K Is for Killer

it was supposed to be, in the bottom drawer of my desk. I changed the batteries and found the headphones, a pencil, and a legal pad. I played the tape through, listening with my eyes closed, the headphones pressed against my ears. I played the tape back again, taking notes this time. I transcribed what I could hear clearly and left a series of dots, dashes, and question marks where the sound was garbled or inaudible. It was slow going, but I finally reached a point where I'd gleaned as much as I could.
    As Leda had indicated, toward the end of the tape, after sixty minutes of boring talk, her machine had gone dead, leaving a fragment from the first taping she'd done. The one voice was Lorna's. The other voice was male, but not J.D.'s as far as I could tell. There was a segment of country music playing on the radio. Lorna must have turned it off because the silence was abrupt and punctuated by static. The guy spoke up sharply, saying, "Hey..."
    Lorna sounded annoyed. "I hate that stuff.... xxxxxxx. xxxxxxxxx..."
    "Oh, come on. I'm just kidding. But you have to admit, it's xxxxxxxxxx. She goes in xxxxxxxxxxxxx day... xxxxxx..."
    "Goddamn it! Would you stop saying that? You're really sick.
    "People shouldn't xxxxxxxx... [clatter... clink]..."
    Sound of water... squeaking...
    "... xxxxxxxx..."
    Thump, thump...
    "I'm serious... by –"
    "xxxxx..."
    Laughter... chair scrape... rustle... murmur...
    There was something quarrelsome in the tone, an edginess in Lorna's voice. I played the tape twice more, writing down everything I heard clearly, but the subject of the conversation never made any sense. I took the headphones off. I pinched the bridge of my nose and rubbed my hands across my face. I wondered if the guys in the forensics lab had a way to amplify sound on a tape like this. As a private investigator, I was not exactly into high-tech equipment. A portable typewriter was about as state-of-the-art as I could boast. The problem was, I didn't see how I could ask for police assistance without an explanation of some kind. Despite my assurances to Leda, she was guilty of withholding, if not evidence, then information that might have been relevant to the police investigation. Cops get very surly when you least expect it, and I didn't want them to take an interest in something that wasn't mine to begin with.
    Who else did I know? I tried the Yellow Pages in the telephone book under "Audio." The businesses listed offered laser home theaters, giant-screen TVs, custom design and installation of audio systems, and presentation graphics, followed by the ads for hearing aids, hearing evaluations, and speech therapists. I tried the section entitled "Sound," which was devoted in large part to designing wireless drive-through intercoms and residential and commercial sound systems. Oh.
    I checked my watch: quarter after nine. I flipped back to the White Pages under K-SPL and called Hector Moreno at the local FM station. It was probably too early to reach him, but I could at least leave a message. The phone was picked up after three rings. "K-SPELL. This is Hector Moreno."
    "Hector? I can't believe it's you. This is Kinsey Millhone. Aren't you there awfully early?"
    "Well, hey. How are you? I switch shifts now and then. Keeps me from getting bored. What about you? What are you up to?"
    "I have a tape recording with very poor sound quality. Would you have any way to clean it up?"
    "That depends on what you got. I could try," he said. "You want to drop it off? I can leave the door unlocked."
    "I'll be right there."
    En route, I made a stop at Rosie's, where I told her about Beauty and begged for doggie bones. Earlier she'd boiled up two pounds of veal knuckle for the stock she makes. I had to pick through the trash to get them, but she wrapped two in paper with the usual admonishment. "You should get a dog," she said.
    "I'm never home," I replied. She is always on me about this. Don't ask me why. Just a piece of aggravation, in my opinion. I took the packet of bones and began to back away, hoping to curtail discussion.
    "A dog is good company, and protection, too."
    "I'll think about it," I said as the kitchen door swung shut.
    "Get a fella while you're at it."
    At the station, I let myself in. Hector had left the door ajar and the foyer lights on. I went down into the twilight of the stairwell with my paper packet of bones. Beauty was waiting for me when I reached the bottom. She was the size of a small bear, her dark eyes bright with