P is for Peril (Kinsey Millhone 16)

"Such as what?"

"I don't know. I haven't made that part up yet."

Exasperated, Henry leaned back in his chair and stared at me. "How many times have we had a conversation like this? You come up with some stupid scheme. I urge you not to do it, but you go right ahead and do it. You always find some way to rationalize your behavior."

"So does everyone else."

"More's the pity," he said. "I'll tell you this once and then I swear I won't mention it again. Don't do this. Don't get involved. It's none of your business."

"I didn't say I would."

"How're you going to find the safe? You'll have to get into the house."

"Tommy's taken me up there once. All I have to do is talk him into taking me again."

"Which he'd do in hopes of getting in your pants."

"I can handle that."

"But why take the risk? I don't think you should be alone with either one of them."

"Not to make light of it, but I've done a lot worse with a lot less justification."

"I'll say."

"Henry, I promise you I won't act in haste. I haven't even figured out what I'll say . . . you know, assuming I decide to take the job."

"Why do this to yourself? Surely, you don't need the money."

"Money isn't the issue here. I just don't think people should get away with murder."

"It isn't up to you. If the police had had sufficient evidence, the Heveners would've been arrested and convicted back then. There wasn't any proof. That's the way the law works. You stay out of it. Please."

"You know what? I'm tempted to do this for exactly the same reason you're tempted to help Rosie. Because you can't resist. So here's the deal. You want me to butt out of this? You butt out of Rosie's business and we'll call it a wash."

"It's not illegal or dangerous to help a little old lady pay her sister's medical bills."

He had a point, but I refused to acknowledge it. "Skip it. Enough. Let's quit arguing. You take care of your life and I'll take care of mine."

"You're right. It's not my concern. Do anything you want."

"Don't play injured. It's not that. I think you worry too much."

"And you don't worry enough!"

It was 11:03 when I left Henry's place and headed to my apartment. We'd made a superficial effort to patch up our differences, but nothing had been resolved. I was feeling anxious and out of sorts and so, I suspect, was he. I let myself in and set my bag aside. I turned on the television set and turned to KEST. I'd missed the lead-in to the story but caught the report in progress: ". . . the silver Mercedes-Benz recovered this evening from Brunswick Lake has been positively identified as the vehicle belonging to prominent local physician Dowan Purcell, missing since September 12. Detective Paglia of the Santa Teresa Police Department would not confirm . . ." Over her commentary there was a series of clips: a shot of the hillside near the reservoir, a shot of Crystal arriving by car, a photograph insert of Dr. Purcell, followed by a shot of the family home in Horton Ravine. The anchor moved on to a story about a cat stuck in a length of pipe. Nine and a half weeks of agony reduced to less than a minute. Folks would probably have more sympathy for the cat.

There was a tap at my door. I figured it was Henry coming over to apologize. Instead, I found Tommy Hevener standing on my porch. "Hey. Where you been? I called you earlier, but your machine was on. I thought I'd see you at Rosie's."

"Henry told me he saw you."

"Yeah, we had a nice chat. He's a great old guy."

"Look. I've had a hard day. Something's come up on a case I've been working."

"You want to talk about it? I'm a good listener."

"I don't think so. I appreciate the offer, but I'm bushed and I think I better go to bed."

"I hear you. No problem. Call me tomorrow. I want to see you again."

"Okay, I'll do that."

"You take care."

"Yeah, you, too," I said. As soon as I closed the door, my heart began knocking rapidly in my throat. I threw the deadbolt home and leaned against the wall to wait until I heard his departing steps. Outside, a car started up and I listened as the sound of the engine diminished down the street.

I don't know how I managed to get to sleep that night. I had no emotional attachment to Dow Purcell, but the sight of that body in the front seat of the car had left me unsettled. I'd seen death many times, but I couldn't seem to block the image of that four-wheeled silver coffin and its hoary contents. I replayed the moment . . . floodlights hissing in the rain, the sound of water gushing from the underbelly of the car, the smell of mud and crushed grass, followed by the quick flash of the body in its formless repose, eyes turned toward the window, mouth open with amazement. I didn't think it would take long to identify the body . . . half a day at best. It would take longer to examine the car and come up with a theory about how it had ended up in the lake. There was also the question of whether Purcell was dead or alive when he went into the water. Again, I flashed on that face, the wide grin, the sightless eyes ...