W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

I left the shelter trying to recall the circumstances in which the phone calls had come in. It was distracting, trying to pin down the reference in a moving vehicle while hoping to obey traffic laws and avoid running over pedestrians. I turned into one of the public parking lots that looked out over the beach to the ocean beyond. I pulled into a slot and killed the engine. I laid my head back and closed my eyes, slowing my breath, working to silence the chatter in my head.

The inquiries had come months before, probably midsummer. I’d taken the first call at the office. I remembered that much. I tried to picture the cases I was working at the time, but my mental screen was blank. I set the point aside and focused on the fragment of conversation that had stuck in my mind. I was eating lunch at my desk when the phone rang. I put a quick hand against my mouth, chewing and swallowing in haste before I picked up. “Millhone Investigations.”

“May I speak to Mr. Millhone?”

The caller was male, on the young side, and his voice, while deep, suggested an underlying anxiety. I was already thinking it was a sales call, some boiler-room trainee learning the ropes. I’d pushed the caution button in my head while I tried to guess the nature of the upcoming pitch. Telemarketers inevitably say “How are you today?” in a tone that’s patently insincere, using the question as a means of engaging you in conversation. I said, “There isn’t a Mr. Millhone.”

The fellow cut in, but instead of the expected spiel, he said, “This is Dr. . . .”

I blanked on the name instantly because I had zeroed in on the voice, thinking it might be one I recognized. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m trying to reach Mr. Dace.”

“Who?”

“Artie Dace. I understand he doesn’t have a phone, but I hoped you’d put me in touch with him. Is he there by any chance?”

“You have the wrong number. There’s no Mr. Dace here.”

“Do you know how I can reach him? I tried the shelter, but they won’t confirm the name.”

“Same here. I never heard of him.”

There was a brief silence. “Sorry,” he said, and the line went dead.

I remembered dismissing the call the moment I hung up, though I half expected the phone to ring again. Wrong numbers seem to come in clusters, often because the calling party tries the same number a second time, thinking the error is connected to the dialing process. I stared at the handset and when the phone didn’t ring, I shrugged and went about my business.

The second call came within a matter of days. I know this because the name Dace had been planted recently enough that I hadn’t yet deleted it from memory. I’d closed the office early and I was having my calls forwarded. Henry and I were sitting in the backyard when the phone in my studio began to ring. I’d left my door open for just this reason, in case a client tried to reach me. When the phone rang a second time, I leaped to my feet and trotted into the apartment, where I caught the phone on the third ring. “Millhone Investigations.”

“May I speak to Mr. Millhone?”

This time the caller was a woman and I could hear noise in the background that suggested a public setting. “This is Kinsey Millhone. What can I do for you?”

The woman said, “This is the Cardiac Care Unit at Santa Teresa Hospital. We’ve admitted Mr. Artie Dace and we’re hoping you can give us information about what medications he’s on. He’s in and out of consciousness and unable to respond to questions.”

I squinted at the handset. “Who’s this?”

“My name is Eloise Cantrell. I’m the charge nurse in the CCU. The patient’s name is Artie Dace.”

This time, I’d picked up a pen and pulled over a scratch pad, making a note of the nurse’s name. I added CCU. “I don’t know anyone named Artie.”

“The last name is Dace, initials R. T.”

“I still can’t help you.”

“But you do know the gentleman. Is that correct?”

“No, and I don’t understand why you’re calling me. How did you get my name and number?”

“The patient was brought in through the emergency room and one of the nurse’s aides recognized him from a prior hospitalization. Medical Records located his chart and the doctor asked me to get in touch.”

“Look, I wish I could help, but I don’t know anyone by that name. Honest.”

There was a stretch of silence. “This isn’t in regard to his hospital bill. He’s covered by Medicaid,” she said, as though that might soften my stance.