P Is for Peril

wondering how you enjoyed yourself in Malibu."
    "Fine. It was fun."
    "What about Emily?"
    "Why are you asking me all these questions?"
    "Your mom said you liked riding horses at her place."
    "Emily's okay. She's not as bad as some."
    "What else did you do?"
    "Nothing. We made grilled cheese sandwiches."
    The arrow on my bullshit meter zinged up into the red zone. I was much better at lying when I was Leila's age. "Here's my best guess. I'll bet you skipped both those visits and spent the weekend with Paulie."
    She said, "Ha ha ha."
    "Come on. 'Fess up. What difference does it make?"
    "I don't have to respond if I don't want to."
    "Leila, you asked me to keep my mouth shut. The least you could do is tell me the truth."
    "So what if I saw Paulie? What's the big deal about that?"
    "What about all the other weekends you were supposed to be off visiting classmates?"
    Another sullen silence. I tried another tack. "How'd you two meet?"
    "In Juvie."
    "You were in Juvenile Hall? When was this?"
    "A year ago July. Bunch of us got picked up."
    "Doing what?"
    "The cops said loitering and trespass, which is crap. We weren't doing anything, just hanging around."
    "Where was this?"
    "I don't know," she said, crossly. "Just some boarded-up old house."
    "What time of day?"
    "What are you, a district attorney? It was late, like two o'clock in the morning. Half the kids ran. Cops were all bent out of shape and took the rest of us in. Mom and Dow came and picked me up and they were pissed."
    "What about Paulie? Was she in trouble with the law?"
    Leila said, "You just missed my dad's street."
    I slowed and pulled into the next driveway, then backed out. I retraced the half block to Gramercy and turned left. This section was only a block and a half long, a jumble of cheap cottages that might have once served as housing for itinerant pickers in the nearby avocado groves. The road here was unpaved and there were no sidewalks. I spotted one streetlight along the entire block. Leila pointed at a weathered A-frame sitting on a small dirt rise. It was the only structure of its kind-a funky wooden chalet among shacks. I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. "You want to see if he's there? I'd like to talk to him."
    "What about?"
    "Dr. Purcell, if it's all the same to you," I said.
    Leila snatched open the door and reached for her backpack, which I snagged with one hand. "Leave that with me. I'll be happy to bring it in if he's home."
    "Why can't I have it?"
    "Insurance. I don't want to see you taking off on me. You're in enough trouble as it is."
    She sighed, exasperated, but did as she was told. I decided to ignore the vigor with which she slammed the car door. I watched her hurry to the house along a gravel path. Rainwater streamed down the hillside, flattening the long strands of uncut grass. She reached the porch, which was protected by no more than a narrow inverted V of wood. She knocked on the door and then huddled with folded arms, staring back at me while she waited for him to respond. The place looked dark to me. She knocked again. She moved over to a front window, cupped her hands, and peered in. She knocked one more time and then splashed her way back to the car and let herself in. "He's probably coming right back. I know where he keeps the key so I can wait for him here."
    "Good. I'll wait with you. The two of us can visit here in the car until he gets home."
    The suggestion didn't seem to fill the child with joy. She kicked at the backpack with her muddy hiking boots. "I want to go in. I have to pee."
    "Good suggestion. Me, too."
    We got out of the car. I locked the car doors and followed her along the path. Once we reached the house, Leila shifted a pot of dead geraniums and removed the house key from its terribly original hiding place. I waited while she unlocked the door and let us in.
    "Does he rent this?"
    "Nuhn-uhn. He's house-sitting for a friend. Some guy went off to Florida, but he's coming back next week."
    The interior was basically one big room. The ceiling soared to a peak. To the right, a narrow staircase led to a sleeping loft. In the living area below, the wood furniture was clumsily constructed, covered with imitation Indian rugs. The wood floors were bare. I could hear grit popping under the soles of my shoes. There was an old black pot-bellied stove exuding the scent of cold ash. At the rear, a counter separated the kitchen, which looked dirty even at this distance.
    I spotted the phone sitting on a