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.
As soon as I reached the two-hundred block of east Capillo, where Lonnie’s office was located, I began the usual search-and-seizure mission, hunting for a parking place. One drawback to the current building was the tiny lot attached, which held only twelve cars. Lonnie and his partner were each assigned a slot, as were their two secretaries, Ida Ruth Kenner and Jill Stahl. The remaining eight spots went to the building’s other tenants, so the rest of us were forced to ferret out parking where we could. Today I nosed my way into a short length of curb between two commercial driveways, a spot I could have sworn was almost legal. It was only later I discovered I’d been wrong.
I walked the five blocks to the office, climbed the requisite two flights of stairs, and let myself into the suite through an unmarked side door. I crossed the interior hallway to my office, unlocked the door, and stepped in, carefully avoiding Ida Ruth and Jill, who were deep in conversation a short distance away. I knew the subject matter would be the same one they’d been debating for the past two months. Lonnie’s partner, John Ives, had urged the firm to hire his niece as the receptionist when the position became open. Jeniffer was eighteen years old and a recent high school graduate. This was her first job and despite being given a lengthy written job description, she seemed thoroughly perplexed about what was expected of her. She showed up for work in T-shirts and miniskirts, her long blond hair hanging down to her waist, legs bare, feet shoved into wood-soled clogs. Her phone voice was chirpy, her spelling was atrocious, and she couldn’t seem to get the hang of coming in on time. She also took frequent two- to four-day vacations whenever her unemployed friends headed off to play. Ida Ruth and Jill were constantly exasperated at having to pick up the slack. Both bellyached to me, apparently reluctant to complain to Lonnie or John. Petty office politics have never held much appeal, which was yet another reason I was leaning toward a change in venue. Where I’d once been attracted to the sense of family I felt at the firm, now all I saw were attendant psychodramas. Jeniffer was Cinderella with a diminutive IQ. Ida Ruth and Jill, like the spiteful stepsisters, were simperingly nice to her in person but talked about her behind her back every chance they could. I’m not sure what part I played, but I did my best to avoid participation by hiding in my room. Clearly, I was no more adept at resolving conflicts than anyone else.
In the interests of escape, I put a call through to the Santa Teresa Police Department and asked to speak to Detective Odessa. He was in a meeting, but the woman who took my call said he’d be free in a bit. I made an appointment for 10:30. I filled in a boiler plate contract and slipped it in an Express Mail envelope that I addressed to Fiona in care of Melanie’s home in San Francisco. I tucked the whole of it in my handbag and then sat at my desk, making deeply symbolic doodles on my blotter between rounds of solitaire. It’s not as though I didn’t have a ton of other work to do, but I found myself distracted by the information circulating through my brain. I finally pulled out a manila folder and a yellow legal pad and started taking notes.
At 10:20 I locked my door and walked over to the post office, then continued to the police station, which was four blocks away. The morning air was chilly and the earlier pale sunlight had faded as the sky clouded over with the first hint of rain. The Santa Teresa “rainy” season is unpredictable. Intermittent periods of precipitation once began in mid-January and extend willy-nilly into early March. Of late, weather extremes in other parts of the world have resulted in capricious deviations. From late May until October, rain levels can still be measured in fractions of an inch, but the winter months now vary, and this one was shaping up to be one of the wettest in years. A cold front was moving down from Alaska, pushing a raw wind ahead of it. The tree branches moved restlessly, bending and creaking, while dried palm fronds broke loose and swept along the sidewalks like brooms. The lobby at the police station seemed cozy by comparison. On my left, a small boy sat waiting on the wooden bench while his father talked to the civilian clerk about copies of an accident report. I moved to the L-shaped counter, where a uniformed officer monitored the walk-in trade. I told him of my appointment and he relayed the information to Detective Odessa’s desk by phone. “He’ll be right out.”
I waited where I was, glancing idly into Records across the counter to my right. My friend Emerald had taken early retirement, leaving me with no buddy to slip me information. She’d never actually violated department policy, but she’d come close a few times.
Detective Odessa opened the door and stuck his head around the frame. “Ms. Millhone?”
“That’s me.”
“Vince Odessa,” he said, and we shook hands. “Come on back.”
I said, “Thanks.” He handed me a visitor’s badge that I clipped to my lapel.
He wore a blue dress shirt, a dark tie, chinos, dark socks, and shiny black shoes. His hair was dark and the back of his head was flat, as though he’d slept on his back for his entire infancy. He was taller than I, probably five foot nine to my five foot six. He held the door, allowing me to pass into the corridor in front of him. I paused and he took the lead. He walked ahead of me and turned left, passing through a door marked INVESTIGATIONS. I followed him through a warren of small offices. Over his shoulder, he said, “Shelly mentioned this was in regard to Dr. Purcell.”
“That’s right. His ex-wife hired me to look into his disappearance.”
Odessa kept his tone neutral. “I had a feeling that was coming. She was in here last week.”
“What’d you make of her?”
“I’ll have to take the Fifth. You on the clock?”
“I haven’t deposited her check. I thought it’d be smart to talk to you first.”
His “office” was tucked into a standard cubicle: shoulder-high gray walls carpeted in a tight synthetic loop. He took a seat at his desk, offering me the only other chair in the compact space. Framed photos of his family were arranged in front of him: wife, three daughters, and a son. A small metal bookcase behind him was neatly lined with department manuals, texts, and assorted law books. He was cleanshaven except for a line of whiskers he’d missed when his razor jumped over the cleft in his chin. His dark brows were fierce over dark blue eyes. “So what can I help you with?”
“I’m not sure. I’d love to hear what you have, if you’re willing to share.”
“I got no problem with that,” he said. He leaned forward, checking through a stack of thick files on one side of his desk. He pulled a three-ring binder from the bottom of the pile and set it in front of him. “Place is a mess. They tell us we’re switching over to computers in the next six, eight months. Paperless office. You believe that stuff?”