E is for Evidence by Sue Grafton Page A

was I couldn’t think of one. I won’t admit to depression, but I was in bed by 8:00 P.M . . . . not cool for a hard-assed private eye waging a one-woman war against the bad guys everywhere.

 
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    By 1:00 the next afternoon, I had tracked Lyda Case by telephone to a cocktail lounge at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, where she was simultaneously tending bar and hanging up in my ear with a force that made me think I’d have to have my hearing rechecked. Last May I’d been compelled to shoot someone from the depths of a garbage bin and my ears have been hissing ever since. Lyda didn’t help this . . . especially as she said a quite rude word to me before she smacked the phone down. I was deeply annoyed. It had taken me a bit of doing to locate her and she’d already hung up on me once that day.
    I’d started at 10:00 A.M. with a call to the Culinary Alliance and Bartenders Local 498, which refused to tell me anything. I’ve noticed lately that organizations are getting surly about this sort of thing. It used to be you could ring them right up, tell a plausibletale, and get the information you wanted within a minute or two. Now you can’t get names, addresses, or telephone numbers. You can’t get service records, bank balances, or verification of employment. Half the time, you can’t even get confirmation of the facts you already have. Don’t even bother with the public schools, the Welfare Department, or the local jail. They won’t tell you nothin’.
    â€œThat’s privileged,” they say. “Sorry, but that’s an invasion of our client’s privacy.”
    I hate that officious tone they take, all those clerks and receptionists. They
love
not telling you what you want to know. And they’re smart. They don’t fall for the same old song and dance that worked a couple of years ago. It’s too aggravating for words.
    I reverted to routine. When all else fails, try the county clerk’s office, the public library, or the DMV. They’ll help. Sometimes there’s a small fee involved, but who cares?
    I whipped over to the library and checked back through old telephone directories year by year until I found Hugh and Lyda Case listed. I made a note of the address and then switched to the crisscross and found out who their neighbors had been two years back. I called one after another, generally bullshitting my way down the block. Finally, someone allowed as how Hugh had died and they thought his widow moved to Dallas.
    It worried me briefly that Lyda Case might be unlisted, but I dialed Information in Dallas and picked up a home phone number right away. Hot damn, this was fun. I tried the number and someone answered on the third ring.
    â€œHello.”
    â€œMay I speak to Lyda Case?”
    â€œThis is she.”
    â€œReally?” I asked, amazed at my own cleverness.
    â€œWho is this?” Her voice was flat.
    I hadn’t expected to get through to her and I hadn’t yet made up a suitable fib, so I was forced to tell the truth. Big mistake. “My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private detective in Santa Teresa, California. . . .”
    Bang. I lost some hearing in the mid-range. I called back, but she refused to answer the phone.
    At this point, I needed to know where she was employed and I couldn’t afford to call every bar in the Dallas/Forth Worth area, if indeed that’s the sort of work she still did. I tried Information again and picked up the telephone number of the Hotel and Restaurant Employees Union Local 353 in Dallas. I had my index finger poised to dial when I realized I would need a ruse.
    I sat and thought for a moment. It would help to have Lyda Case’s Social Security number, which might lend a little air of credibility to my bogus pursuit.Never try to get one of these from the Social Security Office. They’re right up there with banks in their