it—betrayed us like that.
We loved her so much.”
“Have you got the money here?”
He nodded, looking miserable. “I wasn’t going to pay your fee out of that,” he said
incongruously. “We really did have a little fund so we could go to San Diego one day.”
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out,” I said.
“I didn’t do so bad, though, did I? I mean, I could have gotten away with it, don’t
you think?”
I’d been talking about the trip to the zoo. He thought I was referring to his murdering
his wife. Talk about poor communication. God.
“Well, you nearly pulled it off,” I said. Shit, I was sitting there trying to make
the guy feel good.
He looked at me piteously, eyes red and flooded, his mouth trembling. “But where did
I slip up? What did I do wrong?”
“You put her diaphragm in the overnight case you packed. You thought you’d shift suspicion
onto Gavin Sotherland, but you didn’t realize she’d had her tubes tied.”
A momentary rage flashed through his eyes and then flickered out. I suspected that
her voluntary sterilization was more insulting to him than the affair with her boss.
“Jesus, I don’t know what she saw in him,” he breathed. “He’s such a pig.”
“Well,” I said, “if it’s any comfort to you, she wasn’t going to take
him
either. She just wanted freedom, you know?”
He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose, trying to compose himself. He mopped
his eyes, shivering with tension. “How can you prove it, though, without a body? Do
you know where she is?”
“I think we do,” I said softly. “The sandbox, Robert. Right under us.”
He seemed to shrink. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Oh, God, don’t turn me in. I’ll give
you the money, I don’t give a damn. Just let me stay here with my kids. The little
guys need me. I did it for them. I swear I did. You don’t have to tell the cops, do
you?”
I shook my head and opened my shirt collar, showing him the mike. “I don’t have to
tell a soul,” I said, and then I looked over toward the side yard.
For once, I was glad to see Lieutenant Dolan amble into view.
the parker shotgun
T HE C HRISTMAS HOLIDAYS had come and gone, and the new year was under way. January, in California, is as good
as it gets—cool, clear, and green, with a sky the color of wisteria and a surf that
thunders like a volley of gunfire in a distant field. My name is Kinsey Millhone.
I’m a private investigator, licensed, bonded, insured; white, female, age thirty-two,
unmarried, and physically fit. That Monday morning, I was sitting in my office with
my feet up, wondering what life would bring, when a woman walked in and tossed a photograph
on my desk. My introduction to the Parker shotgun began with a graphic view of its
apparent effect when fired at a formerly nice-looking man at close range. His face
was still largely intact, but he had no use now for a pocket comb. With effort, I
kept my expression neutral as I glanced up at her.
“Somebody killed my husband.”
“I can see that,” I said.
She snatched the picture back and stared at it as though she might have missed some
telling detail. Her face suffused with pink, and she blinked back tears. “Jesus. Rudd
was killed five months ago, and the cops have done shit. I’m so sick of getting the
runaround I could scream.”
She sat down abruptly and pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to compose herself.
She was in her late twenties, with a gaudy prettiness. Her hair was an odd shade of
brown, like Cherry Coke, worn shoulder length and straight. Her eyes were large, a
lush mink brown; her mouth was full. Her complexion was all warm tones, tanned, and
clear. She didn’t seem to be wearing makeup, but she was still as vivid as a magazine
illustration, a good four-color run on slick paper. She was seven months pregnant
by the look of her; not voluminous yet, but rotund. When she was calmer, she
We loved her so much.”
“Have you got the money here?”
He nodded, looking miserable. “I wasn’t going to pay your fee out of that,” he said
incongruously. “We really did have a little fund so we could go to San Diego one day.”
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out,” I said.
“I didn’t do so bad, though, did I? I mean, I could have gotten away with it, don’t
you think?”
I’d been talking about the trip to the zoo. He thought I was referring to his murdering
his wife. Talk about poor communication. God.
“Well, you nearly pulled it off,” I said. Shit, I was sitting there trying to make
the guy feel good.
He looked at me piteously, eyes red and flooded, his mouth trembling. “But where did
I slip up? What did I do wrong?”
“You put her diaphragm in the overnight case you packed. You thought you’d shift suspicion
onto Gavin Sotherland, but you didn’t realize she’d had her tubes tied.”
A momentary rage flashed through his eyes and then flickered out. I suspected that
her voluntary sterilization was more insulting to him than the affair with her boss.
“Jesus, I don’t know what she saw in him,” he breathed. “He’s such a pig.”
“Well,” I said, “if it’s any comfort to you, she wasn’t going to take
him
either. She just wanted freedom, you know?”
He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose, trying to compose himself. He mopped
his eyes, shivering with tension. “How can you prove it, though, without a body? Do
you know where she is?”
“I think we do,” I said softly. “The sandbox, Robert. Right under us.”
He seemed to shrink. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Oh, God, don’t turn me in. I’ll give
you the money, I don’t give a damn. Just let me stay here with my kids. The little
guys need me. I did it for them. I swear I did. You don’t have to tell the cops, do
you?”
I shook my head and opened my shirt collar, showing him the mike. “I don’t have to
tell a soul,” I said, and then I looked over toward the side yard.
For once, I was glad to see Lieutenant Dolan amble into view.
the parker shotgun
T HE C HRISTMAS HOLIDAYS had come and gone, and the new year was under way. January, in California, is as good
as it gets—cool, clear, and green, with a sky the color of wisteria and a surf that
thunders like a volley of gunfire in a distant field. My name is Kinsey Millhone.
I’m a private investigator, licensed, bonded, insured; white, female, age thirty-two,
unmarried, and physically fit. That Monday morning, I was sitting in my office with
my feet up, wondering what life would bring, when a woman walked in and tossed a photograph
on my desk. My introduction to the Parker shotgun began with a graphic view of its
apparent effect when fired at a formerly nice-looking man at close range. His face
was still largely intact, but he had no use now for a pocket comb. With effort, I
kept my expression neutral as I glanced up at her.
“Somebody killed my husband.”
“I can see that,” I said.
She snatched the picture back and stared at it as though she might have missed some
telling detail. Her face suffused with pink, and she blinked back tears. “Jesus. Rudd
was killed five months ago, and the cops have done shit. I’m so sick of getting the
runaround I could scream.”
She sat down abruptly and pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to compose herself.
She was in her late twenties, with a gaudy prettiness. Her hair was an odd shade of
brown, like Cherry Coke, worn shoulder length and straight. Her eyes were large, a
lush mink brown; her mouth was full. Her complexion was all warm tones, tanned, and
clear. She didn’t seem to be wearing makeup, but she was still as vivid as a magazine
illustration, a good four-color run on slick paper. She was seven months pregnant
by the look of her; not voluminous yet, but rotund. When she was calmer, she
Similar Books
