"V" is for Vengeance (32 page)

Ordinarily, I'd have been thrilled with having the time to read, but I felt jumpy and tense. I set the paperback aside and ate my sandwich, well aware that I was running through my food supplies at too quick a pace. I took out my wet wash rag and wiped my hands. It wasn't even dark and I had hours to go. My plan was to follow Georgia if she left the house in the next five hours. If there was no activity, I'd wait until the house was dark and everyone was tucked in for the night, and then I'd go home for a few hours' sleep. I picked up my book again and turned to page 1.

I didn't realize I'd fallen asleep until a police officer tapped on my car window with his flashlight, which jump-started my heart and nearly made me wet my pants. The cardboard screen was still in place, blocking my windshield so I couldn't actually see out. I could hear the sound of a car idling and I assumed it was his patrol car. Around the edges of the cardboard screen, I could see flashes of red and blue, a Morse code of dots and dashes that spelled out
you-are-so-screwed
. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was just past midnight and pitch black outside. Except for the flashing lights, of course, which would probably alert everyone in the neighborhood that some kind of trouble was going down. I turned the key one notch in the ignition and lowered the window, saying, “Hi. How're you?”

“You're parked on private property. Are you aware of it?”

My mind was blank. How could I not be aware of it? I didn't live here. I flashed on my alternatives—telling lies, fibbing, making stuff up, or telling the truth—and decided on the latter. Under the circumstances, lying was only going to make life more complicated and I didn't want to risk it. “I'm a private investigator and I'm running a surveillance on the woman who lives in the house across the street.”

He remained expressionless and kept his tone neutral. “Have you had anything to drink in the past two hours?”

“No, sir.”

“No wine, beer, cocktails of any kind?”

“Honestly.” I put my hand over my heart as though reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

Unconvinced, he held up his flashlight, directing the beam into the backseat and the front, ostensibly looking for empty wine, beer, or whiskey bottles, weapons, illicit substances, or other evidence of bad behavior. I knew for a fact the flashlight was equipped to pick up traces of alcohol. Good luck to him. I had no outstanding wants or warrants, and if he insisted on a Breathalyzer test, I was going to blow a zero, which he must have realized when his tricky flashlight failed to detect even one particle of ethanol per gazillion. If he put me through a field sobriety test, I'd pass with flying colors unless he asked me to recite the alphabet backward. I've been meaning to practice that just in case, but so far I haven't gotten around to it.

“Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car.”

“Sure.” I released the power locks and opened the car door. There was a second officer, standing in the street beside the patrol car, radio to his mouth, probably calling in the license plate number. Aside from my occasional (very minor) violations of the law, I consider myself a model citizen, easily intimidated by police officers when I know I'm in the wrong. I was guilty of trespassing and also in violation of municipal codes unknown to me, but very well known to the police. I was glad I hadn't added public urination to my list of sins. I was also glad I didn't have my handgun in my briefcase anywhere within range.

Once I was out of the car, the officer said, “Would you turn around and face forward, put your hands out, and lean against the car?”

He couldn't have been more polite. I did as instructed and was subjected to a brisk but thoroughly professional pat-down. I wanted to volunteer the fact that I had no weapon, but I knew that would sound suspicious when he was already on red alert. Stops like this can turn deadly without warning or provocation. For all he knew, I was a parolee in violation of section such-and-such. I might have been a fugitive with a felony warrant out against me.

“May I see your license and registration?”

“I'll have to reach into the glove compartment. Is that all right? My wallet's in my shoulder bag.”

He gestured his assent. This was the second time in twenty-four hours I'd been asked to provide identification. I slid into the driver's seat and reached across to the glove compartment. Henry was meticulous about things of this sort, so I knew I could lay hands on the current paperwork, including proof of insurance. I found both and offered them to the officer. “The car belongs to my landlord,” I said. “He's out of town and said I could drive the car in his absence to keep the battery from going dead.” I didn't like talking to him from a seated position, but I wasn't keen to exit the car again unless instructed to do so. Here are some handy little tips for those of you who don't want to fall victim to deadly officer shootings: Do as you're told. Don't talk back. Don't be rude or belligerent. Don't try to escape. Don't get back in your car and try to run over the nice officer performing the traffic stop. If you should be so foolhardy as to attempt any of the above, don't complain later of your injuries and do not file suit.

I wanted to make sure he was watching me extract my wallet from my bag so he wouldn't think I was about to pull out a little two-shot Derringer. I removed my driver's license and a photocopy of my private investigator's license from my wallet and handed them to the officer. He read the information on both and gave me a look, which I took as a form of encouragement—all of us law-enforcement types being in this together. His name tag said P. MARTINEZ, though he didn't appear to be Hispanic. I wondered if
wondering
if he was Hispanic was a form of racism, but I thought not.

He walked over to the patrol car and conferred with the other officer. I took advantage of his absence to get out of the car again. The two walked back in my direction. Of course, there were no introductions. P. Martinez was tall and a bit on the hefty side, midforties, fully decked out in all the regulation paraphernalia: badge, belt, holstered gun, night stick, flashlight, keys, radio. He was a one-man army, prepared for just about anything. His partner, D. Charpentier, appeared to be in his fifties and similarly arrayed with an arsenal of crime-stopping gear. On a guy, there's something sexy about all that shit. On a female officer, it only creates the illusion of being overweight. It's amazing to me that any woman would volunteer for such a look.

Officer Martinez said, “You want to tell him what you just told me?”

“The long version or the short?”

“Take your time,” he said.

“I'm running a surveillance on the woman across the street. Her name is Georgia Prestwick. Last Friday, I was a witness to a shoplifting incident at Nordstrom's that involved a woman named Audrey Vance, who's since gone off the Cold Spring Bridge. All of this must have come up at one of your briefings.” I looked for a spark of recognition at the mention of Audrey's name, but both were too professional to display facial feedback. At least I had their full attention. “Audrey was taken into custody, though I'm sorry to say I don't know the name of the arresting officer. Georgia Prestwick was working with Audrey Vance, and she took advantage of the diversion to exit the store. I went after her and when she realized I was following her, she tried to run me down.”

All of this sounded preposterous in summary, but I'd launched into the account and I thought I'd best continue.

Officer Charpentier still held my driver's license and copy of my PI license, and he seemed to make a study of both while I went on in this vein, dropping Maria Gutierrez's name into the mix in case either gentleman was acquainted with her.

Winding up, I said, “At any rate, I think Ms. Prestwick is tied to a larger organization. I hope you're not going to tell me she's the one who called 9-1-1.”

The two officers exchanged a covert look, and I knew right then they'd read the article in the paper in which Diana Alvarez had bandied my name about. I may not have been drinking, but they had it on good authority that their fellow officer Len Priddy thought I was a crackpot.

Officer Martinez returned my two licenses. “No one called. We've been coming by twice a day, doing house checks for the property owner while he's out of town. My partner's the one who spotted you. Technically, we could cite you on the trespass, but we're going to let that one go as long as you move on.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

I glanced at the facade of the Tudor across the street. There were no lights visible, but that didn't mean someone wasn't looking out an upstairs window, attracted by the flash of police lights that were lighting up the night like a mortar attack. It was going to look better anyway if I left as I'd been asked to do. If the Prestwicks were peeking out, let them think I was drunk or a vagrant living in my car. That's what our police presence is supposed to do, make our neighborhoods safe from the likes of me.

I got into my car. I removed the cardboard screen from the windshield and tossed it in the backseat. The two officers returned to their unit and got in, their two car doors slamming in quick succession. They waited until I pulled out and then followed me for a good eight blocks, assuring themselves that I wouldn't circle back and park where I had before. When they turned off, I waved and drove home. I couldn't believe cops were so distrustful.

Channing arrived in Montebello Saturday afternoon. He'd called from Malibu ostensibly to let her know he was on his way. She suspected his true intention was to test the waters on the home front, angling to see if his cover had been blown. She'd made a point of being pleasant on the phone, playing the conversation at exactly the right pitch, her manner easy and light. Certainly, there was none of the tension and fury he must have anticipated. As the exchange went on, she could hear him relax, relief seeping into his tone. She glossed over the particulars of how she'd spent her Wednesday afternoon, laying in just enough detail to make it convincing. She knew how anxious he'd be to avoid discovery. His feelings for Thelma were running high and he'd be determined to hold on to her. Eventually, he'd tire of her, but for now his affair provided all the thrills and suspense of a spy novel.

Nora heard his tires crunching in the gravel courtyard. She went downstairs, breathing deeply, like an actress getting into her role. Wednesday night was accounted for. The symphony had run ninety minutes. Afterward, she and Belinda and Nan had a bite to eat at a bistro across the street. Nora had picked up the check so Channing could see it for himself when the Visa bill came in. Lest he harbor any doubt, she'd tossed her concert program on the kitchen counter as though by oversight. Now all she had to do was explain the missing clothes.

Channing came into the kitchen from the garage, where he'd parked his car. He'd stopped at the mailbox and picked up the day's delivery, so he was already separating the magazines from the catalogs. He put both stacks on the kitchen counter and glanced at the program in passing. “Mahler's Sixth. I didn't know you were a fan.”

Nora smiled as she lifted her face so he could kiss her cheek. “Nan's idea. She read a biography that suggested he stole the melodic line from a piano duet by Weber. There was also this whole big brouhaha about whether the scherzo should precede or follow the andante. I know it sounds tedious, but it was fun knowing what went on behind the scenes.”

“I'm glad you enjoyed it.”

“I did. Very much so. Sissy and Jess were there, but I didn't have a chance to talk to either one of them. What about you? How was your evening?”

“I changed my mind about going. When it came right down to it, I wasn't in the mood.”

“Really? You seemed so set on being there.”

“I had a hard day at work and I couldn't bear the idea of getting into a tux. On the way home, I stopped at Tony's and picked up an order of ribs.”

“Bad boy. If I'd known you were going to play hooky, I'd have made a point of joining you. What happened to your table for ten?”

“I guess there were two empty seats instead of one.”

She smiled. “Oh, well. The money went for a good cause so I suppose it doesn't matter.”

“We have something on for tonight?”

“Dinner with the Hellers at Nine Palms.”

“What time?”

“Six thirty for drinks. Dinner reservation's at seven, but Mitchell said he'd seat us whenever we were ready.”

“Good. Sounds like fun.”

Nora took the teakettle from the stove and carried it to the sink, filling it from the filtered-water tap. “Did you notice all my formal wear was gone?”

She could see the caution rise in him. “I just got here.”

“Not here. Malibu.”

He opened a piece of mail and glanced at the contents. “Went right by me,” he said. “What's the story?”

“I had Mrs. Stumbo drive down Wednesday and bring everything back. I would have called to tell you, but I'd talked to you once and I didn't want to bother you again.”

“You're not a bother when you call.”

“Thank you. That's sweet, but I don't like being a pest when it's not important. At any rate, when I realized I wouldn't be coming down last week, I asked her to take care of it. She dropped the whole carload at the cleaners so at least that's out of the way.”

“I don't understand. Did I miss something here?”

“Spring cleaning. A closet purge. I've had some of those gowns for years, and half of them don't fit. I'll keep the best ones, and any I don't want I'll donate to the Fashion Institute.”