I stashed the typewriter under the desk again and caught sight of the light on my answering machine, which was blinking merrily. I swiveled once in my chair and pressed Play.

I could hear background noise.

“Kinsey? This is Michael Sutton. I gotta talk to you as soon as possible. After I left you, I went to get Madaline at her AA meeting and saw the same guy I spotted at the dig. He has two black eyes and his face is banged up, which is why I noticed him in the first place. We followed him to that Montebello Bank and Trust at Monarch and Old Coast Road. I’m calling from the gas station across the street. We’ve waited half an hour and he hasn’t come out so maybe he works there. Thing is, Madaline’s antsy to get home so I was hoping you could spell me while I run her back to the house. I guess not, huh. Anyway, when you get the message, could you call? If I’m not home, I’ll be here unless the bank closes in the meantime. Gotta go. Thanks.”

I wasn’t sure when the call had come in because the date and time function on my answering machine has been horsed up for months, claiming it’s perpetually noon on January 1. He must have called sometime after I’d talked to Joanne Fitzhugh because I left the same time she did and I’d run errands until it was reasonable to go home. I picked through the papers on my desk until I found the yellow legal pad where he’d jotted his contact information. I called his home number and counted fifteen rings before I hung up. I couldn’t see the point in driving to his house if no one was answering the phone. On the other hand, there was an undertone of panic in his voice I didn’t dare ignore.

I locked the office, fired up the Mustang, and drove the twelve blocks to Hermosa Street in a matter of minutes. I pulled into his drive, slammed the car door behind me, and scooted up his porch steps. I knocked, then crossed to the front window and peered in. Lights were off in the living room and there were no signs of life in the areas beyond. I pulled out my notebook and scribbled a hasty message, indicating the time I’d been there and asking him to call. I jotted down both my home and office numbers, then stuck the note between the front door and the screen. I stood indecisively, looking out at the street. As though by magic, Madaline walked into view, Goldie Hawn ahead of her, tugging at the leash. I waited.

As she turned up the walk, she said, “Where’s Michael?”

My, my. The little lady seemed cross and out of sorts. I said, “I have no idea. That’s what I came to ask you.”

“He left the house this morning to go meet some guy. He didn’t say a word about what time he’d be back.”

“He didn’t mention the guy’s name?”

“Nuh-uh. He was in a rush and all goofy. He said maybe now people would believe he was telling the truth.”

I pondered the implications, knowing it would be a waste of time to press her further. Madaline would be no help. She was too wrapped up in herself. I said, “I left a note for him stuck in the door. If you see him before I do, tell him I stopped by.”

“Oh great. Now I’m stranded. He’s got the car and I have to be someplace.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really,” she said. “I have a job interview downtown. It’s, like, completely critical to be there on time. Michael promised me a ride and now what?”

“Guess you’ll have to walk.”

“In heels? By the time I get there, I’ll be all sweaty and out of breath.”

I looked at my watch. “When’s your appointment?”

“Ten-thirty.”

“So start now and walk slowly. You have plenty of time.”

“Fuck you.”

Smiling, I returned to my car and backed out of the drive. I was still hoping to catch Sutton on his way back to the house. No such luck. I drove one block up and three blocks over, picking up the southbound freeway on-ramp. If his meeting was over, he might have returned to his one-man surveillance at the bank. I was taking the chance I’d spot his car in the vicinity. I got off the 101 at Old Coast Road and cruised past Montebello Bank and Trust, searching for Sutton’s turquoise MG. No sign of him in the bank parking lot or the service station across the street. Twice I drove the length of the main drag without results. Finally, I pulled into the narrow parking strip in front of the bank, taking up the vigil myself.

I got out of my car and went to the double-glass doors. I pushed and found the door locked, then realized the place wouldn’t open until ten, forty-five minutes hence. I locked my car and walked to a coffee shop I’d passed two blocks down. I paused at the entrance beside a row of coin-operated vending machines. I plunked a quarter in one and pulled out the local newspaper. I bought a big container of coffee and doused it liberally with milk. If the coffee didn’t cause my bladder to swell to twice its normal size, I could make it last until the bank opened. I reconsidered and added sugar in case the coffee turned out to be lunch as well.