I Is for Innocent

miles from the house when Isabelle was killed. I didn't even know what had happened until an hour later when I jogged past the house again. All the cop cars were there, the place was blazing with lights –"
    "What about the repair crew? Will they support your claim?"
    "I don't see why not. The guy took the stand before. Fellow by the name of Angeloni. He's on the list of witnesses, probably right up at the top. He saw me for sure and I know he saw her truck. She scared me so bad I had to sit on the curb and get my heart back to normal. It took me five or six minutes until I was okay again. By then, I said to hell with it and headed on home."
    "And you told the cops this?"
    "Go read the report. Cops figured me for the murder so they didn't pursue it."
    I was silent for a moment, wondering what to make of it. Two days ago, his claims would have seemed preposterous. Now I wasn't sure. "I'll pass this on to Lonnie when I talk to him. That's the best I can do." Jesus, was I going to have to go out and corroborate his alibi?
    He started to say more and then seemed to think better of it. "Fine. You do that. That's really all I'm asking. I appreciate your time," he said. His eyes met mine briefly. "I thank you for this."
    "It's all right," I said.
    He returned to his car. I watched him in the rearview mirror while he started the engine and backed out of the drive. He pulled away and I listened to the sound of his transmission as he shifted gears. Curious story. Something rang a bell, but I couldn't think what it was. Was Tippy Parsons really at the intersection? It seemed as if there must be a way to find out. I remembered reading about the storm coming through about that time.
    I started the VW and pulled away from the curb, heading for the appointment with his ex-wife.
    The Santa Teresa Medical Clinic, where Laura Barney worked, was a small wood-frame structure in the shadow of St. Terry's Hospital, which was two doors away. The exterior was plain – ever so faintly shabby – the interior pleasant, but leaning toward the low-budget. The chairs in the waiting room had molded blue plastic seats and metal legs linked together in units of six. The walls were yellow, the floors a marbleized vinyl tile, tan with white streaks. There was a wide wooden counter at one end of the room. On the far side, through the wide archway, I could see four desks, straight-backed office chairs, telephones, typewriters... nothing high-tech, streamlined, or color-coded. The rear wall was lined with tan metal file cabinets. I gathered, from the scattering of toddlers, pregnant women, and wailing infants, that this was a combination maternity and well-baby facility. It was almost closing time and the patients still waiting had probably been backed up for an hour. Children's toys and ripped magazines were strewn across the floor.
    I moved to the counter, spotting Laura Barney by her name tag, which read "L. Barney, R.N." She wore a white pants-suit uniform and white crepe-soled shoes. I judged her to be somewhere in her early forties. She had reached an age where she could still achieve the same fresh good looks she'd enjoyed ten years earlier – it just took a lot more makeup and the effect probably wore off after an hour or two. At this time of day, the layers of foundation and loose powder had become nearly translucent, showing skin underneath that was reddened from cigarette smoke. She looked like a woman who'd been forced to go out into the workplace and wasn't at all happy with the necessity.
    She was currently in the process of instructing a new employee, probably the same young girl I'd spoken to on the phone. Laura was counting out money like a bank teller, flicking bills through her fingers almost faster than the eye could see, turning each bill so it was right side up. If she came across a denomination that was out of place, she would slide it into the proper sequence. "Every bill should face in the same direction and they should be arranged with the smallest bills in front. Ones, fives, tens, twenties," she was saying. "That way you'll never inadvertently make change with a ten-dollar bill when you mean to use a one. Look at this...." She fanned them out like a magician performing a card trick. I almost expected her to say, "Pick a bill, any bill...." Instead, she said, "Are you listening?"
    "Yes, ma'am." The young woman might have been nineteen, fifteen pounds overweight, with dark curly hair, flushed cheeks, and dark eyes glinting