Tip Top was jammed between a Humane Society Thrift Shop and a Big N’ Tall Men’s Shop with a suit in the window designed for the steroid enthusiast. The office itself was long and narrow, partitioned across the middle with a plywood wall with a door cut into it. The place was furnished like some kid’s hideout, complete with two broken-down couches and a table with one short leg. There were drawings and hand-lettered signs Scotch-taped to the walls, trash piled up in one corner, dog-eared copies of Road and Track magazine in an irregular tier by the front door. The bucket seat from a car was propped against the far wall, tan upholstery slashed in one spot and mended with old Band-Aids covered with stars. The dispatcher was perched on a stool, leaning one elbow on a counter as littered as a workbench. He was probably twenty-five with curly black hair and a small dark mustache. He wore chinos, a pale blue T-shirt with a faded decal of the Grateful Dead, and a visor that made his hair stick up on the sides. The shortwave radio squawked incomprehensibly and he took up the mike.
“Seven-oh,” eh said, his eyes immediately focusing on the map of the city affixed to the wall above the counter. I saw a butt-filled ashtray, an aspirin bottle, a cardboard calendar from Our Lady of Sorrows Church, a fan belt, plastic packets of ketchup, and a big penciled note that read “Has Anybody Seen My Red Flash Lite?” Tacked to the wall there was a list of addresses for customers who’d passed bad checks and those in the habit of calling more than one cab to see who could get there first.
There was a short burst of squawking and the dispatcher moved a round magnet from one part of the map to another. It looked like he was playing a board game all by himself.
He rotated toward me on the stool. “Yes ma’am.”
I held out my hand. “I’m Kinsey Millhone,” I said. He seemed slightly disconcerted at the notion of shaking hands, but he covered himself and gamely obliged.
“Ron Coachello.”
I took out my wallet and showed him my identification. “I wonder if you could check some records for me.”
His eyes were very dark and bright and his look said that he could check anything he wanted if it suited him. “What’s the skinny?”
I gave him the Reader’s Digest condensed version of the tale, complete with Elaine Boldt’s local address and the approximate time the taxi’d been there. “Can you go back to January ninth of this year and see if Tip Top picked up the fare? It might have been City Cab or Green Stripe. I’ve got some questions for the driver.”
He shrugged. “Sure. It might take a day. I got that stuff at home. I don’t keep it down here. Why don’t I give you a call, or better yet, you buzz me back? How’s that?”
The phone rang and he took a call, logging it in. Then he took up the mike and pressed the button. “Six-eight.” He cocked his head, listening idly. There was static, then a squawk.
“Four-oh-two-nine Orion,” he said and clicked off. I gave him my card. He glanced at it with curiosity as if he’d never known a woman with a business card before. The radio suddenly came to life again and he turned back, taking up the mike. I waved to him and he waved back over his shoulder at me.
I went through exactly the same procedure with the other two cab companies, which were fortunately within walking distance of one another. By the time I repeated the same story twice more I felt like I was suffering from a bad case of tongue flop.
When I got into the office, there was a message from Jonah Robb on my machine.
“Ah, yeah, Kinsey. This if Officer Robb on that… ah… issue we discussed. I wonder if you could give me a call sometime … ah… this afternoon and we’ll find a way to get together on it. It’s now Friday and it’s… ah… twelve-ten P.M. Talk to you soon. Okay. Thanks.” The number he left was for the police station, with the extension for Missing Persons.
I called him back, identifying myself as soon as he came on the line. “I understand you have some information for me.”
“Right,” he said. “You want to stop by my place later on?”
“I could do that,” I said. I took down his address and we settled on 8:15, bypassing dinner. I didn’t think we should get into any little domestic numbers at this point. I thanked him for his help and rang off.
I couldn’t for the life of me think of anything else to do on the case that afternoon so I locked the office and headed for home. It was only 1:20 and since I’d accomplished so little at work, I felt morally obliged to be useful at my place. I washed the cup and saucer and plate that were sitting in the sink and left them in the rack to dry until I needed them again. I put a load of towels in the washer and then scoured the bathroom and kitchen sinks, took out the trash, and vacuumed a path around the furniture. Now and then, I actually move things and suck up all the woofies underneath, but today it was sufficient to have a few vacuum-cleaner tracks here and there and the apartment smelling of that peculiar cross between hot machine oil and cooked dust. I do love tidiness. When you live by yourself, you can either get all piggy or pick up as you go, which is what I prefer. There’s nothing more depressing than coming home at the end of a long day to a place that looks like it’s just been tossed by the mob.
I changed into my sweat pants and did three miles with energy to burn. This was one of those rare days when the run seemed inexplicably grand.
I came home, showered, washed my hair, napped, got dressed, sneaked in a little grocery shopping, and then I sat down at my desk and worked on note cards while I drank a glass of white wine and ate a warm, sliced-hard-boiled-egg sandwich with loads of Best Food’s mayo and salt, nearly swooning at the taste.
At eight, I snatched up a jacket, my handbag, and my key pick and hopped in my car, heading over to Cabana Boulevard, the wide avenue that parallels the beach. I turned right. Jonah lived in an odd little tract of houses off Primave-ra, maybe a mile away. I passed the marina, then Ludlow Beach, glancing to my left. Even in the gathering twilight, I could identify the big trash bin where death had almost caught up with me two weeks before. I wondered how long it would take before I could pass that area without unconsciously glancing left, without taking just that one peek at the place where I’d thought my life would end. The beach seemed to glow with the last light of day and the sky was a silver gray layered with pink and lavender, deepening to dark magenta where the near hills intersected the view. Out on the ocean, the islands retained a magical hot gold light where lingering rivulets of sunlight formed a shimmering pool.
I went up the hill, passing Sea Shore Park, turning right then into a tangle of streets across the boulevard. The proximity to the Pacific meant too much chill fog and corrosive salt air, but there was an elementary school close by. For Jonah, who had had a family to support on a cop’s salary, the neighborhood was affordable, but by no means grand.
I found the street number I was looking for and pulled into the driveway. The porch light was on and the yard looked well kept. The house was a ranch-style stucco painted slate blue with dark blue trim. I guessed there would be three bedrooms with maybe a patio in back. I rang the doorbell and Jonah came to the door. He wore jeans and an L. L. Bean Oxford-cloth dress shirt with a pink pinstripe. He carried a beer bottle loosely by the neck, motioning me in with a glance at his watch.
“God, you’re prompt,” he said.
“Well, you’re not far away. I just live at the bottom of the hill.”
“I know. You want me to take that?”
He was holding his hand up for the jacket, which I shed and handed to him, along with my handbag. He tossed both unceremoniously into a chair.
For a minute neither of us could think of anything to say. He took a sip of beer. I put my hands in my back pockets. Why did this feel so awkward? It reminded me of those awful junior-high-school dates where you got driven to the movies by somebody’s mother and you never knew what to talk about.