B Is for Burglar

luck."
    "Same to you. Tell the kids I said hi."
    That was dumb. I'd never met them and I couldn't think what the other one's name was in any event. Sarah?
    I pushed through the gate.
    "Hey, Kinsey?"
    I looked back.
    "Where's that hat of yours? I liked that. You should wear it all the time."
    I smiled and waved and went on out. I didn't need advice on how to dress.

Chapter 22
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    It was midmorning and I was suddenly starving to death. I left my car in front of the police station where it was parked and walked over to a little hole-in-the-wall called The Egg and I. I ordered my standard breakfast of bacon, scrambled eggs, toast, jelly, and orange juice, with coffee throughout. It's the only meal I'm consistently fond of as it contains every element I crave: caffeine, salt, sugar, cholesterol, and fat. How can one resist? In California, with all the health nuts around, the very act of eating such a meal is regarded as a suicide attempt.
    I read the paper while I ate, catching up on local events. I had just gotten down to the second piece of rye toast when Pam Sharkey walked in with Daryl Hobbs, the manager at Lambeth and Creek. She caught sight of me and I waved. I didn't give it everything I had. It was a casual offhand wave to indicate that I was a good joe and wasn't going to lord it over her just because I bested her last time we met. Her expression faltered and she broke off eye contact, passing my table without a word. The snub was so pronounced that even Daryl seemed embarrassed. I was puzzled, but not cut to the quick, shrugging to myself philosophically. Maybe the aerospace engineer had turned out to be a jerk.
    When I finished breakfast, I paid the check and retrieved my car, popping over to the office to drop off the data I'd picked up from Jonah. I was unlocking my door when Vera stepped out into the corridor from California Fidelity.
    "Can I talk to you?" she said.
    "Sure. Come on it." I pushed the office door open and she followed me in. "How are you?" I said, thinking this was a social call. She tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, looking at me through the big pale blue-tinted lenses that made her eyes seem large and grave.
    "Uh, listen. Just a word to the wise," she said uncomfortably. "All hell's broken loose over that Leonard Grice business."
    I blinked at her. "Like what?"
    "Pam Sharkey must have called him after you talked to her. I don't know what she said to him, but he's all up in arms. He'd hired an attorney who fired off a letter to CFI threatening to sue us within an inch of our lives. We're talking millions."
    "For what?"
    "They're claiming slander, defamation of character, breach of contract, harassment. Andy's livid. He says he had no idea you were involved. He says you weren't authorized by California Fidelity or anybody else to go out there and ask questions... blah, blah, blah. You know how Andy gets when he's on his high horse. He wants to see you the minute you come in."
    "What is this? Leonard Grice hasn't even filed a claim!"
    "Guess again. He submitted forms first thing Monday morning and he wants his money right now. The lawsuit was filed on top of that. Andy's over there processing papers as fast as he can and he's pissed. He's told Mac he thinks we should terminate the whole arrangement with you after the jeopardy you put us in. The rest of us think he's being a complete horse's ass, but I thought you should know what's going on."
    "What's the total on the claim itself?"
    "Twenty-five grand for the fire damage. That's the face value on the homeowner's policy and he has his losses itemized down to the penny. The life insurance isn't at issue. I think he's already collected some dinky little policy on her life – twenty-five hundred-and our records show he was paid that months ago. Kinsey, he's out for bear and you're it. Andy's looking for someone to point a finger at so Mac doesn't point a finger at him."
    "Shit," I said. I couldn't think of anything else to say. The last thing in the world I needed right now was a dressing down by Andy Montycka, the CFI claims manager. Andy's in his forties, conservative and insecure, a man whose prime obsessions are biting his fingernails and not making waves.
    "You want me to tell him you haven't come in?" she asked.
    "Yeah, do that for me, if you would. Just let me check my phone messages and I'll disappear," I said. I unlocked the file and took out the folder on Elaine Boldt, looking back at Vera. "I'll tell you something,