E is for Evidence by Sue Grafton Page B

devotion to thwarting you at every turn. I was going to have to get the information through access to public records of some sort.
    I grabbed my handbag, a jacket, and my car keys and headed over to the courthouse. The Registrar of Voters is located in the basement, down a flight of wide red-tile steps with a handrail made out of antique rope as big around as a boa constrictor.
    I followed the signs down a short corridor to the right, pushing into the office through a glass door. Two clerks were working behind the counter, but no one paid any attention to me. There was a computer terminal on the counter and I typed in Lyda Case’s name. I closed my eyes briefly, offering up a small prayer to whichever of the gods is in charge of bureaucracies. If Lyda had registered to vote any time in the last six years, the revised form wouldn’t show her Social Security number. That question had been deleted in 1976.
    The name flashed up, line after line of green print streaking out. Lyda Case had first registered to vote October 14, 1974. The number of the original affidavit was listed on the bottom line. I made a note of the number and gave it to the clerk who had approached when she saw I needed help.
    She disappeared into a back corridor where the oldfiles are kept. She returned a few minutes later with the affidavit in hand. Lyda Case’s Social Security number was neatly filled in. As a bonus, I also picked up her date of birth. I started laughing at the sight of it. The clerk smiled and I knew from the look we exchanged that she felt as I did about some things. I love information. Sometimes I feel like an archaeologist, digging for facts, uncovering data with my wits and a pen. I made notes, humming to myself.
    Now I could go to work.
    I went home again and picked up the phone, redialing the Bartenders Local in Santa Teresa.
    â€œLocal Four-Ninety-eight,” the woman said.
    â€œOh, hi,” said I. “Who am I speaking to, please?”
    â€œI’m the administrative assistant,” she said primly. “Perhaps you’ll identify yourself.”
    â€œOh, sorry. Of course. This is Vicky with the Chamber of Commerce. I’m addressing invitations for the annual Board of Supervisors dinner and I need your name, if you’d be so kind.”
    There was a dainty silence. “Rowena Feldstaff,” she said, spelling it out for me carefully.
    â€œThank you.”
    I dialed Texas again. The phone on the other end rang four times while two women in teeny, tiny voices laughed about conditions in the Inky Void. Someone picked up.
    â€œHotel and Restaurant Employees Local Three-Five-Three.This is Mary Jane. Can I he’p you?” She had a soft voice and a mild Texas accent. She sounded like she was about twenty.
    â€œYou sure can, Mary Jane,” I said. “This is Rowena Feldstaff in Santa Teresa, California. I’m the administrative assistant for Bartenders Local Four-Ninety-eight and I’m trying to do a status check on Lyda Case. That’s C-A-S-E . . .” Then I rattled out her date of birth and her Social Security number, as though from records of my own.
    â€œCan I have a number so I can call you back?” said the ever-cautious Mary Jane.
    â€œSure,” I said and gave her my home phone.
    Within minutes, my phone rang again. I answered as Bartenders Local 498, and Mary Jane very kindly gave me Lyda Case’s current place of employment, along with the address and phone number. She was working at one of the cocktail lounges at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport.
    I called the bar and one of the waitresses told me Lyda would be there at 3:00 Dallas time, which was 1:00 where I was.
    At 1:00, I called back and lost another couple of decibels’ worth of hearing. Whoo, that lady was quick. I’d have to walk around with a horn sticking out of my ear at this rate.
    If I’d been working off an expense account, I’d have hied myself out to the Santa