W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

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I didn’t give a shit about Anna, but I had to admit he had a point in the matter of Dr. Reed. Dandy and Pearl thought he was treacherous, but that didn’t make it true. The idea of calling him made my palms damp. Knowing how much I didn’t want to make the call, I sat right down at my desk and went to work. Put off anything you don’t want to do and the avoidance becomes only more burdensome. It took me several tries to connect with his office. I started with St. Terry’s, asking someone in administration about the process by which patients with drug and alcohol problems were recommended for participation in experimental drug trials. That netted me a blank. I asked who might know and right away everyone pitched in, handing me off from person to person so as not to have to deal with me themselves.

The call was transferred from one department to another, which forced me to repeat myself. The rehearsal was doubtless good for me because by the time I’d been connected to the proper office in the Health Sciences Building at UCST, I’d told my tale so often I almost believed it myself. In point of fact, much of what I was saying was the truth, give or take. I simply embellished according to what I sensed might be persuasive to the person I was chatting with.

Within the first few words tendered by the department secretary, I was aware of her chilly manner, which didn’t sit well with me. This was the first impediment I’d come up against. Her telephone greeting consisted of her identifying herself and the department in a cadence so staccato it was off-putting in itself.

I had to roll right over her, infusing my voice with a wholly manufactured warmth. I said, “Hiiiii, my name is Kinsey Millhone. I’d like to set up an appointment with Dr. Reed, if I may.” I’d managed to stretch the word “hi” across two syllables and three musical notes.

There was a pause during which she marshaled her defenses, her job apparently being to ward off all who approached. “And this is in regard to what?”

“A family member died recently. This was Terrence Dace. I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the name, but I believe he was enrolled in a research study of Dr. Reed’s. I’d appreciate any information he’d be willing to share.”

Two beats of silence before she said, “Your name again is what?”

“Kinsey Millhone, with two L’s. Terrence Dace is my cousin. The rest of the family lives in Bakersfield and they’ve asked me to find out what I can about his last days.”

Whereas before, I’d hoped not to have to talk to Dr. Reed, I was now determined to get in to see him.

“I see,” she said. “Of course, I’m not sure Dr. Reed would be at liberty to discuss a patient currently in his care.”

“My cousin’s dead. He’s been in Jesus’s care for the past two weeks.”

That turned out to be a showstopper, so I went on. “I’m not asking about his medical problems. For heaven’s sakes! That would be his own private business, wouldn’t it? I want to know how he was doing . . . I guess you could say, spiritually. The family’s very religious. His daughter came all the way down here out of concern. I’m sure you can imagine how upset they were when he passed so unexpectedly.”

“I understand. Unfortunately, Dr. Reed won’t be in the office again until Thursday and I’m not sure he has anything available. I’d have to take a look at his calendar and he’s with someone at the moment.”

“Thursday’s fine. What time would work best for him?”

I’m sure she was panting to say that what would work best for everyone would be for me to fall in a hole and die. With palpable skepticism, she said, “It’s possible he has a nine o’clock appointment open, but I’d have to check . . .”

“Perfect. Nine on Thursday. I’ll be there. Thank you so much. I really appreciate your help.”

I hung up, which left her in the lame-ass position of not having my contact number so she could call me back and cancel.

31

I devoted all day Wednesday to my quest for a new car so I could off-load the old. I cruised used-car lots for much of the day, my search culminating in the purchase of a 1983 Honda Accord. This was a four-passenger four-door sedan, and I bought it for the following reason: I’d been to the same lot twice and hadn’t noticed it until the salesman called it to my attention. The car was boxy and plain, an unprepossessing dark blue; one owner, low mileage, with all of the service records stapled together in a manila envelope. The tires were so-so, but that didn’t bother me, as they were easily replaced. I paid thirty-five hundred dollars, which meant I’d picked up an extra fifteen hundred on the deal. My stars must have been in the proper alignment, because I had money coming at me at every turn.