P is for Peril (Kinsey Millhone 16)

"I'll tell her you were here."

The nurse turned and looked at me as I passed through the doorway within inches of her. I repressed the urge to shudder once my back was turned, wondering exactly how much she'd heard.

At the entrance, I retrieved my slicker and took a moment to reassemble myself in rain garb. When I emerged from the nursing home, the rain had slowed to a drizzle and a mist seemed to float on the tarmac like smoke. The eaves still dripped water at irregular intervals. I bypassed a puddle and crossed the parking lot to the slot I'd taken. I could see now, with fresh eyes, that the name newly painted out at the foot of the parking space was P. DELACORTE.

Once in my car, I opened the pack of index cards and started taking notes-one fact per card-until I'd emptied my brain. I couldn't help wondering why Crystal and/or the cops hadn't mentioned this fraud business when I'd talked to them.

Chapter 7

After I left Pacific Meadows, I stopped by Kingman and Ives and let myself in the side door. I went into my office and peeled off my slicker, which I hung on my coat tree. Happily for me, the place felt deserted despite the fact there were lights on in most of the offices. The Saturday-morning cleaning crew had come and gone. Wastebaskets had been emptied. The air was scented with Pledge, and I could see rows of fresh vacuum cleaner tracks on the burnt-orange carpeting. The quiet was divine. Briefly, I conjured up an image of the new one-person office on Floresta Street. I was already feeling competitive with the other Prospective tenants.

I pulled out my portable Smith-Corona and placed it on my desk. I sat down in my swivel chair and took out the file I'd opened. I sorted through the notes I'd assembled, adding the information on the index cards. Looming large in my mind was Fiona's return on Tuesday. I could already see her, arms crossed, one foot tapping with impatience while I brought her up to date. She'd have dollar signs dancing like sugarplums above her head, thinking, Fifty bucks an hour for this? My strategy was to outfox the woman by presenting a beautifully constructed, typewritten report that would make it look like I'd done a lot more than drive around chatting with folks. What I labored under was the burdensome sense of Fiona's disapproval, knowing she begrudged me every nickel I spent. Even if her original display of irritation had been pure manipulation, I could feel the sting of her whip on my neck. I tried not to dwell on the notion that I should have declined the job when I had the chance.

I focused my attention on the business at hand. It took me an hour to sketch out a rough draft. I typed it and did some editing, revising it twice. I kept my language neutral, being careful to avoid drawing conclusions from what I'd learned so far. I also omitted much of what Crystal had said. I was being paid to find Dow, not to tattle to Fiona on his second wife. When I was satisfied the document was as polished as I could make it, I typed the new draft. Then I got out my calculator and added up my hours. How long had I spent with Detective Odessa? I tapped with my pencil on my front teeth. Really it was twenty minutes max, which I rounded out to half an hour. Didn't want Fiona thinking I'd short-changed her with the cops. Let's see. I'd spent almost two hours with Crystal and I added another hour to cover my morning visit to Pacific Meadows. I eyeballed the numbers. So far, I'd only earned $175 out of the $1,500 she'd paid me up front, which meant I still owed her $1,325 worth of my life. At this rate, I'd never be out from under. Oh well. I typed the invoice and attached it to the original of my report, then placed the copies in the folder.

I stood up and stretched, working the kinks out of my neck with a head roll or two. Feeling restless, I wandered down the inner corridor, peering into offices along the way. As I passed Lonnie's office, I was startled to catch sight of him. He sat tilted back in his swivel chair, his feet propped up on the edge of his desk, a transcript in his lap, apparently catching up on work while the office was quiet and the phones were silent. In lieu of the usual dress shirt and suit, he wore a plaid flannel shirt and a pair of stone-washed jeans. His concentration was complete, a focus that caused his whole body to become still. I watched him reach for his pencil and underline a phrase, soft scratching in the quiet.

Lonnie looks like a boxer, his body dense and muscular, his nose thickened by scars. His hair is dark and unruly, growing in all directions. I've seen newborns like that, with a head of hair so thick and unexpected it seems comical. He's a man of high energy, generally souped up on vitamins, coffee, nutritional supplements, and competitive drive. This was probably as relaxed as I'd ever seen him.

"Lonnie?"

He glanced up and smiled, tossing his pencil aside. "Kinsey. Come on in. I've been wondering what you were up to. I haven't seen you for weeks."