Girl With a Past (6 page)

“Don’t you think we’re safe here, in the
hotel?” Mom asked.

“After last night?” he reminded her, “Did
you notice the break into Al’s room? And Kira was shot in front of
our house!”

“Maybe we should tell the kids,” Mom
said.

“No.”

“They aren’t children anymore. They can
handle it.”

“What would be the point?” Dad said. I’d
never heard Dad take such a serious tone with his adored wife.

“Are you never going to tell them?” Mom was
totally serious too.

“Maybe not.”

I couldn’t take anymore; I had to let them
know I could hear every word. And I had to know what the hell they
were talking about. “Yo. Dudes. Parents, I can hear you.”

Dad came out of the bathroom, shirtless but
fully dressed from the waist down, wiping his face with a towel.
“Good morning sweetheart.”

“Dad, what’re you maybe never gonna tell
us?”

He ignored my question. “You and Mom are
going to spend a few days with Grandpa.”

“Dad, I have classes. This is my last
semester––I can’t miss my seminars.” I scowled at my father to let
him know I was serious. “I’m not a child. Don’t order me
around.”

“Al, I’m worried about your safety.” He
buttoned his pale blue oxford shirt.

“Why me? What about you?”

“Because you’ve had two run-ins with
somebody. And because of Kira.”

“Don’t you think that could’ve been a
coincidence?” I really did not want to think I had been the real
target.

Dad shook his head.

“But now they have the file . . . so that’s
probably the end of it. Don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what to think, but I don’t
want to worry about you.” He straightened his tie and put on a navy
blue blazer. “I gotta run. Gotta be in court this morning.” He
leaned over to kiss my scowling face. “Love ya, kiddo.”

“Da-a-ad! You’re leaving? Wait, you haven’t
told me.”

“Bye.” He closed the door.

“Mom? Are you ever coming out of there?” I
whined.

My mother stuck her head around the edge of
the door. “Only if you promise not to torture me into telling you
something I can’t.” She came into the room, her slender body
wrapped in a towel.

“Don’t be a bitch.” I said without
thinking.

Mom’s brown eyes filled with hurt. “You can
call your friends that, not your mother.”

The pain on her face brought a sinking
sensation to my chest. My mother was such a sweetheart. Caring,
loving. I felt like a shit.

“Oh, Mama, I’m sorry.” I reached out to wrap
my arms around her, but she brushed past me.

She shook her head. “That’s not a term of
endearment, not in my generation.” She brushed something, maybe a
tear off her cheek, and hurried into her clothes. “And don’t think
you can sweet talk me after that.”

I knew that tone. Not a chance I would get
one hint out of her. I jumped out of the bed. “I have to get to
class. Can you drop me?”

“Your dad wants us to go to Grandpa’s.”

“Not happening,” I yelled back at her as I
dashed into the adjoining room and into my clothes. I peeked under
the bed to look for stray items from Dad’s Zodiac file, stretched
to pick up a few sheets of paper. Whoever they were, they’d missed
a few.

“Can we stop to get coffee?” I yelled into
the next room.

“You don’t have time for room service?”

“No way.”

“Grandpa’s?” Mom jammed nightclothes into an
overnight bag.

“Definitely not.”

She sighed in reaction as she retrieved
Dad’s pj’s from the bathroom floor.

“But your father . . .” Mom said as she
emerged from the bathroom. “Please listen to me. You know how
difficult . . . Your dad gets grouchy while he’s trying a
case.”

She paused for a moment waiting for a
response. When she didn’t get one, she tried a different tact.
“Whenever I even imagine that you or your brother might be hurt, a
pain shoots through my body as though your bodies are still part of
mine.”

I’d heard about that pain before, but I was
doing my best to avoid the reacting guilt.

“Let’s go.” I stood in her room with my book
bag in my arms.

6

We headed over the bay bridge to Berkeley
and up Ashby to get coffee.

“Mom, you aren’t gonna tell me?”

“What?’

“You know what.”

“No.” She turned her head briefly to smile
at me. “You’re right. I’m not. Peet’s coffee?”

“Fine.” I folded my arms and slunk down in
my seat.

I looked at my mother. She appeared to be
fragile. In fact, she was tough, a tigress devoted to her family,
her charities, and to her children. Her children went way beyond my
brother and I to include numerous under-privileged young people
whom she had taken under her wing with both emotional and financial
support.

Mom turned left below the Claremont Hotel,
double-parked on Domingo Avenue and remained in the car, I ran in
for coffee and two whole-wheat scones. I absentmindedly watched the
traffic out the window while I waited for the coffees.

A blue econo-van pulled around mom’s
Lexus.

I carried the coffee to the condiments
counter and put cream and sweetener in both. When I turned around I
saw the same blue van behind Mom’s car. Must’ve been circling the
block, looking for a parking place no doubt. Berkeley totally has a
parking shortage.

I handed a coffee in to Mom via the driver’s
side window and climbed into the passenger seat. “Drop me at
Bancroft and Telegraph please?” I checked the clock in the dash.
“I’m barely gonna make my class.”

She nodded, put her coffee and scone in the
cup holder, and sped up. “I wish you would consider coming to
grandpa’s.” She glanced at my face. “What if I waited until after
your class?”

“I have three classes and a meeting today. I
don’t get why Dad . . .” I wasn’t sure how to describe Dad’s
attitude.

“He wants to know you’re safe.’

“But I don’t get what he’s worried about.
Somebody wanted the file. They got it. End of story. Kira looking
like me was just a coincidence. I’m sorry about what happened to
her. Unfortunately, it seems she was in the wrong place at the
wrong time. Or maybe they shot her because she saw who it was.”

“Al, have a little compassion for your dad.
He worries.”

“He worries more lately.”

“I think it’s because you’re in the end of
your senior year.”

“And what? He’s worried about what I’m going
to do next?

“No,” Mom hesitated. Sighed. “I think it has
to do with his friend who died. In the spring of her senior
year.”

“So?”

“You remind him of her, always have.”

“That’s not my fault,” I paused for a
moment. “If I went to Grandpa’s, would you tell me what you and Dad
were talking about this morning?”

She grimaced and shook her head

“Stop here.” I waved at the empty loading
zone across the lawn from Sproul Hall.

Mom pulled up to the curb and leaned over to
give me a kiss. “Turn your phone on whenever you’re not in class,
please.”

“Sure. See ya tomorrow.” I kissed her and
gathered my books. “I’ll pick up my car and my bag from your house
in the evening. You’ll be home?”

“Of course, especially if you are coming
over. But please have your brother bring you.” She leaned across
the car and smiled at me. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

“Love you more.”

I hurried through Sproul Plaza turning once
to see Mom drive away.

Oh no. I was sure it was the same blue van.
Right behind her.

7

I speed dialed her cell as I rushed to
class. Voicemail. Probably buried in her purse.

I made it to Wheeler Aud, slid into a seat
and called Dad’s cell. Voicemail. Shit. He’s in court. I tried Mom
again.

The van probably didn’t mean anything, a
coincidence, but I didn’t like it.

Damn, Mom, answer your fucking phone. I left
a message. “Mom, there’s a blue van following you. I saw it in
front of Peet’s and again after you dropped me off. Don’t go home.
Drive to dad’s office, to the underground parking and valet. Don’t
be alone when you get out of that car.” God, I wished Mom would
text.

The dude next to me gave me a look. The
lecture started, but I couldn’t concentrate on what the prof
said.

Shit, maybe Dad was right, maybe there was
some danger. I checked the time. Dad would be on lunch recess in
two hours. I could catch him then. But what could I do about
Mom?

I slipped out of the auditorium, into the
vestibule and called Dad’s office. As I listened to the phone ring,
I remembered his new secretary, the not-so-bright one. Shit, shit.
She’d be no help.

I tried Mom again. Same voicemail.

I went through my speed dial and hit Uncle
Dave’s number. Another voicemail. Got Mom’s friend Carol’s
voicemail next. I sent texts to all of them, but that gang never
checked them. I was pretty sure Mom didn’t even know how.

I headed for the bus stop. I could take BART
to the city. If luck was with me, I might beat Mom to the house. If
it turned out to be a false alarm, I could pick up my car and head
back to campus. At worst, I’d miss one class.

What the hell was this all about?

After I’d climbed aboard the bus I realized
I could call the policeman who had been at the house the day before
and at the hotel. What the hell was his name? Schmidt? I called
information and was connected to the SFPD. Eventually I was put
through to Schmidt’s cell. Turned out he was at my parent’s
house.

“I think someone is following my mother’s
car. I hope she’s headed home to change, or maybe pack. How long
are you gonna be there? Can you wait for her?” I asked.

“Does this have something to do with the
case your father is trying?”

“What?”

“The homicide case, the Giacometti case?”
Detective Schmidt said.

Maybe that was what Dad was worried about.
Had he been threatened?

“Did my father ask for protection for his
family?” I said.

“I wouldn’t know.” He coughed, cleared his
throat. “But I’ll wait for your mother.”

I pushed past two bus surfers, and got off
the bus at the next stop. I ran back up the hill to campus, and
re-entered the lecture hall just in time to hear the prof say good
day. I looked around the room for a friend I could beg notes
off.

“I’ll catch the next one. Promise.” I patted
my friend on the shoulder.

We headed to the student center and copied
the notes. I checked my email, and called my mother every ten
minutes without a response. At eleven forty five, I called Schmidt
again. “Is she there?”

“Not yet.”

I started the walk to my next class as the
Campanile bells pealed "Ragtime". I waited outside the door until
noon to try Dad again. No answer. I tried the hotel on the off
chance she had reason to return there, but the front desk said that
she hadn’t.

I sat in class forcing myself to listen. At
twelve forty, my phone, the one I’d failed to silence, rang. A
glance at the screen showed my father’s number. I ran for the
door.

“Dad, Dad, do you know where Mom is?”

“You aren’t with her?”

“No. I, uh––"

“Goddamnit Al! I told you both to go to
Grandpa’s.”

“Dad, does this have something to do with
the case you’re on?”

“Al, I’m sending your brother to pick you
up. Meet him in front of Kroeber Hall in ten minutes. I want you
both in my office in under an hour. I have to see you before I head
back to court.”

“What about Mom?”

“I’m on it.”

8

Steven was seldom prompt so I knew I would
be waiting for a while. He often got waylaid by some girl. With his
preppie good looks, crystal blue eyes and sun bleached blonde hair,
girls hovered around him like moths around a porch light.

I sat on a bench waiting for Steven to drive
up on Bancroft and noticed the air had turned cold. I stuck my
hands in my jacket pockets and found a wad of papers––the papers
from under the hotel bed.

There was a newspaper clipping with the
photo of the familiar looking dude, a note in Dad’s handwriting, an
autopsy report, a letter addressed to Dad––wait, this letter wasn’t
part of the file. It had this year’s date on it. Where had this
letter come from? Had I shoved it into the file off Dad’s
desktop?

I scanned through the text of the letter.
Couched in legalese––a threat. A threat to Dad’s family.

Oh God where was Mom?

And then it dawned on me. Maybe I knew what
was going on.

My hands shook as I punched Dad’s speed dial
number. “Dad, why didn’t you tell us? Goddamn, Mom knew. Steven and
I have to go get her.”

“Al, not on the phone! Just follow my
instructions.”

“Dad, they’ll kill her.”

“Not on the phone,” he snapped. “Your line
is not secure. Hang up. Turn off the phone. Throw it in a trash
can.”

“Forget it Dad!” I turned off the phone.

I spotted Steven’s car at the curb and raced
across the lawn. We had to hurry.

Twenty feet to go to the car, I heard a shot
whiz by my ear.

I threw myself to the ground.

9

My brother leaned on the car horn with one
hand and threw his other arm in the air. “What the hell?” he
yelled. He leaned across the passenger seat to open the door.

Spitting mud and grass, I raised myself to
my elbows. Without success, I scanned the traffic to see if I could
spot the blue van. I searched the windows of the buildings opposite
the lawn. No sign of a shooter. I scrambled to my feet, dashed in a
crouch for the car.