Before I left the apartment, I searched out my old gun and tucked it in my shoulder bag. The gun is a Davis .32 semiautomatic with a five-and-a-quarter-inch barrel, loaded with Winchester Silvertips. During the past three years, I've taken a raft of shit about my use of this firearm, which I'm told is cheap and unreliable-a judgment that hasn't altered my lingering affection for the piece. It's small and tidy, weighing a nifty twenty-two ounces, and it feels good in my hand. I didn't believe Richard or Tommy would actually come after me, but I couldn't be sure. And that, of course, was the nature of the game they played.

Chapter 22

It was close to five o'clock as I traveled north on the 101. The afternoon light was already gone. Drizzle swirled through the moving traffic like a vapor and the action of the windshield wipers formed a fan-shaped smear where the mist settled on the glass and was waved away. Dave Levine is a one-way street heading toward town, so I was forced to take the Missile off-ramp and turn left onto Chapel. I swung up and around, catching the street at a higher point and following it down again. I passed Pacific Meadows on my right and began to scrutinize descending house numbers. The building I was looking for was only a block away. I found parking on the street and approached on foot, hunched against the misting rain.

The structure was a plain stucco box, four units in all, two up and two down, with an open stairwell up the middle leading to the second floor. Apartment 1 was on my right, with Apartment 2 just across from it. The name Bart had been written in black marker pen and attached to the mailbox for Apartment 3. I backed up ten steps and checked the second-story windows. Lights were on in several rooms on the front right-hand side. I climbed the stairs, knocked on the door, and waited. Behind me, through the open space between the halves of the building, I could see the rainfall like gauze swaddling the streetlights. A draft of air was being funneled through the gap and it was cold.

"Who is it?"

"Ms. Bart?"

I heard her secure the chain and then she opened the door a crack.

"Yes?"

"Sorry to disturb you at home. I'm Kinsey Millhone. I'm a private investigator, working for Dr. Purcell's ex-wife. Could I talk to you?"

"I don't know anything. I haven't seen him in months."

"I'm assuming you heard his body was found up at Brunswick Lake?"

"I read that. What happened? The paper didn't really say."

"Would it make a difference to you?"

"Well, I don't believe he killed himself, if that's what they're trying to prove."

"I tend to agree, but we may never know. Meanwhile, I'm trying to reconstruct events that led up to his death. Can you remember when the two of you last spoke?"

She made no response, but there was information in her eyes.

A shift in the breeze blew a breath of fine rain against the side of my face. Impulsively, I said, "Could I come in? It's really getting chilly out here."

"How do I know you're who you say you are?" I reached in my handbag and took out my wallet. I pulled my license from the windowed slot and pushed it through the crack to her.

She studied it briefly and then handed it back. She closed the door long enough to undo the chain. She opened the door again.

As soon as I stepped inside, she went through the whole process in reverse. I removed my slicker and hung it on a hat rack near the door. I paused to look around. The interior was a curious mix of old charm and annoyances: arches and hardwood floors, narrow windows with yellowing wooden Venetian blinds, a clunky-looking wall heater near the bedroom door. The living room boasted a fireplace with a grate that supported a partially charred log resting on an avalanche of ash. The air in the apartment wasn't much warmer than the air outside, but at least there wasn't any breeze. Through an arch on the far wall, I caught a glimpse of the bathroom tile, a retro maroon-and-beige mix, probably installed when the place was built. Without even seeing it, I knew the kitchen was bereft of modern conveniences: no dishwasher, no compactor, no garbage disposal. The stove would be original, a vintage O'Keefe and Merritt with two glass-fronted ovens and a set of matching salt and pepper shakers in a box on top. Rechromed and fully reconditioned, the stove would cost a fortune, though one oven would never work right and the hip young thing who bought it would unwittingly underbake her bread.

Tina indicated that I could take a seat in a gray upholstered chair while she returned to her place on the couch. She was younger than I'd expected, in her forties and so lacking in animation I thought she might be tranquilized. Her hair was the color of oak in old hardwood floors. She wore a sweat suit: gray drawstring pants and a matching jacket with a white T-shirt visible where the front was unzipped. She had her shoes off. The shape of her foot was outlined in dust on the soles of her white cotton crew socks. She seemed undecided what to do with her hands. She finally crossed her arms and tucked her fingers out of sight, as though protecting them from frostbite. "Why come to me?"