Chapter 7

I was at the office at 8 the next morning. I seldom get in that early, less so as the years go by. I'm a detective because I enjoy it and because I want to have something to do with bringing justice about, but I don't have to work for money and it shows in my habits. And being able to work for pleasure rather than to pay the bills means I can spend time with Darlia. I've seen parents who spend all their waking hours working "for the family," and the hurt that brings to the families they're supposedly working for. I don't want to turn my daughter into a weakling who's utterly dependent on me, but if I can spend time with her by not taking every case that comes along, then I'll just refer potential clients elsewhere.

But that morning was different. I had, in Robert Heinlein's phrase, bolshoyeh volition. I wanted to get right on things and find out who killed Larry Entragian. And this was a case where I knew I'd want help. Normally I do things by myself; only rarely do I need assistance, and then I usually need muscle behind me and call on a big and unsavory guy called Straight. But this time I needed professional help. I needed a detective. And I knew who I would call first.

I put my gun in the drawer – I don't trust it down in the vehicle, or more precisely I don't trust people to leave the vehicle alone – and cocked my feet up on a corner of the desk. I pulled the phone toward me and then realized I didn't know the number I wanted to call. I dropped my feet back to the floor and grabbed the yellow pages from the computer table behind me. I found the number and grabbed the phone again. I dialed – though these days a phone with an actual dial is a dinosaur – and listened to the rings. There were only two, and then a voice said, "Kim, Investigations, how may I help you?"

I thought I recognized the voice, but I shoved that aside. "Yeah, is Kim in yet?"

"Yes, sir, she is, but she's occupied at the moment."

"Probably I need to talk to you anyway, I guess. I need to make an appointment to see her, and I need it ASAP." I pronounced the acronym, one of the things I'd learned from my brother Memphis. Civilians say it letter by letter, but in the military it's a-sap.

"Certainly, sir. The first available time I have is tomorrow morning."

"If it's at all possible I'd like to come in today. Tell you what – lemme give you my name and number, and set up something for the earliest possible slot tomorrow, and then if something opens up today gimme a call, okay?"

"Certainly ... but I think I recognize your voice. Is this Darvin?"

"Yeah, it is. Who's this?"

"Sara Delgado."

I mentally smacked my forehead. I had recognized the voice - of course I had, for she was my best friend's ex-wife. "Man, if I weren't so occupied I'd have known who you were. But I've got a bunch of stuff on my mind. Sorry I didn't know you, Sara."

"That's all right, Darvin – I didn't recognize your voice at first either."

"Hey, Sara, when did you start working for Kim?"

"A few months ago."

I considered. "I knew you were doing secretary work ... I guess that was the job you told us about, eh?"

She laughed. "Yes, it was, Darvin. I just didn't mention who I was working for, I guess."

"No reason for you to, I don't suppose." I switched the phone to my other ear. "Look, I don't mean to be rude, but I do want to set up the appointment and all."

"Sure, Darvin. But can I put you on hold a minute? I want to see if I can work something out."

She did, and I waited. I've done a lot of that; it's part of being a detective. But being on hold is never fun, even when there's no Muzak on the line. I prefer to listen to dead air rather than saccharinized versions of popular songs, but even better is not being on hold. The most boring surveillance is better than being on hold.

Sara was back in a couple of minutes. "Darvin, I've explained who you are to Kim – that you're a good friend – and she's agreed to see you this morning. We've had someone call and tell us he's running late, and she'll shoehorn you into the spot. If you can be here by 9 that would be perfect."

"I'll be there with bells on – and thanks, Sara. You don't know how much I appreciate it."

I pulled into the parking lot outside Kim's office just before 9. Her office isn't as high rent as mine. It's on the corner of San Mateo and Menaul – actually just a bit north of the intersection, on the east side of San Mateo. The big white Baillo's building is just a bit further east, and I bet she used it as a landmark when giving directions. And then there's the Taco Bell just across San Mateo, which I would certainly use if my office was in that neighborhood; Taco Bell may be about as Mexican as haggis, but I like it.

I'd been to Kim's office once before, just after she'd moved in, when a case I was working on proved to overlap with one of hers. When I walked in this time I saw that she'd been making improvements. It was still the same clean white walls and brown trim, but she'd replaced the scruffy waiting room chairs with chrome and off white cloth jobs, and there was a coffee table now, chrome again with a glass top. There were magazines on the coffee table – I spotted National Geographic, and Time, and a copy of National Review, which you don't usually see in waiting rooms. There were others as well – some women's magazines for female clients, and some outdoor magazines for men. All this was on the left as I went in. To my right Sara's desk sat, with a wood front – veneer, probably – and square chrome legs. Her computer was on a table to her right, and she was typing on it when I came in. She looked up and saw it was me, and came around the desk to give me a hug.

"How are you doing, Darvin?" she asked in her slight Chicano accent.

"Well, I've been better, Sara. Long story, though, and I don't want to keep Kim waiting, not when she's making a special effort on my behalf."

Sara looked at me. "You look triste, Darvin." Her English was good, but she brought in more Spanish than her ex-husband, Rudy. Of course Chicanos tend, no matter how fluent their Spanish or English, to use both languages interchangeably, sometimes in the same sentence; at least that's how they are in New Mexico.

"I am, amiga. I'll tell you about it later – or Kim can."

Sara smiled. "You seem to understand that she can't run this place unless I know something of what she's doing."

"Shoot, Sara, you know how I keep my stuff in my head and Marla's only part time – and yet if she didn't know what I was doing I'd fail in a spectacular fashion."

She smiled, and squeezed my hand. "Yes, I know. Let me tell Kim you're here."

She went down the hall and knocked on a door in the right-hand wall. She stuck her head in and spoke with the person inside, not whispering but too quietly for me to make out the words. After a minute she came back out and said, "Go right in, Darvin."

I did. Kim was sitting behind her desk, with papers spread all over it. She stood when I entered and reached across the desk to shake my hand. Her name, I knew, was Kim Il-chae, but because the Korean personal name gave people trouble she went by her family name. She'd explained it all to me the first time we met – an explanation that I could tell from the way she rattled it off had become canned through repetition. She was short – just five feet, I knew from earlier conversations – and slender, though I could feel strength in her hand when we shook. Her black hair hung straight to her shoulders, and she had it in bangs in front. I noticed that she had on a bronze shade of nail polish; she didn't use much if any makeup, not that I could tell anyway, but I remembered that her fingernails were always attention-getters.

She motioned me into one of the chairs in front of her desk, a copy of those in the waiting area, and sat down in her own computer chair. At least I took it for a computer chair; at any rate it looked like one of those cloth-covered plastic-armed chairs that they put at computer workstations. "What can I do for you, Mr. Carpenter?"

"Call me Darvin – you know that, Kim." I smiled at her. She wasn't as formal as Cecelia, I knew, but while her mother was American she'd learned her manners from her Korean father and tended to automatically use the honorific when talking to me. "As for what you can do, it's simple – I need you to do legwork for me in a case I'm taking on."

"I am, right now, pretty busy. I have appointments all through the morning today, and I'll be working in the field until past dark. I really don't have any way to take on a new case."

"Let me tell you about it, Kim. It's not just any case. A friend of mine died Friday – gunshot to the head – and the cops think it was suicide. I know better. Someone clipped him, and I'm going to find out who, and catch the slimebag."