What I was looking at here was simply a more sophisticated version of dot-to-dot. If I could understand the order in which the items were related, I could probably get some notion of what was going on in Mickey’s life. For now, what I was missing were the links between events. What was he up to in the months before the shooting? The cops had to be pursuing many of these same questions, but it was possible I was in possession of information they lacked, having stolen it. In the rudimentary conscience I seemed to be developing, I knew I could always opt for the Good Citizen’s Award by “sharing” with Detective Aldo. In the main, I don’t hold back where cops are concerned. On the other hand, if I dug a little deeper, I might figure it out for myself, recapturing the thrill of discovery. There’s nothing like the moment when everything finally falls into place. So why give that up when, with just a tiny bit more effort, I could have it all? (These are the sorts of rationalizations Ms. Millhone engages in when failing to do her civic duty.) I hauled up my handbag and began to sift through the contents, coming up with Wary’s phone number on the back of a business card. Maybe Mickey had said something to him about the trip. I picked up the phone and dialed Los Angeles. It was only ten-fifteen. Maybe I could catch him before he went off to breakfast. I had a vision of Wary’s wire-rimmed glasses and his waist-length brown hair. Two rings. Three. When he finally answered, I could tell from his voice he’d been deeply asleep.
“Hey, Wary. How’re you? Did I wake you?”
“No, no,” he said valiantly. “Who’s this?”
“Kinsey in Santa Teresa. ” Silence. ” Mickey’s ex.
“Oh, yeah, yeah. Got it. Sorry I didn’t recognize your voice. How’re you?”
“Fine. And you?”
“Doing great. What’s up?” I could hear him lock his jaw in the effort to suppress a yawn.
“I have a quick question. Did Mickey say anything about the trip he made to Louisville, Kentucky?”
“What trip”
“This was week before last. He departed May eighth and returned on the twelfth.”
“Oh, that. I knew he was gone, but he never said where. Why’d he go?”
“How do I know? I was hoping you’d tell me. Given his finances, I’m having trouble understanding why he took off for five days. The plane ticket cost a fortune, and he probably had to add meals and a motel on top of that.”
“Can’t help you there. All I know is he went someplace, but he never said why. I didn’t even know he left the state. Dude didn’t like to fly. I’m surprised he’d get on a plane going anywhere.”
“Did he talk to anyone else, someone in the building he might have mentioned it to?”
“Could have. I doubt it. It’s not like he had buddies he confided in. Say, you know what might help? I just thought of this. Once his phone was disconnected, he used to pop in and borrow mine. Kind of pay-as-you-go but he was always careful to keep square. I can find the numbers, if you want.”
I closed my eyes, saying small prayers. “Wary, I’d be indebted to you for life.”
“Hey, cool. I’m going to put the phone down and go look on my desk.”
I heard a clunk and I was guessing the handset was now resting on his bed table while he padded around, probably bare-assed naked. A full minute passed, and then he picked up the phone again. “You still there?”
“Indeed.”
“I got the statement right here. They bill on the fifteenth, so this was in yesterday’s mail. I haven’t even opened it yet. I know some calls he made were out of state because he left me ten bucks and said he’d pay the difference later when the bill came in.”
“Really. Did you ever hear what was said?”
“Nope. I made it a point to leave the room. I figured it was private. You know him. He never explained anything, especially when it came to his work. He was stingy with exposition in the best of circumstances.”
“What makes you think this was work?”
“His attitude, I guess. Cop mode, I’d call it. You could see it in his body, the way he carried himself. Even half in the bag, he knew his stuff.” I could hear him shuffling papers. Distracted, he said, “I’m still looking. Have you heard anything?”
“About Mickey? Not lately. I guess I could call Aldo, but I’m afraid to ask.”
“Here we go. Okay. Oh. There was just one. This’s the seventh of May. Lookit here. You’re right. He called Louisville.” He read the number off to me. “Actually, he made two to the same number. The first was quick, less than a minute. The longer one, ten minutes, was shortly afterward.”
I was frowning at the phone. “It must have been important to him if he flew out the next day.”
“A man of action,” he said. “Listen, I gotta get off the phone and go take a leak, but I’ll be happy to call you back if I think of anything else.”
“Thanks, Wary.”
Once I hung up, I sat and stared at the phone, trying to “get centered,” as we say in California. Ten-twenty here, that would make it one-twenty in Kentucky. I had no clue who he’d called, so I couldn’t think of a ruse. I’d have to make it up as I went along. I dialed the number.
“Louisville Male High School. This is Terry speaking. May I help you?”
Male High School? Terry sounded like a student, probably working in the office. I was so nonplused I couldn’t think of anything to say. “Oops. Wrong number.” I put the handset back. Belatedly, my heart thumped. What was this about?
I took a couple of deep breaths and dialed again.
“Louisville Male High School. This is Terry speaking. May I help you?”
“Uh, yes. I wonder if I might speak to the assistant principal? ”
“Mrs. Magliato? One minute.” Terry put me on hold, and ten seconds later the line was picked up.
“Mrs. Magliato May I help you?”
“I hope so. My name is Mrs. Hurst from the General Telephone offices in Culver City, California. A call was placed to this number from Culver City on May seventh, and the charges are currently in dispute. The call was billed to last-name Magruder, first name Mickey or Michael. Mr. Magruder indicates that he never made such a call, and we’ve been asked to identify the party called. Can you be of some assistance? We’d appreciate your help.”
“What was that name again?”
I spelled it out.
She said, “Doesn’t sound familiar. Hold on and I’ll ask if anybody else remembers talking to him.”
She put me on hold. I listened to a local radio station, but the sound was pitched too low for me to hear what was being said. She came back on the line. “No, I’m sorry. None of us talked to anyone by that name.”
“What about the principal? Any possibility he might have taken the call himself?”
“For starters, it’s a she and I already asked. The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
I thought about the names on the phony documents and pulled them closer. “Uh, what about the names Emmett Vanover, Delbert Amburgey, and Clyde Byler? ” I repeated them before she asked, which seemed to piss her off.
“I know I didn’t speak to any one of them. I’d remember the names.”
“Could you ask the office staff?”
She sighed. “Just a moment,” she said. She put a palm across the receiver and I could hear her relay the question. Muffled conversation ensued and then she removed her hand. “Nobody spoke to any of them either. ”
“No one from Culver City?”
“No-oo.” She sang the word on two notes.
“Ah. Well, thanks anyway. I appreciate your time.” I hung up the phone and thought about it for a minute. Who did Mickey talk to for ten minutes? It certainly wasn’t her, I thought. I got up from the desk and went back to the kitchen, where I took out a butter knife and the jar of extra-crunchy Jif. I took a tablespoon of peanut butter on the blade and spread it on the roof of my mouth, working it with my tongue until my palate was coated with a thin layer of goo. “Hello, this is Mrs. Kennison,” I said aloud, in a voice that sounded utterly unlike me.
I returned to the phone and dialed the number again. When Terry answered, I asked the name of the school librarian.
“You mean Ms. Calloway?” she said.
“Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten. Could you transfer me?”
Terry was happy to oblige, and ten seconds later I was going through the same routine, only this time with a variation. “Mrs. Calloway, this is Mrs. Kennison with the district attorney’s office in Culver City, California. A call was placed to this number from Culver City on May seventh, billed to last-name Magruder, first name Mickey or Michael, “