I located the convalescent hospital, a one-story stucco structure flanked on three sides by parking lots. From the outside, the fifty-bed facility looked plain and clean, probably expensive. I parked at the curb and climbed four concrete steps to the sloping front walk. The grass on either side was in its dormant stage, clipped short, a mottled yellow. An American flag hung limply from a pole near the entrance.

I pushed through a wide door into a comfortably furnished reception area, decorated in the style of one of the better motel chains. Christmas hadn't surfaced yet. The color scheme was pleasant: blues and greens in soothing, noninflammatory shades. There was a couch covered in chintz and four matching upholstered chairs arranged so as to suggest intimate lobby chats. The magazines on the end tables were neatly fanned out in an arc of overlapping titles, Modern Maturity being foremost. There were two ficus trees, which on closer inspection turned out to be artificial. Both might have used a dusting, but at least they weren't subject to whitefly and blight.

At the desk, I asked to see the nursing home director and was directed to the office of a Mr. Hugo, halfway down the corridor to my left. This wing of the building was strictly administrative. There were no patients in evidence, no wheelchairs, gurneys, or medical paraphernalia. The very air was stripped of institutional odors. I explained my business briefly, and after a five-minute wait Mr. Hugo's personal secretary ushered me into his office. Nursing home directors must have a lot of holes to fill in their appointment books.

Edward Hugo was a black man in his midsixties with a curly mix of gray and white hair and a wide white mustache. His complexion was glossy brown, the color of caramel. The lines in his face suggested an origami paper folded once, then flattened out again. He was conventionally dressed, but something in his manner hinted at obligatory black-tie appearances for local charity events. He shook my hand across his desk and then took his seat again while I took mine. He folded his hands in front of him on the desk. "What can I help you with?"

"I'm trying to learn the name of a former patient of yours, an old gentleman who was killed in a hit-and-run accident six years ago at Christmas."

He nodded. "I know the man you're referring to. Can you explain your interest?"

"I'm trying to verify an alibi in another criminal matter. It would help if I could find out if the driver was ever found."

"I don't believe so. Not to my knowledge, at any rate. To tell you the truth, it's always bothered me. The gentleman's name was Noah McKell.

His son, Hartford, lives here in town. I can have Mrs. Rudolph look up his number if you'd like to speak to him."

He went on in this manner, direct, soft-spoken, and matter-of-fact, managing in our ten-minute conversation to give me all the information I needed in a carefully articulated format. According to Mr. Hugo's account of the night in question, Noah McKell had removed his IV, disconnected himself from a catheter, dressed himself in his street clothes, and left his private room by the window.

I was surprised by that. "Aren't the windows kept locked?"

"This is a hospital, Miss Millhone, not a prison. Bars would constitute a danger if a fire ever broke out. Aside from that, we feel our patients benefit from the fresh air and a view of some greenery. He'd left the premises on two other occasions, which was a matter of great concern to us, given his condition. We considered the use of restraints for his protection, but we were reluctant to do so and his son was adamant. We kept the bed rails up and we had one of the aides look in on him every thirty minutes or so. The floor nurse went in at one-fifteen and discovered the empty bed.

"Of course, we moved very quickly once we realized he was gone. The police were alerted and the security people here began an immediate search. I received a call at home and came right over. I live up on Tecolote Road so it didn't take me long. By the time I got here, we'd heard about the hit-and-run. We went to the scene and identified the body."

"Were there any witnesses?"

"A desk clerk at the Gypsy Motel heard the impact," he said. "She ran out to help, but the old man was dead. She was the one who called the police."

"You remember her name?"

"Not offhand. Mr. McKell would be able to tell you, I'm sure. It's possible she's still there."

"I think I better talk to him in any event. If the driver was found, I won't need to take any more time with the questions."

"I'd like to think he would have told us if that were the case. Please give me a call and let me know what you find. I'd feel better about it."