I hauled out my trusty Smith-Corona, popped off the hard cover, and placed it on my desk. I spread out my index cards and typed a report for Sutton’s file, covering what I’d done to this point. I included Henry’s speculation about the sequence of events, which added a little ray of sunshine. When I finished I put the report in his file. I put a rubber band around the cards, dropped them in the same file, and closed the drawer. I’d gone as far as I could go and I needed a break. Over the weekend I’d reshuffle the facts and hope to spot something I’d missed. In the meantime, it was a perfect April morning, clear and sunny, still cool but with the promise of a warming trend. Surely, that boded well.

I stashed the typewriter under the desk again and caught sight of the light on my answering machine, which was blinking merrily. I swiveled once in my chair and pressed Play.

I could hear background noise.

“Kinsey? This is Michael Sutton. I gotta talk to you as soon as possible. After I left you, I went to get Madaline at her AA meeting and saw the same guy I spotted at the dig. He has two black eyes and his face is banged up, which is why I noticed him in the first place. We followed him to that Montebello Bank and Trust at Monarch and Old Coast Road. I’m calling from the gas station across the street. We’ve waited half an hour and he hasn’t come out so maybe he works there. Thing is, Madaline’s antsy to get home so I was hoping you could spell me while I run her back to the house. I guess not, huh. Anyway, when you get the message, could you call? If I’m not home, I’ll be here unless the bank closes in the meantime. Gotta go. Thanks.”

I wasn’t sure when the call had come in because the date and time function on my answering machine has been horsed up for months, claiming it’s perpetually noon on January 1. He must have called sometime after I’d talked to Joanne Fitzhugh because I left the same time she did and I’d run errands until it was reasonable to go home. I picked through the papers on my desk until I found the yellow legal pad where he’d jotted his contact information. I called his home number and counted fifteen rings before I hung up. I couldn’t see the point in driving to his house if no one was answering the phone. On the other hand, there was an undertone of panic in his voice I didn’t dare ignore.