“Well, somehow he managed to perfect his skills. You’d think it would take practice.”
“Bet you can put an ad in the personals and find like-minded playmates,” she said. “What’s your current feeling about April? Will you tell her what you suspect about her dad?”
“What would she do with the information? The guy may be certifiable, but I have no proof.”
“It’s possible she knows he’s bent and she’s been averting her eyes.”
“I would,” I said. “Who wants to admit a parent is the bogeyman? That’s what adults are supposed to protect us from. What happens if your father turns out to be the horror you thought was hiding under your bed?”
“That’s what keeps me in business,” she said.
? ? ?
When I got to work the next morning, I turned once again to the issues Pete had dropped in my lap. Susan Telford was the only one whose story I hadn’t heard. I tried directory assistance in Henderson, Nevada, asking for phone numbers for the last name Telford, and was rewarded with the sorry news that there were thirty-three. I asked for the first ten. I was already tired of the job and I hadn’t even started yet. There had to be an easier way to go about this.
I considered my alternatives. Wait a minute. Let’s be honest. This was me being cagey, pretending an idea had just occurred to me when it was pretty much on my mind 24/7. I never hear the word “Nevada” without thinking of Robert Dietz. This coming May, we’d celebrate our sixth anniversary of hardly ever seeing each other. Truly, in the time I’d known him, I’m not sure we’d ever been together more than two months at a stretch, and that was only once. Naturally we get along beautifully in between my being completely pissed off with him because he’s left me again.
Before I could change my mind, I dialed his number in Carson City. Three rings and his machine picked up. I listened to his outgoing message, which was terse and to the point. I waited for the beep and said, “Hey, Dietz. This is Kinsey. I need a favor from you. I’m looking for a woman named Susan Telford in Henderson, Nevada, and I wondered if you’d see what you can find out. There are thirty-three Telfords listed, and it doesn’t make sense for me to tackle the job from here. Pete Wolinsky put her name on a list of six women who are all connected in one way or another to a man named Ned Lowe. Pete went to some lengths to do background on Lowe, who seems like an all-around bad egg. If you have questions, call me back, and if you don’t want to do the job at all, that’s fine. Just let me know.”
Since my typewriter was still set up on the desk, I decided it was time to convert my investigation into report form. I’d accumulated any number of facts. Granted, none were earth-shattering, but who knew what they might add up to? Working for purely personal reasons didn’t absolve me of the need to be thorough. I was formulating a sense of the relationship between Ned Lowe and the six women whose names appeared on Pete’s list, but so far the link existed only in my head. To be useful, there had to be an overarching narrative account that would make the information comprehensible to someone unfamiliar with the circumstances. For my purposes, I found it helpful to maintain a running résumé of what I’d done, not only with an eye to discovering gaps, but in hopes of highlighting other avenues of inquiry. I had my doubts about whether my efforts would pay off, but documentation is never a bad idea.
I kept the language neutral and, in the process, forced myself to separate my opinions from the specifics of what I’d learned. My beliefs about Ned Lowe had to be deleted even if it grieved me to do so. What I was defining, in narrative form, were the dots that I hoped to connect when all the bits and pieces were in place.
The phone rang and I picked up the handset, tucking it between my shoulder and my ear while I rolled the paper out of the carriage and placed it on my desk. “Millhone Investigations.”
A gentleman with a powdery voice said, “Miss Millhone, this is Stanley Munce, formerly with the Burning Oaks Police Department. An acquaintance by the name of Clara Doyle told me you’d spoken to her about a case here some years ago. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely. Thank you so much for calling. I was asking about Lenore Redfern Lowe.”
“That was my understanding. I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer on the subject, but I will tell you what I can. I was the coroner’s investigator at the time of that young girl’s death. In order to complete a death certificate, the coroner has to determine the cause, mechanism, and manner of death. If you’re familiar with the distinctions, I won’t go into it . . .”
“No, please do,” I said. “I can always use a refresher course.”