X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

Teddy had apparently become aware that Christian had hung back. She appeared beside him and tucked her hand through the crook of his arm in a gesture that was both possessive and companionable. The two moved out of visual range while I was still reacting to the indelible image of the parolee transformed. Not only was he clean-shaven, but his hair had been cut and styled. Gone were the dark clumps he’d sported before. Now the strands appeared silken, laced with blond strands that hinted that he’d just returned from a Caribbean cruise, an illusion further enhanced by his visible tan. More remarkable to my way of thinking was the shift in his bearing. Instead of looking ill at ease and out of place, he carried himself like a man who was just figuring out how good-looking he was.

21

I arrived in Santa Teresa at 3:15 Thursday afternoon and found a rare parking spot within steps of my studio apartment. Parking in the neighborhood had become a major pain in the ass. Henry, in shorts and a T-shirt, was at the curb on his hands and knees with his butt in the air. Beside him was the rectangle of concrete that formed the cap for the recessed city water meter. He’d used a screwdriver to lift the cover, which he’d set to one side. He picked up his flashlight and directed the beam at the face of the meter. He recorded the numbers on a scratch pad and then settled the cover into place. He stood and dusted off his bare knees. “This was McClaskey’s suggestion, and I thought the idea was sound. He told me to check the last few water bills for the billing date to determine when the meter reader comes by from month to month. Turns out it’s the twenty-sixth, so now I know my end date. By keeping track of the running numbers, I can monitor my usage.”

“How often do you have to take a reading?”

“Twice a day. When I water the shrubs by hand, I can check before and after to see how many HCFs it takes.”

“I love how casually you toss the terms around. What’s an HCF?”

“Hundred cubic feet. A cubic foot is seven hundred and forty gallons. Since I have two residential structures on the property, once rationing takes effect, I’d be allowed more than someone with a single-family dwelling, like Joseph and Edna next door. They’d probably be allocated four HCFs where I get five.”

“So five times seven hundred and forty gallons is . . .”

“Three thousand seven hundred gallons.”

“Really? We use thirty-seven hundred gallons of water a month? Doing what?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? The low-flow toilets use one-point-six gallons. My dishwasher’s an older model, so it uses six gallons per cycle. The newer ones use half that amount. Instead of running the dishwasher, McClaskey recommends switching to paper plates and plastic utensils and doing the rest by hand. You might adopt the same plan. Think of all the water you’d save.”

“I don’t have a dishwasher.”

“Oh. That’s true, now you mention it. Why didn’t I give you one?”

“I wasn’t interested.”

“What about your washing machine?”

“I only run full loads, and that’s once every two weeks. People complain because I wear the same outfit six days in a row.”

“Very sensible of you.”

“Thanks. What’s your average water use?” I asked, and then interrupted my own chain of thought. “I can’t believe we’re seriously discussing this.”

“It’s high time. Average usage is next on my list. I’ll sit down and compare water bills for the past four months with the same four months last year.”

“Well, I admire your spirit, but don’t you think your obsession is premature? So far, there’s no water rationing in effect.”

“I think of this as the fact-finding phase. Once I have my spreadsheet in place, I’ll move on to implementation.”

“I’ve never known you to be so zealous.”

“This drought’s serious business. Anyway, enough on the subject. How was your trip to Beverly Hills?”

“Expensive. I haven’t added it all up yet because I don’t want to know.” I did a brief recap of events, which sounded even more pointless in the telling than it had at the time.

“Theodora Xanakis? I know the name, but I can’t remember the context.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell with me. Maybe Detective Nash will know. Not Hallie Bettancourt, that’s for sure.”

I went on to tell him about my office intruder, the missing box, and the arrival of Taryn Sizemore with all the information she’d laid on me. By the time I’d rounded out the story, the two of us had ambled into Henry’s kitchen, and next thing I knew, I had a glass of wine in hand and he was busy fixing supper while he sipped his Black Jack over ice.