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Danielle had speculated that Lorna wouldn't have a will, but the document seemed consistent with Lorna's systematic nature. Neither Berlyn nor Tri
I checked back through the last few years of Lorna's income tax. Her only W-2's were from the water treatment plant. Under "Your Occupation," she had listed herself as "secretary" and "mental health consultant." I had to smile at that. She'd been meticulous in reporting income, taking only standard deductions. She'd never donated a dime to charity, but she'd been (largely) honest with the government. To the recipient, I suppose the services of a prostitute might be classified under mental health. As for the payments themselves, I guess no one at the IRS had ever wondered why the bulk of her "consulting fees" were paid to her in cash.
Janice had notified the post office to forward Lorna's mail to her, and she'd tossed in a stack of unopened statements: windowed envelopes from various sources, all of them marked "important tax information." I opened a few, just to check the year end against my list. Among them was a statement from a bank in Simi Valley that I'd seen on her tax forms for the last two years. The account had been closed out, but the bank had sent her a 1099-INT, reporting the interest accrued during the first four months of the year. I tucked that in with the other statements. All the credit cards had been canceled and notices sent to each company. I sorted through some of the files Lorna'd kept: canceled checks, receipts for utilities, various credit card slips.
I laid out the canceled checks like a hand of solitaire. At the bottom, under "Memo," she'd dutifully written in the purpose of the payment: groceries, manicure, haircut, linens, sundries. There was something touching about the care she'd taken. She hadn't known she'd be dead by the time these checks came back. She hadn't known her last meal would be her last, that every action she'd taken and each endeavor she'd engaged in were part of some finite number that would soon run out. Sometimes the hardest part of my job is the incessant reminder of the fact we're all trying so assiduously to ignore: we are here temporarily… life is only ours on loan.
I put down my pencil and eased my feet up on the desk, rocking back on my swivel chair. The room seemed dark, and I reached over and flipped on the lamp on the bookshelf behind me. Among Lorna's possessions, there was no address book, no calendar, no appointment book of any kind. That might have sparked my curiosity, but I wondered if it didn't speak to Lorna's caution about her clients. Danielle had told me she was very tight-lipped, and I felt this discretion might extend to the keeping of written notes as well.
I reached for the manila envelope that held the crime scene photographs. I sorted through until I found the angles that showed the papers on her table and countertop. I pulled the light over closer, but there was no way to see if there was an appointment book visible. I glanced at my watch. I was dog-tired. I was also bored and hungry, but I could feel my senses quicken as the darkness gathered depth. Maybe I was turning into a vampire or a werewolf, repelled by sunlight, seduced by the moon.
I got up and shrugged into my jacket, leaving Lorna's papers on my desk. What was bothering me? I sca
I picked up the bank notices and shuffled through them again, pausing when I got to the statement from the bank in Simi. The interest was minimal since she'd closed the account in April. Before that, she'd maintained a balance of roughly twenty thousand dollars. I looked at the closing date. The zero balance showed as of Friday, April 20. The day before she died.
I pulled out the files Lieutenant Dolan had given me. The personal property inventory mentioned all ma
The address I'd picked up for Clark Esselma
When I reached the main entrance, I could see electronic gates. A key pad and intercom were planted at expensive-car window height. Naturally my VW left me disadvantaged, and in order to buzz I had to pull on the emergency brake, open the car door, and torque my whole body, risking vicious back spasms. I pushed the button, wishing I could order a Big Mac and fries.
A disembodied voice came in response. "Yes?"
"Oh, hi. I'm Kinsey Millhone. I have some house keys that belong to Serena Bo
There was no reply. What did I expect, a gasp of astonishment? Half a second later the two halves of the gate began to swing back in silence. I eased my VW up the circular driveway, lined with junipers. The entry was cobblestone, with a separate lane leading to the left and on around to the rear. I caught a glimpse of garages, like a line of horse stables. Just to be contrary, I bypassed the front door and drove around the side of the house to a brightly lighted gravel parking pad in back. The four-car garage was linked to the main house by a long, covered breezeway, beyond which I could see a short stretch of lawn intersected by a man-made reflecting pond, submerged lights tucked among its rocks. All across the property, lighting picked out significant landscape features: ornamental shrubs and tree trunks appearing like oils painted on black velvet. On the clear black surface of the pond, water lilies grew in clumps, breaking up a perfect inverted image of the house.
Night-blooming jasmine filled the air with perfume. I backtracked to the front door and rang properly. Moments later Serena answered, dressed in slacks and a white silk shirt.
"I brought your keys back," I said, holding them out to her.
"Those are my keys? Oh, so they are," she said. "Where did these come from?"