Runaway Heart

TWENTY-TWO

After Herman left, Jack tried to call Wells Fargo, but his cell battery was fried. So he walked to the Administration building and used their pay phone. After laboring through the bank's computerized help menu, a recorded voice informed him that Mrs. Donovan wasn't available-please leave a message. He left his name, then picked up a two-hundred-page academic catalogue, sat in the air-conditioned waiting room, and looked up Dr. Nichols, dean of the Pepperdine Computer Science School, who was listed as a "distinguished professor." A string of letters hung off the end of his name like knots in a kite's tail: A.B.M.A., M.A., Ph.D.

Jack already knew he was distinguished, because he'd seen the neatly trimmed Vandyke. But it was his pedigree paragraph that caught Jack's interest. Dr. Paul Nichols had done his graduate work at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C., right down the road from CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. It wasn't exactly a big "wow," but further complicating the dean's curriculum vitae was his doctorate degree. His Ph.D. was in political science, not computer science-which begged the question: What was he doing running the computer science school at Pepperdine?

He read on. Dr. Paul Nichols had been a dean since 2001-a short-timer. Strangely, he also coached women's volleyball. An interesting sideline. But then, everybody loves tall, muscular girls in sports bras.

He found a listing for the campus police office and used the guest phone to make a call, pretending to be one of the names he picked at random off the faculty listing page.

"Hello, University Police Department," a man's voice answered.

"This is Dean Harry Gransky, Communications and Journalism," Jack said, pinching his nose for acoustical effect. "That damn Dean Nichols is in my parking space again. I can't park anywhere, 'cause the lot's full."

"Are you sure it was Dean Nichols's car?" the man asked.

"Think I don't know his damn car by now? This is the fifth time he's done it. The brown Chevy Nova with the purple antenna feather?" Just fucking around a little, trying to shake a case of boredom.

"Just a minute." And he was on hold, listening to a strange rendition of "Eleanor Rigby" done on the bagpipes.

The man came back. "I just punched out Dean Nichols's parking pass. He's not driving a brown Nova. He drives a blue Chevelle."

A Chevelle? Jack thought. Who, except postal inspectors, drive Chevelles? "Are you sure? Gimme his plate number."

"ewu 357," the man said. "Listen, Dean Gransky, maybe just for today you could find an empty spot in the Baxter Drive lot."

"I'll try, but this always makes me late for class."

Jack hung up and walked back across campus to his Ford Fairlane, vehicle of champions. He backed out and drove around looking for Dean Nichols's blue Chevelle. He found it in a freshly paved upper lot off Tower Road. Jack waited until a woman in a red Volkswagen nearby pulled out, then he stole her space, turned off his engine, and adjusted his side mirror so he could watch the dean's old Chevelle drip axle grease on the fresh, new pavement. He spent the afternoon watching his minute hand make three painfully slow laps around the dial, gobbled some Peres, washed them down with bottled water, then belched loudly. Whatta life.

At 4:30 Dean Paul Nichols wandered out to his Chevelle, unlocked the trunk, and put his briefcase and stack of papers inside. No volleyballs.

Damn. Jack had been looking forward to volleyball practice.

Dean Nichols got behind the wheel and tooled the little blue Chevelle out of the parking lot. Jack backed up and followed.

The next few stops were studies in adrenalized exhilaration. Paul Nichols went to the supermarket, pulled into the lot, then added to the day's excitement by committing a parking lot felony and stealing a handicapped stall.

Jack wished he'd never heard of Herman Strockmire Jr. or the Institute for Planetary Justice. Susan was still on his wait-and-see list.

He sat in his car, yawning occasionally, until Dr. Nichols finally pushed his shopping cart out of the market and loaded his groceries in the trunk.

Then it was off to the laundry and a heart-pounding trip to the drugstore. Breathtaking. This stakeout was definitely going in the book.

Next, Paul headed up the Coast Highway, turned right, and snaked over Malibu Canyon road to the Ventura Freeway, drove east toward Studio City, got off on Coldwater, drove back over the hill, and finally dropped down into Boy's Town. Then Paul veered right and drove toward Beverly Hills.

Jack wondered where the hell Paul Nichols was going. And then he found out. He was going home.

The house was amazing. It was in the middle of the block on the very expensive part of North Canon Drive. Jack parked a couple hundred yards down the street. The houses were huge, and the one Paul Nichols turned his blue Chevelle into was among the biggest. It had a kind of nouveau-Ali-Baba motif. The architects in L.A. were doing way too much coke in the '80s.

Jack watched as Paul Nichols took out his house keys, unlocked the massive oak front door, then made three trips back and forth, carrying the contents of his trunk into the house and disappeared inside.

Jack flipped on his cell phone to see if it might have regenerated after a few hours of inactivity. He was in luck and getting a little power residue. He disconnected the battery and rubbed it vigorously on his pants, feeling it warm with the friction. He hoped he'd added to the charge as he put it back in, turned on the phone, dialed Wells Fargo Bank, and navigated the computerized customer-service system again.

It was almost five and he had a sinking feeling there was trouble with one of Susan's checks.

"Yes, this is Mrs. Donovan," a brittle voice said.

"Jack Wirta, returning your call," talking fast, trying to beat a battery flameout.

"Mr. Wirta… good. Yesterday you deposited two checks totaling twenty-two fifty-one, twenty-five, both of which have…" and the phone went dead.

"Which? What!?" he shouted into the dead receiver, but she was gone. The phone was beeping and the display flashed low bat. He had to restrain himself from throwing the damn thing at the dash-but he knew there was only one way her sentence probably ended-with the words "insufficient funds."

The Strockmires had stiffed him.

First he had to find a pay phone to finish the conversation with Mrs. Donovan, then he was going to head out to the beach house and start collecting wallets and watches. Just as these ignoble thoughts overtook him the front door to the house opened again and Paul Nichols came out.

He'd changed. No longer a tweedy academic, he was now decked out in cat-burglar black.

As Jack watched, he backed the blue Chevelle out of the drive and headed toward Sunset.

Decision time.

Why should I continue to tail this guy? I'm not being paid, but my instinct says go for it. But why? Why should

I stay on the job when both checks undoubtedly have bounced?

Let's cut to the bottom line then. What do you really want, Jack?

I guess what I really want is to get laid.

There it was: as cheap and transparent as a political promise.

At its heart, the most appealing thing about this case was its beautiful check-bouncer, Susan Strockmire.

He put the Fairlane in gear and rolled out after Paul Nichols. Paul took Sunset west to the 405 Freeway, drove south to the Santa Monica Freeway, headed out to the Coast Highway, then took the PCH north to Malibu. Just after sunset he arrived back at Malibu Beach and parked half a block down from Barbra Streisand's house.

Then Professor Doofus actually took out a pair of binoculars and started scoping the front of Barbra's, looking a lot like Kurt Jurgens in The Enemy Below.

Jack parked a block up the street and tried to figure out what to do. The guy he was staking out was staking out the guy who hired him to stake out the guy he was staking out. A perfect circle.

Jack got out of the Fairlane and dashed across the street to the large mansion next door. He paused, recited the Big Dog Prayer, then jumped the gate, trotted down the sidewalk between two huge houses to the beach, and trudged up the sand until he stood opposite the guest house. He looked through the window and saw Herman and Susan working at a table in the main room. He walked through the low gate, crossed the patio, and knocked on the glass door.

Susan saw him and opened the slider, looking at him skeptically before asking: "Why didn't you just ring the buzzer and use the front door?"

"Since you're such a stickler for protocol, why don't you cover your damned checks?"

"Huh?"

"You heard me, both of the checks you wrote yesterday came straight from Goodyear rubber."

"Dad, did you remember to make the deposit on…"

"Cut the b.s., lady. I'm at least ten percent smarter than I look." He pushed past her, entering the house.

Herman was on his feet, but with one hand still on the game table for support. "Aren't you supposed to be following Professor Nichols?"

"I am following him. I'm on my break."

"I don't see how you can be here and following him at the same time," Herman wondered aloud.

"It's complicated, but I'm gifted." Jack walked over, picked an apple out of a fruit bowl, then took a big bite. He needed to get some nourishment into his system, some natural sugar, because his brain was stalling out on him.

"How can you be following him and be here at the same time?" Susan demanded.

"Because he's parked on the street outside scoping out this house with binoculars. I followed him over here. My cell battery is fried, so I couldn't call and announce myself-which, let me hasten to add, is my normal business practice." Pissy now, dripping sarcasm. "But, before we go any further, I must warn you that the Wirta Agency Business Affairs Office is instructing me to withhold further service until the matter of your two NSF checks can be dealt with. Failing that, my Legal Affairs Department is suggesting court remedies."

"Mr. Wirta, I'm sorry, but at this particular moment we don't have the money to pay you," Herman said. "I thought I would have it when we hired you, but conditions have changed, due to a courtroom setback. A very steep fine. I may still be able to get your money, but right now we are a little strapped."

"I see." Jack thought, It shouldn't be this hard for a P.I… to make a living. Maybe I should open a dating and escort service. Take Miro 's overflow. Call it Deflections.

"Please, Jack," Susan said earnestly. "We really need your help. Dad told me about the secret lab-those kids are working for the government. I changed my mind. If Professor Nichols came out here that means something is definitely wrong. You've got to help us."

Jack could feel himself falling for it but he said, "I'm gonna need more than that."

"Here." She took off some rings and her watch.

"Honey, that's your graduation watch," Herman said sadly.

Jack thought, This can't be happening. "I don't take used jewelry," he said, retreating deeper into the guest house.

"Will you help us? Please? We'll figure something out about the money," Susan said.

"Do you have a cell phone?"

She nodded and handed him one. "But I don't think it's worth much."

"No-not for payment. For communication. Look, I'm gonna go back outside. Herm, I need you to go with me. We'll be back in about an hour. Take your cell phone, get in Barbra's car and pull out.

"Why?" he asked.

"I want you to lead Paul Nichols up into the hills. There's a road off Malibu Canyon I know about. We did a crystal drug bust up there when I was a cop. Buncha bikers. It's nice and empty. There's a clearing with a baseball diamond. I'll give you directions, talk you in using the cell. You drive up there. Paul follows you, I follow Paul."

"What am I supposed to do?" Susan said.

"Call downtown and get us a parade permit."

"Funny," she snapped.

"What's your plan?" Herm persisted.

"Once we get him up there I'm gonna pull his scrawny ass out of that blue Chevelle and beat some answers outta him. Like Susan said, something is definitely wrong here."