I is for Innocent

11

"Look, I know people don't believe I was out jogging the night Isabelle was killed, but I can tell you where I was. At one-forty, I was at the southbound off-ramp at San Vicente and the One-oh-one, which is probably eight miles from the house. If Iz was killed between one and two, there's no way I could have done it and still ended up at that intersection when I did. I mean, I've been running for years and I'm in pretty fair shape, but I'm not that good."

"How can you be so sure of the time?"

"I was running for time. That's how I train. And I'll tell you who else was there: Tippy Parsons, Rhe's daughter, driving a little pickup, and she was very upset. She came barreling down the off-ramp and turned left on San Vicente."

"Did she see you?"

"She nearly ran me down! I'm not sure she realized it, but she nearly knocked me ass over teakettle coming off the exit. I looked at my watch because I knew my times would be screwed up and it pissed me off."

"Did anyone see you?"

"Sure. Some guy working on a busted water main. They had a crew out there. You probably don't remember, but we had some heavy rainstorms over Christmas that year. With the ground saturated, the soil was shifting and those old pipes were disintegrating everyplace."

"You said the alibi wasn't airtight. What's that supposed to mean?"

He smiled slightly. "If you're dead or in federal custody, that's airtight. A hotshoe like Kingman can always find a way to twist facts. All I'm saying is, I was miles away and I've got a witness. And he's an honest, hardworking guy, not some piece of shit like what's-his-face, McIntyre."

"What about Tippy? She's never said a word about this as far as I know. Why didn't you confront her?"

"What the hell for? I figured if she'd seen me, she'd have spoken up by now. And even if she spotted me, it's my word against hers. She was sixteen years old and hysterical about something. She might have just broken up with her boyfriend, or her cat might have died. The bottom line is, I was miles from the house when Isabelle was killed. I didn't even know what had happened until an hour later when I jogged past the house again. All the cop cars were there, the place was blazing with lights-"

"What about the repair crew? Will they support your claim?"

"I don't see why not. The guy took the stand before. Fellow by the name of Angeloni. He's on the list of witnesses, probably right up at the top. He saw me for sure and I know he saw her truck. She scared me so bad I had to sit on the curb and get my heart back to normal. It took me five or six minutes until I was okay again. By then, I said to hell with it and headed on home."

"And you told the cops this?"

"Go read the report. Cops figured me for the murder so they didn't pursue it."

I was silent for a moment, wondering what to make of it. Two days ago, his claims would have seemed preposterous. Now I wasn't sure. "I'll pass this on to Lonnie when I talk to him. That's the best I can do." Jesus, was I going to have to go out and corroborate his alibi?

He started to say more and then seemed to think better of it. "Fine. You do that. That's really all I'm asking. I appreciate your time," he said. His eyes met mine briefly. "I thank you for this."

"It's all right," I said.

He returned to his car. I watched him in the rearview mirror while he started the engine and backed out of the drive. He pulled away and I listened to the sound of his transmission as he shifted gears. Curious story. Something rang a bell, but I couldn't think what it was. Was Tippy Parsons really at the intersection? It seemed as if there must be a way to find out. I remembered reading about the storm coming through about that time.

I started the VW and pulled away from the curb, heading for the appointment with his ex-wife.

The Santa Teresa Medical Clinic, where Laura Barney worked, was a small wood-frame structure in the shadow of St. Terry's Hospital, which was two doors away. The exterior was plain-ever so faintly shabby- the interior pleasant, but leaning toward the low-budget. The chairs in the waiting room had molded blue plastic seats and metal legs linked together in units of six. The walls were yellow, the floors a marbleized vinyl tile, tan with white streaks. There was a wide wooden counter at one end of the room. On the far side, through the wide archway, I could see four desks, straight-backed office chairs, telephones, typewriters… nothing high-tech, streamlined, or color-coded. The rear wall was lined with tan metal file cabinets. I gathered, from the scattering of toddlers, pregnant women, and wailing infants, that this was a combination maternity and well-baby facility. It was almost closing time and the patients still waiting had probably been backed up for an hour. Children's toys and ripped magazines were strewn across the floor.

I moved to the counter, spotting Laura Barney by her name tag, which read "L. Barney, R.N." She wore a white pants-suit uniform and white crepe-soled shoes. I judged her to be somewhere in her early forties. She had reached an age where she could still achieve the same fresh good looks she'd enjoyed ten years earlier-it just took a lot more makeup and the effect probably wore off after an hour or two. At this time of day, the layers of foundation and loose powder had become nearly translucent, showing skin underneath that was reddened from cigarette smoke. She looked like a woman who'd been forced to go out into the workplace and wasn't at all happy with the necessity.

She was currently in the process of instructing a new employee, probably the same young girl I'd spoken to on the phone. Laura was counting out money like a bank teller, flicking bills through her fingers almost faster than the eye could see, turning each bill so it was right side up. If she came across a denomination that was out of place, she would slide it into the proper sequence. "Every bill should face in the same direction and they should be arranged with the smallest bills in front. Ones, fives, tens, twenties," she was saying. "That way you'll never inadvertently make change with a ten-dollar bill when you mean to use a one. Look at this…" She fanned them out like a magician performing a card trick. I almost expected her to say, "Pick a bill, any bill…" Instead, she said, "Are you listening?"

"Yes, ma'am." The young woman might have been nineteen, fifteen pounds overweight, with dark curly hair, flushed cheeks, and dark eyes glinting with suppressed tears.

L. Barney, R.N., opened the cash drawer again and removed an unruly wad of bills, which she held out silently. The young clerk took them. Self-consciously, she began to sort through the handful of bills, turning one upright in an awkward imitation of Laura Barney's expertise. Several denominations were out of sequence and she held the wad against her chest while she tried to straighten them out, dropping two fives in an attempt to get them in the correct order. She stammered an apology, stooping quickly to retrieve them. Laura Barney watched her with a slight smile, eyes nearly glittering with the urge to snatch the money back and do it for her. She must have itched to demonstrate the smooth, seamless effort with which an experienced cashier could perform so elementary a task. The absorption with which she watched seemed to make the girl more clumsy.

Her own manner was brisk, efficient. She'd picked up a ballpoint pen, which she was clicking impatiently. She wasn't going to waste a lot of time and sympathy. Get 'em in, get ' em out. Payment is expected at the time services are rendered. Her smile was pleasant but fixed and probably ran only for the few seconds necessary to register the chill underneath. If you tried to complain later to the clinic doctor you'd be hard-pressed to put your finger on her failings. I'd dealt with people like her before. She was all form and no content, a stickler for detail, an avid enforcer of the rules and regulations. She was the kind of nurse who assured you your tetanus shot would feel like a little bee bite when in truth it'd raise a knot on your arm the size of a doorknob.

She looked up at me and the fixed smile returned. "Yes?"

"I'm Kinsey Millhone," I said. I half expected her to hand me a clipboard with a medical history to be completed.

"Just a moment, please," she said. Her manner suggested that I'd made an unreasonable demand for immediate service. She finished dealing with the clerk and then called two patients in rapid succession. "Mrs. Gonzales? Mrs. Russo?"

Two women rose from their respective chairs. One carried a swaddled infant, the other had a toddler affixed to one hip. Both had preschool-age children in addition. Laura Barney held open the wooden gate that separated the waiting area from the corridor leading back to examining rooms. The two women and accompanying children passed in front of her, thus emptying the waiting room. She continued to hold the gate open. "You want to come with me?"

"Oh, sure."

She picked up two charts, like menus, and herded us into the rear, issuing instructions in rapid Spanish. Once everyone had been ushered into examining rooms, she continued on down the hall, crepe soles squeaking on the tile floor. The room she showed me into was a nine-by-nine generic office with one window, a scarred wooden desk, two chairs, and an intercom, the kind of setting where you're apt to receive the bad news about the lab tests they just ran. She shut the door and motioned to one chair while she cranked open the window and took a seat herself. She removed a pack of Virginia Slims and a pack of matches from her uniform pocket and lit a cigarette. She glanced surreptitiously at her watch, while pretending to adjust the band. "You came to ask about David. What exactly did you want to know?"

"I take it you're not on friendly terms with him."

"I get along with him fine. I hardly see the man."

"You also testified at his murder trial, didn't you?"

"Generally, I'm used to demonstrate what an unscrupulous bastard he is. You haven't read the transcripts?"

"I'm still in the process of reviewing all the paperwork. I was hired Sunday night. I've got a lot of ground to cover yet. It would be helpful if you could fill in some of the facts from your perspective."

"The facts. Well, let's see now. I met David at a party… well, it was nine years ago this month. How's that for touching? I fell in love with him and we were married six weeks later. We'd been married about two years when he was offered a position with Peter Weidmann's firm. Of course, we were thrilled."

I interrupted. "How did that come to pass?"

"Through a friend of a friend. We were living in Los Angeles, very interested in getting out. David heard Peter had an opening so he applied. We'd been in Santa Teresa all of two months when Isabelle came on board. David didn't even like her. I thought she was very bright and very talented. I was the one who insisted we befriend her. After all, she was the light of Peter's eye. He was her mentor, in effect. It wasn't in David's best interest to be competitive when she was assigned to work on all the high-visibility projects. I encouraged David to cultivate her both socially and professionally so I guess you could say I engineered their entire relationship."

"How did you find out about their affair?"

"Simone let something slip. I forget now what it was, but suddenly everything made sense. I knew David had been distant. It was common knowledge that Isabelle and Kenneth were having problems. It took me a while to put two and two together, that's all. None so blind, et cetera. I confronted him, like a fool. I wish now I'd kept my mouth shut."

"Why is that?"

"I forced his hand. Their relationship didn't last. If I'd had the presence of mind to ignore what was happening, the affair might have blown over."

"Do you think he killed her?"

"It had to be someone who knew her pretty well." The intercom buzzed abruptly. She depressed the button. "Yes, Doctor."

The doctor sounded like he was calling from a public telephone booth. "We're going to do a pelvic on Mrs. Russo. Could you come in?"

She said "Yes, sir" to him and then to me, "I have to go. Anything else you want is going to have to wait."

She held the door open for me and I passed through.

Within seconds she was gone and I was left to find my own way out. I went back to my car and sat there for a minute while I dug my wallet from the depths of my leather shoulder bag. I removed all the paper money and carefully rearranged the bills, turning them so they all faced in the same direction, ones in front, a twenty bringing up the rear.

I drove back to the office and parked my car in Lonnie's slot, taking the stairs two at a time up to the third floor. If Ida Ruth was surprised to see me back, she kept it to herself. I unlocked my office and started going through the files, which were somewhat better organized, but still loosely arranged on every available surface. I found the file I was looking for and moved over to the desk, where I clicked on the light and settled down in my swivel chair.

What I pulled out were the photocopies of the six-year-old newspapers I'd pulled in preparation for canvassing the Barneys' neighbors. Sure enough, for the days in question there was ample reference to the heavy rainfall over most of California. There was also mention of emergency crews from the public works department working overtime to repair the rash of burst water pipes. The same weather pattern had spawned a minor crime spree-felons running amok, apparently stimulated by the shift in atmospheric conditions. I flipped through the pages, scanning item after item. I wasn't really sure what I was looking for… a link, some sense of connection to the past.

The questions were obvious. If Tippy Parsons could support David Barney's alibi, why hadn't she stepped forward with the information years ago? Of course, she might not have been there. He might have seen someone else or he might have manufactured her presence to suit his own purposes. If she was there, she might not have seen him-there was always that chance-but placing her at the scene would certainly lend credibility to his claims. And what about the guy Barney claimed was at the scene? Where was he in all this?

I reached for the telephone and dialed Rhe Parsons, hoping to catch her in her studio. The number rang four times, five, six. On the seventh ring she answered, sounding breathless and out of sorts. "Yes?"

"Rhe, this is Kinsey Millhone. Sorry to disturb you. It sounds like I caught you right in the middle of your work again."

"Oh, hi. Don't worry about it. It's my own fault, I guess. I should get a portable telephone and keep it out in the studio. Sony for all the heavy breathing. I'm really out of shape. How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks. Is Tippy there by any chance?"

"No. She works until six tonight. Santa Teresa Shellfish. Is there something I could help you with?"

"Maybe so," I said. "I was wondering where she was the night Isabelle was killed."

"She was home, I'm sure. Why?"

"Well, it's probably nothing, but somebody thought they saw her driving around in a pickup."

"A pickup? Tippy never had a pickup."

"It must be a mistake then. Was she with you when the police called?"

"You mean, about Isabelle's death?" There was a moment of hesitation, which I should have taken as a warning, but I was so intent on the question, I forgot I was dealing with a m-o-t-h-e-r. "She was living with her father during that period," she said with care.

"That's right. So you said. I remember that now. Did he have a truck?"

Dead silence. Then, "You know, I really resent the implications here."

"What implications? I'm just asking for information."

"Your questions sound very pointed. I hope you don't mean to suggest she had anything whatsoever to do with what happened to Iz."

"Rhe, don't be silly. I'd never suggest such a thing. I'm trying to disconfirm a report. That's all it is."

"What report?"

"Look, it's probably nothing and I'd rather not get into it. I can talk to Tippy later. I should have done that in the first place."

"Kinsey, if somebody's making some claim about my daughter, I'm entitled to know. Who said she was out? That's an outrageous accusation."

"Accusation? Wait a minute. It's hardly an accusation to say she was driving around in a pickup truck."

"Who told you such a thing?"

"Rhe, I'm really not at liberty to divulge my sources. I'm working for Lonnie Kingman and that information is privileged…" This was not true, but it sounded good. Lawyer-client privilege didn't extend to me and had nothing to do with any witnesses I might approach. I could hear her try to get a grip on her temper.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me what's going on. I promise I won't ask about your sources, if that's really an issue."

I debated briefly and decided there was no reason to withhold the information itself. "Someone claims to have seen her out that night. I'm not saying it has any bearing on Isabelle's death, but it struck me as odd that she's never spoken up. I thought she might have mentioned something to you."

Rhe's tone was flat. "She's never spoken up because she wasn't out."

"Great. That's all I need to know."

"Even if she was, it's no business of yours."

I cupped a mental hand behind my mental ear. "'Even if she was' meaning what?" I said.

"Nothing. It's a turn of phrase."

"Would you ask her to call me?"

"I'm not going to ask her to call you!"

"Do what you like, Rhe. I'm sorry for the interruption." I banged down the receiver, feeling my face suffuse with heat. What was her problem? I made a note about a subpoena for Tippy Parsons if there wasn't one already. I hadn't attached that much credence to Barney's claim until I heard Rhe's reaction.

I buzzed Ruth on the intercom and asked her to order me a complete new set of transcripts from the criminal trial. Then I slouched down in my swivel chair, my feet up on the desk, fingers laced in front of me, as I thought about developments. No doubt about it, things were looking bad. Between Morley's sloppy records and his untimely death, we had a mess on our hands. Lonnie's prime witness suddenly seemed unreliable and now it looked as though the defendant actually had an alibi. Lonnie wasn't going to like this. It was better that he hear it now than on the first day of the trial when Herb Foss made his opening remarks to the jury, but it still wasn't going to sit well. He was going to get home Friday night and spend a lovely weekend with his wife. He'd been married for eight months to a kenpo karate instructor whom he had successfully defended against charges of felonious assault. I'm still trying to find out what Maria actually did, but all Lonnie would tell me is that the court case stemmed from a rape attempt by a man now retired from active life. I pulled my wandering thoughts back to the situation at hand. When Lonnie ambled into the office Monday morning, the dog-doo would start flying. Some of it was bound to land on me.

I went back through the list of prospective witnesses Lonnie'd acquired on discovery. A William Angeloni was listed, though his deposition hadn't been taken. I made a note of his address, checked the telephone book, and made a note of his number. I picked up the receiver and then set it down again. Better to do this in person so I could see what he looked like. Maybe he was some kind of sleazeball David Barney'd hired to lie for him. I shoved some papers in my briefcase and headed out again.

The address was over on the west side, the house a small stucco bungalow undergoing an extensive remodeling. The roof had been peeled back and the walls on one side had been ripped out. Big sheets of cloudy plastic were nailed across the studs, protecting whatever portions of the house remained untouched. Lumber and cinder block were neatly stacked to one side. There was a big dark blue Dumpster sitting in the drive, filled with broken drywall and ancient two-by-fours sporting bent and rusty nails. It looked as if the laborers had all left for the day, but there was a guy standing in the yard with a beer can in one hand. I parked my car across the street and got out, crossing to the borders of his now-scruffy lawn. "I'm looking for Bill Angeloni. Is that you, by any chance?"

"That's me," he said. He was in his midthirties, extraordinarily good-looking-dark, straight hair worn slightly long and brushed to one side, dark brows, dark eyes, strong nose, dimples, and a manly chin that probably took six swipes of a razor to shave properly. He wore jeans, muddy work boots, and a blue denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The hair on his forearms was dark and silky. He smelled of damp soil and metal. He looked like an actor who'd star in some movie about a doomed love affair between an heiress and a park ranger. I thought it was probably inappropriate to fling myself against him and bury my nose in his chest.

"Kinsey Millhone," I said, introducing myself. We shook hands briefly and then I told him who I worked for. "I just had a chat with David Barney and he mentioned your name."

Angeloni shook his head. "I can't believe that poor son of a bitch has to go to court again." He finished his beer, crushed the can, and fired a jump shot, tossing the empty container in the Dumpster with a plunking sound. He said 'Two points' and made crowd sounds with his fist against his mouth. He had a nice smile, unpretentious.

"This time it's wrongful death," I said.

"Jesus. What about double jeopardy? Isn't that what it's called? I thought you couldn't be tried twice."

"That applies to criminal. This is civil."

"I'm glad I'm not him. You want a beer? I just got home from work and I always suck down a few. This place is a mess. You better watch out for loose nails."

"Sure, I'll have one," I said and followed him toward the kitchen, which I could see clearly through the plastic. His butt was cute, too. "How long has this been going on?"

"The remodel? About a month. We're adding a big family room and a couple bedrooms for the kids."

Scratch the wedding, I thought as we pushed into the kitchen.

He took two beers from a six-pack and popped the tops on both. "I gotta fire up the barbecue before Julianna gets home with the little rug rats in tow. My turn to cook," he said, dimpling.

"How many kids?"

He held up one hand and wiggled his fingers.

"Five?"

"Plus one in the hatch. They're all boys. We're looking for a little girl this time."

"Are you still with the water department?"

"Ten years in May," he said. "You're a private investigator? What's that like?"

I talked idly about my work while he dumped the ashes from the Weber grill. He had a flat electrical starter that he plugged into an extension cord, mounding on charcoal briquettes, which he rearranged with a set of long metal pincers. I knew I should press for information. All I needed was confirmation of David Barney's whereabouts the night of the murder-the possible identification of Tippy Parsons, too-but there was something hypnotic about all the homely activity. I'd never been with a man who'd cared enough to fire up a Weber grill on my behalf. Lucky Julianna.

"Could you tell me about the night you saw David Barney?"

"There wasn't much to it. We were out digging up the street, trying to find a broken pipe. It had been pouring for days, but it wasn't raining right then. I heard a thump and looked up to see this guy in a running suit sprawled in the street. A pickup was turning left onto San Vicente and I guess it nearly nailed him. He picked himself off the pavement, limped over to where we were, and sat down on the curb. He was shaken, but not hurt. Mostly mad, you know how it is. We offered to call the paramedics, but he wouldn't hear of it. He sat till he caught his breath and then he took off again, kind of slow and limping. The whole business lasted maybe ten minutes or so."

"Did you see the driver of the truck?"

"Not really. It was some young girl, but I didn't get a clear look at her face."

"What about the license number? Did you catch that?"

He shrugged apologetically. "I never even thought to look. The truck was white. I know that."

"You remember the make?"

"Ford or Chevy, I'd guess. American, at any rate."

"How'd you find out who David Barney was? Did he introduce himself?"

"Not at the time. He got in touch with us later."

"How'd he know who you were?"

"He tracked us down through the department. Me and my buddy James. He knew the date, time, and location so it wasn't that tough."

"Can James confirm this?"

"Sure. We both talked to the guy."

"At the time Mr. Barney got in touch with you, did you know about his wife's murder?"

"I'd been reading about it in the paper. I didn't realize the connection until he told us who he was. Jesus, that was nasty. Did you hear about that?"

"That's why I'm here. The guy still swears he didn't do it."

"Well, I don't see how he could. He was miles away."

"You remember the time?"

"About one forty-five. Might have been a little earlier, but I know it wasn't later because I looked at my watch just as he was taking off."

"Didn't it seem odd to see someone out jogging at one-thirty in the morning?"

"Not a bit. I'd seen him jog along the same path the night before. Emergency work you see all kinds of things."

"You testified at the murder trial, didn't you?"

"Sure."

"What about this round? Will you testify again?"

"Absolutely. Glad to do it. The poor guy needs a break."

I thought back through Barney's story, trying to remember what he'd told me. "What about the cops? Did the police ever interview you?"

"Some homicide detective called and I told him everything I knew. He thanked me and that's the last I ever heard from him. I tell you one thing-they didn't like him. They had him tried and convicted before they even got him into court."

"Well, thanks. I appreciate this. You've given me a lot of information. I may get back in touch if I have any other questions." I gave him my card in case he thought of anything else. I crossed back to the car and sat there, making notes while his comments were still fresh.

I thought about Tippy, searching my memory. Rhe had told me those were Tippy's teen alcoholic years. If I remembered right, Rhe had sent her off to live with her father because she and Tippy had had a falling-out. So how would Rhe know if she was in that night or not? Maybe I should just ask Tippy and be done with it. "Do the obvious" had always been a working motto of mine.

I glanced at my watch. It was 5:35. Santa Teresa Shellfish was out on the wharf-maybe two blocks from my apartment, which was not that far away. I headed for home, across the backside of Capillo Hill. If Tippy was out that night, I couldn't see why she wouldn't own up to it six years later. Maybe nobody'd ever asked her. What a happy thought.