When I got back in my car, I checked my teeth in the rearview mirror to make sure they weren't flecked with alfalfa sprouts. I prefer not to interview people looking like I've just been grazing out in some field. I leafed through my notebook for Rick Bergen's parents' address and then 1 hauled out a city map. I had no idea where Turquesa Road was. I finally spotted it, a street about the size of an ingrown hair, off an equally obscure lane in the foothills that stretch across the back of town.

The house was staunch and plain, all upright lines, with a driveway so steep that I avoided it altogether and squeezed rny car in along the ice plant growing below. A bald cin-derblock wall prevented the hillside from tumbling into the road and gave the impression of a series of barricades as it zigzagged up to the front. Once I reached the porch, the view was spectacular, a wide-angle shot of Santa leresa from end to end with the ocean beyond. A hang-glider hovered high up to my right, sailing in lazy circles toward the beach. The day was full of hard sunlight, meager clouds looking like white foam just beginning to evaporate. It was dead quiet. No traffic, no sense of neighbors nearby. I could see a rooftop or two but there was no feeling of people. The landscaping was sparse, composed of drought-tolerant plants: pyracantha, wisteria, and succulents.

I rang the bell- The man who came to the door was short, tense, unshaven.

"Mr. Bergen?"

"That's right."

I handed him my business card. "I'm Kinsey Millhone. Bobby Callahan hired me to look into the accident last-"

"What for?"

I made eye contact. His were small and blue, red-rimmed. His cheeks were prickly with a two-day growth of beard that made him look like a cactus. He was a man in his fifties, radiating the smell of beer and sweat. His hair was thinning and combed straight back from his face. He wore pants that looked like he'd retrieved them from a Salvation Army box and a T-shirt that read "Life's a bitch. Then you die." His arms were soft and shapeless, but his gut protruded like a basketball pumped to maximum pressure per square inch. I wanted to respond in the same rude tone he was using with me, but I curbed my tongue. This man had lost a son. Nobody said he had to be polite.

"He thinks the accident was an attempt on his life," I said.

"Bullshit- I don't mean to be rude to you, lady, but let me fill you in. Bobby Callahan is a rich kid. He's spoiled, irresponsible, and self-indulgent. He fuckin' drank too much and he ran off the road, killing my son, who was incidentally his best friend. Anything else you've heard is horseshit."

"I'm not so sure of that," I said.

"Well, I am and I'm telling you straight. Check the police reports. Its all there. Have you seen 'em?"

"I got copies yesterday from Bobby's attorney," I said.

"No physical evidence, right? You got Bobby's claim someone ran him off the road, but you got nothing to substantiate a word he says, which in my mind makes his story pure crap."

"The police seem to believe him."

"You think they can't be bought off? You think the cops can't be persuaded by a few bucks?"

"Not in this town," I said. This man had really put me on the defensive and I didn't like the way I was handling myself.

"Says who?"

"Mr. Bergen, I know a lot of the local police. I've worked with them-" It sounded lame, but I was sincere.

He interrupted again, saying, Nuts! He made a dismissive gesture, turning his head with disgust. "I got no time for this. Maybe my wife'11 talk to you."

"I'd rather talk to you," I said. He seemed surprised by that, as though no one ever preferred to talk to him.

"Forget it. Ricky's dead. It's all over with."

"Suppose it's not? What if Bobby's really telling the truth and it wasn't his fault?"

"What's it to me in any event? I don't give a good god-darnn about him."

I nearly replied, but I shut my mouth instead, trusting some other instinct. I didn't want to get caught up in endless petty arguments that would only serve to keep this man inflamed. His agitation was profound, but I suspected that there was an ebb and flow to it. "May I have ten minutes of your time?"

He thought about it for a moment and then agreed with an air of annoyance. "Christ, come on in. I'm havin' my lunch. Reva's gone anyway."

He walked away from the door, leaving it up to me to close it after us and follow him through the house, which was drably carpeted and smelled as if it had been closed up. Window shades were drawn against the afternoon sun and the light in the house had an amber cast. I received a brief impression of overscaled furniture: two matching recliners covered in green plastic, and an eight-foot sectional sofa with an afghan on one end, occupied by a big black dog.