I is for Innocent (Kinsey Millhone 9)

"I don't think men should borrow money from women."

"Who else you gonna borrow from? I mean, I don't know dudes with dough. Unless they're drug kings, something like that. Santa Teresa, we don't even get the kings. We get more like the jacks." He snorted out a laugh. "You have a gun?"

"Sure I do," I said.

He rose halfway off his seat and peered down through the glass like I might have a six-shooter strapped to one hip. "Hey, come on. Let me see."

"I don't have it with me."

"Where's it at?"

"My office. I keep it down there in case somebody should refuse to pay a bill. Could you read this and see if it accurately reflects your recollection of your conversation with Mr. Barney?" I passed it under the glass partition, along with a pen.

He barely glanced at it. "Close enough. Hey, you print pretty good."

"I was a whiz in grade school," I said. "Could I ask you to sign it?"

"How come?"

"So we'll have a record of your testimony. That way if you forget, we can refresh your memory in court."

He scribbled a signature and passed the statement back. "Ask me something else," he said. "I'll tell you anything."

"This is fine. Thanks a lot. If I have any other questions, I'll be in touch."

After I left Curtis, I sat out in the parking lot watching cop cars come and go. This was too good to be true. Here's Curtis McIntyre driving nails into David Barney's coffin and it just didn't sound right. David Barney refused to talk now, nearly five years after the fact, two years since his acquittal. From what Lonnie'd said, extracting the most benign information from the man had been like pulling teeth. Why would he blab a makeshift confession to a dimwit like Curtis? Oh, well. It's hard to reconcile the inconsistencies in human nature. I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

According to the files, Isabelle Barney's sister, Simone Orr, was still living on the Barney property in Horton Ravine, one of two exclusive neighborhoods favored by the Santa Teresa well-to-do. Promotional materials from the Chamber of Commerce refer to Horton Ravine as a 'sparkling jewel in a park-like setting,' which should give you some idea how puffed up these pamphlets can get. To the north, the Santa Ynez Mountains dominate the sky. To the south lies the Pacific Ocean. The views are always described as 'breathtaking,' 'stunning,' or 'spectacular.'

In the real estate ads describing the area words like serenity and tranquillity abound. Every noun has an adjective attached to give it the proper tone and substance. The 'lush, well-manicured' lots are large, maybe five acres on average, and zoned for horses. The 'elegant, spacious' homes are set well away from the roads, which wind through hills "dotted" with bay, sycamore, live oak, and cypress. Lots of dotteds and amids .

I found myself rhapsodizing in salespeak as I drove up the long, circular drive to the stately, secluded entrance to this classic Mediterranean home with its sweeping, panoramic views of serene mountains and sparkling ocean. I drove into the splendid flagstone courtyard and parked my used VW amid a Lincoln and a Beamer. I got out and entered a walled garden, passing along the handsome paved gallery. The entire four-acre parcel was dotted with seasonal perennials, lush ferns, and imported palms. Also, two gardeners trailing four hundred yards of hose between them.

I'd put a call through to Simone in advance of my arrival and she'd instructed me carefully how to reach her little cottage, which was situated on the lower terrace amid lush lawns and assorted outbuildings, like the poolhouse and the toolshed. I rounded the eastern wing of the house, which I'd been told was designed by a well-known Santa Teresa architect whose name I'd never heard. I crossed the Spanish tiled entertainment terrace, complete with custom-built, black-bottom swimming pool, lava rock waterfall, spa, wading pool, and koi pond surrounded by short, perfectly trimmed hedges of lantana and yew. I descended a flight of stairs and followed a flagstone path to a wooden bungalow tucked up against the hillside.

The house was tiny, built of board and batten, with a steeply pitched shingle roof and wooden decking on three sides. The exterior was Shaker blue, the trim painted white. Wood frame windows formed the upper portion of the walls on all sides. The top half of the Dutch door stood open. December in Santa Teresa can be like spring in other parts of the country-gray days, a bit of rain, but with a lot of blue sky shining through.

I stopped in my tracks, completely smitten with the sight. I have a special weakness for small, enclosed spaces, a barely disguised longing to return to the womb. After the death of my parents, when I first went to live with my maiden aunt, I established a separate residence in an oversize cardboard box. I had just turned five and I can still remember the absolute absorption with which I furnished this small corrugated refuge. The floor was covered with bed pillows. I had a blanket and a lamp with a fat blue ceramic base and a sixty-watt bulb that heated the interior to a tropical pitch. I would lie on my back, reading endless picture books. My favorite was about a girl who discovered a tiny elf named Twig who lived in an overturned tomato-juice can. Fantasies within fantasies. I don't remember crying. For four months, I hummed and I read my library books, a little closed-circuit system designed to deal with grief. I ate cheese-and-pickle sandwiches like the ones my mother made. I fixed them myself because they had to be just right. Some days I substituted peanut butter for the cheese and that was good. My aunt went about her business, leaving me to work through my feelings without intrusion. My parents died Memorial Day. That fall, I started school…