I remembered Pete’s home address from the days when the Byrd-Shine agency was still in business. While I was accruing my training hours, I also made coffee and ran errands for the two. If Pete was late turning in a report, I’d be sent over to pick up the paperwork. The Wolinsky house was ten blocks away; a story and a half of white frame with a small recessed porch barely large enough for the two dusty white wicker chairs arranged to one side. Two sets of double windows sat one above the other. A single diamond-shaped pane to the right suggested attic space. The window frames and the trim pieces around the front door were painted dark blue. An enormous eucalyptus tree in the front yard was leaning drunkenly to one side where the edge of the porch prevented its upright growth.

I twisted the handle on the mechanical doorbell. The resultant response mimicked an alarm clock going off. Ruthie Wolinsky opened the door. I hadn’t seen her for many years, but she looked much the same—tall, very slim, with long thinning hair brushed away from her face. She wore a long-sleeve white lace blouse and a long denim skirt with boots. She was easily sixty years old, and while the headband might have looked incongruous on anyone else, it was perfect on her. Her hair color had shifted from mild brown to gray with much of the original shade still in evidence. Her brows were pale over mild green eyes. Soft lines defined her elongated face with its high forehead. When she saw me, recognition flickered, but it had been far too long for her to recall my name.

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Pete and I were professional acquaintances years ago.”

“I remember you,” she said as her gaze shifted to Dietz.

“This is my colleague, Robert Dietz.”

Her gaze returned to mine. “You know Pete was shot to death in August.”

“I heard about that and I’m sorry.” Already, I admired the straightforward manner in which she conveyed the information. No euphemisms; no attempt to soften the facts.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

Dietz said, “I’m a Nevada PI. I did some work for Pete last May—a four-day surveillance in a Reno hotel. There’s a balance outstanding on the account.”

“You’ll have to get in line with everyone else. Pete died without a penny to his name. His creditors are still swarming out of the woodwork.”

“We’re hoping to pursue another approach. One that won’t involve you,” I said.

She stared for a moment, making up her mind, and then held open the wooden screen door. “You’re welcome to come in. I’m not liable for his debts, but I don’t mind listening to what you have to say.”