K is for Killer (Kinsey Millhone 11)

There was no way to pinpoint date or time of death, but a rough estimate was made from several environmental factors. Countless people interviewed testified as to her night owl tendencies. It was also allegedly her habit to jog shortly after she got up. As nearly as the homicide investigators could establish, she'd slept late as usual on that Saturday, April 21. She'd then pulled on her sweats and had gone out for a jog. The Saturday morning paper was in, as was the mail that had been delivered late that morning. All the mail and newspapers after the twenty-first were piled up unopened. Idly I wondered why she hadn't left for her trip Thursday night as planned. Maybe she'd finished out the work week on Friday, intending to take off Saturday morning once she was showered and dressed.

The questions were obvious, but it was useless to speculate in the absence of concrete evidence. While the cause of death was undetermined, the police had proceeded on the assumption that she'd been struck down by a person or persons unknown. Lorna had lived alone and in singular isolation. If she'd cried out for help, there had been none within range of her. I'm single myself, and though Henry Pitts lives close by, I'm sometimes uneasy. There's a certain vulnerability attached to my work. I've been variously shot, pummeled, punched, and accosted, but I've usually found a way to outmaneuver my attackers. I didn't like the idea of Lorna's final moments.

The homicide detective who'd done all the grunt work was a guy named Cheney Phillips, whom I ran into from time to time. The last I'd heard, he'd moved from homicide to vice. I'm not really sure how law enforcement agencies in other cities work, but in the Santa Teresa Police Department, officers tend to be rotated every two to three years, exposing them to a variety of responsibilities. This not only ensures a well-balanced department, but allows the opportunity for advancement without an officer's having to wait for the death or retirement of division-entrenched colleagues.

Like many cops in town, Phillips could usually be found in a local watering hole called CC's, which was frequented by attorneys and a variety of law enforcement types. His supervisor on the case had been Lieutenant Con Dolan, whom I knew very well. I was somewhat skeptical that Lorna's role in a low-budget movie was related to her death. On the other hand, I could see why Janice Kepler wanted to believe as much. What else are you going to think when it turns out your late and favorite daughter was a pornographic film star?

I was restless, nearly itchy with an overdose of caffeine. I'd probably sucked down eight to ten cups of coffee during the day, the last two that evening while I was talking to Janice. Now I could feel stimulants, like sugarplums, dancing in my head. Sometimes anxiety and caffeine have the same effect.

I checked my watch again. It was after midnight by now and well past my bedtime. I pulled out the phone book and found the number for CC's. The call took less than fifteen seconds. The bartender told me Cheney Phillips was on the premises. I gave him my name and had him give Cheney the message that I was on my way. As I hung up the phone, I could hear him yelling to Cheney across the din. I grabbed my jacket and my keys and headed out the door.

3

I drove east along Cabana, the wide boulevard that parallels the beach. When the moon is full, the darkness has the quality of a film scene shot day for night. The landscape is so highly illuminated that the trees actually cast shadows. Tonight the moon was in its final quarter, rising low in the sky. From the road I couldn't see the ocean, but I could hear the reverberating rumble of the tide rolling in. There was just enough wind to set the palm trees in motion, shaggy heads nodding together in some secret communication. A car passed me, going in the opposite direction, but there were no pedestrians in sight. I'm not often out at such an hour, and it was curiously exhilarating.

By day, Santa Teresa seems like any small southern California town. Churches and businesses hug the ground against the threat of earthquakes. The rooflines are low, and the architectural influence is largely Spanish. There's something solid and reassuring about all the white adobe and the red tile roofs. Lawns are manicured, and the shrubs are crisply trimmed. By night the same features seem stark and dramatic, lull of black-and-white contrasts that lend intensity to the hardscape. The sky at night isn't really black at all. It's a soft charcoal gray, nearly chalky with light pollution, the trees like ink stains on a darkened carpet. Even the wind has a different feel to it, as light as a feather quilt against the skin.

The real name for CC's is the Caliente Cafe, a low-rent establishment housed in an abandoned service station near the railroad tracks. The original gasoline pumps and the storage tanks below had been removed years before, and the contaminated soil had been paved over with asphalt. Now, on hot days the blacktop tends to soften and a toxic syrup seeps out, a tarry liquid quickly converted into wisps of smoke, suggesting that the tarmac is on the verge of bursting into flames. Winters, the pavement cracks from dry cold, and a sulfurous smell wafts across the parking lot. CC's is not the kind of place to encourage bare feet.