P is for Peril by Sue Grafton Page A

so?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œWhat if it’s rented?”
    â€œYou won’t be out anything. Maybe the guy has others.” He reached into his watch pocket and removed a coin, which he placed on the table right in front of me. “Go on.”
    I took the coin and the paper and crossed the room. The pay phone was in the vestibule, the area dimly illuminated by a neon Budweiser sign. I dialed the number and read the ad again while I listened to four rings. Finally, the line was picked up on the other end and I asked to speak to Richard.
    â€œThis is he.”
    I placed him in his thirties, though phone voices can be deceptive. “I’m calling with regard to the office space listed in tonight’s paper. Is the place still available?” I noticed a tinge of plaintiveness had crept into my voice.
    â€œSure, but we’re asking for a year’s lease, first and last month’s rent, plus a cleaning deposit.”
    â€œCan I ask what street it’s on?”
    â€œFloresta. Across from the police station and about six doors down.”
    â€œAnd the price quoted is correct? The ad says two hundred and fifty bucks a month.”
    â€œIt’s only one room. It’s got a closet and bathroom, but it’s not large.”
    I pictured a phone booth. “Would it be possible to see it tonight?”
    â€œAs it happens, my brother’s in there laying carpet and I’m on my way over. You want to take a look, I can meet you there in fifteen minutes.”
    My watch said 7:30. “Great. I can do that. What’s the address?”
    He gave me the information. “You can pull on down the driveway to the parking lot in back. You’ll see lights on, first floor rear. My brother’s name is Tommy. The last name’s Hevener.”
    â€œI’m Kinsey Millhone. Thanks so much. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”
    The building had clearly once been a single-family residence: a one-story white-frame cottage with gables in the roofline and a lot of gingerbread trim. At 7:42 I eased my VW down the driveway, my headlights cutting through the shadows. I slowed and peered out the driver’s-side window. The white paint looked fresh and there were flower beds along the side. How had I missed this? The location was ideal—one block away from the office I was now in—and the price couldn’t have been better. I counted ten parking spaces laid out along the narrow backyard, which was paved with asphalt and fenced on two sides. A black pickup truck was parked in one spot, but the rest were empty at this hour. There was a big trash bin just at the exit to the alleyway in back. Looking up, I could see Lonnie’s office windows and the back wall that framed the tiny lot behind his building. I parked and got out, trying to curb the sudden surge of hope. For all I knew, the property was on the market, or the lot was the site of a former gas station, the soil still contaminated by benzene and other carcinogens.
    A wide redwood deck had been constructed across the back of the building, complete with a long wooden ramp installed for easy wheelchair access. A market umbrella with a big pale canvas shade stood open above a glass-topped table surrounded by four chairs. Several large terra-cotta pots had been planted with herbs. I was about to hyperventilate. First-floor lights were ablaze. I entered a small foyer. A door stood open to my immediate right. The scent of fresh paint was strong, overlaid by the staunch, secondary odor of brand-new carpeting. I closed my eyes while I offered up a quick prayer, repudiating my wickedness and promising to mend my evil ways. I opened my eyes and stepped through the doorway, absorbing the room at a glance.
    The room was twelve by twelve, with new hand-crank windows on two walls. There were two tiers of white-painted shutters in place of conventional drapes. On the far wall, two doors stood open, one leading to a small