H Is for Homicide

like this bring up an ancient and fundamental desire to bite. I could envision a half-moon of my teeth marks on the flesh on her forearm, which would swell and turn all colors of the rainbow. She'd have to have tetanus and rabies shots. Maybe her owner would elect to put her to sleep. I smiled politely. "Look. Why don't we simplify life to some extent. All I really need is a current address. Could you check that for me?"
    "No."
    "Why not?"
    "Because we can't give out that information."
    "What about the Freedom of Information Act?" I said.
    "What about it?"
    "Is there anyone else here I could talk to?"
    She didn't like my persistence. She didn't like my tone. She didn't like anything else about me, either, and the feeling was mutual. Her and Gordon Titus. God. Some days it doesn't pay to get out of bed. She left the desk without another word and returned moments later with a female deputy who was pleasant but unyielding. I went through the same tiresome routine again and got nowhere.
    "Well, thanks anyway. This has really been fun," I said.
    I sat in my car out in the parking lot, trying to decide what to do next. This is what happens when I tell the truth, I thought righteously. No wonder I'm forced to lie, cheat, and steal. Honesty will get you nowhere, especially with these law-and-order types. I glanced down at the police report sitting on the passenger seat beside me. I waited for my flush of frustration to subside and then I picked it up.
    According to the account she'd given to the officer at the scene, Bibianna had been proceeding south on Valdesto at 30 MPH when she'd been forced to slam on her brakes, swerving to avoid a cat that streaked across her path. Her car had skidded sideways and she'd plowed into a parked car. There were no witnesses, of course. Paramedics called to the scene had administered first aid for superficial contusions and abrasions and then transported her to St. Terry's emergency room for X-ray examination when she complained of neck and back pain. I wondered if the hospital billing department had a good address for her. There was probably a second insurance company, representing the owner of the vehicle she'd hit, and it was always possible that the other claims adjuster had something in his files. Bibianna lived somewhere and I was determined to get a line on her. I went back to the office and made the requisite phone calls, which netted me nothing. I gave Mary Bellflower a quick call next door and told her I was still working on it.
    At two-fifteen, aggravated, I set the matter aside and spent the rest of the day on routine paperwork. I knew I could ill afford to get obsessed with Bibianna Diaz. Now that I had Gordon Titus breathing down my neck, I was going to have to cover some ground. I plowed on, but even while I was concentrating on other cases, finishing off the paperwork, I could feel the pull. Something was bothering me. It's not like passing a file along to another adjuster is any big deal, but Parnell was dead and that seemed to make all the difference.

4
    THE NEXT MORNING, I showered and donned my generic uniform. I had this outfit done up for me years ago by an ex-con who learned to sew working the big machines in some federal penitentiary. The slacks were blue gray and unflattering, with a pale stripe along the seam. The matching pale blue shirt had a circle of Velcro sewn on the sleeve, which usually sported a patch that read "Southern California Services." The shoes, left over from my days on the police force, were black and made my feet look like they'd be hard to lift. Once I added a clipboard and a self-important key ring, I could pass myself off as just about anything. Usually, I pretend I'm reading a water meter or checking for gas leaks, any officious task that necessitates crawling through somebody's bushes and tampering with their security systems. Today, I slapped on an FTD patch and headed for the nearest florist, where I laid out thirty-six dollars for a massive bouquet. I bought a syrupy get-well card, scribbled an illegible name, and put in a quick call to the dry cleaning establishment where Bibianna worked. A woman answered this time.
    "Oh, hi," said I. "May I speak to the owner, please?"
    "This' the plant. He just left on his way over to the other place," she said. "You want that number?"
    "Sure."
    She recited the number to me carefully and I recited it back as if I were writing it down. What did she know? She couldn't see what I was doing