I is for Innocent

"Hold it. Let me look at him."

Leland stopped the tape and let me study the image. He was in his forties with light brown wavy hair combed away from his face. His forehead was lined and there were lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. He had a straight nose and a tense grin over artificially even teeth. His chin was strong and I could see that he had strong hands with blunt-cut nails. He was slightly taller than medium height. His attorney looked very tall and gray and somber by comparison.

"Thanks," I said. I realized belatedly that I'd been holding my breath. Leland pushed Play and the coverage quickly switched to another subject altogether. He handed me Curtis McIntyre's mug shot. "No sign of him."

For the money I'd given him, he could have feigned disappointment. "Could it be the camera angle?" I asked.

"We got a wide and a close. You saw 'em come through the door alone. Nobody approached in the footage we caught. Like I said, the guy might have stepped up and spoken once the press conference was over."

"Well. Thanks," I said. "I guess I'll have to rely on my other source."

I went back to my car, not sure what to do next. If I got verification of Curtis McIntyre's incarceration, I intended to confront him, but I couldn't do that yet. In theory, I had numerous interviews to conduct, but David Barney's phone call had thrown me. I didn't want to spend time shoring up David Barney's alibi, but if what he said was true, we'd end up looking like a bunch of idiots.

I took the winding road down the backside of the hill and turned right on Promontory Drive, following the road along the ocean and through the back entrance to Horton Ravine. I used the next hour and a half canvassing the old neighborhood to see if anybody had been out and about on the night Isabelle was murdered. It didn't thrill me to be in range of David Barney, but I couldn't see a way around it and still get the information I wanted. A canvass by telephone is the same as not doing it. It's too easy for people to hang up, tell fibs, or shine you on.

One neighbor had moved and another had died. A woman on the adjacent property thought she'd heard a shot, but she hadn't paid much attention to the time and she'd later wondered if it hadn't been something else. Like what, I thought. I wasn't sure if it was my paranoia or not, but any time I heard what sounded like a gunshot, I checked the clock to see what time it was.

Of the eight remaining homeowners variously peppered along that stretch of road, none had been out that night and none had seen a thing. I got the impression that it had all happened far too long ago to bear worrying about at this point. A six-year-old murder doesn't engage the imagination. They'd already told their versions of the story one too many times.

I went home for lunch, stopping off at my apartment just long enough to check for messages. My machine was clear. I went next door to Henry's. I was looking forward to meeting William.

I found Henry standing in his kitchen, this time up to his elbows in whole wheat flour, kneading bread. Pellets of dough clung to his fingers like wood putty. Usually, Henry's kneading has a meditative quality, methodical, practiced, soothing to the observer. Today, his ma

Henry wore a Hawaiian shirt, white shorts, and thongs, his long limbs sinewy and ta

Henry gave me a bland look. "William's been detailing some of the medical procedures associated with his heart attack."

"Quite right. You'll be interested in this," William said to me. "I'm assuming your knowledge of anatomy is as rudimentary as his."

"I couldn't pass a test," I said.

"Nor could I," William replied, "until this episode. Now Henry, you'll want to pay attention to this."

"I doubt that," Henry said.

"You see, the right side of the heart receives blood from the body and pumps it through the lungs, where carbon dioxide and other waste products are exchanged for oxygen. The left side receives the blood full of oxygen from the lungs and pumps it out into the body through the aorta…" The diagram he was using looked like the road map of a park with lots of one-way roads marked with black-and-white arrows. "Block these arteries and that's where you have a problem." William tapped on the diagram emphatically with the fork. "It's just like a rockslide coming down across a road. All the traffic begins to pile up in a nasty snarl." He turned a page in the pamphlet, which he held open against his chest like a kindergarten teacher reading aloud to a class. The next diagram showed a cross section of a coronary artery that looked like a vacuum cleaner hose filled with fluffies.

Henry interrupted. "Have you had lunch?"

"That's why I came home."

"There's some tuna in the refrigerator. You can make us some sandwiches. Do you eat tuna, William?"

"I've had to give it up. It's a very fatty fish to begin with and when you add mayo

"Turns out William can't eat lasagna," Henry said to me.

"Much to my regret. Fortunately, Henry had some fresh vegetables I was able to steam. I don't want to be a bother and I said as much to him. There's nothing worse than being a burden to your loved ones. A heart condition doesn't have to be a death sentence. Moderation is the key. Light exercise, proper nutrition, sufficient rest… there's no reason to believe I couldn't go on into my nineties."

"Everyone in our family lives into their nineties," Henry said tartly. He was slapping loaves into shape, plunking one after another into a row of greased pans.

I heard a dainty ping.

William removed his pocket watch and flipped the case open. "Time for my pills," he said. "I believe I'll take my medication and then have a brief rest in my room to offset the stress of jet lag. I hope you'll excuse me, Miss Millhone. It's been a pleasure meeting you."

"Nice to meet you, too, William."

We shook hands again. He seemed somewhat invigorated by his lecture on the hazards of fatty foods.

While I put the sandwiches together, Henry put six loaves of bread in the oven. We didn't dare say a word because we could hear William in the bathroom filling his water glass, then returning to his room. We sat down to lunch.

"I think it's safe to say this is going to be a very long two weeks," Henry murmured.

I moved over to the refrigerator and took out two Diet Pepsis, which I brought back to the table. Henry popped both tops and passed one back to me. While we ate, I filled him in on the investigation, in part because he likes hearing about the work I do, and in part because I find it clarifies my thinking when I hear what I have to say.

"What's your feeling about this Barney fellow?" he asked.

I shrugged. "The man's a creep, but then I don't think much of Ke

"You think the informant is telling the truth?"