R Is for Ricochet

Reconciled to the wait, I leaned against the wall, my shoulder bag on the floor. The glass doors opened and Cheney Phillips came in, passing me on his way down the hall. I saw him tap on Priscilla Holloway's open door and stick his head in. He chatted briefly with her and then turned, walking in my direction. He still hadn't recognized me, which gave me a moment to study him.
    I'd known Cheney for years, but we hadn't had occasion to interact until a murder investigation two years before. Over the course of several conversations, he'd told me he'd grown up in circumstances of benign neglect and fixed his sights early on a career in law enforcement. He'd been working undercover vice the last time our paths crossed, but by now his face was probably too well-known for anything covert. He was dressed to the nines, as usual: dark slacks and a pin-stripe sport coat, wide in the shoulders and nipped at the waist. His dress shirt was midnight blue worn with a midnight blue tie with a sheen of lighter blue. His dark hair was curly, his dark gaze revealing a curious mix of cop-think and come-hither. When I heard he'd gotten married, I'd moved his name, in my mental Rolodex, from a prominent place near the front to a category I labeled "expunged without prejudice" near the back of the file.
    His gaze connected briefly with mine and when he realized it was me, he stopped in his tracks. "Kinsey. I don't believe it. I was just thinking about you."
    "What are you doing here?"
    "Getting a bead on a parolee. What about you?"
    "Babysitting a gal until she gets on her feet."
    "Missionary work."
    "Hardly. I'm getting paid," I said.
    "When I ran into you Saturday I meant to ask why I haven't seen you at CC's. Dolan told me the two of you were working a case. I figured you'd be in."
    "I don't 'do' bars at my age except for Rosie's," I said. "What about you? Last I heard, you were off in Las Vegas getting married."
    "Geez, word gets around. So what else did you hear?"
    "That you met her at CC's and only knew her six weeks before the two of you ran off."
    Cheney's smile was pained. "Sounds so crass when you put it that way."
    "What happened to your other girlfriend? I thought you'd been dating someone else for years."
    "That wasn't going anywhere. She realized it before I did and dumped my sorry butt."
    "So what'd you do, marry on the rebound?"
    "That would cover it, I guess. What about you? How's your friend Dietz?"
    "Kinsey, would you like to join us?"
    I glanced up to see Priscilla Holloway approaching.
    Cheney turned his head, following my gaze. His eyes flicked from the parole officer to me. "I better let you go."
    "Nice seeing you again," I said.
    "I'll give you a call as soon as I'm free," Priscilla said to him as he turned to go.
    I glanced back, watching him as he pushed out the glass doors and turned toward the parking lot.
    "How do you know Cheney?" she asked.
    "Through a case I worked. Nice guy."
    "He's good. Did the drive go okay?"
    "Piece of cake, but it was hot down there."
    "And way too many bugs," she said. "You can hardly open your mouth without swallowing one."
    Her office was small and the furniture was plain. A window overlooked the parking lot, the view cut into slices by a dusty Venetian blind. There was a Polaroid camera resting on the windowsill and two instant photos of Reba lay on top of a stack of thick files. I assumed Priscilla kept current photos in the file in case Reba took off without notice. There were file cabinets on her side of the desk and two metal chairs on ours. Reba sat in the one closest to the window. Priscilla took a seat in her swivel chair and looked at me. "Reba says you'll be squiring her around town."
    "Just for a couple of days, until she's settled."
    Priscilla leaned forward. "I've been over this with her, but I think it bears repeating so you know the score. No drugs, no alcohol, no firearms, no knife with a blade longer than two inches, except knives in her residence or in her place of employment. No crossbow of any kind." She paused to smile, directing the rest of her remarks to Reba as though for emphasis. "No consorting with known felons. Any change of residence has to be reported within seventy-two hours. No traveling more than fifty miles without authorization. You will not be out of Santa Teresa County for more than forty-eight hours and not out of California at all without my written consent. Cops pick you up and you don't have the magic piece of paper, you'll be back in the