K is for Killer (Kinsey Millhone 11)

"It's not an alibi. Now, goddamn it. How can it be an alibi when all I'm doing is telling you where we were?"

"Whose vehicle did you take to go to Lake Nacimiento?"

He hesitated. "My brother-in-law has a truck. We took that."

"Santa Maria's an hour away. How do you know Leda didn't drive back in your car?"

"I don't for sure, but you could ask her sister. She'd tell you."

"Right."

"No, she would."

"Oh, come on. If you'd lie for Leda, why wouldn't her sister lie, too?"

"Somebody else must have seen her on Saturday. I think she said they had a makeup party that morning. You know, where some cosmetic saleslady comes and does facials on everyone so they'll buy Mary Jane products or whatever it is. You don't have to get mad."

"Mary Kay. But you're right. I shouldn't get mad. I told Leda I'd verify all of this. I haven't had a chance to do it, so it's my fault, not yours."

"Now see? I don't know how you do that. Even when you apologize, you make it sound like you don't mean it. Why are you being so cranky with me?"

"J.D., I'm cranky because I'm in a hurry and I don't understand what you're up to."

"I'm not up to anything. I just came to get the tape. I thought while I was here, I'd… you know, discuss it. Anyway, you're the one that asked me. I didn't volunteer. Now it seems like I made it worse."

"Okay. I accept that. Let's let it go at that. Otherwise we'll be standing around all night explaining ourselves to one another."

"Okay. As long as you're not mad."

"Not a bit."

"And you believe me."

"I never said that. I said I accept it."

"Oh. Well, okay, then. I guess that's okay."

I could feel my eyes begin to cross.

It was twenty after eleven when I pushed my way through the crowd at Neptune's Palace. The illusion of the ocean depths was profound that night. Watery blue lights shaded down to black. A pattern of light played across the dance floor like the shimmer at the bottom of a pool. I raised my gaze to the ceiling, where a storm at sea was being projected. Lightning forked in a faux sky, and an unseen wind whipped across the ocean's surface. I could hear the cracking of the ship's timbers as the rain lashed the mast, the screams of drowning men set against a rock-and-roll backdrop.

Dancers swayed back and forth, their arms undulating in the smoke-heavy air. The music was so loud, it was almost like no sound, like silence, in the same way that black is every color intensified into nothing.

I found a perch at the bar and bought myself a beer while I scanned the crowd. The boys wore mascara and black lipstick while the girls sported punk haircuts and elaborate tattoos. I kept my gaze carefully averted. The music stopped abruptly, and the dance floor began to clear. I caught a glimpse of a familiar blond head I could have sworn was Berlyn's. She disappeared from view. I eased off the bar stool and circled to the right, peering over the roiling mob to the point where I thought I'd seen her. She was nowhere in sight, but I didn't think I was mistaken.

I lingered near a massive saltwater tank where a flat eel with vicious teeth was devouring a hapless fish. Suddenly I spotted her, sitting at a table with a beefy guy in a tank top, fatigue pants, and heavy army boots. His head had been shaved bald, but his shoulders and forearms were still thick with fur. Any body part not covered with hair seemed to be adorned with some kind of tattoo, dragons and snakes. I could see the ridges in his skull and rolls of flesh along his neck. I've often thought of fat backs as the portion of the human body that aliens would most prefer to eat.

Berlyn sat in profile. She'd shrugged off her leather jacket, which was now hanging over the back of her chair, anchored by her shoulder bag. She was wearing the earrings, two diamond-encrusted hoops dangling down on either side. Her skirt was green satin and, like her black one, short and tight. While she talked, she made frequent reference to the earrings, touching first one and then the other, reassuring herself that both were still in place. She seemed self-conscious, perhaps unaccustomed to wearing such ornate jewelry. The light from the candle in the middle of her table caught the myriad facets of the stones.

Booming music broke the air, and the two got up to dance again. Berlyn wore the same high, spiky heels, perhaps in hopes of lending grace to ankles that were otherwise as shapeless as porch posts. She had a butt on her like a loaded backpack tied around her waist. The table next to theirs had emptied, and I slid onto the chair next to hers.