I Is for Innocent

prime interest in the matter. I'll do what I can."
    We terminated the conversation. I got back in the car and drove the two blocks down State Street to the intersection where the elder McKell was killed. The + formed by the two cross streets was bounded by a motel, a vacant lot, a garden-style medical complex, and a small bungalow, which looked like a private residence, converted now to real estate offices. The Gypsy was an unassuming block of units, with all the architectural grace of a two-by-four, bounded on all sides by strip parking. An accordion-pleated metal portico jutted out in front. The two-story building had probably gone up in the sixties and seemed to rely heavily on concrete and aluminum-frame sliding doors. I parked in the portion of the motel lot set aside for registration. The office was glass-enclosed with ready-made mesh drapes blocking out the early afternoon sun. A blinking neon sign out in front alternated NO and VACANCY.
    The woman behind the desk was big – not the giant but the large economy size. She had a big well-shaped nose, a large mouth rosy with lipstick, ice-blond hair pulled up in a braid on top, the coil of hair wrapped around itself until it formed a rope. She wore mauve glasses with beveled frames, the lower portion of both lenses smudged slightly with peachy foundation makeup. Her street clothing was obscured by a pink nylon smock of the sort worn by cosmetologists.
    I took out a business card and placed it on the counter. "I wonder if you can help me. I'm looking for Regina Turner."
    "Well, I'll try. I'm Regina Turner. Glad to meet you," she said. We shook hands. Our conversation was put on hold briefly when the telephone rang; she held one finger up as a digital marker while she verified some reservations. "Sorry for the interruption," she said when she'd hung up. She gave my card a perfunctory glance and then focused a sharp look on my face. "I don't answer questions about the folks who stay here."
    "This is about something else," I said. I was halfway through my explanation when I saw her clock out. I could tell she'd already leapfrogged to the end of the conversation. "You can't help me," I said.
    "I wish I could," she replied. "The police talked to me just after that poor old man was killed. I felt awful, honestly, but I told them everything I know."
    "You were working that night?"
    "I work most nights. Anymore, you can't get good help, especially around the holidays. I was right here at the desk when the accident occurred. I heard the squeal... that's an awful sound, isn't it? And then a thump. This pickup must have barreled around the big bend out there at sixty miles an hour. Truck caught the old fella in the crosswalk and flung him right up in the air. Looked like somebody been gored by a bull. You know how in the movies you see 'em get tossed like that? He came down so hard I could hear him hit the pavement. I looked out the front window and saw the truck pull away. My view of the intersection is excellent. You can see for yourself. I dialed nine-one-one and went out to see what I could do. By the time I got to him, the poor man was dead and the truck had taken off."
    "Do you remember the time?"
    "Eleven minutes after one. I had that same little digital clock sitting on the counter and I remember seeing that the time was one-one-one, which is my birthday. January eleventh. I don't know why, but something like that will stick with you for years afterwards."
    "You didn't see the driver?"
    "Not at all. I saw the truck. It was white, with some kind of dark blue logo on the side."
    "What kind of logo?"
    She shook her head. "That I can't help you with."
    "This is good though. Every little bit helps," I said. There were probably only six thousand white trucks in California. The particular pickup involved in the accident might have been junked, repainted, sold, or taken out of state. "I appreciate your time."
    "You want your card back?" she asked.
    "You keep it. If you think of anything that might help, I hope you'll get in touch."
    "Absolutely."
    At the door, I hesitated. "Do you think you could identify the truck if I brought you some pictures?"
    "I'm pretty sure I could. I may not remember it, but I think I'd recognize it if I saw it again."
    "Great. I'll be back."
    I returned to my car, aware of the little rush of hope I was having to subdue. I wanted to make an assumption here. I'm not a fool. I could see the probability that the white pickup truck involved in McKell's