W Is for Wasted

isn’t a Mr. Millhone.”
    The fellow cut in, but instead of the expected spiel, he said, “This is Dr. . . .”
    I blanked on the name instantly because I had zeroed in on the voice, thinking it might be one I recognized. “What can I do for you?”
    “I’m trying to reach Mr. Dace.”
    “Who?”
    “Artie Dace. I understand he doesn’t have a phone, but I hoped you’d put me in touch with him. Is he there by any chance?”
    “You have the wrong number. There’s no Mr. Dace here.”
    “Do you know how I can reach him? I tried the shelter, but they won’t confirm the name.”
    “Same here. I never heard of him.”
    There was a brief silence. “Sorry,” he said, and the line went dead.
    I remembered dismissing the call the moment I hung up, though I half expected the phone to ring again. Wrong numbers seem to come in clusters, often because the calling party tries the same number a second time, thinking the error is connected to the dialing process. I stared at the handset and when the phone didn’t ring, I shrugged and went about my business.
    The second call came within a matter of days. I know this because the name Dace had been planted recently enough that I hadn’t yet deleted it from memory. I’d closed the office early and I was having my calls forwarded. Henry and I were sitting in the backyard when the phone in my studio began to ring. I’d left my door open for just this reason, in case a client tried to reach me. When the phone rang a second time, I leaped to my feet and trotted into the apartment, where I caught the phone on the third ring. “Millhone Investigations.”
    “May I speak to Mr. Millhone?”
    This time the caller was a woman and I could hear noise in the background that suggested a public setting. “This is Kinsey Millhone. What can I do for you?”
    The woman said, “This is the Cardiac Care Unit at Santa Teresa Hospital. We’ve admitted Mr. Artie Dace and we’re hoping you can give us information about what medications he’s on. He’s in and out of consciousness and unable to respond to questions.”
    I squinted at the handset. “
Who’s
this?”
    “My name is Eloise Cantrell. I’m the charge nurse in the CCU. The patient’s name is Artie Dace.”
    This time, I’d picked up a pen and pulled over a scratch pad, making a note of the nurse’s name. I added CCU. “I don’t know anyone named Artie.”
    “The last name is Dace, initials R. T.”
    “I still can’t help you.”
    “But you do know the gentleman. Is that correct?”
    “No, and I don’t understand why you’re calling me. How did you get my name and number?”
    “The patient was brought in through the emergency room and one of the nurse’s aides recognized him from a prior hospitalization. Medical Records located his chart and the doctor asked me to get in touch.”
    “Look, I wish I could help, but I don’t know anyone by that name. Honest.”
    There was a stretch of silence. “This isn’t in regard to his hospital bill. He’s covered by Medicaid,” she said, as though that might soften my stance.
    “Doesn’t matter. I don’t know anyone named Dace and I certainly don’t know what medications he’s on.”
    Her tone turned cool. “Well, I appreciate your time and I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
    “No problem.”
    And that was the extent of it.
    I opened my eyes and looked out at the ocean. Maybe Dace
had
tried to reach me, but he’d been ill at the time. The doctor whose name I’d missed and the charge nurse, Eloise Cantrell, had probably discovered my name and number in his trouser pocket the same way the coroner’s office had. His handwritten note had said Millhone Investigations along with my office number. Both callers had erroneously assumed that Millhone was a man. Dandy had just told me Dace carried the information with him for months, hoping to sober up before he asked for help.
    Though there were still gaps in the story, I was feeling better about the string of events. There’s something inherent in human nature that has us constructing narratives to explain a world that is otherwise chaotic and opaque. Life is little more than a series of overlapping stories about who we are, where we came from, and how we struggle to survive. What we call news isn’t new at all: wars, murders, famines, plagues—death in all its forms. It’s folly to assign meaning to every chance event, yet we do it all the time. In this case, it seemed curious that Pinky Ford, whose