"T" is for Trespass by Sue Grafton

and parked on the street out front. While I waited for her to answer the door, I sampled the air without detecting the scent of any cooking under way. Probably too early. I imagined the neighbors would trickle home between five thirty and six. Dinner would be delivered in vehicles with signs on the top or pulled from the freezer in boxes complete with gaudy food photos, the oven and microwave instructions printed in type so small you’d have to don your reading glasses.
    Lisa Ray opened the door. Her hair was dark, cut short to accommodate its natural curl, which consisted of a halo of perfect ringlets. She was fresh-faced, with blue eyes and freckles like tiny beige paint flecks across the bridge of her nose. She wore black flats, panty hose, a red pleated skirt with a short-sleeved red cotton sweater. “Yikes. You’re early. Are you Kinsey?”
    â€œThat’s me.”
    She opened the door and let me in, saying, “I didn’t expect you to be so prompt. I just got home from work and I’d love to get out of these clothes.”
    â€œThat’s fine. Take your time.”
    â€œI’ll be back in a second. Have a seat.”
    I moved into the living room and settled on the couch while she took the stairs two at a time. I knew from the file that she was twenty-six years old, a part-time college student who paid her tuition and expenses by working twenty hours a week in the business office at St. Terry’s Hospital.
    The apartment was small. White walls, beige wall-to-wall carpet that looked new and smelled of harsh chemicals. The furniture was a mix of garage-sale finds and items she’d probably managed to cadge from home. Two mismatched chairs, both upholstered in the same fake leopard print, flanked a red-plaid couch, with a coffee table filling the space between. A small wooden dinette table and four chairs were arranged at the far end of the room with a pass-through to the kitchen off to the right. Checking the magazines on the coffee table, I had my choice of back issues of Glamour or Cosmopolitan . I picked Cosmopolitan , turning to an article about what men like in bed. What men? What bed? I hadn’t had a close encounter with a guy since Cheney left my life. I was about to calculate the exact number of weeks, but the idea depressed me before I even started to count.
    Five minutes later Lisa reappeared, trotting down the stairs in jeans and a sweatshirt with the University of California Santa Teresa logo on the front. She took a seat in one of the upholstered chairs.
    I set the magazine aside. “Is that where you went to school?” I asked, indicating her shirt.
    She glanced down. “This is my roommate’s. She’s a secretary in the math department out there. I’m at City College part-time, working on an AA degree in radiography. St. Terry’s has been great about my hours, pretty much letting me work when I want,” she said. “Have you talked to the insurance company?”
    â€œBriefly,” I said. “As it happens, I used to be associated with California Fidelity, so I know the adjuster, Mary Bellflower. I chatted with her a few days ago and she gave me the basics.”
    â€œShe’s nice. I like her, though we’re in total disagreement about this lawsuit.”
    â€œI gathered as much. I know you’ve been over this half a dozen times, but could you tell me what happened?”
    â€œSure. I don’t mind. This was Thursday, right before the Memorial Day weekend. I didn’t have classes that day, but I’d gone up to the college to do a review in the computer lab. After I finished, I picked up my car in the parking lot. I pulled up as far as the exit, intending to take a left onto Palisade Drive. There wasn’t a ton of traffic, but I had my signal on, waiting for a few cars to pass. I saw the Fredricksons’ van approaching from maybe two hundred yards away. He was driving and he’d activated the