"Yeah, but did he know that? And what about the public disgrace?"

"Nobody cares about those things in this day and age." Lonnie picked up his pencil and drew a box on his legal pad. "One thing you're forgetting. If the guy's smart… say he's ripped off the system to the tune of half a million bucks, which is probably conservative. All they know about so far. Call it two million dollars just to make it worth the risk. A smart guy makes two, maybe three trips abroad. Picks a country where he knows he can count on extradition laws if the feds track him down. He sets up a bank account and feeds money in, transferring funds until he has what he needs. Then he can go on merrily cheating 'til someone's onto him. Situation heats up, he's on the first plane out. In that case, the thirty thousand dollars is just his travel fund."

I thought about Fiona's story of Dowan's vanishing twice without explanation. "Good point." I was also thinking about the bookkeeper, who got fired, and the assistant administrator, who quit her job in protest. Maybe that was Dow's attempt to point a finger elsewhere. The phone rang and Lonnie picked up the handset. From the nature of his comments, it was Marie checking in. I waved at him and eased out of his office, leaving him to finish his conversation in private, I returned to my office and reread my report. It seemed okay, but I thought I'd let it sit for a day. I'd be adding interviews once I figured out who I'd be talking to next. I drew up a list from the possibilities I'd gleaned. Purcell's business associates were among the top five names, along with Dow's best friend. I made sure I had the necessary phone numbers and then decided I'd done enough and it was time to go home.

At two o'clock, I made myself some milk of tomato soup and a gooey grilled cheese sandwich that I dipped in my bowl and lifted dripping to my lips. The liquid red of the soup against the crunchy golden surface of the bread was a culinary portrait of early childhood consolation. Aunt Gin first served me this confection when I was five years old, mourning my parents who'd been killed in a car wreck the previous May. The ooze of melted Velveeta will always prompt the curious sensation of sorrow and satisfaction comingling on the surface of my tongue. This sandwich, I confess, was the highlight of my weekend, which is what life boils down to when you're celibate.

Afterward, I did what any other trained professional investigator would do: I walked the six steps into the living room, flipped off my shoes, and settled on the sofa, where I covered myself in a big puffy comforter and started reading a book. Within minutes, I'd been sucked through a wormhole into a fictional world, traveling faster than the speed of words into a realm without sound and without gravity.

The phone rang, the sound annoyingly shrill. I'd sunk like a stone into a river of dreams and I was disoriented by the need to surface. I reached back, fumbling for the phone, which was resting on the end table above my head. I hadn't even realized I'd fallen asleep, except for the drooling, which I don't ordinarily do when awake. "Ms. Millhone?"

"Yes." If this was someone selling something I was going to say a very bad word.

"This is Blanche McKee."

Three seconds passed. The name meant nothing. I rubbed my face and said, "Who?"

"Fiona Purcell's daughter. I understand Mother's hired you. I just wanted you to know how relieved we all are. We've been urging her to do this ever since Daddy disappeared."

"Oh, right. Sorry. I couldn't place the name. How're you?" Groggily, I sat up, pulling the quilt around me like a tribal robe.

"Fine, thanks. I hope I'm not calling at a bad time. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"Not at all," I said. The truth is, everyone knows you've been sleeping regardless of how earnestly you might lie to them.

Blanche must have decided to take me at my word. "I'm not sure how much Mother's told you-quite a lot, I'm sure-but if there's anything I can do, I'll be happy to help. Did she mention my friend Nancy?"

"I don't believe so. The name doesn't sound familiar."

"I was afraid of that. Mother tends to be a cynic, which you might have guessed. Nancy's recently moved to Chico, but she's available for consultation anytime by phone."

"Nancy. Good news. I'm making a note." Whoever Nancy was.

"I'm assuming you'll want my personal impressions as well."

"Sure. I mean, eventually. That'd be great."

"I'm so happy you said that because I was thinking-if you have a minute this afternoon, you might want us to get together so I can share my concerns."

I hesitated. "Ah. Well. You know, at the moment, I'm more interested in facts than impressions and concerns. No offense."

"None taken. I didn't mean to imply that I don't have facts."

"Uh-huh." I hadn't forgotten Fiona's barely disguised contempt for her younger daughter, mother of four, soon to be mother of five. On the other hand, maybe Fiona'd told Blanche about me in order to test my perseverance, since I'd made such a point of it during our meeting. Blanche said, "What time would suit?"

I went ahead and mouthed the bad word, adding another choice expletive from my extensive collection. "Hang on a second. I'll check my schedule." I held the receiver to my chest while I looked at my watch. 4:06. I allowed time to pass while I pretended to scan my day planner with its numerous Saturday-afternoon appointments. I had no particular desire to meet Blanche, especially at the cost of a first-class nap. I hated the idea of abandoning my lair and I certainly didn't want to traipse all over town on such a cold, damp day. My living room windows were already gray with the premature November twilight and I could see the drizzle slant against the bare branches that were tapping at the panes. I glanced at my watch again. 4:07.

I could hear Blanche breathing and when she spoke, her tone was sharp. "Kinsey, are you there?"

"I'm here. Gee, it looks like I'm Looked up today. Tomorrow might be possible. I could be there by ten o'clock."

"That won't work for me and Monday's out of the question. Isn't there any way you could stop by? I feel it's terribly important."

What I personally felt was a surge of irritation. I could just see Fiona returning from San Francisco, carping because I hadn't taken time to interview Blanche. Fifteen hundred dollars and you couldn't even bother to see my daughter? I said, "I could be there by five-thirty, but only for half an hour. That's the best I can do."

"Perfect. That's fine. We're up on Edenside at the corner of Monterey Terrace. The number's 1236. It's a two-story Spanish. You'll see a dark blue station wagon parked in the drive."

Edenside Road was part of a small housing development cunningly tucked into the foothills; five winding streets, each of which ended in a wide cul-de-sac. The builder had followed the terrain, taking the path of least resistance, the five streets built into the contours of the hill like rivulets of asphalt flowing from the highest point. My progress was halting, an exasperating ten miles an hour, as I slowed for a speed bump every fifteen yards or so. The neighborhood was ideal for children, whose presence was announced by the number of strollers, playhouses, swing sets, bicycles, tricycles, Big Wheels, and skateboards littering the yards. It looked like a Toys "R" Us had exploded close by. The house at the corner of Edenside and Monterey Terrace was indeed a two-story Spanish hacienda with a courtyard in front. Even in the gathering dark, I couldn't miss the three-car garage that jutted forward aggressively like a pugnacious jaw. As I watched, the low-voltage landscape lights came on, illuminating the front of the house. The exterior stucco was tinted a gaudy pink and the roof tiles, while clay, were a series of interlocking orange 5's, clearly mass produced. The original clay tiles still gracing many older structures in town are now a dark faded red, mottled with lichen and shaped like a C where the worker once laid the soft clay across his thigh in forming it.