M Is for Malice

came on the line and introduced himself. "Good afternoon, Miss Millhone..."
    "Call me Kinsey if you would."
    "Thanks. It's Donovan Malek here. I just spoke to Tasha Howard and she said she talked to you at lunch. I take it she filled you in on the situation."
    "For the most part," I said. "Is there some way we can get together? Tasha wants to get moving as soon as possible."
    "My attitude exactly. Listen, I've got about an hour before I have to be somewhere else. I can give you some basic information – Guy's date of birth, his Social Security number, and a photograph if that would help," he said. "You want to pop on out here?"
    "Sure, I can do that," I said. "What about your brothers? Is there some way I can talk to them, too?"
    "Of course. Bennet said he'd be home around four this afternoon. I'll call Myrna – she's the housekeeper and leave word you want to talk to him. I'm not sure about Jack. He's a little harder to catch, but we can work something out. What you don't get from me, you can pick up from them. You know where I am? On Dolores out in Colgate. You take the Peterson off-ramp and turn back across the freeway. Second street on the right."
    "Sounds good. I'll see you shortly."
    When I hung up the phone, Dietz was checking his watch. "You're off and running. I've got to touch base with an old friend so I'll be out for a while. Are you free later on?"
    "Not until six or so. Depends on my appointment. I'm trying to track down a guy who's been gone eighteen years and I'm hoping to pick up some background from his family."
    "I'll buy you dinner if you haven't eaten, or we can go out and have a drink. I really don't want to be a burden."
    "We can talk about it later. In the meantime, you'll need a key."
    "That'd be great. I can grab a shower before I take off and lock up when I leave."
    I opened the kitchen junk drawer and found the extra house key on a ring of its own. I passed it across the counter.
    "Are you okay with this? I know you don't like to feel crowded. I can find a little place on Cabana if you'd prefer peace and quiet."
    "This is fine for now. If it's too much, I'll say so. Let's just play it by ear," I said. "I hope you like your coffee black. There's no milk and no sugar. Cups are up there."
    He put the key in his pocket. "I know where the cups are. I'll see you later."
    Malek Construction consisted of a series of linked trailers, arranged like dominoes, located in the cul-de-sac of an industrial park. Behind the offices, a vast asphalt yard was filled with red trucks: pickups, concrete mixers, skip loaders, and pavers, all bearing the white-and-red company logo. A two-story corrugated metal garage stretched across the backside of the property, apparently filled with maintenance and service equipment for the countless company vehicles. Gas pumps stood at the ready. To one side, against a tangle of shrubs, I could see six bright yellow Caterpillars and a couple of John Deere crawler dozers. Men in hard hats and red coveralls went about their business. The quiet was undercut by the rumble of approaching trucks, an occasional shrill whistle, and the steady peep-peep-peep signal as a vehicle backed up.
    I parked in the side lot in a space marked VISITOR beside a line of Jeeps, Cherokee Rangers, and battered pickups. On the short walk to the entrance, I could hear the nearby freeway traffic and the high hum of a small plane heading for the airport to the west. The interior of the office suggested a sensible combination of good taste and practicality: glossy walnut paneling, steel blue wall-to-wall carpet, dark blue file cabinets, and a lot of matching dark red tweed furniture. Among the male employees, the standard attire seemed to be ties, dress shirts, and slacks without suit coats or sports jackets. Shoes looked suitable for hiking across sand and gravel. The dress code for the women seemed less codified. The atmosphere was one of genial productivity. Police stations have the same air about them; everyone committed to the work at hand.
    In the reception area where I waited, all the magazines were work-related, copies of Pit Quarry, Rock Products, Concrete Journal, and the Asphalt Contractor. A quick glance was sufficient to convince me that there were issues at stake here I never dreamed about. I read briefly about oval-hole void forms and multiproperty admixtures, powered telescopic concrete chutes, and portable concrete recycling systems. My, my, my. Sometimes I marveled at the depths of my