Kinsey and Me by Sue Grafton Page B

boarding call for
     a flight to San Francisco. I used the fifty bucks Mona’d paid me to snag a seat and
     a boarding pass from a startled reservations clerk and then I headed for the gate.
     I had no luggage and nothing on me to set off the security alarm as I whipped through.
     I flashed my ticket, opened the double doors, and raced across the tarmac for the
     plane, taking the portable boarding stairs two at a time. The flight attendant pulled
     the door shut behind me. I was in.
    I spotted Mona eight rows back in a window seat on the left-hand side, her face turned
     away from me. This time she was wearing jeans and an oversized shirt. The aisle seat
     was occupied, but the middle was empty. The plane was still sitting on the runway,
     engines revving, as I bumped across some guy’s knees, saying, “’Scuse me, pardon me,”
     and popped in beside Ms. Starling. She turned a blanched face toward me and a little
     cry escaped. “What are you doing here?”
    “See if you can guess.”
    “I didn’t do it,” she whispered hoarsely.
    “Yeah, right. I bet. That’s probably why you got on a plane the minute the story broke,”
     I said.
    “That’s
not
what happened.”
    “The hell it’s not!”
    The man on my left leaned forward and looked at us quizzically.
    “The fellow she picked up Friday night got killed,” I said, conversationally. I pointed
     my index finger at my head like a gun and fired. He decided to mind his own business,
     which suited me. Mona got to her feet and tried to squeeze past. All I had to do was
     extend my knees and she was trapped. Other people were taking an interest by now.
     She did a quick survey of the situation, rolled her eyes, and sat down again. “Let’s
     get off the plane. I’ll explain in a minute. Just don’t make a scene,” she said, the
     color high in her cheeks.
    “Hey, let’s not cause you any embarrassment,” I said. “A man was murdered. That’s
     all we’re talking about.”
    “I know he’s dead,” she hissed, “but I’m innocent. I swear to God.”
    We got up together and bumped and thumped across the man’s knees, heading down the
     aisle toward the door. The flight attendant was peeved, but she let us deplane.

    W E WENT UPSTAIRS to the airport bar and found a little table at the rear. When the waitress came, I
     shook my head, but Mona ordered a Pink Squirrel. The waitress had questions about
     her age, but I had to question her taste. A Pink Squirrel? Mona had pulled her wallet
     out and the waitress scrutinized her California driver’s license, checking Mona’s
     face against the stamp-sized color photograph, apparently satisfied at the match.
     As she passed the wallet back to Mona, I snagged it and peeked at the license myself.
     She was twenty-one by a month. The address was the same one she’d given me. The waitress
     disappeared and Mona snatched her wallet, shoving it down in her purse again.
    “What was that for?” she said sulkily.
    “Just checking. You want to tell me what’s going on?”
    She picked up a packet of airport matches and began to bend the cover back and forth.
     “I lied to you.”
    “This comes as no surprise,” I said. “What’s the truth?”
    “Well, I did pick him up, but we didn’t screw. I just told you that because I couldn’t
     think of any other reason I’d want his home address.”
    “Why
did
you want it?”
    She broke off eye contact. “He stole something and I had to get it back.”
    I stared at her. “Let me take a flier,” I said. “It had to be something illegal or
     you’d have told me about it right up front. Or reported it to the cops. So it must
     be dope. Was it coke or grass?”
    She was wide-eyed. “Grass, but how did you know?”
    “Just tell me the rest,” I replied with a shake of my head. I love the young. They’re
     always amazed that we know anything.
    Mona glanced up to my right.
    The waitress was approaching with her tray. She set an airport cocktail napkin on
     the