs in such good working order. Despite his deplorable housekeeping skills, it was clear he was conscientious about day-to-day business matters.

I turned the envelope over in my hand. Had he not been paying his bills? That was worrisome. Idly, I picked at the edge of the flap, debating the wisdom of taking a peek. I know the federal regulations related to postal theft. It’s against the law to steal someone else’s mail—no ifs, ands, or buts. What’s also true is that a document placed in a trash container sitting at the curb no longer retains its character as the personal property of the one who tossed it. In this case, it looked like the unopened bill had ended up in the trash by mistake. Which meant it was still hands-off. What was I supposed to do?

If this was a dunning notice and I left it where I’d found it, his utilities might be cut. On the other hand, if I kept the envelope, I might end up in the federal pen. What bothered me was the virtual certainty that Gus wasn’t the one who emptied the trash these days. Solana did that. I hadn’t seen Gus outside for the past two months. He was barely ambulatory and I knew he wasn’t taking care of routine chores.

I climbed his porch stairs and put the bill in the mailbox affixed to his front door frame and then went back to my place. I’d have given anything to find out if Gus was looking after his finances properly. I passed through the gate and rounded the studio to the rear. I let myself in and went up the spiral stairs to the loft, where I stripped off my running sweats and hopped in the shower. Once I was dressed, I ate my cereal, after which I crossed the patio and knocked on Henry’s back door.

He was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, the paper spread out in front of him. He got up to open the door. I held on to the frame, leaning forward to have a quick look around. “No fights in progress?”

“Nope. The coast is clear. You want coffee?”

“I do.”

He let me in and I sat down at the kitchen table while he got out a mug and filled it, then set the milk and sugar in front of me, saying, “That’s regular milk, not the usual half-and-half. To what do I owe the pleasure? I hope you’re not going to lecture me on my bad behavior.”

“I’m thinking about taking Gus some homemade soup.”

“You need a recipe?”

“Not quite. I was actually hoping to score soup that was already made. You have any in your freezer?”

“Why don’t we have a look? If I’d thought of it, I’d have taken him a batch myself.” He opened his freezer and began to pull out a series of Tupperware containers, each neatly labeled with the contents and the date. He studied one. “Mulligatawny soup. I’d forgotten I had that. Doesn’t sound like something you’d make. You’re more the chicken-noodle type.”

“Exactly,” I said, watching as he retrieved a quart container from the very back of the shelf. The label was so frost-covered, he had to scrape at it with his thumbnail. “July of ’85? I think the vichyssoise is past its sell-by date.” He placed the jar in the sink to thaw and returned to his search. “I saw you jogging this morning.”

“What were you doing out so early?”

“You’ll be proud of me. I walked. Two miles by my count. I enjoyed myself.”

“Charlotte’s a good influence.”

“Was.”

“Oh. I don’t suppose you want to talk about it.”

“Nope.” He pulled out another container and read the top. “How about chicken with rice? It’s only two months old.”

“Perfect. I’ll thaw it first and take it over hot. It’s more convincing that way.”

He closed the freezer and set the rock-hard soup container on the table near me. “What’s brought about such a neighborly gesture?”

“I’ve been worrying about Gus and this is my excuse for a visit.”

“Why do you need an excuse?”

“Maybe not an excuse so much as a purpose. Not to get into the issue one way or the other, but Charlotte seemed to think Solana had a hand in putting the two of you at odds. I was wondering why she’d do that. I mean, if she’s up to something, how would either of us know?”

“I wouldn’t set too much store by what Charlotte says, although to be fair about it, I don’t think what she did was necessarily wrong, just opportunistic.”

“Is there any chance you’ll patch things up?”

“I doubt it. She’s not going to apologize to me and I certainly won’t apologize to her.”

“You sound just like me.”

“Surely not that stubborn,” he remarked. “At any rate, on the subject of Solana, I thought you did a background check and she was clean.”

“Maybe so, maybe not. Melanie asked me to take a quick look and that’s what I did. I know she doesn’t have a criminal record because I researched that first.”

“So you’re going over there to snoop.”

“More or less. If it comes to nothing, it’s fine and dandy with me. I’d rather make a fool of myself than have Gus at risk.”

When I got back to my place, I put the container of frozen soup in the kitchen sink and ran warm water around it to thaw. I found a bowl and set it on the counter, then took out a saucepan. I was already thinking of myself as a domestic little bun. While I waited for the soup to heat, I started a load of laundry. As soon as the soup was ready, I put it back in the Tupperware container and trotted it over to Gus’s next door.

I knocked and Solana appeared from the hallway a moment later. A quick glance showed that the red-rimmed envelope was still in the box and I left it where it was. Ordinarily I’d have plucked it out and handed it over with a quick explanation, but given her paranoia, if I made reference to it, she’d think I was spying on her, which of course I was.

When she opened the door, I held up the container. “I made a big pot of soup and thought Gus might enjoy some.”

Solana’s demeanor was less than welcoming. She took the container, murmured a thank-you, and was on the verge of closing the door when I spoke up in haste, “How’s he doing?”

I got the dark flat stare, but she seemed to reconsider the urge to snub me. She dropped her gaze. “He’s napping right now. He had a rough night. His shoulder’s bothering him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Henry talked to him yesterday and he was under the impression Gus was doing better.”

“Visitors tire him. You might mention it to Mr. Pitts. He stayed longer than he should have. By the time I got here at three, Mr. Vronsky’d taken to his bed. He dozed much of the day, which is why he slept so poorly last night. He’s like a baby with his days and nights mixed up.”

“I wonder if his doctor would have something to suggest.”

“He has an appointment Friday. I intend to mention it,” she said. “Was there something else?”

“Well, yes. I’m on my way to the market and wondered if you needed anything?”

“I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble at all. I’m going anyway and I’d be happy to help. I can even sit with Gus if you’d prefer to go yourself.”

Solana ignored that offer. “If you’ll wait here, I have a thing or two you could pick up.”

“Sure.” I’d invented the supermarket errand on the spot, desperate to prolong the contact. She was like the keeper at the gate. You couldn’t get to Gus unless you went through her.

I watched her move into the kitchen, where she set the soup container on the counter and then vanished, probably finding pen and paper. I stepped into the living room and glanced at Gus’s desk. The cubbyhole that had held his bills was empty, but the passbooks for his two savings accounts were still where I’d seen them before. It looked like his checkbook was wedged in there as well. I was panting to scrutinize his finances, at the very least making sure his bills were being paid. I shot a glance at the kitchen door. No sign of Solana. If I’d acted right then, I might have had my way. As it was, my hesitation cost me the opportunity. Solana appeared two beats later, her purse under her arm. The list she gave me was short, a few items scribbled on a piece of scratch paper. I watched her open her wallet and remove a twenty-dollar bill that she held out to me.

“Place looks better with that old ratty carpet gone,” I said, as though I’d spent the time she’d been gone admiring her latest handiwork instead of plotting to steal Gus’s bankbooks. I was kicking myself. In seconds I could have crossed the room and had the records in hand.

“I do what I can. Ms. Oberlin tells me you and Mr. Pitts did a cleaning before she arrived.”

“It didn’t amount to much. A lick and a promise, as my aunt used to say. Is this it?” I paused and glanced at the list. Carrots, onions, mushroom broth, turnips, a rutabaga, and new potatoes. Nutritious, wholesome.

“I promised Mr. Vronsky some fresh vegetable soup. His appetite’s been off and it’s the only thing he’ll eat. Meat of any kind makes him nauseous.”

I could feel my cheeks tint. “I guess I should have asked first. The soup’s chicken with rice.”

“Maybe when he’s feeling better.”

She moved closer, essentially walking me toward the door. She might as well have put a hand on my arm and marched me out.

I took my time at the grocery store, pretending I was shopping for myself as well as Gus. I didn’t know what a rutabaga looked like, so after a frustrating search, I had to consult with the clerk in produce. He handed me a big gnarly vegetable like a bloated potato with a waxy skin and a few green leaves growing out one end. “Are you serious?”

He smiled. “You’ve heard of neeps and tatties? That’s a neep; also called a swede. The Germans survived on those in the winter of 1916 to 1917.”

“Who’da thunk?”

I returned to my car and headed for home. As I rounded the corner from Bay onto Albanil, I saw the waste-management company had picked up the Dumpster and was hauling it away. I parked in the empty stretch of curb and went up Gus’s porch steps with Solana’s groceries. To thwart me, she accepted the plastic sack and change from the twenty, then thanked me without inviting me inside. How exasperating! Now I’d have to come up with a fresh excuse to get in.

20

Wednesday, when I came home for lunch, I found Mrs. Dell standing on my porch in her full-length mink coat, holding the brown paper bag containing her Meals on Wheels delivery. “Hi, Mrs. Dell. How are you?”

“Not well. I’m worried.”

“About what?”

“Mr. Vronsky’s back door is locked and there’s a note taped to the glass saying he won’t be needing our services. Did he say anything to you?”

“I haven’t talked to him, but it does seem odd. The man has to eat.”

“If the food wasn’t to his liking, I wish he’d mentioned it. We’re happy to make adjustments if he has a problem.”

“You didn’t talk to him?”

“I tried. I knocked on the door as loudly as I could. I know he has trouble hearing and I didn’t want to leave if he was already hobbling down the hall. Instead, that nurse of his appeared. I could tell she didn’t want to talk, but she finally opened the door. She told me he’s refusing to eat and she doesn’t want the food to go to waste. Her attitude was very close to rude.”

“She canceled Meals on Wheels?”

“She said Mr. Vronsky was losing weight. She took him to the doctor to have his shoulder checked and sure enough, he’s down six pounds. The doctor was alarmed. She acted like it was my fault.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

“Please. This has never happened to me. I feel terrible thinking it was something I did.”

As soon as she’d left, I put a call through to Melanie in New York. As usual, I didn’t speak to a live human being. I left a message and she returned the call at 3:00 California time when she got home from work. I was in the office by then, but I set aside the report I was typing and told her about my conversation with Mrs. Dell. I thought she’d be startled about Meals on Wheels. Instead, she was irritated.

“And that’s why you called? I know all this stuff. Uncle Gus has been griping about the food for weeks. At first Solana didn’t pay much attention because she thought he was just being ornery. You know how much he loves to complain.”

Having observed the trait myself, I couldn’t argue the point. “What’s he going to do about meals?”

“She says she can handle them. She offered to cook for him when she first came to work, but I thought it was too much to ask when she was already taking on his medical care. Now, I don’t know. I’m leaning in that direction, at least until his appetite returns. Really, I can’t see a downside, can you?”

“Melanie, don’t you see what’s going on here? She’s building a wall around the guy, cutting off access.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said, her tone skeptical.

“Well, I do. All he does is sleep and that can’t be good for him. Henry and I go over there, but he’s quote-unquote ‘indisposed’ or ‘he doesn’t feel like company.’ There’s always some excuse. When Henry did manage a visit, she claimed Gus was so debilitated afterward, he had to take to his bed.”

“Sounds about right. When I’m sick, all I want to do is sleep. The last thing I need is someone sitting there making chitchat. Talk about exhausting.”

“Have you spoken to him recently?”

“It’s been a couple of weeks.”

“Which I’m sure suits her fine. She’s made it clear she doesn’t want me over there. I have to rack my brain to get a foot in the door.”

“She’s protective of him. What’s so bad about that?”

“Nothing if he were doing better. The man is going downhill.”

“I don’t know what to say. Solana and I talk every couple of days and I’m not getting this from her.”

“Of course not. She’s the one doing it. Something’s wrong. I can feel it in my bones.”

“I hope you’re not saying I should make another trip. I was out there six weeks ago.”

“I know it’s a hassle, but he needs the help. And I’ll tell you something else. If Solana knows you’re coming, she’ll cover her tracks.”

“Come on, Kinsey. She’s asked me three or four times if I’d come out to see him, but I can’t get away. Why make an offer like that if she were doing something wrong?”

“Because she’s devious.”

Melanie was quiet and I imagined the little wheels going round and round. I thought maybe I was getting through to her, but then she said, “Are you sure you’re okay? Because this is all sounding very weird if you want to know the truth.”

“I’m fine. Gus is the one I’m worried about.”

“I don’t doubt your concern, but all this cloak-and-dagger stuff is a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“No.”

She made one of those long, low exasperated sounds in her throat, like this was all too much. “Okay, fine. Let’s assume you’re correct. Give me one concrete example.”

Now I was the one silent for a beat. As usual, when confronted with a demand of that sort, my mind went blank. “I can’t think of one offhand. If you want my best guess, I’d say she’s drugging him.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. If you think she’s so dangerous, then fire her.”

“I don’t have the authority. That’s up to you.”

“Well, I can’t do anything until I talk to her. Let’s be fair about it. There are two sides to every story. If I fired her strictly on the basis of what you’ve said, she’d file a complaint with the labor relations board about unfair treatment or dismissal without cause. You know what I’m saying?”

“Shit, Melanie. If you talk to Solana about this, she’ll go ballistic. That was her response the last time around when she thought I was checking up on her.”

“How else am I supposed to find out what’s going on?”

“She’s not going to admit to anything. She’s too smart.”

“But so far it’s just your word against hers. I don’t mean to be hardnosed, but I’m not flying three thousand miles based on a ‘feeling’ in your bones.”

“Don’t take my word for it. You think I’m so nuts, why don’t you call Henry and ask him?”

“I didn’t say you were nuts. I know you better than that. I’ll think about it. We’re swamped right now at work and taking the time off would be a pain in the butt. I’ll talk to my boss and get back to you.”

Typical of Melanie, that was the last conversation we had for a month.

At 6:00 I walked up to Rosie’s and found Henry sitting at his usual table in the bar. I’d decided my sterling behavior entitled me to a meal out. The place was jumping. This was Wednesday night, which is known as “hump day” to working stiffs, the week being more than half done. Henry got up graciously and held my chair while I slid in next to him. He bought me a glass of wine, which I sipped while he finished his Black Jack over ice. We ordered, or, rather, we listened, while Rosie debated what we’d have. She decided Henry would enjoy her ozporkolt, a venison goulash. I told her about my nutritional goals, begging and pleading to be spared the sour cream and its many variations. She took this in stride, saying, “Is very good. No worry. For you, I prepare guisada de guilota.”

“Wonderful. What’s that?”

“Is quail braised in tomatillo-chili sauce.”

Henry shifted in his seat with a look of injury. “Why can’t I have that?”

“Okay. You both. I bring right away.”

When the food arrived she made sure each of us had a glass of really bad red wine, which she poured with a flourish. I toasted her and sipped, saying, “Oh yum,” while my tongue shriveled in my mouth.

Once she’d departed, I took a taste of sauce before I committed myself fully to the quail. “We have a problem,” I said, picking at the bird with my fork. “I need to borrow the key to Gus’s place.”

He looked at me for a moment. I don’t know what he saw in my face, but he reached in his pocket and took out a ring of keys. He worked his way through the circle and when he came to the key to Gus’s back door, he forced it off the ring and put it in my outstretched palm. “I don’t suppose you’d care to explain.”

“Better for you if I keep my mouth shut.”

“You won’t do anything illegal.”

I put my fingers in my ears and did that la-la-la business. “I’m not hearing that. Could you ask something else?”

“You never told me what went on when you took him the soup.”

I took my fingers out of my ears. “That went fine, except she told me that his appetite was off and any kind of meat made him sick. There I stood having just given her the container full of chicken soup. I felt like an idiot.”

“But you talked to him?”

“Of course not. Nobody does. When was the last time you talked to him?”

“Day before yesterday.”

“Oh, that’s right. And guess what? She says Gus took to his bed because you stayed too long and he was exhausted, which is bullshit. Plus, she canceled Meals on Wheels. I called Melanie to tell her and that conversation went straight into the toilet. She implied I was making things up. Either which way, she feels Solana should have the chance to defend herself. She did suggest it would be helpful if I had a shred of proof to support my suspicions. Thus…” I held up the key.

“Be careful.”

“No sweat,” I said. Now all I needed was the opportunity.

I believe, as many people do, that things happen for a reason. I’m not convinced there’s a Grand Plan in place, but I do know that impulse and chance play a role in the Universe, as does coincidence. There are no accidents.

For instance:

You’re on a highway and your tire goes flat, so you pull over to the side of the road in hopes of flagging down help. Many cars go by, and when someone finally comes to your aid, he turns out to be the kid you sat behind in fifth grade. Or maybe you leave for work ten minutes late and because of that you’re caught in traffic, while ahead of you, the bridge you cross daily collapses, taking six cars with it. You might just as easily have left four minutes early and down you’d have gone. Life is made up of these occurrences for good or for ill. Some call it synchronicity. I call it dumb luck.

Thursday, I left the office early for no particular reason. I’d grappled with a lot of paperwork that day and maybe I was bored. As I rounded the corner from Cabana onto Bay, I passed Solana Rojas in her rattletrap convertible. Gus was hunched in the front seat, bundled into an overcoat. As far as I knew, he hadn’t been out of the house in weeks. Solana was speaking to him intently and neither looked up as I went by. In the rearview mirror I saw her stop at the corner and make a right-hand turn. I figured she was taking him to another doctor’s appointment, which later turned out not to be the case.

I whipped into a parking place and locked my car, then trotted up the steps to Gus’s front door. I made a show of knocking on the pane of glass in the door. I waved merrily at an imaginary someone inside and then pointed toward the side and nodded, showing I understood. I went around the side of the house to the rear and climbed the back porch steps. I peered through the windowpane in the door. The kitchen was empty and the lights were out—no big surprise. I used the key Henry’d given me to let myself in. The action was not strictly legal, but I put it in the same category as returning Gus’s mail. I told myself I was doing a good deed.

The problem was this:

In the absence of an invitation, I had no legitimate reason to enter Gus Vronsky’s house when he was home, let alone when he was out. It was pure chance that I’d seen him pass in Solana’s car, heading off to god knows where. If I were caught, what possible explanation could I give for being in his house? There’d been no smoke boiling out his windows and no cries for help. No power failure, no earthquake, no gas leak, no break in the water main. In short, I had no excuse beyond my fear for his safety and well-being. I could just imagine how far that would fly in a court of law.

In the course of this home invasion, I was hoping for one of two things: either reassurance that Gus was in good hands or evidence I could act on if my suspicions were justified. I went down the hall and into Gus’s bedroom. The bed was neatly made—“a place for everything and everything in place” being Solana Rojas’s credo. I opened and closed a few drawers but saw nothing out of the ordinary. I’m not sure what I expected, but that’s why you look, because you don’t know what’s there. I went into his bathroom. His oblong pill organizer was sitting on the sink. The compartments for S, M, and T were empty, as was W. T, F, and S were still filled with assorted pills. I opened the medicine cabinet and scanned his prescription medications. I rooted through my shoulder bag until I found my notebook and pen. I wrote down the information from every bottle I saw: date, physician’s name, the drug, the dosage, and instructions. There were six prescriptions altogether. I’m not well versed in pharmaceutical matters, so I made careful notes and replaced the containers on the shelf.

I left the bathroom and continued down the hall. I opened the door to the second bedroom, where Solana kept clothing and personal items for use on the nights she stayed over. This room was the former warehouse for numerous unlabeled cardboard boxes, all of which had been removed. The few pieces of antique furniture had been dusted, polished, and rearranged. I could see she’d made herself right at home. A handsome carved mahogany bed frame had been reassembled and the linens were as taut as an army cot. There was a burled walnut rocking chair inlaid with cherry, an armoire, and a plump-shouldered fruitwood chest of drawers with ornate bronze drawer pulls. I opened three drawers in succession and saw that all were filled with Solana’s clothes. I was tempted to search her room further, but my good angel suggested I was already risking jail and had better cease and desist.

Between the second and third bedrooms there was a full bath, but a quick peek through the open door revealed nothing significant. I did open the medicine cabinet and found it empty except for a number of cosmetics, which I’d never seen Solana wear.

I crossed the hall and opened the door to the third bedroom. Someone had put heavy black-out drapes across the windows so the room was dark and the air dense with heat. In the single bed against the wall there was a massive shape. At first I didn’t understand what I was looking at. Oversized pillows? Laundry bags bulging with discarded clothes? I was so accustomed to Gus’s hoarding that I assumed this was one more example of his inability to throw things out. I heard a grunt. There was a shifting motion, and the man lying in the bed turned from his left side to his right so he was then facing the door. Though his upper body remained in shadow, a band of daylight bisected the bed, illuminating two glittering slits. Either he slept with his eyes open or he was looking right at me. He didn’t react and there was no indication he’d registered my presence. Immobilized, I stood there and held my breath.

In the depths of sleep our animal instincts take over, alerting us to any dangers that arise. Even a subtle shift in temperature, a change in the air as it eddies through the room, the faintest of noises, or an alteration in the light can trigger our defenses. In changing positions, the man had moved up from the deepest recess of sleep. He was reaching for consciousness, ascending slowly like an underwater diver with a circle of open sky above his head. I would have mewed in fear, but I didn’t dare make a sound. I backed out of the room, acutely aware of the whisper of my denim jeans as I moved, the press of my boot sole against the wood floor. I closed the door with infinite care, one hand firmly on the knob, the other resting against the edge of the door to prevent even the softest click as the door met the frame and the strike nosed into the plate.

I turned and retraced my steps at the tiptoeing equivalent of a dead run. I held my shoulder bag close to me, aware that the slightest bump of a kitchen chair might bring the fellow bolt upright, wondering who was in the house with him. I crossed the kitchen, let myself out the back door, and crossed the porch with the same caution. I descended the back-porch steps, my ears cued to any sound behind me. The closer I got to safety, the more in jeopardy I felt.

I crossed Gus’s grass. Between his property and Henry’s there was a short length of fencing and a longer stretch of hedge. When I reached the line of shrubs, I raised my arms to shoulder height and forced my way through a narrow gap between two bushes, then more or less fell onto Henry’s patio. I probably left a telltale path of broken twigs behind me, but I didn’t stop to check. It wasn’t until I was in my apartment with the door locked that I dared take a breath. Who the hell was that guy?

I turned the thumb lock on the door, left the lights off, and went around the kitchen counter to the blind cul-de-sac, where my sink, stove, and cupboards form a windowless U. I sank to the floor and sat there with my knees drawn up, waiting for someone to pound on the door and demand an explanation. Now that I was safe, my heart began to pound, banging in my chest like someone trying to break down a door with a battering ram.

In my mind’s eye, I ran through the entire sequence of events: the show I’d made of tapping on the window in the front door, pretending to communicate with someone inside. I’d tromped merrily down the front steps and tromped merrily up the back. Once inside, I’d opened and closed doors. I’d slid drawers back and forth on their tracks, checked two medicine cabinets, which by all rights should have squeaked on their hinges. I’d paid no attention to the noise I made because I’d thought I was alone. And all the time, that gorilla was sleeping in the next room. Was I out of my freakin’ mind?

After thirty seconds in hiding, I started to feel stupid. I hadn’t been apprehended like some hot prowl burglar in the process of breaking and entering. No one had spotted me going in or out. No one had called the cops to report an intruder. Somehow I’d escaped detection—as far as I knew. Nonetheless, the incident was meant as an object lesson for yours truly. I should have taken it to heart, but I was struck dumb by the realization that I’d passed up the chance to lift the passbooks to Gus’s bank accounts.

21

On the way to work the next morning, I took Santa Teresa Street as far as Aurelia, turned left, and made a detour into a drugstore parking lot. Jones Apothecary was an old-fashioned pharmacy, where the shelves were stocked with vitamins; first-aid remedies; nutritional supplements; ostomy supplies; nostrums; skin, hair, and nail products; and other items meant to alleviate minor human miseries. You could have your prescriptions filled, but you couldn’t buy lawn furniture. You could rent crutches and buy arch supports, but you couldn’t have film developed. They did offer a free blood-pressure check, and while I waited for service I sat down and affixed the cuff to my arm. After much huffing, squeezing, and releasing, the readout was 118/68 so I knew I wasn’t dead.

As soon as the consultation window was free, I stepped up to the counter and caught the eye of the pharmacist, Joe Brooks, who’d been helpful in the past. He was a man in his seventies with snowy white hair that eddied into a swirl in the middle of his forehead. He said, “Yes, ma’am. How’re you? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been around—staying out of trouble as much as possible,” I said. “Right now, I need some information and I thought you might help. I have a friend who’s taking a number of medications and I’m worried about him. I think he’s sleeping too much and when he’s awake, he’s confused. I’m wondering about side effects of the drugs he’s on. I made a list of what he’s taking, but the prescriptions weren’t filled here.”

“That wouldn’t make a difference. Most pharmacists handle patient consultations the same way we do. We make sure the patient understands what the medication does, the dosage, and how and when it should be taken. We also explain any possible food or drug interactions and advise them to call the doctor if they have reactions out of the ordinary.”

“That’s what I assumed, but I wanted to double-check. If I show you the list, can you tell me what these are for?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. Who’s the doctor?”

“Medford. Do you know him?”

“I do and he’s a good egg.”

I took out my notebook and folded it open to the relevant page. He removed a pair of reading glasses from his jacket pocket and eased the stems over his ears. I watched him trace the lines of print with his eyes, commenting as he worked his way down the line. “These are all standard medications. The indapamide is a diuretic prescribed to lower blood pressure. Metoprolol’s a beta-blocker—again, prescribed to treat hypertension. Klorvess is a cherry-flavored potassium replacement that requires a prescription because potassium supplementation can affect heart rhythm and damage the GI tract. Butazolidin is an anti-inflammatory, probably for treatment of osteoarthritis. Did he ever mention that?”

“I know he complains about his aches and pains. Osteoporosis, for sure. He’s just about bent double from bone loss.” I was looking over his shoulder, reading the list. “What’s that one?”

“Clofibrate is used to reduce cholesterol, and this last one, Tagamet, is for acid reflux. The only thing I see worth scrutiny are his potassium levels. Low blood potassium could cause him to be confused, weak, or sleepy. How old is he?”

“Eighty-nine.”

He nodded, tilting his head as he considered the implications. “Age plays a part. No doubt about that. Geriatric individuals don’t excrete drugs as promptly as healthy younger people. Liver and kidney functions are also substantially reduced. Coronary output starts declining after age thirty, and by ninety it’s down to thirty to forty percent of maximum. What you’re describing might be an unrelated medical condition nobody’s picked up on. He’d probably benefit from an evaluation by a geriatric specialist if he hasn’t seen one.”

“He’s under doctor’s care. He dislocated his shoulder in a fall a month ago and just went in for a recheck. I expected a quicker recovery rate, but he doesn’t seem much improved.”

“That may well be. Striated muscle also declines with age, so it’s quite possible his shoulder repair has been impeded by torn musculature, the osteoporosis, undiagnosed diabetes, or an impaired immune system. Have you talked to his doctor?”

“No, and I doubt it would be productive, given current privacy laws. His office wouldn’t acknowledge his being a patient, let alone put his doctor on the phone to chat with some stranger about his care. I’m not even a family member; he’s just a neighbor of mine. I’m assuming his caregiver’s conveyed all the information to his doctor, but I have no way of knowing.”

Joe Brooks thought about that, weighing the possibilities. “If he was given pain pills for the shoulder, he might be abusing his meds. I don’t see reference to anything of the sort, but he might have a supply on hand. Alcohol consumption’s another consideration.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose either one is possible. I’ve never seen him take a drink, but what do I know?”

“Tell you what: I’d be happy to call his doctor and pass along your concerns. I know this guy socially and I think he’d listen to me.”

“Let’s hold off on that. His caregiver lives on the premises and she’s already hypersensitive. I don’t want to step on her toes unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Understood,” he said.

I left the office at noon that day, thinking to make myself a quick lunch at home. When I rounded the studio and reached the back patio, I saw Solana knocking frantically on Henry’s kitchen door. She’d thrown a coat over her shoulders like a shawl and she was clearly upset.

I paused on my doorstep. “Is something wrong?”

“Do you know when Mr. Pitts is getting home? I’ve knocked and knocked, but he must be out.”

“I don’t know where he is. Can I help you?”

I could see the conflict in her face. I was probably the last person on earth she’d be appealing to, but her problem must have been pressing because she clutched the edges of her coat with one hand and crossed the patio. “I need a hand with Mr. Vronsky. I put him in the shower and I can’t get him out. Yesterday he fell and hurt himself again so he’s afraid of slipping on the tile.”

“Can we manage him between us?”

“I hope so. Please.”

We walked double-time to Gus’s front door, which she’d left ajar. I followed her into the house, dropping my bag on the couch in the living room as we passed. She was talking over her shoulder, saying, “I didn’t know what else to do. I was getting him cleaned up before supper. He’s had trouble with his balance, but I thought I could handle him. He’s in here.”

She led me through Gus’s bedroom and into the bathroom, which smelled of soap and steam. The bathroom floor had a slippery cast to it and I could see how difficult it would be to maneuver. Gus was huddled on a plastic stool in one corner of the shower. The water had been turned off and it looked like Solana had done what she could to dry him off before she left. He was shivering despite the robe she’d thrown around him to keep him warm. His hair was wet and water was still dripping down his cheek. I’d never seen him without clothes and I was shocked at how thin he was. His shoulder sockets looked enormous while his arms were all bone. His left hip was badly bruised and he was weeping, making a whimpering sound that spoke of his helplessness.

Solana bent over him. “You’re fine. You’re okay now. I found someone to help. Don’t you worry.”

She dried him off and then she took his right arm while I took his left, offering support as we hoisted him to his feet. He was shaky and clearly off-kilter, only able to take baby steps. She moved to a position in front of him and held him by the hands, walking backward to stabilize him as he tottered after her. I kept one hand under his elbow as he shuffled into the bedroom. As frail as he was, it was a trick to keep him upright and on the move.

When we reached the bed, Solana stood him close by, leaning him against the mattress for support. He clung to me with both hands while she slipped first his one arm and then the other into his flannel pajama top. Below, the skin sagged from his thighs and his pelvic bones looked sharp. We sat him on the edge of the bed and she slipped his feet through his pajama bottoms. Together we lifted him briefly so she could pull the bottoms up over his flanks. Again, she eased him onto the edge of the bed. When she lifted his feet and rotated his legs to slide them under the covers, he cried out in pain. She had a stack of old quilts nearby and she laid three over him to offset his chill. His trembling seemed uncontrollable and I could hear his teeth chattering.

“Why don’t I make him a cup of tea?”

She nodded, doing what she could to make him comfortable.

I moved down the hallway to the kitchen. The teakettle was on the stove. I ran the tap until the water was hot, filled the kettle, then set it on the burner. Hastily I went through the well-stocked cupboards, looking for tea bags. New bottle of vodka? No. Cereal, pasta, and rice? Nix. I discovered the box of Lipton’s on my third pass. I found a cup and saucer and set them on the counter. I went to the door and peered around the corner. I could hear Solana in the bedroom, murmuring to Gus. I didn’t dare stop to think about the risk I was taking.

I slipped across the hall to the living room and moved to the desk. The pigeonholes were much as they’d been before. No bills or receipts in evidence, but I could see his bank statements, his checkbook, and the two savings account passbooks, held together by a single rubber band. I slipped off the band and took a quick look at the balances in his passbooks. The account that had originally held fifteen thousand dollars appeared to be untouched. The second passbook showed a number of withdrawals, so I shoved that in my bag. I opened his checkbook and removed the register, then put the checkbook cover and the one savings passbook back in the cubbyhole.

I moved to the couch and pushed the items to the bottom of my shoulder bag. Four long strides later I was back in the kitchen, pouring boiling water over a Lipton’s tea bag. My heart was banging so hard that when I carried the china cup and saucer down the hall to Gus’s bedroom, the two rattled together like castanets. Before I went into the bedroom I had to pour the tea I’d slopped from the saucer back into the cup.

I found Solana sitting on the edge of the bed, patting Gus’s hand. I set the cup and saucer on the bed table. The two of us arranged pillows behind his back and secured him in an upright position. “We’ll let this cool and then you can have a nice sip of tea,” she said to him.

His eyes sought mine and I could see what I swore was a mute appeal.

I glanced at the clock. “Didn’t you say he had a doctor’s appointment later today?”

“With his internist, yes. Mr. Vronsky’s been so shaky on his feet that I’m concerned.”

“Is he strong enough to go?”

“He’ll be fine. Once he’s warm again, I can get him dressed.”

“What time is his appointment?”

“In an hour. The doctor’s office is only ten minutes from here.”

“One thirty?”

“Two.”

“I hope everything’s okay. I can wait and help you get him in the car, if you like.”

“No, no. I can manage now. I’m grateful for your help.”

“I’m glad I was there. For now, unless you need me for something else, I’ll be on my way,” I said. I was torn between wanting to hover and needing to escape. I could feel a trickle of flop sweat in the small of my back. I didn’t wait for a word of thanks, which I knew would be in short supply in any event.

I moved through the living room, grabbed my shoulder bag, and went out to my car. With a glance at my watch, I fired up the engine and pulled away from the curb. If I played my cards right, I could make copies of Gus’s financial data and get the checkbook and savings account book back in the desk while Solana was taking him to his appointment.

When I reached my office I unlocked the door, slung my bag on the desk, and turned on the copy machine. During the laborious warm-up process, I shifted from foot to foot, groaning at the delay. As soon as the readout announced the machine was ready, I began making copies of the pages in the check register, plus the deposits and withdrawals recorded in the passbook. I’d study the figures later. Meanwhile, if I timed it right, I could head back to my place and hover in the wings. Once I saw Solana drive off with Gus for his doctor’s appointment, I could slip in the back door and return the items, leaving her none the wiser. A capital plan. While it depended on proper timing, I was in the perfect position to pull it off—assuming the goon wasn’t there.

My copy machine seemed agonizingly slow. The carriage line of white-hot light ticked back and forth across the plate. I’d lift the lid, open the book to the next two pages, lower the lid, and press the button. The copy paper slid out of the machine, still hot to the touch. When I was finished I turned off the machine and reached for my bag. That’s when my gaze strayed to my desk calendar. The notation for Friday, January 15, read “Millard Fredrickson, 2:00 P.M.” I went around the desk and looked at the entry right-side up. “Shit!”

It took me half a minute to find the Fredricksons’ telephone number. In hopes of rescheduling, I snatched up the handset and punched in the numbers. The line was busy. I checked the clock. It was 1:15. Solana’d told me the doctor’s office was ten minutes away, which meant she’d leave at 1:30 or so to give herself time to park and ferry Gus into the building. He’d proceed at a creeping pace, especially in light of his recent fall, which must have left him in pain. She’d probably drop him at the entrance, park, and go back, guiding him through the automated glass doors and up the elevator. If I went to the Fredricksons’ early, I could conduct a quick interview and beat it back to my place before she returned. Anything I missed, I could ask Millard later in a follow-up call.

The Fredricksons didn’t live that far from me, and he’d probably be delighted to have me in and out of his place in the paltry fifteen minutes I had to spare. I picked up my clipboard with the notes I’d taken during my chat with his wife. My anxiety level was way up, but I had to focus on the task at hand.

The drive from my office to the Fredricksons’ naturally entailed being caught by any number of red lights. At the intersections controlled by stop signs, I’d do a quick visual survey, making sure there were no cop cars in evidence, and then I’d roll on through without bothering to stop. I turned onto the Fredricksons’ street, parked across from the house, and made my way to the front door. I nearly lost my footing on the algae-slick wooden wheelchair ramp, but I caught myself before I went down on my butt. I was pretty sure I’d wrenched my back in a way I’d have to pay for later.

I rang the bell and waited, expecting Gladys to come to the door as she had on my earlier visit. Instead, Mr. Fredrickson opened the door in his wheelchair with a paper napkin tucked in his shirt collar.

“Hello, Mr. Fredrickson. I thought I’d pop in a few minutes early, but if I interrupted your lunch, I can always come back in an hour or so. Is that better for you?” I was thinking please, please, please, but I didn’t actually clasp my hands in prayer.

He glanced down at the napkin and removed it with a tug. “No, no. I just finished. We might as well get started as long as you’re here.” He rolled himself back, made a two-point turn, and pushed himself as far as the coffee table. “Grab a chair. Gladys is off at rehab so I’ve got a couple hours to spare.”

The notion of spending two hours with the man made the panic rise anew. “It won’t take me that long. A few quick questions and I’ll get out of your hair. Is this seat okay?”

I was busy stacking magazines and mail that I moved to one side so I could sit on the couch where I’d sat before. I heard a muffled barking from a back room, but there was no sign of the bird so maybe the dog had had a nice lunch as well. I took out my tape recorder, which I hoped still had juice. “I’ll be recording this interview the same way I did with your wife. I hope you’re agreeable.” I was already punching buttons, getting properly set.

“Yes. Fine. Anything you want.”

I recited my name, his, date, time, subject matter, and other particulars talking so fast it sounded like the tape recorder was operating at twice its normal speed.

He folded his hands in his lap. “I might as well start at the beginning. I know how you people are…”

I flipped through the pages on my yellow legal pad. “I have most of the information here so all I need is to fill in a few blanks. I’ll be out of here shortly.”

“Don’t hurry on my account. We have nothing to hide. Her and me had a long talk about this and we intend to cooperate. Seems only fair.”

I dropped my gaze to the reel turning in the machine and felt my body grow still. “We appreciate that,” I said.

The phrase “we have nothing to hide” echoed through my frame. What came immediately to mind was the old saying “The louder he proclaims his honesty, the faster we count the silver.” His aside was the equivalent of someone beginning a sentence with the phrase “to be perfectly honest.” You can just about bet whatever comes next will be straddling the line between falsehood and an outright lie.

“Any time you’re ready,” I said, without looking at him.

He related his rendition of the accident in tedious detail. His tone was rehearsed and his account so clearly mimicked what I’d heard from her that I knew they’d conferred at length. Weather conditions, seat belt, Lisa Ray’s abruptly pulling into his lane, the slamming on of brakes, which he accomplished with his hand control. Gladys couldn’t possibly remember everything she’d told me, but I knew if I spoke to her again, her story would be amended until it was a duplicate of her husband’s. I scribbled as he spoke, making sure I was covering the same ground. There’s nothing worse than running into an inaudible response when a tape is transcribed.

At the back of my mind I was fretting about Gus. I had no idea how I’d get the financial data back where it belonged, but I couldn’t worry about that now. I nodded as Mr. Fredrickson went on and on. I made sympathetic noises and kept my expression a near parody of interest and concern. He warmed to the subject as he proceeded with his narrative. Thirty-two minutes later, when he started repeating himself, I said, “Well, thanks. I think this about covers it. Is there anything else you’d like to add for the record?”

“I believe that’s it,” he said. “Just a mention of where we were going when that Lisa Ray woman ran into us. I believe you asked my wife and it’d slipped her mind.”

“That’s right,” I said. He fidgeted slightly and his voice had changed so I knew a whopper was about to escape his lips. I leaned forward attentively, pen poised over the page.

“The market.”

“Ah, the market. Well, that makes sense. Which one?”

“That one on the corner at the bottom of the hill.”

I nodded, taking notes. “And the trip was to buy what?”

“Lottery ticket for Saturday’s draw. I’m sorry to say we didn’t win.”

“Too bad.”

I turned off the tape recorder and anchored my pen in the top of my clipboard. “This has been a big help. I’ll stop by with the transcript as soon as I have it done.”

I drove back to my place without much hope. It was 2:45 and Solana and Gus would probably be back from the doctor’s office. If Solana went into the living room and spotted the empty cubbyhole, she’d know what I’d done. I pulled up in front of my place, parked the car, and scanned the cars on both sides of the street. No sign of Solana’s. I could feel my heart rate accelerate. Was it possible I still had time? All I needed was to nip inside, shove everything back in the desk, and make a hasty getaway.

I put my car keys in my bag and crossed Gus’s grass, following the walkway to the back door. The checkbook register and the savings passbook were in the bowels of my bag. I had my hand on the documents as I climbed the back steps. I could see the note for the Meals on Wheels volunteer still taped to the glass. I peered in the window. The kitchen was dark.

Ten or fifteen seconds was all I required, assuming the goon wasn’t waiting for me in the living room. I took out the key, inserted it in the lock, and turned it. No deal. I held the knob and wiggled the key, by way of coaxing. I looked down in puzzlement, thinking Henry’d given me the wrong key. Not so.

The locks had been changed.

I moaned to myself as I headed down the stairs double-time, worried I’d be caught when I hadn’t actually accomplished anything. I cut through the hedge between Gus’s backyard and Henry’s, and let myself into the studio. I locked my door and sat down at my desk, panic rising in my throat like bile. If Solana realized the check register and passbook were missing, she’d know I’d taken them. Who else? I was the only one who’d been in the house except for the fellow in the bed. Henry’d been there a couple of days before so he’d come under suspicion as well. The dread in my gut felt like a bomb about to go off, but there was nothing to be done. I sat quietly for a moment until I’d caught my breath. What difference did it make now? What was done was done and as long as I was screwed, I might as well see what my thievery had netted me.

I spent the next ten minutes looking at the figures in Gus’s bank accounts. It didn’t take an accountant to see what was going on. The account that had originally held twenty-two thousand dollars had been reduced by half, all of this in the space of a month. I flipped back through the earlier pages of the passbook. It looked like Gus, in his pre-Solana days, was making deposits of two to three thousand dollars at regular intervals. His check register showed that since January 4, money had been transferred from the one savings account into his checking account with a number of checks then written to Cash. None of the canceled checks were available for inspection, but I’d have bet money his signatures were forged. At the back of the passbook, I came across the pink slip to his car that must have migrated from its proper file. To date, she hadn’t transferred ownership from his name to hers. I reviewed the numbers with a shake of my head. It was time to quit cocking around.

I pulled out the phone book and turned to the listings for county offices. I found the number for the Domestic/Elder Abuse Telephone Hotline, which I couldn’t help but notice spelled the word “DEATH.” It had finally dawned on me that I didn’t have to prove Solana was doing anything abusive or illegal. It was up to her to prove she wasn’t.

22

The woman who answered the phone at the Tri-Counties Agency for the Prevention of Elder Abuse listened to my brief explanation of the reason for my call. I was transferred to a social worker named Nancy Sullivan and I ended up having a fifteen-minute conversation with her while she took the report. She sounded young and her phone manner suggested she was asking questions from a form she had in front of her. I gave her the relevant information: Gus’s name, age, address, Solana Rojas’s name and description.

“Does he have any known medical problems?”

“Lots. This whole situation started with a fall that dislocated his shoulder. Aside from the injury, it’s my understanding that he suffers from hypertension, osteoporosis, probably osteoarthritis, and maybe some digestive problems.”

“What about signs of dementia?”

“I’m not sure how to answer that. Solana Rojas reports signs of dementia, but I haven’t seen any myself. His niece in New York talked to him on the phone one day and thought he sounded confused. The first time I went over, he was sleeping, but when I stopped by the next morning he seemed fine. Crabby, but not disoriented or anything like that.”

I went on, giving her as much detail as I could. I didn’t see a way to mention the financial issues without admitting I’d snitched his bankbooks. I did describe his shakiness earlier that day and Solana’s report of a fall, which I hadn’t personally witnessed. “I saw the bruises and I was horrified at how thin he is. He looks like a walking skeleton.”

“Do you feel he’s in any immediate danger?”

“Yes and no. If I thought it was a life-or-death matter, I’d have called the police. On the other hand, I’m convinced he needs help or I wouldn’t be on the phone.”

“Are you aware of any incidents of yelling or hitting?”

“Well, no.”

“Emotional abuse?”

“Not in my presence. I live next door to the guy and I used to see him all the time. He’s clearly old, but he managed to get around fine. He used to be the neighborhood crank so it’s not like any of us were close to him. Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“What happens now?”

“We’ll send out an investigator in the next one to five days. It’s too late to get anything on the books until first thing Monday morning, and then someone will be asked to look into it. Depending on the findings, we’ll assign a caseworker and take whatever action seems necessary. You may be called on to answer additional questions.”

“That’s fine. I just don’t want his caregiver to know I was the one who blew the whistle on her.”

“Don’t worry. Your identity and any information you give us is strictly confidential.”

“I appreciate that. She might make a guess, but I’d just as soon not have it confirmed.”

“We’re well aware of the need for privacy.”

In the meantime, come Saturday morning, I had other business to take care of, chiefly locating Melvin Downs. I’d made two trips to the residence hotel without results and it was time to get serious. I took the Missile off-ramp and swung over to Dave Levine Street. I parked around the corner on the side street, passing the same used-car lot I’d seen before. The converted milk truck/camper offered at $1,999.99 had apparently been sold and I was sorry I hadn’t stopped to take a closer look. I’m not a proponent of recreational vehicles, in part, because long-distance driving isn’t a means of travel I find amusing. That said, the milk truck was adorable and I knew I should have bought the damn thing. Henry would have let me park it in the side yard and if I’d ever found myself in financial straits, I could have given up my studio and lived in style.

When I reached the hotel I took the porch steps two at a time and went in the front door. The foyer and downstairs hall were empty so I took myself to Juanita Von’s office first floor rear. I found her shifting the past year’s files and financial records from the cabinet’s drawers to a banker’s box.

“I just did that,” I said. “How are you?”

“Tired. It’s a pain, but it has to be done and I do enjoy the feeling of satisfaction afterwards. You may be in luck this time. I saw Mr. Downs come in a while ago, though he could have gone out without my noticing if he used the front stairs. He’s a hard one to catch.”

“You know what? I really think I’ve earned the right to talk to him even if it is upstairs. This is my third trip over here and if I miss him this time, you’ll have to explain yourself to the attorney who’s handling this case.”

She considered my request, taking her time about it so it wouldn’t appear she was moved by the threat. “I suppose just this once. Hold on a second and I’ll walk you up.”

“I can manage it,” I said. Secretly, I was longing for the opportunity to snoop. She was having none of it, perhaps imagining I ran a drop-in hooker service for down-at-heel old men.

Before she left the office she paused to wash her hands and locked up her desk against the possibility of thieves. I followed her out of the office and toward the front door, responding politely as she pointed out features along the way. She began to climb the stairs, pulling herself along by the handrail. I stayed two steps behind her, listening to her labored breathing as we reached the second floor.

“This sitting area on the landing is where the tenants gather of an evening. I provide the color television set and I ask them to be considerate about what they watch. Can’t have one individual making all the choices for the group.”

The landing was large enough to accommodate two couches, a wide-armed upholstered chair, and three smaller wooden chairs, all with padded seats. I pictured a bunch of old guys with their feet on the coffee table, commenting on sports and cop shows. We turned to the right into a short corridor at the end of which she showed me a big glass-enclosed sunporch and a laundry room. We went down two steps to a hallway that extended along the length of the house. All the room doors were closed, but each had a small brass slot with a card in it, printed with the name of the occupant. I watched the brass numbers climb from 1 to 8, which meant that Melvin Downs’s room was probably at the rear of the building, near the top of the back stairs.

We rounded the corner and started up the next flight. It felt like it took six minutes getting from the first floor to the third, but eventually we reached the top. I sincerely hoped she didn’t intend to hang around to supervise my conversation with Downs. She accompanied me to his room and had me step to one side while she knocked on his door. She stood politely, with her hands crossed in front of her, giving him time to assemble himself and answer the door.

“Must have gone out again,” she remarked, as though I wasn’t bright enough to figure that out myself. She tilted her head. “Hold on a minute. That might be him now.”

Belatedly, I caught the sound of someone coming up the back stairs. A white-haired man appeared, carrying two empty cardboard wine boxes, one tucked inside the other. He had a long face and pointed elfin ears. Age had eroded channels in his face, and there were deep creases worn into each side of his mouth.

Juanita Von brightened. “There you are. I told Miss Millhone it might be you coming up the stairs. You have a visitor.”

He was wearing the rumored black wing tip shoes and the brown leather bomber jacket I’d heard about before. I felt myself smiling and realized until now, I hadn’t been convinced that he existed at all. I held my hand out. “How are you, Mr. Downs? I’m Kinsey Millhone. I’m delighted to catch up with you.”

His handshake was firm and his manner friendly, underlaid with an element of puzzlement. “I’m not sure I know what this is about.”

Mrs. Von stirred, saying, “I’ll get back to my work and leave the two of you to talk. With respect to the house rules, I don’t allow young ladies to visit in the tenants’ rooms with the doors shut. If you’ll be more than ten minutes, you can have your conversation in the parlor, which is more appropriate than standing in the hall.”

I said, “Thanks.”

“No trouble,” she said. “Long as I’m up here, I’ll look in on Mr. Bowie. He’s been under the weather.”

“Fine,” I said. “I know my way out.”

She moved down the stairs and I turned my attention to Downs. “Would you prefer to talk in the parlor?”

“The bus driver on my route told me someone had come around asking questions about me.”

“That’s all he said? Well, I’m sorry if I took you by surprise. I told him he could fill you in.”

“I saw a flyer that said something about a car crash, but I’ve never been in one.”

I took a few minutes to go through my oft-repeated tale about the accident, the lawsuit, and the questions we had about what he’d seen at the time.

He stared at me. “How did you manage to locate me? I don’t know anyone in town.”

“That was a stroke of luck. I distributed flyers in the neighborhood where the collision occurred. That must have been one of the ones you saw. I included a brief description, and a woman called me saying she’d seen you at the bus stop across from City College. I called MTA, got the route number, and then chatted with the bus driver. He was the one who gave me your name and address.”

“You go to this much trouble for something that happened seven months ago? That can’t be true. Why now, after all this time?”

“The lawsuit wasn’t filed until recently,” I said. “Is this upsetting you? Because that wasn’t my intention. I just want to ask a few questions about the accident so we can figure out what went on and who was at fault. That’s all this is about.”

He seemed to pull himself together and shift gears. “I don’t have anything to say. It’s been months.”

“Maybe I can help refresh your memory.”

“I’m sorry, but I have something I need to take care of. Maybe another day.”

“This won’t take long. Just a few quick questions and I’ll be out of your hair. Please.”

After a pause, he said, “All right, but I don’t remember much. It didn’t seem important, even at the time.”

“I understand,” I said. “If you’ll recollect, this was the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend.”

“Sounds about right.”

“You were on your way home from work?”

He hesitated. “What difference does that make?”

“I’m just trying to get a feel for the sequence of events.”

“After work, then. That’s right. I was waiting for my bus and when I looked up I saw a young woman in a white car pull forward, preparing to turn left out of the City College parking lot.”

He came to a stop, as though calculating his responses so he could offer the least information possible without being obvious.

“And the other car?”

“The van was coming from the direction of Capillo Hill.”

“Heading east,” I said. I was trying to encourage a response without too much prompting. I didn’t want him simply feeding back the information I fed him.

“The driver was signaling a right-hand turn and I saw him slow.”

He stopped. I shut my mouth and stood there, creating one of those conversational vacuums that usually goads the other guy to speak. I watched him avidly, willing him to proceed.

“Before the girl in the first car completed the turn, the driver in the van accelerated and rammed right into her.”

I felt my heart give a thump. “He accelerated?”

“Yes.”

“Deliberately?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Why would he do that? Didn’t it seem weird?”

“I didn’t have time to think about it. I ran out to see if I could help. It didn’t look like the girl was seriously hurt, but the passenger, an older woman, had big problems. I could see it in her face. I did what I could, though it didn’t amount to much.”

“The younger woman, Ms. Ray, had wanted to thank you for your kindness, but she says the next thing she knew, you’d disappeared.”

“I’d done as much as I could. Someone must’ve dialed 9-1-1. I could hear the sirens so I knew help was on the way. I went back to the bus stop and when the bus came, I got on. That’s as much as I know.”

“I can’t tell you how helpful you’ve been. This is just what we need. The defendant’s attorney will want to take your deposition…”

He looked at me as though I’d struck him in the face. “You never said anything about a deposition.”

“I thought I mentioned it. It’s no big deal. Mr. Effinger will go through this again for the record…the same sort of questions…but you don’t have to worry about that now. You’ll get plenty of notice and I’m sure he can set it up so you won’t have to miss work.”

“I didn’t say I’d testify about anything.”

“You might not have to. The suit might be dropped or settled and you’ll be off the hook.”

“I answered your questions. Isn’t that enough?”

“Look, I know it’s a pain. Nobody likes to get caught up in these things. I can have him call you.”

“I don’t have a phone. Mrs. Von isn’t good about messages.”

“Why don’t I give you his number and you can contact him? That way, you can do it at your convenience.” I took out my notebook and scribbled Lowell Effinger’s name and office number.

I said, “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. I should have made myself clear. As I indicated, there’s an outside possibility the matter will be resolved. Even if you testify, Mr. Effinger will make it as painless as possible. I can promise you that.”

When I tore off the leaf and passed it to him I caught sight of his right hand. A crude tattoo was visible in the webbing between the thumb and index finger. The area was rimmed with what looked like lipstick red that had faded over time. Two round black dots sat on either side of his knuckle. My first thought was prison, which might explain his attitude. If he’d had legal problems in the past, it could account for his balkiness.

He put his hand in his pocket.

I glanced away, feigning interest in the decor. “Interesting place. How long have you lived here?”

He shook his head. “I don’t have time to chat.”

“No problem. I appreciate your time.”

As soon as I reached my desk I put a call through to Lowell Effinger’s office, which was closed for the weekend. His machine picked up and I left a message for Geneva Burt, giving her Melvin Downs’s name and address. I said, “Don’t let it wait. This guy seems antsy. If you don’t hear from him first thing Monday, call his landlady, Mrs. Von. She’s a tough old bird and she’ll crack the whip.”

I gave her the number that rang into Juanita Von’s office.

23

Having made the call to the county agency that dealt with elder abuse, I expected to feel relieved. The matter was out of my hands and the investigation of Solana Rojas was someone else’s responsibility. In reality, I was uneasy about running into her. I’d worked hard to ingratiate myself in an effort to gain access to Gus, but if I cut off all contact and the investigator showed up asking pointed questions, the obvious conclusion would be that I’d made the call, which of course I had. I didn’t know how to maintain even the semblance of innocence. In my heart, I knew Gus’s safety took precedence over the risk of Solana’s wrath, but I fretted nonetheless. Consummate liar that I am, I was now fearful she’d accuse me of telling the truth.

This is how the system works. A citizen sees an instance of wrongdoing and calls it to the attention of the proper authorities. Instead of being lauded, an aura of guilt attaches. I’d done what I thought was right and now I felt like skulking around, avoiding the sight of her. I could tell myself all day long I was being silly, but I was afraid for Gus, worried he’d pay the price for the call I’d made. Solana wasn’t a normal human being. She had a ruthless streak and the minute she figured out what I’d done, she was going to crawl up in my hair and take a shit. It didn’t help that we lived in such proximity. I unburdened myself to Henry sitting in his kitchen at the cocktail hour—he with Black Jack over ice, me with my Chardonnay.

“Don’t you have business that might take you out of town?” he asked.

“Don’t I wish. Actually, if I were gone, suspicion would fall on you.”

He waved that worry aside. “I can handle Solana. So can you, if it comes down to it. You did the right thing.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself, but I do have one teeny tiny transgression to confess.”

He said, “Oh, lord.”

“It’s not that bad. The day I was helping Solana with Gus, I took advantage of the moment to lift his check register and one of the passbooks for a savings account.”

“‘Lift,’ as in stole?”

“Well, yes, if you want to be blunt. That’s what prompted me to make the call to the county. It was the first proof I’d seen that she was draining his accounts. The problem is, now that she’s changed the locks I don’t have a way to put them back.”

“Oh boy.”

“‘Oh boy’ is right. What am I supposed to do? If I hang on to the documents, I can’t keep them at my place. What if she figures it out, calls the cops, and gets a search warrant?”

“Why can’t you put ’em in your safe-deposit box?”

“But I’d still risk getting caught with them. At the same time, I can’t destroy them because if Solana’s charged with a crime, that would be evidence. Actually if I’m charged with a crime, it’s evidence against me.”

Henry was shaking his head in disagreement. “Don’t think so for three reasons. The documents are inadmissible because they’re ‘fruit of the poison tree.’ Isn’t that what it’s called when evidence is illegally obtained?”

“Pretty much.”

“Besides which, the bank has the same records, so if push comes to shove, the DA’s office can subpoena the records from them.”

“What’s number three? I can hardly wait.”

“Seal ’em in an envelope and mail them to me.”

“I don’t want to put you in jeopardy. I’ll figure it out. Really, it’s enough to make me want to reform,” I said. “Oh, yeah, and there’s something else. The first time I went in…”

“You’ve been in twice?”

“Hey, the second time she invited me. That’s when Gus was stranded in the shower. The first time, I used his house key and made a note of all the medications he was on. I wondered if maybe a drug combination was causing his confusion and making him sleep. The pharmacist I talked to suggested possible pain pill or alcohol abuse, which is neither here nor there. This is the point. When I was cruising through the house, thinking Gus and Solana were gone, I opened the door to the third bedroom and there was this three-hundred-pound goon asleep in the bed. Who the hell was he?”

“Might have been the orderly she hired. She mentioned him when I was over there. He comes in once a day to help get Gus on and off the toilet and things like that.”

“But why was he sleeping on the job?”

“He might have stayed so she could have a day off.”

“Don’t think so. She was out with Gus running an errand of some kind. Come to think of it, why wasn’t the orderly there to help when she had to get Gus out of the shower?”

“Maybe he’d already come and gone. She said he’s paid by the hour so he probably isn’t there for long.”

“If you see him over there again, let me know. Melanie never said a word about Solana hiring help.”

I went back to my place at 7:00 with a buzz on. A happy consequence of my anxiety was my appetite was gone. In the absence of food, I was turning into a drunk. I glanced at my desk and saw the message light blinking on my answering machine. I crossed the room and pressed the Play button.

“Hey, Kinsey. Richard Compton here. Could you give me a call?”

What was this about? I’d done a couple of jobs for the man in the previous week, so maybe he had more. I was willing to do just about anything to keep myself out of my own neighborhood. I dialed the number he left and when he picked up, I identified myself.

“Thanks for returning my call. Look, I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday night, but I need a favor.”

“Sure.”

“I have to fly up to San Francisco tomorrow at six A.M. I thought I’d better catch you now instead of calling from the airport.”

“Good plan. So what’s the favor?”

“I got a message from the fellow in the apartment above the Guffeys’ place. He thinks they’re getting ready to decamp.”

“So the unlawful detainer did the trick?”

“Looks that way.”

“That’s a blessing.”

“A big one. Problem is, I’m gone until Friday and I won’t have a chance to do the final inspection and pick up the keys.”

“You’ll be changing the locks anyway, so why sweat the keys?”

“True, but I made them pay a twenty-dollar key deposit, plus a hundred-dollar cleaning deposit. If someone doesn’t go out there, they’ll swear up and down the place was immaculate and they left the keys in plain sight. Then they’ll turn around and want both deposits back in full. Obviously, you don’t have to do it right this minute. Any time before noon on Monday would be fine.”

“I can go tomorrow if you like.”

“No sense inconveniencing yourself. I’ll give ’em a call and tell them you’ll be there Monday. You want to give me a time?”

“Eleven fifteen? That way I can take care of it before I break for lunch.”

“Good. I’ll let them know. I’ll be staying at the Hyatt on Union Square if you should need to reach me.”

He gave me the phone number of his hotel and I jotted it down. “Look, Richard, I’m happy to help you out, but I’m not in the property management business. You should really hire a professional to handle things like this.”

“I could, kiddo, but you’re much cheaper. A management company would take ten percent of the gross.”

I might have responded, but he’d hung up.

When I left my apartment Monday morning, I found myself scanning the street and the front of Gus’s house, hoping to avoid an encounter with Solana. I didn’t trust myself to have a civil conversation with her. I started my car and pulled away from the curb in haste, unable to resist the urge to crane my neck for some sign of her. I thought I caught movement at the window, but it was probably a fresh surge of paranoia kicking in.

I reached the office and let myself in. I gathered the mail from Saturday that had been shoved through the slot and now lay in a wide lake on the rug in my reception area. My answering machine was winking merrily. I separated the junk mail and tossed it in the wastebasket while I punched the Play button. The message was from Geneva Burt, in Lowell Effinger’s office. She sounded harried, but her Mondays were probably like that. I dialed the law firm while I was in the process of opening the bills, the phone pressed between my right ear and my shoulder in a hands-free hunched position. When Geneva picked up on her end I identified myself and said, “What’s up?”

“Oh hi, Kinsey. Thanks for returning my call. I’m having a devil of a time connecting with Mr. Downs.”

“He’s supposed to call you. That’s why I gave him your number in the first place. He doesn’t have a phone so he gets his messages through his landlady. It seemed simpler all around to have him make the contact since he’s so difficult to reach.”

“I understand and I passed along your comment about how antsy he is. Mr. Effinger’s anxious to take his deposition so he asked me to go ahead and call and get something on the books. I’ve tried three times this morning and I can’t get anyone to pick up. I hate to do this to you, but he’s leaning on me so I gotta turn around and lean on you.”

“Let me see what I can do. I don’t think he works Mondays so I may be able to catch him at home. You have a date and time set? If so, I’ll make sure he puts it on his calendar.”

“Not yet. We’ll accommodate his schedule once we know what’s good for him.”

“Great. I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve talked to him. If he’s at all resistant, I’ll put him in my car and drive him over there myself.”

“Thanks.”

I got in my car and looped back up Santa Teresa Street and covered the eight blocks, making the two left turns that put me on Dave Levine. The residence hotel came into view, and for once there was a decent parking place out front. I left my car at the curb and took the porch steps two at a time. I pushed open the door and walked down the hall to Mrs. Von’s office in the rear. On the counter there was an old-fashioned punch bell and I gave it a ringy-ding.

A young woman came out of the dining room with a feather duster in one hand. She was in her twenties, her hair skinned back and held in place with blue plastic combs. She wore a T-shirt and jeans, and she had a dust rag caught in a belt loop, like a sous-chef. “May I help you?”

“I’m looking for Mrs. Von.”

“She’s out running errands.”

The phone on the desk behind her began to ring. And ring. And ring. She glanced at it, ignoring the obvious solution, which was to answer it. “Is there something I can help you with?”

The ringing stopped.

“Possibly,” I said. “Do you know if Mr. Downs is in?”

“He’s gone.”

“The man’s always gone. Any idea when he’ll be back?”

“He moved out. I’m supposed to clean the place, but I haven’t gotten to it yet. Mrs. Von’s putting a notice in the paper that the room’s for rent. That’s partly what she’s doing while she’s out.”

“You can’t be serious. I talked to him on Saturday and he never said a word. When did he give notice?”

“He didn’t. He just packed up and left. Whatever you said to him, you must have scared him away,” she said with a laugh.

I stood rooted in place. What in the world would I tell Lowell Effinger? Melvin Downs’s statement was crucial to his case and now the guy had cut and run.

“Can I take a look at his room?”

“Mrs. Von wouldn’t like that.”

“Ten minutes. Please. That’s all I ask. She doesn’t have to know.”

She thought about that and seemed to shrug. “Door’s unlocked so you can walk around if you want. Not that there’s anything to see. I peeked in first thing to see if he’d left a mess behind. It’s clean as a whistle as far as I can tell.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. And I mean that. I’m busy cleaning the kitchen. I don’t know nuthin’ about nuthin’ if she catches you.”

I took the back stairs this time, worried I’d run into the returning Mrs. Von if I used the main staircase. From below I could hear the ringing of the phone start up again. Maybe the cleaning woman was on orders not to answer it. Maybe Cleaning Personnel Union #409 forbade her taking on duties that weren’t specified by contract.

When I got to the third floor, just to be on the safe side, I tapped at Melvin Downs’s door and waited a beat. When no one responded to my knock, I checked the hall in both directions and then opened the door.

I stepped into his room with the same heightened sense of danger I felt every time I found myself someplace I wasn’t supposed to be, which was much of the time these days. I closed my eyes and inhaled. The room smelled of aftershave. I opened them again and did a visual survey. The dimensions were unexpectedly generous, probably sixteen by twenty feet. The closet was large enough to accommodate a wide chest of drawers with two wooden rods for hanging clothes and a shoe rack attached to the back of the door. Above the hanging rods there were empty wood shelves that reached all the way to the ceiling.

The adjacent bathroom was twelve by twelve with an old cast-iron claw-foot tub and a sink with a wide lip, a small glass shelf above. The toilet had a wooden seat and a wall-mounted tank that was operated by a pull-chain. The floors were covered in a parquet pattern of fake-wood linoleum.

In the main room there was a second chest of drawers, a double bed with a white painted iron bedstead, and two mismatched bed tables. The one table lamp was utilitarian—two seventy-five-watt bulbs, a hanging metal chain, and a plain, yellowing shade that looked scorched in places. When I pulled the chain only one bulb came on. The bed had been stripped and the mattress was folded back on itself, revealing the bedsprings. Melvin had made a tidy pile of the linens that would need to be washed: sheets, pillowcases, mattress cover, bedspread, and towels.

Under a bay of windows on the far wall there was a wooden table painted white and two unfinished wooden chairs. I crossed to a length of kitchen counter with a short run of cabinets above. I checked the shelves. A set of dishes, six drinking glasses, two cereal boxes, and an assortment of crackers. Knowing Mrs. Von as I did by then, a hot plate or any other cooking equipment would be strictly forbidden.

I began to search in earnest, though I didn’t see much in the way of hiding places. I pulled each drawer open, looked in and behind, checked the underside, and then closed it and moved on. Nothing in the wastebasket. Nothing under the chest of drawers. I took one of the kitchen chairs and carried it to the closet so I could climb up and get a clear view of the far reaches of the shelves. I pulled the string that controlled the one naked bulb. The light was dull. At first I thought I’d struck out again, but I could see something in one corner against the wall. I stood on my toes, head down, my arm fully extended as I groped blindly across the dusty shelf. My hand closed over the item and I hauled it into view. It was one of those toys with two parallel wooden sticks, which when squeezed makes a small wooden clown do a somersault. I watched the clown do a couple of flips and then climbed down off the chair. I returned the chair to the kitchenette and stuck the toy in my bag before I moved into the bathroom.

The bathroom hadn’t been scrubbed, but neither did it contain anything in the way of information. I did see the cardboard insert from a wine box, folded flat and tucked behind the sink. Melvin Downs had been carrying two wine boxes, one tucked inside the other, when we were introduced. Which meant he was already in the process of packing up his things. Interesting. Something had triggered a hasty departure and I hoped it wasn’t me.

I left the room and closed the door behind me. As I headed toward the stairs, I heard the faint strains of a radio from the room across the hall. I hesitated and then knocked on the door. What did I have to lose?

The man who answered was missing his upper front teeth and had a prickling two-day growth of beard.

“Sorry to bother you, but I’m wondering what happened to Melvin Downs.”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. I didn’t like him and he didn’t like me. Good riddance.”

“Is there anyone else I might talk to?”

“Him and the fellow in 5 watched TV together. Second floor.”

“Is he here?”

He closed the door.

I said, “Thanks.”

I went out to my car and got in, then sat with my hands on the steering wheel while I considered my options. I glanced at my watch. It was close to eleven o’clock. For the moment, there was nothing I could do. I had the Guffeys to contend with, so I turned the key in the ignition and headed for Colgate. If I didn’t get a move on, I’d be late.

24

SOLANA

Sunday morning, Solana stood in the kitchen, breaking up a handful of tablets with a mortar and pestle. The pulverized medication was a new over-the-counter sleep aid she’d purchased the day before. She liked to experiment. The old man was currently sedated and she took the opportunity to place a call to the Other, to whom she hadn’t spoken since before Christmas. Given the press of the holidays and her care of the old man, Solana hadn’t given the Other much thought. She felt safe where she was. She couldn’t see how her past could catch up with her, but it never hurt to keep a finger on the Other’s pulse, as it were.

After the usual banal conversation, the Other said, “I had the oddest thing happen. I was in the neighborhood of Sunrise House and stopped by to see the gang and say hi. There’s a new woman in the administrator’s office and she asked me if I was enjoying my new job. When I said I was in school full-time, she gave me this look. I can’t even tell you how strange it was. I asked what was wrong and she said a private investigator had come in, doing a background check for a private-duty nursing job. I told her she’d made a mistake, that I wasn’t doing private duty.”

Solana closed her eyes, trying to determine what this meant. “She must have made a mistake, thinking you were someone else.”

“That was my reaction, but while I was standing there, she pulled the folder and pointed out the note she’d entered at the time. She even showed me the woman’s business card.”

Solana focused on the information with a curious sense of detachment. “Woman?”

“It wasn’t a name I’d seen before and I can’t remember it now, but I don’t like the idea of someone asking personal questions about me.”

“I have to go. There’s someone at the door. I’ll call you later.”

Solana hung up. She could feel the heat climb her frame like a hot flash. What alarmed Solana was the fact that the young woman from next door was prying into matters that were none of her concern. The revelation was deeply disturbing, but she couldn’t stop and worry about that now. She had other business to take care of. She’d set up an appointment at an art gallery, where she was hoping to off-load the paintings she’d found when she first came to work. She knew nothing about art, but the frames were handsome, and she believed they would bring in a tidy sum. She’d gone through the yellow pages and selected five or six galleries in the fancy-pants part of town. As soon as Tiny helped her load the paintings in the trunk of her car, she’d take off, leaving him to babysit Mr. Vronsky while she was out.

She left the freeway and took the Old Coast Road, which ran through the part of Montebello known as the Lower Village. There was nothing remotely village-like about the area. It was all high-end retail businesses: custom clothing, interior design shops, architects’ offices, real estate offices with color photographs of ten- to fifteen-million-dollar homes in the window. She spotted the gallery in the middle of a line of stores. Parking was at a premium and she circled the block twice before she found a space. She opened the trunk of the convertible and took out two of the six paintings she’d brought. On both, the frames were ornate and she was sure the gold leaf was real.

The gallery itself was plain, long and narrow, no carpet, no furniture except for an expensive antique table with a chair on each side. The lighting was good, calling attention to the thirty or so paintings hung along the walls. Some looked no better than the two she’d carried in.

The woman at the desk looked up with a pleasant smile. “You must be Ms. Tasinato. I’m Carys Mumford. How are you today?”

Solana said, “Fine. I have an appointment with the owner to talk about some paintings I want to sell.”

“I’m the owner. Won’t you have a seat?”

Solana was slightly embarrassed by the error she’d made, but how was she to know someone so young and attractive would own a ritzy place like this? She’d expected a man, someone older and snooty and easy to manipulate. Awkwardly, she set the paintings down, wondering how to proceed.

Ms. Mumford got up and came around the table, saying, “Mind if I have a look?”

“Please.”

She picked up the larger of the two paintings and carried it across the room. She leaned it against the wall, then returned for the second painting, which she placed beside it. Solana watched the woman’s expression change. She couldn’t decipher the woman’s reaction and she felt a moment of uneasiness. The paintings looked okay to her, but maybe the gallery owner thought they were inferior.

“How did you acquire these?”

“They’re not mine. I work for the gentleman who hopes to sell them because he needs the cash. His wife bought them years ago, but after she died, he didn’t have much use for them. They’ve been stored in a spare room, just taking up space.”

Carys Mumford said, “Do you know these two artists?”

“I don’t. I never cared for landscapes myself—mountains and poppies or whatever those orange flowers are. Maybe you’re thinking these aren’t as good as the paintings you have, but the frames are worth a lot,” she said, trying not to sound desperate or apologetic.

Carys Mumford looked at her with surprise. “All you’re selling are the frames? I assumed you were talking about the paintings.”

“I’d be willing to throw those in. Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. This is a John Gamble, one of the plein-air painters from the early part of the century. His work is highly sought after. I haven’t seen a painting of this size in years. The other is by William Wendt, another well-known plein-air painter. If you’re not in any hurry, I have two or three clients I’m certain would be interested. It’s just a matter of reaching them.”

“How long would that take?”

“A week to ten days. These are people who travel most of the year and it’s sometimes a trick catching up with them. At the same time, they trust my judgment. If I say these are authentic, they’ll take my word for it.”

“I’m not sure I should leave them. I’m not authorized to do that,” she said.

“That’s up to you, though an interested buyer would want to see the painting and perhaps take it home for a few days before making a decision.”

Solana could just imagine it. This woman would pass the paintings on to someone else and that’s the last she’d ever see of them. “This Gamble fellow…what would you say that one’s worth?” She could feel her palms dampen. She didn’t like negotiating in a situation like this where she wasn’t on solid ground.

“Well, I sold a similar painting two months ago for a hundred and twenty-five thousand. Another client, a couple, bought a Gamble from me five or six years ago for thirty-five thousand. Now it’s worth a hundred and fifty.”

“A hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Solana said. Surely her ears weren’t deceiving her.

The Mumford woman went on, “If you don’t mind my asking, is there a reason you can’t leave these with me?”

“It’s not me. It’s the gentleman I work for. I might talk him into leaving them for a week, but not longer. I’d need a receipt. I’d need two receipts.”

“I’d be happy to oblige. Of course, I’d need to see the two bills of sale from the original purchase or some proof the gentleman actually owns the paintings. It’s a formality, but in transactions of this magnitude, the provenance is critical.”

Solana shook her head, inventing a back story as quickly as she could. “Not possible. His wife bought them years ago. There was a fire after that and all his financial records were destroyed. Anyway, what difference does it make after all these years? What matters is the current value. This is an authentic Gamble. A big one. You said so yourself.”

“What about an appraisal for insurance purposes? Surely he has a rider on his policy to protect himself in case of loss.”

“That I don’t know about, but I can ask.”

She could see the woman turning the problem over in her mind. This business of provenance was just an excuse to bring the price down. Maybe she thought the painting was stolen, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The woman wanted the paintings. Solana could see it in her face, like someone on a diet looking at a rack of doughnuts through a plate-glass window. Finally, the gallery owner said, “Let me think about it and maybe we can find a way. Give me a number where you can be reached and I’ll get back to you in the morning.”

When Solana left the gallery she had the two receipts in hand. The lesser of the two paintings, the William Wendt, was valued at seventy-five thousand. The other four paintings in the trunk she’d hold on to until she was satisfied she’d been treated well. It was worth waiting a week, if she could have that much cash in hand.

Home again, she found herself brooding on the issue of Kinsey Millhone, who seemed determined to snoop. Solana vividly recalled the first time she’d knocked on Mr. Vronsky’s door. She’d despised the girl on sight, staring at her through the pane as though she were a tarantula in one of the glass cases at the Museum of Natural History. Solana had taken Tiny there often as a child. He was fascinated by the variety of disgusting insects and spiders, hairy things that lurked in corners and under leaves. Some had horns and pincers and hard black carapaces. These loathsome creatures could disguise themselves so cunningly that it was sometimes hard to spot them in the foliage where they hid. Tarantulas were the worst. The display case would appear empty and Solana would wonder if the spider had escaped. She’d lean toward the glass, searching uneasily, and suddenly discover the thing was close enough to touch. This girl was like that.

Solana had opened the door to her, picking up her scent as clearly as an animal’s, something feminine and floral that didn’t suit her at all. She was slim, in her thirties, with a wiry athletic build. That first encounter, she wore a black turtleneck T-shirt, a winter jacket, jeans, and tennis shoes, with a slouchy-looking leather bag slung over one shoulder. Her dark hair was straight and carelessly cut as if she’d done it herself. Since then, she’d presented herself on numerous occasions, always with the same lame compliments and clumsy questions about the old man. Twice Solana had caught sight of her jogging along State Street early in the morning. She gathered the young woman did this weekday mornings before the sun was up. Solana wondered if she went out before dawn to spy on her. She’d seen her peering into the Dumpster when she passed it on the street. What Solana did, what Solana put there, was none of her business.

Solana forced herself to remain calm and polite in dealing with the Millhone woman, though she kept her fixed in an unrelenting stare. The young woman’s brows were lightly feathered, green eyes set in a fringe of dark lashes. The hazel of her eyes was eerie—green with gold flecks and a lighter ring around the iris that made her eyes blaze like a wolf’s. Watching her, Solana felt a sensation wash over her that was nearly sexual. They were kindred spirits, dark to dark. Usually Solana could look straight into other minds, but not this one. While Kinsey’s manner was friendly, her comments hinted at a curiosity Solana didn’t care for. She was someone who took in far more than she let on.

The day she’d offered to go to the market, she’d given herself away. Solana had gone to the kitchen to make up her grocery list. She’d hung a mirror in the kitchen beside the back door and she studied herself now. She was fine. She looked good, exactly as she claimed. Caring, concerned, a woman who had her patient’s best interests at heart. When she returned to the living room, purse under one arm, her wallet in hand, she saw that instead of waiting on the porch as she’d been asked, she’d stepped into the house. The gesture was small, but it smacked of willfulness. This was someone who did what she wanted and not as she was told. Solana could tell she’d had a quick look around. What had she seen that day? Solana had longed to scan the room to see if anything was amiss, but she’d kept her gaze pinned on the young woman’s face. She was dangerous.

Solana didn’t like her persistence, though now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen Kinsey for two or three days. This past Friday she’d gone next door, looking for help getting the old man out of the shower. Mr. Pitts was out and Kinsey had come over instead. Solana hadn’t cared which of them it was. Her purpose was to drop the remark about the old man’s fall. Not because he’d fallen—how could he when she scarcely let him get out of bed—but as a way of accounting for the fresh bruises on his legs. She hadn’t seen Kinsey since and that seemed odd. She and Mr. Pitts were always expressing such concern about the old man so why not now? The two were clearly in cahoots, but what were they up to?

Tiny had told her that Thursday while he was napping, he heard someone moving around in Gus’s house. Solana didn’t see how it could have been Kinsey, because as far as she knew, the woman didn’t have a key. All the same, Solana’d called a locksmith and had the locks changed. She thought back to the Other’s tale about the woman investigator asking questions at the senior facility where the two of them had worked. Clearly she’d been sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.

Solana went back to the old man’s room. He was awake and he’d struggled into a sitting position on the side of his bed. His bare feet dangled and one hand was outstretched, clutching the bed table for support.

She clapped her hands loudly. “Good! You’re up. Would you like some help?” She’d startled him so badly she could almost feel the jolt of fear that had shot up his spine.

“Bathroom.”

“Why don’t you wait here and I’ll bring the bedpan. You’re entirely too wobbly to be prancing around the house.”

She held the bedpan for him, but he couldn’t pass any urine. No big surprise. That was just an excuse for his getting out of bed. She couldn’t imagine what he thought to accomplish. She’d moved his walker to the empty bedroom so in order to get anywhere, he’d have to creep from room to room, holding on to the furniture for support. Even if he reached the back door, or the front door for that matter, he’d have to negotiate the porch steps and then the sidewalk beyond. She thought she might allow him to escape and get as far as the street before she brought him back. Then she could tell the neighbors he’d taken to wandering off. She’d say, Poor old thing. In his flimsy pajamas, he could catch his death of cold. She’d say he’d been hallucinating as well, crazy talk about people being after him.

Mr. Vronsky’s efforts had left him shaking, which she could have warned him about if he’d asked. She helped him into the living room so he could watch his favorite television show. She sat beside him on the sofa and apologized for losing her temper. Even though he’d provoked her, she swore it wouldn’t happen again. She was fond of him, she said. He needed her and she needed him.

“Without me, you’d have to go into a nursing home. How would you like that?”

“I want to stay here.”

“Of course you do and I’ll do everything I can to help you. But no complaints. You must never talk to anyone about me.”

“I won’t.”

“That young woman who comes over. You know who I mean?”

The old man nodded, not meeting her gaze.

“If you complain to her—if you communicate in any way—Tiny will hurt her badly and the fault will be yours. Do you understand?”

“I won’t say anything,” he whispered.

“That’s a good boy,” she said. “Now that you have me, you’ll never be lonely again.”

He seemed grateful and humble in the wake of her kindness. When his show was over, as a reward for his good behavior, she fondled him in a way that would help him relax. Afterward, he was docile and she sensed the bond that was building between them. Their physical relationship was new, but she’d bided her time, easing him into it day by day. He’d been raised a gentleman and he’d never admit what she did to him.

She’d been smart to get rid of the volunteer from Meals on Wheels. She didn’t like leaving the back door unlocked, and she loathed Mrs. Dell, with her fancy salon hairdo and pricey mink coat. She was totally absorbed in her do-gooder image of herself. If Solana was present when she arrived with the meals, she might offer a pleasantry, but there was no conversation between them, and the woman seldom thought to ask about the old man. Solana had put a halt to the service nonetheless. There was always the chance that she might notice something and report it to someone else.

Monday morning, Solana gave the old man a double dose of his “medicine.” He’d sleep for two solid hours, which would give her plenty of time to drive to Colgate and back. She needed to get home to see what Tiny was up to. She couldn’t quite count on him to stay put. She thought she’d bring him back to the house again so she’d have help getting Gus in and out of the shower when he woke. As long as she kept a close eye on the old man, it was probably a smart move to let him have visitors now and again. Before she left, she unplugged the phone in his room and stood by the bed, watching him. As soon as his breathing was deep and regular, she put on her coat and picked up her purse and car keys.

As she was turning the thumb lock, she heard the muffled slam of a car door and she stopped in her tracks. An engine started up. She stepped over to the window and stood to one side with her back to the wall. From that angle, she had a truncated view of the street, but she wouldn’t be visible to anyone outside. When the blue Mustang passed, she saw Kinsey lean forward, craning as though to get one more look at the house. What was so interesting?

For the second time, Solana turned and surveyed the room. Her gaze brushed past the desk and came back. There was something different. She crossed the room and stood there, studying the cubbyholes, trying to figure out what had changed. She pulled out the packet of bankbooks and suffered a painful stab of surprise. Someone had taken off the rubber band and removed the passbook for one of the savings accounts. In addition, the checkbook seemed thinner, and when she opened it she realized the register was gone. Oh dear god. Her gaze returned to the window. Two people had been in the house during the past week—Mr. Pitts and the infuriating Kinsey Millhone. One of them had done this, but how had they managed it and when?

As she unlocked the door to her apartment, she knew the place was empty. The television set was dark. The kitchen counters were littered with the dregs of his meals over the past few days. She moved down the short hall to Tiny’s room and flipped on the overhead light. She was a neat person by nature and she was always appalled by his slovenly ways. She’d badgered him incessantly as a boy, forcing him to tidy his room before she allowed him to do anything else. By the time he reached his teens, he outweighed her by 150 pounds and all the nagging in the world had no effect. He’d sit and look at her with those big cow eyes, but what she said and what she did had no power to move him. She could beat on him all day long, but it only made him laugh. Next to him, she was small and ineffectual. She’d given up her attempts to change or control him. The best she could hope for now was to confine his messes to the home front. Unfortunately, now that she was spending most of her time with the old man, Tiny felt free to live any way he pleased. She checked the bathroom they shared and was annoyed at the sight of his bloody handprints. Sometimes he liked to punch and cut, and he wasn’t always good at cleaning up after himself.

She went into her room and spent a few minutes picking up the panty hose, underwear, and discarded clothing strewn on the floor. Some of the flashier garments she hadn’t had occasion to wear in years. Having tidied up, she gathered the articles she wanted to take with her to the old man’s house. She was beginning to like it there and she was determined to stay. She’d put the machinery in motion, as she had twice before in her search for permanence. She wanted to set down roots. She wanted to feel free, without having to look over her shoulder to see if the law was catching up with her. She was tired of living like a gypsy, always on the move. She had a fleeting fantasy of life without anyone getting in her way. Mr. Vronsky was tiresome, but he had his uses—for now, at any rate. Her current problem was rounding up Tiny, her Tonto, who usually didn’t go far by day. If he disappeared after supper, there was no point in wondering where he’d gone or what he was up to.

She locked the apartment and returned to her car, prepared to circle the neighborhood in search of him. There was a service station with an auto-repair garage where he liked to hang out. Something about the smell of hot metal and grease appealed to him. Also the car wash next door. He liked watching the dirty vehicles go in the one end and come out the other end, clean and dripping with water. He could stand for an hour, looking at the swinging lengths of canvas that swished against the sides and over the tops of the cars. He loved the twisted worms of soap that shot out on the tires and the hot wax spray that made the finish shiny. For a while, she hoped he’d get a job there, wiping the beads of moisture from cars at the end of the run. That was something he could do. Tiny thought about life in concrete terms: what was happening right now, what was set in front of him, what he wanted to eat, what warranted a scolding, what netted him a swat. His view of the world was flat and uncomplicated. He was a man with no curiosity and no personal insight. He had no ambition and no urge to do anything except fritter away his time watching television at home, and then doing whatever he did when he went out. Better not to pursue that issue, she thought.

Solana drove the streets slowly and kept a sharp eye out for the bulk of him. He’d be wearing his denim jacket. He’d have his black watch cap pulled down around his ears. No sign of him at the service station. No sign of him at the car wash. She finally spotted him coming out of the corner minimart. She’d passed the mom-and-pop market before, but he must have been inside, buying cigarettes and candy bars with the money she’d left for him. She slowed to a stop and honked. He lumbered over to the car and got in on the passenger’s side, slamming the door. He was smoking a cigarette and chewing gum. What a bumpkin he was.

“Put that out. You know I don’t allow you to smoke in my car.”

She watched him roll the window down and toss out his lighted cigarette. He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, clearly tickled about something.

Irritated, she went on. “What are you so happy about?”

“Nofing.”

“‘Nofing’s not a word. Say ‘noth-thing.’ What’s in your pocket?”

He shook his head as though he didn’t know what she meant.

“Did you steal something?”

He said no, but his tone was grumpy. He was too simple to lie and she knew by the expression on his face that she’d caught him again. She pulled over to the curb. “Empty your pockets right now.”

He made a show of disobeying, but she smacked him in the head and he complied, taking out two small bags of M&M’s and a packet of beef jerky.

“What’s the matter with you? Last time you did this, I told you never again. Didn’t I say that to you? What’s going to happen if you get caught?”

She rolled the window down and tossed out the treats. He set up a wail, making the mooing sound that so annoyed her. He was the only person she knew who actually said the word wah when he cried. “No more stealing. You hear me? And none of that other stuff. Because you know I can send you back to that ward. Do you remember where you were? Do you remember what they did to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, they can do that again if I say the word.”

She studied him. What was the point in reprimanding the boy? He did what he did in the hours when he was gone. Many days she’d caught sight of his hands, knuckles darkly bruised and swollen like mitts. She shook her head in despair. She knew if she pushed him too far, he’d turn on her as he had in the past.

When she reached the block they lived on she turned down the alleyway, searching for a parking spot. Most of the slots in the carport were empty. The apartment complex behind theirs had a constant turnover of tenants, which meant that parking spaces were available on a shifting basis as renters came and went. She caught sight of a blue Mustang parked in the fire lane at the end of the alley, tucked up along the side of the building.

She couldn’t believe her eyes. No one parked there. A sign had been posted saying it was a fire lane and had to be kept clear. Solana rolled on by, turning to stare at the vehicle. She knew whose it was. She’d seen it less than an hour before. What was Kinsey doing here? She could feel the ripples of panic rising in her chest. She made a small sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

Tiny said, “What’s the matter,” leaving out most of the consonants and flattening the vowels.

She turned from the alleyway onto the street. “We’re not stopping here right now. I’ll take you to the Waffle House and buy you breakfast. You should quit smoking. It’s bad for you.”

25

At 11:10 Monday morning, I climbed the stairs to the second floor of the three-story apartment building where the Guffeys lived. I could hear a steady splatting of water and assumed the gardener or a maintenance man was hosing down the walks. I hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting Grant Guffey, but his wife was hostile and I wasn’t looking forward to another pissing contest. Why had I agreed to do this? During the walk-through, even if I saw great gaping holes in the walls, they’d deny responsibility, swearing up and down that the holes had been there from day one. I didn’t have a copy of the inspection sheet they’d signed when they took the place. I knew Compton was meticulous about this phase of the rental process, which was what allowed him to be so tough on his tenants when they moved out. If there was visible damage and the Guffeys protested, we’d be reduced to a ridiculous “Did too! Did not!” argument.

I’d left my car in the alleyway below, parked close to the building at an angle where it wouldn’t be visible from their back window. Not that they’d know my car, but a touch of caution is never a bad thing. The spot was posted as a fire lane, but I hoped I wouldn’t be there long. If I heard sirens or smelled smoke, I’d run like a little bunny and retrieve my poor vehicle before it was crushed by a fire truck. This was the last time I was doing Compton’s dirty work. It wasn’t like I was doing it for free, but I had other business to take care of. The specter of Melvin Downs flickered across my mind, bringing with it a slow, heavy dread.

When I reached the top of the stairs I could see a widening pool of water pouring from under the door to Apartment 18. The flood was spilling over the edge of the second-floor walkway, hitting the concrete patio below, creating the illusion of rain I’d heard mere moments before. Oh joy. I waded to the front door, creating ripples as I went. The drapes had been pulled across the windows so I couldn’t see in, but when I knocked, the door swung inward on a creaking hinge. In movies, this is the moment when the audience wants to scream a warning: Don’t go in there, you twit! A door swinging open usually signifies a body on the floor, and the fearless detective will be blamed for the shooting after foolishly picking up the weapon to inspect it for gunpowder residue. I was too smart for that.

Gingerly, I peered in. The water was now flirting with the tops of my tennis shoes, thus soaking my socks. The place was not only empty, but thoroughly trashed. Water was gushing out of the bathroom from numerous ruptured plumbing fixtures: sink, shower, shattered toilet, and tub. The wall-to-wall carpet had been shredded with a sharp instrument, and the strands leaned away from the rush of water like long waving grass in a fast-moving stream. The kitchen cabinets had been ripped off the wall and left in a splintered pile in the middle of the floor.

If the place had come furnished, all the furniture had been stolen or sold, because aside from a few coat hangers, there was nothing else to be seen. At the rate the water was flowing, I thought it was a safe bet to anticipate a virtual rain forest in the apartment below. My tennis shoes made a squishing sound as I backed out the door.

A man said, “Hey.”

I looked up. A fellow was bending over the third-floor railing. I shaded my eyes to see him against the glare.

“Got a problem down there?” he asked.

“Can I use your phone? I need to call the police.”

“I figured as much so I called ’em myself. If that’s your car out back, you better move it or you’ll get ticketed.”

“Thanks. Do you have any idea where I can find the water shut-off valve?”

“Clueless.”

After moving my car, I spent the next hour with the county sheriff’s deputy who’d arrived ten minutes after the call went out. While I waited, I’d gone down to Apartment 10 and knocked but couldn’t rouse anyone. The tenants were probably off at work and wouldn’t learn of the watery disaster until five o’clock that day.

The deputy managed to get the water turned off, which brought out a second round of tenants, outraged and distressed by the interruption to their service. One woman emerged, wrapped in a terry-cloth bathrobe, her hair in a helmet of bubbling shampoo.

I borrowed the upstairs neighbor’s phone and called the Hyatt in San Francisco, swearing I’d leave him money for the long-distance charges. Miraculously, Richard Compton was in his hotel room. When I told him what was going on, he said, “Shit!”

He gnawed on the problem for a moment and then said, “Okay. I’ll take care of it. Sorry to put you through this.”

“You want me to call a restoration company about the water damage? They can at least get big fans and dehumidifiers out here. If you don’t get right on it, the floors will warp and you’ll have mold growing in the walls.”

“I’ll get the manager from another building started on that. He can call the company we use. Meantime, I’ll get in touch with my insurance agent and have him send someone out.”

“I guess the Guffeys won’t be getting their deposit back.”

He laughed, but not much.

After we’d hung up, I took a moment to assess the situation.

Between Melvin Downs’s disappearance and the Guffeys’ vandalism, I didn’t see how things could get worse. Which just goes to show how little I know about life.

The rest of Monday was uneventful. Tuesday morning, I took my metaphorical hat in hand and met with Lowell Effinger to deliver the news about Melvin Downs. I’d seen Effinger on two previous occasions and our dealings thereafter had been conducted on the phone. Sitting across the desk from him, I noticed how tired he looked, smoky gray pouches under his eyes. He was a man in his early sixties with a tangle of curly hair that had turned from salt and pepper to white since I’d seen him last. He had a strong chin and jaw, but his face looked as crumpled as a paper bag. I wondered if he had personal problems, but I didn’t know him well enough to ask. He spoke in a deep voice that rumbled up from his chest. “You know where he worked?”

“Not specifically. Probably near City College because that’s where he caught the bus. When the driver told me where he lived, I was so busy trying to connect with him there, I didn’t worry about where he worked.”

“If he moved out of his room, he probably quit his job, don’t you think?”

“Well, it’s worth pursuing in any event. I’ll go back over to the hotel and talk to Mrs. Von. I’ve seen her so often she might as well adopt me by now. She claims a policy of minding her own business, but I’ll bet she knows more than she’s told me so far. I can also talk to some of the other residents while I’m there.”

“Do what you can. If nothing turns up in the next few days, we’ll revisit the issue.”

“I wish I’d been quicker. When I talked to him Saturday, he gave no indication he was planning to leave. Of course, he’d just gone out and scored a couple of cardboard boxes, but it didn’t occur to me he’d be using them to pack.”

Thirty minutes later I found myself at the residence hotel for the umpty-ninth time. This round, I caught Mrs. Von coming out of the kitchen with a cup of tea in hand. She wore a sweater over her housedress, and I could see a peek of the tissue she’d tucked up her sleeve. “You again,” she said, but with no particular animosity.

“I’m afraid so. Do you have a minute?”

“If it’s in reference to Mr. Downs, I have all the time you want. He left without giving notice so that does it for me. This is my afternoon off so if you’d care to come into my apartment, we can talk.”

“Happy to,” I said.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, thanks.”

She opened a door at the rear of the office. “This was originally the servants’ quarters,” she remarked as she went in.

I trailed behind her, taking in the rooms at a glance.

“In my grandparents’ day, servants were expected to be invisible unless they were hard at work. This was their parlor and the anteroom where they took all their meals. The cook prepared food for them, but nothing like the meals that were served in the formal dining room. The servants’ bedrooms were in the attic, above the third floor.”

She was using the two rooms as a bedroom and sitting room, both done in pinks and mauves, with a surfeit of family photographs in silver-plated frames. Four Siamese cats lounged on the furniture, barely stirring from their morning naps. Two regarded me with interest, and one eventually got up, stretched, and crossed the room to take a little sniff of my hand.

“Don’t mind them. They’re my girls,” she said. “Jo, Meg, Beth, and Amy. I’m Marmee,” she said. She took a seat on the sofa, setting her teacup to one side. “I assume your interest in Mr. Downs has to do with the lawsuit.”

“Exactly. You have any guesses about where he went? He must have family somewhere.”

“He has a daughter in town. I don’t know her married name, but I’m not sure it matters. The two are estranged and they have been for years. I don’t know the details, except that she refuses to let him see his grandsons.”

“Sounds meanspirited,” I said.

“I wouldn’t know. He only mentioned her the once. Naturally my ears pricked up.”

“Did you ever notice the tattoo on his right hand?”

“I did, though he seemed so self-conscious about it I tried not to look. What did you make of it?”

“I suspect he’d been in prison.”

“I wondered about that myself. I will say in the time he lived here, his behavior was exemplary. As far as I was concerned, as long as he kept his room neat and paid his rent on time, I saw no reason to pry. Most people have secrets.”

“So if you knew he’d been convicted of a crime, it wouldn’t have precluded your taking him as a tenant.”

“That’s what I said.”

“You know what kind of work he did?”

She thought about that briefly and then shook her head. “Nothing that required a degree. He said more than once how much he regretted not finishing high school. Wednesday nights, when he came in late, I thought he was attending night school. ‘Adult education,’ I believe they call it these days.”

“When he first showed up looking for a room, did he fill out an application?”

“He did, but after three years, I destroy them. I have enough paper cluttering my life. Truth is, I’m mighty careful about my tenants. If I’d thought he was a man of low character, I’d have turned him down, whether he’d been in prison or no. As I recall, he listed no personal references, which struck me as odd. On the other hand, he was clean and well spoken, clearly intelligent. He was also gentle by nature, and I never heard him swear.”

“I guess if he had something to hide, he’d be too smart to put it on an application.”

“That’d be my guess as well.”

“I understand he was chummy with a guy on the second floor. You mind if I talk to him?”

“Talk to anyone you like. If Mr. Downs had been honorable about giving notice, I’d have kept my observations to myself.” She paused to look at her watch. “Now unless you need something more, I’d best get on with my day.”

“What’s the name of the gentleman in room number five?”

“Mr. Waibel. Vernon.”

“Is he in?”

“Oh, yes. He lives on his disability checks and seldom goes out.”

26

Vernon Waibel was a bit more friendly than Melvin’s third-floor neighbor, who’d shut the door in my face. Like Downs, Waibel was in his fifties. He had dark brows and dark eyes. His gray hair was thinning and shaved close, as though to anticipate the baldness to come. Like someone facing chemotherapy, he preferred taking charge of the hair loss himself. His skin was tawny, his neck creased from exposure to the sun. He wore a multicolored cotton sweater in earth tones, chinos, and moccasins without socks. Even the tops of his feet were brown. I wondered how he managed to tan if he seldom went out. I saw no evidence of disability, but that wasn’t my concern.

I went through the usual, hi-how-are-you stuff. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Depends on what you want.”

“I understand Mr. Downs moved out. You have any idea where he went?”

“You a cop?”

“Private detective. He was supposed to be deposed as a witness to an automobile accident and I need to track him down. He’s not guilty of wrongdoing. We just need his help.”

“I got a little time to talk if you want to come in.”

I thought about Juanita Von’s rule about no women visitors in a tenant’s room with the door shut. She and I were such good friends by now I thought I’d risk her disapproval. “Sure.”

He stepped back and I passed in front of him. His room was not as large as Downs’s, but it was cleaner and it had a lived-in feel to it. The furnishings had been augmented with personal items: two plants, a sofa with throw pillows, and a quilt folded over the iron bedstead. He gestured toward the only upholstered chair in the room. “Take a seat.”

I sat down and he settled on a plain wooden chair nearby. “You the one put that flyer out about him?”

“You saw that?”

“Yes, ma’am. I did and so did he. Made him nervous, I’ll tell you that.”

“Is that why he left?”

“He was here and now he’s not. Draw your own conclusions.”

“I’d hate to think I was the one who scared him away.”

“I can’t speak to that, but if you’re here to ask questions, you might as well get to ’em.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Not well. We watched television together, but he never said much. Nothing personal, at any rate. We’re both fans of that channel that runs the old movie classics. Lassie, Old Yeller, The Yearling—things like that. Stories that broke your heart. That’s about all we had in common, but it was enough.”

“Did you know he was leaving?”

“He didn’t consult me, if that’s what you mean. Neither one of us was looking for a friend, just someone who wouldn’t hog the TV when we were hell-bent on hogging it ourselves. Shane was another movie he liked. Times we’d be sitting there bawling like babies. Pitiful, but there you have it. Feels good to have a reason to let it all hang out.”

“How long have you known him?”

“The five years since he moved in.”

“You must have learned something about the man.”

“Surface stuff. He was good with his hands. TV went on the blink, he’d tinker until he got it up and running again. He had a knack for anything mechanical.”

“For instance?”

He thought briefly. “The grandfather clock in the parlor quit running and Mrs. Von couldn’t find anyone to come take a look. She had a couple of numbers for clock-repair guys, but one was dead and the other had retired. Melvin said he wouldn’t mind having a go at it. Next thing you know he had it working again. I’m not sure he did us any favors. Middle of the night, I can hear it all the way up here. Times I can’t sleep, I count every chime. Four times an hour—it’s enough to drive me insane.”

“What’d he do for a living?”

“Beats me. He didn’t volunteer information of that type. I live on disability so maybe he thought I’d feel bad, him working and me not. He was paid in cash, I know that much, so it might have been something under the table.”

“Someone suggested yard work or maybe household repairs.”

“I’d say more skilled, though I couldn’t tell you what. Small appliances, electronics, something like that.”

“What about family?”

“He’d been married once upon a time because he mentioned his wife.”

“You know where he was from?”

“Nope. He did say he had some money saved and he had his eye on a truck.”

“I didn’t think he drove. Why else would he take the bus back and forth across town?”

“He had a license, but no vehicle. That’s why he was in the market for one.”

“Sounds like he meant to hit the road.”

“Might have.”

“What about the tattoo on his hand? What was that about?”

“He was an amateur ventriloquist.”

“I don’t get the connection.”

“He could throw his voice, like that Señor Wences guy on the old Ed Sullivan Show. He’d flatten his thumb along his index finger and make it move like a mouth. The red in the web between his index finger and his thumb were the lips and the two dots on the knuckle were the eyes. He made like she was a little pal of his named Tía—“Auntie” in Spanish—the two of them talking back and forth. I only saw him do it once, but it was funny. I found myself talking to her like she was real. I guess everybody’s got a talent of some kind, even if it’s an act you lifted from someone else.”

“Had he been in prison?”

“I asked him about that once. He admitted he served time, but he wouldn’t say what for.” He hesitated, easing a sly peek at his watch. “I don’t mean to cut you short, miss, but I got a program about to come on and if I don’t get down there, the other fellows on the floor will be all over the set.”

“I think that about covers it. If you think of anything else, could you give me a call?” I found a business card in my bag and gave it to him.

“Sure thing.”

We shook hands. I slung my bag across one shoulder and moved to the door. He stepped ahead of me and opened it like a gent.

He said, “I’ll just follow you down the hall since I’m headed that way.”

We’d nearly reached the landing when he said, “If you want my opinion?”

I turned and looked at him.

“I’d bet you dollars to doughnuts, he didn’t leave town.”

“Why?”

“He had grandsons.”

“I heard he wasn’t allowed to see them.”

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t find a way.”

As it turned out, the investigator for the Tri-Counties Agency for the Prevention of Elder Abuse was the very same Nancy Sullivan I’d spoken to on the phone, which I learned when she appeared in my office on Friday afternoon. She must have been in her twenties, but she looked a scant fifteen. Her hair was shoulder-length and straight. She had a plain, earnest air about her, leaning forward slightly in her chair, feet together, while she explained what she’d learned in the course of her investigation. The jacket and midcalf skirt she wore looked like they’d been ordered from a travel clothing catalog, a wrinkle-free fabric you could wear for hours on a plane and later wash in a hotel sink. She wore sensible low-heeled shoes and opaque stockings through which I could see evidence of spider veins. At her age? That was troubling. I tried to picture her in a conversation with Solana Rojas, who was so much older, smarter, and wiser in the ways of the world. Solana was cunning. Nancy Sullivan seemed sincere, which is to say clueless. No contest.

After an exchange of pleasantries, she told me she was filling in for one of the investigators usually assigned to evaluate cases of suspected abuse. As she spoke, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and cleared her throat. She went on to say she’d talked to her supervisor who’d asked her to do the preliminary interviews. Any follow-up queries deemed necessary would be referred back to one of the regular investigators.

So far it sounded reasonable, and I was politely nodding away like a bobble-head doggie on an auto dashboard. Then, as though by extrasensory perception, I started hearing sentences she hadn’t actually said. I felt a small thrill of fear. I knew for a pluperfect fact she was going to drop a bomb.

She took a manila folder from her briefcase and opened it on her lap, sorting through her papers. “Now my findings,” she said. “First of all, I want to tell you how much we value the call you made…”

I found myself squinting. “This is bad news, isn’t it?”

Startled, she laughed. “Oh, no. Far from it. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I talked to Mr. Vronsky at length. Our procedure is to make an unannounced visit so the caretaker won’t have an opportunity to set the scene, so to speak. Mr. Vronsky wasn’t ambulatory, but he was alert and forthcoming. He did seem emotionally fragile and in moments, he was disoriented, none of which was surprising in a man of his age. I asked him a number of questions about his relationship with Mrs. Rojas, and he had no complaints. In fact, quite the contrary. I asked him about his bruises…”

“Solana was present through all of this?”

“Oh, no. I asked her to give us time alone. She had work to do so she went about her business while we chatted. Later I talked to her separately as well.”

“But she was in the house?”

“Yes, but not in the same room.”

“That’s happy news. I trust you kept my name out of it.”

“That wasn’t necessary. She said you told her you were the one who called.”

I stared at her. “You’re kidding me, right?”

She hesitated. “You didn’t tell her it was you?”

“No, dear, I didn’t. I’d have to be out of my mind to do such a thing. First words out of her mouth and she’s bullshitting you. That was a fishing expedition. She made an educated guess and looked to you for confirmation. Bingo.”

“I didn’t confirm anything and I certainly didn’t tell her who called. She mentioned your name in the context of the dispute because she wanted to set the record straight.”

“I’m not following.”

“She said the two of you had an argument. She says you distrusted her from the moment she was hired so you were constantly on her case, coming over uninvited to check up on her.”

“That’s crap for starters. I’m the one who did the background investigation that cleared her for the job. What else did she tell you? I’d be fascinated to hear.”

“I probably shouldn’t be repeating this, but she mentioned that the day you saw Mr. Vronsky’s bruises, you accused her of hurting him and threatened to call the authorities to file a complaint.”

“She invented that story to discredit me.”

“Perhaps there was a misunderstanding between the two of you. I’m not here to judge. It’s not our job to mediate in situations like this.”

“Situations such as what?”

“People sometimes call when a question comes up about patient care. Usually it’s a disagreement between family members. In an effort to prevail…”

“Look, there was no disagreement. We never had a conversation on the subject at all.”

“You didn’t go to Mr. Vronsky’s house a week ago to help her get him out of the shower?”

“Yes, but I didn’t accuse her of anything.”

“But wasn’t it after that incident you called the agency?”

“You know when it was. You’re the person I spoke to. You said the call was confidential and then you gave her my name.”

“No, I didn’t. Mrs. Rojas brought it up. She said you told her you were the one who turned her in. I never responded one way or the other. I would never breach confidentiality.”

I slouched down on my spine, my swivel chair squeaking in response. I’d been screwed and I knew it, but I couldn’t keep pounding on the same point. “Skip it. This is dumb. Just get on with it,” I said. “You spoke to Gus and then what?”

“After I spoke with Mr. Vronsky, I had a conversation with Mrs. Rojas and she gave me some of the specifics of his medical status. She talked about his bruises in particular. His anemia was diagnosed when he was in the hospital, and while his blood count’s improved, he’s still prone to bruising. She showed me the lab reports, which were consistent with her claim.”

“So you don’t believe he’s being physically abused.”

“If you’ll bear with me, I’m getting to that. I also talked to Mr. Vronsky’s primary-care physician and the orthopedist who treated him for his shoulder injury. They say his physical condition’s stable, but he’s frail and unable to manage on his own. Mrs. Rojas said when she was hired, he was living in such filth she had to get a Dumpster…”

“What’s that have to do with it?”

“There are also questions about his mental competence. He hasn’t paid his bills in months and his doctors both feel he lacks the capacity to give informed consent for his medical treatment. He’s also unable to see to his daily needs.”

“Which is why she’s able to take advantage of him. Don’t you get that?”

Her expression became prim, nearly stern. “Please let me finish.” She shifted some papers uneasily. Her earnestness returned as though she were moving on to a far brighter note. “What I hadn’t realized, and you may not have been aware of this yourself, is that Mr. Vronsky’s situation has already come to the attention of the court.”

“The court? I don’t understand.”

“A petition for appointment of a temporary conservator was filed a week ago, and after an emergency hearing a private professional conservator was assigned to manage his affairs.”

“A ‘conservator’?” I felt like a half-witted parrot, repeating her words, but I was too astonished to do much else. I sat upright and leaned toward her, gripping the edge of the desk. “A conservator? Are you nuts?”

I could tell she was flustered because half of the papers slid from her manila folder and spilled out across the floor. In haste, she bent down and swept them into a pile, trying to talk while she gathered everything together. “It’s like a legal guardian, someone to oversee his health care and his finances…”

“I know what the word means. I’m asking you who? And if you tell me it’s Solana Rojas, I’ll blow my brains out.”

“No, no. Not at all. I have the woman’s name right here.” She looked down at her notes, her hands shaking as she turned pages right side up and arranged them in rough order. She licked an index finger and sorted through the file until she found what she was looking for. She picked up the paper and turned it toward me as she read the name. “Cristina Tasinato.”

“Who?”

“Cristina Tasinato? She’s a private professional…”

“You said that! When did this happen?”

“Late last week. I’ve seen the paperwork myself and it was properly executed. Ms. Tasinato worked through an attorney and she put up a bond, which she’s required to do by law.”

“Gus doesn’t need some stranger stepping in to take charge of his life. He has a niece in New York. Didn’t anyone talk to her? She must have some rights in this.”

“Of course. Under probate law, a relative has priority when it comes to an appointment as conservator. Mrs. Rojas mentioned the niece. Evidently, she spoke to her on three separate occasions, describing his condition and begging her to help. Ms. Oberlin couldn’t spare the time. Mrs. Rojas felt a conservator was imperative to Mr. Vronsky’s well-being…”

“That’s a complete crock of shit. I talked to Melanie myself and it wasn’t like that at all. Sure, Solana called her, but she gave no indication he was in trouble. If she’d known, Melanie would have flown out in a heartbeat.”

The prim mouth again. “Mrs. Rojas says otherwise.”

“Isn’t there supposed to be a hearing?”

“Ordinarily, yes, but in an emergency, the judge can go ahead and grant the request, pending investigation by the court.”

“Oh, right. And suppose the court does the same nifty job you did? Where does that leave Gus?”

“There’s no need to get personal. All of us have his best interests at heart.”

“The man can speak for himself. Why was this done without his knowledge or consent?”

“According to the petition, he has a hearing deficit in addition to periods of confusion. So even if there had been a regular court hearing, he wouldn’t have been competent to attend. Mrs. Rojas said you and his other neighbors don’t fully comprehend the kind of trouble he’s in.”

“Well, we sure as fuck know now. How’d this Tasinato woman get wind of it?”

“She might have been contacted by the convalescent facility or one of his physicians.”

“So however this went down, she now has total control over him? Finances, real property, medical treatment? All of it?”

Ms. Sullivan declined to respond, which I found infuriating.

“What kind of idiot are you! Solana Rojas played you for a fool. She played us all for fools. And look at the result. You’ve handed him over to a pack of wolves.”

The color was rising in Nancy Sullivan’s face and she looked down at her lap. “I don’t think we should continue the conversation. You might prefer to talk to my supervisor. I discussed this with her this morning. We thought you’d be relieved…”

“Relieved?”

“I’m sorry if I upset you. I may have presented it wrong. If so, I apologize. You called, we’ve looked into it, and we’re convinced he’s in capable hands.”

“I beg to differ with you.”

“I’m not surprised. You’ve been antagonistic since I sat down.”

“Stop. Just stop. This is pissing me off. If you don’t get the hell out, I’ll start screaming at you.”

“You’ve already screamed,” she said tightly. “And believe me, this will go in my report.” While she shoved papers in her briefcase and gathered her belongings, I could see the tears splashing down her cheeks.

I put my head in my hands. “Shit. Now I’m the villain of the piece.”

27

The minute she was out the door, I grabbed my jacket and shoulder bag and trotted over to the courthouse, where I entered a side door and climbed the wide red-tile steps to the corridor above. Arches in the stairwell were open to the chill winter air and my footsteps echoed against the mosaic tile walls. I went into the county clerk’s office and filled out a form, requesting the file on Augustus Vronsky. I’d been in the same place seven weeks previously, doing the background check on Solana Rojas. Clearly, I’d screwed that up, but I wasn’t sure how. I sat in one of the two wooden chairs while I waited, and six minutes later I had the record in hand.

I moved to the far side of the room and sat down at a table, occupied largely by a computer. I opened the file and leafed through, though there wasn’t much to see. I was looking at a standard four-page form. A pale X had been typed into various boxes running down the page. I flipped to the end of the document, where I noted the name of the attorney representing Cristina Tasinato, a man named Dennis Altinova, with an address on Floresta. His phone and fax numbers were listed, as was an address for Cristina Tasinato. Flipping back to the first page, I started again, scanning the headings and subheadings, seeing what I already knew. Augustus Vronsky, designated the conservatee, was a resident of Santa Teresa County. Petitioner was not a creditor or debtor or agent of either. Petitioner was Solana Rojas, asking the court to appoint Cristina Tasinato as conservator for the person and estate of the conservatee. I suspected Solana was at the heart of the matter, but it was still a jolt to see her name neatly typed in the box.

Under “Character and estimated value of the property of the estate,” all the particulars were declared “Unknown,” including real property, personal property, and pensions. A box was also ticked stating that the conservatee was unable to provide for his or her personal needs for physical health, food, clothing, or shelter. Supporting facts were apparently spelled out in an attachment that was part of the Confidential Supplemental Information and Petition “on file herein.” There was no sign of the document, but that’s what the term “confidential” implies. In the paragraph below that, a box was ticked indicating that Gus Vronsky, proposed conservatee, was “substantially unable to manage his or her financial resources or resist fraud or undue influence.” Again, supporting facts were specified in the Confidential Supplemental Information, which had been filed with the petition but was unavailable as part of the public record. The signatures of the attorney, Dennis Altinova, and the conservator, Cristina Tasinato, were penned at the end. The document had been filed with the Santa Teresa Superior Court on January 19, 1988.

Also part of the file was an invoice for “Caregiver management” costs, broken down according to fees, month, and running total. For the latter half of December 1987 and the first two weeks in January 1988, the amount requested was $8,726.73. That sum was substantiated by an invoice from Senior Health Care Management, Inc. There was also an invoice submitted by the attorney for professional services as of January 15, 1988, listing dates, hourly rates, and the amount charged off to the conservatorship. The balance due him was $6,227.47. These expenses had been submitted for court approval, and just in case the routing of funds wasn’t clear, the note at the end read, “Please make checks payable to Dennis Altinova: senior attorney time, $200.00/hour; associate attorney time, $150.00/hour; paralegal time, $50.00/hour.” Between them, the newly appointed conservator and her attorney had racked up charges totaling $14,954.20. I was surprised the attorney hadn’t attached a stamped, self-addressed envelope to speed the payment along.

I marked the pages I wanted reproduced—which is to say, all of them—and returned the file to the clerk. While I waited for copies, I borrowed a phone book and looked up Dennis Altinova in the white pages. Under his office address and phone number, his home address and home phone were listed, which surprised me. I don’t expect doctors and lawyers to make personal information available to anybody smart enough to check. Apparently, Altinova wasn’t that worried about being stalked and killed by a disgruntled client. The neighborhood he lived in was pricey, but in Santa Teresa even houses in the shabby parts of town cost staggering amounts. There were no other Altinovas in evidence. I checked the listings for Rojas: many, but no Solana. I looked for the name Tasinato: none.

When the clerk called my name, I paid for the copies and tucked them in my bag.

Dennis Altinova’s office on Floresta was half a block from the courthouse. The police station was on the same street, which came to a dead end at the point where the Santa Teresa High School property picked up. In the other direction, Floresta crossed State Street, ran past the downtown, and eventually butted up against the freeway. Lawyers had staked out the area, settling in to cottages and assorted small buildings whose original tenants had moved on. Altinova was renting a small suite of offices on the top floor of a three-story building with an off-brand savings and loan at street level. If I remembered correctly, the space had once been devoted to an upholsterer’s shop.

I studied the directory in the lobby, which really amounted to little more than a walk-in pantry where you could wait for an elevator that moved with all the speed and grace of a dumbwaiter. The rents here weren’t cheap. The location was prime, though the building itself was woefully out of date. The owner probably couldn’t bear to sacrifice the time, energy, and money required to move tenants out and do a proper remodeling job.

The elevator arrived, a four-by-four cubicle that jerked and shuddered throughout my creeping ascent. This gave me time to examine safety inspection dates and speculate about how many people it would take to exceed the weight limit, which was 2,500 pounds. I figured ten guys at 250 pounds apiece, assuming you could squeeze ten guys into a contraption that size. Twenty women at 125 pounds each was out of the question.

I exited on three. The floor in the corridor was a speckled black-and-white terrazzo marble, rubble in other words, bound with white cement, white sand, and pigment, and reformed as tile. The walls were paneled in oak that was darkened by time. Oversized windows at either end of the hall let in daylight that was augmented by rafts of fluorescent tubing. The entrance doors to the offices were pebbled glass with the names of the occupants stenciled in black. I thought the effect was charming, suggestive as it was of lawyers’ and detectives’ offices in old black-and-white movies.

Altinova’s office was midway down the hall. The door opened into a modest reception area that had been modernized by the addition of a desk made of stainless steel and poured glass. The desktop was bare except for a four-line telephone console. The lighting in the room was indirect. The chairs—four of them—looked as though they’d make your butt go numb minutes after you sat down. There were no side tables, no magazines, no art, and no plants. Certain “interior designers” do shit like this and call it minimalism. What a joke. The place looked like the tenant had yet to move in.

A receptionist came through a door in the back wall marked “private.” She was a tall, cool blonde, too pretty to imagine she wasn’t banging the boss.

“May I help you?”

“I wonder if I might have a quick word with Mr. Altinova.” I thought the word “quick” struck a nice note.

“You have an appointment?”

“Actually, I don’t. I was over at the courthouse and decided I’d chance it. Is he in?”

“Can you tell me what this is regarding?”

“I’d prefer to discuss it with him.”

“Were you referred?”

“No.”

She didn’t like my responses so she punished me by breaking off eye contact. Her face was a perfect oval, as smooth, pale, and unblemished as an egg. “And your name is?”

“Millhone.”

“Pardon?”

“Millhone. M-I-L-L/H-O-N-E. Accent on the first syllable. Some people pronounce it ‘Malone,’ but I don’t.”

“I’ll see if he’s free.”

I was reasonably certain he didn’t know who I was, and if he did know, I was hoping he’d be curious what I was up to. I was curious myself. I knew he wouldn’t give me a snippet of information. Primarily, I wanted to lay eyes on the man who’d drafted the legal papers that eradicated Gus Vronsky’s autonomy. Also, I thought it might be interesting to shake the tree to see if anything ripe or rank hit the ground.

Two minutes later the man himself appeared, holding on to the frame while he stuck his head around the door. Good move on his part. If he’d invited me into his office, he might have given the impression he was interested in what I had to say. His coming out to the reception desk implied that:

(a) he could disappear at will,

(b) that my business wasn’t worth sitting down for, and

(c) therefore I’d better get to the point.

I said, “Mr. Altinova?”

“What can I do for you?” His tone was as flat and hard as the look in his eyes. He was tall and dark-haired with sturdy black-framed glasses resting on a sturdy outcrop of nose. Good teeth, fleshy mouth, and a cleft chin so pronounced it looked as if someone had taken a hatchet to his face. I placed him in his late sixties, but he looked fit and he carried himself with the vigor (or perhaps testiness) of someone younger. The receptionist peered over his shoulder from the hallway, watching our interchange like a kid hoping to see a sibling get bawled out and sent to her room.

“I’m looking for a woman named Cristina Tasinato.”

His expression showed nothing, but he did peer around the door with mock curiosity, scanning the reception area as though Ms. Tasinato might be playing hide-and-seek in the nearly empty room. “Can’t help.”

“Name doesn’t ring a bell?”

“What sort of work do you do, Ms. Millhone?”

“I’m a private investigator. I have some questions for Ms. Tasinato. I was hoping you could put me in touch.”

“You know better than that.”

“But she’s a client of yours, yes?”

“Ask someone else. We have nothing to discuss.”

“Her name appears with yours on a document I saw at the courthouse just now. She was appointed conservator for a man named Gus Vronsky. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

“Nice meeting you, Ms. Millhone. You can let yourself out.”

Witty rejoinders in short supply, I said, “I appreciate your time.”

He closed the door abruptly, leaving me on my own. I waited a beat, but his lovely receptionist didn’t reappear. I couldn’t believe she was passing up the opportunity to lord it over me. On the pristine glass desktop, line one on the telephone console lit up—Altinova, no doubt, putting a call in to Cristina Tasinato. The desktop was otherwise bare so I couldn’t even see a way to snoop. I let myself out as instructed and took the stairs down, not willing to risk the elevator, which was little more than a rickety box hanging by a string.

I retrieved my car from the public parking garage, circled the block, and headed up Capillo Hill, in my eternal search for Melvin Downs. Having suffered the indignity of Altinova’s rebuff, I needed the soothing effects of routine work. Where Capillo crossed Palisade, I took a left and continued on Palisade until I saw the campus of Santa Teresa City College coming up on my right. The bench at the bus stop was empty. I cruised down the long hill that curved away from the campus. At the bottom there was a small nest of businesses: minimart, liquor depot, and a cluster of motels. If Melvin Downs did maintenance or custodial work, it was hard to believe he was employed only two days a week. Those were full-time jobs, 7:00 A.M. to 3:00 P.M., or hours along those lines. Besides which, the hill itself was long and steep, which meant he’d have had to trudge up that half mile at the end of his workday. Why do that when there was a bus stop half a block in the other direction, closer to the beach?

Back up the hill I went. This time I drove past the college and down as far as the two strip malls at the intersection of Capillo and Palisade. Here my choices were many and varied. On my left there was a large drugstore and, behind it, an independent market that handled local organic produce and other natural foodstuffs. Perhaps Melvin unloaded crates or bagged groceries, or maybe he’d been hired to keep the aisles swept and mopped. I parked in the drugstore lot and went in. I did a walk-through, scanning each aisle as I passed. There was no sign of him. This was Tuesday and if he still worked in the neighborhood, he’d be finishing up in an hour or two. I went out the front exit.

Still on foot, I crossed the street. Walking the length of the mall to my right, I passed two mom-and-pop restaurants, one serving Mexican fare and one leaning more toward the breakfast and lunch trade. I glanced through the window at a shoe repair shop, cased the laundromat, a jewelry store, and the pet-grooming establishment next door. The last small business was a discount shoe store, trumpeting a GOING-OUT-OF-BUSINESS SALE! EVERYTHING REDUCED 30 TO 40 PERCENT. The store was bereft of customers so even the liquidation sale was a dud. I retraced my steps.

At the corner, I waited for the light to change and crossed Capillo to the shops and specialty businesses lined up in a row on the far side of the intersection. I wandered through a craft mart, a drugstore, and a gift-and-card shop, all without success. I returned to my car and sat there wondering if I was completely off base. I’d been encouraged by Vernon Waibel’s assertion that Melvin was still in town, but I had no real reason to believe it. It made me happy thinking I could run him to ground through sheer tenacity, a trait I’ve been blessed with since birth. More to the point, if he’d fled into the world at large, I had no idea how to find him. Better to believe he was still in range.

I started my car and backed out of the slot. I took a right turn onto Capillo and then a left at the light. This put me back on Palisade, moving past a residential neighborhood of small wood-and-stucco homes built in the 1940s. On my right, a road snaked up the hill to houses of a loftier nature with spectacular ocean views. I slowed at a set of crosswalks. A crossing guard watched with care as a string of children made their way from the near corner to the one on the other side. They walked in twos, holding hands, while a teacher and a teacher’s assistant hurried them along.

When the guard nodded that traffic could proceed, I followed the slope of the hill down to the beachside park below. I did a slow circle of the parking lot, taking in the smattering of people I could see. I came out of the lot and turned right again, climbing the hill to the more populated section of Palisade I’d cruised before. How much gas was I willing to burn in the hope he was here?

I drove back to City College and parked in range of the bus stop on the same side of the street. For a while I sat, directing my attention to the campus across the way, the child care center on the near corner, and the block of apartments built into the side of the hill. After thirty unproductive minutes, I started the car again and took a left on Palisade. I’d make one last pass before I gave it up for the day. I reached the end of the imaginary territory I’d assigned to my quarry. At the beach park, I made the turn-around and drove back up the hill to the main intersection. I was stopped for a red light when I spotted him a hundred yards away.

Recognition is a complex phenomenon, a nearly instantaneous correlation of memory and perception, where the variables are almost impossible to replicate. What do we note in one another on sight? Age, race, gender, emotion, mood, the angle and rotation of the head; size, body type, posture. Later, it’s difficult to pinpoint the visual data that triggers the “click.” I was once at a departure gate in Chicago’s O’Hare Airport when I caught sight of a man in profile striding through the terminal in a jostling crowd of pedestrians. It was a split-second image, like a stop-action photograph, before the passengers shifted, blocking him from view. The man I’d seen was an officer I’d trained with as a rookie on the force. I barked out his name and he whipped around, as amazed as I was to spot a known face in unfamiliar surroundings.

I’d talked to Melvin once, but seeing his walk and the set of his shoulders created a response. I yelped in surprise, my gaze flicking to the stoplight. Still red. When I looked back, he was gone. I blinked, my gaze moving rapidly from one side of the street to the other. He couldn’t have gotten far. The second the light changed and I saw a break in the oncoming traffic, I made a left-hand turn and slid into the alleyway that ran behind the stores. No sign of him. I knew I was right. I’d seen the white hair and the cracked brown bomber jacket in my peripheral vision.

I circled back to the main intersection and began a grid search, mentally dividing the block into smaller sections that I could survey in slow motion. Back and forth I went. I didn’t think he’d seen me because he’d been facing the opposite direction, a man on a mission, shutting out all else. At least I’d narrowed the hunt. I continued at a crawl, the drivers behind me merrily beeping their horns in encouragement. I was talking to myself by then, saying, Shit, shit, shit. Come on, Downs, show your face again just once.

After twenty minutes I gave up. I couldn’t believe he’d vanished. I could have parked my car and done another foot search, but the idea didn’t seem productive. I’d return on Thursday and do a proper door-to-door canvass of the area. In the meantime, I figured I might as well go home.

Once in my neighborhood, I parked half a block down, locked my car, and headed for Henry’s back door. I could see him through the glass, settling in his rocker with his Black Jack over ice on the table next to him. I knocked. He got up and opened the door with a smile. “Kinsey. Come on in, sweetie. How are you?”

I said, “Fine,” and then burst into tears. He shouldn’t have called me “sweetie” because that’s all it took.

I’ll skip over the blubbering I did and the halting hiccuping account of the day’s disasters, starting with Melvin Downs, the blunders Nancy Sullivan had made, what I’d learned at the courthouse about the money charged against Gus’s bank accounts, and my visit to the lawyer’s office, with the whole sorry mess coming back to Melvin at the end. I didn’t claim it was the worst day of my adult life. I’ve been divorced twice and some of that drama was in a league of its own.

But on a professional level, this was low.

I unburdened myself, telling him what I said, what he said, what she said, how I felt, what I wish I’d said, what I thought then and later and in between. Every time I reached the end of my recital, I’d remember some new detail and swing back to incorporate it. “What gets me is everything Solana said was exactly what I’d said when I called the county, except she turned it around. I couldn’t deny the disgusting state his house was in so most of what she told Nancy Sullivan was true. His anemia, bruises—all of it. How could I argue? While I was using the facts as evidence of abuse, Solana was using the same information to justify the court’s taking charge of his affairs. It just seems so wrong…”

I paused to blow my nose, adding the tissue to the pile of soggy ones I’d tossed in the trash. “I mean, who are these people? A lawyer and a professional conservator? I can’t get over it. While I was at the courthouse, I went into the library and pulled Deering’s California Probate Code. It’s all laid out, powers and duties—blah, blah, blah. As nearly as I can tell, there’s no licensing process and no agency that oversees or regulates their actions. I’m sure there are conscientious conservators somewhere, but these two have fallen on Gus like vampires.”

Two tissues later, my lips feeling fat from all the tears I’d shed, I said, “I have to give Solana credit—she was clever to invent the business of a quarrel between us. Her claim that I’d threatened her made my call to the agency look like spite on my part.”

Henry shrugged. “She’s a sociopath. She plays by a different set of rules. Well, one rule. She does what serves her.”

“I’ll have to change my strategy. To what, I don’t know.”

“There is one bright note.”

“Oh, great. I could use one,” I said.

“As long as there’s money in his accounts, Gus is worth more to them alive than dead.”

“At the rate they’re going, it won’t take long.”

“Be smart. Don’t let her suck you into doing anything illegal—aside from the stuff you’ve already done.”

28

Leaving for work Wednesday morning, I spotted Solana and Gus on the sidewalk in front of the house. I hadn’t seen him outside for weeks and I had to admit, he was looking good with a jaunty knit cap pulled down over his ears. He was in his wheelchair, bundled into heavy-duty sweats that draped at the shoulder and hung from his knees. She’d tucked a blanket over his lap. They must have just come back from an outing. She’d turned the wheelchair around so she could maneuver it up the front steps.

I crossed the grass. “Can I help you with that?”

“I’ll take care of it,” she said. Once she’d hauled him up the last step, I put a hand on his chair and leaned closer.

“Hey, Gus. How are you?”

Solana shifted into the space between us, trying to cut off my access. I held up a palm to bar her, which darkened her mood.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Giving Gus the chance to talk to me if you don’t object.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to you and neither do I. Please get off this property.”

I noticed his hearing aids were gone and it occurred to me it was a neat way of putting him out of commission. How could he interact if he couldn’t hear a thing. I put my lips near his ear. “Can I do anything for you?”

The look he sent me was sorrowful. His mouth trembled and he moaned like a woman in the early stages of labor, before she understands how bad it really gets. He peered at Solana, who stood with her hands folded. In her sturdy brown shoes and bulky brown coat, she looked like a prison matron. “Go ahead, Mr. Vronsky. Say anything you like.”

He put a finger behind his ear and shook his head, feigning deafness though I knew he’d heard me.

I raised my voice. “Would you like to come next door to Henry’s for a cup of tea? He’d love to see you.”

Solana said, “He’s had his tea.”

Gus said, “I can’t walk anymore. I’m all wobbly.”

Solana caught my eye. “You’re not welcome here. You’re upsetting him.”

I ignored her, dropping down on my haunches to make eye contact with him. Even seated, his spine was so curved he had to turn his head sideways to return my gaze. I smiled at him in what I hoped was an encouraging manner, hard to pull off with Solana hovering over me. “We haven’t seen you in ages. Henry’s probably got some nice homemade sweet rolls. I can take you over in your chair and have you back in a jiffy. Does that sound like something you’d enjoy?”

“I’m not feeling well.”

“I know that, Gus. Is there anything I can do to help?”

He shook his head, his gnarled hands stroking each other in his lap.

“You know we’re concerned about you. All of us.”

“I thank you for that and for everything.”

“As long as you’re okay.”

He shook his head. “I’m not okay. I’m old.”

I spent a quiet morning at the office, tidying my desk and paying some bills. I took care of simple jobs: tossing, filing, taking out the trash. I was still brooding about Gus, but I knew there was no point in going over the same ground again. I had to focus on something else. Like Melvin Downs. Something about the man bothered me, above and beyond the issue of tracking him down, which I was certain I could do.

Once my desktop was orderly, I spent an hour transcribing my interview with Gladys Fredrickson, tracking back and forth through the tape recording. Amazing how background noise interferes with audibility: the rattle of paper, the dog barking, her wheezing breath as she spoke. It would take more than one session to get the interview typed up, but it gave me something to do.

When I wearied of that, I opened the pencil drawer and took out a pack of index cards. In the same drawer, I spotted the toy I’d salvaged from the back of the closet in Melvin Downs’s room. I squeezed the two sticks together, watching while a double-jointed wooden clown did a series of maneuvers on the high bar: back giant, clear hip to handstand, three-quarter giant. I had no way of knowing if the toy belonged to him or to the tenant who’d occupied the room before he arrived. I set the toy aside and picked up the stack of index cards.

Card by card, one line each, I jotted down what I knew of him, which didn’t amount to much. He most likely worked in the area adjacent to City College, where he caught the bus. He was fond of movie classics that seemed, in the main, to be sentimental yarns about young boys, baby animals, and loss. He was estranged from his daughter, who refused to let him see his grandsons for reasons unknown. He’d been in prison, which might have had a bearing on his daughter’s disenfranchising him. He had an imaginary friend named Tía that he created using a lipstick-red mouth tattooed in the U formed between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. Two black dots inked on the knuckle became the hand-puppet’s eyes.

What else?

Melvin was mechanically inclined, with a fix-it mentality that allowed him to repair miscellaneous items, including a malfunctioning TV set. Whatever his day job, he was paid in cash. He finished work and sat waiting for a bus on Tuesdays and Thursdays by midafternoon. He was polite to strangers but had no close friends. He’d saved enough money to buy a truck. He’d been in town the past five years, ostensibly to be near the very grandsons he was forbidden to see. His room at the hotel was grim, unless of course he’d taken countless doilies, needlepointed pillows, and other decorative items with him when he left. When he’d seen the flyer I’d distributed, his response was to panic, pack his possessions, and disappear.

When I ran out of facts I shuffled the cards and arranged them randomly to see if enlightenment would ensue. I spread them out on the desk and leaned my head on my hand, thinking, Which of these facts doesn’t belong?

I could think of one possibility. I pulled two cards forward and stared at them. How did the mechanical clown and Melvin’s imaginary friend, Tía, fit into the larger scheme of things? Nothing else I’d learned about him suggested a playful nature. Indeed, there was something furtive in his reluctance to display the lipstick tattoo. So maybe the toys weren’t intended for his amusement. Maybe Tía and the toy clown were meant to amuse someone else. Like who? Kids, any number of whom I’d seen at the nearby elementary school and the child care center near the bus stop he frequented.

Was he a pedophile?

I knew child molesters often kept games and videos on hand, befriending children over a period of time until a bond was formed. Physical contact was gradually introduced. In the wake of affection and trust came the fondling and fumbling, until touching and secrets were the intoxicating spice of their “special” relationship. If he was a sex offender, it would explain his fright that he’d been spotted within one thousand yards of a school, a playground, or a day care center. It would also explain his daughter’s refusal to let him see his grandsons.

I picked up the phone and called the county probation department. I asked to speak to a parole officer named Priscilla Holloway. I expected to have to leave a message, but she picked up on her end and I identified myself. Her voice was surprisingly light, given what I remembered of her physical stature. She was a big-boned redhead, the sort who’d played rough sports in high school and still had softball and soccer trophies displayed in her bedroom at home. I’d met her the previous July when I was babysitting a young renegade named Reba Lafferty, who’d been paroled from the California Institute for Women.

“I’ve got a question for you,” I said, when we’d dispensed with the chitchat. “How familiar are you with the registered sex offenders in town?”

“I know most of them by name. We all do. Lot of them are required to come in for drug testing. They also call in changes of address or changes in employment. Who in particular?”

“I’m looking for a fellow named Melvin Downs.”

There was a pause and I could almost hear her shaking her head. “Nope. Don’t think so. The name doesn’t sound familiar. Where’d he do his time?”

“I have no idea, but I’m guessing he was in prison on a child molest. He has a crude tattoo that looks like prison vintage—a lipstick-red mouth in the web between the thumb and index finger on his right hand. I’m told he’s an amateur ventriloquist and I’m wondering if he trots out his talent in seducing young kids.”

“I can check with the other POs and see if they know him. What’s the context?”

“You know an attorney named Lowell Effinger?”

“Sure, I know Lowell.”

“He wants to depose Downs as a witness in a personal-injury suit. Downs is a hard man to find, but I finally ran him to ground. He seemed cooperative at first, but then he turned around and bolted so fast it made me wonder if he was in the system somewhere.”

“I don’t think here, but he might be a fugitive from another state. These guys want out from under, all they have to do is hit the road without telling us. We’ve got ten to fifteen unaccounted for at any given time. And that’s just locally. Statewide, the numbers are mind-boggling.”

“Jeez, all those sex offenders on the loose?”

“Sorry to say. Give me your number again and I’ll get back to you if I learn anything.”

I thanked her and returned the handset to the cradle. My suspicions hadn’t been confirmed, but she hadn’t shot me down. Altogether, I was feeling a flicker of encouragement.

As a consequence, early Thursday afternoon, I drove up Capillo Hill again and sat in the parking lot of the organic foods market, looking out at the intersection where I’d seen Downs two days before. Since his work schedule seemed consistently Tuesdays and Thursdays, I hoped I had a decent chance of spotting him. I was bored to tears with the hunt, but I’d brought a paperback novel and a thermos of hot coffee. There was a ladies’ room available at the gas station two doors down. What more did a girl require? I read for a while, periodically glancing through the windshield to scan the area.

I paid a visit to the service station, and as I came out of the ladies’ room I could see activity across the street. A van pulled in at the curb in front of the laundromat. Idly, I watched as two men got out and went in. I was already sitting behind the wheel of my car again when they emerged minutes later, toting cardboard boxes, which they stowed in the rear of the van. There was lettering on the side panel, but I couldn’t read what it said. I reached into the backseat and snatched up the binoculars I keep close at hand. I adjusted the focus until the lettering became sharp.

Starting Over Christian Charities, Inc.

Your trash is our cash.

We accept gently used clothing, furniture, small appliances and office equipment.

Tues & Thurs, 9:00 A.M. to 2:00 P.M.

Apparently the two men were picking up donations. From a laundromat? How weird was that? It was the phrase “small appliances” that caught my attention. Also, the days and times of operation. This was the perfect position for someone like Downs with a penchant for tinkering and a talent as a fix-it man. I pictured him with nonfunctioning vacuum cleaners, hair dryers, and electric fans, salvaging items that would otherwise go into the trash. A Christian charity might also be sympathetic to his prison history.

I tossed my book aside, got out of my car, and locked it behind me. I made a beeline for the crosswalks in the middle of the block. When I reached the storefront, I bypassed the big plate-glass windows and cut between two buildings to the alley in the rear. I’d driven the alley twice, making a study of pedestrians while navigating the lane and a half, barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Once I’d had to stop at that spot when a woman in front of me with a carload of kids slowed to make the turn into her garage.

Now that I knew what I was looking for, the payoff was quick. Above the back door of the laundromat, there was the same sign I’d seen on the side of the van. This was a drop-off location for Starting Over, an organization that must have rented the two back rooms to accept and sort donations. The rear parking had slots enough for three cars with additional space for a lidded bin that was kept available for hours when the center was closed. The rolling bin had been placed across the opening between the laundromat and the jewelry store next door. I could see the back end of the vehicle that was parked in the gap. It was one I knew well: an old milk truck outfitted as a camper, originally offered for sale “as is” at $1,999.99. The dealer who sold it had operated the lot right around the corner from the residence hotel where Downs had lived. I might have actually witnessed the transaction the day I saw the salesman in conversation with a white-haired man in sunglasses and a porkpie hat. I hadn’t met Melvin at that point so I wouldn’t have understood the significance. By the time I’d caught up with him, he was prepared to flee. I took out my notebook and jotted down the license number of the milk truck.

The rear door of the shop stood ajar. I approached with care and peered around the corner. Melvin had his back to me, folding children’s clothing into tidy piles that he placed in a cardboard box. Now that I knew where he was, I’d report his location to Lowell Effinger. He’d schedule a date for the deposition and issue a subpoena requiring Downs to appear. I made a note of the address and the contact number printed on the bin and then returned to my car and drove back to my office, where I put in a call to the attorney’s office and told his secretary where Downs could be served.

“You’ll handle the service?”

I said, “That’s not a good idea. He knows me on sight, which means I’d be coming in the front door and he’d be flying out the back.”

“But this is your baby. You should have the satisfaction,” she said. “I’ll let you know when everything’s set up, which shouldn’t take long. By the way, Gladys told Herr Buckwald there was talk of a missing witness and now she’s all over us for his name and address.” I was amused by her fake German accent, which exactly captured Hetty Buckwald’s nature.

“Good luck,” I said. “Call me when you’re done.”

“I’m on it, kid.”

Driving home that afternoon, I became aware of the tension in my neck. I was wary of Solana and hoping to avoid running into her again. She had to be aware I had her in my sights and I didn’t think she’d appreciate the interference. As it turned out, our paths didn’t cross until Saturday night. So I was worrying before it was absolutely necessary.

I’d been to see a movie and it was close to eleven when I got home. I parked half a block down the street in the only space I could find at that hour. I got out and locked the car. The street was dark and empty. A skittish wind blew, sending a tumble of leaves across my feet like an undulating wave of mice escaping from a cat. The moon was intermittently visible, obscured and then exposed by the erratic movement of the trees. I thought I was the only one out, but as I approached Henry’s gate, I caught sight of Solana standing in the shadows. I secured my shoulder bag and shoved my hands in the pockets of my parka.

She stepped forward when I was abreast of her, blocking my path.

I said, “Get away from me.”

“You put me in hot water with the county. A bad move on your part.”

“Who’s Cristina Tasinato?”

“You know who she is. Mr. Vronsky’s conservator of record. She says you paid a visit to her attorney. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

“Bad language is unbecoming. I gave you more credit than that.”

“Or maybe you didn’t give me credit enough.”

Solana stared at me. “You were in my house. You picked up Mr. Vronksy’s pill bottles to see what medications he’s on. You set the bottles down not quite in the same place so I could tell they’d been moved. I pay attention to such things. You must have thought you were immune from discovery, but you’re not. You took his bankbooks as well.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, but I wondered if she could hear my heart careen off my chest wall like a handball.

“You’ve made a serious mistake. People who try getting the best of me are always wrong. They learn the meaning of the word ‘regret,’ but by then it’s too late.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Of course not. I’m offering advice. Leave Mr. Vronsky alone.”

“Who’s the big goon you have living in the house?”

“There’s no one living in the house except the two of us. You’re a suspicious young woman. Some would call you paranoid.”

“Is he the orderly you hired?”

“There’s an orderly who comes in, if it’s any business of yours. You’re upset. I can understand your hostility. You’re strong willed, used to doing as you please and having everything your way. We’re very much alike, both of us willing to play to the death.”

She put a hand on my arm and I shook it away. “Cut the melodrama. You can eat shit and die for all I care.”

“Now it’s you threatening me.”

“You better believe it,” I said.

The gate squeaked as I opened it and the sound of the latch catching punctuated the end of the exchange. She was still standing on the walk as I rounded the corner of the studio and let myself into my darkened apartment. I locked the door and shucked my jacket, tossing it on the kitchen counter as I passed. The lights were still off as I moved into the downstairs bathroom and stepped into the shower to check the street outside. By the time I peered out the window, she was gone.

29

As I was letting myself into the office Monday morning I heard my phone ring. A bulky package was leaning against the door, left by a courier service. I tucked it under my arm and unlocked the door in haste, stepping over a pile of mail that had been shoved through the slot. I paused to snatch up the lot of it and scampered into the inner office, tossing the mail on my desk while I made a grab for the phone. I caught it on ring five and found Mary Bellflower on the line, sounding remarkably cheerful. “Did you get the documents Lowell Effinger messengered over to you? He sent me the same batch.”

“Must be the package that was left at my door. I just now walked in and haven’t had a chance to open it. What is it?”

“The transcript of the deposition he took from the accident expert earlier this week. Call me as soon as you’ve read it.”

“Sure thing. You sound happy.”

“I’m curious at any rate. This is good stuff,” she said.

I shrugged off my jacket and tossed my shoulder bag on the floor beside my desk. Before I opened the packet, I walked down the short hall to my kitchenette and set up a pot of coffee. I’d forgotten to bring in a carton of milk so I was forced to use two flat packets of fake stuff once the coffee had finished dripping into the carafe. I returned to my desk and opened the manila mailer. Then I leaned back in my swivel chair and put my feet on the edge of the desk with the transcript opened on my lap, coffee cup to my right.

Tilford Brannigan was a biomechanical expert who doubled, in this case, as the accident reconstructionist, wearing two hats at once. The document was neatly typed. The pages were stapled together at the top left corner. Each eight-by-eleven page had been reduced in size and formatted to fit four to the sheet.

The first page listed correspondence, marked “Plaintiff’s Exhibits #6-A Through 6-H,” and went on down the numbered lines. Included was Brannigan’s curriculum vitae, Gladys Frederickson’s medical summaries, Request for Production of Documents, Plaintiff Response to the Defendant Request for Production of Documents, Supplemental Request for Production of Documents. Dr. Goldfarb’s medical files had been subpoenaed, as had the files of a Dr. Spaulding. There were numerous depositions, summary/medical records marked Plaintiff’s Exhibit #16, along with the police report. Various photographs of the damaged cars and the accident site had been entered as exhibits. I quickly flipped to the last page, just to get a feel for what I was in for. Brannigan’s testimony started on page 6 and continued to page 133. The proceedings had begun at 4:30 P.M. and concluded at 7:15.

A deposition is, by nature, a less formal proceeding than an appearance in court since it occurs in a lawyer’s office instead of a courtroom. Testimony is given under oath. Both plaintiff’s and defendant’s attorneys and a court reporter are in attendance, but there’s no judge.

Hetty Buckwald was there representing the Fredricksons, and Lowell Effinger was on hand in Lisa Ray’s behalf, though neither the plaintiffs nor the defendant were present. Years before, I’d looked up Ms. Buckwald’s bona fides, convinced her law degree was from Harvard or Yale. Instead, she’d graduated from one of those Los Angeles law schools that self-promotes by way of big splashy ads pasted on freeway billboards.

I cruised through the repetitious early pages, where Ms. Buckwald worked to suggest that Brannigan was inexperienced and ill qualified, neither of which was true. Lowell Effinger objected at intervals, mostly intoning, “Misstates the prior testimony” or “Asked and answered” in a voice that, even on paper, sounded bored and annoyed. Effinger had tagged certain pages to make sure I didn’t miss the import. The gist of it was that, despite Ms. Buckwald’s persistently snide and wearing questions that cast aspersions on him wherever possible, Tilford Brannigan was steadfast in his insistence that Gladys Fredrickson’s injuries were inconsistent with the dynamics of the collision. There followed fourteen pages of testimony in which Ms. Buckwald picked away at him, trying to get him to yield on whatever minor point she was pursuing. Brannigan held up well, patient and unperturbed. His responses were mild, sometimes amusing, which must have infuriated Ms. Buckwald, who relied on friction and animosity to rattle a witness. If he conceded the smallest detail, she leaped on the admission as though it were a major triumph, completely undermining testimony he’d given before. I wasn’t sure whom she was trying to impress.

As soon as I’d read the file, I called Mary Bellflower, who said, “So what did you think?”

“I’m not sure. We know Gladys was injured. We have three inches of medical reports: X-ray results, treatment protocols, ultrasound, MRIs, X-rays. She might fake whiplash or a lower-back pain, but a cracked pelvis and two cracked ribs? Please.”

“Brannigan didn’t say she wasn’t injured. He’s saying the injuries weren’t sustained in the accident. By the time Millard ran into Lisa Ray pulling out of the parking lot, she was already hurt. Brannigan didn’t say so flat out, but that’s his guess.”

“What, like Millard beat the crap out of her or something like that?”

“That’s what we need to find out.”

“But her injuries were fresh, right? I mean, this wasn’t anything that’d happened weeks before.”

“Right. It could have happened prior to their getting in the van. Maybe he was taking her to the emergency room and he saw his chance.”

“Not to be dense about it, but why would he do that?”

“He had liability insurance, but no collision coverage. They’d dropped their home-owner’s policy because they couldn’t afford the premiums. No catastrophic medical, no long-term disability. They were totally exposed.”

“So he deliberately rammed into Lisa Ray’s car? That’s risky, isn’t it? What if Lisa had been killed? For that matter, what if his wife had been killed?”

“He wouldn’t have been any worse off. Might have been better for him actually. He could have sued for wrongful death or negligent homicide, half a dozen things. The point was to blame someone else and collect the dough instead of having to pay it out. He’d been badly injured himself and a jury awarded him $680,000. They’ve probably pissed it all away.”

“Jesus, that’s cold. What kind of guy is he?”

“Try desperate. Hetty Buckwald went after Brannigan tooth and nail and couldn’t get him to back down. Lowell said it was all he could do not to bust out laughing. He thinks this is big. Huge. We just have to figure out what it means.”

“I’ll go up there again. Maybe the neighbors know something we don’t.”

“Let’s hope.”

I returned to the Fredricksons’ neighborhood and started with the two neighbors directly across the street. Their knowledge, if any, probably wouldn’t come to much, but at least I could rule them out. At the first house, the middle-aged woman who answered the door was pleasant but professed to know nothing about the Fredricksons. When I explained the situation, she said she’d moved in six months before and preferred to keep her distance from her neighbors. “That way, if I have a problem with any one of them, I can complain without worrying about someone’s feelings being hurt,” she said. “I tend to my affairs and expect them to tend to theirs.”

“Well, I can see your point. I’ve had good luck with my neighbors until recently.”

“When neighbors turn on you, there’s nothing worse. Your home is supposed to be a refuge, not a fortified encampment in a war zone.”

Amen, I thought. I gave her my card and asked her to call me if she heard anything. “Don’t count on it,” she said, as she closed the door.

I went down her walkway and up the walk leading to the house next door. This time the occupant was a man in his late twenties, thin face, glasses, underslung jaw with a tiny goatee meant to give definition to his weak chin. He wore loose jeans and a T-shirt with horizontal stripes of the sort a mother would select.

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said, holding out my hand.

“Julian Frisch. You selling something? Avon, Fuller Brush?”

“I don’t think they sell door-to-door these days.” Again, I explained who I was and my fact-finding mission with regard to the Fredricksons. “Are you acquainted with them?”

“Sure. She does my books. You want to come in?”

“I’d like that.”

His living room looked like a display for computer sales and service. Some of the equipment I could identify on sight—keyboards and the monitors that looked like clunky television screens. There were eight computers set up, with tangled cables that snaked across the floor connecting them. In addition, there were sealed cartons I assumed contained brand-new computers. The few cranky-looking models sitting in one corner might have come in for repair. I’d heard the terms “floppy disk” and “boot up” but I didn’t have a clue what they meant.

“I take it you sell or repair computers.”

“Little bit of both. What do you have?”

“A portable Smith-Corona.”

He half-smiled, as if I were making a joke, and then he wagged a finger at me. “Better catch up with reality. You’re missing the boat. Time’s going to come when computers will do everything.”

“I have trouble believing that. It just seems so unlikely.”

“You’re not a believer like the rest of us. The day will come when ten-year-olds will master these machines and you’ll be at their mercy.”

“That’s a depressing thought.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. At any rate, that’s probably not why you knocked on my door.”

“True enough,” I said. I redirected my attention and went through my introduction, which I’d just about perfected by then, wrapping up with a reference to the two-car collision on May 28 of the year before. “How long has Gladys Fredrickson handled your books?”

“The past two or three years. I only know her professionally, not personally. She’s a mess right now, but she does good work.”

“Did or does?”

“Oh, she still handles my accounts. She complains about her aches and pains, but she never misses a beat.”

“She told the insurance company she couldn’t work because she can’t sit for long periods and she can’t concentrate. She said the same thing to me when I took her statement.”

His expression was pained. “That’s a pile of crap. I see the courier service over there two and three times a week.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I work right here. I got a clear view across the street. I don’t mean to rat her out, but she’s as busy as ever.”

Maybe I was falling in love. My heart gave the same pitter-patter and my chest felt warm. I put a hand across my forehead to see if I was suffering a fever of sudden onset. “Hang on a minute. This is too good to believe. Would you mind repeating that on tape?”

“I could do that,” he said. “I was thinking about firing her, anyway. Her whining is getting on my nerves.”

I sat down on the lone metal folding chair and put my tape recorder on an unopened carton. I took out my clipboard so I could make a written record of the information as well. He didn’t have tons to contribute, but what he offered was pure gold. Gladys Fredrickson’s claims of disability were fraudulent. She hadn’t collected a cent yet, unless she was receiving state disability checks, which was entirely possible. Once he’d gone through his account for the tape recorder, I packed up my gear and shook his hand, thanking him profusely.

He said, “Not a problem. And if you change your mind about becoming computer literate, you know where I am. I could get you up and running in no time.”

“How much?”

“Ten grand.”

“You lost me there. I don’t want to pay ten grand for something that makes me feel inadequate.” I left thinking, Ten-year-old kids? Get serious.

The neighbor across the street to the right of the Fredricksons’ was no help at all. The woman never did quite grasp my purpose, thinking I was selling insurance, which she politely declined. I repeated myself twice and then thanked her and moved over to the house on the other side.

The woman who answered the door was the same woman I’d seen when I arrived at the Fredricksons’ house the first time. Given my experience with elderly persons, namely Gus, Henry, and the sibs, I placed this woman in her early eighties. She was quick and soft-spoken and seemed to have all her faculties about her. She was also as plump as a pincushion and she smelled of Joy perfume. “I’m Lettie Bowers,” she said, as she shook my hand and invited me in.

Her skin felt delicate and powdery, her palm two or three degrees warmer than my own. I wasn’t sure she should be so trusting, inviting a stranger into her house, but it suited my purposes.

Her living room was sparsely furnished, frothy curtains at the windows, faded carpet on the floor, faded paper on the walls. The Victorian-style furniture had a vaguely depressing air about it, which suggested it was authentic. The rocker I sat down in had a horsehair seat, which you couldn’t get away with now. To the right of the front door, on the Fredricksons’ side of the house, French double doors opened onto a wood balcony crowded with flowerpots. I explained who I was and that I was working as an investigator on behalf of the insurance company Gladys Fredrickson was suing in the wake of her accident. “Would you mind if I ask you a few questions.”

“Fine. I’m happy for the company. Would you like tea?”

“No, thanks. I take it you’re aware of the claim?”

“Oh yes. She told me she was suing and I said, ‘Good for you.’ You should see the poor thing hobbling around. What happened was terrible and she’s entitled to recompense.”

“I don’t know about that. These days, hitting up an insurance company is like going to Vegas to play the slot machines.”

“Exactly. All that money is paid in and very little is paid out. The insurance companies as good as dare you to try to collect. They’ve got all the power on their side. If you win, they dump you or they double your premiums.”

This was discouraging. I’d heard these sentiments expressed before, the belief that insurance companies were fat cats and the mice deserved anything they could get. “In this case, the facts are in dispute, which is why I’m here.”

“The facts are obvious. There was an accident. It’s as simple as that. Gladys told me it was covered on their home-owner’s policy and the company had refused to pay. She said suing was the only way to force their hand.”

“Auto.”

“‘Auto’?”

“It’s not their home-owner’s policy. She’s suing the company that carries the defendant’s car insurance.” Personally, I wondered if I was shooting myself in the foot. We were clearly working at cross-purposes, but I got out my tape recorder and went through my drill; identifying myself, Lettie Bowers, blah blah blah. Then I said, “How long have you known the Fredricksons?”

“If you want the truth, I don’t know them well and I don’t like them much. Am I under oath?”

“No ma’am, but it would be helpful if you could tell me what you know as truthfully as possible.”

“I always do that. I was raised that way.”

“I take it Gladys Fredrickson’s talked to you about the accident.”

“She didn’t have to. I saw it.”

I leaned forward slightly. “You were at the intersection?”

She seemed confused. “There wasn’t any intersection. I was sitting right here, looking out the window.”

“I don’t understand how you could have seen what went on.”

“I couldn’t miss it. I do my pickup work by the window, which gives me good light and offers a nice view of the neighborhood. I used to do needlepoint, but lately I’ve gone back to knitting and crochet. Less strain on my eyes and easier on my hands. I’d been watching them at work, which is how I happened to see the tumble she took.”

“Gladys fell?”

“Oh my, yes. It was entirely her fault, but the way she explained it to me, the insurance company will have to pay anyway if everything goes well.”

“Could we back up a few paragraphs and start this again?”

I took a few minutes to go back over the lawsuit, filling in the details while she shook her head.

“You must be talking about someone else. It didn’t happen that way.”

“Fine. Let’s hear your side of it.”

“I don’t mean to sound judgmental, but she and her husband are penny-pinchers and they hate to hire help. The rain gutters were jammed with leaves. We’d had a number of spring storms and the water had been pouring down in torrents, right over the edge instead of going into the down spouts. First week of nice weather, she got up on a ladder to clean the gutters and the ladder toppled. She landed on the wooden deck and the ladder came down and clunked her in the head. I was surprised she didn’t break her back, as much as she weighs. The sound was awful, like a bag of cement. I ran out, but she said she was all right. I could see she was woozy and limping badly, but she wouldn’t accept help. Next thing I knew, Millard pulled the van around in front and honked. They had a heated discussion and then she got in.”

“Did she tell you this in confidence?”

“Not in so many words. She said it was just between the two of us and then she gave me a wink. And here all this time, I thought the claim was legitimate.”

“Would you be willing to testify in the defendant’s behalf?”

“Of course. I don’t approve of cheaters.”

“Nor do I.”

Late afternoon, as a special treat, I took myself up to Rosie’s and ordered a glass of wine. I’d wait and eat when I got home, but I’d done a good day’s work and I deserved a reward. I’d just settled into my favorite booth when Charlotte Snyder appeared. I hadn’t seen her for weeks, since she and Henry had quarreled. I thought her presence was coincidental, but she paused in the doorway, looking around, and when she spotted me, she headed straight for my table and sat down across from me. She had a scarf tied over her hair, which she removed and put in her coat pocket while she shook her hair back to its natural shape. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and her eyes were bright. “I took a chance on catching you here when you didn’t answer your door. If you tell me Henry’s on his way in, I’ll disappear.”

“He’s having dinner with William. It’s boys’ night out,” I said. “What’s up?”

“I’m hoping to redeem myself in Henry’s eyes. I heard the court appointed a woman named Cristina Tasinato as Gus Vronsky’s conservator.”

“Don’t remind me. I was nearly sick when I heard.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about. According to the bank, she’s taking out a big construction loan, putting the house up as collateral.”

“News to me.”

“I gather she wants to remodel and upgrade, add a wheelchair ramp, redo electrical and plumbing, and generally bring the house up to snuff.”

“The place could use a face-lift. Even with the cleanup Solana’s done, it’s still a mess. What’s the size of the loan?”

“A quarter of a million bucks.”

“Wow. Who told you?”

“Jay Larkin, a friend of mine in the loan department. We used to date years ago and he was a big help when I was getting into real estate. He knew I’d been interested in listing the property and when this came up, he assumed I’d made a deal. It struck me as curious because I told Solana the two parcels together were worth far more than the house. This block is already zoned multiple-family. Any buyer with savvy would purchase both lots and tear the old house down.”

“But it makes sense to remodel with Gus so adamant about hanging on.”

“That’s just what I’m getting at. She put the house on the market. Well, maybe not Solana, but the conservator.”

“For sale? How so? I haven’t seen a sign out front.”

“This is a pocket listing. I’m guessing she’ll pay off the construction loan with the proceeds from the sale. I wouldn’t have known about it, but an agent in our Santa Teresa office is handling the deal. She remembered I’d done comps when my client came through town so she was calling to ask if I wanted a referral fee. I was sorely tempted, but with Henry so burned at me, I didn’t dare.”

“What’s the asking price?”

“A million two, which is a joke. Even fixed up, it’ll never sell for that. I thought it was odd after Solana swore up and down Gus would rather die than part with the place. What I can’t understand is why the house was listed with my company. Didn’t anybody realize I’d get wind of it?”

“The conservator probably had no idea you were ever involved,” I said. “Solana doesn’t seem that sophisticated about real estate. If this is her doing, maybe she wasn’t aware how closely you work with one another.”

“Or maybe she’s thumbing her nose at us.”

“This is being done through Gus’s bank?” I asked.

“Sure. One big happy family, but the whole thing stinks. I thought you should know.”

I said, “I wonder if there’s any way to gum up the works?”

Charlotte pushed a piece of paper across the table. “This is Jay’s number at the bank. You can tell him we talked.”

30

I slept poorly that night, my brain abuzz. Lettie Bowers’s revelations had been a gift, but instead of feeling good, I was kicking myself for not interviewing her earlier. She and Julian both. If I’d talked to neighbors before my first meeting with the Fredricksons, I would have known what I was dealing with. I felt like I was slipping, distracted by the miscalculations I’d made in my dealings with Solana Rojas. Not to beat myself to death here, but Gus was in big trouble and I was the one who’d put him there. What more could I do? I’d called the county so there was no point in going over that ground again. Nancy Sullivan had doubtless drawn and quartered me in her report. Beyond that, I hadn’t witnessed verbal, emotional, or physical abuse that warranted calling the police. Which left me where?

I couldn’t persuade my mind to shut up. There was nothing I could do about any of it in the middle of the night, but I couldn’t let it go. Finally, I sank into some deep canyon of sleep. It was like slipping into a trough in the ocean’s floor, dark and silent, the weight of the water pinning me in place. I wasn’t even aware I’d fallen asleep until I heard the noise. My leaden senses registered the sound and invented a few quick stories to account for it. None of them made sense. My eyes popped open. What was that?

I checked the clock, as though noting the time would make a difference. 2:15. If I hear the cork pop from a champagne bottle, I automatically check the time in case it turns out to be a gunshot and I’ll be asked later to file a police report. Someone was riding a skateboard in front of the house; metal wheels on concrete, repeated clicks as the skateboard rolled across cracks in the sidewalk. Back and forth, the sound surging and receding. I listened, trying to determine how many skateboarders there were—only one as far as I could tell. I could hear the kid try kick flips, the board slamming down when he made it, clattering off when he missed. I thought about Gus railing at the two nine-year-olds on skateboards in December. He was at his crankiest back then, but at least he was on his feet. Despite his complaints and the nuisance calls he made, he was alive and vigorous. Now he was failing and no one else in the neighborhood was irritable enough to protest the racket outside. The board clacked and banged, off the curb, into the street, back up on the curb again, and down the sidewalk. This was getting on my nerves. Maybe I’d be the cranky neighbor from now on.

I pushed the covers aside and made my way across the carpeted loft in the dark. There was sufficient illumination from the Plexiglas skylight above that I could see where I was going. Barefoot, I went down the spiral stairs, my oversized T-shirt leaving my bare knees exposed. It was cold in the studio and I knew I’d need a coat if I went out to shake a fist as Gus would have. I went into the downstairs bathroom and stepped into the fiberglass tub and shower surround, with its window that looked out on the street. I’d left the light off so I could see out without the skateboarder knowing I was there. The sound seemed farther away—muted, but persistent. Then silence.

I waited, but heard nothing. I crossed my arms for warmth and peered out at the dark. The street was empty and remained so. Finally, I climbed the spiral stairs again and crawled back in my bed. It was 2:25 and my body heat had dissipated, leaving me shivering. I pulled the covers over my shoulders and waited to get warm. Next thing I knew, it was 6:00 A.M. and time for my morning run.

I started to feel more optimistic as I put away the miles. The beach, the damp air, the sun painting gauzy layers of color across the sky—everything suggested this would be a better day. When I reached the dolphin fountain at the foot of State, I took a left and headed toward town. Ten blocks later I made the turn and jogged back toward the beach. I didn’t wear a watch, but I could time my progress as I reached the ding-ding-dinging signal gates near the train station. The ground began to vibrate and I heard the train approach, its warning howl subdued in deference to the hour. Later in the day, when the passenger train came through, the horn would be loud enough to halt conversations up and down the beach.

As a self-appointed site foreman, I took the opportunity to peek through the wooden barrier surrounding the new Paramount Hotel pool. Much of the construction debris was gone, and it looked as though the plaster coat had been sprayed over the gunite. I could imagine the completed project: deck chairs in place, tables with market umbrellas protecting the hotel patrons from the sun. The image faded, replaced by my worries about Gus. I debated putting a call through to Melanie in New York. The situation was distressing and she’d blame me. For all I knew, Solana had already given her an annotated version of the story, appointing herself the good guy while I was the bad.

Once I reached home, I went through my usual morning routine, and at 8:00 I locked the studio and went out to my car. There was a black-and-white police cruiser parked at the curb directly across the street. A uniformed officer was deep in conversation with Solana Rojas. Both were looking in my direction. What now? My first thought was of Gus, but there was no ambulance and no fire department rescue vehicle on hand. Curious, I crossed the street. “Is there a problem?”

Solana glanced at the officer and then pointedly at me before she turned her back and moved away. I knew without being told that the two had been discussing me, but to what end?

“I’m Officer Pearce,” he said.

“Hi, how’re you? I’m Kinsey Millhone.” Neither of us offered to shake hands. I didn’t know what he was doing here, but it wasn’t to make friends.

Pearce wasn’t a beat officer I knew. He was tall, broadshouldered, maybe fifteen pounds overweight, with that staunch police presence that speaks of a well-trained professional. There was even something intimidating about the way his leather belt creaked when he moved.

“What’s going on?”

“Her car was vandalized.”

I followed his gaze, which had shifted to Solana’s convertible, parked two cars down from mine. Someone had taken a sharp instrument—a screwdriver or a chisel—and scratched the word DEAD in deep gouges on the driver’s-side door. The paint was stripped and the metal had been dented by the force of the tool.

“Oh, wow. When did that happen?”

“Some time between six o’clock last night when she parked the vehicle and six forty-five this morning. She caught a glimpse of someone passing the house and came out to check. Were you aware of any activity out here?”

Over his shoulder, I saw that the neighbor from across the street had come out in her robe to get the paper and she’d engaged Solana in much the same conversation I was having with the officer. I could tell from Solana’s gestures she was agitated. I said, “That was probably me she saw this morning. Weekdays, I jog up State, starting at six ten or so and returning thirty minutes later.”

“Anyone else out and about?”

“Not that I saw, but I did hear a skateboarder in the middle of the night, which seemed odd. It was two fifteen because I remember looking at the clock. Sounded like he was riding back and forth on the sidewalk, up the curb and down, some in the street. It went on so long I got up to take a look, but I didn’t see a soul. One of the other neighbors might have heard him.”

“One kid or more.”

“I’d say, one.”

“That’s your place?”

“The studio, yes. I rent from a gentleman named Henry Pitts, who occupies the main house. You can ask, but I don’t think he’ll be able to contribute much. His bedroom’s on the ground floor rear so he’s not subjected to the same street noises that I catch upstairs.” I was babbling, giving Pearce more information than he needed, but I couldn’t help myself.

“When you heard the skateboarder, you came out to the street?”

“Well, no. It was cold out and pitch dark so I stood in my downstairs bathroom and looked out the window. He was gone by then so I went back to bed. It’s not like I heard him gouging and bashing away out here.” I meant it as a bit of levity, but the look he turned on me was flat.

“You and your neighbor have a good relationship?”

“Solana and me? Uh, not really. I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You’re on the outs?”

“I guess you could put it that way.”

“And what’s that about?”

I waved the question aside, already at a loss for words. How was I supposed to summarize the weeks of covert cat-and-mouse we’d played. “Long story,” I said. “I’d be happy to explain, but it would take a while and it’s irrelevant.”

“The bad blood between you isn’t relevant to what?”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘bad blood.’ We’ve had our differences.” I caught myself and turned to look at him. “She’s not suggesting I had anything to do with this.”

“A dispute between neighbors is serious business. It’s not like you can walk away from the conflict when you live right next door.”

“Wait a minute. This is crazy. I’m a licensed investigator. Why would I risk a fine and county jail time to settle a personal dispute?”

“Any idea who might?”

“No, but it certainly wasn’t me.” What else could I say that wouldn’t sound defensive? The mere suggestion of wrongdoing is sufficient to generate skepticism in the eyes of others. While we give lip-service to “presumed innocent,” most of us are quick to presume quite the opposite. Especially an officer of the law who’s heard every possible variation on a theme.

“I should get on in to work,” I said. “You need anything else from me?”

“You have a number where you can be reached?”

I said, “Sure.” I took a business card out of my wallet and passed it to him. I wanted to point and say, Look, I’m a no-fooling PI and a law-abiding citizen, but that only put me in mind of the many times I’d crossed the law-abiding line this past week alone. I adjusted my shoulder bag and crossed to my car, acutely aware of the officer’s eyes on me. When I dared to glance back, Solana was watching me as well, her expression poisonous. The neighbor standing next to her regarded me uneasily. She smiled and waved, perhaps worried that if she wasn’t nice to me, I’d vandalize her car, too.

I started the Mustang and of course when I backed up to pull out of the slot, I tapped the bumper of the car behind. It didn’t seem sufficient to warrant getting out to look, but as surely as I didn’t, I’d get dinged for thousands in repair work, plus an additional citation for leaving the scene of an accident. I opened the car door and left it ajar while I walked around to the back of my car. There wasn’t any sign of damage and when the officer walked over to see for himself, he seemed to agree.

“You might be a little more careful.”

“I will. I am. I can leave a note if you think it’s necessary.” You see that? Fear of authority will reduce a grown woman to this kind of groveling, like I would have licked his belt buckle to a high shine if he’d grace me with a smile. Which he didn’t.

I managed to drive away without any further mishap, but I was rattled.

I let myself into the office and put on a pot of coffee. I didn’t need the caffeine; I was already wired. What I needed was a game plan. When the coffee was done I poured myself a mug and took it to my desk. Solana was setting me up. I had no doubt she’d scratched the car herself and then called the police. The move was a wily one in her campaign to establish my enmity. The more vengeful I appeared, the more innocent she looked by comparison. She’d already made a case for my calling the county hotline as a gesture of spite. Now I was a candidate for charges of vandalism. She’d have a hell of a time proving it, but the point was to damage my credibility. I had to find a way to counteract her strategy. If I could stay one step ahead of her I might be able to beat her at her own game.

I opened my bag, found the scrap of paper Charlotte had given me, and phoned the bank. When the call was picked up I asked for Jay Larkin.

“This is Larkin,” he said.

“Hi, Jay. My name is Kinsey Millhone. Charlotte Snyder gave me your number…”

“Right. Absolutely. I know who you are. What can I do for you?”

“Well, it’s a long story, but I’ll give you the condensed version.” Whereupon I laid out an account of the situation in as succinct a manner as possible.

When I finished, he said, “Not to worry. I appreciate the information. We’ll take care of it.”

By the time I got back to my coffee it was stone cold, but I was feeling better. I sat back in my swivel chair and put my feet up. I laced my hands on the top of my head and stared at the ceiling. Maybe I could put a stop to this woman yet. I’ve dealt with some very bad folks in my day—thugs, brute killers, and scamsters, with a number of truly evil people thrown into the mix. Solana Rojas was cunning, but I didn’t think she was smarter than I was. I may not have a college degree, but I’m blessed (she said, modestly) with a devious nature and an abundance of native intelligence. I’m willing to match wits with just about anyone. That being true, I could (therefore) match wits with her. I simply couldn’t go about it in my usual blunt-force fashion. Going head-to-head with her had landed me where I was. From now on, I’d have to be subtle and every bit as cunning as she. Here’s what else I thought: If you can’t go through a barrier, find a way around. There had to be a crack in her armor somewhere.

I sat up, put my feet on the floor, and opened the bottom right-hand desk drawer where I kept her file. There wasn’t much in it: the contract with Melanie, the original job application, and the written report of what I’d learned about her. As it turned out, all the personal recommendations were horseshit, but I didn’t know that then. I’d tucked Lana Sherman’s résumé at the back of the file and I studied that now. Her comments about Solana Rojas had been hostile, but her criticisms only reinforced the notion that Solana was hardworking and conscientious. No hint of abusing the elderly for fun and profit.

I placed Solana’s application on the desk in front of me. It was clear I’d have to go back and fact-check every line, starting with the address she’d given out in Colgate. The first time I’d seen the street name, I’d had no idea where it was, but I realized I’d seen it since. Franklin ran parallel to Winslow, one block over from the twenty-four-unit building Richard Compton owned. It was the Winslow property where the Guffeys had so enjoyed themselves, ripping out cabinets and demolishing the plumbing fixtures, thus generating their very own rendition of the Flood, minus Noah’s Ark. The neighborhood was a hotbed of low-life types, so it made sense that Solana would be comfortable in such a setting. I picked up my jacket and my shoulder bag and headed for my car.

I pulled up across from the apartment building on Franklin, a drab beige three-story structure, free of architectural flourishes—no lintels, no windowsills, no shutters, no porches, and no landscaping, unless you find drought-tolerant dirt aesthetically pleasing. There was a pile of dead bushes near the curb and that was the extent of the vegetation. The apartment number on Solana’s application was 9. I locked my car and crossed the street.

A cursory survey of the mailboxes suggested that this was a twenty-unit complex. Judging from the numbered doors, Apartment 9 was on the second floor. I made my way up the stairs, which consisted of iron risers with pebbly rectangular slabs of poured concrete forming the treads. At the top I took a moment to reconsider. As nearly as I could tell, Solana was living at Gus’s full-time, but if the Franklin address was still her permanent residence, she might come and go. If I ran into her, she’d know she was under scrutiny, which was not good.

I returned to the ground floor, where I’d seen a white plastic sign on the door to Apartment 1, indicating the manager was living on the premises. I knocked and waited. Eventually a fellow opened the door. He was in his fifties, short and rotund, with pudgy features in a face that age had sucked into the collar of his shirt. The corners of his mouth were turned down and he had a double-chin that made his jaw look as formless and flat as a frog’s.

I said, “Hi. Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Solana Rojas and wondered if she was still living here.”

In the background I heard someone call, “Norman, who’s that?”

Over his shoulder he called, “Just a minute, Princess, I’m in a conversation here.”

“I know that,” she called, “I asked who it was.”

To me he said, “Nobody named Rojas in the building unless it’s someone subletting, which we don’t allow.”

“Norman, did you hear me?”

“Come see for yourself. I can’t be yelling back and forth like this. It’s rude.”

A moment later his wife appeared, also short and round, but twenty years younger with a mop of dyed yellow hair.

“She’s looking for a woman named Solana Rojas.”

“We don’t have a Rojas.”

“I told her the same thing. I thought it might be someone you knew.”

I looked at the application again. “This says Apartment Nine.”

Princess made a face. “Oh, her. The lady in Nine moved three weeks ago—her and that lump of a son—but the name’s not Rojas. It’s Tasinato. She’s Turkish or Greek, something of the kind.”

“Cristina Tasinato?”

“Costanza. And don’t get us started. She left us with hundreds of dollars in damages we’ll never recoup.”

“How long did she live here?”

The two exchanged a look and he said, “Nine years? Maybe ten. She and her son were already tenants when I took over as the manager and that was two years ago. I never had occasion to check her place until she was gone. The kid had kicked a big hole in the wall, which must have created a draft because she was using old newspapers as insulation, stuffed between the studs. The dates on the papers went back to 1978. A family of squirrels had taken up residence and we’re still trying to get them out.”

Princess said, “The building was sold two months ago and the new owner raised the rent, which is why she moved. We’ve got tenants flocking off the premises like rats.”

“She didn’t leave a forwarding address?”

Norman shook his head. “Wish I could help you out, but she disappeared overnight. We went in and the place stunk so bad, we had to have a crew that usually handles crime scenes come in…”

Princess chimed in, “Like if a body’s been rotting on the floor for a week and the boards are soaked with that bubbly-looking scum?”

“Got it,” I said. “Can you describe her?”

Norman was at a loss. “I don’t know, average. Kinda middle-aged, dark…”

“Glasses?”

“Don’t think so. She might have wore them to read.”

“Height, weight?”

Princess said, “On the thin side, a little chunky through the middle, but not as big as me.” She laughed. “The son you couldn’t miss.”

“She called him Tiny, sometimes Tonto,” Norman said. “Babyfaced—great big hulk of a guy…”

“Real big,” she said. “And not right in the head. He’s mostly deaf so he talked all in grunts. His mom acted like she understood him, but none of the rest of us did. He’s an animal. Prowling the neighborhood at night. Scared the crap out of me more than once.”

Norman said, “Couple of women were attacked. He beat the shit out of this one gal. Hurt her so bad, she nearly had a nervous breakdown.”

“Charming,” I said. I thought about the goon I’d seen while I was cruising through Gus’s house. Solana had been charging Gus’s estate for the services of an orderly, who might well be her kid. “You wouldn’t happen to have the tenant application she filled out when she moved in.”

“You’d have to ask the new owner. The building’s thirty years old. I know there’s a bunch of boxes in storage from back when, but who knows what’s in ’em.”

“Why don’t you give her Mr. Compton’s phone number?”

Startled, I said, “Richard Compton?”

“Yeah, him. He also owns that building across the alley.”

“I do business with him all the time. I’ll call and ask if he objects to my searching the old files. I’m sure he won’t mind. In the meantime, if you hear from Ms. Tasinato, would you let me know?” I took out a business card, which Norman read and then passed to his wife.

“You think her and this Rojas woman are the same?” she asked.

“Looks that way to me.”

“She’s a bad one. Sorry we can’t tell you where she went.”

“Never mind. I know.”

Once the door was closed, I stood for a moment, relishing the information. Score one for me. Things were finally making sense. I’d done a background check on Solana Rojas, but in reality I was dealing with someone else—first name Costanza or Cristina, last name Tasinato. At some point there’d been a switch in ID, but I wasn’t sure when. The real Solana Rojas might not even be aware that someone had borrowed her résumé, her credentials, and her good name.

When I returned to my car, there was a white Saab parked behind me and a fellow was standing on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets, looking at the Mustang with a discerning eye. He wore jeans and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches: middle-aged, neatly clipped brown beard laced with gray, wide mouth, a mole near his nose and another on his cheek. “This yours?”

“It is. Are you a fan?”

“Yes ma’am. It’s a hell of a car. You happy with it?”

“More or less. Are you in the market?”

“I might be.” He patted his jacket pocket and I almost expected him to take out a pack of cigarettes or a business card. “Are you Kinsey Millhone, by any chance?”

“Yes. Do I know you?”

“No, but I believe this is yours,” he said, offering a long white envelope with my name scrawled across the front.

Puzzled, I took it and he touched my arm, saying, “Baby, you’ve been served.”

I felt my blood pressure drop and my heart skipped a beat. My soul and my body neatly detached from one another, like cars in a freight train when the coupling’s been pulled. I felt as if I were standing right next to myself, looking on. My hands were cold but shook only slightly as I opened the envelope and removed the Notice of Hearing and Temporary Restraining Order.

The name of the person asking for protection was Solana Rojas. I was named as the person to be restrained, my sex, height, weight, hair color, home address, and other relevant facts neatly typed in. The information was more or less accurate except for the weight, mine being ten pounds less. The hearing had been scheduled for February 9—Tuesday of the following week. In the meantime, under Personal Conduct Orders, I was forbidden to harass, attack, strike, threaten, assault, hit, follow, stalk, destroy personal property, keep under surveillance, or block the movements of Solana Rojas. I was also ordered to stay at least one hundred feet away from her, her home, and her vehicle—the low number of feet apparently taking into account the fact that I lived right next door. I was also forbidden to own, possess, have, buy or try to buy, receive or try to receive, or in any other way get a gun or a firearm. At the bottom of the paper in white letters on a block of black, it said This is a Court Order. Like I hadn’t guessed as much.

The process server watched me with curiosity as I shook my head. He was probably accustomed, as I was, to serving restraining orders on individuals in need of anger-management classes.

“This is so bogus. I never did a thing to her. She’s invented this shit.”

“That’s what the hearing’s for. You can tell the judge your side of it in court. Maybe he’ll agree. In the meantime, I’d get a lawyer if I were you.”

“I have one.”

“In that case, best of luck. Pleasure doing business. You made it easy for me.”

And with that, he got in his car and drove away.

I unlocked the Mustang and got in. I sat, engine off, my hands resting on the steering wheel while I stared out at the street. I glanced down at the restraining order I’d tossed on the passenger’s seat beside me. I picked it up and read it for the second time. Under Court Orders, in Section 4, the box marked “b” had been checked, specifying that if I didn’t obey these orders, I could be arrested and charged with a crime, in which case I might have to (a) go to jail, (b) pay a fine of up to $1,000, or (c) both. None of the choices appealed to me.

The bitch of it was she’d outmaneuvered me again. I’d thought I was so smart and she was already one step ahead of me. Which left me what? My options were now limited, but there had to be a way.

On the way home I stopped at a drugstore and picked up some 400 ASA color film. Then I drove back to my apartment and left my car in a weedy patch in the alleyway behind Henry’s house. I slipped through a gap in the back fence and let myself into my studio. I went upstairs and cleared the surface of the footlocker I use as a bed table, setting the reading lamp, alarm clock, and a big stack of books on the floor. I opened the trunk and took out my 35mm single-lens reflex camera. It wasn’t cutting-edge equipment, but it was all I had. I loaded the film and went down the spiral staircase. Now all I had to find was a vantage point that would allow me to fire off multiple views of my nemesis next door, making certain, at the same time, she didn’t catch sight of me and call the police. Surreptitious picture-taking would certainly qualify as surveillance.

When I told Henry what I was up to, he smiled impishly. “Your timing’s good at any rate. I saw Solana driving off as I was coming back from my walk.”

It was his clever idea to use a flexible silver sunscreen against the windshield of his station wagon, which he insisted on my borrowing. Solana knew my car too well and she’d be watching for me. He went out to the garage and came back with the screen he used to keep the interior temperatures down when he was parked in the sun. He cut a couple of nice round lens-sized holes in the material and handed me the car keys. I tucked the sunscreen under my arm and tossed it on the passenger’s seat before I backed the station wagon out of his garage.

There was still no sign of Solana’s car, though there was a handsome length of curb where she’d been parked earlier. I drove around the block and found a spot across the street, being careful to keep the requisite hundred feet between my person and hers, assuming she stayed where she belonged. Of course, if her parking spot was taken and she pulled her car in behind mine, I’d be jail bait for sure.

I popped open the sunscreen and set it against the windshield, then positioned myself, camera in hand, and zeroed in on Gus’s front door. I shifted my focus to the empty section of curb and adjusted the lens. I slouched down on my spine to wait, watching the front of the house through a narrow gap between the dashboard and the bottom of the screen. Twenty-six minutes later Solana turned the corner onto Albanil, half a block down the street. I watched her reclaim her parking place, probably feeling pleased with herself as she eased the car nose-first into the space. I sat up and braced my arms on the steering wheel as Solana emerged. The click and whir of the camera were soothing as I shot frame after frame. She stopped in her tracks and her head came up.

Uh-oh.

I watched her survey the street, her body language suggesting her hypervigilance. Her gaze swept the block to the corner and then swung back and fixed on Henry’s car. She stood and stared as though she could see me through the sunscreen. I shot six more frames, taking advantage of the moment, and then held my breath, waiting to see if she’d cross the street. I couldn’t very well start the car and drive away without first removing the sunscreen, thus exposing myself to view. Even if I managed that, I’d have to pass right by her and the game would be up.

31

SOLANA

Solana sat in the old man’s kitchen, smoking one of Tiny’s cigarettes, a guilty pleasure she allowed herself on rare occasions when she needed to concentrate. She’d poured herself a tot of vodka to sip while she counted and bundled up the cash she’d amassed. Some was money she’d kept in a savings account, acquired over the years from other jobs. She had $30,000 that had been happily earning interest while she worked in her current position. She’d spent the past week selling off the jewelry she’d collected from Gus as well as her prior clients. Some pieces she’d held for years, worried that the items might have been reported as stolen. She’d run an ad in the classified pages of the local paper, indicating a sale of “estate jewelry,” which sounded hoity-toity and refined. She’d had many calls from the bloodhounds who routinely combed that section, looking for a bargain born of someone else’s desperation. She’d had the jewelry appraised and she’d carefully calculated selling prices that would be tempting without generating questions about how she came by Edwardian and Art Deco diamond rings and bracelets by Cartier. Not that it was anybody’s business, but she’d invented a number of stories: a rich husband who died and left her with nothing but the jewelry he’d given her over the years; a mother who’d smuggled the bracelets and rings out of Germany in 1939; a grandmother who’d fallen on hard times and had no choice but to sell the treasured heirloom necklaces and earrings she’d been given by her own mother years before. People liked sob stories. People paid more for an item with a tragedy attached. These personal accounts of hardship and yearning imbued the rings and bracelets, brooches and pendants, with a value that exceeded the gold content and the stones.

She’d called the gallery owner every day for a week, asking if she’d located a buyer for the paintings. She suspected the woman was just putting her off, but she couldn’t be sure. In any event, Solana couldn’t afford to alienate her. She wanted the money. Gus’s antique furniture she’d sold piece by piece to various high-end dealers around town. He spent his days in the living room or his bedroom and didn’t seem to notice that the house was slowly being stripped. From those sales she’d netted a little over $12,000, which was not as much as she’d hoped. Adding that sum to the $26,000 the old man still had tucked away in combined savings, plus the $250,000 she was borrowing from the local bank as a loan against the house, she’d have $288,000, plus the 30 grand in her private account. The $250,000 wasn’t in her hands quite yet, but Mr. Larkin at the bank had told her the loan was approved and it was only a matter now of picking up the check. Today she had personal shopping to do, leaving Tiny to babysit Gus.

Tiny and the old man got along well. They liked the same television shows. They shared the same thick pizzas, loaded with junk, and the plastic tubs of cheap cookies she bought at Trader Joe’s. She’d taken lately to letting them smoke in the living room though it annoyed her no end. They both were hard of hearing, and when the high volume on the TV started wearing on her nerves she banished them to Tiny’s room, where they could watch the old TV set she’d brought from the apartment. Unfortunately, living with the two of them had spoiled the joys of the house, which now felt small and claustrophobic. Mr. Vronsky insisted on keeping the thermostat set at seventy-four degrees, which made her feel as though she were suffocating. It was time to disappear, but she hadn’t quite decided what to do with him.

She packed the cash in a duffel that she kept in the back of her closet. Once she was dressed, she checked her reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She looked good. She was wearing a business suit, dark blue and plain, with a simple blouse underneath. She was a respectable woman, interested in settling her affairs. She took her purse and paused in the living room on her way to the front door.

“Tiny.”

She had to say his name twice because he and the old man were engrossed in a TV show. She picked up the remote and muted the volume on the set. He looked up with surprise, irritated at the interruption. She said, “I’m going out. You stay here. Do you understand me? Don’t go anywhere. I’m counting on you to look after Mr. Vronsky. And keep the door locked unless there’s a fire.”

He said, “Okay.”

“Don’t answer the door to anyone. I want you here when I get back.”

“Okay!”

“And no back talk.”

She took the freeway out to La Cuesta, to the shopping mall she liked. She was especially fond of Robinson’s Department Store, where she bought her makeup, her clothing, and occasional household goods. Today she was shopping for suitcases for her upcoming departure. She wanted new luggage, handsome and expensive to mark the new life she was entering. It was almost like a trousseau, which she didn’t think young women set much store by these days. Your trousseau was everything fresh, carefully assembled and packed before you left on your honeymoon.

As she entered the store, there was a young woman coming out who held the door politely, allowing Solana to pass through. Solana glanced at her and then looked away, but not quickly enough. The woman’s name was Peggy something—maybe Klein, she thought—the granddaughter of a patient Solana had cared for until she died.

The Klein woman said, “Athena?”

Solana ignored her and walked into the store, heading for the escalator. Instead of letting the matter drop, the woman followed her in, calling after her in a strident voice. “Wait just a minute! I know you. You’re the woman who looked after my grandmother.”

She moved swiftly, hard on Solana’s heels, grabbing at her arm. Solana turned on her savagely. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My name is Solana Rojas.”

“Bullshit! You’re Athena Melanagras. You stole thousands of dollars from us and then you—”

“You’re mistaken. It must have been somebody else. I never laid eyes on you or anybody else in your family.”

“You fucking liar! My grandmother’s name was Esther Feldcamp. She died two years ago. You raided her accounts and you did worse, as you well know. My mother filed charges, but you were gone by then.”

“Get away from me. You’re delusional. I’m a respectable woman. I’ve never stolen a cent from anyone.” Solana got on the escalator and faced forward. The moving stairs carried her upward as the woman hung on to her from one step down.

The Klein woman was saying, “Someone help! Call the police!” She sounded deranged and others had turned to stare.

“Shut up!” Solana said. She turned and shoved her.

The woman stumbled down another step but clung to Solana’s arm like an octopus. At the top of the escalator, Solana tried to step away, but she ended up dragging the woman through the sportswear department. A clerk at the cash register watched with mounting concern as Solana took the Klein woman’s fingers and prized them off one by one, bending her index finger back until she shrieked.

Solana punched her once in the face, then shook herself free and hurried away. She tried not to run because running would only call greater attention to herself, but she needed to put as much distance as she could between herself and her accuser. She was frantic to locate an exit, but there was no sign of one, which meant it was probably behind her somewhere. Briefly she thought about finding a hiding place—one of the dressing rooms perhaps—but she was worried she’d be trapped. Behind her the Klein woman had persuaded the clerk to call security. She could see the two of them huddled together at the counter while over the intercom a voice intoned a store code that signified god knew what.

Solana scurried around the corner where she spotted the down escalator. She held on to the moving rail and took the steps down two at a time. People opposite her on the up escalator turned to look at her idly, but they didn’t seem to grasp the drama taking place.

Solana looked behind her. The Klein woman had trailed her and she was coming down the escalator steps at a pace that had her breathing down Solana’s neck. At ground level, as the woman drew close, Solana hauled back with her purse, swinging it hard until it caught the woman on the side of the head. Instead of backing off, the woman grabbed the purse and gave it a yank. The two wrestled with the bag, which was now hanging open. The Klein woman snatched her wallet, and Solana yelled, “Thief!”

A male customer in the men’s department moved in their direction, uncertain whether the situation required intervention. Everyone was fearful these days, reluctant to get involved. Suppose one of the struggling parties had a gun and a Good Samaritan was killed while trying to be of help? It was a stupid way to die and no one wanted to take the chance. Solana kicked the Klein woman twice in the shins. She went down, crying out in pain. The last flash Solana had of the woman, there was blood running down her legs.

Solana moved away as swiftly as she could. The woman had her wallet, but she still had everything else she needed: house keys, car keys, compact. The wallet she could do without. Thankfully she carried no cash, but it wouldn’t take the woman long to check the address listed on her driver’s license. She should have left the Other’s address as it was, but it seemed wiser at the time to change it to the apartment where she herself had been living. Once before, she’d applied for a job, retaining the Other’s address instead of substituting her own. The patient’s daughter had gone to the real address and knocked on the door. It didn’t take a minute for her to realize the woman she was talking to was someone other than the woman who was caring for her aged mother. Solana’d been forced to abandon that job, leaving behind additional precious cash she’d hidden in her room. Even the late-night trip back had netted her nothing since the locks had been changed.

She pictured the Klein woman talking to the police, weeping hysterically and babbling the story of her grammy and the larcenous companion hired to care for her. Solana didn’t have a record, but Athena Melanagras had been arrested once for drug possession. Just her bad luck. If she’d known, she never would have borrowed the woman’s identity. Solana knew complaints had been filed against her under her various aliases. If the Klein woman went to the police, the descriptions would add up. In the past, she’d left fingerprints behind. She knew now that was a terrible mistake, but it hadn’t occurred to her until later that she should have wiped down each place thoroughly before she moved on.

She hurried through the parking lot to her car and headed back to the freeway, taking the 101 south now to the Capillo off-ramp. The bank was downtown and despite the upsetting incident at the store, she wanted her money in hand. Luggage she could buy somewhere else. Or maybe she wouldn’t bother. Time was running short.

When she reached the intersection of Anaconda and Floresta, she circled the block, making sure no one was following her. She parked and went into the bank. Mr. Larkin, the manager, greeted her warmly and showed her to his desk, where he seated her graciously, treating her like a queen. Life was like this with money, people fawning; bowing and scraping. She held her purse in her lap like a prize. It was an expensive designer bag and she knew it made a good impression.

Mr. Larkin said, “Will you excuse me for just one second? I have a phone call.”

“Of course.”

She watched him cross the bank lobby and disappear through a door. While she waited she took out her compact and powdered her nose. She looked calm and confident, not like someone who’d just been attacked by a lunatic. Her hands were shaking, but she breathed deeply, working to appear nonchalant and unconcerned. She closed the compact.

“Ms. Tasinato?”

A woman had appeared behind her unannounced. Solana jumped and the compact flew out of her hand. She watched the arc of its descent, time slowing as the plastic casing hit the marble floor and bounced once. The refillable disk popped out and the hard circle of compressed powder broke into several pieces. The mirror in the lid of the compact shattered as well and fragments littered the floor. The one shard of mirror that remained in the case looked like a dagger, pointed and sharp. She pushed the broken compact aside with her foot. Someone else would have to clean up the mess. A broken mirror was bad luck. Breaking anything was bad, but a mirror was the worst.

“I’m so sorry I startled you. I’ll have someone take care of that. I don’t want you cutting your hand.”

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. I can get another one,” she said, but the heaviness had descended. Things had already gone wrong and now this. She’d seen it happen before, calamity piling on calamity.

She turned her attention to the woman, trying to suppress her distaste. This was no one she knew. She appeared to be in her thirties, definitely pregnant and probably in her seventh month, judging by the taut mound under her maternity smock. Solana checked for a wedding ring, which the woman wore. She disapproved nonetheless. She should quit her job and stay home. She had no business working in a bank, flaunting her condition without a hint of embarrassment. In three months’ time, Solana would see the ad she placed in the classifieds: Working mom needs experienced and reliable baby nurse. References required. Disgusting.

“I’m Rebecca Wilcher. Mr. Larkin was called away and asked me to assist you.” She sat down in his place.

Solana didn’t like doing business with women. She wanted to protest, but she held her tongue, anxious to get the transaction over with.

“Let me just take a quick look to familiarize myself with your loan papers,” she said. She began to flip pages, reading much too carefully. Solana could see her eyes tracing every line of print. She looked up and smiled briefly at Solana. “I see you were appointed Mr. Vronsky’s conservator.”

“That’s correct. His home is in desperate need of attention. The wiring’s old, the plumbing’s bad, and there’s no wheelchair ramp, which keeps him a virtual prisoner. He’s eighty-nine years old and unable to care for himself. I’m all he has.”

“I understand. I met him when I first started working here, but we haven’t seen him for months.” She set the file on the desk. “Everything seems to be in order. This will be submitted to the court for approval and once that’s done, we’ll be funding the loan. It looks like we’ll need one more form filled out, if you don’t mind. I have a blank one here you can complete and return.”

She reached in the drawer, checked through the files, and came up with a paper that she passed across the desk.

Solana looked at it with irritation. “What’s this? I filled out all the forms Mr. Larkin asked for.”

“It must have been an oversight. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“What’s the problem with the forms I gave you?”

“There’s no problem. This is something new the government requires. It shouldn’t take long.”

“I don’t have time for this. I thought everything was done. Mr. Larkin said all I had to do was stop by and he’d issue a check. That’s what he told me.”

“Not without the court’s approval. That’s standard procedure. We need a judge’s okay.”

“What are you saying, you doubt I’m entitled to the funds? You think the house doesn’t need work? You should come and see for yourself.”

“It’s not that. Your plans for the house sound wonderful.”

“The place is a fire hazard. If something isn’t done soon, Mr. Vronsky could burn to death in his bed. You can tell Mr. Larkin I said so. It will be on his head if anything happens. And yours, too.”

“I apologize for any misunderstanding. Perhaps I can have a quick word with the bank manager and we can straighten this out. If you’ll excuse me…”

The minute she’d moved away from her desk, Solana stood up, clutching her bag. She reached across the desk and picked up the manila folder containing all the paperwork. She moved toward the entrance, being careful to behave like someone with a legitimate purpose. Nearing the door, she looked down, holding up the file to conceal her features from the surveillance camera she knew was there. What was the matter with the woman? She hadn’t done anything to warrant suspicion. She’d been cooperative and agreeable, and this was how she was treated? She’d call later. She’d talk to Mr. Larkin and raise a fuss. If he insisted on her filling out the form, she’d do so, but she wanted him to know how annoyed she was. Maybe she’d take her business elsewhere. She’d mention that to him. Court approval could take a month and there was always the chance the transaction would come under scrutiny.

She retrieved her car from the parking lot and made a beeline for home, too upset to worry about the paintings in the trunk. She noticed other drivers glancing at the word DEAD scratched on her driver’s-side door. Maybe that hadn’t been such a good idea. The little hooligan she’d hired had done a good job, but now she was stuck with the damage. She might as well have been toting a banner, LOOK AT ME. I’M STRANGE. Her parking place was still available out in front of the house. She pulled in nose-first and then had to maneuver until the car was properly lined up with the curb.

It wasn’t until she got out and locked the car door behind her that she realized something was wrong. She stood stock-still and searched the street, her gaze moving from house to house. She tracked the scene to the corner and then her gaze slid back. Henry’s station wagon was parked on the far side of the street, three doors down, a silver sunscreen against the windshield, blocking any view of the interior. Why had he taken it out of the garage and left it on the street?

She watched the dappled sunlight reflecting off the glass. She thought she discerned small irregular shadows on the driver’s side, but at this remove, she wasn’t sure what she was looking at. She turned away, debating whether to cross the street and take a closer look. Kinsey Millhone wouldn’t dare defy the court order, but Henry might be watching her. She couldn’t think why he would, but it was wiser to behave as though she didn’t suspect.

She went into the house. The living room was empty, which meant that Tiny and Mr. Vronsky had gone down for their naps like good little boys. She picked up the telephone and dialed Henry’s number next door. After two rings, he picked up, saying, “Hello?”

She lowered the handset to the cradle without saying a word. If it wasn’t Henry, then who? The answer was obvious.

She went out the front door and down the steps. She crossed the street at an angle and walked directly to his car. This had to stop. She couldn’t have people spying on her. The rage rising in her throat threatened to choke her. She could see the door locks were up. She yanked open the driver’s-side door.

No one.

Solana took in a deep breath, her senses as keen as a wolf’s. Kinsey’s scent hung in the air—a light, but distinct mix of shampoo and soap. Solana put her hand on the seat, which she could have sworn was still warm. She’d missed her by moments and her disappointment was so sharp she nearly wailed aloud. She had to get herself under control. She closed her eyes, thinking, Calm. Be calm. No matter what was going on, she was still in charge. So what if Kinsey’d watched her getting out of her car? What difference did that make?

None.

Unless she was armed with a camera taking photographs. Solana put a hand to her throat. Suppose she’d seen the photo of the Other at the nursing home and wanted a recent photo of her to compare? She couldn’t take that chance.

Solana went back to the house and locked the front door behind her as though at any minute the authorities would arrive. She went into the kitchen and retrieved a spray bottle of cleanser from under the sink. She wet a sponge, squeezed out the moisture, and then saturated it with the cleaning solution. She began to wipe the place down, erasing all traces of herself, working her way through the house room by room. She’d catch the boys’ rooms later. In the meantime, she’d have to pack. She’d have to get Tiny’s things together. She’d have to get the car filled with gas. On the way out of town, she’d stop and pick up the paintings and take them to a gallery somewhere else. She’d be thorough this time, making no mistakes.

32

According to the restraining order, within twenty-four hours of my being served, I was required to turn in or sell any guns or firearms in my possession. I’m not a nut about guns, but the two I have I’m quite fond of. One is a 9mm Heckler & Koch P7M13; the other, a little Davis .32 caliber semiautomatic. Often I carry one of them, unloaded, in a briefcase in the backseat of my car. I keep ammunition close by as well; otherwise, what’s the point? My favorite gun of all time, the no-brand .32 caliber semiautomatic my aunt Gin had given me, was destroyed in a bomb blast some years before.

Reluctantly, I removed both guns from my office safe. I had two choices in dispossessing myself of my weapons. I could go to the police station and surrender them, watching as they were booked in and I was given a receipt. The problem with this option was that I knew a number of STPD officers and detectives, Cheney Phillips being one. The notion of running into one of them was more than I could bear. I chose instead to hand the guns over to a licensed gun dealer on upper State Street, who completed items 5 and 6 of the form I’d been given, which I then returned to the court clerk for filing. My guns would be returned to me only by judge’s orders.

On the way back to town I stopped at the courthouse and filed a response in opposition to Solana’s temporary restraining order, on the grounds that her assertions were factually untrue. Then I stopped by Lonnie Kingman’s office and had a chat with him. He agreed to go with me for my court date on Tuesday of the following week. “I don’t guess I have to remind you that if you violate the terms of the TRO, you can have your license yanked.”

“I have no intention of violating the court order. How else can I earn a living? I’ve done too many shit jobs in life. I’m partial to my current occupation. Anything else?”

“You might want to line up a couple of witnesses who’ll back up your version of events.”

“I’m sure Henry would be willing. I’ll have to think if there’s anyone else. She was clever about conducting our exchanges in private.”

When I got into the office there was a message from Lowell Effinger’s secretary, Geneva, on my answering machine, saying that Melvin Downs’s deposition subpoena for personal appearance was ready to be picked up. I was antsy anyway, not inclined to sit around the office waiting for the next blow to fall. Oddly enough, Melvin Downs had begun to feel like a pal, and my relationship with him cozy compared to my dealings with Solana, which had gone from bad to disastrous.

I got in the Mustang, made a quick stop at Effinger’s office for the paperwork, and headed for Capillo Hill. I turned left into the alley just shy of Palisade and parked behind the building that housed the laundromat and the dropoff location for Starting Over. The back door to the place was closed, but when I tried the handle it opened easily.

Melvin was perched on a stool at a counter that served as a work space. He’d filled a ceramic mug with lollipops, and I could see the cellophane wrapper he’d removed from the one he had in his mouth. The back rooms were cold and he’d kept on his brown leather bomber jacket. A damp breeze emanating from the laundromat in front smelled of powdered soap, bleach, and cotton garments being tumbled in oversized dryers. On the work space in front of him, there was a dismantled toaster. He’d removed the chassis from the frame. The naked appliance looked small and vulnerable, like a chicken denuded of its feathers. He shook his head slightly when he caught sight of me.

I put one hand in my jacket pocket, more from tension than the chill. In the other, I held the subpoena. “I thought you worked Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“Day of the week doesn’t matter much to me. I’ve got nothing else to do.” The lollipop must have been cherry, because his tongue was bright pink. He caught my look and held up the mug, offering me a sucker. I shook my head. The only flavor he’d stocked was cherry and while it was my favorite, it seemed inappropriate to accept anything from him.

“What’s wrong with the toaster?”

“Heating element and latch assembly. I’m just working on the latch.”

“You get a lot of toasters?”

“Those and hair dryers. Nowdays when a toaster goes bad, the first thing you think about is throwing it away. Appliances are cheap and if something breaks down, you buy new. Most of the time, the problem’s as simple as people not bothering to empty the crumb tray.”

“What, the sliding thing underneath?”

“Yes, ma’am. With this one, pieces of bread had fallen into the base and shorted out the heating element. Crumbs were jamming the assembly as well so I had to blow the latch clean and then lubricate it. Once I put it all back together, it should be right as rain. How’d you find me this time?”

“Oh, I have my little ways.”

I watched for a moment, trying to remember when I’d last emptied my crumb tray. Maybe that’s why my toast tended to be burned on one side and soft on the other.

He nodded at the paperwork. “That for me?”

I put it on the counter. “Yes. They’ve scheduled the deposition and this is the subpoena. If you like I can pick you up and bring you back here afterwards. They set it up for a Friday because I told them which days you were busy here.”

“Thoughtful.”

“That’s the best I can do.”

“No doubt.”

My gaze strayed to his right hand. “Tell me something. Is that a prison tattoo?”

He glanced at his tattoo, then put his thumb and index finger together to form a pair of lips, which seemed to part in anticipation of the next question. The eyes permanently inked on his knuckle really did create the illusion of a little face. “This is Tía.”

“I heard about her. She’s cute.”

He held his hand up close to his face. “Did you hear that?” he said to her. “She thinks you’re cute. You want to talk to her?”

He turned his hand and Tía seemed to study me with a certain bright interest. “Okay,” she said. The unblinking black eyes settled on mine. To him she said, “How much can I tell her?”

“You decide.”

“We were inside twelve years,” she said, “which is where we met.”

The falsetto voice he projected seemed real enough to me and I found myself addressing my questions to her. “Here in California?”

She turned and looked at him and then looked back at me. Despite her resemblance to a toothless crone, she managed to appear coy. “We’d prefer not to say. I will tell you this. He was such a good boy, he got out on an early release.” Tía bobbed over to him and gave him a big buss on the cheek. He smiled in response.

“What was he in for?”

“Oh, this and that. We don’t discuss it with people we’ve just met.”

“I figured it was a child molest since his daughter won’t let him see his grandsons.”

“Well, aren’t you quick to condemn,” she said, tartly.

“It’s just a guess.”

“He never laid a hand on those little boys and that’s the truth,” she said, indignant in his behalf.

“Maybe his daughter feels sex offenders aren’t that trustworthy,” I remarked.

“He tried talking her into supervised visits, but she wasn’t having any of it. He did everything he could to make amends, including a little side deal with some unsavory gents.”

“Meaning what?”

Tía tilted her head and gestured me closer, indicating that what she was going to say was highly personal. I leaned down and allowed her to whisper in my ear. I could have sworn I felt her breath stir against my neck. “There’s a house up in San Francisco where they take care of guys like him. Very tacky place. N-O-K-D.”

“Pardon?”

“‘Not our kind, dear.’”

“I don’t understand.”

“Castration.” Tía’s lips pursed at the word. Melvin watched her with interest, his expression blank.

“Like a hospital?”

“No, no. This is a private residence, where certain surgeries are done under the table, as it were. These weren’t licensed medical doctors, just men with tools and equipment who enjoyed cutting and sewing, relieving other fellows of their urges.”

“Melvin volunteered for that?”

“It was a means to an end. He needed to gain control of his impulses, instead of them controlling him.”

“Did it work?”

“In the main. His libido’s down to almost nothing and what desires he has left, he manages to subdue. He doesn’t drink or do drugs because he can’t predict what Demons will emerge. Sly? You have no idea. There’s no way to bargain with the Evil Ones. Once they’re up, they take charge. Sober, he’s a good soul. Not that he’ll ever convince his daughter of that.”

“She’s a hard-hearted girl,” he said.

Tía turned on him. “Hush. You know better. She’s a mom. Her first job is to protect her little kids.”

I spoke to Melvin. “Aren’t you required to register? I called the probation department and they never heard of you.”

“I registered where I was.”

“If you move, you’re supposed to reregister.”

Tía intervened. “Technically, yes, hon, but I’ll tell you how it goes. People find out what he was convicted of. Once they know, the whispering starts and then the outraged parents march up and down outside his house with picket signs. Then the news trucks and the journalists and he never has another moment’s peace.”

I said, “It’s not about him. It’s about the kids he abused. They’ll never get out from under that curse.”

Melvin cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for the past. I admit I did things and things were done to me…”

Tía cut in, “That’s right. All he wants to do now is watch over the little ones and keep them safe. What’s wrong with that?”

“He’s not supposed to have contact. He’s not supposed to be within a thousand yards of little kids. No schools, no playgrounds. He knows that.”

“All he does is look. He knows it’s wrong to touch so he doesn’t do that anymore.”

I looked at Melvin. “Why put yourself in harm’s way? You’re like a dry alcoholic working in a bar. The temptation’s right there and a day’s going to come when it’s too much.”

Tía clucked her disapproval. “I’ve told him that a hundred times myself, hon, but he can’t keep away.”

I couldn’t listen to any more of this stuff. “Can we discuss the deposition? You must have questions.”

Melvin’s attention remained fixed on the toaster. “If I agree, what prevents the opposing attorney from going after me? Isn’t that how they do it? You testify to something they don’t like and they turn it back on you. Show you’re a despicable ex-con and no one should listen to a word you say?”

I thought about Hetty Buckwald. “Probably. I won’t lie to you about that. On the other hand, you don’t show up and you’ll be cited for contempt of court.”

Tía bobbed up and down, saying, “Oh please. You think he gives a shit about that?”

“Can’t you talk him into it?”

“Give the man a break. He’s paid enough already.”

I waited, but neither one said another word. I could only push the point so far. I left the subpoena on the counter and went out the front.

Just to make the afternoon perfect, when I reached the office I received a phone call from Melanie Oberlin, who jumped right in. “Kinsey, what the hell is going on? Solana said she had to get a restraining order out on you.”

“Thanks, Melanie. I appreciate the support. Would you like to hear my side of it?”

“Not particularly. She told me you called the county on her and they dismissed the complaint.”

“Did she also mention that a woman named Cristina Tasinato has been appointed Gus’s conservator?”

“His what?”

“I’m assuming you know the term.”

“Well, yes, but why would anyone do that?”

“A better question is, who’s Cristina Tasinato?”

“Okay. Who is she?”

“She and the woman we know as Solana Rojas are the same person. She’s busy working her way through every cent he has. Hold on a second and I’ll check my notes so I can give you the exact figures. Here we go. By way of compensation, she’s submitted invoices to the court for $8,726.73 for Gus’s home care, courtesy of Senior Health Care Management, Inc. That includes paying her half-witted son, who’s posing as an orderly while he sleeps all day long. There’s also an invoice from her attorney for $6,227.47 for ‘professional services’ as of January 15, 1988.”

There was a wonderful moment of silence. “Can they do that?”

“Kiddo, I hate to sound cynical, but the point is to help the elderly with big nest eggs. Why have yourself appointed a conservator for someone living on a fixed income? It makes no sense.”

“This is making me sick.”

“As well it should.”

“But what’s this about the county?”

“That’s the question you started with. I reported Solana to the Tri-Counties Agency for the Prevention of Elder Abuse and they sent out a caseworker to investigate. Solana told the gal she’d begged you repeatedly to come to Gus’s aid, but you refused. She said Gus was incompetent to handle his daily needs and she nominated herself—I should say, Cristina Tasinato—to oversee his affairs.”

“That’s crazy. Since when?”

“A week, maybe ten days ago. Of course everything’s been backdated to coincide, fortuitously, with the phony Solana’s arrival on the scene.”

“I don’t believe this!”

“I didn’t either, but it’s true.”

“You know I never refused to help him. That’s a goddamn lie.”

“As is much of what Solana says about me.”

“Why didn’t you call me? I don’t understand why I’m just now hearing this. You could have warned me.”

I squinted at the phone, amazed at how accurately I’d predicted her reaction. She’d already shifted all the blame to me.

“Melanie, I’ve been telling you Solana was up to something, but you refused to believe me. What’s the point of another call?”

“You’re the one who said she was okay.”

“Right, and you were the one who told me to limit my investigation to her degree, the last place she worked, and a couple of references.”

“I said that?”

“Yes, dear. I make a habit of writing down the instructions I’m given in a case like this. Now will you get off your high horse and help me out?”

“Doing what?”

“For one thing, you could fly out and testify on my behalf when I make my court appearance.”

“For what?”

“The restraining order. I can’t get close to Gus because Solana’s there full-time, but you’re still entitled to see him unless she gets an order out on you. You could also initiate the paperwork challenging her appointment. You’re his only living relative and you’re entitled to a say. Oh, and while I have you on the line, I might as well alert you. Once I type up my report, I’m sending a copy to the DA. Maybe they can step in and put a stop to her.”

“Fine. Do that. I’ll be out as soon as I can make arrangements.”

“Good.”

That matter taken care of, I put a call through to Richard Compton, who said he’d get in touch with Norman and tell him to give me free rein searching records in the basement of the complex. I gave him a rough estimate of when I’d be there and he said he’d clear it. I had two stops to make before I hit Colgate, the first being the drugstore where I’d left the canister of film the day before. Prints in hand, I drove over to the Sunrise House and pushed through the front door, feeling an easy familiarity since I’d been there before. I’d called in advance and spoken to Lana Sherman, the LVN I’d consulted during the background check on Solana Rojas. She said she could spare me a few minutes as long as no emergencies arose.

In the lobby, the white-flocked artificial Christmas tree had been dismantled and stuffed back in its box until the holidays came around again. On the antique table that served as a reception desk, a white-painted branch had been placed in a Chinese ginger jar and hung with pink and red hearts in honor of Valentine’s Day, coming up in two weeks.

The receptionist directed me to One West, the postsurgery floor. Passing down the hall, I caught sight of Lana in a four-bed ward distributing meds in white pleated paper cups. I waved and pointed, indicating that I’d wait for her at the nurse’s station. I found a molded gray plastic chair in a little visitors alcove and picked up a tattered magazine called Modern Maturity.

Lana appeared moments later, rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the vinyl tile. “I’ve already had my break so I don’t have long.” She sat down in a matching plastic chair next to mine. “So how’s Solana doing with the job?”

“Not well,” I said. I’d been debating how candid to be, but I couldn’t see an advantage in holding back. I wanted answers and there was no point in beating around the bush. “I’d like you to look at some photographs and tell me who this is.”

“Like a lineup?”

“Not quite.” I took the bright yellow envelope of photographs from my shoulder bag and passed them over to her. Out of the roll of thirty-six pictures, I’d netted ten clear shots, which she sorted through rapidly before she handed them back. “That’s a nurse’s aide named Costanza Tasinato. She worked here the same time as Solana.”

“Did you ever hear her use the name Cristina?”

“She didn’t use it, but I know it was her first name because I saw it on her driver’s license. Costanza was her middle name and she went by that. What’s this about?”

“She’s been passing herself off as Solana Rojas for the past three months.”

Lana made a face. “That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

“You can call yourself anything you like as long as there’s no intent to defraud. In this case, she’s claiming she’s an LVN. She’s moved herself into the patient’s house, along with her son, who I gather is a lunatic. I’m trying to put a stop to her before she does any more harm. You’re sure this is Costanza and not Solana?”

“Take a look at the wall near the nurse’s station. You can judge for yourself.”

I followed her into the corridor where photographs had been framed and hung, showing the Employee of the Month for the past two years. I found myself staring at a color photograph of the real Solana Rojas, who was both older and heavier than the one I knew. No one acquainted with the real Solana would be fooled by the impersonation, but I had to give Ms. Tasinato credit for the subterfuge. “You think they’d let me borrow this?”

“No, but the woman in the office will make you a copy if you ask nice.”

I left Sunrise House and drove to Colgate, parking as I had before across from the apartment complex on Franklin Avenue. When I knocked at Apartment 1, Princess came to the door, holding a finger to her lips. “Norman’s napping,” she whispered. “Let me get the key and I can take you down.”

“Down” turned out to be a basement, a rare phenomenon in California, where so many buildings are constructed on slab. This one was dank, a sprawling warren of cinder block rooms, some subdivided into padlocked wire enclosures the tenants used for storage. Lighting consisted of a series of bare bulbs that hung from a low ceiling overrun with furnace ducts, plumbing, and electrical pipes. It was the kind of place that made you hope earthquake predictions were off the mark instead of imminent. If the building collapsed I’d never find my way out, assuming I was still alive.

Princess showed me into a narrow room entirely lined with shelves. I could almost identify by type the managers who had come and gone in the thirty years the building had been occupied. One was a neatnik, who’d filed all the paperwork in matching banker’s boxes. The next guy took a haphazard approach, using a strange mix of liquor cartons, Kotex boxes, and old wooden milk crates. Another had apparently purchased his boxes from a U-Haul company and each was neatly stenciled with the contents in the upper left-hand corner. In the past ten years, I counted six managers altogether. Norman and Princess surprised me by favoring opaque plastic bins. Each had a slot in front where one or the other had neatly printed and date-ordered a list of rental applications and assorted paperwork, including receipts, utilities, bank statements, repair bills, and copies of the owner’s tax returns.

Princess left me to my own devices, as eager as I was for sunlight and fresh air. I followed the line of boxes toward the far end of the room where the light wasn’t as good and cracks in the outside wall created an illusion of dripping water, though there was none in evidence. Naturally, as an ex-cop and highly trained investigator, I was worried about vermin: millipedes, jumping spiders, and the like. I followed the dates on the boxes, back as far as 1976, which was in excess of the parameters Norman had suggested. I started with the banker’s boxes, which seemed friendlier than the boxes that had the word KOTEX stamped all over them. The earliest date I spotted was 1953 and I assumed the building had been completed right about then.

One at a time, I hauled the first three 1976 boxes from the shelf and carried them to the better-lighted end of the room. I took the lid off the first and finger-walked through two inches of files, trying to get a feel for the order. The system was random, consisting of a series of manila folders, grouped according to the month, but with no attempt to alphabetize the names of the tenants. Each banker’s box contained three or four years’ worth of applications.

I shifted my attention to 1977. I sat on an overturned plastic milk crate, pulled a quarter of the folders out, and placed them on my lap. My back was already hurting, but I proceeded doggedly. The paper smelled like mildew and I could see where the occasional box had sucked up water like a wick. The years 1976 and 1977 were a bust, but in the third pile of folders for 1978, I found her. I recognized the neat block lettering before I saw the name. Tasinato, Cristina Costanza, and her son, Tomasso, who was twenty-five at the time. I got up and crossed the room until I was standing directly beneath a forty-watt bulb. Cristina worked cleaning houses, employed by a company called Mighty Maids, which had since gone out of business. On the assumption that she lied on a regular basis, I ignored most of the data except for one line. Under “Personal References,” she’d listed an attorney named Dennis Altinova, with an address and phone number I already knew. In the space marked “Relationship,” she’d block-printed the word “BROTHER.”

I set the application aside and repacked the boxes, which I returned to the shelf. I was tired and my hands were filthy, but I was feeling jazzed. I’d packed a lot into my day and I was close to nailing Cristina Tasinato.

It wasn’t until I’d left the basement and was coming up the stairs that I spotted the woman waiting at the top. I hesitated at the sight of her. She was in her early thirties, wearing a suit with a short skirt, hose, and low heels. She was attractive and well groomed, except for the heavy bruises marking both shins and the right side of her face. The dark red streaks around the orb of her eye would turn black and blue by nightfall. “Kinsey?”

“That’s right.”

“Princess told me you were down here. I hope I’m not interrupting your work.”

“Not at all. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Peggy Klein. I think the two of us are looking for the same woman.”

“Cristina Tasinato?”

“When I knew her she was using the name Athena Melanagras, but the address on her driver’s license is this one.” She held out the license and I found myself looking at Solana Rojas, who now had one more alias to add to her string.

“Where did you get this?”

“We had a knock-down, drag-out fight at Robinson’s earlier today. I was going out the side door as she was coming in. She was wearing glasses and her hair was different, but I knew her right away. She worked for my grandmother toward the end of her life when she needed full-time care. After Gram died, my mother discovered she’d forged Gram’s signature on thousands of dollars’ worth of checks.”

“She knew you’d recognized her?”

“Oh sure. She spotted me about the same time I spotted her, and you should have seen her take off. She made it as far as the escalator before I caught up with her.”

“You went after her?”

“I did. I know it was dumb, but I couldn’t help myself. She dragged me all over the place, but I wouldn’t let go. I was doing all right until she punched me. She whacked me with her purse and kicked the shit out of me, but I grabbed her wallet in the process and that’s what brought me out here.”

“I hope you filed a police report.”

“Trust me. There’s already a warrant out for her arrest.”

“Good for you.”

“There’s more. Gram’s doctor told us she died of congestive heart failure, but the pathologist who did the autopsy said asphyxiation and heart failure share some of the same features—pulmonary edema and congestion and what he called petechial hemorrhages. He said someone put a pillow over her face and smothered her to death. Guess who?”

“Solana killed her?”

“Yes, and the police suspect she’d probably done it before. Old people die every day and nobody thinks a thing about it. The police did what they could, but by then she was gone. Or so we thought. We just assumed she’d left town, but here she is again. How stupid could she be?”

“Greedy’s a better word. She’s all over the poor old guy who lives next door to me and she’s sucking him dry. I’ve tried to put a stop to her, but I’m operating at a disadvantage. She has a restraining order out against me so if I even look at her cross-eyed, she’ll have me in jail.”

“Well, you better find a way around it. Killing my Gram was the last thing she did before she disappeared.”

33

I had Peggy Klein follow me home in her car, which she parked in the alley behind Henry’s garage. I found parking on the street in front, six cars away from Solana’s. I went through the gate and around the side of the studio. Peggy was waiting by the gap in the back fence, which I held aside for her as she slipped through. Henry had a real gate, but it was unusable because both his gate and the fence were weighted down with morning glories. I said, “Great timing, your showing up at Solana’s apartment complex when you did.”

“When I showed Norman and Princess the driver’s license, they knew exactly what was going on.”

Peggy followed me to Henry’s back door, and when he came to let me in I did the introductions.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“We’re going to get Gus out of there. I’ll let her fill you in while I whip over to my place and pick up a few tools.”

I left the two of them to sort themselves out. I unlocked my door and went up the spiral stairs. For the second time in two days, I cleared the top of my footlocker and opened the lid. I took out my fanny pack. I found the flashlight and checked the batteries, which were strong, and I tucked it in my pack along with a set of key picks in a nifty leather case given to me by a burglar of my acquaintance some years before. I was also the proud possessor of a battery-operated pick gun, given to me by another dear friend who was currently in jail and therefore had no need for such specialized equipment. In the interest of virtue, I hadn’t done any serious breaking and entering for some time, but this was a special occasion, and I hoped my skills weren’t too rusty to do the job. I snapped the fanny pack around my waist and returned to Henry’s in time to catch the back end of Peggy’s tale. Henry and I exchanged a look. We both sensed we’d have one chance to rescue Gus. If we didn’t pull it off, then Gus might well end up like Gram.

Henry said, “Oh, boy. You’re taking a hell of a risk.”

“Any questions?”

“What about Solana?”

“I’m not harassing her,” I said.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got that under control. Peggy’s going to make a call. I gave her the rundown on the situation and she suggested a plan just about guaranteed to send Solana scurrying. Mind if we use your phone?”

“Be my guest.”

I wrote Gus’s number on the scratch pad Henry kept by the phone and I watched Peggy punch in the numbers. Her expression shifted when the line was picked up and I tilted my head close to the handset so I could hear the conversation.

“May I speak to Ms. Tasinato?” she said, smoothly. She had a lovely phone manner, pleasant and authoritative, with a hint of warmth in her voice.

“Yes, this is she.”

“This is Denise Amber. I’m Mr. Larkin’s assistant at Santa Teresa Savings and Loan. I understand there was a problem about the funding of your loan. He asked me to call and tell you how sorry he is for any distress it might have caused.”

“That’s right. I was very upset and I’m thinking about changing banks. You can tell him I said so. I’m not used to being treated like that. He told me to come in and pick up the check and then that woman—the pregnant one—”

“Rebecca Wilcher.”

“That’s her. She handed me another form to fill out when I’d already given Mr. Larkin everything he asked for. And then she had the nerve to tell me the funds wouldn’t be available until the judge approved.”

“Which is why I’m calling. I’m afraid Mrs. Wilcher and Mr. Larkin got their wires crossed. She wasn’t aware he’d already cleared the matter with the court.”

“He did?”

“Of course. Mr. Vronsky’s been a valued customer for many years. Mr. Larkin made a point of expediting the approval process.”

“I’m happy to hear that. I have a contractor coming here on Monday with a proposal all drawn up. I promised him a deposit so he can start the electrical work. Right now, the wiring’s so frayed, I can smell the scorches. I plug in an iron and the toaster at the same time and all the lights go out. Mrs. Wilcher didn’t even express her concern.”

“I’m sure she had no idea what you’ve been dealing with. The reason I called is that I have your check at my desk. The bank closes at five o’clock, so if you like I can tuck it in the mail and save you the trip through rush-hour traffic.”

Solana was silent for half a beat. “That’s very kind of you, but I may be going out of town soon. The mail in this neighborhood is slow to arrive and I can’t afford a delay. I’d prefer to pick it up in person and deposit the money in an account I set up especially for this purpose. Not your bank. This is the trust company I’ve been dealing with for years.”

“Whatever’s most convenient. If tomorrow works better for you, we open at nine.”

“Today’s fine. I’m tied up with a little something at the moment, but I can set that aside and be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Wonderful. I’m leaving for the day, but all you have to do is ask at the teller’s window. I’ll have the check in an envelope with your name on it. I’m sorry I can’t be here to deliver it personally.”

“Not a problem. Which window?”

“The first. Just inside the door. I’ll walk the envelope over as soon as we finish our conversation.”

“I appreciate this. It’s a great relief,” Solana said.

Peggy hung up, smiling with satisfaction. I was happy to introduce her to the joy of telling fibs. She’d been worried she couldn’t pull it off, but I told her anyone who lied to little kids about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny could surely manage this.

Henry positioned himself at the dining room window and kept an eye on the street. Within minutes, Solana appeared and hurried to her car. As soon as Henry signaled that she’d pulled away, I was out the back door and slipping through the hedge. Peggy pushed through the bushes after me, doing god knows what damage to her panty hose. “Who cares?” she said, when I cautioned her.

“You have your car keys?” I asked.

She patted her pocket. “I locked my purse in the trunk so we’re good to go.”

“You have a talent for skulduggery, I admire that. What sort of work do you do?” I asked, as we climbed the porch steps.

“I’m a stay-at-home mom. We’re a rare breed these days. Half the mothers I know hang on to their jobs because they can’t handle being at home with their own kids full-time.”

“How many do you have?”

“Two girls—six and eight. They’ve got a playdate at a friend’s, which is why I’m free. You have kids?”

“Nope. I’m not entirely sure I’m the type.”

Henry had gone out to the street with his canvas gloves and a few gardening tools, stationing himself close to Gus’s front walk, where he’d dig industriously. The grass at the curb was dormant and looked as dead as dirt, so if Solana found him weeding, I wasn’t sure how he was going to explain himself. He’d think of some way to bamboozle her. She probably knew as much about gardening as she did about real estate.

My big worry was Solana’s son. I’d warned Peggy about him, but I hadn’t gone into much detail for fear of scaring her off. I peered through the glass-paneled back door. The kitchen lights had been turned off. The living room lights were out as well, but I could hear the constant blast from a television set, which meant Tiny was probably home. If Solana had taken him to the bank with her, Henry would have said so before we embarked. I tried the knob just in case she’d left the house open. I knew better, but think how silly I’d have felt using a pick gun on an unlocked door.

I hitched the fanny pack around my waist from the back to the front and removed my torque wrench and the pick gun, my best bet for a speedy entry. The five picks in the leather case required more time and patience, but might come in handy as backup. In my younger days, I was more skilled with a rocker pick, but I was out of practice and didn’t want to take the chance. By my calculations, Solana’s trip to the bank and back would occupy fifteen minutes each way. We were also counting on an additional delay while she argued with the teller about the nonexistent check promised to her by the nonexistent Ms. Amber. If Solana became belligerent, security would step in and have her escorted off the premises. In any event, it wouldn’t take her long to figure out she’d been duped. The question was, would she make the connection between the ruse and our assault on the fort? She probably thought she had me under her thumb with the restraining order in place. Peggy Klein, she hadn’t counted on. Bad break for her—Peggy, the housewife, was game for anything.

I took out the pick gun and set to work. It was a two-handed operation, employing a torsion wrench in my left and the pick gun in the right. The mechanism was ingenious. Once the pick gun was inserted in the lock, the squeezing of the trigger activated an internal mallet that compressed an adjustable spring. If all went well, the rapid oscillation of the pick would coax the pins up one by one, holding them above the shear line. By applying a steady pressure with the torque wrench, once all the pins had been breached, the plug would be free to turn and I’d be in.

The mechanism made a pleasant little clicking noise as I maneuvered it. The sound put me in mind of an electric stapler firing staples into paper. Peggy hovered at my shoulder but mercifully asked no questions. I could tell she was nervous because she shifted restlessly, arms folded tightly as though to keep herself in check. “I should have peed while I had the chance,” was the only comment she made. Already, I was wishing she hadn’t mentioned it. We were in enemy territory and we couldn’t afford to pause to take a whiz.

I’d been at it less than a minute when the lock yielded. I tucked my tools away and opened the kitchen door with care. I stuck my head in. The booming from the television originated from one of the three bedrooms that opened off the hall, and the sound of canned laughter was loud enough to make the kitchen curtains vibrate. There was a strong smell of bleach and I could see a bottle of cleanser sitting on the counter with a damp sponge nearby. I moved into the room and Peggy slipped in after me. I peered around the kitchen door into the corridor. The auditory onslaught was coming from Tiny’s room at the end of the hall. I signaled to Peggy, pointing to the third bedroom, where the door was slightly ajar. I heard Tiny shout out a sentence in response to something on the TV, but his words were formless. I hoped his limited intelligence wouldn’t interfere with his ability to pay attention to the program.

My first job was to slip into the living room and unlock the front door in case we needed Henry’s assistance in the house. He’d apparently left his tools at the curb, mere props in the drama that was playing out. I could see him standing on the porch, his attention riveted to the empty street. He was the lookout man and our success depended on his spotting Solana’s car and giving us sufficient warning to get the hell out. I turned the thumb lock and secured it in the open position, then returned to the hall where Peggy was waiting, her face pale. I could see she hadn’t developed my appetite for danger.

Gus’s bedroom was the first on the right. The door was shut. I closed my fingers around the knob and turned it with caution until I felt the latch bolt ease out of the switch plate. I opened the door halfway. Curtains had been drawn and the light coming through the window shades gave the room a sepia cast. The air smelled of unwashed feet, menthol, and urine-damp sheets. A humidifier was hissing away in one corner of the room, giving us another layer of sound cover.

I stepped into the room and Peggy followed. I left the door open a crack. Gus was propped up against the pillows, motionless. His face was turned toward the door and his eyes were closed. I stared at his diaphragm, but there was no comforting rise and fall. I hoped I wasn’t looking at a guy in the early phases of rigor mortis. I crossed to the bed and laid two fingers on his hand, which was warm to the touch. His eyes came open. He was having trouble with his focus, his eyes not quite tracking in unison. He seemed disoriented and I wasn’t sure he remembered where he was. Whatever meds Solana had him on, he wasn’t going to be much help.

Our immediate problem was to get him on his feet. His pajamas were flimsy cotton, his bare feet as long and thin as a saint’s. As frail as he was, I didn’t want him navigating the outdoors without a wrap of some kind. Peggy got down on her hands and knees and fished a pair of slippers from under the bed. She gave me one slipper and we each took a foot. I had a problem because his toes were curled and I couldn’t force the slipper onto his foot. When she saw my plight, she reached over and pressed her thumb against the ball of the foot with all the skill of a mother wrestling a toddler into hard-soled shoes. His toes relaxed and on the slipper went.

I checked the closet, which yielded nothing in the way of an overcoat. Peggy started opening and closing dresser drawers, apparently without success. She finally came up with a woolly sweater, which didn’t look all that warm but would have to suffice. She freed Gus from the tangle of covers while I moved him forward and away from the pillows. I was working to get him into his sweater, noting that his arms were hinged wrong. Peggy moved me aside and employed another mommy trick that got the job done. Together we grabbed his legs and swung them over the side. There was an afghan folded at the foot of the bed. I shook it out and wrapped it across his shoulders like a cloak.

From down the hall I heard manic theme music erupt as a game show came on. Tiny was singing along in a loud tuneless moan. He yelled a word and I realized belatedly he was calling Gus’s name. Peggy and I exchanged a look of dismay. She swung Gus’s legs back and pulled the spread up to conceal his slippered feet. I whisked off the afghan and flung it to the bottom of the bed while she removed the sweater in a single smooth action and shoved it under the blanket. We heard Tiny clump into the bathroom. Seconds later, he was pissing with a force that mimicked a waterfall pouring into a metal bucket. For emphasis, he farted one long musical note.

He flushed the toilet—good boy—and shuffled down the hall in our direction. I pushed Peggy and the two of us took silent giant steps, trying to clear the field. We stood motionless behind the door as he swung it open and leaned in. Big mistake. I could see his face reflected in the mirror hanging above the chest of drawers. I thought my heart would stop. If he glanced to his right, his view of us would be as clear as our view of him. I’d never actually seen him, except for the one encounter where I’d stumbled across him sleeping in what I’d thought was an empty house. He was enormous, with a wide meaty neck and ears set low on his head like a chimp’s. He had a ponytail down his back, secured with what looked like a rag. He vocalized what might have been a sentence, complete with an upward tilt at the end to indicate a question. I gathered he was urging Gus to join him for the laugh-fest in the other room. I could see Gus on the bed guilelessly flick a look in our direction. I wagged a finger like a metronome and then put it to my lips.

In a feeble voice, Gus said, “Thank you, Tiny, but I’m tired now. Maybe later.” He closed his eyes, as though to nap.

Out came another garbled sentence and Tiny withdrew. I listened to him shuffling down the hall, and as soon as I judged he was settled on his bed, we went into high gear again. I pulled the covers back. Peggy guided Gus’s arms into his sweater and then swung his legs over the side of the bed. I draped the afghan across his shoulders. Gus understood our intentions but he was too weak to assist us. Peggy and I each took an arm, mindful of how painful our touch must be when he had so little flesh on his bones. The minute he was on his feet, his knees buckled under him and we had to shore him up before he fell.

We guided him toward the door, which I pushed open to the full. At the last minute, I placed his hand on the frame for balance and whipped into the bathroom, where I snagged his medications and zipped them into my fanny pack. At his side again, I took Gus’s weight on my shoulder, anchoring his arm for stability. We struggled out into the hall. The high-decibel sounds from the television masked our halting advance, at the same time making the threat of discovery seem more immediate. If Tiny stuck his head out of the bedroom door, we were screwed.

Gus’s pace was slow, progressing by way of baby steps that advanced him inches at a time. Covering the fifteen feet from the bedroom to the end of the hall took the better part of two minutes, which doesn’t sound like much time unless Solana Rojas was on her way home. When we reached the kitchen door, I glanced to my right. Henry didn’t dare bang on the glass, but he was waving and pointing frantically, making hurry-up motions and sawing an index finger across his throat. Solana had apparently turned the corner from Bay to Albanil. Henry disappeared and I had to trust him to save himself while Peggy and I focused on the task at hand.

Peggy was about my size, and we were both laboring to keep Gus upright and on the move. He was light as a stick, but his balance was off and his legs would give way every couple of steps. The journey across the kitchen floor proceeded as though in slow motion. We eased him out the back door, which I had the presence of mind to close behind us. I wasn’t sure what Solana would think when she found the front door unlocked from inside. I was hoping she’d blame Tiny. From the street, I heard the muffled slamming of a car door. I made a little sound in my throat and Peggy shot me a look. We doubled our efforts.

Getting down the back porch steps was a nightmare, but time was too short to worry about what would happen if Gus fell. The afghan trailed behind him and first one of us and then the other would get a foot tangled in the wool. Peggy and I were half a step away from stumbling, and I could picture all three of us going down in a heap. We didn’t exchange a word, but I could tell she was feeling the same strain as I was, trying to hurry him to safety before Solana entered the house, checked his room, and discovered he was gone.

Halfway down the back walk, in a wonderful grasp of the obvious, Peggy reached down and put an arm under Gus’s legs. I did the same and we lifted him, forming a chair with our arms. Gus had a trembling arm around each of us, holding on for dear life as we sidled the length of the walk as far as Gus’s back gate. There was a shriek of rusty metal hinges when we opened it, but by then we were so close to freedom that neither of us hesitated. We staggered the twenty steps down the alley to her car. Peggy unlocked the front door, flung the back door open, and settled him on the backseat. He had the presence of mind to lie down to conceal himself from view. I took his prescription meds from my fanny pack and put them near him on the seat. I was arranging the afghan over him when he grabbed my hand. “Careful.”

“I know it hurts, Gus. We’re doing the best we can.”

“I mean, you. Be careful.”

“I will,” I said, and to Peggy, “Go.”

Peggy closed the car door, shutting it with the tiniest click. She moved to the driver’s-side door and slid under the wheel, shutting her door with scarcely any sound. She started the car as I slipped through the fence into Henry’s backyard. She pulled away slowly, but then accelerated with a snap of gravel. The plan was for her to take Gus straight to the ER at St. Terry’s, where she’d have a doctor examine him and admit him if necessary. I wasn’t sure how she’d explain their relationship unless she simply presented herself as a neighbor or friend. No reason to mention the conservatorship that had made him a virtual prisoner. We’d had no discussion on the subject beyond the initial rescue, but I knew that in saving Gus, she was reaching back in time far enough to save her Gram.

Henry appeared around the corner of the studio and racewalked across the patio. There was no sign of his garden tools so he’d apparently abandoned them. When he was in range of me, he took me by the elbow and herded me toward his back door and into the kitchen. We shed our jackets. Henry turned the thumb bolt and then sat down at the kitchen table while I went to the phone. I put a call through to Cheney Phillips at the police department. Cheney worked vice, but I knew he’d be quick to grasp the situation and set the proper machinery in motion. Once I had him on the line, I bypassed the niceties and told him what was going on. According to Peggy, there was already a warrant out for Solana. He listened intently and I could hear him tapping away on his computer, pulling up wants and warrants under her various aliases. I gave him Solana’s current whereabouts and he said he’d take care of it. That was that.

I joined Henry at the kitchen table, but both of us were too anxious for idleness. I picked up the newspaper, opened it at random to the op-ed page. People were idiots if the opinions I read were any indication. I tried the front section. There were the usual troubles in the world, but none of them matched the drama we’d launched here at home. Henry’s knee was jumping and his foot made little tapping sounds on the floor. He got up and crossed to the kitchen counter, where he plucked an onion from a wire basket and removed the papery outer skin. I watched as he cut the onion in half and again in quarters, reducing it to a dice so small it sent tears running down his cheeks. Chopping was his remedy for most of life’s ills. We waited, the silence broken only by the ticking of the clock as the second hand swept the face.

With a rattle of newsprint, I turned to the “Business” section and studied a spiky graph that depicted major market trends from 1978 to the present. I hoped the boring article would settle my nerves, but it didn’t seem to help. I kept expecting to hear Solana shriek at the top of her lungs. She’d start by abusing her son, and after berating him at length she’d appear like a banshee pounding on Henry’s door, wailing, screaming, and otherwise denouncing us. With luck, the cops would show up and take her away before she managed any further acting out.

Instead of uproar, there was nothing.

Silence and more silence.

The phone rang at 5:15. I reached for the handset myself because Henry was busy assembling a meatloaf, his fingers squishing oatmeal, ketchup, and raw eggs into a pound of ground beef.

“Hello?”

“Hey, this is Peggy. I’m still at St. Terry’s, but I thought I better bring you up to date. Gus was admitted. He’s a mess. Nothing major, but serious enough to require a couple of days’ care. He’s malnourished and dehydrated. He has a low-level bladder infection and his heart is acting up. Bruises galore, plus a hairline fracture in the radius of his right arm. From the X-rays, the doctor says it looks like it’s been there a while.”

“Poor guy.”

“He’ll be fine. Of course, he didn’t have his ID or his Medicare card, but the admissions clerk looked up his records from a previous hospitalization. I explained the security issues and the doctor agreed to admit him under my last name.”

“They didn’t make a fuss about that?”

“Not at all. My husband’s one of the neurologists on staff. His reputation is the stuff of legend, but more to the point, he has a temper like a junkyard dog’s. They knew if they made a stink, they’d have to deal with him. Aside from that, in the past ten years, my father’s donated enough money to add a wing to this place. They were kissing my ring.”

“Oh.” I’d have verbalized my surprise, but her husband’s occupation and her dad’s financial status were two facts out of the many I didn’t know about her. “What about the girls? Shouldn’t you be home by now?”

“That’s the other reason I called. They’re having supper at their playmate’s. I talked to her mom and she was cool, but I did assure her I’d pick ’em up within the hour. I didn’t want to take off without giving you the lowdown.”

“You’re incredible. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t worry about it. I haven’t had that much fun since grade school!”

I laughed. “It was a hoot, wasn’t it?”

“Totally. I did make it clear to the charge nurse that Gus was to have no visitors except for you, me, and Henry. I told her about Solana…”

“Naming names?”

“Of course. Why should we protect her when she’s a piece of shit? It was obvious he’d been badly abused so the nurse got right on the phone and put in calls to the police and the Elder Abuse hotline. I gather they’re sending someone out. What about you? What’s happening on your end?”

“Nothing much. Sitting here waiting for the bomb to go off. Solana must know by now he’s been snatched. I can’t understand why she’s so quiet.”

“That’s unnerving.”

“For sure. In the meantime, I called a friend of mine at the police department. Given the warrant out on Solana, a couple of officers should be arriving shortly to arrest her fat ass. We’ll come over after that.”

“There’s no big rush. Gus is sleeping, but it’d be nice if he saw a familiar face when he wakes up.”

“I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“Don’t forfeit the chance to see Solana handcuffed and thrown in the back of a black-and-white.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

After she rang off, I gave Henry the update on Gus’s medical status, some of which he’d gathered from listening to my end of the conversation. “Peggy’s put everyone on notice about the possibility that Solana might show up and try to see him. She won’t get anywhere so that’s good news,” I said. “I wonder what she’s up to? You think the cops have arrived?”

“There hasn’t been time enough, but hang on a sec.”

He washed his hands in haste and toted the dish towel with him as he left the kitchen and stepped into the dining room. I followed, watching as he pushed the curtain aside and peered out at the street.

“Anything?”

“Her car’s still there and I don’t see any sign of life so maybe she hasn’t figured it out yet.”

That was certainly a possibility, but neither of us was convinced.

34

By then it was close to six. Henry packed his meatloaf in a cake pan, covered it, and put it in the fridge. His plan was to bake it for supper the next day. He extended an invitation, which I accepted, assuming we would both be alive. In the meantime, his homely activities had introduced a note of normalcy. Given that it was happy hour, he took out an old-fashioned glass and poured his ritual Black Jack over ice. He asked if I wanted wine, which in truth I did, but I decided to decline. I thought I better have my wits about me in case Solana showed up. I was of two minds about the possibility. On one hand, I thought if she were going to blow her stack, she’d have done it by now. On the other hand, she might be out buying guns and ammo in order to give full expression to her ire. Whatever the reality, we deemed it unwise to keep ourselves on prominent display in the brightly lighted kitchen.

We removed ourselves to the living room, where we closed the drapes and turned on the TV set. The evening news was all bad, but restful by comparison. We were beginning to relax when the knock came at the front door. I jumped and Henry’s hand jerked, slopping half his drink.

“You stay there,” he said. He set his glass on the coffee table and went to the door. He flipped on the porch light and put his eye to the spy hole. It couldn’t have been Solana because I watched him remove the burglar chain, prepared to let someone in. I recognized Cheney’s voice before I caught sight of him. He stepped into the room, accompanied by a uniformed officer whose name tag read J. ANDERSON. He was in his thirties, blue-eyed and ruddy-complexioned, with features that spoke of Irish ancestry. I flashed on the only line of poetry I retained from my days of making mediocre grades in my high school English class: “John Anderson, my Jo, John, when we were first acquent…” That was the extent of it. No clue who the poet was, though the name Robert Burns lurked somewhere at the back of my brain. I wondered if William’s father was correct in his belief that memorizing poetry served us later in life.

Cheney and I exchanged a look. He was adorable, no lie. Or maybe my perception was colored by the comfort of his being on the scene. Let him deal with Solana and her goon of a son. While Cheney and Henry chatted, I had the opportunity to study him. He wore dress slacks and a shirt with a button-down collar, over which he’d pulled a caramel-colored cashmere coat. Cheney came from money, and while he had no desire to work in his father’s bank, he was smart enough to enjoy the perks. I could tell I was weakening in the same way I weaken at the notion of a QP with Cheese. Not that he was good for me, but who cared?

“Did you talk to her?” Henry asked.

Cheney said, “That’s why I’m here. We’re wondering if the two of you would step next door with us.”

Henry said, “Certainly. Is something wrong?”

“You tell us. When we pulled up, we found the front door standing open. All the lights are on, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone there.”

Henry left with Cheney and Officer Anderson, without bothering to put a coat over his short-sleeved shirt. I paused long enough to retrieve my jacket from the back of the kitchen chair. I grabbed Henry’s as well and scooted after him. The night was chilly and the wind was picking up. There was an empty expanse of curb where Solana’s car had been. I trotted along the walk, reassured by the notion that Cheney had the situation under control. He was right about Gus’s house. Every room was ablaze with light. By the time I crossed his front yard, I could see Anderson on his way around the side of the house with his flashlight, the wand of white zigzagging across windows, the walkway, and surrounding shrubbery.

Cheney had Solana Rojas’s arrest warrant in hand and I gathered that gave him a certain leeway to check the premises in search of her. He’d also uncovered two outstanding warrants for the arrest of Tomasso Tasinato, one on charges of aggravated battery, and the other for battery with great bodily harm. He told us Tiny had twice been caught on tape shoplifting items from a Colgate minimart. The owner had identified him but then decided not to file charges, saying he didn’t want the hassle over some beef jerky and two packages of M&M’s.

Cheney asked us to wait outside while he went in. Henry shrugged himself into his jacket and tucked his hands in the pockets. Neither of us said a word, but he must have worried, as I did, that something awful was in store. Once Cheney assured himself the place was empty, he asked us to walk through with him to see if we noticed anything out of the ordinary.

The premises had been picked clean of personal items. In my earlier unauthorized home invasion, I hadn’t noticed how barren the house was. The living room was intact, furniture still in place: lamps, the desk, a footstool, fake roses on the coffee table. The kitchen was untouched as well, nothing out of place. If there’d been dirty dishes in the sink, they’d been washed, dried, and put away. A damp-looking linen dish towel had been folded and hung neatly across the rack. The spray bottle of cleanser was gone, but the smell was still strong. I thought Solana was taking her compulsive tidiness a bit too far.

Gus’s room was just as we’d left it. The covers were flung back, sheets and spread rumpled and looking not quite clean. Drawers still stood half-open where Peggy’d hunted up a sweater for him. The humidifier had run dry and no longer hissed with steam. I continued down the hall to the first of the two spare bedrooms.

Compared with the last view I’d had, Solana’s room was empty. The carved mahogany bed frame remained, but the other antique pieces were gone: no burled walnut rocking chair, no armoire, no plump-shouldered fruitwood chest of drawers with ornate bronze drawer pulls. She couldn’t have loaded furniture in her car in the scant hour she had available after she returned home. For one thing, the items were too cumbersome, and for another, she was in too great a hurry to bother. This meant she’d disposed of the furniture earlier, but who knew what she’d done with it? In the closet, the hangers had been shoved apart and most of her clothes were gone. Some garments had tumbled to the floor and she’d left them in a heap, indicating the haste with which she’d packed.

I moved to Tiny’s room. Henry and Cheney stood in the doorway. I kept expecting to find a body—his or hers—shot, stabbed, or hanged. Uneasily, I eased in behind Cheney, hoping he would shield me from anything gross. The air in Tiny’s room was dense with “guy” smell: testosterone, hair, sweat glands, and dirty clothes. Overlying the ripe odor was the same smell of bleach I’d noticed throughout. Had she been using the spray cleanser to wipe the surfaces free of prints?

The two heavy blankets that served as blackout curtains were still nailed to the window frames, and the overhead light was tawny and ineffectual. The television set was gone, but all of Tiny’s toiletries were still strewn across the counter in the bathroom he shared with his mom. He’d left his toothbrush behind, but he probably didn’t use it anyway so no big deal.

Officer Anderson appeared in the hallway behind us. “Anybody know what kind of car she drives?”

Cheney said, “A 1972 Chevrolet convertible with the word ‘dead’ scratched into the driver’s-side door. Pearce made a note of the plate number in his field notes.”

“I think we got it. Come take a look at this.”

He went out the back door, flipping on the porch light as he passed. We followed him down the steps and across the yard to the single-car garage at the rear of the lot. The old wooden doors were padlocked, but he held his flashlight against the dusty window. I had to stand on tiptoe to see in, but the car inside was Solana’s. The convertible top was down and the front and rear seats were empty to all appearances. It was clear Cheney’d need a search warrant before he went further.

“Did Mr. Vronsky own a vehicle?” he asked.

Henry said, “He did, a 1976 Buick Electra, metallic blue with a blue interior. His pride and joy. He hadn’t driven it for years and I’m sure the tags on the license plate expired. I don’t know the license number, but a car like that shouldn’t be hard to spot.”

“The DMV will have the information. I’ll notify the sheriff’s department and the CHP. Any idea which direction she might’ve headed?”

“No clue,” Henry said.

Before he left, Anderson secured both the house and garage with crime scene tape in anticipation of a return with a warrant and a fingerprint technician. Cheney wasn’t optimistic about recovering the cash and other valuables Solana’d stolen over the years, but there was always a chance. At the very least, latent fingerprints would tie the cases together.

“Hey, Cheney?” I said, as he was getting in his car.

He looked across the top of his car at me.

“When the techs dust for prints? Tell ’em to try the vodka bottle in the cabinet above the sink. She probably didn’t think to wipe that down before she left.”

Cheney smiled. “Will do.”

Henry and I went back to his house. “I’m heading over to the hospital and after that, I’ll hit Rosie’s,” I said. “Care to join me?”

“I’d love to, but Charlotte said she’d stop by at eight. I’m taking her to dinner.”

“Really. Well, that’s interesting.”

“I don’t know how interesting it is. I treated her poorly over the business with Gus. I was a butt and the time has come to make that right.”

I left him to get himself gussied up and walked the half block to my car. The drive to St. Terry’s took less than fifteen minutes, which gave me time to ponder Solana’s vanishing and Cheney’s reappearance. I knew it wouldn’t be smart to renew that relationship. On the other hand (there’s always that other hand, isn’t there?), I’d caught a whiff of his aftershave and nearly whimpered aloud. I parked on a side street and headed for the brightly lighted hospital entrance.

My intended visit with Gus was short-lived. When I reached the floor and identified myself, I was told he was still asleep. I chatted briefly with the charge nurse, making sure she was clear about who was allowed to see him and who was not. Peggy had laid all the necessary groundwork, and I was assured his safety was uppermost in everyone’s mind. I did peek in at him and spent half a minute watching him sleep. His color had already improved.

There was one bright moment that made the whole excursion worthwhile. I’d rung for the elevator and I was waiting. I heard the whir of cables and the ping announcing its arrival from the floor below. When the doors opened I found myself face-to-face with Nancy Sullivan. She had her good Girl Scout briefcase in one hand and she was wearing her sensible shoes. As proof there’s justice in the world, she’d been assigned to Gus’s case after having blown me off. She greeted me coolly, using a tone that implied she hoped I’d fall in a hole. I didn’t say a word to her, but I did gloat in my heart. I resisted the urge to smirk until after the elevator doors closed, shutting her from sight. Then I mouthed the sweetest four words in the English language: I told you so.

I drove home, fantasizing about my dinner at Rosie’s. I was going for the fat and cholesterol sweepstakes: bread and butter, red meat, sour cream on everything, and a big gooey dessert. I’d take a paperback novel with me and read while I stuffed my face. I could hardly wait. When I turned onto Albanil, I could see how scarce the parking was. I’d forgotten it was hump night again, and the midweek revelers had put parking places at a premium. In search of a spot, I cruised the street at half-speed, scanning for two other things as well: the sight of a black-and-white, indicating the police had returned to Gus’s house, or the sight of a telltale metallic blue Buick Electra, a sign that Solana was close by. No sign of either.

I turned the corner onto Bay and drove to the end of the block without seeing a car-length of empty curb. I turned right on Cabana and right again on Albanil, checking the block again. Ahead on the sidewalk, I spotted a woman in a trench coat and high heels. My headlights picked up a flash of hair too blond to be real—hooker hair, all tarted up and dyed. This gal was huge and even from the rear I could tell something was off. It wasn’t until I passed that I realized it was a guy in drag. I turned my head and squinted. Was that Tiny? I kept an eye on him in my rearview mirror. A spot had opened up and I angled into it.

Before I shut down the engine, I glanced back at the sidewalk. No sign of the “babe,” so I rolled down my window an inch to listen for the clopping of her high heels on concrete. The street was quiet. If it was Tiny, he’d either retraced his steps or turned the corner. I didn’t like it. I removed the key from the ignition, clutching the ring in my fist, keys through my fingers. I looked over my right shoulder once more, checking the sidewalk before I opened the car door.

The handle was jerked out of my hand and the door was flung open. I was hauled up by the hair and yanked from the car. I hit the pavement on my backside, pain searing my tailbone. I recognized Tiny by smell—corrosive and foul. I flailed, glancing back at him. His platinum wig was askew and I could see the stubble on his face that even a late-afternoon shave hadn’t fully eradicated. He’d shucked his trench coat and kicked off his high heels. He wore a woman’s blouse and his XXXL-sized skirt now rode up over his hips, allowing him freedom of movement. His hands were still buried in my hair. I grabbed them, lifting myself in an effort to keep him from ripping off my scalp. My keys had fallen on the street half under the car. No time to worry about that now. I was struggling for purchase. I managed to get my feet under me and kicked his right knee. The heel on my boot might have done some damage except for his bulk, which made him almost impervious to pain. He was pumped up on adrenaline, doubtless hyped on his sense of himself. The hair on his calves and the lower part of his thighs was pressed flat by a pair of queen-sized panty hose. Runners snaked down from the crotch where the nylon had been stretched to the limit. He was making guffing sounds deep in his throat, half exertion, half excitement at the notion of the injuries he’d inflict before he was done with me.

We grappled, both of us down on the pavement now. He was on his back and I lay on my back as well, sprawled awkwardly on top of him. He was scissoring his legs in an attempt to encircle me and lock my body between his thighs. I reached back and clawed at his face, hoping to gouge an eye. My nails raked his cheek, which he must have felt because he punched me in the head so hard I swore I could feel my brain bouncing against the inside of my skull. The fucker outweighed me by a good two hundred pounds. He pinned my arms against me. His grip was viselike, and close up against him like that my elbows were of no use. He rocked back, thrusting himself forward, trying to hook one foot around the other for leverage. I managed to turn my body halfway and I used the bony structure of my pelvis as a wedge to keeping his big knees apart. I knew what he’d do—clamp down, force the air out of my lungs with the increased pressure of his thighs, clamp down again. He’d use compression, like a boa constrictor, tightening his legs around me until I ceased to draw breath.

I couldn’t make a sound. In the heaving silence I marveled at the sense of solitude. There was no one else on the street, no one even remotely aware that we were out here joined in this strange embrace. He’d begun to mew—joy, sexual arousal—I wasn’t sure which. I slipped down, the heavy flesh of his thighs now pressing on each side of my face. He was hot, sweating between his legs as he squeezed. His weight alone was sufficient to crush me. Without exerting any other effort, he could have sat on my chest and it would’ve taken less than thirty seconds before the dark came down.

I was deaf. His thighs had shut out all sound except for the hush of blood moving through his veins. I squirmed and rotated myself by inches. I turned again until my nose was smashed up against the crotch of his panty hose with its soft, helpless bulge in range. He didn’t have a hard-on. That much was obvious. Any clothing other than panty hose would have offered him protection—heavy jeans or sweats serving as a jock strap or a codpiece of sorts—shielding his nuts. But he was turned on by the feel of silkiness against his naked skin. Such is life. We all have our preferences. I opened my jaws and bit down on his scrotum. I closed my eyes and clamped down until I thought my upper and lower teeth would meet in the middle. The wad in my mouth had the consistency of foam rubber with a touch of gristle at the core. I held on, like a terrier, knowing the searing message of pain was streaking like lightning through his frame.

A howl went up and his thighs popped open as though they were spring-loaded, letting the cold air rush in. I rolled over on my side, scrambling on my hands and knees as far as the car. He was thrashing on the ground behind me, gasping and groaning. He clutched his crotch where I hoped I’d inflicted permanent damage. He wept, his cries hoarse with anguish and disbelief. I felt around for my car keys and snatched them up. I was shaking so badly I dropped them and had to scoop them up again. He’d managed to pull himself upright, but he paused to puke before he staggered to his feet. His face was sweaty and pale, and he held himself with one hand while he limped in my direction. His obesity and his lumbering gait slowed him just long enough to allow me to open the car door and slide in. I slammed the door and banged the knob into the locked position as he grabbed the door handle and yanked. I flung myself across the passenger’s seat and banged the knob down on that door as well. Then I sat there, lungs heaving while I gathered my strength.

He slammed both his hands down on the roof of the car and pushed, trying to rock it with the force of his weight. If I’d been trapped in my beloved VW, he’d have rolled the car over on its side and then over on its roof. The Mustang he couldn’t budge beyond the faintest shudder. He had no tolerance for frustration. He grabbed the windshield wiper and twisted it, bending it until it stuck out like a dislocated finger. I could see him search for something else to destroy.

He circled the car. Mesmerized, I kept him in sight, turning my head as he moved around the rear and reappeared on my left. He was making sounds that might have been English, but the words were flattened and formless, without the dots and dashes of vowels and consonants to make them distinct. He skipped back two steps and ran at the car. He side-kicked the door. I knew he’d put a dent in the metal, but given that he was shoeless and clad in panty hose, he’d hurt himself more than he’d hurt the car. He yanked at the door again. He banged a fist against the glass and then tried to force his big meaty fingers into the crack between the window and the post. I felt like a mouse in a glass case with a snake outside, hissing and striking ineffectually while fear shot through me like zaps from a Taser gun. There was a hypnotic quality to his assault, fierce and relentless. How long would it take him to breach my small fortress? I didn’t dare abandon the safety of the car, which was at least keeping him at bay. I leaned on the car horn until the sound filled the night air.

He moved around the car again, prowling, looking for a weakness in my fortifications. He was clearly infuriated to have me in plain sight but inaccessible. He stood on the driver’s side staring at me and then abruptly, he turned away. I thought he was leaving, but he walked across the street and at the far side, turned to face me again. There was something in his eyes so crazy that I hummed with fear.

With a jangle of keys I managed to jam the right one in the ignition. I turned it and the engine roared to life. I jerked the wheel to my left and swung away from the curb. I knew it would take two tries before I cleared the bumper of the car in front of me. I backed up and turned the wheel again. I glanced over as Tiny began to run at the car with more speed than I’d have thought possible for a guy his size. He’d pulled his right fist back and when he reached the car, he drove it straight through the window, shattering the glass. I screamed and ducked as jagged shards flew by, some landing in my lap. The glass that remained in the window tore into his flesh. His punching arm was extended as far as his shoulder blade, but when he tried to pull free, glass bit into the fabric of his blouse like the angled teeth of a shark. He groped for me blindly and I felt his fingers close around my throat. The simple fact of physical contact jolted me into action.

I shoved the stick into first, popped the clutch, and floored it. The Mustang shot forward with a squeal of burning tires. Out of the corner of my eye I could still see Tiny’s arm and hand, like the branch of a tree driven through a wall by a gale-force wind. I slammed on the brakes, thinking I could shake him off. That’s when I realized I was suffering a misperception. Between his own weight and my speed, I’d left him half a block behind. It was only his arm that remained, resting lightly on my shoulder like an old chum’s.

35

I won’t go into a moment-by-moment account of what followed in the wake of that grisly incident. Much of it I’ve forgotten, in any event. I do remember Officer Anderson arriving in his patrol car and Cheney’s arriving later in his slick little red Mercedes convertible. My car was parked where I’d left it and I was, by then, sitting on the curb in front of Henry’s house, shaking as though suffering from a neurological disorder. Having battled with Tiny, I sported sufficient contusions and abrasions to lend credibility to my account of his attack. My head was still ringing from the punch. Since there were already warrants out on him for similar offenses, no one suggested that I was to blame.

These were the facts that worked in my favor:

At the time of the accident, I stopped and approached the injured man with every intention of rendering assistance if necessary, which it wasn’t because he was dead.

According to the Breathalyzer and later blood analysis, I was not driving under the influence of alcohol or drugs.

When the officer from the traffic division arrived on the scene, I gave him my name, address, registration, and proof of insurance. I had a valid California driver’s license in my possession. He ran my name, license number, and plate, and determined that my record was clean. I was worried he’d pick up on the tiny matter of the TRO, but since we hadn’t yet appeared in court, the restraining order probably wasn’t in the system. Besides which, I hadn’t done a thing to her.

There was a suggestion to the effect that I might have used excessive force in defending myself, but that opinion was quashed forthwith.

The Mustang was in the shop for repairs for a week. The windshield wiper and the window on the driver’s side would have to be replaced. The driver’s-side door was dented and the white vinyl bucket seat on the driver’s side was a loss. No matter how often or how thoroughly the upholstery was cleaned, there would always be traces of red in the seams. Whether I’d hang on to the Mustang was another matter altogether. Owning the car was like owning a fine Thoroughbred racehorse—beautiful to behold, but expensive to maintain. The car had saved my life, no doubt about that, but I wondered if every time I drove it, I’d see Tiny starting that fatal run with his right fist pulled back.

Gus was discharged after two days in the hospital. Melanie went through a local agency and made arrangements for a new companion for him. The woman did light housekeeping, prepared his meals, ran errands, and went home at night to a family of her own. Of course, Gus fired her at the end of two weeks. The subsequent companion has survived to date, though Henry reports hearing a good deal of bickering from the far side of the hedge. A week after Tiny’s death, Gus’s Buick Electra was found six blocks from the Mexican border. It had been wiped clean of prints, but there was a stack of oil paintings locked in the trunk that were later valued at close to a million dollars. Solana must have hated abandoning such assets, but she couldn’t very well disappear while continuing to hang on to a carload of stolen art.

One happy side effect of her disappearance was that she was a no-show in court the day of the hearing on the restraining order. The matter was dismissed, but I was still going to need a judge’s orders to get my guns back. I knew in my heart of hearts, I wasn’t done with her, nor she with me. I’d been responsible for the death of her only child and I’d pay for that.

In the meantime, I told myself there was no point in worrying. Solana was gone and if she came back, she’d come back and I’d deal with her then. I put the matter behind me. It was done, done, done. I couldn’t change what had happened and I couldn’t give in to the emotions that ran like a riptide under the placid surface I presented to the world. Henry knew better. Tactfully, he probed, wondering aloud how I was coping with Tiny’s death, suggesting that perhaps I might benefit from “talking to someone.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I said. “I did what I had to do. He didn’t have to attack me. He didn’t have to jam his fist through the glass. Those were his choices. I made mine. What’s the big deal? It’s not like he’s the first guy I ever killed.”

“Well, that puts it in a fresh light.”

“Henry, I appreciate your concern, but it’s misplaced.”

I was aware that I sounded testy, but aside from that, I felt fine. At least that’s what I told him and anyone else who asked. Despite the brave face I wore, I went through my days with a low-level dread I could scarcely acknowledge. I wanted closure. I needed to have all the loose ends tied up. As long as she was out there, I didn’t feel safe. I was afraid. “Terrified” was a better word. I realized later I was experiencing a form of post-traumatic stress disorder, but at the time all I knew was how hard I had to work to suppress my anxiety. I had no appetite. I didn’t have trouble falling asleep, but I’d wake up at 4:00 A.M. and that would be the end of it. I couldn’t concentrate. I was fearful of crowds and unnerved by loud noises. At the end of every day, I was exhausted from having to maintain such a tight grip on myself. Fear, like any other strong emotion, is difficult to hide. Much of my energy was devoted to denying it was there.

My only relief came from my early morning run. I craved movement. I loved the feeling of flying over the ground. I needed to be sweaty and out of breath. If my legs hurt and my lungs burned, all the better. There was something tangible about the calm that came over me when I was done. I started pushing myself, adding a mile to the three I typically put in. When that wasn’t quite enough, I ramped up the pace.

The lull was short-lived. Sunday, February 14, was the last day I’d be able to enjoy the quiet—artificial though it may have been. In the coming week, though I didn’t know it yet, Solana would make her move. Valentine’s Day was Henry’s birthday, and Rosie treated us to dinner to celebrate his turning eighty-eight. The restaurant was closed on Sundays, so we had the place to ourselves. Rosie put together a feast and William helped serve. There were just the four of us: Rosie, William, Henry, and me. We had to do without Lewis, Charlie, and Nell because the Midwest was socked in with snow and the sibs were stranded until the airport opened again. Henry and Charlotte had mended their fences. I thought for sure he’d invite her, but he was reluctant to stir up any suggestion of romance between them. She would always be too driven and single-minded for his laid-back lifestyle. He said he wanted only his nearest and dearest with him while he blew out his candles, beaming at our lusty rendition of “Happy Birthday to Yooouuu!” Rosie, William, and I pooled our money and bought him three copper-bottom saucepans that he adored.

Monday morning, I got to work at eight—early for me, but I hadn’t slept well and I’d ended up going out for my run at five thirty instead of six, which put me at the office half an hour ahead of my usual time. One virtue of my office—perhaps the only virtue—was that there was always parking available in front. I parked, locked my car, and let myself in. There was the usual hillock of mail piled on the floor under the slot. Most of it was junk that would go straight into the trash, but topmost was a padded envelope that I assumed was another set of documents from Lowell Effinger’s office. Melvin Downs had failed to appear for his deposition, and I’d promised Geneva that I’d go after him again and have another heart-to-heart. Clearly, he’d been unimpressed by the threat of contempt of court.

I dropped my shoulder bag on my desk. I slid out of my jacket and draped it over the back of my chair. I tackled the manila envelope, which was stapled shut and took a bit of doing before I opened it. I separated the flaps and looked in. At the first glance, I shrieked and flung the envelope across the room. The action was involuntary, a reflex triggered by revulsion. What I’d glimpsed was the hairy appendages of a live tarantula. I literally shuddered, but I didn’t have time to calm myself or gather my wits.

Horrified, I watched the tarantula feel its way out of the padded mailer, one hairy leg at a time, tentatively testing the characteristics of my beige carpeting. The spider looked huge, but, in fact, the squat body was no more than an inch and a half wide, suspended from a set of eight bright red legs that seemed to move independently of one another. The front and rear parts of its body were round and its legs appeared to have joints, like little bent elbows or knees, which terminated in small flat paws. Body and legs together, the spider could have filled a circle four inches across. With mincing steps, the tarantula crawled across the floor, looking like an ambulatory wad of black and red hair.

If I didn’t find a way to stop it, it would scuttle into one of the spaces between my file cabinets and reside there for life. What was I supposed to do? Stepping on a spider that size was out of the question. I didn’t want to get that close to it and I didn’t want to see stuff squirt out when I crushed it to death. I certainly wasn’t going to whack it with a magazine. My distaste aside, the spider represented no danger. Tarantulas aren’t poisonous, but they’re ugly as sin—mossy with hair, eight glittering round eyes, and (I kid you not) fangs that were visible from half a room away.

Oblivious to my concerns, the tarantula tiptoed out of my office with a certain daintiness and proceeded to cross the reception area. I was afraid it might stretch and elongate, insinuating itself under the baseboard like a cat slipping under a fence.

I kept a wary eye on it, rapidly backing down the hall to my kitchenette. On Friday I’d washed the clear glass coffee carafe and set it upside down on a towel to dry. I grabbed it and sped back, amazed at the distance the tarantula had covered in just those few seconds. I didn’t dare pause to consider how repellant it was at close range. I made my mind a blank, turned the carafe upside down, and set it over him. Then I shuddered again, a groan emanating from some primitive part of me.

I backed away from the carafe, patting myself on the chest. I’d never use that carafe again. I couldn’t bear to drink from a coffeepot that spider feet had touched. I hadn’t solved my problem; I’d only delayed the inevitable issue of how to dispose of it. What were my choices? Animal Control? A local Tarantula Rescue group? I didn’t dare set it free in the wild (that being the patch of ivy outside my door) because I’d always be searching the ground for it, wondering when it was going to pop out again. It’s times like these when you need a guy around, though I’d have been willing to bet most men would have been as disgusted as I was and just about as squeamish at the idea of spider guts.

I went back to my desk, sidestepping the empty manila envelope, which I’d have to burn. I took out the telephone book and looked up the number for the Museum of Natural History. The woman who answered the phone didn’t behave as though my situation was unusual. She checked her Rolodex and recited the number of a fellow in town who actually bred tarantulas. Then she informed me, with a certain giddiness, that his lecture, complete with a live demonstration, was a favorite among elementary-school kids, who liked having the spiders crawl up and down their arms. I put the image out of my mind as I dialed the number she’d given me.

I wasn’t sure what to expect of someone who made a living consorting with tarantulas. The young man who arrived at my office door half an hour later was in his early twenties, big and soft, with a beard that was probably meant to lend him an air of maturity. “Are you Kinsey? Byron Coe. Thanks for the call.”

I shook his hand, trying not to bubble over with gratitude. His grip was light and his palm was warm. I looked at him with the same devotion I accorded my plumber the day the hose on the washing machine came loose and spewed water everywhere. “I appreciate your being so prompt.”

“I’m happy to be of help.” His smile was sweet and his thicket of blond hair was as big as a burning bush. He wore denim overalls, a short-sleeved T-shirt, and hiking boots. He’d brought with him two lightweight plastic carriers that he set on the floor, one medium and one large. The coffee carafe had attracted his attention the minute he arrived, but he’d been polite about it. “Let’s see what you got here.”

He eased himself down to the floor on one bent knee and then stretched out on his tummy and put his face near the carafe. He gave the glass a tap, but the spider was too busy to care. He was feeling his way around the perimeter, hoping for a little doorway to freedom. Byron said, “He’s a beauty.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“This fellow’s a Mexican red-legged tarantula, Brachypelma emilia, maybe five or six years old. A male judging by his color. See how dark he is? The females are closer to a soft brown. Where’d you find him?”

“Actually, he found me. Someone left him for me in a padded envelope.”

He looked up with interest. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion, just a very sick practical joke.”

“Some joke. You can’t buy a red-legged spiderling for less than a hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

“Yeah, well, nothing but the best for me. When you say Mexican red-legged, does that mean they’re only found in Mexico?”

“Not exclusively. In states like Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas, they’re not uncommon. I breed Chaco golden knees and cobalt blues. Neither cost as much as this guy. I have a pair of Brazilian salmon pinks I picked up for ten bucks each. You know you can actually train tarantulas as pets?”

“Really,” I said. “I had no idea.”

“Heck, yes. They’re quiet and they don’t shed. They do molt and you have to be a little bit careful about bites. The venom’s harmless to humans, but you’ll have swelling at the site and sometimes numbness or itching. Goes away pretty quick. It’s nice you didn’t kill him.”

“I’m a conservationist at heart,” I said. “Listen, if you’re going to pick him up, please warn me. I’m leaving the room.”

“Nah, this guy’s had enough trauma for one day. I don’t want him thinking I’m the enemy.”

While I watched, he removed the ventilated lid from the mediumsize clear plastic box. He took a pencil from my desk, picked up the carafe, and used it to coax the spider into the carrier. (The pencil was going, too.) He snapped the lid in place and used the pop-up handle to lift him up to face level again.

“If you want him, he’s yours,” I said.

“Really?” He smiled, his face flushing with delight. I hadn’t given a fellow that much pleasure since Cheney and I broke up.

“I’ll also be happy to pay for your time. You really saved my life.”

“Oh man, this is payment enough. If you change your mind, I’ll be happy to bring him back.”

I said, “Go and god bless.”

Once the door closed behind him, I sat at my desk and had a nice long chat with myself. A Mexican red-legged. Bite my ass. This was Solana’s doing. If her purpose was to scare the shit out of me, she’d done well. I wasn’t sure what the tarantula represented to her, but from my perspective it spoke of a twisted mind at work. She was putting me on notice and I got the point. Any relief my morning run had generated went straight out the window. That first glimpse of the spider would be with me for life. I still had the willies. I put together the files I’d need, picked up my portable Smith-Corona, locked the office door behind me, and loaded the car. The office felt contaminated. I’d work from home.

I made it through the day. Though easily distracted, I was determined to be productive. I needed comfort, and for lunch I allowed myself a sandwich made with half an inch of olive pimento cheese spread on whole grain bread. I cut it in quarters the way I had as a child and I savored every tangy bite. I wasn’t all that strict about dinner either, I must confess. I needed to sedate myself with food and drink. I know it’s very naughty to use alcohol to relieve tension, but wine is cheap, it’s legal, and it does the job. Up to a point.

When I went to bed that night I didn’t have to worry about lying awake. I was ever so slightly inebriated and I slept like a stone.

It was the faintest whiff of cold air that woke me. I was sleeping in sweats, in anticipation of my early morning run, but even suited up, I was cold. I glanced at the digital clock, but the face was black, and I realized the usual soft purring of appliances had ceased. The power had gone out, an irksome business for someone as time-oriented as I was. I stared up through the Plexiglas skylight but couldn’t estimate the hour. If I’d known it was early, 2:00 or 3:00 A.M., I’d have pulled the covers over my head and slept until my inner alarm clock woke me at 6:00. Idly I wondered if the outage included the whole neighborhood. In Santa Teresa, if the wind blows wrong, there are tiny breaks in the service and the flow of electricity cuts out. Seconds later the clocks might flash on again, but the numbers continue to blink merrily, announcing the upset. In this instance there was none of that. I could have groped across the bed table for my watch. By squinting and angling the face, I might have been able to see the hands, but it didn’t seem to matter much.

I was puzzled by the cold air and I wondered if I’d left a window open somewhere. It didn’t seem likely. In winter, I keep the studio snug, often closing the interior shutters to eliminate drafts. I looked down to the foot of my bed.

There was someone, a woman, standing there. Motionless. The nighttime darkness is never absolute. Given the city’s light pollution, I can always distinguish gradients of light, starting with the paler shades of gray and deepening to charcoal. If I wake during the night, this is what allows me to wander the studio without bothering to turn on lights.

It was Solana. In my house. In my loft, staring down at me while I slept. Fear spread through me slowly like ice. The cold moved out from my core all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes in the same way water gradually turns solid when a lake freezes over. How had she gotten in? I waited, wondering if the specter would resolve into an ordinary object—a jacket thrown over the railing, a garment bag hanging from the hinge on my closet door.

At first, my mind was blank with disbelief. There was no way—no way—she could have gained entry. Then I remembered Henry’s house key attached to a white cardboard tag with PITTS neatly printed on it by means of identification. Gus kept the key in his desk drawer, where I’d come upon it the first time I searched for Melanie’s phone number. Henry had told me there was a time when Gus had brought in the mail and watered the plants when Henry was out of town. Henry’s locks and mine were keyed the same, and when I thought about it, I couldn’t remember securing the burglar chain, which meant once she unlocked the door, there was nothing preventing her from coming in. What could be easier? I might just as well have left my front door ajar.

She must have sensed I was awake and looking at her. We stared at each other. There was no need for conversation. If she was armed with a weapon, this was the moment she’d strike, knowing I was aware of her, but powerless to fight. Instead, she moved away. I saw her turn toward the spiral stairs and disappear. I sat straight up in bed, my heart banging. I pushed the covers aside and reached for my running shoes, shoving my bare feet into them. The lighted clock face shone bright again, numbers flashing. It was 3:05. Solana must have found the breaker box. Now the power was on and I skittered down the stairs. My front door stood open and I could hear her unhurried footsteps receding along the walk. There was an insolence in the leisurely way she left. She had all the time in the world.

I closed the door, turned the thumb lock, slid on the chain, and hurried into the downstairs bathroom. Through the window I could see a squared-off view of the street. I pressed my forehead against the glass, checking in both directions. There was no sign of her. I expected to hear a car start, but the quiet was unbroken. I sank down on the rim of the tub and rubbed my face with my hands.

Now that she was gone, I was more afraid than I’d been when she was there.

In the dark of the bathroom, I closed my eyes and projected myself into her head, seeing the situation as she must view it. First the tarantula, now this. What was she up to? If she wanted me dead—which she did without doubt—why hadn’t she acted while she had the chance?

Because she wanted to demonstrate her power over me. She was telling me she could walk through walls, that it would never be safe for me to close my eyes. Wherever I went and whatever I did, I’d be vulnerable. At work, at home, I was at her mercy, alive purely at her whim, but possibly not for long. What were the other messages embedded in the first?

Starting with the obvious, she wasn’t in Mexico. She’d left the car near the border so we’d assume she’d fled. Instead, she’d doubled back. By what means? I hadn’t heard a car start, but she could have parked two blocks away and made the rest of the trip to and from my bedside on foot. The problem from her perspective was that buying or renting a car required personal identification. Peggy Klein had snatched her driver’s license and without that she was screwed. She couldn’t be certain her face, her name, and her various aliases hadn’t been burning up the wires. For all she knew, the minute she tried to use her phony credit cards, she’d announce her location and law enforcement would close in.

In the weeks she’d been gone, she probably hadn’t applied for work, which meant she was living on cash. Even if she found a way to bypass the issue of ID, buying or renting a car would eat up valuable resources. Once she killed me, she’d have to lie low, which meant she’d have to save her cash reserves to support herself until she found someone new to prey on. Those matters took patience and careful planning. She hadn’t had time enough to set up a new life. So how had she managed to get here?

By bus or by train. Traveling by bus was cheap and largely anonymous. Traveling by train would allow her to disembark a scant three blocks from where I lived.

First thing the next morning, I told Henry about my night visitor and my theory of how she’d gotten in. After that, I called a locksmith and had my locks changed. Henry and Gus had their locks changed as well. I also called Cheney and told him what had happened so he could put the word out on his end. I’d given him photographs of Solana so the officers on every shift would be familiar with her face.

Once again, my nerves were on edge. I pressed Lonnie about getting the judge’s order signed so I could have my guns back in my possession. I don’t know how he did it, but I had the order in hand and retrieved them from the gun shop that afternoon. I didn’t picture myself walking around like a gunslinger, armed to the teeth, but I had to do something to make myself feel safe.

Wednesday morning when I returned from my run, there was a photograph taped to my front door. Solana again. What now? Frowning, I pulled it free. I let myself in, locked the door behind me, and turned on the desk lamp. I studied the image, knowing what it was. She’d snapped a picture of me the day before somewhere along my jogging route. I recognized the dark blue sweats I’d worn. It had been nippy out and I’d wrapped a lime green scarf around my neck, the first and only time. It must have been late in the run because my face was flushed and I was breathing through my mouth. In the background, I could see part of a building with a streetlamp in front. The angle was odd, but I couldn’t think what that meant. The message was clear enough. Even the run, which had been my salvation, was under siege. I sat down on the couch and put a hand over my mouth. My fingers were cold and I found myself shaking my head. I couldn’t live this way. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life on red alert. I stared at the photo and another thought occurred to me. She wanted me to find her. She was showing me where she was, but she wouldn’t make it easy. Being sly was her way of maintaining the upper hand. Wherever she was, all she had to do was wait while I was forced to do the legwork. The challenge was to see if I was smart enough to track her down. If not, she’d send me another clue. What I couldn’t “get” was her game plan. She had something in mind, but I couldn’t read her well enough to figure out what it was. It was an interesting display of power. I had more at stake than she did, but she had nothing to lose.

I showered and dressed in sweats and running shoes. For breakfast, I ate cold cereal. I washed the bowl and spoon and set them in the rack to dry. I went upstairs and took out my fanny pack. I left the key picks in their compact leather folder but removed the pick gun to make room for the H&K, which I loaded and tucked in its place. I left the house with Solana’s photo of me in hand. The other snapshots I carried were of her. I walked my route—down Cabana, left on State. I kept an eye on the passing landscape, trying to identify the point from which the photo had been taken. It looked like the eye of the camera was angled downward, but not by much. If she’d been out in the open, I would have seen her. During a run, I keep my focus on the run itself, but not to the exclusion of all else. I was usually out before the sun came up, and as empty as the streets appeared to be, there were always other people about and not all of them good. I was interested in being fit, but not at the cost of being foolish.

I was torn between a natural desire to be thorough and a need to get to the point. I compromised by walking half the route. My hunch was that her location was on the beach side of the freeway. The buildings along the upper part of State had a very different look to them than the one in the photograph. I’d taken this route for weeks and it surprised me how different the streets looked when I traveled at a walking pace. Retail stores were still closed, but the popular sidewalk cafés were filled. People were heading off to the gym or returning to their cars, damp from their workouts.

At the intersection of Neil and State, I turned and retraced my steps. It helped that there weren’t that many lampposts—two to every block. I scanned the buildings as high as the second floor, checking fire escapes and balconies where she might have hidden. I looked for windows located at a level that would reproduce the angle from which the snapshot had been taken. I’d almost reached the railroad tracks by then and I was running short of geography. It was the section of building she’d caught in the frame that finally tipped me off. It was the T-shirt shop across the street. The skirting beneath the plate-glass window was quite distinct now that I looked at it. Slowly I walked on until the slice of background matched the picture. Then I turned and looked behind me. The Paramount Hotel.

I checked the window visible just above the marquee. It was a corner room, probably large because I could see a deep balcony that wrapped around both sides of the building at that point. Maybe the original hotel had had a restaurant up there, with French doors that opened onto the balcony so patrons could enjoy the morning air at breakfast and, later, the setting sun at the cocktail hour.

I went into the lobby through the front doors. The remodel had been done with an impeccable eye for detail. The architect had managed to capture the old glamour without sacrificing current standards of elegance. It looked like all the old brass fixtures were still in place, burnished to a high shine. I knew this to be untrue as the originals had been looted in the days just after the hotel closed. Murals in muted tones covered the walls, with scenes depicting the fashionable set in residence at the Paramount Hotel in the 1940s. The doorman was on hand, as well as numerous bellhops toting luggage for the patrons checking in. A party of rail-thin women in jaunty hats played a hand of bridge in one corner of the lobby. Two of the four had foxtail furs tossed over their suit jackets with the big shoulder pads. There was no hint that a war was going on except for the scarcity of men. The patio and pool area had been brushed in, the images lifted from old photographs. I could see six cabanas on the far side of the pool, which was flanked with ponytail palms and the larger, more graceful queen palms. What I hadn’t realized, peering at the construction through the barrier, was that the pool extended under a glass wall into the lobby itself. The lobby portion was largely decorative, but the overall effect was nice. In the mural there were vintage automobiles parked at the street and no hint of the various tourist-oriented businesses that now stretched along State. Just to the right, there was a wide carpeted stair in trompe l’oeil curving up to the mezzanine. I turned and saw the same stairway in reality.

I went up and at the top turned to my right so that I was facing the street. What I’d imagined was a restaurant or lounge was actually a lavish corner suite. The brass number on the door was an ornate 2. I could hear a television set blaring inside. I went to the window at the end of the hall and looked out. Solana must have snapped the picture from a window in the suite because the perspective was slightly off from the place where I stood.

I went down the wide stairs to the lobby. The desk clerk was in his thirties with a thin, bony face and hair slicked back with pomade in a style I’d seen only in photographs taken during the ’40s. His suit had a retro look to it as well. “Good morning. May I help you?” he said. His nails had the shine of a recent manicure.

“Yes. I’m interested in the suite on the mezzanine,” I said, and gestured toward the stairs.

“That’s the Ava Gardner Suite. It’s occupied at the moment. How soon would you need the reservation?”

“Actually, I don’t. I think a friend of mine checked in and I thought I’d pop in and surprise her.”

“She asked not to be disturbed.”

I frowned slightly. “That doesn’t sound like her. Usually she has a steady stream of visitors. Of course, she’s in the process of divorcing and maybe she’s worried her ex will try tracking her down. Can you tell me what name she used. Her married name was Brody.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t give you that information. It’s against hotel policy. The privacy of our guests is our first priority.”

“What if I showed you a photograph? You could at least confirm that it’s my friend? I’d hate to bang on the door if I’m making a mistake.”

“Why don’t you give me your name and I’ll ring her?”

“But that would spoil the surprise.” I brought my fanny pack around from the back to the front and unzipped the smaller of the two compartments. I took out the photo of Solana and put it on the counter.

“I’m afraid I can’t help,” he said. He was careful to maintain eye contact, but I knew he couldn’t resist a peek. His eyes flicked down.

I said nothing, but I gazed at him steadily.

“Anyway, she has company at the moment. A gentleman just went up.”

So much for his respect for her privacy. “A gentleman?”

“A handsome white-haired fellow, tall, very trim. I’d say he was in his eighties.”

“Did he give you his name?”

“He didn’t have to. She called down and said she was expecting a Mr. Pitts and when he arrived I should send him right up, which is what I did.”

I could feel the color leave my face. “I want you to call the police and I want you to do it right now.”

He looked at me, a quizzical smile playing across his lips, as though this were a hoax being filmed by hidden cameras to test his response. “Call the police? That’s what the gentleman said. Are you two serious?”

“Shit! Just do it. Ask for a detective named Cheney Phillips. Can you remember that?”

“Of course,” he said, primly. “I’m not stupid.”

I stood there. He hesitated and then reached for the phone.

I moved away from the desk and took the stairs two at a time. Why would she have called Henry? And what could she have said that would get him over here? When I approached the Ava Gardner Suite for the second time, the volume on the blaring television had been turned down. The modernization and restoration of the hotel, happily from my perspective, hadn’t included the installation of card-operated locks. I didn’t recognize the lock brand, but how different could it be? I unzipped my fanny pack and took out the leather folder with its five picks. I’d have preferred the cover of loud music and talk, but I couldn’t take the chance. I was just about to set to work when the door opened and I saw Solana standing there.

She said, “I can save you the effort. Why don’t you come in? The desk clerk phoned to tell me you were on your way.”

The fuck-head, I thought. I stepped into the room. She closed the door behind me and secured the burglar chain.

This was the sitting room. Doors on the left stood open revealing two separate bedrooms and a bathroom done in an old-fashioned white marble streaked with gray. Henry was out cold, lying on the plump upholstered sofa with an IV line in his arm, the needle taped in place. His color was still good and I could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. What worried me was the loaded syringe lying on the coffee table beside a crystal bowl filled with roses.

The French doors stood open, sheers lifted by a breeze. I could see the newly planted palms near the flagstone patio surrounding the pool. The terracing was still under construction, but it looked like work had been completed on the pool, which was now in the process of being filled. Solana allowed me time to get my bearings, enjoying the fear that must have been written in my face.

“What have you done to him?”

“Sedated him. He was upset when he realized you weren’t here.”

“Why would he think I was here?”

“Because I called him and told him so. I said you’d come to the hotel and attacked me. I said I’d hurt you very badly and now you were close to death and begging me to let you see him. He didn’t believe me at first, but I insisted and he was afraid of being wrong. I told him I’d put a tap on his phone line and if he called the police, you’d be dead before he hung up. He was very quick, knocking on my door in less than fifteen minutes.”

“What did you inject him with?”

“I’m sure the name of the drug would be meaningless to you. It’s used to render a patient immobile before surgery. I hit him with something else first, an injection in his thigh. Very fast-acting. He went down like a tree toppling in a high wind. He doesn’t seem to be conscious, but I can assure you he is. He can hear everything. He just can’t move.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Just the pleasure of watching your face as he dies,” she said. “You took away the love of my life and now I’ll take yours. Ah. But first let me have your fanny pack. Gus told me you own a gun. It wouldn’t surprise me if you had it with you.”

“I don’t, but you’re welcome to look.” I unbuckled the pack and held it out to her. When she reached for it, I grabbed her by the arm and jerked her toward me. She lost her balance and toppled forward as I brought my right knee up to meet her face. There was a lovely popping sound that I hoped was her nose. Sure enough, blood poured down her face. Her eyelids fluttered briefly and she sprawled to her knees, her hands thrown out in front of her as she tried catching herself. I kicked her in the side and stomped on one of her outstretched hands. I snatched the syringe from the coffee table and crushed it with my heel. I stood beside Henry and pulled the tape from his arm. I wanted that IV line out of him.

Solana saw what I was doing and came after me in a flying tackle. I stumbled backward onto the coffee table and dragged her with me. The coffee table tipped over. The bowl of roses bounced on the carpet and settled upright, the roses still perfectly arranged. I grabbed the crystal bowl by the rim and hit her on her upper arm, which loosened her grip. I flipped over to my hands and knees and she launched herself at me again. She hung on, while I rammed her in the side repeatedly with my elbow. I kicked back at her, catching her on the thigh, inflicting as much damage as I could with the heel of my running shoe.

The woman was relentless. She came after me again and this time grabbed me around the arms, pinning my elbows to my sides. We were in such close contact I couldn’t shake her off. I laced my hands together and brought them straight up, which broke her hold. I torqued myself to one side, grabbed her by the wrist, and pivoted. Her body arced across my hip and she went down. I hooked an elbow around her neck and dug my fingers into one eye socket. She shrieked in pain and covered her face with her hands. I pushed her away from me, breathing heavily. I could hear sirens in the street and I prayed they were heading toward us. With one eye bloody, she turned, her expression wild with pain. She found Henry in her visual field and in two strides was on him with her hands around his throat. I leaped at her. I boxed her ears, caught her by the hair, and hauled her off him. She staggered two steps back and I shoved her hard in the chest. She banged backward through the French doors onto the balcony.

I was gasping for breath and so was she. I watched her use the railing to pull herself up. I knew I’d hurt her. She’d hurt me, too, but I wouldn’t find out to what extent until the adrenaline receded. For the moment, I was tired, and not altogether certain I could take her on again. She glanced toward the street where I could hear police cars, sirens wailing, come screeching to a stop. We were only one floor above and it wouldn’t take them long to come pounding up the steps.

I made my way to the door and removed the burglar chain. I turned the thumb lock and opened the door and then leaned against the frame. When I turned to look at her, the balcony was empty. I heard a scream from below. I crossed to the French doors and went out on the balcony. I looked over the rail. The water in the pool showed a spreading cloud of pink. She struggled briefly and then went still. It made no difference whether she’d fallen or jumped. She’d landed facedown, hitting her head on the edge of the pool before she slid into the water. At the shallow end, the water was only two feet deep, but that was sufficient. She drowned before anyone could get to her.

EPILOGUE

Henry was taken to St. Terry’s by ambulance. He recovered from his ordeal without incident. I think he felt foolish that Solana had deceived him, but I’d have done the same thing in his place. We’re each of us more protective of the other than we are of ourselves.

The Fredricksons’ suit against Lisa Ray was dropped. I came close to feeling sorry for Hetty Buckwald, who’d been convinced their claim was legitimate. By the time I was able to swing by the laundromat to tell Melvin he was off the hook, the milk truck had disappeared and so had he. I completed an Affidavit of Inability to Serve Process and filed it with the court clerk, which ended my official connection to the man. I wasn’t surprised to find him gone, but it was hard to believe he’d give up his vigil over his youngest grandson. I kept wishing there were some way to make contact, but I’d never heard his daughter’s name, first or last. I had no idea where she lived or where her youngest boy was enrolled. It might have been the preschool near City College or another day care center I’d spotted six blocks away.

Even now, I find myself driving around the neighborhood where Melvin worked, checking nursery schools, scanning children on the playground. I coast by parks in the area, thinking I might catch sight of a white-haired gentleman in a brown leather bomber jacket. Every time I see a kid with a lollipop, I study the grownups nearby, wondering if one of them offered the child a piece of candy in that first tentative overture. At the kiddie pool, I stand near the fence and watch the little kids at play, splashing water on each other, gliding on their tummies in the wading pool while they walk their hands along the bottom and pretend to swim. They are so beautiful, so sweet. I can’t imagine anyone willfully harming a child. Yet some people do. There are thousands of convicted sex offenders in the state of California alone. Of those, a small but unsettling number are unaccounted for on any given day.

I don’t want to think about predators. I know they exist, but I prefer to focus on the best in human nature: compassion, generosity, a willingness to come to the aid of those in need. The sentiment may seem absurd, given our daily ration of news stories detailing thievery, assault, rape, murder, and other treacheries. To the cynics among us, I must sound like an idiot, but I do hold to the good, working wherever possible to separate the wicked from that which profits them. There will always be someone poised to take advantage of the vulnerable: the very young, the very old, and the innocent of any age. Though I know this from long experience, I refuse to feel discouraged. In my own unassuming way, I know I can make a difference. You can as well.

Respectfully submitted,
Kinsey Millhone

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Table of Contents

Q is for Quarry

Copyright

Dedication

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Author’s Note

R is for Ricochet

Copyright

Dedication

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

S is for Silence

Copyright

Dedication

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Contents

1 LIZA

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

5 KATHY

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

9 CHET

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

12 JAKE

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

15 TOM

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

18 CHET

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

21 JAKE

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

24 TOM

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

27 LIZA

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

30 KATHY

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

EPILOGUE

T is for Trespass

Copyright

Dedication

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Contents

PROLOGUE

1 SOLANA

2 DECEMBER 1987

3 SOLANA

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

10 SOLANA

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

17 SOLANA

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

24 SOLANA

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

31 SOLANA

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

EPILOGUE