A is for Alibi

trellises wound with gaudy maroon bougainvillea. Even the frame bungalows of the poor could hardly be called squalid.
    The police department is located near the heart of town on a side street lined with cottages painted mint green with low stone walls and jacaranda trees dripping lavender blossoms. Winter in Southern California consists of an overcast and is heralded not by autumn but by fire. After the fire season come the mud slides. And then the status quo is restored and everything goes on as before. This was May.
    After I dropped the roll of film off to be developed, I went into the Homicide Department to see Lieutenant Dolan. Con is in his late fifties with the aura of the unkempt: bags under his eyes, gray stubble or its illusion, a pouchy face, and hair that's been coated with some kind of men's product and combed across a shiny place on top. He looks like he would smell of Thunderbird and hang out under bridges throwing up on his own shoes. Which is not to say he isn't very sharp. Con Dolan is a lot smarter than the average thief. He and killers run about neck and neck. He catches them most of the time and only occasionally guesses wrong. Few people can outthink him and I'm not sure why this is true, except that his powers of concentration are profound and his memory clear and pitiless.
    He knew why I was there and he motioned me back to his office without a word.
    What Con Dolan calls an office would do for a secretary anywhere else. He doesn't like being shut away and he doesn't much care for privacy. He likes to conduct his business tipped back in his chair with his attention half-turned to what's going on around him. He picks up a lot of information like that and it saves him needless talk with his men. He knows when his detectives come and go and he knows who's been brought in for questioning and he knows when reports aren't being done on time and why.
    "What can I do for you?" he said, but his tone didn't indicate any particular desire to help.
    "I'd like to look at the files on Laurence Fife."
    He arched an eyebrow at me ever so slightly. "It's against department policy. We're not running a public library here."
    "I didn't ask to take them out. I just want to look. You've let me do that before."
    "Once..."
    "I've given you information more times than that and you know it," I said. "Why hesitate on this?"
    "That case is closed."
    "Then you shouldn't have any objections. It's hardly an invasion of anyone's privacy."
    His smile then was slow and humorless and he tapped a pencil idly, loving, I imagined, the power to turn me down cold. "She killed him, Kinsey. That's all there is to it."
    "You told her to get in touch with me. Why bother with it if you don't have a doubt yourself?"
    "My doubts have nothing to do with Laurence Fife," he said.
    "What then?"
    "There's more to this one than meets the eye," he said evasively. "Maybe we'd like to protect what we've got."
    "Are 'we' keeping secrets?"
    "Oh I got more secrets than you ever dreamed about," he said.
    "Me too," I said. "Now why are we playing games?"
    He gave me a look that might have been annoyance and might have been something else. He's a hard man to read. "You know how I feel about people like you."
    "Look, as far as I'm concerned, we're in the same business," I said. "I'm straight with you. I don't know what kind of gripes you have with the other private investigators in town, but I stay out of your way and I've got nothing but respect for the job you do. I don't understand why we can't cooperate with one another."
    He stared at me for a moment, his mouth turning down with resignation. "You'd get more out of me if you'd learn to flirt," he said grudgingly.
    "No I wouldn't. You think women are a pain in the ass. If I flirted, you'd pat me on the head and make me go away."
    He wouldn't take the bait on that one but he did reach over and pick up the phone, dialing Identification and Records.
    "This is Dolan. Have Emerald bring me the files on Laurence Fife. " He hung up and leaned back again, looking at me with a mixture of speculation and distaste.
    "I better not hear any complaints about the way you handle this. If I get one call from anyone – and I'm talking about a witness who feels harassed or anyone else, including my men or anybody else's men – you're up shit creek. You got that?"
    I held up three fingers beside my temple dutifully. "Scouts honor."
    "When were you ever a Scout?"
    "Well, I was a Brownie once for almost a week," I said