"Is there any chance you might have been out around one or one-thirty?"

"One-thirty in the morning? You mean, like doing something?"

"Yes, a date, or maybe just bopping around with your buddies."

"Nunh-unh. My dad didn't like me to be out late."

"He was home that night?"

"Sure. Probably," she said.

"Do you remember what your mom said when she called?"

She thought about that for a moment. "I don't think so. I mean, I remember she woke me up and she was crying and all."

"Does your dad have a truck?"

"Just for work," she said. "He's a painting contractor and he carries his equipment in the pickup."

"He had the same truck back then?"

"He's had the same truck ever since I can remember. He needs a new one actually."

"The one he has is white?"

That one slowed her down some. A trick question perhaps? "Yeah," she said reluctantly. "Why?"

"Here's the deal," I said. "I talked to a guy who says he saw you out that night, driving a white pickup."

"Well, that's screwed. I wasn't out," she said with just a touch of indignation.

"What about your father? Maybe he was using the truck."

"I doubt it."

"What's his name? I can check it out with him. He might remember something."

"Go ahead. I don't care. It's Chris White. He lives on West Glen, down around the bend from my mom."

"Thanks. This has been real helpful."

That seemed to worry her. "It has?"

I shrugged and said, "Well, sure. If your father can verify the fact that you were home, then this other business is probably just a case of mistaken identity." I allowed just the tiniest note of misgiving to sound in my voice, a little bird of doubt singing in a distant part of the forest. The effect wasn't lost.

"Who was it said they saw me?"

"I wouldn't worry about it." I looked at my watch. "I better let you go."

"You want a ride or something? It's no trouble." Little Miss Helpful.

"I walked over from my place, but thanks. I'll talk to you later."

"Night," she said. Her parting smile seemed manufactured, one of those expressions clouded with conflicting emotions. If she didn't watch it, those little frown marks were going to require cosmetic surgery by the time she was thirty. I glanced back and she gave me a halfhearted wave, which I returned in kind. I headed back down the pier, thinking "Liar, liar, pants on fire" for reasons I couldn't name.

I dined that night on Cheerios and skim milk. I ate, bowl in hand, standing at the kitchen sink, while I stared out the window. I made my mind a blank, erasing the day's events in a cloud of chalk dust. I was still troubled about Tippy, but there was no point in trying to force the issue. I turned the whole business over to my subconscious for review. Whatever was bugging me would surface in time.

At 6:40, I left for my appointment with Francesca Voigt. Like most of the principal players in this drama, she and Kenneth Voigt lived in Horton Ravine. I drove west on Cabana and up the long, winding hill past Harley's Beach, entering the Ravine through the back gate. The entire Horton property was originally two ranches of more than three thousand acres each, combined and purchased in the mid-1800s by a sea captain named Robertson, who, in turn, sold the land to a sheep rancher named Tobias Horton. The land has since been subdivided into some 670 wooded parcels, ranging from one-and-a-half-acre to fifty-acre estates, laced with thirty miles of bridal paths. An aerial view might show that two houses, seemingly miles apart, were really only two lots away from each other, separated more by winding roads than by any actual geographical distance. In truth, David Barney wasn't the only one whose property was in range of Isabelle's.

The Voigts lived on what must have been six or eight acres, if one could judge property lines by the course of the fifteen-foot hedges that snaked along the road and cut down along the hillside. The shrubs and flower beds were all carefully tended, towering eucalyptus grouped together at the fringes. The driveway was a half circle with a bed of thickly planted pansies massed together in its center, a blend of deep reds and purples, petals vibrant in the glow of the landscape lighting. Off to the right, I could see horse stalls, a tack room, and an empty corral. The air smelled faintly musty, a blend of straw, dampness, and the various byproducts of horse butts.

The house was built low to the ground, white frame and white painted brick, with long brick terraces across the front, dark green plantation shutters flanking the wide mullioned windows. I left my car out in the drive, rang the bell, and waited. A stolid white maid in a black uniform opened the door. She was probably in her fifties and looked foreign for some reason-facial structure, body type… I wasn't really sure what it was. She didn't quite make eye contact. Her gaze came to rest right about at my clavicle and remained there as I indicated who I was and told her that I was expected. She made no reply, but she conveyed with body language that she comprehended my utterings.