I is for Innocent (19 page)

“That's me,” he said. He was in his midthirties, extraordinarily good-looking—dark, straight hair worn slightly long and brushed to one side, dark brows, dark eyes, strong nose, dimples, and a manly chin that probably took six swipes of a razor to shave properly. He wore jeans, muddy work boots, and a blue denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The hair on his forearms was dark and silky. He smelled of damp soil and metal. He looked like an actor who'd star in some movie about a doomed love affair between an heiress and a park ranger. I thought it was probably
inappropriate to fling myself against him and bury my nose in his chest.

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said, introducing myself. We shook hands briefly and then I told him who I worked for. “I just had a chat with David Barney and he mentioned your name.”

Angeloni shook his head. “I can't believe that poor son of a bitch has to go to court again.” He finished his beer, crushed the can, and fired a jump shot, tossing the empty container in the Dumpster with a plunking sound. He said “Two points” and made crowd sounds with his fist against his mouth. He had a nice smile, unpretentious.

“This time it's wrongful death,” I said.

“Jesus. What about double jeopardy? Isn't that what it's called? I thought you couldn't be tried twice.”

“That applies to criminal. This is civil.”

“I'm glad I'm not him. You want a beer? I just got home from work and I always suck down a few. This place is a mess. You better watch out for loose nails.”

“Sure, I'll have one,” I said and followed him toward the kitchen, which I could see clearly through the plastic. His butt was cute, too. “How long has this been going on?”

“The remodel? About a month. We're adding a big family room and a couple bedrooms for the kids.”

Scratch the wedding, I thought as we pushed into the kitchen.

He took two beers from a six-pack and popped the tops on both. “I gotta fire up the barbecue before Julianna gets home with the little rug rats in tow. My turn to cook,” he said, dimpling.

“How many kids?”

He held up one hand and wiggled his fingers. “Five?”

“Plus one in the hatch. They're all boys. We're looking for a little girl this time.”

“Are you still with the water department?”

“Ten years in May,” he said. “You're a private investigator? What's that like?”

I talked idly about my work while he dumped the ashes from the Weber grill. He had a flat electrical starter that he plugged into an extension cord, mounding on charcoal briquettes, which he rearranged with a set of long metal pincers. I knew I should press for information. All I needed was confirmation of David Barney's whereabouts the night of the murder—the possible identification of Tippy Parsons, too—but there was something hypnotic about all the homely activity. I'd never been with a man who'd cared enough to fire up a Weber grill on my behalf. Lucky Julianna.

“Could you tell me about the night you saw David Barney?”

“There wasn't much to it. We were out digging up the street, trying to find a broken pipe. It had been pouring for days, but it wasn't raining right then. I heard a thump and looked up to see this guy in a running suit sprawled in the street. A pickup was turning left onto San Vicente and I guess it nearly nailed him. He picked himself off the pavement, limped over to where we were, and sat down on the curb. He was shaken, but not hurt. Mostly mad, you know how it is. We offered to call the paramedics, but he wouldn't hear of it. He sat till he caught his breath and
then he took off again, kind of slow and limping. The whole business lasted maybe ten minutes or so.”

“Did you see the driver of the truck?”

“Not really. It was some young girl, but I didn't get a clear look at her face.”

“What about the license number? Did you catch that?” He shrugged apologetically. “I never even thought to look. The truck was white. I know that.”

“You remember the make?”

“Ford or Chevy, I'd guess. American, at any rate.”

“How'd you find out who David Barney was? Did he introduce himself?”

“Not at the time. He got in touch with us later.”

“How'd he know who you were?”

“He tracked us down through the department. Me and my buddy James. He knew the date, time, and location so it wasn't that tough.”

“Can James confirm this?”

“Sure. We both talked to the guy.”

“At the time Mr. Barney got in touch with you, did you know about his wife's murder?”

“I'd been reading about it in the paper. I didn't realize the connection until he told us who he was. Jesus, that was nasty. Did you hear about that?”

“That's why I'm here. The guy still swears he didn't do it.”

“Well, I don't see how he could. He was miles away.”

“You remember the time?”

“About one forty-five. Might have been a little earlier, but I know it wasn't later because I looked at my watch just as he was taking off.”

“Didn't it seem odd to see someone out jogging at one-thirty in the morning?”

“Not a bit. I'd seen him jog along the same path the night before. Emergency work you see all kinds of things.”

“You testified at the murder trial, didn't you?”

“Sure.”

“What about this round? Will you testify again?”

“Absolutely. Glad to do it. The poor guy needs a break.” I thought back through Barney's story, trying to remember what he'd told me. “What about the cops? Did the police ever interview you?”

“Some homicide detective called and I told him everything I knew. He thanked me and that's the last I ever heard from him. I tell you one thing—they didn't like him. They had him tried and convicted before they even got him into court.”

“Well, thanks. I appreciate this. You've given me a lot of information. I may get back in touch if I have any other questions.” I gave him my card in case he thought of anything else. I crossed back to the car and sat there, making notes while his comments were still fresh.

I thought about Tippy, searching my memory. Rhe had told me those were Tippy's teen alcoholic years. If I remembered right, Rhe had sent her off to live with her father because she and Tippy had had a falling-out. So how would Rhe know if she was in that night or not? Maybe I should just ask Tippy and be done with it. “Do the obvious” had always been a working motto of mine.

I glanced at my watch. It was 5:35. Santa Teresa Shellfish was out on the wharf—maybe two blocks from my
apartment, which was not that far away. I headed for home, across the backside of Capillo Hill. If Tippy
was
out that night, I couldn't see why she wouldn't own up to it six years later. Maybe nobody'd ever asked her. What a happy thought.

 

 

 

 

I
parked the car in front of my place, dropped off the briefcase, plucked my windbreaker off the back of the door, and walked the two blocks to the wharf. The sun wasn't quite down yet, but the light was gray. The days were marked by this protracted twilight, darker shadows gathering among the trees while the sky remained the color of polished aluminum. When the sun finally set, the clouds would turn purple and blue and the last rays of sun would pierce the gloom with shafts of red. Winter nights in California were usually in the fifties. Summer nights were often in the fifties, too, which offered the possibility of sleeping year-round beneath a quilt.

To my right, a quarter mile away, the long slender arm of the breakwater curved around the marina, cradling sailboats in its embrace. The ocean pounded on the seawall, the force of the waves creating a plume of spray that marched from right to left. Beneath my feet, the pier seemed to shift as if nudged by the waves. The smell of
creosote rose like a vapor from heavy timbers saturated to a dark gloss. The tide was high, the water looking like dark blue ink, silver pilings stained with the damp. Cars rolled down the pier, the rumble of loose boards creating a continuous tremor along the length. The fog was rolling in, bringing with it the damp cloudy smell of seaweed. Darkened boats were moored just offshore in the poor man's marina.

On the wharf itself the lights were bright and cold against the deep shadows of the ocean. The Marina Restaurant was ablaze, the air around it scented with the savory aroma of char-grilled fish and steaks. One of the parking valets jogged toward the end of the small lot to retrieve a vehicle. Gulls rested on the peaked roof of the bait-and-tackle shop, the shingled slopes banked with snowy white where the bird droppings had collected. The fishermen were packing up, tackle boxes clattering, while a pelican waddled about beady-eyed, still hoping for a handout.

Looking back toward the town, I could see the dark hills carpeted in pinlights. The 101 was laid out parallel to the beach, the California coastline running an unexpected east to west in this stretch. Across the four lanes of the freeway, the one- and two- story buildings in the business district marched away up State Street, diminishing in size like a drawing lesson in perspective. The palm trees were a dark contrast to the artificial light that was just beginning to bathe the downtown with its pale yellow glow.

The sun had now dropped from sight but the sky wasn't completely dark, more the ashen charcoal gray of a cold hearth. I reached the brown-painted board-and-batten
building that housed the Santa Teresa Shellfish Company. Eight wooden picnic tables and benches were secured to the pier out in front. The three employees inside were young, late teens—in Tippy's case, early twenties—wearing blue jeans and dark blue Santa Teresa Shellfish T-shirts, each emblazoned with a crab. Along the front of the booth, seawater tanks were filled with live crabs and lobsters, stacked on one another like sullen marine spiders. A glass-fronted display case was lined with crushed ice, fish steaks and fillets arranged in columns of gray and pink and white. A counter ran along the back. Beyond it, through a doorway, I could see an enormous fish being gutted.

They were in the process of closing up, cleaning off the counters. I watched Tippy for almost a minute before she spotted me. Her motions were brisk, her manner efficient as she waited to take an order from a fellow standing at the display case. “Last order of the day. We gotta close in five minutes.”

“Oh, right. I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was so late.” He scooted down toward the tank, pointing to the hapless object of his appetite. She tucked her order pad in her pocket and plunged her arm into the murky water. Deftly, she seized the lobster across its back and held it up for his approval. She plunked it on the counter, grabbed up a butcher knife, and inserted the tip just under the shell where the tail connected to the spiny body. I glanced away at that moment, but I could hear the thump as she pounded the knife and neatly severed the creature's spine. What a way to earn a living. All that death for minimum wage. She popped it in the steamer, slammed the door shut, and set the timer. She turned to me without really registering my identity.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, Tippy. Kinsey Millhone. How are you?”

I saw belated recognition flash in her eyes. “Oh, hi. My mom just called and said you'd be stopping by.” She turned her head. “Corey? Can I go now? I'll close out the register tomorrow if you can do it today.”

“No problem.”

She turned to the fellow waiting for his lobster dinner. “You want something to drink?”

“You have iced tea in a can?”

She took the can out of the cooler, put ice in a paper cup, and extracted a small container of coleslaw from the back of the display case. She scribbled the total across the bottom of the ticket and tore it off with a flourish. He gave her a ten and she made change with the same efficiency. The timer on the steamer began to peep. She reached in with a hot mitt and flopped the steaming lobster on the paper plate. The guy had barely picked up his order when she untied her apron and let herself out the Dutch door to one side.

“We can sit out at one of the tables unless you'd rather go somewhere else. My car's parked over there. You want to talk in the car?”

“We can head in that direction. I really just have a couple of quick questions.”

“You want to know what I was doing the night Aunt Isabelle was killed, right?”

“That's right.” I was sorry Rhe'd had time to call her, but what could I do? Even if I'd come straight over, Rhe would have had time to telephone. Now Tippy'd had sufficient warning to cook up a good cover story . . . if she needed one.

“God, I've been trying to think. I was at my dad's, I guess.”

I stared at her briefly. “You don't remember anything in particular about that night?”

“Not really. I was still in high school back then so I probably had a lot of homework or something.”

“Weren't you out of school? That would have been the day after Christmas. Most kids have the week off between Christmas and New Year's.”

She frowned slightly. “I must have been, if you say so. I really don't remember.”

“You have any idea what time your mother called to tell you about Isabelle?”

“Uh, I think about an hour later. Like an hour after it happened. I know she called from Aunt Isabelle's, but I think she'd been there awhile with Simone.”

“Is there any chance you might have been out around one or one-thirty?”

“One-thirty in the morning? You mean, like doing something?”

“Yes, a date, or maybe just bopping around with your buddies.”

“Nunh-unh. My dad didn't like me to be out late.”

“He was home that night?”

“Sure. Probably,” she said. “Do you remember what your mom said when she called?”

She thought about that for a moment. “I don't think so. I mean, I remember she woke me up and she was crying and all.”