I Is for Innocent

her. After all, she was the light of Peter's eye. He was her mentor, in effect. It wasn't in David's best interest to be competitive when she was assigned to work on all the high-visibility projects. I encouraged David to cultivate her both socially and professionally so I guess you could say I engineered their entire relationship."
    "How did you find out about their affair?"
    "Simone let something slip. I forget now what it was, but suddenly everything made sense. I knew David had been distant. It was common knowledge that Isabelle and Kenneth were having problems. It took me a while to put two and two together, that's all. None so blind, et cetera. I confronted him, like a fool. I wish now I'd kept my mouth shut."
    "Why is that?"
    "I forced his hand. Their relationship didn't last. If I'd had the presence of mind to ignore what was happening, the affair might have blown over."
    "Do you think he killed her?"
    "It had to be someone who knew her pretty well." The intercom buzzed abruptly. She depressed the button. "Yes, Doctor."
    The doctor sounded like he was calling from a public telephone booth. "We're going to do a pelvic on Mrs. Russo. Could you come in?"
    She said "Yes, sir" to him and then to me, "I have to go. Anything else you want is going to have to wait."
    She held the door open for me and I passed through.
    Within seconds she was gone and I was left to find my own way out. I went back to my car and sat there for a minute while I dug my wallet from the depths of my leather shoulder bag. I removed all the paper money and carefully rearranged the bills, turning them so they all faced in the same direction, ones in front, a twenty bringing up the rear.
    I drove back to the office and parked my car in Lonnie's slot, taking the stairs two at a time up to the third floor. If Ida Ruth was surprised to see me back, she kept it to herself. I unlocked my office and started going through the files, which were somewhat better organized, but still loosely arranged on every available surface. I found the file I was looking for and moved over to the desk, where I clicked on the light and settled down in my swivel chair.
    What I pulled out were the photocopies of the six-year-old newspapers I'd pulled in preparation for canvassing the Barneys' neighbors. Sure enough, for the days in question there was ample reference to the heavy rainfall over most of California. There was also mention of emergency crews from the public works department working overtime to repair the rash of burst water pipes. The same weather pattern had spawned a minor crime spree – felons running amok, apparently stimulated by the shift in atmospheric conditions. I flipped through the pages, scanning item after item. I wasn't really sure what I was looking for... a link, some sense of connection to the past.
    The questions were obvious. If Tippy Parsons could support David Barney's alibi, why hadn't she stepped forward with the information years ago? Of course, she might not have been there. He might have seen someone else or he might have manufactured her presence to suit his own purposes. If she was there, she might not have seen him – there was always that chance – but placing her at the scene would certainly lend credibility to his claims. And what about the guy Barney claimed was at the scene? Where was he in all this?
    I reached for the telephone and dialed Rhe Parsons, hoping to catch her in her studio. The number rang four times, five, six. On the seventh ring she answered, sounding breathless and out of sorts. "Yes?"
    "Rhe, this is Kinsey Millhone. Sorry to disturb you. It sounds like I caught you right in the middle of your work again."
    "Oh, hi. Don't worry about it. It's my own fault, I guess. I should get a portable telephone and keep it out in the studio. Sony for all the heavy breathing. I'm really out of shape. How are you?"
    "I'm fine, thanks. Is Tippy there by any chance?"
    "No. She works until six tonight. Santa Teresa Shellfish. Is there something I could help you with?"
    "Maybe so," I said. "I was wondering where she was the night Isabelle was killed."
    "She was home, I'm sure. Why?"
    "Well, it's probably nothing, but somebody thought they saw her driving around in a pickup."
    "A pickup? Tippy never had a pickup."
    "It must be a mistake then. Was she with you when the police called?"
    "You mean, about Isabelle's death?" There was a moment of hesitation, which I should have taken as a warning, but I was so intent on the