P is for Peril

"So what do you think of the place?" Richard said, turning to me. "You want to fill out an application?" His accent and his manner of speaking were much less "Texas" than Tommy's. Consequently, he seemed older and more businesslike.

"Sure, I could do that," I said, trying not to sound like I was sucking up.

He passed me the clipboard and a pen. "We pay water and trash. You pay your own electric and phone. Heating's prorated and it varies, depending on the season. There's only one other tenant and he's a CPA."

"I can't believe the space hasn't been snapped up."

"Ad just went in. We've already had a lot of calls. Three, right after yours. I'm meeting another guy tonight."

I could feel anxiety begin to mount. I leaned on a windowsill and began to fill in the information. Applications are tedious, requiring tidbits of information that are actually nobody's business. I filled in my Social Security number and my California driver's license number, circled DIVORCED in the section that asked if I were single, married, or divorced. Previous addresses, how long, and reasons for leaving. Personal references I listed, along with the bank where I had my checking account. I made a few things up. I drew a dotted line where it asked for credit card numbers and the balance on those accounts. By the time I finished, Tommy had left. I heard his truck in the driveway and then it was gone. I handed Richard the clipboard, watching while he scanned the information.

"If you want a deposit, I can give you one tonight."

"No need. I'll call your references and run a credit check. We have a couple more people coming by on Monday."

"Do you have any idea how soon you'll be making a decision?"

"Middle of the week. Make sure we have a way to reach you in case I have a question."

I pointed to the application. "That's my home phone and my work phone. I've got a message machine on both."

"This your current business address?"

"That's right. I'm renting space from an attorney named Lonnie Kingman. He and my landlord will both tell you I pay on time."

"Sounds good. Something comes up, I'll call. Otherwise, I'll be in touch once I've processed all the applications."

"Fine. That sounds great. If you like, I can pay the first six months in advance." I was starting to sound ridiculous, fawning and insecure.

Richard said, "Really." He studied me, his eyes a dark, brooding brown. "Fifteen hundred dollars, plus the additional one seventy-five for the cleaning deposit," he said, making sure I knew the full extent of my folly.

I thought about Fiona's check for fifteen hundred bucks. "Sure, no problem. I could give you that right now."

"I'll take that into consideration," he said.

Chapter 6

Saturday, I opened my eyes automatically at 5:59 A.M. I stared up at the skylight, which was beaded with rain, the entire Plexiglas dome scattered with tiny pearls of light. The breeze coming in the bedroom window smelled of leaf mold, wet sidewalks, and the dripping eucalyptus trees that lined the street beyond. Actually, the scent of eucalyptus is almost indistinguishable from the odor of cat spray, but I didn't want to think about that. I bunched the pillow under my head, secure in the knowledge that I didn't have to crawl out of bed for my run. As dutiful as I am about exercise, there's still nothing more delicious than the opportunity to sleep in. I burrowed under the covers, ignoring the world until 8:30, when I finally came up for air.

Once I'd showered and dressed, I made myself a pot of coffee and owned a bowl of cereal while I read the morning paper. I changed my sheets, started a load of laundry, and generally picked up around the place. When I was a child, my aunt Gin insisted I clean my room on Saturdays before I went out to play. Since we lived in a trailer, the task didn't amount to much, but the habit remains. I dusted, vacuumed, scrubbed toilet bowls-mindless activities that left me free to ruminate. I alternated fantasies, mentally rearranging furniture in my new office space and thinking about who to query next in my search for Purcell. With Fiona's fifteen-hundred-dollar retainer now safely in my account, I felt obligated to work through the weekend. I resisted the temptation to theorize after only one day's work, but if I'd been forced to place bets, I would have plunked down my money on the notion that Purcell was dead. From what I'd learned of him, I couldn't see him taking off without a word to his wife and small son. That didn't explain the missing passport and the missing thirty grand, but both might surface in due course. At this point, there was no reason to believe they were germane.