Free C is for Corpse by Sue Grafton Page B

speculate. I didn’t editorialize. I just typed it all out and used my two-hole punch at the top of the paper, which I then clamped into a folder and placed in my file cabinet.
    That done, I glanced at my watch, Ten-twenty. Bobby’s physical-therapy regimen was parceled out into daily stints, while mine was set up for Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. It was possible he was still at the gym. I closed up the office and went down the back steps to the lot, where I keep my car parked. I headed toward Santa Teresa Fitness, gassing up on the way, and caught Bobby just as he was coming out of the building. His hair was still damp from the shower andthe scent of Coast soap radiated from his skin. Despite the facial paralysis, the crippled left arm, and the limp, something of the original Bobby Callahan shone through, young and strong, with the blond good looks of a California surfer. I’d seen pictures of him broken, and by comparison, he now seemed miraculously whole, even with the scars still etched on his face like tattoos done by an amateur. When he saw me, he smiled crookedly, dabbing automatically at his chin. “I didn’t expect to see you here this morning,” he said.
    â€œHow was your workout?”
    He tilted from side to side, indicating so-so. I tucked my arm through his.
    â€œI have a request, but you don’t have to agree,” I said.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    I hesitated for a moment. “I want you to go up the pass with me and show me where the car went off.”
    The smile faded. He glanced away from me and launched into motion again, moving toward his car with that lilting gait. “All right, but I want to stop by and see Kitty first.”
    â€œIs she allowed to have visitors?”
    â€œI can talk my way in,” he said. “People don’t like to deal with cripples, so I can usually get anything I want.”
    â€œSpoiled,” I said.
    â€œTake any advantage you can,” he replied sheepishly.
    â€œYou want to drive?”
    He shook his head. “Let’s drop my car off at the house and take yours.”
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    I parked in the visitor’s lot at St. Terry’s and waited in the car while he went in to see Kitty. I imagined she’d be back on her feet by now, still pissed off, and raising hell on the ward. Not anything I wanted to face. I hoped to talk to her again in a couple of days, but I preferred to give her time to settle down. I flipped on the car radio, tapping on the steering wheel in time to the music. Two nurses passed through the parking lot in white uniforms, white shoes and hose, with dark blue capes that looked like something left over from World War I. In due course, Bobby emerged from the building and hobbled across the parking lot, his expression preoccupied. He got into the car. I flipped the radio off and started the engine, backing out of the slot.
    â€œEverything okay?”
    â€œYeah, sure.”
    He was quiet as I headed across town and turned left onto the secondary road that cuts along the back side of Santa Teresa at the base of the foothills. The sky was a flat blue and cloudless, looking like semigloss paint that had been applied with a roller. It was hot, and the hills were brown and dry, laid out like a pile of kindling. The long grasses near the road had bleached out to a pale gold, and once in a while, I caught sight of lizards perched up on big rocks, looking as gray and still as twigs.
    The road twisted, two lanes of blacktop angling back and forth up the side of the mountain. I down-shiftedtwice and my little VW still complained of the climb.
    â€œI thought I remembered something,” Bobby said after a while. “But I can’t seem to pin it down. That’s why I had to see Kitty.”
    â€œWhat kind of thing?”
    â€œI had an address book. One of those small leather-bound types about the size of a playing card. Cheap. Red. I gave it to someone for safekeeping and