P is for Peril

Chapter 13

By 1:45, having confirmed my appointment with Fiona, I found myself driving once more along Old Reservoir Road. The sky was a steel gray, the earlier patches of blue covered over with thick clouds again. I flicked a look to my right, taking in the sight of Brunswick Lake. Gusts of wind skipped like stones along the surface of the water, and trees at the shoreline tossed their shaggy heads. I parked, as I had before, on the side of the two-lane road. I reached for my shoulder bag and the brown manila envelope containing my report. I looked up at the house, which was dug into the hillside as though meant to withstand attack. Four days had passed, but with the surfeit of rain, fresh weeds were sprouting across the property.

I wasn't looking forward to the meeting, but it was better than having to think about Richard and Tommy Hevener. That problem was stuck in my throat like a bone. My first impulse was to bail on the new office space, thus severing all ties, but (cheap as I am) I hated to say bye-bye to more than sixteen hundred dollars. The conflict was thorny. Morality aside, it can't be socially correct to consort with a couple of stone-cold killers. But how could I get out of my deal with them? Even in California, the etiquette was baffling. Was one polite? Did one confess the reasons for refusing to do business? I thought about the soft light in Tommy's eyes, then pictured him patiently tying up his mother's hands before the house was set on fire. If he called me again, should I mention his parents' murders or simply make some excuse? I wanted to act swiftly. Then again, by breaking off all contact, I was, in effect, refusing to help Mariah Talbot. I seldom shy away from risk and-as she had so rudely observed-I was willing to cut corners when it suited me.

As I locked my car door, I saw Trudy, the German shepherd I'd encountered on my last visit. She came racing up the road, a spirited pup, probably less than a year old and thrilled to be out in the chill November air. The dog squatted to take a whiz, then placed her nose to the ground, tracing the erratic trail of a critter that had passed that way earlier-rabbit or possum, possibly a waddling raccoon. The dog's owner, coming up behind, was keeping an eye on her progress in case she stumbled across something much bigger than she. By the time I'd clambered up the stairs to Fiona's front entrance, the woman and the dog were already out of sight. Henry and Rosie were always after me to get a mutt of my own, but I couldn't see the point. Why take responsibility for a creature who can't even use a flush toilet?

Fiona must have been waiting because I'd barely touched the bell before she opened the door. Her latest outfit consisted of a long-sleeved crepe blouse modeled on a postwar Eisenhower jacket belted at the waist. Her black wool skirt was tubular and ended mid-shin, thus exposing the least attractive portion of any woman's leg. Her high heels were chunky, with multiple ankle straps. Perched on her dyed brown curls was a version of the U.S. Women's Army Corps cap done in sequined velvet. I could smell cigarettes and Shalimar and I was suddenly reminded of my aunt's jar of Mum cream deodorant, which she'd rub into her armpits with the tips of her fingers.

"You could have parked out back in the driveway instead of climbing all those stairs," Fiona remarked. The content was harmless, but her tone was resentful, as if she'd like nothing better than to pick a fight with me.

"I need the exercise," I said, refusing to take the bait.

As she stepped away from the door, she adjusted her watch, glancing down surreptitiously to see if I was late. As usual, I was bang on time and I thought Ha-ha-on-you as I followed her in.

In the foyer, the painter's scaffolding was still in place, drop cloths blanketing the floor like a thin canvas snow. Nothing had been touched since our meeting on Friday, and I assumed she didn't trust the workmen to continue without her. Or maybe it was they who knew better than to go on laboring in her absence. She was the type who'd make them redo all the work as soon as she walked in the door. I could see that the wall still bore patches of three different shades of white.

When I held out the brown manila envelope, you'd have thought I was offering her a bug on a tray.

"What's this?" she asked, suspiciously.

"You said you wanted a report."

She opened the envelope and peered at the pages. "Well, thank you. I appreciate that," she said, dismissing my labors with a glance. "I hope you won't object to talking in the bedroom. I'd like to unpack."

"Fine with me." In truth I was curious to see the rest of the place.

"The flight home was murder, one of those thirty-seat orange crates blowing all over the place. I didn't mind the up-and-down so much as the side-to-side. I thought I'd never get home."

"Probably wind from the storm."

"I'll never fly on one of those small planes again. I'd rather go by rail even if it takes half a day."

She picked up a makeup case she'd stashed in the hall. She barely glanced at the larger suitcase. "Grab that for me."

I picked up the hard-sided suitcase, feeling like a pack mule as I followed her up the stairs. That sucker was heavy. I watched her legs flashing in front of me as she mounted the steps. She wore stockings with seams. With her affinity for the '40s, I was surprised she didn't draw a line down the back of each bare leg the way women did during World War II rationing. We turned right at the landing and went into a white-on-white master suite, which featured a large wall of glass overlooking the road. I set her suitcase on the floor. While Fiona moved into the bathroom with her makeup case, I crossed to the windows to absorb the view.

The coastline was completely enveloped in fog, thunder heads rising like ominous mountains in the distance. The hills were saturated with green, plant life responding to the rain with a sudden burst of new growth. In the overcast, Brunswick Lake had turned silver, its surface as flat and as mottled as an antique mirror. I turned. Fiona's four-poster bed was situated so that she saw much of this: sun rising to her left, going down on her right. I tried to imagine what it would be like to sleep in a room this big. At one end of the room, double doors stood open to reveal a large walk-in closet the size of my loft. At the opposite end, there was a fireplace with easy chairs and a low glass coffee table arranged in front of it. I pictured Fiona and Dow having drinks up here on the nights when he stopped by. I wondered if they'd ever gone to bed together just for old time's sake.

Fiona emerged from the bathroom and moved to the bed, where a second hard-sided suitcase was already laid open on the pristine spread. She began to remove the articles of clothing she'd packed with such care. "Why don't you start from the beginning and fill me in." I opened my verbal recital with an improvisational medley of interviews, going back over my report in a series of beautifully articulated summations of events. I began with Detective Odessa, segued into my visit with Crystal Purcell, and then moved on to Pacific Meadows, at which point I delineated the nature of the difficulties Dow Purcell was facing. I wasn't even fully warmed up when I hit a sour note that undercut my confidence. Fiona had been moving back and forth from the bed to the walk-in closet, carrying blouses and skirts, which she hung on matching white satin-padded hangers. She said, "You might as well follow me. Otherwise, I won't hear you and you'll have to repeat. My ears are still stopped up; just one more reason for taking the train."

I moved to the closet and stood in the doorway to continue the program. "At any rate, Saturday afternoon I went up to Blanche's shortly after she phoned…"

Fiona turned to me. "You went over to see Blanche? Why in the world did you do that?"

"She called me at home. I got the impression you'd already spoken to her."

"I did no such thing and I can't believe you'd take such a step without consulting me. No one's to be brought into this unless I say so. I'm paying for your time. If I'd wanted you to see Blanche, I'd have given you her number."

"I thought you did."

"I gave you Melanie's, not hers. How much did you tell her?"

"I really don't remember. Honestly, I'm sorry, but she acted as if she knew all about me, so I assumed she'd talked to you or to Melanie. She said the two of them were so relieved because they'd been urging you to hire someone ever since their father disappeared."

"That's immaterial. I'll pass on information to the girls if it seems relevant, but I think it's inappropriate coming from you. Is that clear?"

"Of course," I said, stung. Having paid Richard Hevener the entire $1,500 Fiona'd given me, I no longer had the means to refund her original retainer. Deducting $50 for the time I'd spent with Trigg, I now owed her $1,075 worth of services and realized if I quit, there was no way to pay her back, short of pulling the money from my savings account.

"Please go on," she murmured, resuming her chores.

My temper emerged hard on the heels of injury and I had to bite my tongue bloody to keep from telling her where to stick it. This resolution lasted until I opened my mouth. "You know what? Fun as this is, I'm already tired of taking crap from you. I've worked my butt off this weekend and if my methods don't suit you, I'm out of here."

For the second time within minutes, I'd managed to surprise and amaze. She seemed genuinely flustered, backing down as fast as she could manage it. "That's not what I meant, I apologize if I offended you. That wasn't my intent."

There's nothing more effective than an apology for knocking me off my high horse. I backed down as fast as she had and we spent the next few minutes smoothing one another's ruffled feathers before moving on.

Then Fiona asked me about the game plan. Like I had one. "How do you intend to go about finding him?"

"Ah," said I. "Well. I have some other people I want to talk to first and then we'll see where we stand." In truth, I was at a loss.

Her eyes glittered briefly and I thought she might challenge me, but she seemed to think better of it.

"Couple of questions," I said. "Someone thought Dow might have gone into an alcohol rehab facility on the two occasions when he disappeared in the past. Any chance he might have left the country instead?"

She hesitated. "What difference would that make?"

"Lonnie Kingman questioned it. He's the attorney I rent space from. He suggested Dowan might have been moving currency into foreign bank accounts in preparation for flight."

"It never occurred to me."

"I didn't occur to me, either, but the first time we met, you did seem to think he might be in Europe or South America."

"Well, yes, but I can't believe he'd plan such a thing all those years in advance."

"Did you ever look at his passport?"

"Of course not. What reason would I have?"

"Just an idea," I said. "Maybe that's why the passport's missing- he took it so no one could go back and see where he'd been on those earlier trips."

"You mentioned two questions."

I waited until she made eye contact with me. "Why didn't you tell me he was on his way over here that night?"

Casually, she placed a hand against her throat. The gesture was self-protective, as though she were warding off a slash at her carotid artery. "He never arrived. I thought it was a miscommunication. I tried calling his office the next day, but he was already gone by then."

"Why was he coming?"

"I don't see why it matters since he never showed."

"Was anyone else in the house with you that night?" I asked.

"To support my story?"

"That'd be nice, don't you think?"

"I'm afraid I can't help. This is a small town. Tongues wag. I wouldn't even let him leave his car on the parking pad. I had him pull into the empty garage. No one knew about his visits."

"At least no one you told." I felt badly as soon as I said it because the look in her eyes was one of betrayal.

"He swore he wouldn't tell Crystal. He said it would only hurt her and neither of us wanted that."

"I didn't say he told Crystal. This was someone else."

"Trigg."

I said, "Yes." After all, it was her money. She was entitled to the information. My scruples, though few, are somewhat spotty as well. "What about Lloyd Muscoe? Did Dow ever talk to you about him?"

"A bit. They disliked each other and avoided contact whenever possible. At first, it was territorial-they were like rival apes-which Crystal must have enjoyed. Later, the friction between them was more about Leila's relationship with Lloyd."

"I heard that Dow considered Lloyd a bad influence on the girl."

"I don't really know Lloyd so I'm reluctant to discuss the subject."

"Oh, give it a try. I'm sure you can manage something."

"He's common, for one thing."

"Happily, that isn't a crime in this state or I'd be under arrest myself."

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. They're paying a great deal of money to send her to that private school. I don't see the point when she spends half her weekends with someone like him."

"But Lloyd's the only father she's known. Crystal must feel it's important for Leila to maintain a relationship with him."

"If that's her motive. Perhaps she prefers to have the time to herself. Leila's behavior goes way beyond the norm for her age. It's obvious the girl is seriously disturbed. I'm sure Lloyd resented Dow's interference. Instead of taking time with Blanche, you should have been talking to him."

Trigg had told me Lloyd lived in the little studio behind the big yellow shingle house at the corner of Missile and Olivio. I parked out in front and made my way down the narrow driveway on foot. Shaggy hedges encroached on either side, forming walls of wet foliage that showered drops as I passed. There was a 1952 Chevrolet parked on the grass at the end of the drive. The occasional wet leaf was plastered to the hood, but aside from that it seemed clean and well cared for. The backyard was overgrown and the small wood-frame studio might have been a gardener's shed at one time. I went up two shallow wooden porch steps and rapped on the frame of the screen door.

No one answered my knock. I took a few minutes to circle the studio, moving from window to window, peering in at the place. I could see four small rooms-living room, kitchen, two tiny bedrooms, with a bath between-all empty. I went back to the front door and opened the screen. I tried the knob. The door swung open at my touch. I turned and stared at the main residence, but no one seemed to be staring back at me. I entered the studio, my footsteps echoing against bare plaster walls.

The rooms smelled of mildew. The floors were covered in scuffed linoleum, the pattern worn. In the first bedroom, there were coat hangers strewn about. Nothing in the closet. In the second bedroom, there was a bare twin-sized mattress on the floor, and when I opened the closet door, I spotted two bedrolls tucked out of sight to the right. The window in that bedroom had been left open a crack, a detail I hadn't noticed when I circled the place. Maybe Lloyd crept in here to sleep now and then. Anyone could ease in along the hedges to the rear of the place, gaining access to the cottage without being seen. There was nothing in the bathroom, with its claw-footed bathtub and its toilet stained with rust. In the kitchen, cabinets stood open. On the counter, I could see a take-out cup holding the dregs of some drink. Smelled like bourbon and Coke, or something equally gross. I opened all the kitchen drawers. Optimist that I am, I'm always hoping for a clue, preferably a torn scrap of paper with a forwarding address.

I did another quick tour, which turned out to be as unenlightening as the first. I pulled the door shut behind me and struck out across the yard to the wide rear porch. The backdoor was half glass and I could see an old woman in a housedress fussing with a coven of cats. There were seven by my count: two calicoes, a black, two gray tabbies, an orange tabby, and a white long-haired Persian the size of a pug. I tapped on the window. The old woman looked up, giving me a scowl to indicate she was aware of my presence.

She was tall and gaunt, her white hair arranged in thin braids wrapped around her head. She was apparently in the process of feeding her brood because they circled her attentively, rubbing against her legs, their mouths opening in cries I couldn't hear through the glass. I could see her talking back, probably some long-winded comment about how spoiled they were. She put their bowls on the floor. All of the cats set to work, seven heads bowing as though in prayer. The woman crossed to the backdoor and opened it. The odor of cat litter wafted out through the gap.

"Not for rent," she said, loudly. "I saw you go through the place, but it's not available. Next time you might ask first before you intrude." Her dentures were loose and she settled them in place with a kind of chewing motion between sentences.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize anyone was here."

"That's clear enough," she said. "Past sixteen years I rented it out for two hundred dollars a month. Nothing but riffraff moved in. Turnover was constant and some of 'em was no better than bums. It was Paulie pointed out that's all I'd get at those prices. Now I'm asking eight fifty and the place stays empty. Big improvement."

"I'm looking for Lloyd Muscoe. Wasn't he living out there?"

"Did at one time. Twice he was late on his rent and once he didn't pay at all, so I kicked him out."

"Good for you." Where had I heard the name Paulie before? Crystal's battle with Leila at the beach house the first time we met. "Paul's your grandson?"

"Granddaughter and the name's Pauline. I raised her since the day her drunken mother dropped her on my doorstep when she was six years old."

"Isn't she a friend of Leila's?"

"Who?"

"Lloyd's daughter, Leila."

"Not anymore. Leila's mother put a stop to it. Said Paulie was too wild. Ask me, that Lloyd's the wild one. Thought he'd get around me because I'm old and deaf, but I surprised him. Evicted him proper and had a marshall show up, make sure he went without a fuss. Fellow like that might decide to trash the place if he doesn't get his way."

"Any idea where he went?"

"No, and I don't care. You a bill collector?"

"I'm a private detective."

"What kind of trouble is he in?"

"None as far as I know. I need to talk to him."

"Can't help. I think he's somewhere in town, but that's as much as I know. Can't even forward his bills, so I have to throw 'em in the trash. Nice-looking man, but shiftless as they come."

"So I've heard. Thanks, anyway."

"You're entirely welcome," she said, and closed the door.

I sat in the car and considered my options. The simplest course of action would be to ask Crystal where Lloyd had gone. Since the two shared custody, I assumed she'd know. I fired up the engine and headed for Horton Ravine again.

Dr. Purcell's house was built on a lush, wooded knoll with a narrow view of the ocean if you raised up on tiptoe. The residence itself wasn't impressive, despite Fiona's boasting about her talent for design. In typical fashion, she'd piled box on box in tiers up to a flat concrete roof. A reflecting pool extended from the front, providing a mirror image of the house in case you happened to miss it the first time around. The style, though futuristic, was oddly dated, imitative of architects more talented than she. It was clearly not Crystal's taste and I could see where she'd chafe at having to live there. Given her love of the glass-and-frame Cape Cod beach house, this must have felt like a prison. The white Volvo and the Audi convertible were parked in the drive, along with a snappy little black Jaguar I hadn't seen before.

When I rang the bell, I heard nothing, but within a minute, Crystal appeared at the door. She was wearing boots, black wool slacks, and a heavy black wool sweater. Her hair was feathered away from her face, the layered blond strands carelessly disarranged. "Good. Thank God. Maybe you can help. Nica, it's Kinsey! Come on in," she said to me, harried.

I stepped through the door. "What's going on?"

"Anica's just driven up from Fitch," she said. "Leila left campus without permission and we're trying to track her down before she blows it. She'll be kicked out of school as soon as they realize she's gone. Don't worry about me. I'm only going out of my mind. Rand took Griff to the zoo."

Anica appeared from the kitchen, wearing navy blue slacks and a red blazer with a gold-stitched Fitch Academy patch on the breast pocket. Her shirt was tailored, crisp white, and she wore a pair of low-heeled navy blue pumps. Her manner was straightforward, and she managed a wide smile despite Crystal's distress. "Always walking into uproar. Hello, Kinsey. Nice to see you again. How are you?" She reached forward and we shook hands.

"Fine. I'm sorry about Leila. You think she's heading this way?"

"Let's hope," Crystal said. She passed us on her way into the kitchen, talking over her shoulder. "I'm making coffee while we try to decide what to do. She knows she's not allowed to hitchhike. I've expressly forbidden it…"

"That's probably why she's done it," Anica said. "I'd be sick with worry if I wasn't so mad at her. How do you take yours, Kinsey?"

"Black's fine with me."

While Anica and I followed her into the kitchen, I made a quick eyeball assessment of the living room to my right. The interior of the house was curious: stone floors, stark white walls, no window covering, all angles and cold light-clearly Fiona's imprint. Over it Crystal had asserted her own taste: assorted shabby Oriental carpets laid together like pieces of a puzzle, sagging upholstered furniture slipcovered with faded chintz. The wood tables and padded chairs were an antique white with green-and-white checkered seats. Some of the stray pieces were made of bentwood; big rounded chairs that had been woven from twigs. There was a white-painted wrought-iron day-bed piled with oversized pillows in mismatched fabrics. Books were stacked on the coffee table and there were vases of flowers carelessly arranged. The effect was comfortable and slouchy, a place where kids could roam without ruining much since everything looked ruined to begin with.

The kitchen showed the same sort of changes. I could see Fiona's bare-bones approach: cold, streamlined surfaces and the rounded art deco corners. Crystal had introduced glass-fronted cabinets and a hutch where her collection of assorted china plates was displayed. The room looked old-fashioned, a place grandma would have loved for putting up peaches and tomatoes. The appliances were obviously up-to-date. The stove was a six-burner Viking. I spotted two dishwashers, four ovens, and an island topped with speckled gray granite. Dried herbs hung from the rafters along with a rack for copper pots and pans. At the far end of the room, there was a red-brick fireplace that looked like it was added after Fiona's departure. Too folksy for her taste.

Nica perched on one of the stools lined up in a row along the length of the island while Crystal took cups and saucers from the nearest cabinet, saying, "She's going to get her butt kicked. I swear she's going to be grounded for months. What time did she take off?"

"Had to be nine-fifteen," Nica said. "She reported to PE at nine o'clock, but she claimed she had cramps and was going to the nurse's office. She had an appointment with me at ten. When she didn't show for that, I tracked down her roommate, Amy, who told me she'd seen Leila leaving campus with her backpack."

Crystal looked at her watch. "Where the hell could she be?"

"I just hope Amy has the good grace to keep quiet to the school authorities," Nica said, exempting herself.

"Mind if I look in Leila's room? Maybe I can pick up some clue about where she might be."

Crystal said, "Go right ahead. It's the second door to the right at the head of the stairs."

I went up. Leila's door was closed but unlocked, so I let myself in. I stood for a moment, surveying the space. The room was done in frilly pastels. Talk about wishful thinking. She was at that stage of maturity (or lack of it) where the half-nudie rock star posters ran neck and neck with the stuffed animals of her youth. Every surface was covered with knickknacks. Most looked like the sorts of items teenaged girls give each other: mugs with cute sayings, figurines, jewelry, bottles of cologne. Her bulletin board was a collage of ticket stubs, concert programs, and color snapshots: kids at pep rallies, girls acting goofy, guys engaged in drinking beer, smoking pot, and other wholesome pursuits. For someone who claimed to have no friends, she had an amazing collection of memorabilia. The floor was carpeted in discarded clothes, which were also draped over chairs, garments hanging on the closet door, the window seat, and two small upholstered chairs.

I did a quick but thorough search of her drawers. Most of her underwear was already out on the floor, which made my job simple. I went through her closet-jammed full of old board games, sporting equipment, and items from her summer wardrobe. I got down on my hands and knees and made a circuit of the room, checking under chairs, under the bed, under the chest of drawers. The only discovery of interest was the narrow metal lockbox hidden between the mattress and box spring. I shook it but heard only the softest of sounds in response. Probably her dope stash. I didn't have time enough to pick the lock. I returned the box to its hiding place. I felt better for having searched, though the foraging netted me nothing.

Returning to the kitchen, I paused at the planning center to study the family calendar for November, which sat open on the desk. The calendar showed one full month for each page, which was also illustrated with a series of photographs of dogs dressed in children's clothing. November was a cocker spaniel in a navy blue sailor suit. The dog had big brown eyes and appeared to be embarrassed half to death.

Each day was given its own block, an inch-and-a-half square. I could see that three different people had added notes about social events and other activities. Judging from handwriting and the nature of the events posted, I was guessing that Leila's was the oversized printing-angled T's, puffy I's. Crystal's was the elegant cursive in red ink. And Rand's was the scrawl written with a blue ballpoint pen. The personal reminders ranged from meetings to tennis lessons, dental and doctor appointments, to a weekly play group for Griff. The Audi was serviced early in the month. Various telephone numbers had been written in the margins. Notes on alternate weekends indicated Leila's return from school. She apparently wasn't scheduled for this weekend, perhaps because she'd been with Crystal the previous one.

Behind me, Crystal and Nica were busy berating Leila in absentia. I leafed back three months to July and August, noting a fourth handwriting: bold block letters in black. This (I surmised) was Dr. Purcell, whose presence was visible up until Monday, September 8, four days before he vanished. He'd jotted in notes about two board meetings, a medical symposium at UCLA, and a golf date at the country club. None of the entries seemed significant and I assumed the police had followed up.

"I've had it with her," Crystal was saying. "I don't know why I even bother to get upset. That's exactly what she wants."

Nica said, "She's probably on her way to Lloyd's. It'd be like her to make a beeline straight for him."

"Great. Let him deal with her. I'm sick of it. If she doesn't show up soon, I'm calling the cops. All I have to do is declare her an out-of-control minor and she's screwed for sure."

"What good is that going to do?" Anica said. "I know you're mad, but you turn her over to the courts and you'll regret it."

"She's the one who'll have regrets. This is about Paulie. I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts."

Anica said, "Quit with the Paulie stuff. It's pointless."

I picked up the calendar and moved over to the island where I claimed my coffee cup. "Mind if I ask about this?"

Crystal glanced over at me, distracted. "What do you need?"

I placed the calendar on the counter and tapped at the page. "I gather Leila doesn't come home every weekend."

"For the most part, she does. Lloyd and I usually alternate visits, but things do come up."

"Like what?"

Crystal glanced at the page, pointing to the second weekend in July. "This was the weekend she had an invitation to go home with her friend, Sherry, in Malibu Colony. Her father's in the movie business and he takes the girls to all the big premieres."

I pointed to the weekend of September 12, when Dow Purcell disappeared. "And this?"

"Same thing, different friend. Emily's family owns horses. They have a ranch at Point Dume. Leila loves to ride. Actually that weekend was canceled-I think Emily got sick-and Leila ended up over at Lloyd's. Why do you ask?"

I shrugged, checking back through the months. Leila's schedule seemed to vary, but it looked like she went off with her school friends on an average of once a month. "I'm thinking she might have left campus with one of her classmates from Fitch."

"I guess it's possible, but I doubt it. Most of her friends are college prep. They'd never risk expulsion." She turned to Nica. "What do you think?"

"It wouldn't hurt to check. It crossed my mind as well, so I brought along the school roster in case we needed to phone any of the other parents." She reached down into the large navy bag near her feet and removed a spiral-bound directory with the school logo on the front. "You want me to go through these and see what I come up with?"

Crystal said, "Hold on a second and let me try Lloyd again." She crossed to the planning center and picked up the phone. She punched in seven numbers and listened for a moment, and then replaced the handset. "He's still not answering. Leila's stepfather," she added by way of explanation.

"I know. I saw him at the beach house the day I met you."

"I've been calling him since Nica arrived. He's there, if I know him. He's always got collection agencies on his case so he refuses to pick up. I've left six messages so he knows this is serious. You'd think he could manage to call back."

I said, "Look, I need an excuse to talk to him, anyway. Why don't you let me go over to his place and see if Leila's there? If she's not, I can start scouring the roads."

"That's not a bad idea. Nica and I can stay here in case she decides to make an appearance." Crystal reached for a pen and scribbled down some numbers on a scratch pad, tearing off the sheet. "These are my numbers and Lloyd's address and phone."

"You have two lines?"

"That's right. This one's personal. The other's business."

I pointed to the first. "Why don't you leave this one free? You can use the other to check with some of Leila's friends."

"If you find Lloyd, you can tell him I'm tired of doing this alone. It's time he took his fair share of the load."

Walking out to my car, I had to wonder how kids of divorced parents survive all the bickering.