Deception (23 page)

19

“Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing. It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different.”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
T
HE
B
OSCOMBE
V
ALLEY
M
YSTERY

W
EDNESDAY
, D
ECEMBER
4, 2:00
A.M
.

The following happened between 1:00 a.m. and 2:00 a.m.: no sleep.

I was watching
24
on a portable DVD player in my car. I know I really shouldn’t do that, but it keeps me awake in the wee hours of noncritical surveillance.

Critical surveillance requires unswerving attention. This didn’t. I was scoping out a house one hundred feet away. I looked up every three seconds, and a second later I looked down. A world-class sprinter couldn’t move to or from the house out of my line of sight.

Jack Bauer and I are alike. We take down the bad guys. We’re tough as nails, yet tenderhearted. We’re misunderstood, Jack and I, tragic and heroic. We’re both always in trouble with our superiors. We’ve both lost our wives and have complicated relationships with our daughters. We’re both handsome. The ladies love us. But the biggest similarity is this: Neither of us gets any sleep.

I sat there nursing my Big Gulp, neck aching from turning to the right. If I didn’t reposition the car soon to equalize my neck twists, I’d have a chiropractor on my back.

I turned my flashlight to my shirt, recognizing a spot from yesterday morning’s Egg McMuffin. The second stain was coffee, probably last night’s venti latte.

It was the third spot that intrigued me. Using my detective skills, I pulled the fabric up close and put my tongue on the reddish-brown spot. Of course. The steak Burrito Ultimo, Baja Fresh.

I wondered if the department would cover charges for a cleaner’s bill for food stains. I pictured Sarah Ballenger in accounting rolling her eyes.

In novels, detectives on surveillance see and hear all kinds of things. Suspects raise their voices and say, “Okay, now that we stole his diamonds, let’s go dump Harvey’s body in the lake.” They may even say “in the lake, eh?” so you know the killer’s a Canadian.

Unfortunately, in real life people don’t say things they already know for the benefit of the eavesdropper. And if you’re sitting outside someone’s house for the night, chances are they’ll do nothing more exciting than go to bed. They sleep soundly; you don’t.

But Kim Suda was a light sleeper, I’d heard her say, and seeing her rifle through my papers got under my skin. It would probably be a wasted night, but I was willing to chance it.

I have nothing against time. Time is what keeps everything from happening at once. But on a stakeout, time can get on your nerves.

Good thing I had a companion.

“Want another Cheeto?” I stuck back my hand, and Mulch gratefully closed his lips, taking care not to bite me.

Clarence called. “Still on your stakeout?” he asked. “Geneva’s asleep.”

“I’d hope so. It’s 2:10 a.m.!”

“Thought I’d come join you.”

“Suda’s light’s still on, but she’s probably reading and won’t emerge from the cave until daylight. This cul-de-sac’s dead.”

“I want to write up a stakeout.”

“Imagine sitting in a car doing nothing for eight hours. That’s pretty much it. Just go out in your garage right now and sit there all night. You’ll get the idea. Besides, I don’t want somebody seeing Goliath get in my car.”

“You said nobody’s around.”

“Okay. Park around the corner. No lights. Then walk to my car nonchalantly. Knock twice on the passenger window, or I might have to shoot you.”

Fifteen minutes later the double knock came. I unlocked the door, and the offensive line of the New England Patriots sat beside me.

Mulch growled as Clarence got in, but I gave him another Cheeto, and soon he was licking Clarence’s face.

“You bring a dog on a stakeout?”

“Only when I can pull him away from his poker game.”

No response.

“You ever seen that art with the dogs playing poker? I got mine with my velvet Elvis.”

No response.

There’s nothing like stakeout conversation. Sports, politics, how to reach out to your pregnant thirty-year-old unmarried daughter, guns, movies—you bounce in and out of stuff. The next hour was a panoply of randomness. (Sharon used
panoply
once in Scrabble, and I liked it.)

“Your eyes’ll get used to the dark.”

He picked up a corn dog wrapper and mustard packet at his feet. “I’m not sure I want them to.”

Clarence stared behind the driver’s seat at the archaeological dig. He excavated a berry pie wrapper from the Neolithic era.

“You are what you eat,” he said.

“That makes me an Izzy’s pizza,” I replied. “There’s one piece left.” I opened the glove box and pulled it out. “Want it?”

Clarence refused. I put it back, and pretty soon we were talking about family.

“I stopped going to my family reunions after my sister’s second marriage,” I said. “She showed up with this guy at a family gathering, called him Bob, but never introduced him. No explanation. It was like
Bewitched
, with the two Darrins—like if they don’t say anything, we won’t notice
this isn’t the same guy
! You know what I’m saying?”

“Who’s Darrin?”

“Bewitched.”

“I never saw
Bewitched.”

“It’s on cable. Wouldn’t take you long to catch up.” This was another reminder that Clarence and I grew up on different planets.

“Daddy wasn’t much for TV. He wanted us to read.”

“Wish your daddy were here right now. With him, a stakeout would be a pleasure. I could listen to his stories forever.”

“I’m sure he’ll be telling them forever,” Clarence said. “And there’ll be lots of fresh stories to tell on the new earth. He always said it would be the great adventure. If you’re with us, you’ll get to listen to his stories … and they’ll be better than ever.”

“You managed to work it in, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“The Christian stuff. Heaven. The whole nine yards.”

“Hey, you pitched the ball to me. I just took a swing.” He tried to stretch, unsuccessfully.

“For future reference, on stakeouts you need to be shorter than six five,” I said, “or bring your own car. It also helps to have the bladder capacity of five people.”

After five minutes of silence I said, “Ever notice that stakeout rhymes with takeout? If you get a Bonzer Steak from Outback, like I do sometimes, then it’s a STEAK-out. Get it? I mean, spelled S-T-E-A-K-O—”

“I get it!”

“I’ve got a surprise for you.” I pushed the seat back, reached past my coat, and pulled a box from the sealed plastic container I use to keep Mulch out of the food.

Clarence looked at the box. “Krispy Kreme donuts?”

He said it like they were bad. “You Christians got something against donuts?”

“Per capita, Christians eat more donuts than anybody. You should come to our men’s meetings.”

“How much are the donuts?”

“Voluntary donations. For you, free.”

“Do you have to stay for the Bible study, or can you just pick up the donuts and leave?”

“You have to stay ten minutes for each donut you eat. That’ll keep you there for the whole hour.”

I opened the box and handed it to him. “I have a buddy who writes murder mysteries, and he’s always calling me for advice. This guy mentions Krispy Kreme in his books, like three times on a single page, hoping somebody who works with the company will give him a gift certificate or a year’s supply or something.”

“That doesn’t sound professional.”

“Yeah, people can be so pathetic. Pass me a Krispy Kreme, will you?”

Clarence reached for the glazed raspberry.

“No, give me the New York cheesecake. No, that’s a chocolate iced glazed cruller, Mulch’s favorite. Pass it over to him, would you? Sorry, that’s key lime pie.” He closed the box and dropped it on my lap.

I pointed at the house. “Look, Suda’s moving. Light went on in the front room.”

I saw blinds open slightly and a face peeking out the bay window, looking the other direction, straight out, then at us.

“Don’t move,” I said. “Stay exactly where you are.”

Ten minutes later it was boredom as usual. Hopes rise and fall on stakeouts.

“So, tell me about your world,” I said. “Berkley’s concerned about subscribers?”

“Revenues are down. Too many competing news sources—TV, radio, the Internet.”

“Plus people finally realizing the
Tribune
’s garbage.”

“You say you don’t read the paper, so you don’t know what you’re criticizing, do you?”

“You walk the beat with our street cops? Didn’t think so. You don’t know who you’re criticizing.”

“Where I come from ‘beat cop’ has another meaning. When you’ve been beaten just for being black, you don’t overflow with trust.”

“Don’t judge us all by the bad ones.”

“My point exactly,” Clarence said. “And if you think you could write better than what you read in the
Trib
, submit me a column. If it’s good enough, I’ll see that it’s printed.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. Tell your own story. First person, detective talking to the people about investigating murders. Go for it. Turn it in when you’re ready.”

“I will.”

“Pardon me if I don’t hold my breath. Anyway, tell me about this police morale problem.”

“You think I’m going to say something you can use against us?”

“Off the record.”

“Morale? Well, there’s the budget cuts, not to mention all the bad publicity the
Trib
’s given us.”

“The
Trib
didn’t shoot an unarmed law-abiding citizen.”

“That was one in a million, okay? People don’t appreciate cops. Truth is, we risk our lives every day for whiners and gripers. And cops are getting laid off. Guys come to work, check for blood on their office doorposts, and hope the angel of death passes them over.”

“Sounds like you’ve been reading the Bible.”

“Just a figure of speech.” I hesitated, not knowing how to say it. “Listen, I know there are racist cops. And I know what they did to your daddy. I want you to know I’d have been proud to have him as my father.”

“You would’ve gotten funny looks if he were your father. Still, I appreciate what you’re saying. Daddy really enjoyed the time he spent with you. He liked you. I never thought I’d tell you this, but Geneva says I should …”

“What?”

“Before he died, Daddy asked me to keep an eye on you.”

“Why?”

“Well, since you asked … he wanted you to know Jesus.”

“He said that?”

Kim Suda’s front door opened. She walked briskly to her car, got in, and pulled out of the driveway. We ducked low, though she probably wouldn’t have seen us anyway since I’d parked past her place behind another car.

I waited until she turned right off Patty Court onto Woodard, then started the car and followed her to the next turn, right again on 78th, then left on Jackson. Eventually we were on Stark. I had to stay way behind her because of the light traffic. She drove Stark to 162nd, turned right, and took a quick left into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven. I pulled into a real estate building lot across the street. I turned off my lights and backed around so I had a clear view of the store Suda entered. I grabbed my binoculars from under the front seat.

“There’s a small pair in the glove box,” I said to Clarence. “Just toss the pizza to Mulch.”

He handed the pizza back, where an invisible entity dismembered it. Clarence held up his binoculars. “We’re going to watch what she buys? Seems a little … intrusive.”

“That’s surveillance,” I said.

She’d veered left and gone to the far end of the store by a glass cooler filled with milk. She slowed down near a man whose back was to us. He was flipping through a magazine. I got out of the car and found the best place in the shadows, which put me right next to a rhododendron bush. I had to keep moving to keep her in view, but fortunately the front of the store was glass.

Suda turned up an aisle where she appeared to be looking at medications. Sominex? I could see her face once in a while, but a slight move one way or the other obscured her. I saw her face and realized her lips were moving.

“She’s talking,” I said to Clarence, who’d exited the car and was now mostly behind the rhody, eclipsing the moon and looking over my shoulder.

“Talking to herself?”

“No, to that guy in the black coat standing a couple of feet from her on the other side of the aisle. See him?”

“Why don’t they stand closer if they’re talking?”

“Because they don’t want to
look
like they’re talking. Suda and this guy didn’t come together, and they won’t leave together.”

They talked for five minutes. I could see only the guy’s back. He was wearing a navy blue stocking cap. I looked away only to take an occasional glance at Mulch, who was exploring the inside of the car without supervision. I could see Suda’s lips moving periodically. I wished I’d studied lipreading. The man handed her something.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A brown envelope.”

“Evidence? A payoff? Bet it’s not a birthday card.”

Suda stepped to the cooler, opened the door, and grabbed a bottled water. Walking up a different aisle, away from the guy she’d been talking to, she made her purchase, got in her car, and headed back onto Stark.

“Why aren’t we following her?” Clarence asked.

“Because we know who she is and where she lives.”