I let myself into the studio and sat down at my desk. It was while I was pawing through my shoulder bag, looking for my index cards, that I came across the mail I’d stuck in the outside flap earlier. I extracted the handful and did a quick finger walk. I’d received checks from two different clients, both of them slow-pays. That cheered me up no end. The rest of the collection was the usual crap except for one plain white number ten envelope with a Perdido return address. When I opened it, I found a fold of white paper with a telephone number in the 406 area code and the name Hazel Rose, someone I’d never heard of. I couldn’t remember ever calling anyone with a 406 prefix and I had no idea what part of the country it was associated with.
I opened my bottom drawer and grabbed the telephone book. Up front, in the pages devoted to community services, emergency numbers, government offices, and public schools, there was a handy-dandy map of the United States, with the progression of time zones displayed in pastel colors, and the many and various area codes indicated state by state. Starting on the West Coast, in the Pacific Time Zone, I ran a finger down the page, zipping past Washington State, Oregon, California, and Nevada. I moved on to Mountain Time and quickly came across 406, which covered the whole of Montana, where I knew absolutely no one. I took out my atlas of the United States and flipped through the alphabetized listings until I came to Montana, which was sandwiched between Missouri and Nebraska. From the itty-bitty print in a box to one side, I learned that the population of Montana was over a million and a half souls spread out across approximately one hundred and forty-five thousand square miles. I was now in possession of many facts about a state I’d never visited, and I still didn’t have a clue about Hazel Rose. I went back to the return address, which looked familiar now that I was seeing it again. When the answer popped into my head, I said the word “Ah!” in a jolt of recognition. This was Phyllis Joplin’s new home address in the condominium complex where Ned Lowe had lain in wait and beat the shit out of her. Hazel Rose had to be Celeste Lowe’s alias. Her new location must be somewhere in Montana, which didn’t narrow it down that much. Ned had torn into Phyllis’s moving boxes searching for the information, which she’d had the foresight to put in the mail to me.
I sat and thought about it briefly and then picked up the handset. Then I put it down again. Ned had managed to tap the phone at my office, so why not here as well? I took apart the handset and studied the interior, which appeared to be clean. Before I crawled around on the floor, eyeballing the baseboards in search of spike mikes and related eavesdropping devices, I hauled out the small-band receiver I’d purchased years before from RadioShack. I unearthed the gadget at the back of my top desk drawer and then hunted down fresh batteries. I swept the area until I was satisfied there wasn’t a transmitter planted on the premises, and then crawled around on my hands and knees. One can’t be too careful about these things.
I went back to the fold of paper and punched in the number I’d been given. After six rings, the call was picked up by a machine on the other end.
Nothing. No voice message and no instructions. Just that silence followed by the sound of the beep.
I said, “Hello. My name is Kinsey Millhone. We met at your home in Cottonwood six months ago. This number was given to me by a mutual friend who’s recently suffered serious injury. I’d appreciate it if you’d return my call. You don’t need to mention your name or location, but it’s imperative that we talk.”
I recited my home phone number twice and then hung up. For all I knew, Celeste had been standing right there listening to me. I’d have to wait and see what she decided to do in response to the news that I’d passed along. In the meantime, I hid the fold of paper in my bra, where I knew it would remain undisturbed. Sorry state of affairs, isn’t it?
I had no choice but to turn my attention to the job at hand.
I checked my notes for the contact information Margaret Seay had given me for Steve Ringer, Roland Berg, and Patti Gibson, whose married name I didn’t have. I noticed that Steve and Roland shared an address in a singles development in Colgate. I hit the 101 and headed north. Iris had mentioned their throwing a homecoming party for Fritz, so I deemed them a likely source of information regarding his current whereabouts.
The two-story apartment buildings must have gone up in the sixties. The units on the second floor boasted high, slanted rooflines, punctuated by skylights. The stucco structures were arranged in groupings of four, each with laundry rooms, a workout center, and an enormous resort-style swimming pool in the center. Ground-floor units had patios sufficient to accommodate impromptu parties. Given the warm autumn afternoon, many louvered windows had been cranked open and music spilled out onto the balconies, most of which were furnished with Weber grills, lawn furniture, bicycles, and houseplants. Wet bathing suits were strung over the wrought-iron railings and whiffs of marijuana drifted out of every third door. Parking was generous. No pets allowed. The Santa Ynez Mountains formed a hazy backdrop to the north.
I was surprised by the number of residents in evidence. This was early afternoon and my guess was that employment consisted of waitressing and barkeep jobs that started at eight in the evening and went on into the wee hours. The apartment where Steve Ringer and Roland Berg lived was in a building that overlooked the freeway. Passing traffic mimicked the ebb and flow of the Pacific, with copious exhaust fumes added.
I climbed to the second floor and knocked on the first door, which was opened by a tall, thin fellow in flip-flops and a ratty knee-length green chenille robe, with his hair in a ponytail and an embarrassingly thin goatee. He was in the process of blowing his nose vigorously on a tissue. I placed him in his midtwenties. It was the nut and bolt in one ear that triggered the flash of memory.
I pointed at him. “You’re the guy from the camera shop.”
He shook his head in the negative as though I’d accused him of ditching school. “I called in this morning and Kirk said take the day off. He doesn’t want us coming in to work if we’re sick.”
“I’m not the health police. I met you a couple weeks ago when I came to the store and asked about duplicating a tape.”
He pointed back at me. “The exhibitionist.”
“That was work-related.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I’m a private detective. Kinsey Millhone,” I said.
I held out a hand as though to shake his and then thought better of it. He’d already held up both his hands as though at gunpoint, declining to expose me to his upper respiratory woes.
“You can come in if you like, but we’re better off out here,” he said, honking into his tissue again.
I caught a glimpse of orange shag carpet. I suspected the kitchen appliances would be avocado green. “Fresh air works for me,” I said. “Are you Stringer?”
“That’s right.”
I handed him a business card. “I’m hoping to track down Fritz McCabe. He’s been spending time with friends and I was hoping you’d know who.”
“That’s us,” he said. “He was here a couple of weekends, but that got old fast. I read in the paper he’s out of prison and suddenly he’s on the phone, dropping these not-so-subtle hints about getting the old gang together again. This was a couple of days after he got back.”