P is for Peril

Chapter 1

The house on Old Reservoir Road appeared to be in the final phases of construction. I spotted the site as I rounded the curve, recognizing the unfinished structure from Fiona Purcell's description. To my right, I could see a portion of the reservoir for which the road was named. Brunswick Lake fills the bottom of a geological bowl, a spring-fed body that supplied the town with drinking water for many years. In 1953 a second, larger catch basin was established, and now Brunswick is little more than an irregular blue splotchlet on maps of the area. Swimming and boating are forbidden, but seasonally the migrating water birds rest on the placid surface as they make their way south. The surrounding hills are austere, gentle swells rising to the mountains that mark the northernmost boundary of the Santa Teresa city limits.

I parked my VW on the gravel berm and crossed the two-lane road. The steeply pitched lot was still bare of landscaping and consisted entirely of raw dirt and boulders with a dusting of weeds taking hold. At street level, a big commercial Dumpster was piled high with debris. A small grove of signs planted in the yard announced the names of the building contractor, the painting contractor, and the architect, though Mrs. Purcell had been quick to assure me by phone that she'd drawn up the plans herself. The design-if that's what you want to call it- would have been approved by the Department of Defense: an implacable series of concrete boxes, staunch and unadorned, stacked up against the hillside under a pale November sun. The facade was as blank as a bunker, a radical contrast to the sprawling Spanish-style homes on adjacent properties. Somewhere to the rear of the house, there must have been a driveway leading to garages and a parking pad, but I opted for the stairs built into the barren hillside. At six A.M., I'd done a three-mile jog, but I'd skipped my Friday-morning weight lifting to keep this early appointment. It was just now eight o'clock and I could feel my butt dragging as I mounted the steps.

Behind me, I could hear a dog bark. Its deep-throated yaps echoed through the canyon, conveying a message of excitement. A woman was calling, "Trudy! Truuddy!" while the dog barked on. She emitted a piercing whistle, and a young German shepherd came bounding over the hill, heading in my direction at full speed. I waited, bracing myself for the force of muddy feet, but at the last possible second, the whistle came again and the dog sprinted off. I continued climbing Fiona's wide concrete steps, tacking twice before I reached the upper terrace with its plain limestone portico that shaded the front entrance. By then, my thighs were burning, I was huffing and puffing, and my heart was rat-a-tat-tatting like machine-gun fire. I could have sworn there was less oxygen in the air up here, but I'd actually only climbed the equivalent of two stories and I knew it was probably no more than three-to four-hundred feet above sea level. I turned, pretending to admire the view while I recovered my breath.

From this aerie, I could see the broad, shimmering band of the Pacific Ocean stitched to the shoreline some five miles away. Before me, the day was so clear, I could almost count the mountain ridges on the islands twenty-six miles out. Behind me, the clouds were peering over the mountaintops, a fast-moving blanket of dark gray in advance of a storm. San Francisco, four hundred miles to the north of us, was already feeling its lash.

By the time I rang the bell, my breathing had slowed and I'd done a quick mental review of the subject I was here to discuss. Fiona Purcell's ex-husband, Dr. Dowan Purcell, had been missing for nine weeks. She'd had a messenger deliver a manila envelope filled with newspaper clippings that recapped events surrounding his disappearance. I'd sat in my office, tilted back in my swivel chair, my Sauconys propped on the edge of my desk while I studied the articles she'd sent. She'd arranged them chronologically but had otherwise presented them without editorial comment. I'd been following the story in the local papers, but I'd never anticipated my involvement in the case. I found it helpful to have the sequence laid out again in this truncated form.

I noticed that over the course of nine weeks, the character of the coverage had shifted from the first seventy-two hours of puzzlement, through days of feverish speculation, and into the holding pattern that represented the current state of the investigation. Nothing new had come to light-not that there was ever much to report. In the absence of fresh revelations, the public's fascination had begun to dwindle and the media's attention to the matter had become as chilly and abbreviated as the brief November days. It is a truth of human nature that we can ponder life's mysteries for only so long before we lose interest and move on to something else. Dr. Purcell had been gone since Friday, September 12, and the lengthy column inches initially devoted to his disappearance were now reduced to an occasional mention nearly ritual in its tone. The details were recounted, but the curiosity had shifted to more compelling events.

Dr. Purcell, sixty-nine years old, had practiced family medicine in Santa Teresa since 1944, specializing in geriatrics for the last fifteen years. He'd retired in 1981. Six months later, he'd been licensed as the administrator of a nursing care facility called Pacific Meadows, which was owned by two businessmen. On the Friday night in question, he'd worked late, remaining in his office to review paperwork related to the operation of the nursing home. According to witnesses, it was close to nine o'clock when he stopped at the front desk and said good-night to the nurses on duty. At that hour, the occupants had settled down for the night. The corridors were empty and the residents' doors were closed against the already dimmed hall lights. Dr. Purcell had paused to chat with an elderly woman sitting in the lobby in her wheelchair. After a cursory conversation, less than a minute by her report, the doctor passed through the front door and into the night. He retrieved his car from his reserved space at the north side of the complex, pulled out of the lot, and drove off into the Inky Void from which he'd never emerged. The Santa Teresa Police and the Santa Teresa County Sheriffs Departments had devoted endless hours to the case, and I couldn't think what avenues remained that hadn't already been explored by local law enforcement.

I rang the bell again. Fiona Purcell had told me she was on her way out of town, a five-day trip to San Francisco to purchase furniture and antiques for a client of her interior design firm. According to the papers, Fiona and the doctor had been divorced for years. Idly, I was wondering why she'd been the one who called me instead of his current wife, Crystal.

I saw a face appear in one of the two glass panels that flanked the entrance. When she opened the door, I saw that she was already dressed for travel in a double-breasted pin-striped suit with wide lapels. She held a hand out. "Ms. Millhone? Fiona Purcell. Sorry to make you wait. I was at the back of the house. Please come in."

"Thanks. You can call me Kinsey if you like. Nice meeting you," I said.

We shook hands and I moved into the entrance hall. Her handshake was limp, always startling in someone who, otherwise, seems brisk and businesslike. I placed her in her late sixties, close to Dr. Purcell's age. Her hair was dyed a dark brown, parted on one side, with puffy bangs and clusters of artificially constructed curls pulled away from her face and secured by rhinestone combs, a style affected by glamour-girl movie stars of the 1940s. I half-expected an appearance by John Agar or Fred MacMurray, some poor, feckless male who'd fallen prey to this vixen with her fierce shoulder pads. She was saying, "We can talk in the living room. You'll have to pardon the mess."

Scaffolding had been erected in the foyer, reaching to the lofty ceiling. Drop cloths lined the stairs and the wide corridor leading to the rear of the house. To one side of the stairs, there was a console table and a streamlined chrome lamp. Currently, we seemed to be the only two on the premises.

"Your flight's at ten?" I asked.

"Don't worry about it. I'm eight minutes from the airport. We have at least an hour. May I offer you coffee? I'm having mine in here."

"No, thanks. I've had two cups this morning and that's my limit most days."

Fiona moved to the right and I followed in her wake, crossing a broad expanse of bare cement. I said, "When do the floors go in?"

"These are the floors."

I said, "Ah," and made a mental note to quit asking about matters far beyond my ken.

The interior of the house had the cool, faintly damp smell of plaster and fresh paint. All the walls in range were a dazzling white, the windows tall and stark, unadorned by any curtains or drapes. A sly glance behind me revealed what was probably the dining room on the far side of the entryway, empty of furniture, subdivided by rhomboids of clear morning light. The echo of our footsteps sounded like a small parade.

In the living room, Fiona gestured toward one of two matching armchairs, chunky and oversized, upholstered in a neutral-toned fabric that blended with the gray cement floor. A large area rug showed a densely woven grid of black lines on gray. I sat when she did, watching as she surveyed the space with the practiced eye of an aesthete. The furnishings were striking: light wood, tubular steel, stark geometric shapes. An enormous round mirror, resting in a crescent of chrome, hung above the fireplace. A tall silver and ivory coffeepot, with a matching creamer and sugar bowl, sat on a silver tray on the beveled-glass coffee table. She paused to refill her cup. "Are you a fan of art deco?"

"I don't know much about it."

"I've been collecting for years. The rug's a Da Silva Bruhns. This is Wolfgang Tumpel's work, if you're familiar with the name," she said, nodding at the coffee service.

"Beautiful," I murmured, clueless.

"Most of these pieces are one of a kind, created by craftsmen who were masters in their day. I'd go on rattling the names off, but I doubt they'd mean much if you're not acquainted with the period. I built this as a showcase for my collection, but as soon as the house is finished, I'll probably sell it and move on. I'm impatient by nature and far too restless to stay here long." She had strong features: thinly arched brows and dark, smudged eyes, with pronounced streaks of weariness descending from the inner corners. She took a sip of coffee and then paused to extract a cigarette from a pack sitting on the table. The lighter she used was one of those small gold items and made very little sound when she flipped the cover back and thumbed the striker wheel. She held the lighter in her palm and drew deeply on her cigarette, clearly savoring the relief. She tilted her head toward the ceiling and blew the smoke out in a stream. I figured I could always drop my blazer at the cleaners on the way home.

She said, "I don't think I mentioned this when we chatted the other day, but Dana Glazer suggested I get in touch with you. I believe she was Dana Jaffe when you were acquainted with her."

"Really. How do you know her?"

"I'm helping her redecorate her home. She's now married to one of Dow's associates, Joel Glazer, whose first wife died. Do you know Joel?

He's a partner in a company called Century Comprehensive that owns a chain of nursing homes among other things."

"I know the name Glazer from the papers. I've never met him," I said. Her call was beginning to make sense, though I still wasn't sure how I could be of service. Dana Jaffe's first husband, Wendell, had disappeared in 1979, though the circumstances-on the surface- were very different from the current case. Wendell Jaffe was a self-made real estate tycoon who'd faked his own death, showing up in Mexico shortly after his "widow" had collected half a million dollars in life insurance benefits. Wendell was facing jail time after a Ponzi scheme he'd cooked up threatened to unravel, exposing his chicanery. The "pseudocide" was his attempt to avoid the inevitable felony conviction. He might have pulled it off, but he'd been spotted in Mexico by a former acquaintance, and I'd been dispatched by the insurance company, who wanted their money back. I wondered if Fiona suspected her ex-husband had pulled a fast one as well.

She set her coffee cup aside. "You received the articles?"

"A messenger dropped them off at the office yesterday. I read them last night and then again this morning. The police have been thorough…"

"Or so they'd like us to think."

"You're not happy with their progress?"

"Progress! What progress? Dowan is still missing. I'll tell you what they've accomplished: zilch. I grant you, they're going through the motions-making public pronouncements, trumpeting their concerns- but it's all sound and fury, signifying nothing."

I objected to her attitude but decided not to protest just yet. I think the cops are terrific, but why argue the point? She wanted to hire me and I was here to determine what, if anything, I could contribute. "What's the latest?" I asked.

"No one's heard a peep from him-at least as far as I've been told." She took another drag on her cigarette and then tapped the ash into a heavy crystal ashtray. Her lipstick was dark and bled into the fine hairline crevices along her upper lip. She'd left a distinct half-moon on the coffee cup and a full ring around the filter of her cigarette. Her jewelry was clunky: big clip-on silver earrings and a matching bracelet. The effect was stylish, but everything about her suggested estate sales and vintage clothing shops. I fancied if I'd bent close, I'd have picked up the whiff of moth balls and cedar closets, mingled with scents from the '40s, Shalimar and Old Golds. In moments, her looks were striking, harsh flickers of beauty she seemed at pains to accentuate. She lowered her eyes. "Of course, you realize we're divorced."

"There was reference to that in one of the articles you sent. What about his current wife?"

"I've only spoken to Crystal once throughout this whole ordeal. She's gone to great lengths to keep me out of the loop. I receive updates through my daughters, who've made it a point to stay in close touch with her. Without them, I'd have even less information than I do, which God knows, isn't much."

"You have two girls?"

"Correct. My youngest, Blanche, and her husband are only four blocks away. Melanie, the older one, lives in San Francisco. I'll be staying with her 'til Tuesday afternoon of next week."

"Any grandchildren?"

"Mel's never been married. Blanche is expecting her fifth in about three weeks."

I said, "Wow."

Fiona's smile was sour. "Motherhood's just her way of avoiding a real job."

"A 'real' job sounds easier. I couldn't do what she does."

"She barely manages herself. Fortunately, the children have a nanny who's extremely competent."

"How do your daughters get along with Crystal?"

"Fine, I suppose. Then again, what choice do they have? If they don't dance to her tune, she'll make sure they never see their father or their half-brother again. You know Dow and Crystal have a son? His name is Griffith. He just turned two."

"I remember mention of the boy. May I call you Fiona?"

She took another drag of her cigarette and placed it on the lip of the ashtray in front of her. "I'd prefer Mrs. Purcell, if it's all the same to you." Smoke trailed from her mouth as she spoke and she seemed to study it, bemused.

"Yes, well. I'm wondering if you have a theory about your ex-husband's disappearance."

"You're one of the few who's even bothered to ask. Apparently, my opinion is of no concern. I suspect he's in Europe or South America, biding his time until he's ready to come home. Crystal thinks he's dead-or so I've heard."

"It's not so far-fetched. According to the papers, there's been no activity on his credit cards. There's been no sign of his car and no sign of him."

"Well, that's not quite true. There've been a number of reports. People claim to have spotted him as far away as New Orleans and Seattle. He was seen getting on a plane at JFK and again south of San Diego, heading for Mexico."

"There are still sightings of Elvis. That doesn't mean he's alive and well."

"True. On the other hand, someone fitting Dow's description tried to cross into Canada but walked away when the immigration officer asked to see his passport, which is missing, by the way."

"Really. That's interesting. The papers didn't mention it. I take it the police have followed up?"

"One can only hope," she remarked. There was something hollow in her tone. If she could only persuade me, then perhaps what she said would turn out to be true.

"You're convinced he's alive?"

"I can't imagine otherwise. The man has no enemies and I can't conceive his being the victim of 'foul play,'" she said, forming the quote marks with her fingers. "The idea's absurd."

"Because?"

"Dow's perfectly capable of taking care of himself-physically, at any rate. What he's not capable of doing is facing the problems in life. He's passive. Instead of fight or flight, he lies down and plays dead- in a manner of speaking. He'd rather do anything than deal with conflict, especially involving women. This goes back to his mother, but that's another story altogether."

"Has he done anything like this before?"

"As a matter of fact, he has. I tried to explain this to the police detective. In vain, I might add. Dowan's done this twice. The first time, Melanie and Blanche were-what? – probably only six and three. Dowan disappeared for three weeks. He left without warning and returned much the same way."

"Where'd he go?"

"I have no idea. The second time was similar. This was years later, before we separated for good. One day he was here; the next, he was gone. He came back a few weeks later without a murmur of explanation or apology. Naturally, I've assumed this recent disappearance was a repeat performance."

"What prompted his departure on those earlier occasions?"

Her gesture was vague, smoke trailing from the tip of her cigarette. "I suppose we were having problems. We usually were. At any rate, Dow kept saying he needed time to clear his head-whatever that means. One day soon after that he simply didn't come home. He'd canceled his appointments, including social engagements, all without a word to me or to anyone else. The first I became aware was when he failed to arrive for dinner. The second time was the same except I didn't go out of my mind with worry."

"So in both of those instances, he behaved much as he did this time?"

"Exactly. The first time, it took hours before I realized he was gone. The man's a doctor and, naturally, he was often delayed. By midnight, I was wild-close to hysterical. I thought I'd go mad."

"You called the police?"

"I called everyone I could think of. Then first thing the next morning, a note arrived in the mail. He said he'd come home eventually, which is exactly what he did. I was furious, of course, but he seemed totally unconcerned. Fool that I am, I forgave him and we went on as before. The marriage was good, or good enough from my perspective. I thought he was happy-until this business with Crystal. For all I know, he'd been fooling around with her for years."

"What made you stay?"

"I thought he was a good husband. That's how innocent I was. He tended to be distant, but I didn't fault him-at least, on a conscious level. I might have harbored resentments, but I wasn't aware of them. Looking back, I realize there are many ways a man can disappear."

"Such as?"

She shrugged, stubbing out her cigarette. "Television, sleep, alcohol, books, uppers, downers. I'm speaking in general terms, but you get my drift."

"And in his case?"

"Dow buried himself in his work. Went in early, stayed at the office until all hours of the night. What you have to understand about him is, he's someone who avoids disagreements. That's why he loves the elderly-because they make no real demands on him. Being a physician gives him status, which has always been better, in his mind, than having to be accountable like any ordinary mortal."

"How long were you married?"

"Close to forty years. We met at Syracuse. I was majoring in art history and he was pre-med. We married shortly after graduation. Dow went on to medical school at Penn State and did his internship and residency out here. By then, we had the girls. I stayed home with them until they were both in school and then I went back and got my master's in interior design. I designed the house we built soon afterward in Horton Ravine. Of course, we hired an architect to handle all the nuts and bolts."

"He still owns that house?"

"Yes, though Crystal doesn't care for it from what I've heard."

"You didn't ask for the house in the settlement?"

"I couldn't afford the mortgage and upkeep. To hear him tell it, he was fleeced. Strictly his point of view. Believe me, he got the better deal. He probably paid someone off-the judge, my lawyer. You know how men stick together when it comes to the almighty buck."

I noticed she was busy shading my perception, scoring points for her team. Divorced folk always seem to angle for your sympathy, casting themselves in the best possible light. It seemed odd, in this case, when the reason for my visit was to see if I could be of help in the search for him. Was she still in love with the man? "It must have been difficult when the marriage broke up," I murmured.

"Humiliating. Devastating. It was such a cliché Doctor goes through a midlife crisis, leaves his middle-aged wife to take up with some whore."

The papers had had a field day with the fact that Crystal had been a stripper. Still, I questioned Fiona's use of the word "whore." Stripping, as a way of earning money, doesn't necessarily translate into hookerdom. For all we knew, Crystal might have earned her master's in psychiatric social work. "How did he meet her?"

"You'd have to ask her that. The truth is, Dow developed an appetite for… mmm… unusual sexual practices. His hormones were off or his anxiety levels began to climb as he aged. Possibly his problems harked back to his mother. Everything else connects to his relationship with her. Whatever the reason, once Dowan turned sixty, he began to falter. He couldn't… let's say… 'perform' without stimulus. Pornography, marital aids…"

"Which didn't appeal to you."

"I thought it was revolting. I can't even tell you the practices he wanted to pursue-unspeakable acts that I refused even to discuss with him. He finally stopped pressing."

"Because he'd taken up with her?"

"Evidently. He's never admitted it, but I'm sure he went looking. It did cross my mind he'd go out and find someone willing to submit to his perverse requests. I certainly wouldn't do it and I knew I'd made myself entirely clear on that point."

I was secretly panting for an example, but I thought it was wiser (for once) to keep my big mouth shut. Sometimes you don't want to know what people do-or refuse to do-in private. If I had occasion to meet the doctor one day, I didn't want to be distracted by an image of him cavorting in the nude with an organic carrot up his butt. "Did you ask for the divorce or did he?"

"He did. I was completely taken off-guard. I presumed he'd get his needs met outside the marriage and keep his family intact. I never thought he'd stoop to divorce at this late stage in his life. I should have known. Dowan's weak. Not that any of us relish owning up to our mistakes, but Dow always abhorred even the appearance of failure."

"Meaning what?"

"Well," she said, lowering her eyes. I watched her gaze dance across the floor. "I suspect his relationship with Crystal is not the union of souls he'd like others to believe. Some months ago, he'd heard she was screwing around on him. Better to disappear than admit he'd been cuckolded."

"Did he have any idea who it was?"

"No, but he was looking into it. After he disappeared, my friend Dana finally confided that she'd known the whole time. The fellow is Crystal's personal trainer. His name is Glint Augustine."

I heard a little ding-dong going off in my head. I was sure I'd heard the name before, possibly in the gym where I work out.

"You believe he left because of that?"

"Yes. We had a conversation-a long talk-on September 10. This was two days before he vanished. He was dreadfully unhappy."

"He said that?"

Her hesitation was distinct as she debated with herself. "Not in so many words, but you don't go through forty years of marriage without learning to read between the lines."

"What occasioned the conversation?"

"He came over to the house."

"You were seeing him," I stated.

"Well, yes. At his request," she said, her tone faintly defensive. "Dow adores this place, just as he adores the house in Horton Ravine. He was always interested in my design work, even before our relationship underwent the shift. Lately, he'd been stopping by in the evenings to have a drink with me. That night, he was exhausted. His face was gray with worry, and when I asked what was wrong, he said the pressures at the office were driving him insane. And Crystal was no help. She's extremely narcissistic, as you'll discover when you meet her, which I assume you will."

"Were you surprised he'd confide in you after everything he'd put you through?"

"Who else does he have? Anyway, he didn't really talk about her, but I could see the tension in his eyes. He'd aged a good ten years in a matter of months."

"You're saying he had problems at home as well as problems at work?"

"That's right. He didn't talk specifics, but he mentioned in passing that he needed to get away. That's the first thing I thought of when I heard he was gone."

"Couldn't that have been wishful thinking?"

"I suppose it could," she said. "I mean, he didn't pull out airline tickets, but he did seem desperate."

"Do you remember a reference to any place in particular?"

She tilted her head. "I've racked my brain, but I really can't remember. It was an offhand remark and I didn't think much about it until this came up."

"I assume you told the police."

Again, she hesitated. "Not at first. I thought his absence was voluntary and he'd come home when he was ready. I didn't want him to be embarrassed. Leave it to Crystal to turn this ordeal into a media circus."

I could feel myself bristle. "Mrs. Purcell, he's a prominent physician, well known and loved in this community. His disappearance is bound to attract media attention. If you thought he'd gone AWOL, why didn't you speak up?"

"I felt he was entitled to his privacy," she said, her cheeks coloring slightly.

"What about all the time and money being spent on the investigation? Weren't you at all concerned about that?"

"Of course. That's why I spoke to the police," she said. "After six weeks, I began to worry. I guess I was expecting a call or a note, some indication he was all right, wherever he was. Now that nine weeks have passed, I thought it was time to take matters into my own hands."

"What made you think he'd be in touch with you instead of her?"

"Because Crystal's the one he's been trying to escape."

"And now you're worried something's happened to him."

"I suppose so. That's why I decided to meet with the detective last week. Odessa was polite. He took notes. But I got the impression he didn't take me seriously. He said he'd get back to me, but that's the last I've heard. The police must be working dozens of other cases, which means they don't have the time or resources to devote to Dow. I said as much to Dana and she agrees. That's why she recommended you."

"I don't know what to say. Even if we come to some agreement, I can t spend twenty-four hours a day on this any more than the police can. I have other clients, too."

I didn't say you'd have to be exclusive."

"Even so, I'm just one person. You'd be better off with a big Los Angeles agency, one with lots of operatives who can fan out across the country and do this properly. You might end up having to search for him overseas."

She cut me off with a wave of her hand. "I don't want a big L.A. agency. I want someone local who's willing to report directly to me."

"But all I'd be doing is repeating what the police have already done."

"You might have ideas they haven't thought of yet. After all, you tracked down Wendell Jaffe years after everyone assumed he was dead."

"I did track him down, but I didn't start from scratch. Someone spotted him in Mexico and that's why the case finally broke." Her expression became withdrawn. "You won't help."

"I'm not saying that. I'm talking about reality, which doesn't look that good."

"But what if there's an angle the police have overlooked?"

"What if there's not?"

"Then at least I'd be satisfied with the job they've done." I was silent for a beat, staring at the floor. Inside, a little voice was yelling, "No, no, no!" while my mouth said, "I'll do what I can, but I make no promises."

"Good. That's wonderful. We'll talk on Tuesday. Just keep track of the time you put in and you can give me an invoice as soon as I get back." She glanced at her watch and then rose to her feet. I stood when she did. "I'll need a retainer."

"A 'retainer'?" She made a show of startlement, but I wondered if she was repeating the words for effect. Surely she didn't do business without a written agreement and earnest money changing hands. "How much did you have in mind?"

"I charge fifty an hour or a flat four hundred a day, plus expenses, so fifteen hundred dollars should cover it for now. If you give me Melanie's address, I'll overnight you a contract for your signature." In truth, I could have brought one with me, but I hadn't been sure we'd end up coming to an agreement.

She blinked as though baffled. "I'm sorry. I didn't picture anything so formal. Is this standard procedure in your line of work?"

"Actually, it is," I said. I noticed she didn't call it a "profession," which meant she probably lumped me in with retail clerks, short-order cooks, and Roto-Rooter men.

"What if you fail to find him?"

"That's exactly the point. If I come up empty-handed, you might decide I wasn't worth the hourly wage. Once I take a case, I persevere. I'll follow the trail right out to the bitter end."

"I should hope so," she said. She thought about it briefly, and then she crossed to an ebony-inlaid console. She removed her checkbook, returned to her chair, and sat down. "And I'm to make the check out to…?"

"Millhone Investigations."

I watched while she dashed off a check and tore it out of the book, scarcely bothering to disguise her irritation as she handed it to me. I noticed we were bank mates, sharing the same branch of the Santa Teresa City Bank. I said, "You're upset."

"I operate on trust. Apparently, you don't."

"I've learned the hard way. It's nothing personal."

"I see."

I held out the check. "I can return this right now if you'd prefer."

"Just find him. I'll expect a full report the minute I get home."