Sue Grafton - P is for Peril

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From Publishers Weekly
PI Kinsey Millhone's trademark dry sense of humor is largely absent in the first half of the 15th book in this justifiably popular series, though it resurfaces as the suspense finally begins to build in the second half. In the bleak November of 1986, Kinsey looks into the disappearance of Dr. Dowan Purcell, who's been missing for nine weeks. Dr. Purcell is an elderly physician who runs a nursing home that's being investigated for Medicare fraud. His ex-wife, Fiona, hires Kinsey when it seems as though the police have given up on the search. Fiona thinks that he could be simply hiding out somewhere, especially since he's pulled a disappearance stunt twice before. However, Purcell's current wife, Crystal, believes that he may be dead. Kinsey is dubious about finding any new leads after so much time has elapsed. She's also worried about having to move out of the office space she now occupies in the suite owned by her lawyer, and between her interviews with suspects she tries to rent a new office from a pair of brothers whose mysterious background begins to make her suspicious. Grafton's Santa Teresa seems more like Ross Macdonald's town of the same name than ever before, with dysfunctional families everywhere jostling for the private eye's attention. The novel has a hard-edged, wintry ambience, echoed in Fiona Purcell's obsession with angular art deco furniture and architecture. Unfortunately, Grafton's evocation of the noir crime novels and styles of the 1940s, although atmospheric, doesn't make up for a lack of suspense and lackluster characters. (June 4)Forecast: With a 600,000-copy first printing and a national author tour, this Literary Guild Main Selection is sure to shoot well up the bestseller lists.

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I stood up and stretched, working the kinks out of my neck with a head roll or two. Feeling restless, I wandered down the inner corridor, peering into offices along the way. As I passed Lonnie's office, I was startled to catch sight of him. He sat tilted back in his swivel chair, his feet propped up on the edge of his desk, a transcript in his lap, apparently catching up on work while the office was quiet and the phones were silent. In lieu of the usual dress shirt and suit, he wore a plaid flannel shirt and a pair of stone-washed jeans. His concentration was complete, a focus that caused his whole body to become still. I watched him reach for his pencil and underline a phrase, soft scratching in the quiet.

Lonnie looks like a boxer, his body dense and muscular, his nose thickened by scars. His hair is dark and unruly, growing in all directions. I've seen newborns like that, with a head of hair so thick and unexpected it seems comical. He's a man of high energy, generally souped up on vitamins, coffee, nutritional supplements, and competitive drive. This was probably as relaxed as I'd ever seen him.

"Lonnie?"

He glanced up and smiled, tossing his pencil aside. "Kinsey. Come on in. I've been wondering what you were up to. I haven't seen you for weeks."

"Not much. I didn't even know you were here. The place has been so quiet, I thought I was alone. Catching up on work?"

"Sure, but it's just an excuse. Marie's out of town. Some convention of butt-kickers down in San Diego. Tell you the truth, I'd rather be here than stuck by myself at home. Have a seat," he said. "What about you? What brings you in on a Saturday afternoon?"

"I was typing up some notes while things were fresh on my mind. Oh hey, before I forget. A guy named Richard Hevener may be calling to check my references."

"What's the deal?"

I think I found office space, but I'm waiting to see." I filled him in on the situation, describing the newly renovated cottage with its redwood deck. "It's great. Small and quiet and the location's perfect."

"If he calls, I promise I'll sing your praises. I won't say a word about the tiny bit of time you spent incarcerated. Meantime, the door's al-open if it doesn't work out."

"I appreciate that. Cross your fingers for me."

"Not a problem," he said. "Ida Ruth tells me you're working on Dr. Purcell's disappearance."

"How'd she hear that? I only took the job yesterday." Lonnie waved a hand in the air. "Ida Ruth knows everything. She makes a point of it. Actually, she has a friend who used to work for him. Current speculation has it he's run away from home. Days when I think about doing that myself."

"Oh, please. Marie would come after you and hunt you down like a dog." His wife was a martial arts instructor, an expert in ways to cripple people with her size-five bare feet.

"There is that. Of course, the problem with disappearing is you can't do it on impulse. Not if you're serious. Takes long-term planning if you want to stay gone for good."

"So you'd think. Personally, I suspect he's dead, but his passport and thirty thousand dollars disappeared at about the same time."

"Thirty thousand dollars would evaporate in six months. Purcell's accustomed to living well. He's not going to pinch pennies. At his age?

He'd have to be nuts."

"That was my reaction. On the other hand, if he settled in a Third World country, he could live pretty well on it, and if he ran short of funds, he could probably set up a small practice with no questions asked."

"Why not just stay where he is?"

"Ah. I forgot to tell you the wrinkle I came across today." I filled him in on my visit to Pacific Meadows and the chat I'd had with Merry, the Patron Saint of Loose Lips. "According to her, the federal fraud busters are hot on his trail. Half a million dollars in bogus claims. Guilty or innocent, he might have taken off once he realized they were closing in."

Lonnie winced with impatience. "Get serious. No way. The feds aren't gonna put a guy like him in jail. The prosecutor has to prove criminal intent and how's he going to do that? Believe me, Medicare regulations would drive any honest man insane. So you weasel the deal; claim coding errors and incompetent clerical help. They might fine him and wag a finger, but any good attorney could get him off. Hell, I could do it myself and I don't know beans about that stuff. First thing you do is bore the hell out of the jury. Put up a bunch of charts and graphs, citing statistics 'til nine out of the twelve start nodding off. Suggest the old doc's gone senile or he's a poor businessman." He paused with a snort of amusement. "You hear about that case? Some guy up in Fresno got acquitted because a jury decided he was too dumb to be guilty of embezzlement. His own attorney painted him as such a buffoon, the jury took pity and cut the poor dunce loose. Purcell's in no danger."

"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?"

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