E Is for Evidence

that's true, but I don't know what good it would do you. Look, I'm going to have to run, Janice. I've got somebody standing here waiting to use the phone. Uh-hun, I'd appreciate that and I'll let you know what we hear on this end. I'm sure he just went off for the weekend and forgot to mention it. Thanks much. You too. Bye-bye. Right."
    Darcy replaced the receiver and let out a deep breath. "Good God, that woman can talk! It's lucky I called when I did because I got an earful. She's p.o.'d. He was supposed to come by last night and pick the kids up and he never showed. She was all set to go out and had to cancel her plans. No call, no apologies, nothing. She's convinced he's skipped town and she's all set to call the cops."
    "Wouldn't do any good unless he's been missing sev-enty-two hours," I said. "He's probably shacked up some-where with this bimbo he's so crazy about." I showed Darcy the letters I'd picked out of his trash.
    It was wonderful watching her expression shift from amusement to distaste. "Oh God, would you let him suckle your hmphm-hmph?"
    "Only if I doused it with arsenic first."
    Darcy's brow wrinkled. "Her bazookas must be huge. He couldn't think what to compare 'em to."
    I looked over her shoulder. "Well, 'footballs,' but he crossed that out. Probably didn't seem romantic."
    Darcy shoved the papers back in the file. "That was titillating stuff. Oh, bad joke. Now what?"
    "I don't know. He took his address book with him, but
    I do have this." I flipped through the calendar pad and showed her the penciled initials scattered through the months. I could see Darcy's mental wheels start to turn.
    "Wonder if she ever called him here," she said. "She must have, don't you think?"
    She opened her top right-hand desk drawer and took out the log for incoming telephone calls. It was a carbonless system with a permanent record in yellow overlaid by white perforated originals. If a call came in for someone out of the office, she made a note of the date and time, the caller, and the return number, checking off one of the responses to the right, "Please call," "Will call back," or "Message." The top slip was then torn out and given to the relevant recipient. Darcy turned back to December 1.
    It didn't take us long to find her. By comparing the log of Andy 's calls with the calendar pad, we came up with one repeat caller who left a number, but no name, always a day or two prior to Andy 's assignations… if indeed that's what they were.
    "Do you keep crisscross around here?" I asked.
    "I don't think so. We used to have one, but I haven't seen it for months."
    "I've got last year's in my office. Let's see who's listed at this number. We better hope it's not a business."
    I pulled my keys out of my handbag as Darcy followed me.
    "You were supposed to turn those keys in," she said in mild reproof.
    "Oh really? I didn't know that."
    I unlocked my office door and moved to the file cabi-net, pulling the crisscross from the bottom drawer. The number, at least the year before, belonged to last name, Wilding, first name Lorraine.
    "You think it's her?" Darcy asked.
    "I know a good way to find out," I said. The address listed was only two blocks from my apartment, down near the beach.
    "Are you sure you're okay? I don't think you should be running around like this."
    "Don't sweat it. I'm fine," I said. The truth was, I wasn't feeling all that terrific, but I didn't want to lay my little head down until a few questions had been answered first. I was running on adrenaline-not a bad source of energy. When it ran out, of course, you were up shit creek, but for the time being it seemed better to be on the move.

18
    I had Darcy drop me off. In an interview situation I prefer to work alone, especially when I'm not quite sure who I'm dealing with. People are easier to manage one on one; there's more room to ad-lib and more room to negotiate.
    The apartment building was Spanish style, probably dating from the thirties. The red-tile roof had aged to the color of rust and the stucco had mellowed from stark white to cream. There were clumps of beaky-looking bird of paradise plants in front. A towering, sixty-foot pine tree enveloped the yard in shade. Bougainvillea was massed at the roofline, a tumble of magenta blossoms that spread out along the gutters and trailed like Spanish moss. Wood shut-ters, painted dark brown, flanked the windows. The loggia was chilly and smelled of damp earth.
    I knocked at apartment D. There was no sign of