A is for Alibi

to incite my curiosity about what might have been tucked away there. My mind veered off that and I thought about Lieutenant Dolan with a faint smile. He was so sure Nikki had killed her husband, so satisfied with that. I'd have to put a call through to him when I got back. I thought about Lyle again. I didn't intend to see him that night. He wasn't as smart as Gwen, but he might be dangerous. If it was him. I didn't think I should jump to conclusions again.
    I checked into the Hacienda at 11:05, went straight to room #2, and put myself to bed. Arlette's mother was on the desk. She is twice as fat.
    In the morning, I showered and got back into the same clothes, staggering out to the car to retrieve the overnight case I kept in the crowded backseat. I went back to my room and brushed my teeth – oh blessed relief – and ran a comb through my hair. I went down to a delicatessen on the comer of Wilshire and Bundy, where I ordered scrambled eggs, sausage links, a toasted bagel with cream cheese, coffee, and fresh orange juice. Whoever invented breakfast really did it good.
    I walked back up to the Hacienda to find Arlette waving a massive arm out the office door for me. Her round face was flushed, her little cap of blonde curls in a flyaway state, her eyes squeezed almost to invisibility by the heavy cheeks. I wondered when she'd last seen her own neck. Still, I liked her, irksome as she was at times.
    "There's someone on the phone for you and she sounds real upset. I told her you were out but I said I'd flag you down. Thank goodness you're back," she said to me, out of breath and wheezing hard.
    I hadn't seen Arlette so excited since she found out that panty hose came in queen-size. I went into the office with Arlette hard on my heels, breathing heavily. The receiver was on the counter and I picked it up.
    "Hello?"
    "Kinsey, this is Nikki."
    Why the dread in her voice, I thought automatically. "I tried calling you last night," I said. "What's the matter? Are you okay?"
    "Gwen's dead."
    "I just talked to her last night," I said blankly. Killed herself. She'd killed herself. Oh shit, I thought.
    "It happened this morning. Hit-and-run driver. I just heard it on the news. She was jogging along Cabana Boulevard and someone ran her down and then skipped."
    "I don't believe it. Are you sure?"
    "Positive. I tried calling you and the service said you were out of town. What are you doing in L.A.?
    "I've got to check out something down here but I should be back tonight," I said, thinking fast. "Look, would you see if you can find out the details?"
    "I can try."
    "Call Lieutenant Dolan at Homicide. Tell him I told you to ask."
    "Homicide," she said, startled.
    "Nikki, he's a cop. He'll know what's going on. And it may not be an accident anyway, so see what he has to say and I'll call you as soon as I get back."
    "Well, okay," she said dubiously, "I'll see what I can do."
    "Thanks." I hung up the phone.
    "Is someone dead?" Arlette asked. "Was it someone you knew?"
    I looked right at her but I drew a blank. Why Gwen? What was happening?
    She followed me out of the office and toward my room.
    "Is there anything I can do to help? Do you need anything? You look awful, Kinsey. You're pale as a ghost."
    I closed the door behind me. I thought about that last image of Gwen, standing on the street, her face white. Could it have been an accident? Coincidence? Things were moving too quickly. Someone was beginning to panic and for reasons I still couldn't quite understand.
    A possibility flashed into my head and out. I stood stockstill, running it by me again like an old film clip. Maybe so. Maybe yes. It was all going to come together soon. It was all going to fit.
    I threw everything into the backseat of my car, not even bothering to check out. I'd mail Arlette the damn twelve bucks.
    The drive to the Valley was a blur, the car moving automatically, though I paid no attention whatever to road, sun, traffic, smog. When I reached the house in Sherman Oaks where Lyle was laying brick, I saw his battered truck parked out front. I didn't have any more time to waste and I didn't want to play games. I locked the car and went up the drive, going around the side of the house to the back. I caught sight of Lyle before he caught sight of me. He was bending over a pile of two-by-fours: faded jeans, work boots, no shirt, a cigarette in the comer of his mouth.
    "Lyle."
    He turned around. I had the gun out and trained on him. I held it with two hands, legs