K is for Killer (Kinsey Millhone 11)

"The town's full of people who'd know enough to do that," he said. "Anyway, if your theory's correct, then whoever killed Esselmann had to be someone who knew the house, the pool, and the routine with the dog."

"That's right."

"Which brings us back to Serena."

"Maybe," I said slowly. "Though Roger Bonney's another one who'd know all that."

"What's his motive?"

"I have no idea, but he's certainly the link between Lorna and Esselmann."

"Well, there you have it," Cheney snorted. "Now if Roger knows Stubby, the circle will be complete, and we can charge him with murder." Cheney was being facetious, but he'd made a good point, and I could feel a ripple of uneasiness.

My thoughts veered to Danielle and the man who'd walked off into the darkness of the alleyway. "How do we know this isn't the same guy who went after Danielle? Maybe the attack on her connects up to everything else."

Cheney had reached my place, and he slowed to a stop. He pulled on the brake and put the car in neutral, turning to face me, his smile gone. "Do me a favor and think about something else. It's a fun game, but you know as well as I do it doesn't mean jack."

"I'm just trying on theories, like throwing dinner plates against the wall to see if one will stick."

He reached over and gave my hair a little tug. "Just watch yourself. Even if you're right and all these things are related, you can't go tearing off on your own," he said. "This case belongs to the county sheriff. It's got nothing to do with you."

"I know."

"Then don't give me that look. It's nothing personal."

"It is personal. Especially when it comes to Danielle," I said.

"Would you quit worrying? She's safe."

"For how long? Any day now they'll move her out of ICU. Hospitals aren't exactly high security. You ought to see the people walking in and out of there."

"You're right about that. Let me think some and see what I can do. We'll talk soon, okay?" He smiled, and I found myself smiling in return.

"Okay."

"Good. I'll give you the number for my pager. Let me know if anything turns up."

"I'll do that," I said. He recited the number and had me repeat it back to him before he put the car in gear again.

I stood at the curb and watched the Mazda pull away and then moved through the gate and went around to the rear. It was Saturday afternoon, close to three o'clock. I let myself into my apartment. I made a note of Cheney's pager number and left it on my desk. I felt I was in a state of suspended animation. The answer was hovering somewhere on the periphery, like spots in my field of vision that moved sideways every time I turned to look. There had to be some chain of events, something that linked all the pieces of the puzzle. I needed a way to distract myself, setting all the questions aside until a few answers came. I went up the spiral stairs to the loft and changed clothes, pulling on my sweatsuit and my jogging shoes. I tucked the house key in my pocket and trotted over to Cabana Boulevard.

The day was crisp and clear, the midafternoon sun pouring over the distant mountains like a golden syrup. The ocean was a dazzling carpet of diamonds, the air freshly scented with the briny smell of the sea. The run was a pleasure, bringing back in full measure the joys of physical activity. I did four miles, feeling strong, and when I came back I took a shower and started over, eating cereal and toast while I read the paper I hadn't had time for that morning. I went out and ran an errand or two, picking up groceries, stopping at a wine store. It was close to six o'clock when I finally felt relaxed enough to sit down at my desk and flip the light on.

I went back to my index cards. I was going through the motions, not really on the track of anything in particular, just trying to keep busy until I figured out what to do next. I glanced down at the sack that held the broken picture frames. Shit. Of course, I'd forgotten to take Danielle's bedding to the cleaners before it closed, but at least I could switch the frames. I moved over to the kitchen counter with the new frames I'd picked up. I put the wastebasket nearby and pulled the photographs from the paper bag. There were four eight-by-ten enlargements, all in color. I removed the frame and the matting from the first, pausing to study the image: three cats lounging on a picnic table. A sleek gray tabby was in the process of jumping down, apparently not that happy about the photographic immortality. The other two cats were long-haired, one pale cream and one black, staring at the camera with expressions of arrogance and disinterest respectively. On the back she'd written the date and the cats' names: Smokey, Tigger, and Cheshire.