By the end of the school year Cassie was pregnant and attended graduation in a robe that suggested she was hiding a basketball she’d stolen from the gym. Rebecca died that October in a fall from the third floor of a fraternity house back east. According to the gossip, the accident occurred while she and a Delta Upsilon pledge were having sex on the balcony, but surely he hadn’t propped her up on the rail. It was more likely she took a tumble while barfing over the side.

As for Walker, he smoked heavily, drank heavily, and bought dope from the very low-wallers I considered my pals. Later I’d heard he was dealing dope himself, though I never saw proof of it. I never even considered selling dope because I knew if I were caught, the penalties would be far more stringent than the shit that would rain down on his head if he was busted for doing the same thing. This didn’t strike me as unfair. It was just the way of the world.

So what was I going to do here, call the guy and reintroduce myself? What was the worst thing that could happen if I rang him up all these years later? I decided not to plague myself with the possibilities. Maybe the playing field was level now or, perhaps, at the very least, I wasn’t standing in the same deep hole. I picked up the phone and dialed.

A woman answered and I said, “May I speak to Walker?”

“He’s not here. You can contact him at Montebello Bank and Trust later in the week.” Her tone was abrupt.

“Thanks. I’ll try that. Is this Carolyn?” Little Miss Perky here.

“Yes.”

“Could I leave a message in case I miss him at work?”

“Fine.”

“Great. My name’s Kinsey Millhone. Walker and I were in the same graduating class at Santa Teresa High. I’m hoping to contact his father. He’s a veterinarian, isn’t he?”

“He was back then, yes, but he retired.”

“I gathered as much when I didn’t see him listed in the yellow pages. Is he still here in town?”

A silence and then she said, “What’s this about?”

“Look, I know this sounds odd, but I’d like to talk to him about a dog he put down.”

“Is Walter in trouble of some kind?”

“Not at all. I have a couple of questions for him.”

“Are you a telephone solicitor? Is that what this is? Because he’s not interested and neither are we.”

I laughed. “I’m not selling anything. I’m a private investigator—”

The line went dead.