Sue Grafton - I is for Innocent

At least with the pictures, Morley had saved me a step, and I was grateful for that. I took comfort from the fact that we were thinking along the same lines. I could go straight back to the Gypsy and show these to Regina.

"Well, that was quick," she said when she caught sight of me.

"I was lucky," I said. "I came across a batch of snapshots that should do the job."

"I'll be happy to take a look."

"I have one question first. Did you ever hear from an investigator named Morley Shine?"

Her face clouded briefly. "Nooo, I don't think so. Not that I recall. In fact, I'm sure not. I'm good with names-my return customers like to be remembered-and his is unusual. I'd know if I'd talked to him, especially about this. What's the connection?"

"He was working on a case until two days ago. He died Sunday evening of a heart attack, which is why I was called in. It looks like he saw a link between the same two incidents."

"What was the other one? When you were here earlier, you said a near miss of some sort."

"A white pickup truck bumped a guy at an exit off the southbound One-oh-one. This was about one forty-five. He claims he knew the driver, though he had no idea there'd been a hit-and-run earlier." I held out the envelope. "Morley Shine dropped these off to be developed. If he meant to talk to you, he was probably waiting until he picked up the prints for ID purposes." I placed the envelope on the counter.

She adjusted her glasses and removed the twelve snapshots. She studied them thoughtfully, giving each picture her undivided attention before she laid it on the counter, making a line of trucks, like a motorcade that marched across the blotter. I watched for a reaction, but when Tippy's father's truck crossed her line of vision, there was no alteration in her expression, no remark indicating surprise or recognition. She studied the six trucks with care and then put an index finger on the Olympic Painting pickup. She said, "This is the one."

"You're sure of that."

"Positive." She picked up the print and held it closer. "I never thought I'd see this again." She flashed me a look. "Maybe we'll finally see someone brought to justice after all these years. And wouldn't that be nice."

I had a brief image of Tippy. "Maybe so," I said. "Anyway, you'll hear from the police as soon as I talk with them."

"Is that where you're off to?"

I shook my head reluctantly. "I have something else to do first."

I made a quick call to Santa Teresa Shellfish, but Tippy'd traded shifts and wasn't going to be in that day. I left the motel and headed for Montebello, hoping I could catch Tippy at home… preferably without her mother hovering in the background. In essence, I'd put the woman on notice. Rhe knew something was up, though she probably didn't have a way to guess just how serious it was.

West Glen is one of the primary arteries through Montebello, a winding two-lane road lined with tall hedges and low stone walls. Morning glories spilled over the fence tops in a waterfall of blue. The gnarled branches of the live oaks were laced together overhead, the sycamores interplanted with eucalyptus and acacia trees. Thick patches of hot pink geraniums grew by the road like weeds.

The small stucco cottage that Rhe and Tippy occupied was a two-bedroom bungalow built close to the road. I squeezed my car in on the shoulder and walked up the path to the porch, where I rang the bell. Tippy appeared almost instantly, shrugging into her jacket, purse and car keys in hand. She was clearly on her way out. She stared at me blankly with her hand on the doorknob. "What are you doing here?"

"I have a couple more questions, if you don't mind," I said.

She hesitated, debating, then she checked her watch. Her expression denoted a little impromptu wrestling match-reluctance, annoyance, and good manners doing takedowns. "God, I don't know. I'm meeting this friend of mine in about twenty minutes. Could you, like, really make it quick?"

"Sure. Can I come in?"

She stepped back, not thrilled, but too polite to refuse. She was wearing jeans and high-heeled boots, a portion of a black leotard visible under her blue denim jacket. Her hair was down today and it trailed halfway down her back, strands still showing waves where the French braid had been undone. Her eyes were clear, her complexion faintly rosy. Somehow it made me feel bad that she looked so young.

I took in the cottage at a glance.

The interior consisted of a combination living room/dining room, tiny galley-size kitchen visible beyond. The walls were hung with original art, probably Rhe's handiwork. The floors were done in Mexican paving tiles. The couch was upholstered in hand-painted canvas, wide brushstrokes of sky blue, lavender, and taupe, with lavender-and-sky-blue pillows tossed carelessly along its length. The side chairs were inexpensive Mexican imports, caramel-colored leather in a barrel-shaped rattan frame. There was a wood-burning fireplace, big baskets filled with dried flowers, lots of copper pots hanging from a rack in the kitchen area. Dried herbs hung from the crossbeams. Through French doors, I could see a small courtyard outside with a pepper tree and lots of flowering plants in pots.

"Your mom here?"

"She went up to the market. She'll be back in a minute. What did you want? I'm really really in a hurry so I can't take too long."

I took a seat on the couch, a bit of a liberty as Tippy hadn't really offered. She chose one of the Mexican chairs and sat down without enthusiasm.

I handed her the pictures without explanation.

"What're these?"

"Take a look."

Frowning, she opened the envelope and pulled out the prints. She shuffled through with indifference until she came to the Olympic Paint truck. She looked up at me with alarm. "You went and took a picture of my dad's pickup?"

"Another investigator took those."

"What for?"

"Your father's truck was seen twice the night your aunt Isabelle was murdered. I guess the other P.I. meant to show the pictures to a witness for identification."

"Of what?" I thought a little note of dread had crept into her voice.

I kept my tone flat, as matter-of-fact as I could make it. "A hit-and-run accident in which an old man was killed. This was on upper State in South Rockingham."

She couldn't seem to formulate the next question, which should have been, Why tell me? She knew where I was headed.

I went on. "I thought we ought to talk about your whereabouts that night."

"I already told you I didn't go out."

"So you did," I said with a shrug. "So maybe your father was the one driving."

We locked eyes. I could see her calculate her chances of squirming out from under this one. Unless she fessed up to the fact that she was driving, she'd be pulling her father right into the line of fire.

"My dad wasn't driving."

"Were you?"

"No!"

"Who was?"

"How should I know? Maybe somebody stole the truck and went joyriding."

"Oh, come on, Tippy. Don't give me that. You were out in the truck and you fuckin' know you were so let's cut through the bull and get down to it."

"I was not!"

"Hey, face the facts. I feel for you, kiddo, but you're going to have to take responsibility for what you did."

She was silent, staring downward, her manner sullen and unresponsive. Finally she said, "I don't even know what you're talking about."

I nudged her verbally. "What's the story, were you drunk?"

"No."

"Your mom told me you'd had your license suspended. Did you take the truck without permission?"

"You can't prove any of this."

"Oh, really?"

"How are you going to prove it? That was six years ago."

"For starters, I have two eyewitnesses," I said. "One actually saw you pull away from the scene of the accident. The other witness saw you at the southbound off-ramp on San Vicente shortly afterward. You want to tell me what happened?"