K Is for Killer

to make a quick trip. If I can set up a few appointments, I thought I'd hit the road."
    "You're going to drive?"
    "I'd thought to."
    "Don't you have a dinky little VW? Why not fly? I would, if I were you."
    "I guess I could," I said dubiously. "On a short hop like that, though, the plane fare will be outrageous. I'll have to rent a car up there, too. Motel, meals..."
    "That sounds okay to me. Just save your receipts and we'll reimburse you when you get back."
    "What about Mace? Did you tell him about the tape?"
    "Well, I told you I would. He was shocked, of course, and then he got mad as hell. Not with her, but whoever put her up to it."
    "What's his feeling about the investigation itself? He didn't seem that thrilled yesterday."
    "He told me just what he told you," she said. "If this is what it takes to make me happy, he'll go along with it."
    "Great. I'll probably fly up sometime tomorrow afternoon and talk to you as soon as I get back."
    "Have a good flight," she said.

Chapter 9
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    At 9:00 the next morning, I roused myself just long enough to call Ida Ruth, telling her I'd be in shortly in case anyone was looking for me. As I pulled the covers up, I checked the Plexiglas skylight above my bed. Clear, sunny skies, probably sixty-five degrees outside. To hell with the run. I awarded myself ten more minutes of rest. I next woke at 12:37, feeling as hungover as if I'd drunk myself insensible the night before. The tricky factor with sleep is that aside from the number of hours you put in, the body seems to hold you accountable for their position. Snoozing from four a.m. to eleven a.m. doesn't necessarily equate with the same number of hours logged between eleven p.m. and six. I had sketched in a full seven, but my regular metabolic rhythms were now decidedly off and required additional down time to correct themselves.
    I called Ida Ruth again and was relieved to discover she was out at lunch. I left a message, indicating I'd been delayed by a meeting with a client. Don't ask why I fib to a woman who doesn't even cut my paycheck. Sometimes I lie just to keep my skills up. I staggered out of bed and into the bathroom, where I brushed my teeth. I felt as if I'd been anesthetized, and I was sure that none of my extremities would function. I propped myself against the wall in the shower, hoping the hydrotherapy would mend my skewed circuits. Once dressed, I found myself eating breakfast at one in the afternoon, wondering if I'd ever get myself back on track again. I put on a pot of coffee and dosed myself with caffeine while I made some phone calls to San Francisco.
    I didn't get very far. Instead of Joseph Ayers, I got an answering machine that may or may not have been his. It was one of those carefully worded messages that bypasses confirmation of the party's name or the number called. A mechanical male voice said, "Sorry I wasn't here to take your call, but if you'll leave your name, number, and a brief message, I'll get back to you."
    I left my name and office number and then left messages on answering machines for both R. Turpins. One voice was female, the other male. To both Turpins I chattered happily, "I'm not sure if this is the right Turpin or not. I'm looking for Russell. I'm a friend of Lorna Kepler's. She suggested I call if I was ever in San Francisco, and since I'm going to be up there in the next couple of days, I thought I'd say hi. Give me a call when you get this message. I'd love to meet you. She spoke so highly of you. Thanks." Through San Francisco information, I checked out the names of other members of the crew, working my way patiently down the list. Most were disconnects.
    As long as I was home, I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a fresh pack of index cards, transcribing the information I'd picked up on the case to date – about four cards' worth. Over the last several years I've developed the habit of using index cards to record the facts uncovered in the course of an investigation. I pin the cards on the bulletin board that hangs above my desk, and in idle moments I arrange and rearrange the data according to no known plan. At some point I realized how different a detail can look when it's seen out of context. Like the pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, the shape of reality seems to shift according to circumstance. What seems strange or unusual can make perfect sense when it's placed in the proper setting. By the same token, what seems unremarkable can suddenly yield up precious secrets when