P is for Peril (3 page)

“Which didn't appeal to you.”

“I thought it was
revolting.
I can't even tell you the practices he wanted to pursue—unspeakable acts that I refused even to discuss with him. He finally stopped pressing.”

“Because he'd taken up with her?”

“Evidently. He's never admitted it, but I'm sure he went looking. It did cross my mind he'd go out and find someone willing to submit to his perverse requests. I certainly wouldn't do it and I knew I'd made myself entirely clear on that point.”

I was secretly panting for an example, but I thought it was wiser (for once) to keep my big mouth shut. Sometimes you don't want to know what people do —or refuse to do —in private. If I had occasion to meet the doctor one day, I didn't want to be distracted by an image of him cavorting in the nude with an organic carrot up his butt. “Did you ask for the divorce or did he?”

“He did. I was completely taken off-guard. I presumed he'd get his needs met outside the marriage and keep his family intact. I never thought he'd stoop to divorce at this late stage in his life. I should have known. Dowan's weak. Not that any of us relish owning up to our mistakes, but Dow always abhorred even the
appearance
of failure.”

“Meaning what?”

“Well,” she said, lowering her eyes. I watched her gaze dance across the floor. “I suspect his relationship with Crystal is not the union of souls he'd like others to believe. Some months ago, he'd heard she was screwing around on him. Better to disappear than admit he'd been cuckolded.”

“Did he have any idea who it was?”

“No, but he was looking into it. After he disappeared, my friend Dana finally confided that she'd known the whole time. The fellow is Crystal's personal trainer. His name is Clint Augustine.”

I heard a little
ding-dong
going off in my head. I was sure I'd heard the name before, possibly in the gym where I work out.

“You believe he left because of that?”

“Yes. We had a conversation—a long talk—on September 10. This was two days before he vanished. He was dreadfully unhappy.”

“He said that?”

Her hesitation was distinct as she debated with herself. “Not in so many words, but you don't go through forty years of marriage without learning to read between the lines.”

“What occasioned the conversation?”

“He came over to the house.”

“You were seeing him,” I stated.

“Well, yes. At his request,” she said, her tone faintly defensive. “Dow adores this place, just as he adores the house in Horton Ravine. He was always interested in my design work, even before our relationship underwent the shift. Lately, he'd been stopping by in the evenings to have a drink with me. That night, he was exhausted. His face was
gray
with worry, and when I asked what was wrong, he said the pressures at the office were driving him insane. And Crystal was no help. She's extremely narcissistic, as you'll discover when you meet her, which I assume you will.”

“Were you surprised he'd confide in you after everything he'd put you through?”

“Who else does he have? Anyway, he didn't really talk about her, but I could see the tension in his eyes. He'd aged a good ten years in a matter of months.”

“You're saying he had problems at home as well as problems at work?”

“That's right. He didn't talk specifics, but he mentioned in passing that he needed to get away. That's the first thing I thought of when I heard he was gone.”

“Couldn't that have been wishful thinking?”

“I suppose it could,” she said. “I mean, he didn't pull out airline tickets, but he did seem desperate.”

“Do you remember a reference to any place in particular?”

She tilted her head. “I've racked my brain, but I really can't remember. It was an offhand remark and I didn't think much about it until this came up.”

“I assume you told the police.”

Again, she hesitated. “Not at first. I thought his absence was voluntary and he'd come home when he was ready. I didn't want him to be embarrassed. Leave it to Crystal to turn this ordeal into a media circus.”

I could feel myself bristle. “Mrs. Purcell, he's a prominent physician, well known and loved in this community. His disappearance is bound to attract media attention. If you thought he'd gone AWOL, why didn't you speak up?”

“I felt he was entitled to his privacy,” she said, her cheeks coloring slightly.

“What about all the time and money being spent on the investigation? Weren't you at all concerned about that?”

“Of course. That's why I spoke to the police,” she said. “After six weeks, I began to worry. I guess I was expecting a call or a note,
some
indication he was all right, wherever he was. Now that nine weeks have passed, I thought it was time to take matters into my own hands.”

“What made you think he'd be in touch with you instead of her?”

“Because Crystal's the one he's been trying to escape.”

“And now you're worried something's happened to him.”

“I suppose so. That's why I decided to meet with the detective last week. Odessa was polite. He took notes. But I got the impression he didn't take me seriously. He said he'd get back to me, but that's the last I've heard. The police must be working
dozens
of other cases, which means they don't have the time or resources to devote to Dow. I said as much to Dana and she agrees. That's why she recommended you.”

“I don't know what to say. Even if we come to some agreement, I can't spend twenty-four hours a day on this any more than the police can. I have other clients, too.”

“I didn't say you'd have to be exclusive.”

“Even so, I'm just one person. You'd be better off with a big Los Angeles agency, one with lots of operatives who can fan out across the country and do this properly. You might end up having to search for him overseas.”

She cut me off with a wave of her hand. “I don't want a big L.A. agency. I want someone local who's willing to report directly to me.”

“But all I'd be doing is repeating what the police have already done.”

“You might have ideas they haven't thought of yet. After all, you tracked down Wendell Jaffe
years
after everyone assumed he was dead.”

“I did track him down, but I didn't start from scratch. Someone spotted him in Mexico and that's why the case finally broke.”

Her expression became withdrawn. “You won't help.”

“I'm not saying that. I'm talking about reality, which doesn't look that good.”

“But what if there's an angle the police have overlooked?”

“What if there's not?”

“Then at least I'd be satisfied with the job they've done.”

I was silent for a beat, staring at the floor. Inside, a little voice was yelling,
“No, no, no!”
while my mouth said, “I'll do what I can, but I make no promises.”

“Good. That's wonderful. We'll talk on Tuesday. Just keep track of the time you put in and you can give me an invoice as soon as I get back.” She glanced at her watch and then rose to her feet.

I stood when she did. “I'll need a retainer.”

“A ‘retainer'?” She made a show of startlement, but I wondered if she was repeating the words for effect. Surely she didn't do business without a written agreement and earnest money changing hands. “How much did you have in mind?”

“I charge fifty an hour or a flat four hundred a day, plus expenses, so fifteen hundred dollars should cover it for now. If you give me Melanie's address, I'll overnight you a contract for your signature.” In truth, I could have brought one with me, but I hadn't been sure we'd end up coming to an agreement.

She blinked as though baffled. “I'm sorry. I didn't picture anything so
formal.
Is this standard procedure in your line of work?”

“Actually, it is,” I said. I noticed she didn't call it a “profession,” which meant she probably lumped me in with retail clerks, short-order cooks, and Roto-Rooter men.

“What if you fail to find him?”

“That's exactly the point. If I come up empty-handed, you might decide I wasn't worth the hourly wage. Once I take a case, I persevere. I'll follow the trail right out to the bitter end.”

“I should hope so,” she said. She thought about it briefly, and then she crossed to an ebony-inlaid console. She removed her checkbook, returned to her chair, and sat down. “And I'm to make the check out to . . . ?”

“Millhone Investigations.”

I watched while she dashed off a check and tore it out of the book, scarcely bothering to disguise her irritation as she handed it to me. I noticed we were bank mates, sharing the same branch of the Santa Teresa City Bank. I said, “You're upset.”

“I operate on trust. Apparently, you don't.”

“I've learned the hard way. It's nothing personal.”

“I see.”

I held out the check. “I can return this right now if you'd prefer.”

“Just find him. I'll expect a full report the minute I get home.”

Before I left Fiona's, she gave me Melanie's home address in San Francisco, along with her home and office numbers. I couldn't imagine the need to call Fiona up there. She also gave me Crystal's Horton Ravine address and phone number. I'd never met Detective Odessa, whom Fiona'd mentioned in passing, but a conversation with him was the first item on my list. Driving back into town, I noticed my stomach had begun to churn with anxiety. I tried to pinpoint my doubts, laying them out one by one, though not necessarily in the order of importance.

I stopped off at McDonald's and ordered coffee and a couple of Egg McMuffins. I needed the comfort of junk food as well as the nourishment, if that's what you want to call it. I munched while I drove, eating with such eagerness I bit my own index finger.

I might as well take a moment here to identify myself. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I'm a licensed private investigator in Santa Teresa, California, which is ninety-five miles north of Los Angeles. I'm female, thirty-six, twice divorced, childless, and otherwise unencumbered. Aside from my car, I don't own much in the way of material possessions. My business, Millhone Investigations, consists entirely of me. I was a cop for two years early in my twenties, and through personal machinations too tedious to explain, I realized law enforcement didn't suit me. I was way too crabby and uncooperative to adjust to department regulations, with all the ethics clauses thrown in: I have been known to bend the rules. Plus, the shoes were clunky and the uniform and the belt made my ass look too wide.

Having left gainful city employment, I apprenticed myself to a two-man office of private investigators, where I put in the hours necessary to apply for my license. I've been on my own now for a good ten years, licensed, bonded, and heavily insured. A good portion of the last decade, I spent pursuing arson and wrongful death claims for California Fidelity Insurance, first as a bona fide employee, later as an independent contractor. We came to a parting of the ways three years ago in October 1983. Since then, I've rented space from the law firm of Kingman and Ives, an arrangement that I'd begun to suspect was on the verge of change.

For the past year, Lonnie Kingman had been complaining about the shortage of space. He'd already expanded once, taking over the entire third floor of a building he owns free and clear. He'd now purchased a second building, this one on lower State Street, where he intended to relocate as soon as escrow closed. He'd found a tenant for our current digs, and the only question that remained was whether I'd go with him or find an office of my own. I'm a loner at heart, and while I'm fond of Lonnie, the whole idea of working in close contact with other people had begun to get on my nerves. I found myself going into the office nights and weekends, spending half my days working from home— anything to create the sense of space and solitude. I'd talked to a real estate broker about month-to-month rentals, and I'd responded to several classified ads. So far I hadn't seen anything that really struck my fancy. My requirements were modest: room for my desk, swivel chair, file cabinets, and a few fake plants. In addition, I pictured a small but tasteful executive potty. The problem was that everything I liked was too large or too expensive, and anything that fit my budget was too cramped, too shabby, or too far from downtown. I spend a lot of time at the Hall of Records and I like to be within walking distance of the courthouse, the police station, and the public library. Lonnie's office was a haven, and he doubles as my attorney if the shit hits the fan— which it very often does. The choice was tough and I still wasn't sure what I wanted to do.