"So in both of those instances, he behaved much as he did this time?"
"Exactly. The first time, it took hours before I realized he was gone. The man's a doctor and, naturally, he was often delayed. By midnight, I was wild – close to hysterical. I thought I'd go mad."
"You called the police?"
"I called everyone I could think of. Then first thing the next morning, a note arrived in the mail. He said he'd come home eventually, which is exactly what he did. I was furious, of course, but he seemed totally unconcerned. Fool that I am, I forgave him and we went on as before. The marriage was good, or good enough from my perspective. I thought he was happy – until this business with Crystal. For all I know, he'd been fooling around with her for years."
"What made you stay?"
"I thought he was a good husband. That's how innocent I was. He tended to be distant, but I didn't fault him – at least, on a conscious level. I might have harbored resentments, but I wasn't aware of them. Looking back, I realize there are many ways a man can disappear."
"Such as?"
She shrugged, stubbing out her cigarette. "Television, sleep, alcohol, books, uppers, downers. I'm speaking in general terms, but you get my drift."
"And in his case?"
"Dow buried himself in his work. Went in early, stayed at the office until all hours of the night. What you have to understand about him is, he's someone who avoids disagreements. That's why he loves the elderly – because they make no real demands on him. Being a physician gives him status, which has always been better, in his mind, than having to be accountable like any ordinary mortal."
"How long were you married?"
"Close to forty years. We met at Syracuse. I was majoring in art history and he was pre-med. We married shortly after graduation. Dow went on to medical school at Penn State and did his internship and residency out here. By then, we had the girls. I stayed home with them until they were both in school and then I went back and got my master's in interior design. I designed the house we built soon afterward in Horton Ravine. Of course, we hired an architect to handle all the nuts and bolts."
"He still owns that house?"
"Yes, though Crystal doesn't care for it from what I've heard."
"You didn't ask for the house in the settlement?"
"I couldn't afford the mortgage and upkeep. To hear him tell it, he was fleeced. Strictly his point of view. Believe me, he got the better deal. He probably paid someone off – the judge, my lawyer. You know how men stick together when it comes to the almighty buck."
I noticed she was busy shading my perception, scoring points for her team. Divorced folk always seem to angle for your sympathy, casting themselves in the best possible light. It seemed odd, in this case, when the reason for my visit was to see if I could be of help in the search for him. Was she still in love with the man? "It must have been difficult when the marriage broke up," I murmured.
"Humiliating. Devastating. It was such a cliché‚ Doctor goes through a midlife crisis, leaves his middle-aged wife to take up with some whore."
The papers had had a field day with the fact that Crystal had been a stripper. Still, I questioned Fiona's use of the word "whore." Stripping, as a way of earning money, doesn't necessarily translate into hookerdom. For all we knew, Crystal might have earned her master's in psychiatric social work. "How did he meet her?"
"You'd have to ask her that. The truth is, Dow developed an appetite for... mmm... unusual sexual practices. His hormones were off or his anxiety levels began to climb as he aged. Possibly his problems harked back to his mother. Everything else connects to his relationship with her. Whatever the reason, once Dowan turned sixty, he began to falter. He couldn't... let's say... 'perform' without stimulus. Pornography, marital aids..."
"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 Glint 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 spea
k 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."
Chapter 2
* * *
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.
1. I didn't particularly like – or trust – Fiona. She hadn't been candid with the cops and I didn't think she was being entirely candid with me. Under the circumstances, I probably should have declined to take the job. Already I was regretting the haste with which I'd agreed.
2. I wasn't sure I could be effective. I'm often uneasy at the outset of an investigation, especially one like this. Nine weeks had passed since Dr. Purcell was last seen. Whatever the circumstances surrounding a disappearance, the passage of time seldom works in your favor. Witnesses embellish. They invent. The memory grows foggy. The truth tends to blur with repetition, and details are altered to suit various personal interpretations. People want to be helpful, which means they embroider their stories, coloring events according to their biases as the situation drags on. Entering the game this late, I knew the likelihood of my making any critical discovery was almost out of the question. Fiona did have a point in that sometimes a fresh perspective can shift the focus of an investigation. All well and good, but intuition was telling me that any break in the case was going to be the result of serendipity, a term synonymous with unadulterated dumb luck.
3. I didn't like the bullshit about the retainer.
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 s
econd 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.