P is for Peril (Kinsey Millhone 16)

"That's what I've been trying to do. I thought if I heard your version of the story I could reason with him. You blew this one bad."

"You're right. I know that, but it's like I explained to him ... I thought writing him a note would be less awkward than telling him in person."

"Big mistake. That's what set him off."

"I got that already. What do you think will happen next?"

"Hard to say with him. Maybe the whole thing will blow over. We can hope," he said. "Anyway, enough about him. When can we get together? I've missed you." His tone was playful, but it was all a front. I could either yield to him now or he'd go right on working on me until I did. I could feel a slow, stubborn anger begin to rise in my gut. I tried to keep my tone mild, but I knew the message wasn't one he'd accept. "Look, I don't think this relationship is going to work for me. It's time to let go."

There was dead silence. I could hear breathing on his end. I let the silence extend. Finally, he said, "This is your pattern, isn't it? Distancing yourself. You can't let anyone get close."

"Maybe so. Fair enough. I can see how you'd think that."

"I know you've been hurt and I'm sorry about that, but give me a chance. Don't shut me out. I deserve better than that."

"I agree. You do deserve better. Truly, I wish you well and I'm sorry things didn't work out."

"Can't we even talk about this?"

"I don't see the point."

"You don't see the point? What the hell is this?"

"I'm not going to argue. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression-"

"Who the hell are you, thinking you can talk to me like this? You were the one came on to me."

"I'm hanging up now. Good-bye."

"Just a fuckin' minute. You stick it to my brother and I come to your defense and you think you can turn around and pull this kind of shit with me? You're out of your mind."

"Great. Perfect. Let's let it go at that." I set the phone down in the cradle. Belatedly, my heart began to bang like someone dribbling a basketball. I stood there waiting.

The phone rang and even though I was expecting it, I jumped. Two. Three. Four. The machine picked up. I heard my outgoing message and then he hung up. Thirty seconds passed. The phone rang again. I lifted the handset and depressed the plunger, terminating the call. I turned off the ringer and then, for good measure, I unplugged the phone.

I sat at my desk and took a few deep breaths. I was not going to let the guy get to me. If I had to, I'd talk to Lonnie about getting a restraining order. In the meantime, I had to find a way to get him out of my head.

I took out my index cards and scribbled down numerous new notes, filling in a few blanks. Like a Tarot reading, I laid out a spread of cards for review. Joel Glazer, Harvey Broadus, and Pacific Meadows formed an arc. Attached to those cards, there were two more: Penelope Delacorte, the associate administrator, and Tina Bart, the bookkeeper, who'd been fired. Joel Glazer and Harvey Broadus had gone to great lengths to suggest that Dow was at fault in the Medicare scandal brewing under the surface. The one item that didn't fit was the note I'd made about the liaison between Broadus and the frisky charge nurse who serviced him.

I returned to the card for Tina Bart. Where had she gone? No doubt Penelope Delacorte knew, but she wasn't about to tell me. On impulse, I leaned over and opened my bottom drawer. I hauled out the phone book and turned to the B's. When in doubt, says I, why not start with the obvious? Five Barts were listed, none of them Tina or T. There was a C. Bart, no address, conceivably short for Christine or Christina. Single women do this abbreviation bit to avoid all the heavy breathers out there who dial numbers at random while pinching their pants. I plugged in the phone again and tried the number for C. Bart. After two rings, a machine cut in. The voice on the other end was one of those mechanical butlers, some computer-generated robot who talked like he was living in a tin can. "Please leave a message." Use of this proto-male was another device used by single women, who like to create the illusion of a guy on the scene. I reached for the Polk Directory and looked for the telephone number listed for C. Bart. The Polk Directory, also known as "the crisscross," lists addresses and phone numbers in two different ways. Unlike the usual phone book, which orders its information alphabetically by name, the crisscross arranges the listings by the street address in one section and by the telephone number in the second section. If you have only a phone number without a street address, you can look up the number in the Polk and find the corresponding street and house number, plus the name of the person living there. Similarly, if you have only an address, you can track down the name of the occupant, along with the phone number, providing the number's published. In this case, I found C. Bart at an address on Dave Levine Street, not far from Pacific Meadows. Penelope Delacorte had told me that Tina Bart was already working at Pacific Meadows when she arrived on the scene. Not too much of a leap to assume she was working nearby. Time to find out how much she knew.