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Authors: Sue Grafton

E is for Evidence

BOOK: E is for Evidence
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PHENOMENAL PRAISE FOR THE MYSTERY NOVELS OF
#1
NEW YORK TIMES
BESTSELLING AUTHOR

SUE GRAFTON

“Exceptionally entertaining . . . An offbeat sense of humor and a feisty sense of justice.”

—San Francisco Chronicle

 

“Millhone is an engaging detective-for-hire . . . PI Kinsey Millhone and her creator . . . are arguably the best of [the] distaff invaders of the hitherto sacrosanct turf of gumshoes.”

—The Buffalo News

 

“Once a fan reads one of Grafton's alphabetically titled detective novels, he or she will not rest until all the others are found.”

 

—Los Angeles Herald Examiner

 

“Millhone is a refreshingly strong and resourceful female private eye.”

—Library Journal

 

“Tough but compassionate . . . There is no one better than Kinsey Millhone.”

—Best Sellers

 

“A woman we feel we know, a tough cookie with a soft center, a gregarious loner.”

—Newsweek

 

“Lord, how I like this Kinsey Millhone . . . The best detective fiction I have read in years.”

—The New York Times Book Review

 

“Smart, tough, and thorough . . . Kinsey Millhone is a pleasure.”

—The Bloomsbury Review

 

“Kinsey is one of the most persuasive of the new female operatives . . . She's refreshingly free of gender clichés. Grafton, who is a very witty writer, has also given her sleuth a nice sense of humor—and a set of Wonder Woman sheets to prove it.”

—Boston Herald

 

“What grandpa used to call a class act.”

—Stanley Ellin

 

“Smart, sexual, likable and a very modern operator.”

—Dorothy Salisbury Davis

 

“Kinsey's got brains
and
a sense of humor.”

—Kirkus Reviews

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Also by Sue Grafton

 

A Is for Alibi

B Is for Burglar

C Is for Corpse

D Is for Deadbeat

E Is for Evidence

F Is for Fugitive

G Is for Gumshoe

H Is for Homicide

I Is for Innocent

J Is for Judgment

K Is for Killer

L Is for Lawless

M Is for Malice

N Is for Noose

O Is for Outlaw

P Is for Peril

Q Is for Quarry

R Is for Ricochet

 

Coming soon:

S Is for Silence

 

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way.
Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at:
us.macmillanusa.com/piracy
.

Contents

Title

Copyright Notice

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

E IS FOR EVIDENCE

 

Copyright © 1988 by Sue Grafton.

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

 

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 87-28100

 

eISBN: 978-1-4299-0938-9

EAN: 9780312-93903-8

 

Printed in the United States of America

 

First published in the United States by Henry Holt and Company.

 

St. Martin's Griffin edition / December 2005

St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / December 2005

 

St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

 

10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

 

 

 

For my two mothers, past and present:
Viv and Lillian

 

 

 

The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of the following people: Steven Humphrey; Jim Hetherington, President, and Dorcas Lube, Office Manager, Hetherington, Inc.; Bruce Boller, First Vice President, Institutional Services, Robert W. Baird, Inc.; Joyce Mackewich and Kim Nelson of Montgomery, Fansler & Carlson Insurance; Dennis W. Leski; William Pasich; Robert Snowball; Caroline Ware, Santa Barbara Travel; Elisa Moran, Santa Barbara County Registrar of Voters; Kathleen Hotchkiss, Culinary Alliance and Bartenders Local 498; Anne Reid; Frank and Florence Clark; Lynn Herold, Ph.D., Senior Criminalist, Department of Chief Medical Examiner-Coroner, Los Angeles County; George Donner, A-1 Tri-Counties Investigations; Detective Robert J. Lowry, Investigative Division, Santa Barbara Police Department; and Deputy Juan Tejeda, Santa Barbara County Sheriff's Department.

 

 

 

1

 

 

It was Monday, December 27, and I was sitting in my office, trying to get a fix on the mood I was in, which was bad, bad, bad, comprised of equal parts irritation and uneasiness. The irritation was generated by a bank notice I'd just received, one of those windowed numbers with a yellow carbon showing through. At first, I assumed I was overdrawn, but what I pulled out was a slip, dated Friday, December 24, showing a five-thousand-dollar deposit to my checking account.

“What the hell is this?” I said.

The account number was correct, but the deposit wasn't mine. In my experience, banks are the least helpful institutions on earth, and the notion of having to stop what I was doing to straighten out an error was nearly more than I could bear. I tossed the notice aside, trying to reclaim my concentration. I was getting ready to write up the preliminary report on an
insurance case I'd been asked to look into, and Darcy, the secretary at California Fidelity, had just buzzed to say that Mac wanted the file on his desk right away. Mentally, I'd come up with a tart suggestion about what she could do with herself, but I'd kept my mouth shut, showing (I thought) admirable restraint.

I turned back to my portable Smith-Corona, inserting the proper form for a property-insurance-loss register. My nimble fingers were poised to type while I reviewed my notes. That's where I was stuck. Something was off and I couldn't figure out what it was. I glanced at the bank notice again.

Almost with an eye toward the comic relief, I called the bank, hoping the diversion would help me focus on what was bothering me about the situation at Wood/Warren, a local company manufacturing hydrogen furnaces for industrial use. They'd had a fire out there on December 19 that had destroyed a warehouse.

“Mrs. Brunswick, Customer Service. May I help you?”

“Well, I hope so,” I said. “I just received a notice saying I put five thousand dollars in my checking account last Friday and I didn't do that. Is there any way you can straighten it out?”

“May I have your name and account number, please?”

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said, supplying my account number in slow, measured tones.

She put me on hold briefly while she called up the records on her computer terminal. Meanwhile, I listened to the bank's rendition of “Good King Wenceslas,” which I've personally never understood. What's the Feast of Stephen?

Mrs. Brunswick clicked back in. “Miss Millhone, I'm not certain what the problem is, but we do show a cash deposit to this account number. Apparently, it was left in the night-deposit slot and posted over the weekend.”

“You still have one of those night-deposit slots?” I asked with amazement.

“At our downtown branch, yes,” she said.

“Well, there's some kind of mistake here. I've never even seen the night-deposit slot. I use my twenty-four-hour instant teller card if I need to transact bank business after hours. What do we do now?”

“I can track down a copy of the deposit slip,” she said skeptically.

“Would you do that, please? Because I didn't make a deposit of any kind last Friday and certainly not five thousand dollars' worth. Maybe somebody transposed some numbers on the deposit slip or something, but the money sure doesn't belong to me.”

She took my telephone number and said she'd get back to me. I could tell I was in for countless phone calls before the correction could be made. Suppose
somebody was merrily writing checks against that five grand?

I went back to the task at hand, wishing I felt more enlightened than I did. My mind kept jumping around. The file on the fire claim at Wood/Warren had actually come into my hands four days before, late Thursday, the 23rd. I'd been scheduled to have a farewell drink with my landlord, Henry Pitts, at four, and then take him out to the airport and put him on a plane. He was flying back to Michigan to spend the holidays with his family, some of whom are edging into their nineties with their vigor and good spirits still in evidence. Henry's pushing eighty-two, a mere kid, and he was about as excited as one at the prospect of the trip.

I was still at the office that afternoon with my paperwork caught up and some time to kill. I went out onto my second-floor balcony, peering off to my right at the V of Pacific Ocean visible at the foot of State Street, ten blocks down. This is Santa Teresa, California, ninety-five miles north of Los Angeles. Winter here is a grand affair, full of sunshine and mild temperatures, vibrant magenta bougainvillea, gentle winds, and palm trees waving fronds at the sea gulls as they wheel overhead.

The only signs of Christmas, two days away, were the garlands of tinsel strung along the main streets.
The stores, of course, were packed with shoppers, and there was a trio of Salvation Army horn players tooting away at “Deck the Halls.” In the interests of feeling jolly, I thought I'd better work out my strategy for the next two days.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I cherish my unmarried state. I'm female, twice divorced, no kids, and no close family ties. I'm a private detective by trade. Usually I'm perfectly content to do what I do. There are times when I work long hours on a case and times when I'm on the road and times when I hole up in my tiny apartment and read books for days. When the holidays come around, however, I find that I have to exercise a certain cunning lest the absence of loved ones generate unruly depression. Thanksgiving had been a breeze. I spent the day with Henry and some pals of his, who'd cooked and sipped champagne and laughed and told tales about days long past, making me wish I were their age instead of my own, which is thirty-two.

Now Henry was leaving town, and even Rosie, who runs the dingy neighborhood tavern where I often eat, was closing down until January 2, refusing to tell a soul what she meant to do with herself. Rosie is sixty-six, Hungarian, short, top-heavy, bossy, and often rude, so it wasn't as though I was worried I'd miss any touching heart-to-heart chats. The fact that she
was closing her eatery was simply one more uncomfortable reminder that I was out there in the world all by myself and had best find a way to look after me.

BOOK: E is for Evidence
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