"S" is for Silence by Sue Grafton Page A

was just as distracting. I finally gave up and started winging it, quieting the chatter in my brain so I could hear what was being said. My memory has improved to the point where I can remember the bulk of an interview, but I still find it helpful to nail down the details while they’re fresh in my mind. Over time, a portion of any recollection fades, and while I might remember the gist, it’s the minutia that sometimes makes all the difference.
    Cynic that I am, I did wonder if Foley had quit drinking because he was afraid alcohol would one day loosen his tongue, tricking him into saying something he shouldn’t. For the same reason, I questioned his reasons for the lack of an intimate relationship since Violet had disappeared. Guilt produces a loneliness of its own. The temptation to confide has to be overwhelming at times. His suffering had been intense, but he’d never sought solace, or so he claimed.
    I looked at the map again, noting the distance between the service station where Violet had filled her tank, the park in Silas, and the Sullivans’ house. Must have been fifteen or twenty miles from point to point. It was possible, I supposed, that Violet had bought gas and then driven home, in which case she might well have been there when Foley returned. If that were the case, surely the babysitter would have said so. I put a rubber band around my fat stack of cards, then fired up the engine, put the car in gear, and headed for home.
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    As I was unlocking my front door, Henry emerged from his kitchen and locked the door behind him. He was looking very spiffy for a guy who favors shorts and flip-flops. He waved and I waited while he crossed the patio. It was close to cocktail hour and I figured he was on his way to Rosie’s. “Actually, I’m driving down to Olvidado to take Charlotte to the movies. We’ll catch the five-o’clock show and have dinner afterwards.” Charlotte was a real estate agent he’d dated twice. I was happy to see him take an interest after his recently failed romance.
    â€œSounds like fun. What are you seeing?”
    â€œ No Way Out with that actor, Kevin Costner. You think this is okay?” He held his arms out, asking me to make a judgment about his slacks and collared T-shirt.
    â€œYou look fine.”
    â€œThanks. What are you up to?”
    â€œI’m on a job up in the Santa Maria area. I’ll be driving back and forth, but I don’t want you to worry if you don’t see me for a couple of days. You better get a move on. Traffic’s tricky at this hour.”
    I watched him cross to his two-car garage, pausing long enough to see which car he took. His pride and joy is a 1932 Chevrolet, the five-window coupe, painted bright yellow. His other car is a workaday station wagon, which is serviceable but no great shakes. He backed down the drive in the vintage Chevy, waving at me as he disappeared from sight.
    Once in my apartment, I dropped my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool and went through my usual ritual of phone messages and mail. Cheney had called to say hi and he’d catch me later. Mail was boring. When I peered into the refrigerator, the sight that greeted me was no big surprise. The contents consisted of condiments—mustard, pickles, olives, and a jar of jalapeños—a stick of butter, a head of browning lettuce, and a six-pack of Diet Pepsi. I hadn’t been to the grocery store for days, which meant I’d either have to make a supermarket run or eat out again. While I debated, I returned Cheney’s call. I knew he’d be gone, but I left a lengthy message, telling him what I was up to. I wasn’t sure what my schedule would look like after tomorrow, but I said I’d be in touch. Already this was feeling like the same sort of absentee relationship I’d had with Robert Dietz. How do I get myself into these situations with men?
    I was halfway to Rosie’s, less than thrilled with the