C Is for Corpse

sooner about this stuff," he was saying. "I don't know what got into me." He crossed to the bookshelf and sorted through the mess on top, coming up with an address book about the size of a playing card, which he held out to me.
    I took it, leafing through. "What's the significance? Did Bobby fill you in?"
    "Well no. He told me to keep it and he said it was important, but he didn't explain. I just assumed it must be a list or a code, some kind of information he had, but I don't know what."
    "When did he give you this?"
    "I don't remember exactly. It was sometime before the accident. He stopped over one day and gave it to me and asked me if I'd just hold on to it for him, so I said sure. I'd forgotten all about it until you brought it up."
    I checked the index tab for B. There wasn't a Blackman listed there, but I did find the name penciled inside the back cover, with a seven-digit number beside it. No area code indicated, so it was probably local, though I didn't think it matched the number for S. Blackman I'd found in the telephone book.
    "What did he actually say at the time?" I asked. I knew I was repeating myself, but I kept hoping to solicit some indication of Bobby's intent.
    "Nothing really. He wanted me to hang on to it is all. He didn't tell you either, huh?"
    I shook my head. "He couldn't remember. He knew it was important, but he had no idea why. Have you ever heard the name Blackman? S. Blackman? Anybody Blackman?"
    "Nope." The cat was squirming and he put it down.
    "I understand Bobby had fallen in love with someone. I wonder if it might have been this S. Blackman.''
    "If it was, he didn't tell me. A couple of times he did meet some woman down at the beach. Right out in that parking lot by the skate shack."
    "Before the accident or afterwards?"
    "Before. He'd sit in his Porsche and wait and she'd pull in and then they'd talk."
    "He never introduced you or mentioned who she was?"
    "I know what she looked like but not her name. I saw 'em go in the coffee shop once and she was built odd, you know? Kind of like a Munchkin. I couldn't figure that out. Bobby was a good-lookin' guy and he always hung out with these real foxy chicks, but she was a dog."
    "Blond wispy hair? Maybe forty-five?"
    "I never saw her up close so I don't know about her age, but the hair sounds right. She drives this Mercedes I see around now and then. Dark green with a beige interior. Looks like a 'fifty-five or 'fifty-six, but it's in great shape."
    I glanced through the address book again. Sufi's address and telephone number were listed under the D's.
    Had he been having an affair with her? It seemed so unlikely. Bobby had been twenty-three years old and, as Gus said, a good-looking kid. Carrie St. Cloud had mentioned a blackmailing scheme, but if Sufi was being blackmailed by someone, why would she turn to him for help? Surely it wasn't a matter of her blackmailing him. Whatever it was, it gave me a lead and I was grateful for that. I tucked the book in my handbag and looked up. Gus was watching me with amusement.
    "God, you should see your face. I could really watch the old wheels turn," he said.
    "Things are beginning to happen and I like that," I said. "Listen, this has been a big help. I don't know what it means yet, but believe me, I'll figure it out."
    "I hope so. I'm just sorry I didn't speak up when you asked. If there's anything else I can do, just let me know."
    "Thanks," I said. I shifted the cat off my lap and got up, shaking hands with him.
    I went out to my car, brushing at my jeans, picking cat hair off my lip. It was now ten o'clock at night and I should have headed home, but I was feeling wired. The episode at Moza's and the sudden appearance of Bobby's address book were acting on me like a stimulant. I wanted to talk to Sufi. Maybe I'd stop by her place. If she was up, we could have a little chat. She'd tried once to steer me away from this investigation and I wondered now what that was about.

Chapter 19
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    I pulled into the shadows across the street from Sufi's place on Haughland Road in the heart of Santa Teresa. For the most part, the houses I had passed were two-story frame-and-stone on large lots complete with junipers and oaks. Many lawns sported the ubiquitous California crop of alarm-company signs, warning of silent surveillance and armed patrols.
    Sufi's yard was darkened by the interlacing tree branches overhead, the property stretching back in a tangle of shrubs and surrounded by a picket fence with