"P" is for Peril (A Kinsey Millhone Mystery, Book 16)
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Kinsey Millhone never sees it coming. She is mired in the case of a doctor who disappeared, his angry ex-wife, and beautiful current one–a case that is full of unfinished business, unfinished homes, and people drifting in and out of their own lives. Then Kinsey gets a shock. A man she finds attractive is hiding a fatal secret–and now a whole lot of beauty, money, and lies are proving to be a fatal distraction from what Kinsey should have seen all along: a killer standing right before her eyes. . . .
house, did a turnaround at the corner, and came back. I parked across the street and settled in to wait. Visiting hours at St. Terry’s wouldn’t begin in earnest for an hour so the streets were close to deserted. Even protected by a gauzy curtain of rain, I felt conspicuous sitting in the car by myself. This wasn’t a surveillance— more like a sortie in the battle between Dow’s wives. I didn’t want to think about Crystal, whose history with men had been a series of disasters. She’d gotten pregnant
front door, using a key, I noticed, from her own key chain. She pushed open the door and stepped aside, allowing me to pass in front of her and into the house. I don’t know why I should have felt embarrassed, but I did. The front room was done up as an old-fashioned parlor with a camelback sofa, occasional tables, and assorted Queen Anne chairs. Every item of furniture sported a hand-crocheted doily designed as protection from dirt and grease stains. There was a grandfather clock and lots of
I rose to my feet. Tommy finished his beer and set the bottle aside. A car door slammed and shortly afterward Richard Hevener walked in, tapping a clipboard restlessly against the side of his leg. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt, over which he wore a supple-looking black leather sportscoat. He was taller than Tommy and a lot stockier, his hair dark. He was the somber brother and seemed to take himself very seriously. This was going to be a chore. “Richard Hevener,” he said as he offered me his
the fence. He’d lied as well as I did and with the same finesse. The question now was whether Tommy would act on the information. Mariah’s answering machine clicked in. “Hello, this is Mariah Talbot. You’ve reached the offices of Guardian Casualty Insurance in Houston, Texas. My usual work hours are eight-thirty to five-thirty, Monday through Friday. If you’re calling at any other time, please leave a message giving me your name, the time, and a number where I can reach you. I check my machine
how long it took me to spot the element that linked each particular series of charts, but it did finally dawn on me that they were grouped according to the last two digits in the numerical sequence. I pulled out the scrap of paper on which I’d jotted down her Medicare number. It seemed to bear no relationship to the numbers on the charts, which were apparently assigned to each patient on admission. I could feel my frustration mount. I really hate it when my illegal efforts turn out to be