I is for Innocent

"Kinsey Millhone," I said, introducing myself. We shook hands briefly and then I told him who I worked for. "I just had a chat with David Barney and he mentioned your name."

Angeloni shook his head. "I can't believe that poor son of a bitch has to go to court again." He finished his beer, crushed the can, and fired a jump shot, tossing the empty container in the Dumpster with a plunking sound. He said 'Two points' and made crowd sounds with his fist against his mouth. He had a nice smile, unpretentious.

"This time it's wrongful death," I said.

"Jesus. What about double jeopardy? Isn't that what it's called? I thought you couldn't be tried twice."

"That applies to criminal. This is civil."

"I'm glad I'm not him. You want a beer? I just got home from work and I always suck down a few. This place is a mess. You better watch out for loose nails."

"Sure, I'll have one," I said and followed him toward the kitchen, which I could see clearly through the plastic. His butt was cute, too. "How long has this been going on?"

"The remodel? About a month. We're adding a big family room and a couple bedrooms for the kids."

Scratch the wedding, I thought as we pushed into the kitchen.

He took two beers from a six-pack and popped the tops on both. "I gotta fire up the barbecue before Julia

"How many kids?"

He held up one hand and wiggled his fingers.

"Five?"

"Plus one in the hatch. They're all boys. We're looking for a little girl this time."

"Are you still with the water department?"

"Ten years in May," he said. "You're a private investigator? What's that like?"

I talked idly about my work while he dumped the ashes from the Weber grill. He had a flat electrical starter that he plugged into an extension cord, mounding on charcoal briquettes, which he rearranged with a set of long metal pincers. I knew I should press for information. All I needed was confirmation of David Barney's whereabouts the night of the murder-the possible identification of Tippy Parsons, too-but there was something hypnotic about all the homely activity. I'd never been with a man who'd cared enough to fire up a Weber grill on my behalf. Lucky Julia

"Could you tell me about the night you saw David Barney?"

"There wasn't much to it. We were out digging up the street, trying to find a broken pipe. It had been pouring for days, but it wasn't raining right then. I heard a thump and looked up to see this guy in a ru

"Did you see the driver of the truck?"

"Not really. It was some young girl, but I didn't get a clear look at her face."

"What about the license number? Did you catch that?"

He shrugged apologetically. "I never even thought to look. The truck was white. I know that."

"You remember the make?"

"Ford or Chevy, I'd guess. American, at any rate."

"How'd you find out who David Barney was? Did he introduce himself?"

"Not at the time. He got in touch with us later."

"How'd he know who you were?"

"He tracked us down through the department. Me and my buddy James. He knew the date, time, and location so it wasn't that tough."

"Can James confirm this?"

"Sure. We both talked to the guy."

"At the time Mr. Barney got in touch with you, did you know about his wife's murder?"

"I'd been reading about it in the paper. I didn't realize the co

"That's why I'm here. The guy still swears he didn't do it."

"Well, I don't see how he could. He was miles away."

"You remember the time?"

"About one forty-five. Might have been a little earlier, but I know it wasn't later because I looked at my watch just as he was taking off."

"Didn't it seem odd to see someone out jogging at one-thirty in the morning?"

"Not a bit. I'd seen him jog along the same path the night before. Emergency work you see all kinds of things."

"You testified at the murder trial, didn't you?"

"Sure."

"What about this round? Will you testify again?"

"Absolutely. Glad to do it. The poor guy needs a break."

I thought back through Barney's story, trying to remember what he'd told me. "What about the cops? Did the police ever interview you?"

"Some homicide detective called and I told him everything I knew. He thanked me and that's the last I ever heard from him. I tell you one thing-they didn't like him. They had him tried and convicted before they even got him into court."

"Well, thanks. I appreciate this. You've given me a lot of information. I may get back in touch if I have any other questions." I gave him my card in case he thought of anything else. I crossed back to the car and sat there, making notes while his comments were still fresh.

I thought about Tippy, searching my memory. Rhe had told me those were Tippy's teen alcoholic years. If I remembered right, Rhe had sent her off to live with her father because she and Tippy had had a falling-out. So how would Rhe know if she was in that night or not? Maybe I should just ask Tippy and be done with it. "Do the obvious" had always been a working motto of mine.

I glanced at my watch. It was 5:35. Santa Teresa Shellfish was out on the wharf-maybe two blocks from my apartment, which was not that far away. I headed for home, across the backside of Capillo Hill. If Tippy was out that night, I couldn't see why she wouldn't own up to it six years later. Maybe nobody'd ever asked her. What a happy thought.

12

I parked the car in front of my place, dropped off the briefcase, plucked my windbreaker off the back of the door, and walked the two blocks to the wharf. The sun wasn't quite down yet, but the light was gray. The days were" marked by this protracted twilight, darker shadows gathering among the trees while the sky remained the color of polished aluminum. When the sun finally set, the clouds would turn purple and blue and the last rays of sun would pierce the gloom with shafts of red. Winter nights in California were usually in the fifties. Summer nights were often in the fifties, too, which offered the possibility of sleeping year-round beneath a quilt.

To my right, a quarter mile away, the long slender arm of the breakwater curved around the marina, cradling sailboats in its embrace. The ocean pounded on the seawall, the force of the waves creating a plume of spray that marched from right to left. Beneath my feet, the pier seemed to shift as if nudged by the waves. The smell of creosote rose like a vapor from heavy timbers saturated to a dark gloss. The tide was high, the water looking like dark blue ink, silver pilings stained with the damp. Cars rolled down the pier, the rumble of loose boards creating a continuous tremor along the length. The fog was rolling in, bringing with it the damp cloudy smell of seaweed. Darkened boats were moored just offshore in the poor man's marina.

On the wharf itself the lights were bright and cold against the deep shadows of the ocean. The Marina Restaurant was ablaze, the air around it scented with the savory aroma of char-grilled fish and steaks. One of the parking valets jogged toward the end of the small lot to retrieve a vehicle. Gulls rested on the peaked roof of the bait-and-tackle shop, the shingled slopes banked with snowy white where the bird droppings had collected. The fishermen were packing up, tackle boxes clattering, while a pelican waddled about beady-eyed, still hoping for a handout.