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    X
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    Ebook507 pages7 hours

    X

    By Sue Grafton

    3.5/5

    ()

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    About this ebook

    “An inventive plot and incisive character studies elevate MWA Grand Master Grafton’s twenty-fourth Kinsey Millhone novel...This superior outing will remind readers why this much-loved series will be missed as the end of the alphabet approaches.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

    X:  The number ten. An unknown quantity. A mistake. A cross. A kiss...

    Perhaps Sue Grafton’s darkest and most chilling novel, X features a remorseless serial killer who leaves no trace of his crimes. Once again breaking the rules and establishing new paths, Grafton wastes little time identifying this deadly sociopath. The test is whether private investigator Kinsey Millhone can prove her case against him—before she becomes his next victim.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateAug 25, 2015
    ISBN9781101614341
    Author

    Sue Grafton

    #1 New York Times bestselling author Sue Grafton (1940-2017) entered the mystery field in 1982 with the publication of 'A' Is for Alibi, which introduced female hard-boiled private investigator, Kinsey Millhone, operating out of the fictional town of Santa Teresa, (aka Santa Barbara) California, and launched the bestselling Kinsey Millhone Alphabet Mysteries. In addition to her books, she published several Kinsey Millhone short stories, and with her husband, Steven Humphrey, wrote numerous movies for television, including “A Killer in the Family” (starring Robert Mitchum), “Love on the Run” (starring Alec Baldwin and Stephanie Zimbalist) and two Agatha Christie adaptations, “Sparkling Cyanide” and “Caribbean Mystery,” which starred Helen Hayes. Grafton is published in 28 countries and in 26 languages.

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    Related categories

    Reviews for X

    3.5/5

    483 ratings60 reviews

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    • 4/5
      Been holding off on reading X and Y since that will be the end of Kinsey. Finally decided it was time.
      Enjoyable read, but a lot going on in this book , and for me, a bit too much at times. Still a good read I've got one left :(
    • 4/5
      Other than a minor issue with the ending this was very, very satisfying.
    • 2/5
      I didn't think the book was anything special at all. There seemed to be too many stories happening and yet I felt like they all took too long to pan out. And I didn't care about any of them. But my X title is checked off now so bonus!
    • 5/5
      Dive stars, that's right. I rarely give 5 stars, but this is Kinsey Milhone. I identify with her, throughout all these years we've shared.
    • 4/5
      4.5 stars. I particularly liked the theme that people aren't always how they appear at first glance. Especially Pete Wolinsky.
    • 3/5
      Filled with minutiae of silly, little things. But the characters came across as interesting, and the ending was fantastic, to say the least.
    • 4/5
      One of the better ones where most of the storylines resolve nicely even the two arms are completely unrelated, excepting the issues with Henry's neighbours which is just there to keep the personal touches in, but even that is more interesting than some of them. I'll be curious if the drought that prompted it was real and whether it continues into the next book. Grafton has abandoned her various experimental structure forms and gone back to straightforward kinsey experiencing life and talking to people which is the best way.

      The setting 'in 89 still feels very dated now compared to when I started reading the series, but at least there's a mention of a computer, although cell phones are a way away. Kinsey is still tidying up the lingering effects from one of her earliest partners who died in the previous book. She comes across and envelope with a bible and pictures meant to be passed onto a women at her confirmation. It seems that her partner had had reservation about the woman's father and was trying to subtly investigate around the edges of the lives of those who'd been involved before completing his task and Kinsey gets guilt-tripped into continuing this. Around this she gets an easy request from one of the posher residents of the area, and only finds out later that she had been paid with cash marked from an art heist a while before, so she investigates these people at the same time. Which generates a good study in contrasts from the poorest through to the richest, and kinsey learns ones again not to judge anybody on their appearances.

      Fun - lightweight, out of date and probably stereotyped to book, but they're all easy enjoyable cosy crime reading.
    • 4/5
      Kinsey Millhone is like an old friend to me. I was right there for "A is for Alibi" and I've been along for the ride ever since. This latest book did not disappoint, even if there were elements that diverged a bit from the usual course of Kinsey's cases. Everything I love about Kinsey was there, and I enjoyed the book immensely. I was a bit surprised at the ending, but I suspect it may be setting up for something in the next two--last two?--books, since we're now down to Y and Z. Yikes.
    • 4/5
      A nasty divorce, some stolen artwork, a creepy stalker with a string of ex-wives, and a pair of horrible new neighbors for Kinsey. This installment is full of all the normal antics of Santa Teresa's favorite PI. The very different plot lines make it feel a bit like a few books crammed into one, but it was still enjoyable, especially as a break from some of the heavier things I've been reading. The villain in this one seems to have been inspired by the real-life serial killer Harvey Glatman.
    • 5/5
      Sue Grafton is BACK, and she's on fire...! This book is a lot more like her older ones, chock full of dry wit, action, and pithy observations about life, as seen through the eyes of a middle-aged female private detective. I loved every bit f it. Especially the end!
    • 3/5
      I found it pretty slow paced overall, but it was well built up and I enjoyed everything except the ending.
    • 5/5
      A much stronger story than the last several, and much more interesting. Well-paced and well-plotted.
    • 3/5
      I’ve been a fan of Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone novels since discovering them back in the mid-nineties. As well as being good crime novels with an engaging narrator, Grafton’s decision to keep the internal chronology consistent irrespective of how long it took her to produce a novel has meant each book has slipped further and further back into the past. Even now, thirty-seven years after the series began – or rather, thirty-three years from A to X – and X is still set in the 1980s, albeit towards the end of the decade. Millhone is hired by a local rich woman to check up on the son she gave up for adoption decades before, and who has just been released from prison after committing a string of burglaries. She does as asked but then discovers the man was no relation… and that the rich woman is the estranged wife of millionaire, and the two are trying to screw as much money out of each other as possible. Throw in a string of missing women and the man responsible for their deaths, identified by Milhone, and who then begins stalk her. Plus an elderly couple who have moved into Milhone’s neighbourhood but do not prove to be who they claim… It’s a bit busier than most of the Milhone novels, and the millionaire man and wife plot actually has a happy end; but these are good books and definitely worth reading.
    • 4/5
      I read this book over the course of a day. I had been growing tired of the last few volumes in the Kinsey Millhone series, but I thought this one was great, and a good addition. It was maybe a little darker than previous ones, but I thought that only added to the freshness of the story.

      I really liked the addition of the peripheral character, Edna, and was anxious to see how that storyline played out. The story with Ned and April and Lenore was a little convoluted at times, but by the end of the book, everything came together.
    • 4/5
      I've loved listening to this series and I'm sad there are only 2 more letters in the alphabet.
    • 3/5
      I had anxiously waited for this next Kinsey Millhone book and was actually a little disappointed. In this story Kinsey is hired by the mysterious Hailey Bettencourt to locate her son that she gave up for adoption many years earlier. He was just released from prison and she wants to help him get back on his feet. A pretty simple job that paid $200.00, until she finds out that the money was marked by the police from a ransomed painting scheme many years earlier. Kinsey can't take this lying down so she attempts to track down Hailey only to find out that everything she told her is a lie. At the same time, she is following up and trying to return an item to a young woman that Pete, the investigator killed in an earlier book, was trying to do. She is guilted into that job. The two stories do not relate to one another at all, but Kinsey manages to tackle them both. While all this is going on, Henry, her octogenarian neighbour and landlord, is dealing with needy new neighbours and an escalating water bill. A few laughs, but definitely not her best book.
    • 3/5
      BOTTOM-LINE:
      A mix of three cases, none adding up to a solid plot
      .
      PLOT OR PREMISE:
      Kinsey is hired by a rich client for a simple task -- find her biological son who was recently released from prison.
      .
      WHAT I LIKED:
      There are three storylines running concurrently, and the mix of types of cases is interesting…a missing persons case, which gets complicated when Kinsey finds out after she finishes the job that the client was bogus and there's more going on that involves a complicated divorce; problems with neighbours; and a leftover case from Pete Wolinsky, a private-eye who was killed in a previous novel. The start of the missing persons case is intriguing and the investigation part of the old case is solid.
      .
      WHAT I DIDN'T LIKE:
      The problems with the neighbours are so obvious, the solution is seen a mile away by everyone except Henry and Kinsey. And mostly just annoying. The interest from the missing persons case deteriorates almost into Kinsey Millhone, marriage counsellor. And the leftover case redeems Pete's character but then goes way over the top at the end.
      .
      DISCLOSURE:
      I received no compensation, not even a free copy, in exchange for this review. I am not personal friends with the author, nor do I follow her on social media.
    • 3/5
      This was read completely out of order in order to fulfill the last of my alpha challenges. I am happy to know that there are others left to read before and after this one. Comfortable murder mysteries with likable characters.
    • 4/5
      X takes Kinsey on another mystery that she is challenged to solve
    • 4/5
      Grafton's skill for weaving a complicated case continues here. Always lovely to see the regular support characters - Kinsey's landlord Henry, his brother William and who can forget such a colour character like Rosie! Kinsey's former flames, Cheney Phillips, Jonah Robb and Robert Dietz all put in cameo appearances. Even better, we get to meet Cheney's mom in this one! Yes, I tend to get just as much pleasure out of keeping up to date with Kinsey's circle of friends as I do with the cases. In true Grafton form, the author leads the readers to yet another nail-biting suspense-filled plot near the end. Another thing I love about these stories is that there is usually a "case" that Kinsey is officially working on and a side issue that Kinsey finds herself involved with by pure happenstance. This time, trouble seems to be closer to home than one would expect.

      Overall, another good installment in Grafton's alphabet series.
    • 4/5
      This was a decent book in the Kinsey Milhone series. For the most part, I enjoyed the storyline. The story-telling wandered around a lot, which kept it from being a solid 4 star read for me. The plotline with the next neighbor was a complete bust for me. I really didn't see the point in that thread. But I enjoyed the other two storylines and really liked how the divorcee story ended, in spite of myself. Overall, I had a good time listening to the story and enjoyed the audiobook.
    • 5/5
      Sue Grafton's Alphabet Mystery Series NEVER disappoints. In fact, from this reader's perspective, the series has elevated in appeal as over the years of publication, each novel in the series seems even better than the last.

      The author has diligently portrayed Private investigator, Kinsey Millhone, with the same endearing qualities as when she was first introduced including her famous use of index card note-taking to her end of case report writing. Equally delightful is that Kinsey still lives next door to landlord Henry and they frequently continue to enjoy drinks and/or supper at Rosie's.

      The author's writing has also elevated in intricacies of Kinsey's cases and sleuthing. Once again, it will be a long wait until the publication of "Y" but as a reader it would be a long wait even if tomorrow was publication day. The extraordinary news is that without a doubt it always is "worth the wait!"
    • 4/5
      3.5 stars

      Another solid mystery from Sue Grafton. Or I should say it was more like 3 mysteries in one book. While the water conservation plot with Henry was boring at best and annoying most of the other time, the other plots in the book were more typical Kinsey Millhone cases.

      As the series is winding down, I am wondering if events in this book will also tie in somehow in the last two books.
    • 3/5
      3.5 stars

      She's a pretty cool private detective and a strong female. I enjoyed it.
    • 5/5
      Perhaps her darkest and most chilling novel, it features a remorseless serial killer who leaves no trace of his crimes. Once again breaking the rules and establishing new paths, Grafton wastes little time identifying this sociopath. The test is whether Kinsey can prove her case against him before she becomes his next victim.
    • 2/5
      This was a good brain-vacation book after my recent reads. It was refreshing to come back to familiar characters and Grafton's style. Her alphabet series hasn't been one of my absolute favorites but I'm a series-sticker, I love seeing how it all evolves. As with any series, you have hits and misses. This one was a bit of both for me.

      I liked the Pete/Kinsey follow up; I really wanted there to be more there and Grafton made it happen. I liked the humor throughout the book. There tends to be a line in the books between sassy Kinsey and really harsh Kinsey. Luckily this book featured a sassy Kinsey that was pretty well fleshed out and interesting. Also enjoyed the side story of the squatting neighbors.

      Whenever Grafton has multiple plot lines the book feels a bit jumbled to me. Like neither arc gets enough attention but it's just sitting there at the brink, waiting for that little spark to really set it off. The side story seemed to get more developed than either main arcs did and it was disappointing because there were several interesting points involved in both. I felt like there was this wealth of character build up and history to pluck from and instead we had to graze along falteringly.

      It's been pretty normal for me to feel similarly after the majority of the books in this series. A bit disappointed but moderately entertained.

    • 4/5
      This was an interesting weave of three plots: Henry's obsessive desire to conserve water as well as help an elderly couple, Kinsey hunting down a woman who gave her a bogus story about a long lost son, and her efforts to track down the names on a coded list of a murdered private eye. Well written, except for a technical error on pg 200 - should be 7.48 gallons/cubic ft.
    • 3/5
      "X" marks the end for me...

      I use to love this series but I just couldn't get into this one. It was extraordinarily long and most of it was filler. Also Kinsey's character seemed to lack her usual spunk. Her character just came across as flat. The ending was also terrible. I muddled through the entire story and it just abruptly cut off. If I read anymore of this series its because there are only two letters left, so I'm assuming it may end soon and I'd kind of like to see how it plays out but we'll see...
    • 2/5
      Really quite dreadful. I plowed on to the end of this, hoping to find a kernel of a good plot, but can't say it was worth the effort. I've read or listened to every one of the Millhone books, and the drop-off in quality over the past half dozen is significant. As has become her habit, Grafton shamelessly pads her plot-centered prose with superfluous information (here, it's water conservation) and needless detailed descriptions of everything Kinsey does -- what she eats, what she wears, when she uses the bathroom -- which doesn't add anything to my enjoyment of the story. More fundamentally, I found several things in this installment to be very hard to believe. I'm glad the alphabet will soon be ended.
    • 5/5

      X by Sue Grafton is a very highly recommended 24th book in the series featuring private investigator Kinsey Millhone. I've read almost all the books in the series with the exception of the ones published in the last couple of years. It was great to have my memory jump-started on why I originally liked the character of Kinsey Millhone so much. A large part of that enjoyment is due to accomplished writer Sue Grafton's ability to present a complex plot and bring it to such a satisfying conclusion. Even if this is your first introduction to the series and the characters, I think you are going to enjoy X.

      In a change of pace, the titular "X" stands alone. It could stand for several characters or words in this novel set in 1989 in Santa Teresa, CA. There is a drought and landlord Henry Pitts is busy trying to get their water consumption under control. Kinsey has met with a client, Hallie Bettancourt, who wanted her to find the contact information for Christian Satterfield. He's recently been released from prison. Hallie claims he is the son she gave up for adoption at age 15. Kinsey easily finds out the information only to discover, after she's passed it on, that Hallie is not a real person and she's paid for Kinsey's services with marked $100 bills.

      At the same time she is trying to help her friend Ruthie Wolinsky go through a box of paperwork/files of her late husband to find some files for the IRS. Pete Wolinsky was also a PI and was shot during a robbery a year ago. Kinsey is sure he was crooked, but she likes Ruthie, so she is trying to help her. While going through the files she discovers a false bottom in the box that contains an envelope addressed to someone else and in the files a sheet of paper written in code. Kinsey inevitably ends up trying to finish/solve the case the Pete was working on before his death, which becomes much more dangerous that she ever would have imagined.

      This makes it sound simple, but everything going on in Kinsey's life is always much more complex than the initial situation would suggest.

      Sue Grafton is an exceptional writer. Not only does she provide us with another complex plot and several cases to solve, she imbibes the character of Kinsey with wry humor and insight into human behavior. This is a win/win situation: great writing and plot. Now that I have been reminded about how good this series really is, I need to go back and get the (few) letters I missed in the alphabet series.

      Disclosure: My Kindle edition was courtesy of Penguin for review purposes.

    Book preview

    X - Sue Grafton

    1

    Santa Teresa, California, Monday, March 6, 1989. The state at large and the town of Santa Teresa in particular were nearing the midpoint of a drought that had slithered into view in 1986 and wouldn’t slither off again until March of 1991, when the miracle rains arrived. Not that we dared anticipate relief at the time. From our perspective, the pitiless conditions were upon us with no end in sight. Local reservoirs had shrunk, leaving a wide swath of dried mud as cracked as an alligator’s hide.

    My professional life was in the same state—always worrisome when you are your sole financial support. Self-employment is a mixed bag. The upside is freedom. Go to work when you like, come home when you like, and wear anything you please. While you still have bills to pay, you can accept a new job or decline. It’s all up to you. The downside is uncertainty, the feast-or-famine mentality not everyone can tolerate.

    My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private detective by trade, doing business as Millhone Investigations. I’m female, thirty-eight years old, twice divorced, and childless, a status I maintain with rigorous attention to my birth control pills. Despite the shortage of new clients, I had a shitload of money in the bank, so I could afford to sit tight. My savings account had been plumped by an unexpected sum that dropped into my lap some six months before. I’d invested the major chunk of it in mutual funds. The remaining cash I kept in a money market account that I designated untouchable. Friends, on hearing about my windfall, viewed me as certifiable. Forget about work. Why not travel and enjoy life?

    I didn’t give the question credence. At my age, retirement is out of the question, and even temporary idleness would have driven me insane. True, I could have covered my expenses for months to come with enough in reserve for a lavish trip abroad, except for the following impediments:

    1. I’m miserly and cheap.

    2. I don’t have a passport because I’ve never needed one. I had traveled to Mexico some years before, but all that was required in crossing the border then was proof of U.S. citizenship.

    That aside, anyone who knows me will testify to how ill-suited I am to a life of leisure. When it comes to work, it isn’t so much what we do or how much we’re paid; it’s the satisfaction we take in doing it. In broad terms, my job entails locating witnesses and missing persons, following paper trails through the hall of records, sitting surveillance on insurance scammers, and sometimes tailing the errant spouse. My prime talent is snooping, which sometimes includes a touch of breaking and entering. This is entirely naughty of me and I’m ashamed to confide how much fun it can be, but only if I don’t get caught.

    This is the truth about me and you might as well know it now. I’m passionate about all manner of criminals: killers, thieves, and mountebanks, the pursuit of whom I find both engaging and entertaining. Life’s cheaters are everywhere and my mission is to eradicate the lot of them. I know this speaks volumes about the paucity of my personal life, but that’s my nature in a nutshell.

    My quest for law and order began in the first grade when I ventured into the cloakroom and surprised a classmate snitching a chocolate bar from my Howdy Doody lunch box. The teacher appeared at that very moment and caught the child with my candy in hand. I anticipated due process, but the sniveling little shit burst into tears, claiming I’d stolen it from her. She received no punishment at all while I was reprimanded for leaving my seat without raising my hand and asking to be excused. My teacher turned a deaf ear to my howls of protest. From that singular event, my notion of fair play was set, and, in sum, it is this: the righteous are struck down while the sticky-fingered escape. I’ve labored all my life to see that justice plays out the other way around.

    That particular Monday morning, I was paying my bills, feeling oh-so virtuous, as why would I not? I’d written and signed all the pertinent checks and felt only slightly anxious about the drain on my funds. I’d addressed and sealed the return envelopes. As I licked and placed stamps, I was humming with satisfaction and looking forward to lunch. When the phone rang, I lifted the handset and anchored it against my shoulder, saying, Millhone Investigations.

    Hi, Kinsey. This is Ruthie. Did I catch you at an okay time?

    Sure. What’s going on?

    Well, I’m fit to be tied. I swear, about the time I think I’m through the worst of it, something else comes up. Today I got this official-looking letter from the IRS. Pete’s being audited, of all things. I’m supposed to call to set up an appointment.

    Can’t you tell them he’s dead?

    I could, but that’s probably what triggered the audit in the first place.

    Ruthie Wolinsky had been widowed some seven months before, in August of 1988, when her husband was shot to death in what looked like a robbery gone wrong. I’d made Pete Wolinsky’s acquaintance ten years prior. Like me, he was a private detective, who’d worked for an agency called Byrd-Shine Investigations. I’d apprenticed with Ben Byrd and Morley Shine when I was racking up the hours I needed for licensing. Pete was a contemporary of theirs. Both of my bosses swore he was once a top-notch detective, but at the point where our paths intersected, he’d fallen on hard times. By then, he was a man so morally bent, I marveled he managed to find work anywhere. While I disliked him, I was then twenty-seven years old and newly employed and didn’t feel it was my place to make my thoughts known. Besides which, no one asked and I doubt they’d have listened if I’d volunteered my views.

    I’d thought the world of the two seasoned detectives, and I still conducted business in the time-honored ways they’d taught me. Unfortunately, Ben and Morley had quarreled bitterly and the partnership had been dissolved. They went their separate ways, setting up independent agencies. I was already out on my own by then and never heard the details of their falling-out. Whatever the dispute, it had nothing to do with me, so I shrugged it off. Now both were deceased and I assumed the past was dead and buried along with them. As for Ruthie, over the years I’d seen her from time to time, but we didn’t become friends until shortly after Pete was killed.

    I pondered the historical context while she went on to describe the latest crisis, saying, Sorry to bother you with this, but let me read you what it says. They’re asking for ‘Schedule C gross receipts. Year-end papers and reports, including worksheets reconciling books and records for the tax years 1986 and 1987.’ She continued in a singsong voice. ‘In addition, please provide any and all business records, files, expenses, and receipts for the period 1975 through 1978.’

    Are you kidding me? That goes back fifteen years. I thought after seven you could throw that crap out.

    I guess not, at least according to this. Our accountant retired last year, and I’m having a devil of a time getting through to the fellow who took over for him. I was hoping when you and Dietz went through Pete’s boxes, you might have come across our old tax returns.

    Robert Dietz was the Nevada private investigator whose help I’d enlisted during the period just after Pete was killed. Much more to the story, of course, but I made a point of putting it out of my mind. I don’t think so. I can’t swear to it, but the whole point was tracking down his accounts, so anything with a dollar sign attached we shoved in plastic bags, which we handed over to you.

    Too bad, she said. I’ve searched those bags twice and there’s zilch.

    You want me to try again? It’s always possible we missed a box.

    That’s just it. I don’t have them. All those cartons are gone.

    Where?

    The dump. A junk dealer taped a flier to my door. He must have been cruising the area, scaring up work. The notice said for fifty bucks in cash, he’d clean out my garage and haul the mess away. I jumped at the chance. I’ve wanted to park my car under cover for years, but there was never any room. Now I’m looking at an audit and what am I supposed to do? I’m just sick about this.

    I don’t know what to suggest. I can double-check, but if we’d come across tax returns, we’d have set them aside. I did keep one box, but those are confidential files from the old Byrd-Shine days. I have no idea how they ended up in Pete’s hands.

    Oh, wait a minute. The IRS does list Byrd-Shine in the document request, now you mention it. Hold on.

    I heard papers rattling, and then she said, "I can’t find the reference now, but it’s in here somewhere. You don’t need to bother Dietz, but could you check the box you have? I don’t need much; I’m guessing a few old bank statements would suffice. If I can hand over anything, it would be a show of good faith, which is about all I have to offer."

    I’ll inventory the contents as soon as possible.

    No big hurry. I’m driving up to Lompoc this coming weekend to celebrate my birthday with a friend—

    I didn’t know it was your birthday. Happy birthday!

    Thanks. We’re not doing much . . . just hanging out . . . but I haven’t seen her since Pete died and I thought it’d be nice to get away.

    Absolutely. When do you get back?

    Sunday afternoon, which gives you some wiggle room. Even if I called the IRS today, I doubt I’d get in right away. They must have a waiting list a mile long, she said. Oh. And while you’re at it, keep this in mind: Pete had a habit of tucking stray documents between the pages of other files. Sometimes he’d hide money, too, so don’t toss out any hundred-dollar bills.

    I remember the wad of cash he buried in the bag of birdseed.

    That was something, wasn’t it? He claimed the system was designed to fool the bad guys. He could remember where he’d put all the bits and pieces, but he wouldn’t explain his strategy. Anyway, I’m sorry to trouble you with this. I know it’s a pain.

    Not a big deal. Fifteen or twenty minutes tops.

    I appreciate that.

    In the meantime, you better talk to a tax expert.

    Ha! I can’t afford one.

    Better that than getting hosed.

    Good point. My neighbor’s an attorney. I’ll ask him who he knows.

    We chatted briefly of other matters and then we hung up. Once again, I found myself brooding about Pete Wolinsky, which I was doing more often than I care to admit. In the wake of his death, it became clear how irresponsible he’d been, leaving Ruthie with little more than a mess on her hands. His business files, such as they were, had been relegated to countless dusty and dilapidated cardboard boxes, stacked ten deep and eight high in their two-car garage, filling the interior to capacity. In addition, there were piles of unpaid bills, dunning notices, threats of lawsuits, and no life insurance. Pete had carried a policy that would have netted her a handsome sum, but he’d let the premiums lapse. Even so, she adored him, and who was I to judge?

    To be fair about it, I suppose you could call him a good-hearted soul, as long as you included an asterisk referring to the small print below. As a perfect example, Pete had told Ruthie he was taking her on a cruise on the Danube for their fortieth wedding anniversary coming up the following year. He’d intended to surprise her, but he couldn’t help revealing the plan in advance. The real surprise came after his death, when she found out he was paying for the trip with money he’d extorted in a blackmail scheme. She asked for the deposit back and used the refund to satisfy some of his creditors, and that was that. In the meantime, she wasn’t hurting for income. Ruthie was a private-duty nurse, and her services were much in demand. From the schedule I’d seen taped to her refrigerator door, she worked numerous shifts and could probably name her price regardless of the going rate.

    As for the banker’s box, I’d put a big black X on the lid and shoved it under the desk in my studio apartment, so the task would have to wait until I got home. I’d been meaning to inspect the contents in any event. If, as I anticipated, the old files were inactive or closed, I’d send them to a shredding company and be done with it.

    I’d no more than hung up when the phone rang again. I reached for the handset, saying, Millhone Investigations.

    There was a pause, and a woman said, Hello?

    I said, Hello?

    Oh, sorry. I was expecting a machine. May I speak to Ms. Millhone?

    Her tone was refined, and even through the phone line I could smell money on her breath. This is she, I said.

    My name is Hallie Bettancourt. Vera Hess suggested I get in touch with you about a personal matter.

    That was nice of her. She had an office next door to mine at California Fidelity Insurance, where I worked once upon a time, I said. I take it you’re a friend of hers?

    Well, no. We met at a party a few weeks ago. We were having drinks on the patio, and when I mentioned the issue, she thought you might help.

    I’ll do what I can. Would you give me your name again? I’m afraid it went right over my head.

    I could hear the smile in her voice. Bettancourt. First name, Hallie. I do that myself. In one ear and out the other.

    Amen, I said. Why don’t you give me a quick summary of the problem?

    She hesitated. The situation’s awkward, and I’d prefer not to discuss it by phone. I think when I explain, you’ll understand.

    That’s entirely up to you, I said. We can set up an appointment and you can talk about it then. What’s your schedule look like this week?

    She laughed uncomfortably. That’s just it. I’m under a time constraint. I leave town tomorrow morning and won’t be back until June. If there’s any way we could meet tonight, I’d be grateful.

    I can probably manage that. Where and what time?

    Here at my home at eight o’clock, if that’s all right with you. From what I’m told, it’s not a big job. To be honest about it, I contacted another agency last week and they turned me down, which was embarrassing. The gentleman I spoke with was nice about it, but he made it clear the work wouldn’t warrant the size of their fees. He didn’t come right out and say so, but the implication was that they had much bigger fish to fry. I guess I’ve been gun-shy about reaching out again, which is why I put it off.

    Understood, I said. We’ll talk this evening and see where we stand. If I can’t help, I may know someone who can.

    Thank you. You have no idea how relieved I am.

    I made a note of the address on Sky View, along with her instructions, and told her I’d be there at 8:00. I was guessing her problem was matrimonial, which turned out to be true, but not quite as I imagined it. Once I hung up, I checked my city map and located the street, which was no bigger than a thread of pale blue surrounded by blank space. I folded the map and stuck it in my shoulder bag.

    At 5:00, I locked the office and headed for home, feeling pleased about life. As my appointment wasn’t for three hours, I had time for a bite to eat, supping on milk of tomato soup and a gooey grilled cheese sandwich, which I held in a fold of paper towel that neatly soaked up the excess butter. While I ate, I read three chapters of a Donald Westlake paperback. In hindsight, I marvel at how clueless I was about the shit storm to come. What I ask myself even now is whether I should have picked up the truth any faster than I did, which was not nearly fast enough.

    2

    Approaching Hallie Bettancourt’s property that night, I realized I’d caught glimpses of the house from the freeway on numerous occasions; it was perched on a ridge that ran between the town and the outer reaches of the Los Padres National Forest. By day, sun reflected off the glass exterior, winking like an SOS. At night, the glow was a bright spot, as vivid as Venus against the pale light of surrounding stars. From a distance, it was one of those aeries that seemed impossible to reach, isolated from its neighbors at an elevation sufficient to encourage nosebleeds. The access roads weren’t obvious, and without Hallie’s instructions, I’m not sure I’d have found my way.

    She’d indicated the easiest route was to follow 192 East as far as Winding Canyon Road and then start the ascent. I did as she suggested, taking the narrow two-lane road that snaked up the hill with more switchbacks than straightaways. A mile and a half farther on, I spotted the house number blasted into the surface of a massive sandstone boulder. There was a mailbox nearby, which also touted the address, but the house itself wasn’t visible from the road. The driveway angled upward through a thicket of oaks, a precipitous approach that ran on for another quarter of a mile.

    When I neared the crest of the hill, the house loomed above me like an apparition. If an alien spacecraft had landed, I imagined it would have had the same nearly menacing presence. Against the shadowy landscape, the stark structure blazed with light, the contemporary style oddly suited to the rugged terrain. The front jutted forward like the prow of a ship and appeared to hang out over the canyon; a sailboat made of glass. Vegetation broke in waves, churning among the concrete pilings, and the wind blew with a high whine.

    A parking pad had been hacked out of the stony ground. I pulled in, nosing my Honda up against a stone retaining wall. I got out and locked the car. As I walked, I triggered a series of motion-activated landscape lights that illuminated the path in front of me. I climbed the steep stone steps to the door, careful where I placed my feet lest I topple into the chaparral that stretched out on either side.

    From the front porch, as I faced the glass-fronted door, I had an unobstructed view straight through the house to the dark beyond. The Pacific was visible two miles away, where moonlight cast a gray sheen on the water like a thin layer of ice. The ribbon of Highway 101 wound between the shoreline and the town, and a lacework of house lights was draped across the intervening hills. Large patches of darkness attested to the rural character of the area. There were no neighbors close by, and the simplest of daily needs (such as wine and toilet paper) would require a lengthy drive into town.

    I rang the bell and saw Hallie appear on the wraparound deck on the far side of the house. She entered the dining room by way of a sliding glass door, a caftan of butter yellow silk billowing around her as she crossed the room. She had a tangled mass of reddish brown hair and a face photographers must have loved. While she wasn’t technically beautiful, she was striking. Fine-boned, high forehead. Her complexion was flawless and her narrow nose was prominent, with a bump at the bridge that lent her profile an exotic cast. Her ears were pierced, and a little waterfall of diamonds dangled on either side of her face. The caftan had wide sleeves and intricate embroidery along the cuffs. Only a woman who’s genuinely slim can afford a garment so voluminous. Pointed yellow velvet slippers peeked from beneath her hem. I placed her in her midforties.

    She opened the door and extended her hand. Hello, Kinsey. I’m Hallie. Thanks for making the drive. I apologize for the imposition.

    Nice to meet you, I said. This is quite a place.

    She flushed with pleasure, saying, Isn’t it?

    She led the way and I followed as she moved through the house toward the deck. Much of the interior was shrouded in darkness, the furniture covered with tarps in preparation for her departure. When I glanced to my left, I could see that doors leading off the hallway were closed. On the wide stretch of wood flooring, I could see islands of lush-looking Oriental carpeting. Lamps glowed here and there, lighting up decorative vignettes of tasteful objects, artfully arranged.

    To our right, a two-story wood-and-glass living room took up one whole end of the house. It, too, was blanketed in shadow, but a spill of light from the dining room reflected clean lines against the generous expanses of exterior glass. Bare white walls formed a gallery for numerous paintings in heavy gold frames. I’m not a connoisseur of art, but they appeared to be museum-quality works: landscapes and still-life images in oil. These were not artists I could identify on sight, but the colors were rich and deep, and my impression was that a lot of money had been spent for the collection.

    Over her shoulder, Hallie said, I hope you won’t be cold if we sit outside. I’ve been enjoying the view. My husband left this morning for the house in Malibu while I close up here.

    Must be nice to split your time that way, I said. Personally, I split mine between my eight-hundred-square-foot apartment and an office half that size.

    We went out onto the deck. Exterior lights had been extinguished, and in the lee of the house, the air seemed hushed. I could smell bay laurel, eucalyptus, and night-blooming jasmine. On a narrow terrace below, a bright turquoise infinity pool glowed like a landing strip. An open bottle of Chardonnay sat on a small wooden table flanked by two canvas director’s chairs. She’d brought out two stemmed glasses, and I saw that hers was half full. She took the closest chair and I settled in its mate.

    She offered wine, which I declined as a way of demonstrating how professional I was. To be honest, with the slightest encouragement (bracing outside temperatures aside) I’d have lingered there for hours, drinking in the view along with anything else she had to offer. We were flanked by two small propane heaters that radiated a fierce but diffused heat that made me want to hold my hands closer, as though to a campfire.

    Santa Teresa is almost always chilly after sunset, and once I sat down, I found myself wedging my fingers between my knees. I was wearing blue jeans and boots with a black turtleneck under my good wool tweed blazer, so I was warm enough, but I wondered how she could bear the night air in such flimsy attire, especially with the wind whistling around the edges of the glass. Locks of flyaway hair danced around her face. She removed two hairpins that she held between her teeth while she captured the loose strands and secured them again.

    How long have you owned the house? I asked.

    I grew up here. This is the old Clipper estate. My father bought it in the early thirties, shortly after he graduated from architectural school. Halston Bettancourt. You may have heard of him.

    I made a sound as though of recognition, though I didn’t have a clue.

    "After he razed the original three-story Georgian-style mansion, he built this, which is how he launched his career. He was always proud of the fact that he was featured in Architectural Digest more than any other single architect. He’s been gone now for years, and my mother has as well. The place in Malibu belongs to my husband, Geoff. He’s a G-E-O-F-F Geoff, not the J-E-F-F kind. We’ve been married two years."

    What sort of work does he do?

    He has a law degree, but he doesn’t have a job as such. He manages both of our portfolios and looks after our finances.

    Fragmented as it was, I had no idea where her commentary was taking us, but I was making mental notes. I couldn’t help but wonder how the neighbors felt when her father demolished the old estate and erected this in its place. The house was dramatic, but distinctly short on eighteenth-century charm.

    From her remarks, I drew the two obvious inferences: she’d retained her maiden name and she’d held on to the family home. I could imagine her insisting that G-E-O-F-F Geoffrey sign an ironclad prenuptial agreement: separate properties, separate bank accounts, a cheater’s clause, and zero spousal support in the event of a split. On the other hand, his fortune might have been more substantial than hers, in which case any stingy financial arrangements might have been his idea.

    She crossed her legs and smoothed the yellow silk over one knee, idly pleating the fabric. I should tell you again how much I appreciate your agreeing to meet like this. Under the circumstances, it’s a relief doing business with a woman. No disrespect to men intended, but some things a woman understands intuitively—‘from the heart,’ you might say.

    Now I was thinking about big gambling debts or an affair with a married man. It was also possible her new husband had an unsavory past and she’d just gotten wind of it.

    She reached down and picked up a file folder that rested against the side of her chair. She opened the folder, removed a paper clip, and passed the loose pages to me along with a penlight to make reading easier. I was looking at a photocopy of a newspaper article. I checked the date and heading: the Santa Teresa Dispatch, June 21, 1979; approximately ten years earlier. The article covered the trial of a kid named Christian Satterfield, a safecracker who’d finally been defeated by a run of cutting-edge vaults and had thrown that career over in favor of robbing banks, which was a much simpler proposition. No maddening array of alarms and exasperating anti-theft devices. Robbing banks entailed pithy notes directed to bank tellers, no weapons, and no mechanical skills. The work was quicker, too.

    He’d enjoyed a string of successes, but eventually his luck had run out. He’d been convicted of robbing nineteen banks in the tri-counties area, an impressive number for someone a mere twenty-three years old. The photograph that accompanied the story revealed a clean-cut young man with good facial bones and an open countenance. The three-column coverage on the front page continued for an additional four columns on page four, laying out the reasoning for his choice of banks, his meticulous advance planning, and the carefully worded notes he’d composed. I could picture him licking his pencil point, trying to get the written threats just so, all of the spelling correct and no cross-outs.

    I scanned the lines of print, picking up a detail here and there. His successes had netted him close to $134,000 over a period of sixteen months. In his demands, he claimed to be armed, and while he never actually brandished a gun, the tellers were sufficiently intimidated to surrender the cash without an argument. Though this was standard bank policy, three of the young women were so traumatized, they never returned to work.

    Hallie waited until I’d finished reading and handed me a folded newspaper with an arrow calling my attention to a notice dated six months before. Satterfield had been released, having served a little over eight years, which I was guessing represented 85 percent of a ten-year bid.

    As you can see, he was released from Lompoc to a halfway house in the San Fernando Valley. Since he was a Santa Teresa resident when he was arrested and tried, I’m told he’s most likely been returned to the community by now. I wondered if you could get me his current contact information. I called the county probation department twice and got nowhere.

    Her manner of speaking had become more formal, suggesting she was ill at ease. The United States Penitentiary at Lompoc is a federal prison located an hour north of us. The facility opened in 1959 and houses male inmates serving long sentences for sophisticated offenses: white-collar crime, interstate drug deals, tax evasion, and major fraud. As a bank robber, Satterfield must have felt right at home. I wondered about the nature of her interest in him. To me, the two seemed an odd mix.

    I said, He wouldn’t have been released to the county. His crime was federal. You’d have to call the U.S. probation department and ask for the name of the agent supervising his parole.

    She frowned. I’m not happy with that idea. I don’t know the system and I’d only end up at another dead end. This whole process has been frustrating enough as it is. I leave town early tomorrow. We’ll be in Malibu for a few days, and after that we’ll be traveling. I’d prefer to have you deal with the situation. As you might well imagine, I have no experience with matters of this sort.

    I’ll do what I can, but I make no guarantees, I said. Parole officers are notoriously tight-lipped.

    All the more reason for you to handle it. I assume your inquiry will be discreet.

    Of course.

    Good, she said. Once you have his address and phone number, you can send me a note in care of my post office box. My assistant will know where we are and she’ll be forwarding mail twice a week.

    May I ask what this is about?

    She paused, her gaze not quite meeting mine. He’s my son.

    Intuitively and from the heart, I hadn’t seen that one coming and I was taken aback. I said, Ah.

    I became pregnant and bore a child when I was fifteen years old. If the choice had been mine, I’d have kept the baby and raised him myself, but my parents were adamant. They felt I was too young and too immature to take on such a burden; a point I could hardly refute. They were convinced he’d be better off in a two-parent home. Given his criminal history, they were obviously mistaken in that regard.

    Does he know who you are?

    Her cheeks tinted slightly. He does. Some years ago I wrote him a letter in care of the adoption agency. The social worker said she’d keep it in his file. I wanted to make sure he’d have a way to reach me if he were ever interested.

    And did you hear from him?

    "I did. He called shortly after his eighteenth birthday. We met twice, and then I lost track of him. When I saw the brief note about his release from Lompoc, his silence suddenly made sense. That’s when I went back and did a follow-up search in the archives at the Dispatch."

    I glanced at the article. You first learned he’d been in prison when you saw this?

    "That’s correct. I don’t ordinarily read the Dispatch, but I spotted a copy as I was leaving my dentist’s office. When I caught sight of the name, I was so shocked, I had to sit down for a moment and catch my breath. I was also deeply ashamed, as though the fault were mine. I took my time deciding what I wanted to do."

    And that would be what?

    I’d like to help him if there’s anything he needs.

    That’s generous.

    It’s not about generosity. It’s about making amends.

    Does he know how well-off you are?

    Her expression became set. What difference does that make?

    You’re not worried he might try to take advantage?

    If he were going to do that, he’d have done so years ago. I’ve never made a secret of my financial position. I offered him money in the past and he declined.

    What if he’s embarrassed about his felony conviction and doesn’t want to hear from you?

    If he decides not to talk to me, then so be it, but I want him to have the opportunity. I feel a sense of responsibility. She picked up the wine bottle to top off her glass and the label caught my eye. I’d seen the same Chardonnay at the liquor store for ninety bucks a pop. While I didn’t actually gasp aloud, she must have deciphered my look and held out the bottle. Perhaps you’ll allow me to talk you into it.

    Maybe half a glass.

    I watched her pour, taking advantage of the moment to assess her situation. What about your husband? Where is he in this?

    Geoffrey knows I had a child and put him up for adoption. All of this happened years before the two of us met. What he doesn’t know is that we reconnected, and he certainly doesn’t know about Christian’s serving a prison term. I intend to tell him, but so far I haven’t felt the time was right.

    I can see where it might be an awkward revelation to spring on him after the fact.

    On the other hand, if my son doesn’t care to pursue a relationship, why mention it at all? Once you ’fess up, you’re stuck. Geoffrey hates deception and he’s slow to forgive. There’s no point in creating trouble unnecessarily.

    Indeed, I said. Without even meaning to, I was echoing the tone and manner of her speech, and I was hoping the shift wasn’t permanent.

    That’s why I’m asking you to act as a go-between, using your name and phone number instead of mine. I don’t want to risk my husband’s intercepting a message before I’ve told him the whole of it.

    You don’t want your name brought into it at all, I said.

    I do not.

    What reason would I give for tracking him down? I’ve never met Christian Satterfield.

    I’m sure you’ll think of some excuse. The point is, I want my privacy protected. I’ll insist on that.

    I sat there wondering if this was really the way a good marriage worked. I’d been married and divorced twice, so it was difficult to judge. Keeping secrets seemed like a bad idea, but I was hardly qualified to offer the woman marital advice. Aside from that, I’ve never had children, so the notion of a bank robber for a son was tough to assimilate. His stepdad might take an even dimmer view.

    Reluctantly, I said, I’m not sure a parole officer will give me the information, but I’ll do what I can. I studied the black-and-white newspaper photograph and then held up the photocopied pages. May I keep these? Might be good if I need to identify him on sight.

    She reached into the file folder a second time and handed me duplicates. I murmured a thank-you and slid the papers into the outside pocket of my shoulder bag.

    So how do we proceed? she asked.

    Most new clients sign a boiler-plate contract, I said. Over the years, I’ve found it’s better to have an agreement in writing, as much for your protection as for mine. That way there’s no confusion about what I’ve been asked to do. In this case, I didn’t bring any paperwork. I wanted to make sure I could be of help before I did anything else.

    Sensible, she said. As I see it, we can do one of two things. You can write up the contract, fill in the particulars, and mail it for my signature, or we can consider this a gentleman’s agreement and I can pay you in cash.

    There wasn’t really much to debate. I’m not equipped to take credit cards, and she must have sensed I wasn’t eager to accept a check from a woman who was out of Santa Teresa half the year. She was clearly well-to-do, but if a check was returned for insufficient funds, it would be a pain in the ass to track her down and make it good. The rich are full of surprises. Some hang on to their wealth by stiffing their creditors.

    Does five hundred dollars seem reasonable? she asked.

    Too much, I said. We’re talking about a few phone calls and then a short written report. Two hundred would more than cover it.

    Unless you fail.

    You’re paying for my time, not results. The effort’s the same regardless of the outcome.

    Sorry. Of course. I don’t expect you to work without compensation. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll be right back.

    She got up, crossed to the sliding glass door, and went into the house. I took a sip of Chardonnay, feeling for the first time that I could relax. She’d been clear enough about what she wanted, and while acquiring the information wasn’t a slam dunk, I had avenues to pursue.

    Moments later, she returned with a plain white envelope. She made a point of showing me a portion of the two one-hundred-dollar bills before she slid them fully into the envelope and handed it to me. I put the money in my shoulder bag and pulled out a small spiral-bound notebook. I wrote her a receipt for the cash and tore off the leaf of paper. I can type up a proper receipt at the office tomorrow.

    Don’t worry about it. This is fine. She folded the handwritten receipt and slipped it into the file folder.

    A few things I should ask, I said.

    Feel free.

    I went through a list of items I thought needed covering and she seemed happy to oblige, so that by the time we parted company, I had her home address and a mailing address in Malibu, the Malibu home phone, plus her husband’s office address and two additional numbers for him at work. Her assistant’s name was Amy. Later, I realized I should have asked for Geoffrey’s last name, but it hadn’t occurred to me.

    Once in my car again, I sat in the darkened parking area while the motion-activated path lights went out one by one. Using the Honda’s interior light, I jotted notes on a series of index cards that I carry with me as a matter of course. I don’t know if she was aware that I was still on the property, but it mattered not. It’s always best to capture facts when they’re fresh, before assumption and prejudice step in and alter memory.

    On the way home, I stopped at the market and stocked up on odds and ends, including paper towels, milk, bread, and peanut butter. Easter decorations and accessories were set up in numerous displays: Easter egg dyeing kits, hollow plastic eggs, foil-covered eggs, big foil-covered chocolate bunnies, marshmallow chickens of a virulent yellow hue, bags of paper shreds resembling grass, wicker and plastic baskets, as well as stuffed animals to be included in the haul.

    At that hour, there weren’t many shoppers, and since I was the only one in line, I had a nice chat with Suzanne, the middle-aged checkout girl. I paid for my groceries with one of Hallie’s hundred-dollar bills, amazed by how little change I was given in return.

    I was home by 10:00. I locked up, put away the groceries, grabbed my book, and went upstairs to the loft, where I changed into the oversize T-shirt I sleep in. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and slid under the covers. Once I found my place, I read until midnight, thinking life was swell.

    3

    In the morning, I did my usual three-mile jog on autopilot. Given the monotony of the weather, there was no chance I’d

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