"McIntyre claims he talked to me outside the courtroom the day I was acquitted, right?"

I said nothing.

"Right?" he asked again. I hate guys who insist on a line-by-line response.

"Make your point," I said.

"The fucker was in jail then. It was May twenty-first. Check his rap sheet for that year. You'll see it plain as day. I told Morley Shine the same thing Wednesday morning and he said he'd look into it."

"Mr. Barney, I don't think it's a good idea for us to talk like this. I work for the opposition. I'm the enemy, you got that?"

"All I want to do is tell you my side of it."

I held the phone out and squinted at the receiver in disbelief. "Does your attorney know you're doing this?"

"To hell with that. To hell with him. I've had it up to here with attorneys, my own included. We could have settled this years ago if anybody'd had the decency to listen." This from a man who shot his wife in the eye.

"Hey, you have the legal system if you want someone to listen. That's what it's all about. You say one thing. Kenneth Voigt says something else. The judge will hear both sides and so will the jury."

"But you won't."

"No, I won't listen because it's notmy place," I said irritably.

"Even if I'm telling the truth?"

"That's for the court to decide. That isn't my job. My job is to gather information. Lonnie Kingman's job is to put the facts before the court. What good is it going to do to tell me anything? This is stupid."

"Jesus Christ! Someone has to help me." His voice broke with emotion. I could hear mine getting colder.

"Talk to your attorney. He got you off a murderrap… so far, at any rate. I wouldn't mess with success if I were you."

"Could you meet with me… just briefly?"

"No, I can't meet with you!"

"Lady, I'm begging you. Five minutes is all I ask."

"I'm going to hang up, Mr. Barney. This is inappropriate."

"I need help."

"Then hire some. My services are taken."

I put the phone down and jerked my hand back. Was the man nuts? I'd never heard of a defendant trying to enlist the sympathies of the opposition. Suppose, in desperation, the guy came after me? I snatched up the phone again and buzzed Ida Ruth.

"Yessum?"

"The guy who just called. Did you give him my name?"

"Of course not. I'd never do such a thing," she said.

"Oh, shit. I just remembered. I gave it to him myself."

I picked up the phone again and placed a call to Sergeant Cordero in Homicide. She was out, but Lieutenant Becker picked up. "Hi, this is Kinsey. I need some information and I was hoping Sheri could help."

"She won't be back until after three, but maybe I can help. What's the scoop?"

"I was going to ask her to call the county jail and have someone check the jail release forms for a fellow named Curtis McIntyre."

"Wait a minute. Let me grab a pencil. That was McIntyre?"

"Right. He's an informant set to testify on a case for Lonnie Kingman. I need to know if he was incarcerated on May twenty-first, five years ago, which is when he claims he talked to the defendant. I can get the information by subpoena, but it's probably just a wild-goose chase and I hate to go to all the trouble."

"Shouldn't be hard to check. I'll call you back when I've got it, but it may take a while. I hope you're not in any crashing hurry."

"The sooner the better."

"Ain't that always the way?" Lieutenant Becker said.

Once I hung up the phone, I sat and thought about the situation, wondering if there was a quicker means of verifying the information. I could certainly wait until midafternoon, but it would prey on my mind. David Barney's call had left me feeling restless and out of sorts. I was reluctant to waste time checking out what was probably pure fabrication on his part. On the other hand, Lonnie was counting on Curtis McIntyre's testimony. If Curtis McIntyre was lying, we were sunk, especially with Morley's investigation coming unraveled at the same time. This was my first job for Lonnie. I could hardly afford to get fired again.

In my head, I reran the conversation I'd had with Curtis at the jail. In his account, he'd intercepted David Barney in the corridor just outside the courtroom on the day he was acquitted. I didn't think I could count on Barney's attorney, Herb Foss, to corroborate Curtis's claim, but could there have been another witness to their encounter? Just the countless reporters with their Minicams and mikes.

I grabbed my jacket and my shoulder bag. I left the office and dog-trotted the two blocks to the side street where I'd finally managed to squeeze my car into a bare stretch of curb. I took Capilla Boulevard across town, through the heart of the commercial district, and headed up the big hill on the far side of the freeway.

KEST-TV was located just this side of the summit. From the bluff where the station sat, there was a 180-degree living mural of the city of Santa Teresa: mountains on one side, the Pacific Ocean on the other. There was parking for about fifty cars and I pulled into a spot designated for visitors. I got out of the car and paused for a moment to take in the view. The wind was buffeting the dry grasses along the hill. In the distance, the pale ocean stretched to the horizon, looking flat and oddly shallow.

I remembered the story I'd once heard from a marine archaeologist. He told me there was evidence of primitive offshore villages, underwater now, located at the mouths of ancient sloughs or arroyos. Over the years, the sea had offered up broken vessels, mortars, abalone spangles, and other artifacts, probably eroding from former cemeteries and middens along the now-submerged beach. In legend, the Chumash Indians recount a time when the sea subsided and remained that way for hours. A house was exposed at the far reaches of the low tide… a mile out, or two miles… this miraculous shanty. People gathered on the beaches, murmuring with amazement. The waters receded further and a second house appeared, but the witnesses were too frightened to approach. Gradually the waters returned and the two structures vanished, covered by the slow swell of the incoming tide.

There was something eerie about the tale, Holocene ghosts offering up this momentary vision of a tribal site lost from view. Sometimes I wondered if I'd have dared venture out across that stretch of exposed channel. Perhaps half a mile out, it plunged downward like the sides of a mountain, underwater cliffs tumbling ever deeper to the canyon below. I pictured the sediment on the ocean bottom, glistening, dead gray from the lack of light, cobbled and pockmarked with all its blunt and stony treasures. Time covers the truth, leaving scarcely a ripple on the surface to suggest all the plains and valleys that lie below. Even now, dealing with a six-year-old murder, much was hidden, much submerged. I was left to gather artifacts washed up like rubble on the shores of the present, uneasy about the treasures, undiscovered, lying just out of reach.

I turned and went into the station. The building itself was a one-story stucco structure, painted a plain sand color, bristling with assorted antennae. I went into the lobby with its pale blue carpeting, furnished with the kind of "Danish Modern" furniture an affluent college student might rent for a semester. Christmas decorations were just going up: an artificial tree in one corner, boxes of ornaments stacked in a chair. On the wall to my right, numerous broadcast awards were mounted like bowling trophies. A color television was tuned to a morning game show, the gist of which seemed to be identifying a series of celebrities whose first names were Andy.

The receptionist was a pretty girl with long dark hair and vivid makeup. The name on the placard read Tanya Alvarez. "Rooney!" she called, her eyes pinned to the set. I turned and looked at the picture. "Andy Rooney" was correct and the audience was applauding. The next clue came up and she said, "Oh, shoot, who is that? What's-his-face? Andy Warhol!" Right again, and she flushed with pleasure. She looked over at me. "I could make a fortune on that show, except probably the day I got on it'd be some category I never heard of. Blowfish, or exotic plants. Can I help you?"