Sue Grafton - I is for Innocent

"Doesn't he know how that's going to look if it comes to light? It's going to look like he's paying Curtis for his testimony. Trust me, Curtis is not that reliable as it is. How are we going to pass him off as an impartial witness doing his civic duty?"

"He doesn't see anything wrong with it. He says Curtis was having trouble finding a job. I guess Curtis told him he might have to leave the area and go somewhere else. Kenneth wanted to make sure he'd be available-"

"That's what subpoenas are for!"

"Well, don't get mad at me. Ken swears it's not what it looks like. Curtis came to him after David was acquitted-"

"Oh, stop it, Francesca. What's a jury supposed to think? How convenient. Curtis's testimony is going to directly benefit the man who's been paying him now for three years…" I stopped where I was. Something in the way she was clutching at the pillow made me study her more closely. "What's the rest?"

"I gave Morley the ledger. I was worried Kenneth would destroy it so I left it with Morley for safekeeping till I could decide what to do."

"When was this?"

"When I found the ledger? Wednesday night, I guess. I took it over to Morley on Thursday, and when Kenneth got home later, we had a huge fight…"

"Did he know you'd taken it?"

"Yes, and he was furious. He wanted it back, but there was no way I was going to do that."

"Did he know you'd given it to Morley?"

"I never said that. He might have figured it out, but I don't see how. What makes you ask?"

"Because Morley was murdered. Somebody baked him a strudel filled with poisoned mushrooms. I found the white bakery box in the wastebasket."

Her face was blank. "Surely you don't think it was Ken."

"Let's put it this way: I've been through both Morley's offices. There's no ledger at all and the files are incomplete. I've been operating on the assumption that his housekeeping was sloppy or he was ripping Lonnie off, billing him for work that was never done. Now I'm wondering if someone stole files to cover the theft of something else."

"Kenneth wouldn't do such a thing. He wouldn't do any of it."

"What happened Thursday when you couldn't produce the ledger? Did he drop the subject?"

"He asked me repeatedly, but I wouldn't tell him. Then he said it didn't matter anyway because it wasn't a crime. If he lent Curtis money, it was between the two of them."

"But doesn't it strike you as interesting? Here's Kenneth Voigt paying Curtis McIntyre, whose testimony just happens to incriminate David Barney in a lawsuit that just happens to benefit Kenneth Voigt. Don't you see the symmetry? Or maybe it was blackmail. Now there's a thought."

"Blackmail for what?"

"Isabelle's murder. That's what all of this is about."

"He wouldn't have killed Isabelle. He loved her too much."

"That's what he says now. Who knows what he felt back then?"

"He wouldn't do that," she said without much conviction.

"Why not? Isabelle rejected him for David Barney. What could be more satisfying than to kill her and have the blame fall on David?"

I left her sitting there with the pillow in her lap. She'd twisted one corner until it looked like a rabbit's ear.

On the way back to Colgate, I stopped at a gas station and filled my tank. This crosstown driving was the equivalent of a round-trip to Idaho and I was beginning to regret the fact that I wasn't charging Lonnie for the mileage. It was just after 6:00 and traffic was heavy, most of it inbound, heading in the opposite direction. Clouds lay across the mountains like a layer of bunting. I headed for Voigt Motors, trying to calculate the odds of Kenneth Voigt telling me the truth. Whatever his relationship with Curtis, it was time for some straight talk. If I couldn't get it out of Kenneth, I was going to track Curtis down and have a chat with him. I parked in the little strip lot in front of Voigt Motors, tucking my VW between a vintage Jaguar and a brand-new Porsche. I went in through the front door, ignoring the saleswoman who stepped forward to greet me. I went up the wide stairs to the loggia of offices that rimmed the second floor-Credit, Accounting. Apparently the salespeople were required to be on the floor until closing time at 8:00. Those working the business end were a little luckier, already in the process of going home for the day. Kenneth's office door carried his name in two-inch brass letters. His secretary was a woman in her early fifties who'd gone on being a bleached blonde way beyond the legal age for it. Time had marked the space between her eyes with a goalpost of worry. She was tidying her desk, putting files away, making sure the pens and pencils were placed neatly in a ceramic mug.

I said, "Hi. Is Mr. Voigt here? I'd like to talk to him."

"You didn't pass him on the stairs as you came up? He left two minutes ago, but he may have gone down the back way. Is there something I can help you with?"

"I don't think so. Can you tell me where he parks? Maybe I can catch him before he takes off."

Her expression had changed and she regarded me with caution. "What is this regarding?"

I didn't bother to reply.

I ducked out of the office and continued along the upper level, peering briefly into every room I passed, including the men's room. A startled-looking fellow in a business suit was just shaking himself off. God, that would be convenient. If there were any justice in the world, women would have the little hang-down things and men would get stuck with putting the paper down on the seats. I said, "Ooops. Wrong room," and shut the door again. I found the back stairs through a door marked "Fire Exit." I took the stairs two at a time going down, but when I reached the parking lot, there was no sign of Ken and there were no cars pulling out of the exit.

I went back to my VW and headed out of the lot, turning left onto Faith in the direction of upper State. Curtis McIntyre's motel was only a mile away. This section of town was devoted to fast-food restaurants, car washes, discount appliance stores, and assorted small retail establishments, with an occasional office building sandwiched into the mix. Once I was past the Cutter Road Mall, the northbound freeway entrance appeared on the right. State Street angled left, running parallel to the highway for another mile or two.

The Thrifty Motel was located near the junction of State Street and the two-lane highway that cut north toward the mountains. I hung a left into the gravel entrance to the motel parking lot. I pulled into the unoccupied slot in front of Curtis's room. The lights in most rooms along the L were blazing, the air richly perfumed with the scent of frying meats, a heady blend of bacon, hamburger, pork chops, and sausage. Television news shows and booming country music competed for airspace. Curtis's windows were dark and there was no response to my knock. I tried the room next door. The guy who answered must have been in his forties, with bright blue eyes, a bowl-shaped haircut, and a beard like a tangle of hair pulled out of a brush.

"I'm looking for the guy next door. Have you seen him?"

"Curtis went out."

"Do you have any idea where?"

The guy shook his head. "Not my day to keep track of him."

I took out a business card and a pen. I scribbled a note asking Curtis to call me as soon as possible. "Could you give him this?"

The guy said, "I will if I see him." He shut the door again.

I took out another card and jotted down a duplicate message, which I slid in behind the metal 9 tacked to his door. The neon motel sign blinked on as I crossed the parking lot to the manager's office. Thrifty Motel was spelled out in sputtering green, the sound of flies buzzing against a window screen. The glass-paneled office door was open and a NO VACANCY sign, red letters on a white ground, had been propped against one of the jalousie windowpanes.