“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“I thought he gave you the little black book where he kept his field notes.”
“Well, he didn’t.”
“Barrett, tell the truth. Please, please, please? Pretty please with sugar on it? Trust me, I won’t say a word to anyone about your having it.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
I shook my head. “I hate to contradict you, but Tom always kept it with him and yet nobody’s seen it since he died.”
“So?”
“So everybody’s been assuming he was by himself that night. Now it turns out you were in his truck.
Where else could it be? He was anxious to protect the notebook so he must have given it to you. That’s the only way it adds up. If you can think of another explanation, I’d love to hear it.”
The silence was exquisite. I let it drag on a bit without breathing another word.
“I went for help.”
“I’m sure you did,” I said. “The CHP officer saw you on the road. What about the notebook?”
Barrett looked out the window. “You don’t have any proof,” she said, faintly.
“Well, yeah, I know. I mean, except for the fact that Cecilia saw you on the motel porch that night,” I said. “She says your dad came and picked you up, which is what you said yourself. You just fudged a tiny bit about the sequence of events. I can’t prove you have the notebook, but it stands to reason.”
Nancy poked her head out of the Rainbow’s back door. Barrett opened the door and leaned out, calling, “I’ll be right there!” Nancy nodded and waved.
“So where’s the notebook?”
“In my purse,” she said, glumly.
“Could you give it to me?”
“What’s so important about the notes?”
“He was investigating two murders so I’m assuming his notes are somehow relevant. Did you read them yourself?”
“Well, yeah, but it’s just a bunch of interviews and stuff. Lots of dates and abbreviations. It’s no big deal.”
“Then why does it matter if you pass it on to me?”
“He told me to hide it ’til he could decide what to do with it.”
“He didn’t know he would die.”
“What a bummer,” she said.
“Look, if you’ll give it to me now, I’ll make a copy first thing tomorrow and give it back to you.”
After an agonizing moment, she said, “All right.”
She got out of the car on her side and I got out on mine, locking the doors quickly before I followed her in. She kept her handbag in the storage room to the left of the kitchen door. Barrett took the notebook out of her bag and passed it to me. She seemed irritated that I’d managed to outmaneuver her somehow. “The other thing he said was the key’s on his desk,” she said.
“The key’s in his desk?”
“That’s what he told me. He said it twice.”
“In or on?”
“On, I think. I have to go.”
“Thanks. You’re a doll.” I put my finger to my lips. “Top secret. Not a word to anyone.”
“Shit. Then why did I tell you?”
Nancy stuck her head in the kitchen door. “Oh, Kinsey. You’re here. Brant’s on the phone,” she said.
I went out into the cafe proper, which was virtually deserted. The receiver was face down on the counter by the register. “Brant, is that you?”
He said, “Hi, Kinsey.”
“Where are you? How’d you know I was here?”
“I’m at Mom’s. I drove past the Rainbow a while ago and saw your car parked out back. I just wanted to check and make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine. Is your mother home yet?”
“She won’t get back ’til close to nine,” he said. “You need something?”
“Not really. If you have a way to call her, would you let her know I got it?”
“Got what?”
I curled my fingers around the mouthpiece, feeling like a character in a spy movie. “The notebook.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“I’ll explain later. I’ll be home in a few minutes. Can you wait?”
“Not really. I just stopped by for some stuff I’ll be taking to Sherry’s later.”
“You work weekends?”
“Not usually,” he said. “I’m filling in for someone and hoping to run some errands first. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Right. I’ll see you then,” I said.
I let myself into Selma’s house and headed out to the kitchen. The house was dim, silent, insufferably warm. Everything was much as I’d left it, except for a plastic wrapped plate of brownies with chocolate frosting sitting on the counter with a note attached: HELP YOURSELF. The condensation on the wrap suggested it had been refrigerated or frozen until recently. Brant must have assumed the note was meant for him because a plate and fork, showing telltale traces of chocolate, were sitting on the table at the place he occupied. I was sorry I’d missed him. We could have put our heads together.
I went into Tom’s study and sat down in his swivel chair. I turned on his desk light and started going through the notebook. The cover was a pebbly black leather, soft with wear, the corners bent. I took the obvious route, starting at the first page-dated June 1-and working through to the last, which was dated February 1, two days before he died. Here, at last, were the ten months’ worth of missing notes. The scribbles, on thin-lined paper, covered all the miscellaneous cases he’d been working on during that period. Each was identified by a case number in the margin to the left, and included complaints, crime-scene investigations, names, addresses, and phone numbers of witnesses. In a series of nearly indecipherable abbreviations, I could trace the course of successive interviews on any given matter; Tom’s notes to himself, his case references, the comments and questions that cropped up as he proceeded. There, in something close to hieroglyphics, I read about the discovery of Pinkie’s body, the findings of the coroner, Trey Kirchner . . . whom Tom referred to as III. Any recurring name Tom generally reduced to its first letter. I found references to R and B, which I assumed were Rafer and Tom’s boss, Sheriff Bob Staffer. By copious squints and leaps of imagination, I could see that he’d worked backward from Pinkie’s death to his incarceration in Chino and his friendship with Alfie Toth, a fact confirmed by MB, Margaret Brine at NLSD, Nota Lake Sheriff’s Department. CS I took to refer to Colleen Sellers, sometimes referred to as C, who’d called to report Alfie Toth’s jail time in ST. I found the summary of his trip to Santa Teresa in June, including dates, times, mileage, and expenditures for food and lodging. As I’d learned earlier, he’d talked to Dave Estes at the Gramercy on 6-5. Later, he’d talked to Olga Toth, her address and phone number neatly noted. By the time CS called again to report the discovery of Toth’s remains, Tom’s notes had become cursory. Where previously he’d been meticulous about detailing the contents of conversations, he was suddenly circumspect, reverting I suspected to a code of some kind. The last page of notes contained only some numbers-8, 12, 1, 11, and 26 writ large, and underlined with an exclamation point and question mark. Even the punctuation suggested a disbelief most emphatic. I sat and stared at the numbers until they danced on the page.
I got up and went to the kitchen, where I paced the floor. I poured myself some water from the tap and I drank it, making the most satisfactory gulping sounds. I put the glass in the dishwasher and then in a fit of tidiness, added Brant’s fork and his plate. I let my brain off the hook, tending to idle occupations while I picked at the riddle. What the hell did the numbers 8, 12, 1, 11, and 26 signify? A date? The combination to a safe? I thought about Tom’s telling Barrett about the “key” in or on his desk. I’d been working at his desk for a week and hadn’t seen any key that I remembered. What kind of key? The key to what? It’s not as though his notebook had a tiny lock like a teenager’s diary.
I went back to the den and sat down at his desk, immediately searching through his drawers again. Maybe he had a lock box. Maybe he had a home safe. Maybe he had a storage cupboard secured by a small combination lock. How many bags full of garbage had I thrown out this past week? How could I be sure I hadn’t tossed the key he was referring to? I felt a wave of panic at the idea that I’d thrown out something crucial to his purposes and critical to mine.
One by one, I emptied the contents of each drawer, then removed the drawer itself, checking the back panel and the bottom. I got down on my hands and knees and peered at the underside of the desk, feeling along the sides in case a key had been taped in place. In the drawer with his handcuffs and nightstick, I came across his flashlight and used that as I felt along the drawer rails, tilted his swivel chair back to check the underside of the seat. Did he mean the key, as “a thing that explains or solves something else,” or a literal key, as an instrument or device to open a lock? I put the drawers back together and moved everything off the top. I ran a finger across his blotter, looking for a repetition of the numbers among the notes he’d scribbled. The numbers were there 8, 12, 1, 11, 26-appearing in the center of a noose. They were written twice more, once with a pen line encircling it and once in a box with a shaded border done in pencil. What if I’d discarded the critical information? Had the trash been picked up? I was working hard to suppress the nagging worry I felt. I was in a white-hot sweat. The house, as usual, felt like an oven. I crossed to the window and lifted the sash. I loosened the catches on the storm window and pushed the glass out unceremoniously, watching with satisfaction as the window dropped to the ground below. I swallowed mouthfuls of fresh air, hoping to quell my anxiety.