X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

He said, “We appreciate your cooperation. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

“Not your fault. If I hear from her again, I’ll be happy to let you know.”

He pointed to the phone number on his business card. “That’s my private line. You need me, leave a message and I’ll get back to you. I’m currently on loan to an FBI/ATF task force. Technically, the PD’s not involved, and they want to keep it that way. You call the department looking for me, they’re going to play dumb.”

“Got it,” I said. We shook hands again, as though closing a deal. “Thanks for the backstory. You didn’t have to put me in the loop on this.”

“We’d be grateful for any help.”

The minute I heard the door close behind him, I opened Hallie’s file again and tried her home phone in Malibu.

After three rings, I got a message saying the number was not in service. Odd. I tried her husband’s two office numbers with the same result. I could feel the mental punctuation form above my head: a question mark and an exclamation point.

10

I leaned back in my swivel chair and put my feet on the desk while I did a quick assessment. Hallie didn’t strike me as a high-end art thief, but what did I know? She’d told me her husband didn’t have a job, so maybe this was his way of generating income—stealing art and trading it back to the rightful owner in exchange for a “reward.” Detective Nash had suggested I leave the matter to law enforcement, but he hadn’t forbidden me to do anything. Not that a clever course of action occurred to me. For now, the situation was irksome, but not pressing. True, I’d done the work and shipped off my report. Also true, groceries aside, I was no longer in possession of the cash I’d been paid. Added to that annoyance was the fact that the phone numbers she’d given me were duds. On the plus side, I knew where she lived, so she’d have a tough time dodging me once she returned in June. Worst-case scenario, I’d wait until then, explain the difficulty, and ask to be reimbursed. If she’d been the inadvertent recipient of marked bills, she’d be as irritated as I was to hear the cash was now evidence in a criminal case. Even if she felt no obligation to make good, I was only out a hundred bucks. I wanted what I was due, but with a shitload of money in the bank, I wasn’t desperate.

I should have relegated the issue to the back of my brain, but alas, I could not. I picked up the handset and rang Vera at home. Three rings. Four. I was gratified when she finally picked up, though she did seem winded.

“Hey, Vera. This is Kinsey. Did I catch you on the run?”

“What makes you ask? The fact that I’m huffing and puffing and gasping for breath?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “If this is a bad time, I can try you later.”

“This is fine. To what do I owe this rare contact?”

“I’ll overlook the snotty remark,” I said. “I need to contact Hallie Bettancourt, but the numbers she gave me in Malibu turned out to be no good.”

There was a moment of silence. “I don’t know anyone named Hallie.”

“Sure you do. You met her at a party and gave her my name.”

“Nope. Don’t think so. When was this?”

“A couple of weeks ago. I don’t know the date.”

“I haven’t been to a party in two years.”

“Okay, maybe not a party, but a social gathering of some sort. You had a conversation with a woman who needed the services of a private investigator.”

“No.”

“Don’t be so quick! I haven’t finished yet. She was trying to locate the kid she gave up at birth and you thought I could help. Which I did.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I did a job for a woman named Hallie Bettancourt, who said she met you in passing—”

“You’ve said that already and I’m still not following. I’m pregnant with twins. Enormous. We’re talking the size of a whale. Seven months. Actually, it’s closer to eight. I don’t drink. I don’t go out, and the only people I talk to are under thirty-six inches tall. Except Neil, of course. I hope I don’t sound bitter or cross.”

“A tiny bit cross,” I said. “Not to argue the point, but I only took the job because she mentioned you by name. Otherwise, I might have turned her down.” I was fibbing of course. I’d been delighted to be gainfully employed.

“What’s her name again?”

“Bettancourt. First name Hallie. Her husband is Geoffrey, last name unknown. This is one of those modern marriages where everybody hangs on to what’s his or hers. They live on the old Clipper estate. Half the year, at any rate. The rest of the time, they’re in Malibu or traveling the world. Tough life.”