I is for Innocent (18 page)

“Yes, ma'am.” The young woman might have been nineteen, fifteen pounds overweight, with dark curly hair, flushed cheeks, and dark eyes glinting with suppressed tears.

L. Barney, R.N., opened the cash drawer again and removed an unruly wad of bills, which she held out silently. The young clerk took them. Self-consciously, she began to sort through the handful of bills, turning one upright in an awkward imitation of Laura Barney's expertise. Several denominations were out of sequence and she held the wad against her chest while she tried to straighten them out, dropping two fives in an attempt to get them in the correct order. She stammered an apology, stooping quickly to retrieve them. Laura Barney watched her with a slight smile, eyes nearly glittering with the urge to snatch the money back and do it for her. She must have itched to demonstrate the smooth, seamless effort with which an experienced cashier could perform so elementary a task. The
absorption with which she watched seemed to make the girl more clumsy.

Her own manner was brisk, efficient. She'd picked up a ballpoint pen, which she was clicking impatiently. She wasn't going to waste a lot of time and sympathy. Get 'em in, get 'em out. Payment is expected at the time services are rendered. Her smile was pleasant but fixed and probably ran only for the few seconds necessary to register the chill underneath. If you tried to complain later to the clinic doctor you'd be hard-pressed to put your finger on her failings. I'd dealt with people like her before. She was all form and no content, a stickler for detail, an avid enforcer of the rules and regulations. She was the kind of nurse who assured you your tetanus shot would feel like a little bee bite when in truth it'd raise a knot on your arm the size of a doorknob.

She looked up at me and the fixed smile returned. “Yes?”

“I'm Kinsey Millhone,” I said. I half expected her to hand me a clipboard with a medical history to be completed.

“Just a moment, please,” she said. Her manner suggested that I'd made an unreasonable demand for immediate service. She finished dealing with the clerk and then called two patients in rapid succession. “Mrs. Gonzales? Mrs. Russo?”

Two women rose from their respective chairs. One carried a swaddled infant, the other had a toddler affixed to one hip. Both had pre-school-age children in addition. Laura Barney held open the wooden gate that separated the waiting area from the corridor leading back to examining rooms. The two women and accompanying children
passed in front of her, thus emptying the waiting room. She continued to hold the gate open. “You want to come with me?”

“Oh, sure.”

She picked up two charts, like menus, and herded us into the rear, issuing instructions in rapid Spanish. Once everyone had been ushered into examining rooms, she continued on down the hall, crepe soles squeaking on the tile floor. The room she showed me into was a nine-by-nine generic office with one window, a scarred wooden desk, two chairs, and an intercom, the kind of setting where you're apt to receive the bad news about the lab tests they just ran. She shut the door and motioned to one chair while she cranked open the window and took a seat herself. She removed a pack of Virginia Slims and a pack of matches from her uniform pocket and lit a cigarette. She glanced surreptitiously at her watch, while pretending to adjust the band. “You came to ask about David. What exactly did you want to know?”

“I take it you're not on friendly terms with him.”

“I get along with him fine. I hardly see the man.”

“You also testified at his murder trail, didn't you?”

“Generally, I'm used to demonstrate what an unscrupulous bastard he is. You haven't read the transcripts?”

“I'm still in the process of reviewing all the paperwork. I was hired Sunday night. I've got a lot of ground to cover yet. It would be helpful if you could fill in some of the facts from your perspective.”

“The facts. Well, let's see now. I met David at a party . . . well, it was nine years ago this month. How's that for
touching? I fell in love with him and we were married six weeks later. We'd been married about two years when he was offered a position with Peter Weidmann's firm. Of course, we were thrilled.”

I interrupted. “How did that come to pass?”

“Through a friend of a friend. We were living in Los Angeles, very interested in getting out. David heard Peter had an opening so he applied. We'd been in Santa Teresa all of two months when Isabelle came on board. David didn't even like her. I thought she was very bright and very talented. I was the one who insisted we befriend her. After all, she was the light of Peter's eye. He was her mentor, in effect. It wasn't in David's best interest to be competitive when she was assigned to work on all the high-visibility projects. I encouraged David to cultivate her both socially and professionally so I guess you could say I engineered their entire relationship.”

“How did you find out about their affair?”

“Simone let something slip. I forget now what it was, but suddenly everything made sense. I knew David had been distant. It was common knowledge that Isabelle and Kenneth were having problems. It took me a while to put two and two together, that's all. None so blind, et cetera. I confronted him, like a fool. I wish now I'd kept my mouth shut.”

“Why is that?”

“I forced his hand. Their relationship didn't last. If I'd had the presence of mind to ignore what was happening, the affair might have blown over.”

“Do you think he killed her?”

“It had to be someone who knew her pretty well.” The
intercom buzzed abruptly. She depressed the button. “Yes, Doctor.”

The doctor sounded like he was calling from a public telephone booth. “We're going to do a pelvic on Mrs. Russo. Could you come in?”

She said “Yes, sir” to him and then to me, “I have to go. Anything else you want is going to have to wait.”

She held the door open for me and I passed through.

Within seconds she was gone and I was left to find my own way out. I went back to my car and sat there for a minute while I dug my wallet from the depths of my leather shoulder bag. I removed all the paper money and carefully rearranged the bills, turning them so they all faced in the same direction, ones in front, a twenty bringing up the rear.

I drove back to the office and parked my car in Lonnie's slot, taking the stairs two at a time up to the third floor. If Ida Ruth was surprised to see me back, she kept it to herself. I unlocked my office and started going through the files, which were somewhat better organized, but still loosely arranged on every available surface. I found the file I was looking for and moved over to the desk, where I clicked on the light and settled down in my swivel chair.

What I pulled out were the photocopies of the six-year-old newspapers I'd pulled in preparation for canvassing the Barneys' neighbors. Sure enough, for the days in question there was ample reference to the heavy rainfall over most of California. There was also mention of emergency crews from the public works department working overtime to repair the rash of burst water pipes.
The same weather pattern had spawned a minor crime spree—felons running amok, apparently stimulated by the shift in atmospheric conditions. I flipped through the pages, scanning item after item. I wasn't really sure what I was looking for . . . a link, some sense of connection to the past.

The questions were obvious. If Tippy Parsons could support David Barney's alibi, why hadn't she stepped forward with the information years ago? Of course, she might not have been there. He might have seen someone else or he might have manufactured her presence to suit his own purposes. If she
was
there, she might not have seen him—there was always that chance—but placing her at the scene would certainly lend credibility to his claims. And what about the guy Barney claimed was at the scene? Where was he in all this?

I reached for the telephone and dialed Rhe Parsons, hoping to catch her in her studio. The number rang four times, five, six. On the seventh ring she answered, sounding breathless and out of sorts. “Yes?”

“Rhe, this is Kinsey Millhone. Sorry to disturb you. It sounds like I caught you right in the middle of your work again.”

“Oh, hi. Don't worry about it. It's my own fault, I guess. I should get a portable telephone and keep it out in the studio. Sorry for all the heavy breathing. I'm really out of shape. How are you?”

“I'm fine, thanks. Is Tippy there by any chance?”

“No. She works until six tonight. Santa Teresa Shellfish. Is there something I could help you with?”

“Maybe so,” I said. “I was wondering where she was the night Isabelle was killed.”

“She was home, I'm sure. Why?”

“Well, it's probably nothing, but somebody thought they saw her driving around in a pickup.”

“A pickup? Tippy never had a pickup.”

“It must be a mistake then. Was she with you when the police called?”

“You mean, about Isabelle's death?” There was a moment of hesitation, which I should have taken as a warning, but I was so intent on the question, I forgot I was dealing with a m-o-t-h-e-r. “She was living with her father during that period,” she said with care.

“That's right. So you said. I remember that now. Did
he
have a truck?”

Dead silence. Then, “You know, I really resent the implications here.”

“What implications? I'm just asking for information.”

“Your questions sound very pointed. I hope you don't mean to suggest she had anything whatsoever to do with what happened to Iz.”

“Rhe, don't be silly. I'd never suggest such a thing. I'm trying to disconfirm a report. That's all it is.”

“What report?”

“Look, it's probably nothing and I'd rather not get into it. I can talk to Tippy later. I should have done that in the first place.”

“Kinsey, if somebody's making some claim about my daughter, I'm entitled to know. Who said she was out? That's an outrageous accusation.”

“
Accusation?
Wait a minute. It's hardly an accusation to say she was driving around in a pickup truck.”

“Who told you such a thing?”

“Rhe, I'm really not at liberty to divulge my sources. I'm working for Lonnie Kingman and that information is privileged. . . .” This was not true, but it sounded good. Lawyer-client privilege didn't extend to me and had nothing to do with any witnesses I might approach. I could hear her try to get a grip on her temper.

“I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me what's going on. I promise I won't ask about your sources,
if
that's really an issue.”

I debated briefly and decided there was no reason to withhold the information itself. “Someone claims to have seen her out that night. I'm not saying it has any bearing on Isabelle's death, but it struck me as odd that she's never spoken up. I thought she might have mentioned something to you.”

Rhe's tone was flat. “She's never spoken up because she wasn't out.”

“Great. That's all I need to know.”

“Even if she was, it's no business of yours.”

I cupped a mental hand behind my mental ear. “ ‘Even if she was' meaning what?” I said.

“Nothing. It's a turn of phrase.”

“Would you ask her to call me?”

“I'm not going to ask her to call you!”

“Do what you like, Rhe. I'm sorry for the interruption.” I banged down the receiver, feeling my face suffuse with heat. What was her problem? I made a note about a subpoena for Tippy Parsons if there wasn't one already. I
hadn't attached that much credence to Barney's claim until I heard Rhe's reaction.

I buzzed Ida Ruth on the intercom and asked her to order me a complete new set of transcripts from the criminal trial. Then I slouched down in my swivel chair, my feet up on the desk, fingers laced in front of me, as I thought about developments. No doubt about it, things were looking bad. Between Morley's sloppy records and his untimely death, we had a mess on our hands. Lonnie's prime witness suddenly seemed unreliable and now it looked as though the defendant actually had an alibi. Lonnie wasn't going to like this. It was better that he hear it now than on the first day of the trial when Herb Foss made his opening remarks to the jury, but it still wasn't going to sit well. He was going to get home Friday night and spend a lovely weekend with his wife. He'd been married for eight months to a
kenpo
karate instructor whom he had successfully defended against charges of felonious assault. I'm still trying to find out what Maria actually did, but all Lonnie would tell me is that the court case stemmed from a rape attempt by a man now retired from active life. I pulled my wandering thoughts back to the situation at hand. When Lonnie ambled into the office Monday morning, the dog-doo would start flying. Some of it was bound to land on me.

I went back through the list of prospective witnesses Lonnie'd acquired on discovery. A William Angeloni was listed, though his deposition hadn't been taken. I made a note of his address, checked the telephone book, and made a note of his number. I picked up the receiver and then set it down again. Better to do this in person so I could see
what he looked like. Maybe he was some kind of sleaze-ball David Barney'd hired to lie for him. I shoved some papers in my briefcase and headed out again.

 

T
he address was over on the west side, the house a small stucco bungalow undergoing an extensive remodeling. The roof had been peeled back and the walls on one side had been ripped out. Big sheets of cloudy plastic were nailed across the studs, protecting whatever portions of the house remained untouched. Lumber and cinder block were neatly stacked to one side. There was a big dark blue Dumpster sitting in the drive, filled with broken drywall and ancient two-by-fours sporting bent and rusty nails. It looked as if the laborers had all left for the day, but there was a guy standing in the yard with a beer can in one hand. I parked my car across the street and got out, crossing to the borders of his now-scruffy lawn. “I'm looking for Bill Angeloni. Is that you, by any chance?”