K is for Killer

"Why wasn't the film released?"

"I don't think that's any of your concern."

"What is it, some kind of secret?"

"It's not secret. It's just none of your business."

"That's too bad. I was hoping you could give us some help."

"Miss Millhone, I don't even really know who you are. You call me up, leave a message on my machine with an area code I don't even recognize. You could be anyone. Why the hell should I help you?"

"Right. You're right. You don't know me from Adam, and there's no way I can compel you to give me information. I'm down in Santa Teresa, an hour away by plane. I don't want anything in particular from you, Mr. Ayers. I'm just doing what I can to try to figure out what happened to Lorna, and I'd appreciate some background. I can't force you to cooperate."

"It's not a question of cooperation. I have nothing to contribute. Truly."

"I probably wouldn't even take an hour of your time."

I could hear him breathing while he took this in. I half expected him to hang up. Instead his tone became wary. "You're not trying to break into the business, are you?"

"The business?" I thought he was referring to the private eye trade.

"Because if you're some kind of bullshit actress, you're wasting your time. I don't care how big your tits are."

"I assure you I'm not. This is strictly legitimate. You can verify my credentials with the Santa Teresa police."

"You couldn't have caught me at a worse time. I just flew back from six weeks in Europe. My wife's having some kind of goddamn shindig I'm supposed to attend tonight. She's shelling out a fortune, and I don't know half the people she's invited. I'm dead on my feet as it is."

"What about tomorrow?"

"That's even worse. I've got business to take care of."

"Tonight then? I can probably be there in a couple of hours."

He was silent, but his annoyance was palpable. "Oh, shit. All right. What the hell," he said. "If you actually fly up, you can give me a call. If I feel up to it, I'll see you. If not, too bad. That's the best I can do, and I'll probably regret it."

"That's great. That's fine. Can I reach you at this same number?"

He sighed, probably counting to ten. I'd irritated him so desperately, we were almost friends. "Here's the number at the house. I might as well give you the address while I'm at it. You sound like you can be very obnoxious if you don't get what you want."

"I'm terrible," I said.

He gave me his home address.

"I'm going to bed," he said. I heard the phone banged down.

I put a call through to my travel agent, Lupe, and asked for reservations on the next flight out. As it happened, everything was booked until nine o'clock. She put me on standby status and told me to get on out to the airport. I went back to my place and flung a few items in a duffel bag. At the last minute, I remembered I hadn't told Ida Ruth where I'd be. I called her at home.

Here's what she said when she heard I was flying to San Francisco: "Well, I hope you're wearing something better than jeans and a turtleneck."

"Ida Ruth, I'm insulted. This is business," I said.

"Uhn-hun. Look down and describe what you have on. On second thought, don't bother. I'm sure you look stunning. You want to give me a number where you can be reached?"

"I don't know where I'll be staying. I'll call when I get there and let you know."

"Leave it on the office machine. I'll be in bed by the time you get to San Francisco," she said. "You be careful."

"Yes, ma'am. I promise."

"Take some vitamins."

"I will. See you when I get back," I said.

I tidied my apartment in case the plane went down, taking out the trash as a parting gesture to the gods. As we all know, the day I neglect this important ritual, the plane will auger in and everyone will think what a slob I was. Besides, I like order on the premises. Coming home from a trip, I like to be greeted with serenity, not sloppiness.

10

When I got to the airport, I left the VW in long-term parking and hiked back to the terminal. Like most public buildings in Santa Teresa, the airport is vaguely Spanish in appearance: one and a half stories of white stucco with a red tile roof, arches, and a curving stairway up the side. Inside the terminal, there are only five departure gates, with a tiny newsstand on the first floor and a modest coffee shop on the second. At the United counter, I picked up my ticket and gave my name to the agent in case a seat opened up on an earlier plane. No such luck. I found a seat nearby, propped my head on my fist, and snoozed like a vagrant until my flight was called. In the time I waited, I could have driven to San Francisco. The plane was a little putt-putt with fifteen seats, ten of which were occupied. I turned my attention to the glossy airline magazine tucked in the seat pouch in front of me. This was my complimentary copy-it said so right on the front-the term complimentary meaning way too boring to spend real money on. While the engines were being revved up with all the high whine of racing mopeds, the flight attendant recited last rites. We couldn't hear a word she was saying, but the way her mouth was moving we got the general idea.