I is for Innocent (Kinsey Millhone 9)

I reached for the phone and punched in the Parsons number, staring at the bulletin board while it continued to ring. Eight, nine. Oh, yeah. Friday night. I'd forgotten about Rhe's opening at the Axminster Gallery. I hauled out the telephone book and looked up the number for the gallery. This time somebody picked up on the second ring, but there was such a din in the background I could hardly hear. I pressed a hand to my free ear, focusing on the sounds from the gallery. I asked for Tippy and then had to make the same request only doubling the volume and pitch of my voice. The fellow on the other end said he'd go and get her. I sat and listened to people laughing, glasses clinking. Sounded like they were having a lot more fun than I was…

"Hello?"

"Hello, Tippy? This is Kinsey. Listen, I know this is a bad time to try to talk to you, but I was just thinking about what happened the night your aunt was killed. Can I ask you a couple questions?"

"Right now?"

"If you don't mind. I'm just curious about what happened between the time of the accident and the time you saw David Barney."

There was silence. "I don't know. I mean, I went up to my aunt's, but that's it."

"You went to Isabelle's house?"

"Yeah. I was like really upset and I couldn't think what else to do. I was going to tell her what happened and ask her for help. If she told me to go back, I would have done it, I swear."

"Could you speak up, please? What time was this?"

"Right after the accident. I knew I hit the guy so I just took off and headed right up to her place."

"Was she there?"

"I guess so. The lights were on…"

"The porch light was on?"

"Sure. I knocked and knocked but she never came down."

"Was the eyepiece in the door?"

"I didn't really look at that. After I knocked, I walked around the outside, but the place was all locked up. So I just got in my truck and headed home from there."

"You went home on the freeway."

"Sure, I got on at Little Pony Road."

"And got off at San Vicente."

"Well, yeah," she said. "Why, what's wrong?"

"Nothing really. It narrows the time of death, but I can't see that it makes any difference. Anyway, I appreciate your help. If you think of anything else, would you give me a call?"

"Sure. Is that all you want?"

"For now," I said. "Did you talk to the cops?"

"No, but I talked to this lawyer and she's going in with me first thing tomorrow morning."

"Good. You'll have to let me know what happens. How's the opening?"

"Really neat," she said. "Everybody loves it. They're like freaking out. Mom's sold six pieces."

"That's wonderful. Good for her. I hope she sells tons."

"I gotta go. I'll call you tomorrow."

I said good-bye to an empty line.

The phone rang again before I could remove my hand. I snatched up the receiver, thinking maybe Tippy had remembered something. "Hello?"

There was an odd breathy silence, very brief, and then I heard a man's voice. "Hey, Kinsey?" Then the breathiness again.

"Yes." I found myself squinting at the sound. I pressed my fingers to my ear again, listening to the quiet as I'd listened to the party noises at Rhe's opening. The guy was crying. He wasn't sobbing. It was the kind of crying you do when you want to conceal the fact. The air was bypassing his vocal cords. "Kinsey?"

"Curtis?"

"Uh-hunh. Yeah."

"What's wrong? Is somebody there with you?"

"I'm fine. How are you?"

"Curtis, what's the matter? Is someone there with you?"

"That's right. Listen, why I called? I was wondering if you could meet me so we could talk about something."

"Who is it? Are you okay?"

"Can you meet me? I have some information."

"What's going on? Can you tell me who's with you?"

"Meet me at the bird refuge and I'll explain."

"When?"

"As soon as possible, okay?"

I had to make a quick decision. I couldn't keep him on the line much longer. Anybody monitoring the call would get cranky. "Okay. It might take me a while. I'm already in bed so I'll have to get dressed. I'll see you down there as soon as I can make it, but it might be twenty minutes."

The line went dead.