At 9:00 the next morning, I roused myself just long enough to call Ida Ruth, telling her I'd be in shortly in case anyone was looking for me. As I pulled the covers up, I checked the Plexiglas skylight above my bed. Clear, sunny skies, probably sixty-five degrees outside. To hell with the run. I awarded myself ten more minutes of rest. I next woke at 12:37, feeling as hungover as if I'd drunk myself insensible the night before. The tricky factor with sleep is that aside from the number of hours you put in, the body seems to hold you accountable for their position. Snoozing from four a.m. to eleven a.m. doesn't necessarily equate with the same number of hours logged between eleven p.m. and six. I had sketched in a full seven, but my regular metabolic rhythms were now decidedly off and required additional down time to correct themselves.
I called Ida Ruth again and was relieved to discover she was out at lunch. I left a message, indicating I'd been delayed by a meeting with a client. Don't ask why I fib to a woman who doesn't even cut my paycheck. Sometimes I lie just to keep my skills up. I staggered out of bed and into the bathroom, where I brushed my teeth. I felt as if I'd been anesthetized, and I was sure that none of my extremities would function. I propped myself against the wall in the shower, hoping the hydrotherapy would mend my skewed circuits. Once dressed, I found myself eating breakfast at one in the afternoon, wondering if I'd ever get myself back on track again. I put on a pot of coffee and dosed myself with caffeine while I made some phone calls to San Francisco.
I didn't get very far. Instead of Joseph Ayers, I got an answering machine that may or may not have been his. It was one of those carefully worded messages that bypasses confirmation of the party's name or the number called. A mechanical male voice said, "Sorry I wasn't here to take your call, but if you'll leave your name, number, and a brief message, I'll get back to you."
I left my name and office number and then left messages on answering machines for both R. Turpins. One voice was female, the other male. To both Turpins I chattered happily, "I'm not sure if this is the right Turpin or not. I'm looking for Russell. I'm a friend of Lorna Kepler's. She suggested I call if I was ever in San Francisco, and since I'm going to be up there in the next couple of days, I thought I'd say hi. Give me a call when you get this message. I'd love to meet you. She spoke so highly of you. Thanks." Through San Francisco information, I checked out the names of other members of the crew, working my way patiently down the list. Most were disconnects.
As long as I was home, I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a fresh pack of index cards, transcribing the information I'd picked up on the case to date-about four cards' worth. Over the last several years I've developed the habit of using index cards to record the facts uncovered in the course of an investigation. I pin the cards on the bulletin board that hangs above my desk, and in idle moments I arrange and rearrange the data according to no known plan. At some point I realized how different a detail can look when it's seen out of context. Like the pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, the shape of reality seems to shift according to circumstance. What seems strange or unusual can make perfect sense when it's placed in the proper setting. By the same token, what seems unremarkable can suddenly yield up precious secrets when placed against a different backdrop. The system, I confess, usually nets me absolutely nothing, but a payoff comes along just often enough to warrant continuing. Besides, it's restful, it keeps me organized, and it's a visual reminder of the job at hand.
I pinned Lorna's photograph on the board beside the cards. She looked back at me levelly with calm, hazel eyes and that enigmatic smile. Her dark hair was pulled smoothly away from her face. Slim and elegant, she leaned against the wall with her hands in her pockets. I studied her as if she might reveal what she had learned in the last minutes of her life. With the silence of a cat, she returned my gaze. Time to get in touch with Lorna's day self, I thought.
I drove along the two-lane asphalt road, past the low, rolling fields of dry grass, drab green overlaid with gold. Here and there, the live oaks appeared in dark green clumps. The day was darkly overcast, the sky a strange blend of charcoal and sulfur yellow clouds. The swell of mountains in the distance were a hazy blue, sandstone escarpments visible across the face. This section of Santa Teresa County is basically desert, the soil better suited for chaparral and sage scrub than productive crops. The early settlers in the area planted all the trees. The once sear land has now been softened and civilized, but there is still the aura of harsh sunlight on newly cultivated ground. Take away the irrigation systems, the drip hoses, and the sprinklers, and the vegetation would revert to its natural state- ceanothus, coyote brush, manzanita, and rolling grasses that in dry years yield a harvest of flames. If current predictions were correct and we were entering another drought, all the foliage would turn to tinder and the land would be cleared beneath a plow of fire.
Up ahead, on the left, was the Santa Teresa Water Treatment Plant, erected in the 1960s: red tile roof, three white stucco arches, and a few small trees. Beyond the low lines of the building, I caught sight of the maze of railings that surrounded concrete basins. To my right, a sign indicated the presence of the Largo reservoir, though the body of water wasn't visible from the road.
I parked out in front and went up the concrete stairs and through the double glass doors. The reception desk sat to the left of the front entrance, which opened into a big room that apparently doubled as class space. The clerk at the desk must have been Lorna's replacement. She looked young and capable, without a hint of Lorna's beauty. The brass plate on her desk indicated that her name was Melinda Ortiz.
I gave her my business card by way of introduction. "Could I have a few minutes with the plant supervisor?"
"That's his truck behind you. He just arrived."
I turned in time to see a county truck turn into the driveway. Roger Bonney emerged and headed in our direction with the preoccupied air of someone on his way to a meeting, focus already leapfrogging to the encounter to come.
"Can I tell him what this is in regards to?"
I looked back at her. "Lorna Kepler."
"Oh, her. That was awful."
"Did you know her?"
She shook her head. "I've heard people talk about her, but I never met her myself. I've only been here two months. She had this job before the girl I replaced. There might have been one more in between. Mr. Bonney had to go through quite a few after her."
"You're part-time?"
"Afternoons. I got little kids at home, so this is perfect for me. My husband works nights, so he can keep ' em while I'm gone."
Bonney entered the reception area, manila envelope in hand. He had a broad face, very tanned, tousled curly hair that had probably turned gray when he was twenty-five. The combination of lines and creases in his face had an appealing effect. He might have been too handsome in his youth, the kind of man whose looks make me surly and unresponsive. My second husband was beautiful, and that relationship had come to a demoralizing end… at least from my perspective. Daniel seemed to think everything was just swell, thanks. I was inclined now to disconnect from certain male types. I like a face marked by the softening processes of maturity. A few sags and bugs are reassuring somehow. Bonney caught sight of me and paused politely at Melinda's desk lest he interrupt our conversation.
She showed him my card. "She asked to talk to you. It's about Lorna Kepler."
His gaze leapt to mine. The brown eyes were unexpected. With silver-gray hair and his fair coloring, I'd imagined blue.
"I'll be happy to make an appointment for later if this is not convenient," I said.
He looked at his watch. "I have the annual state health services inspection in about fifteen minutes, but you're welcome to come with me while I walk the plant. Shouldn't take long. I like to satisfy myself everything's in order before they come."
"That'd be great."
I followed him down a short corridor to the left, pausing while he stopped in his office and dropped the envelope on his desk. He wore a pale blue dress shirt, collar unbuttoned, tie askew, stone-washed blue jeans, and heavy work boots. With a hard hat and clipboard, you could place him at a construction site and mistake him for an engineer. He was a little under six feet tall, and he'd picked up the substantial look of a man in his mid-fifties. He wasn't fat by any means, but he was broad across the shoulders and heavy through the chest. My guess was that he controlled his weight now with constant exercise, probably tennis and golf, with an occasional fierce game of racquetball. He didn't have the lean muscle mass of a long-distance runner, and he somehow struck me as the sort who'd prefer competition while he kept himself in shape. I pictured him playing high school football, which in ten more years would inspire his joints to disintegrate.
I followed on his heels as we started off again. "I appreciate your talking to me on such short notice."
"It's no problem," he said. "Ever had a tour of the water treatment plant?"
"I never even knew it was here."
"We like to educate the public."
"In case the rates go up again, I'll bet."
He smiled good-naturedly as we pushed through a heavy door. "You want the spiel or not?"
"Absolutely."
"I was sure you would," he said. "Water from the reservoir across the road comes through the intake structure, passing under the floor of the reception area. You might have been aware of it if you'd known what to listen for. Fish screens and trash racks minimize the entry of foreign material. Water comes down through here. Big channel runs under this part of the building. We're about to shut down for a maintenance inspection in the next few days."
In the area we passed, a series of gauges and meters tracked the progress of the water, which was pouring through the facility with a low-level hum. The floors were concrete, and the pipes, in a tangled grid across the wall, were painted pink, dark green, brown, and blue, with arrows pointing in four directions. A floor panel had been removed, and Bonney pointed downward without a word. I peered into the hole. Down about four feet, I could see black water moving blindly through the channel like a mole. The hair along my arms seemed to crawl in response. There was no way to tell just how deep it was or what might be undulating in its depths. I stepped away from the hole, picturing a long suckered tentacle whipping out to grab my foot and drag me in. I'm nothing if not suggestible. A door closed behind us with a hollow clank, and I was forced to suppress a shriek. Bonney didn't seem to notice.
"When did you last talk to Lorna?" I asked.
"Friday morning, April twentieth," he said. "I remember because I had a golf tournament that weekend, and I was hoping to leave work early and get out to the driving range. She was due in at one, but she phoned and said she was suffering a real bad allergy attack. She was trying to get out of town anyway, you know, to find some relief from the pollen count, so I told her to go ahead and take the day off. There wasn't any point having her come in if she was feeling punk. According to the police, she died the next day."
"So she was supposed to be back at work May seventh?"
"I'd have to check the date. It would have been two weeks from Monday, and they'd found her by then." He reverted back to tour guide mode, talking about construction costs as we entered the next section of the plant. The low hum of rushing water and the smell of chlorine created an altered awareness. The general air of the place was of backwash valves and pressurized tanks on the verge of exploding. It looked as though one good jolt from the San Andreas fault and the whole facility would collapse, spewing forth billions of gallons of water and debris, which would kill both of us in seconds. I edged up closer to him, feigning an interest I didn't quite feel.
When I tuned in again, he was saying, "The water is prechlorinated to kill disease-causing organisms. Then we add coagulants, which cause the fine particles to clump together. Polymers are generally added in the coagulation process to improve the formation of insoluble floes that can then be filtered out. We have a lab in the back so we can monitor the water quality."
Oh, great. Now I had to worry about disease-causing organisms on the loose in the lab. Drinking water used to be such a simple matter for me. Get a glass, turn the tap on, fill water to the brim, and gulp it down until you burped. I never thought about insoluble floc or coagulants. Barf.
Simultaneous with his explanation of the plant operation, which he must have done a hundred times in the past, I could see him scrutinize every inch of the place in preparation for the upcoming inspection. We clattered down a short flight of concrete steps and through a door to the outside. The day seemed curiously bright after the artificial light inside, and the damp air was perfumed with chemicals. Long walkways ran between blocks of open basins surrounded by metal railings, where still water sat as calm as glass, reflecting gray sky and the underside of the concrete grids.
"These are the flocculation and coagulation basins. The water's kept circulating to create a floc of good size and density for later removal in the sedimentation basins."
I was saying "Mmm"- and "Uhn-hun" -type things.
He talked on, taking the whole process for granted. What I was looking at (trying not to register my profound distaste) were still troughs where water sat with a viscous-looking liquid on its surface, bubble-coated and inky. The sludge was as black as licorice and looked as if it were made up of melted tires just coming to the boil. Perversely, I pictured a plunge into the tarry depths, wondering if you'd flail to the surface with your flesh in tatters from all the chemicals. Steven Spielberg could have a ball with this stuff.
"You're not with the police department?" he asked. He hadn't stopped walking once.
"I was, once upon a time. Temperamentally, I'm better suited to the private sector."
I was trotting at his heels like a kid on a field trip, irretrievably separated from the rest of the class. Out the backside of the plant, there was a wide, shallow reservoir of cracked black sediment, like a thawing pond of crud. Thousands of years from now, anthropologists would dig this up and imagine it was some kind of sacrificial basin.
He asked, "Are you allowed to say who you're working for? Or is that privileged information?"
"Lorna's parents," I said. "Sometimes I prefer not to give out the information, but in this case it's a straightforward matter. No big secret. I had this same conversation with Serena last night."
"My soon-to-be ex? Well, that's an interesting point of departure. Why her? Because she found the body?"
"That's right. I couldn't get to sleep. I knew she worked the night shift at St. Terry's, so I thought I might as well talk to her first. If I'd thought you were up, I'd have knocked on your door as well."
"Enterprising," he remarked.
"I'm getting paid fifty bucks an hour for this. Makes sense to work every chance I get."
"How's it going so far?"
"Right now, I'm at the information-gathering phase, trying to get a feel for what I'm dealing with. I understand Lorna worked for you for what, three years?"
"About that. Originally the job was full-time, but with the budget cuts, we decided we'd try getting by with twenty hours a week. So far it's been fine, not ideal, but doable. Lorna was taking classes over at City College, and the part-time employment really suited her schedule."
By now we'd circled back through the plant on some subterranean level. The entire underground space was dominated by massive pipes. We went up a long flight of stairs and suddenly emerged into a well-lighted corridor not that far from his office. He showed me in and indicated a chair. "Have a seat."
"You have time?"
"Let's cover what we can, and what we don't have time for, we can try another day." He leaned over and pressed the button on his intercom. "Melinda, buzz me if I'm not out there when the inspectors arrive."
I heard a muffled, "Yes, sir."
"Sorry for the interruption. Go ahead," he said.
"No problem. Was Lorna good at the job?"
"I had no complaints. The work itself didn't amount to much. She was largely a receptionist."
"Did you know much about her personal life?"
"Yes and no. Actually, in a facility like ours, where you have less than twenty employees on any given shift, we get to know each other pretty well. We're in operation twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, so this is family to me. I have to say Lorna was a little bit standoffish. She wasn't rude or cold, but she was definitely reserved. Break time, she always seemed to have her nose in a book. Brought a sack lunch, sometimes sat out in her car to eat. She didn't volunteer a lot of information. She'd answer if you asked, but she wasn't forthcoming."
"People have described her as secretive."
He made a face at the term. "I wouldn't say that 'Secretive' has a sinister implication to my way of thinking. She was pleasant, but somewhat aloof. The term restrained might be apt."
"How would you describe your relationship with her?"
"My relationship?"
"Yes, I'm wondering if you ever saw her outside of work."
His laugh seemed embarrassed. "If you mean what I think, I have to say I'm flattered, but she was strictly an employee. She was a good-looking girl, but she was what… twenty-four years old?"
"Twenty-five."
"And I'm twice that. Believe me, Lorna had no interest in a man my age."
"Why not? You're nice-looking, and you seem personable."
"I appreciate your vote, but it doesn't mean much to a girl in her position. She was probably looking for marriage and a family, last thing in the world I have any interest in. In her eyes, I'd have been a slightly overweight old turd. Besides, the women I date, I like to have shared interests and intelligent conversation. Lorna was bright, but she never even heard of the Tet offensive, and the only Kennedys she knew about were Caroline and John-John."
"Just a possibility," I remarked. "I broached the same subject with Serena, wondering if Lorna was in any way associated with your divorce."
"Not at all. My marriage to Serena simply ran out of juice. Sometimes I think dissension would have been an improvement. Conflict has some spark to it. What we had was flat."
"Serena says you wanted the divorce."
"Well, that's true," he said, "but I've bent over backward to keep things friendly. It's like I said to my attorney: I feel guilty enough as it is, so let's not make matters worse. I love Serena. She's a hell of a nice gal, and I think the world of her. I'm just not ready to live without passion. I'd have to hope she represented the situation much in the same light."
"Actually, she did," I said, "but I thought it was worth exploring in the context of Lorna's death."
"I understand. Of course, I was sorry as hell when I found out what happened to her. She was honest, she was prompt, and as far as I know, she got along with everyone." I saw him ease a look at his watch under the pretext of adjusting the band.
I stirred on my chair. "I better let you go," I said. "I can see you're distracted."
"I guess I am, now that you mention it. I hope you don't think I'm rude."
"Not at all. I appreciate your time. I have to be out of town in the next couple of days, but I may get back to you, if that's okay."
"Of course. I'm sometimes hard to reach, but you can check with Melinda. We'll be closing down for maintenance and repairs on Saturday, so I'll be here if you need me then."
"I'll keep that in mind. In the meantime, if you think of anything pertinent, could you give me a call?"
"Certainly," he said.
I left another business card. We shook hands across the desk, and then he walked me out. Two inspectors were waiting by Melinda's desk. The guy wore a dress shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. I noticed the woman inspector was dressed a lot better. Roger greeted them pleasantly, giving me a quick wave as he ushered them down the hall.
I drove to my office. It was midafternoon and faint rays of winter sun were pushing through the overcast. The sky was white, the grass a vivid shade of lime green. February comes to Santa Teresa in a tumble of hot pink geraniums, magenta bougainvillea, and orange nasturtiums. I was accustomed to functioning in the dark by now, and the light seemed harsh, the colors too glaring. Night seemed softer, like a liquid that surrounded everything, cool and soothing. At night, all the foliage was blended by shadow, fused and simplified, where daylight divided, setting objects in sharp contrast, at war with one another.
I let myself in the side entrance and then sat at my desk, shifting papers around, trying to behave as if I had some purpose. I was too tired to socialize and the lack of sleep was re-creating the sensation of being stoned. I felt as if I'd been smoking dope for the last two days. All my energy had seeped away, like sawdust leaking out through a hole in my shoe. At the same time, the infusion of coffee was causing a crackling sound in the center of my brain, like an antenna picking up radio signals from outer space. Any minute now Venusians would send warnings of the forthcoming invasion, and I'd be too out of it to call the police. I laid my head down on my desk and sank into unconsciousness.
An hour and five minutes into the nap to end all naps, the telephone rang. The sound cut through me like a chain saw. I jumped as if goosed. I snatched up the receiver and identified myself, trying to sound as though I were wide awake.
"Miss Millhone? This is Joe Ayers. What can I do for you?"
I couldn't think who the hell he was. "Mr. Ayers, I appreciate the call," I said enthusiastically. "Hang on one second." I put my hand across the mouthpiece. Joe Ayers. Joseph Ayers. Ah. The pornographic film producer. I shifted the phone to the other ear so I could make notes as we chatted. "I understand you were the producer of an art movie in which Lorna Kepler appeared."
"That's correct."
"Can you tell me about her involvement in the project?"
"I'm not sure what you're asking."
"I guess I'm not, either. Someone sent a video to her mother, and she asked me what I could find out. I noticed your name listed as the producer-"
Ayers cut in brusquely. "Miss Millhone, you're going to have to fill me in here. We have nothing to discuss. Lorna Kepler was murdered six months ago."
"It was actually ten months. I'm aware of that. Her parents are hoping to develop additional information." I was sounding pompous even to my own ears, but his irritation was irritating.
"Well, you're not going to develop anything from me," he said. "I wish I could help, but my contact with Lorna was extremely limited. Sorry I can't help you."
I checked my notes in haste, trying to talk fast enough to snag his interest. "What about the other two actors who were in the film with her, Nancy Dobbs and Russell Turpin?"
I could hear him shift with annoyance. "What about them?"
"I'd like to talk to them."
Silence. "I can probably tell you how to get to him," he said finally.
"You have a current address and telephone number?"
"I should have it somewhere." I heard him snapping through the pages of what I guessed was his address book. I tucked the phone in the crook of my neck and uncapped my pen.
"Here we go," he said.
He rattled out the information, which I made a note of. The Haight Street address corresponded with the one I'd picked up from directory assistance. I said, "This is terrific. I appreciate this. What about Miss Dobbs?"
"Can't help you there."
"Look, can you tell me what your schedule is for the next couple of days?"
"What does my schedule have to do with it?"
"I was hoping we could meet."
Through the phone, I could hear his brain cells whirring as he processed the request. "I really don't see the point. I hardly knew Lorna. I might have been in her company four days at best."
"Can you remember when you last saw her?"
"No. I know I never saw her after the shoot, and that'd be a year ago December. That was the one and only time we ever did business together. Matter of fact, that film was never even put in release, so I had no reason to contact her afterward."
"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.