“Any agent in particular?”
“No clue. That’s what I’m hoping to find out.”
“Hang on. I have the number somewhere.”
She clunked the receiver on the desk. I could hear her sliding open a drawer and then rustling paper. After a short period, she came back and said, “The parole officer I last dealt with was a guy named Derrick Spanner, but this was three years ago, so who knows if he’s still there. This is his direct line in Los Angeles. Area code 2-1-3 . . .”
She gave me the number and I dutifully made a note. I thanked her, but she was gone before the words were even out of my mouth.
I depressed the plunger and then punched in the number. The line rang three times before an answering machine picked up. The outgoing message confirmed that I’d reached Derrick Spanner, so I identified myself by name, pausing to spell it before I said, “I’m calling from Santa Teresa, trying to contact a parolee named Christian Satterfield. I understand he was released from USP Lompoc a few months ago. I’m not sure who’s overseeing his parole, but Chris is a former neighbor and he left some personal items in my care. I’ve since moved and I’d appreciate your giving him my new number. He can call when he has a chance. Thanks so much.”
I repeated my name and rattled off my office phone, without pausing to think. The minute the number was out of my mouth, I regretted the choice. If the information was passed along to Satterfield, he wouldn’t have the slightest idea who I was, and if he dialed the number I’d given, the first thing he’d hear was me saying “Millhone Investigations.” This was not good. For a fellow just out of prison, the notion of an investigation, private or otherwise, would be worrisome. He’d think I was up to something, which I was.
I hung up, thought a minute, and then crossed to my file cabinets, where I opened a drawer and picked my way through the folders until I found the instruction manual for my answering machine. Once I figured out how to change the outgoing message, I recorded one of those generic responses that covers a multitude of sins.
“The party you’ve reached in the 805 area code is currently unavailable. Please leave your name and number at the sound of the tone and someone will get back to you as soon as possible.”
Once that was done, I thought, Now what?
Hallie Bettancourt hadn’t paid me to sit around waiting for the phone to ring. She hired me to do something else, which was to find her jailbird of a son. Who knew when Derrick Spanner would get around to checking his messages or if he’d actually pass along my name and phone number to Christian Satterfield? Even if Satterfield got the message, I had no confidence he’d call. There had to be another way to get to him.
I opened the bottom desk drawer and pulled out the telephone book—that hoary source of information so easy to overlook. There were twelve listings under “Satterfield” with home addresses that ranged from Santa Teresa proper to Colgate on the north end of town and Montebello to the south. A few were designated with single initials and phone numbers, but no addresses, which was useless for my purposes. I set the matter aside while I went about other business. Tax time was coming up, and I had receipts to sort in preparation for delivery to my accountant.
By the time I reached home that afternoon, it was 5:15 and the light was fading. Now that we were in March, the days were getting longer, but the chill in the air suggested winter wasn’t ready to concede to spring. I found a parking place half a block away and hoofed it to my apartment, pausing to pull the mail out of the box before I let myself through the squeaky gate. I angled right, rounded the side of the studio, and moved into the backyard. Henry’s lawn was brown, and half his shrubbery had died.
There was a wheelbarrow and spade in the grassy area beyond Henry’s flagstone patio, but no sign of him. New to the scene was the recently excavated fifteen-foot half circle that now encompassed two fruit trees at the edge of his dead lawn. He’d mounded the bed with fifty pounds of bark mulch, judging from the empty bags he’d left nearby. I also spotted a hose dangling from his bathroom window, and that stopped me momentarily. What the heck was that about? Probably a water-saving scheme of some sort.
I shrugged to myself and continued to my front door, keys at the ready. As I let myself in, I caught a flash of white out of the corner of my eye. Henry’s cat, Ed, shot out of the bushes and across the yard in time to streak into my apartment ahead of me. He’d invented this game himself, timing his run to catch me unawares. Inevitably, I forgot to check his whereabouts before I opened the door and he’d slip through the gap to victory. Sometimes I didn’t even see him make his move and only discovered him after the fact, when he announced his win. He was a chatty little thing. Once inside, he usually slowed to a stop so he could sniff the shag carpet in case a mouse had left him a scented love note. Neither Henry nor I had been aware of vermin on the property until Ed came to live with us. Now he made regular patrols and left rodent remains on both our doormats as proof of his superior hunting skills.