B is for Burglar (Kinsey Millhone 2)

When I got into the office, there was a message from Jonah Robb on my machine.

"Ah, yeah, Kinsey. This if Officer Robb on that… ah… issue we discussed. I wonder if you could give me a call sometime… ah… this afternoon and we'll find a way to get together on it. It's now Friday and it's… ah… twelve-ten P.M. Talk to you soon. Okay. Thanks." The number he left was for the police station, with the extension for Missing Persons.

I called him back, identifying myself as soon as he came on the line. "I understand you have some information for me."

"Right," he said. "You want to stop by my place later on?"

"I could do that," I said. I took down his address and we settled on 8:15, bypassing dinner. I didn't think we should get into any little domestic numbers at this point. I thanked him for his help and rang off.

I couldn't for the life of me think of anything else to do on the case that afternoon so I locked the office and headed for home. It was only 1:20 and since I'd accomplished so little at work, I felt morally obliged to be useful at my place. I washed the cup and saucer and plate that were sitting in the sink and left them in the rack to dry until I needed them again. I put a load of towels in the washer and then scoured the bathroom and kitchen sinks, took out the trash, and vacuumed a path around the furniture. Now and then, I actually move things and suck up all the woofies underneath, but today it was sufficient to have a few vacuum-cleaner tracks here and there and the apartment smelling of that peculiar cross between hot machine oil and cooked dust. I do love tidiness. When you live by yourself, you can either get all piggy or pick up as you go, which is what I prefer. There's nothing more depressing than coming home at the end of a long day to a place that looks like it's just been tossed by the mob.

I changed into my sweat pants and did three miles with energy to burn. This was one of those rare days when the run seemed inexplicably grand.

I came home, showered, washed my hair, napped, got dressed, sneaked in a little grocery shopping, and then I sat down at my desk and worked on note cards while I drank a glass of white wine and ate a warm, sliced-hard-boiled-egg sandwich with loads of Best Food's mayo and salt, nearly swooning at the taste.

At eight, I snatched up a jacket, my handbag, and my key pick and hopped in my car, heading over to Cabana Boulevard, the wide avenue that parallels the beach. I turned right. Jonah lived in an odd little tract of houses off Primave-ra, maybe a mile away. I passed the marina, then Ludlow Beach, glancing to my left. Even in the gathering twilight, I could identify the big trash bin where death had almost caught up with me two weeks before. I wondered how long it would take before I could pass that area without unconsciously glancing left, without taking just that one peek at the place where I'd thought my life would end. The beach seemed to glow with the last light of day and the sky was a silver gray layered with pink and lavender, deepening to dark magenta where the near hills intersected the view. Out on the ocean, the islands retained a magical hot gold light where lingering rivulets of sunlight formed a shimmering pool.

I went up the hill, passing Sea Shore Park, turning right then into a tangle of streets across the boulevard. The proximity to the Pacific meant too much chill fog and corrosive salt air, but there was an elementary school close by. For Jonah, who had had a family to support on a cop's salary, the neighborhood was affordable, but by no means grand.

I found the street number I was looking for and pulled into the driveway. The porch light was on and the yard looked well kept. The house was a ranch-style stucco painted slate blue with dark blue trim. I guessed there would be three bedrooms with maybe a patio in back. I rang the doorbell and Jonah came to the door. He wore jeans and an L. L. Bean Oxford-cloth dress shirt with a pink pinstripe. He carried a beer bottle loosely by the neck, motioning me in with a glance at his watch.

"God, you're prompt," he said.

"Well, you're not far away. I just live at the bottom of the hill."

"I know. You want me to take that?"

He was holding his hand up for the jacket, which I shed and handed to him, along with my handbag. He tossed both unceremoniously into a chair.

For a minute neither of us could think of anything to say. He took a sip of beer. I put my hands in my back pockets. Why did this feel so awkward? It reminded me of those awful junior-high-school dates where you got driven to the movies by somebody's mother and you never knew what to talk about.

I glanced around. "Nice house," I remarked.

"Come on. I'll show you around."