I arrived at 8:00, and while I waited for a fresh pot of coffee to brew, I placed a call to the Santa Teresa County Probation Offices and asked to speak to Priscilla Holloway, a parole agent I’d met while babysitting a female ex-con with a wealthy dad, who’d paid me handsomely to shepherd her about.

When the line was picked up, she said, “Holloway.”

“Hi, Priscilla. Kinsey Millhone. I’m hoping you remember me . . .”

“Reba Lafferty’s friend.”

“Right. You have a minute?”

“Only if you make it quick. I have a client coming in for his monthly ass-kicking, so I gotta get myself in the proper frame of mind. What can I do for you?”

“I need a phone number for the U.S. probation office, Central California district. I’m trying to track down an inmate just coming off a ten-year stint in Lompoc.”

“Any agent in particular?”

“No clue. That’s what I’m hoping to find out.”

“Hang on. I have the number somewhere.”

She clunked the receiver on the desk. I could hear her sliding open a drawer and then rustling paper. After a short period, she came back and said, “The parole officer I last dealt with was a guy named Derrick Spanner, but this was three years ago, so who knows if he’s still there. This is his direct line in Los Angeles. Area code 2-1-3 . . .”

She gave me the number and I dutifully made a note. I thanked her, but she was gone before the words were even out of my mouth.

I depressed the plunger and then punched in the number. The line rang three times before an answering machine picked up. The outgoing message confirmed that I’d reached Derrick Spanner, so I identified myself by name, pausing to spell it before I said, “I’m calling from Santa Teresa, trying to contact a parolee named Christian Satterfield. I understand he was released from USP Lompoc a few months ago. I’m not sure who’s overseeing his parole, but Chris is a former neighbor and he left some personal items in my care. I’ve since moved and I’d appreciate your giving him my new number. He can call when he has a chance. Thanks so much.”

I repeated my name and rattled off my office phone, without pausing to think. The minute the number was out of my mouth, I regretted the choice. If the information was passed along to Satterfield, he wouldn’t have the slightest idea who I was, and if he dialed the number I’d given, the first thing he’d hear was me saying “Millhone Investigations.” This was not good. For a fellow just out of prison, the notion of an investigation, private or otherwise, would be worrisome. He’d think I was up to something, which I was.

I hung up, thought a minute, and then crossed to my file cabinets, where I opened a drawer and picked my way through the folders until I found the instruction manual for my answering machine. Once I figured out how to change the outgoing message, I recorded one of those generic responses that covers a multitude of sins.