X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

“Indeed,” I said. Without even meaning to, I was echoing the tone and manner of her speech, and I was hoping the shift wasn’t permanent.

“That’s why I’m asking you to act as a go-between, using your name and phone number instead of mine. I don’t want to risk my husband’s intercepting a message before I’ve told him the whole of it.”

“You don’t want your name brought into it at all,” I said.

“I do not.”

“What reason would I give for tracking him down? I’ve never met Christian Satterfield.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of some excuse. The point is, I want my privacy protected. I’ll insist on that.”

I sat there wondering if this was really the way a good marriage worked. I’d been married and divorced twice, so it was difficult to judge. Keeping secrets seemed like a bad idea, but I was hardly qualified to offer the woman marital advice. Aside from that, I’ve never had children, so the notion of a bank robber for a son was tough to assimilate. His stepdad might take an even dimmer view.

Reluctantly, I said, “I’m not sure a parole officer will give me the information, but I’ll do what I can.” I studied the black-and-white newspaper photograph and then held up the photocopied pages. “May I keep these? Might be good if I need to identify him on sight.”

She reached into the file folder a second time and handed me duplicates. I murmured a thank-you and slid the papers into the outside pocket of my shoulder bag.

“So how do we proceed?” she asked.

“Most new clients sign a boiler-plate contract,” I said. “Over the years, I’ve found it’s better to have an agreement in writing, as much for your protection as for mine. That way there’s no confusion about what I’ve been asked to do. In this case, I didn’t bring any paperwork. I wanted to make sure I could be of help before I did anything else.”

“Sensible,” she said. “As I see it, we can do one of two things. You can write up the contract, fill in the particulars, and mail it for my signature, or we can consider this a gentleman’s agreement and I can pay you in cash.”

There wasn’t really much to debate. I’m not equipped to take credit cards, and she must have sensed I wasn’t eager to accept a check from a woman who was out of Santa Teresa half the year. She was clearly well-to-do, but if a check was returned for insufficient funds, it would be a pain in the ass to track her down and make it good. The rich are full of surprises. Some hang on to their wealth by stiffing their creditors.

“Does five hundred dollars seem reasonable?” she asked.

“Too much,” I said. “We’re talking about a few phone calls and then a short written report. Two hundred would more than cover it.”

“Unless you fail.”

“You’re paying for my time, not results. The effort’s the same regardless of the outcome.”

“Sorry. Of course. I don’t expect you to work without compensation. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll be right back.”

She got up, crossed to the sliding glass door, and went into the house. I took a sip of Chardonnay, feeling for the first time that I could relax. She’d been clear enough about what she wanted, and while acquiring the information wasn’t a slam dunk, I had avenues to pursue.

Moments later, she returned with a plain white envelope. She made a point of showing me a portion of the two one-hundred-dollar bills before she slid them fully into the envelope and handed it to me. I put the money in my shoulder bag and pulled out a small spiral-bound notebook. I wrote her a receipt for the cash and tore off the leaf of paper. “I can type up a proper receipt at the office tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry about it. This is fine.” She folded the handwritten receipt and slipped it into the file folder.

“A few things I should ask,” I said.

“Feel free.”

I went through a list of items I thought needed covering and she seemed happy to oblige, so that by the time we parted company, I had her home address and a mailing address in Malibu, the Malibu home phone, plus her husband’s office address and two additional numbers for him at work. Her assistant’s name was Amy. Later, I realized I should have asked for Geoffrey’s last name, but it hadn’t occurred to me.

Once in my car again, I sat in the darkened parking area while the motion-activated path lights went out one by one. Using the Honda’s interior light, I jotted notes on a series of index cards that I carry with me as a matter of course. I don’t know if she was aware that I was still on the property, but it mattered not. It’s always best to capture facts when they’re fresh, before assumption and prejudice step in and alter memory.