I is for Innocent (Kinsey Millhone 9)

"That sounds fine to me. What time?"

"Could we make it seven? Kenneth usually doesn't get home until nine, but I'm assuming you don't need him to sit in."

"Actually, I'd prefer to have the time alone."

"Good. Then I'll see you at seven."

I tried the clinic next and found myself connected with what I guessed was the reception desk. The person who answered was female and sounded young.

"Santa Teresa Medical Clinic, this is Ursa. May I help you?"

I said, "Can you tell me if you have a Laura Barney working at the clinic?"

"Mrs. Barney? Sure. Hang on and I'll get her."

I was placed on hold briefly.

"This is Mrs. Barney."

I introduced myself, explaining, as I had with Francesca, who I was and why I was calling. "Can you tell me if you talked to Morley Shine in the last couple of weeks?"

"As a matter of fact, I had an appointment with him last Saturday, but he never showed up. I was very annoyed because I'd canceled some plans in order to make time for him."

"Did he give you any indication what he meant to ask?"

"Not really, but I assumed it was in conjunction with this lawsuit coming up. I was married to the man acquitted of the criminal charges."

"David Barney."

"That's right. We were married for three years."

"I'd like to talk to you. Can we set up a time this week?" In the background, I could hear another line begin to ring insistently.

"I'm usually here until five. If you stop by tomorrow I can probably make some time."

"Four-thirty or five?"

"Either one is fine."

"Good. I'll stop by as close to four-thirty as I can make it. I'll let you pick up your other call."

She said thanks and clicked off.

I went back to my list and called nine other names at random. Not one of them had ever heard from Morley Shine. This was not looking good. I buzzed Ida Ruth in the outer office. "Is Lonnie still in court?"

"As far as I know."

"What time's he get back?"

"Lunchtime, he said, but he sometimes skips lunch and heads for the law library instead. Why, what's up? You want to get a message to him?"

A low-level dread had begun to churn in my chest. "I better go over there and have a chat with him myself. Which courtroom, did he say?"

"Judge Whitty, Department Five. What's going on, Kinsey? You sound very strange."

"I'll tell you later. I don't want to commit myself quite yet."

I walked over to the courthouse, which was only two blocks away. The day was sunny and clear, with a mild breeze ruffling the grass on the courthouse lawn. The architecture of the building itself is Mediterranean, complete with towers, turrets, sandstone arches, and open-air galleries. The exterior landscaping is a bright mix of magenta bougainvillea, red bottlebrush, junipers, and imported palms. A low growing fringe of ground cover along the sidewalk threw out a heady perfume.

I went up the wide concrete steps, through ornate wooden doors. The corridor was empty. The floor was paved with glossy irregular stone tiles the color of old blood. The lofty ceilings were hand-stenciled and crisscrossed with dark beams. The lighting fixtures were wrought-iron replicas of Spanish lanterns, the windows secured by sturdy grillwork. The place might have been a monastery once; all cold surfaces, stripped of ornament. As I passed, the door to the jury assembly room opened and prospective jurors poured out into the hallway, filling the air with the tap-tapping of footsteps and the murmur of voices. Soon I could hear the incessant squeaking of stall doors in the rest rooms across the hall. Department 5 was located another two doors down the hall on the right, the lighted sign above the door indicating that court was still in session. I eased the door open and slipped into a seat in the rear.

Lonnie and opposing counsel were involved in a case management conference, their voices droning on the warm air like big fat bumblebees. The judge was in the process of referring the case to judicial arbitration, setting the dates for both the completion of the arbitration and a future case management conference. As usual, I wondered how individual fates could be decided through a process that sounded, on the face of it, so dull. When the judge broke for lunch, I waited by the door, catching Lonnie's eye as he turned and headed through the little swinging gate that separated the spectators' 'pews' from the court. He took one look at my face and said, "What's the matter?"

"Let's go outside where it's private. You're not going to like this."