V is for Vengeance

17

I took a seat at my favorite table in the reference room at the public library. I’d plucked the Santa Teresa City Directory from the shelf and I worked my way through, running my finger down the page. In the section I’d turned to, streets were listed alphabetically. For each street, the house numbers were arranged in an orderly progression. Opposite each number, the name and occupation of the householder was given, with the spouse’s name in parentheses. In a separate section, residents were listed in alphabetical order by name, this time including a phone number as well as the address. By flipping from section to section, crisscrossing, so to speak, one could pick up more information than you’d think.

In my notebook, I jotted down the names of the occupants I was interested in, including those of the mock Tudor, the neighbors on either side, and the families across the street. I also looked up the owner of the green stucco house that fronted on Santa Teresa Street at the corner of Juniper Lane. This is what constitutes happiness in my life-the garnering of facts. The younger woman, Audrey’s accomplice, was Georgia Prestwick. I now knew her address and her phone number, which I would probably never have occasion to use. Her husband’s name was Dan. His occupation was “retired.” If I wanted to know what he’d done before retirement, I could track through past city directories until I caught him in the act. From a different source, I knew the Prestwicks had a daughter, who was an honor roll student at Climping Academy.

The owner of the green stucco house was Ned Dornan, whose wife’s name was Jean. He worked for the city planning commission, though the directory didn’t specify in what capacity. I left the library, retrieved my car, and went home. It was 4:30 by then and my day wasn’t even close to being done. I sat down at my desk. My answering machine was blinking merrily. Apparently I had any number of messages and I was guessing all of them were related to the article in the paper. I didn’t have the patience to listen to the blah, blah, blah. I’d be hearing from people I hadn’t spoken to in years and why did I owe them an explanation? I opened my bottom drawer and hauled out the phone book. I paged through until I found the all-purpose number for the City of Santa Teresa. I punched in the number and when the operator picked up, I asked to be connected to the city planning offices. When a woman answered in that department, I asked to speak to Mr. Dornan. She said he was out of the office and wouldn’t be back until Monday, May 2. She offered to redirect my call. I thanked her and declined, saying I’d call again.

I went up the spiral stairs and cleared the top of the footlocker I use as a bedside table, setting the reading lamp, the alarm clock, and a stack of books on the floor. I lifted the lid, took out my 35mm single-lens reflex camera, inserted fresh batteries, and set it aside along with two rolls of film. Then I closed the lid and rearranged the items, pausing to dust the top with a sock I pulled out of the clothes hamper.

I was, I confess, flying by the seat of my pants, but I had reasonable hopes of zeroing in on the woman who’d aided and abetted Audrey’s shoplifting jaunt. There was no way I could risk a face-to-face encounter. While she’d shown no sign of recognizing me when we passed each other in the Nordstrom’s ladies’ lounge, she had most certainly known who I was in the moment when she tried to run me down. If I wanted to find out how she operated, I’d better be prepared to wait.

I went out to the Mustang, a 1970 Grabber Blue speed monster that I’d bought to replace the VW I’d driven for years. I’ll admit the car was a mistake. It was too conspicuous and it netted me the sort of attention ill favored by those in my line of work. I was more than ready to off-load the beast if a decent offer came along. I unlocked the door on the passenger side, opened the glove compartment, and removed my binoculars. I also hauled my briefcase from the backseat and checked to make sure my Heckler & Koch was still present and accounted for, along with an ample supply of ammunition. I didn’t intend to shoot anyone, but I felt more secure knowing the weapon was close at hand. I moved both briefcase and gun to my trunk, which I locked (a wise decision, as it turned out).

I carried the binoculars to Henry’s station wagon and set them on the floor near the driver’s seat. In the backseat, I found the folded windshield screen Henry used to deflect the hot sun during protracted parking stints. Some weeks before, he’d cut holes in the cardboard so I could spy on a nasty customer I’d met on an earlier case. I put the cardboard screen on the floor on the passenger side.

Back in my studio, I sat down at my desk again and punched in the phone number for the green stucco house. The phone rang five times and then the machine picked up. A mechanical voice said, “No one is here to receive your call. Please try again at a later time. Thank you.” Ned and Jean were apparently on vacation.

Humming, I made myself a peanut butter and pickle sandwich, which I cut on the diagonal, wrapped in waxed paper, and placed in a brown paper bag. I took a wash rag from the linen closet, wet it, and squeezed most of the moisture out, tucking it into a Ziploc storage bag that I placed in my shoulder bag. This was so I could tidy up after I ate. I’m ever so dainty when I’m out in the field. I was thrilled to discover that the Fritos I’d tucked in there earlier were more or less intact. I filled a thermos with hot coffee and set that beside my brown bag lunch. I found my clipboard and tucked a legal pad under the clip. Then I added two paperbacks, my denim jacket, my camera and film, a baseball cap, and a dark long-sleeve shirt to the pile. This was as much trouble as leaving town for a week.

I made a pit stop, knowing it might be hours before I’d have another opportunity. On the way back to Juniper Lane, I stopped at the market and picked up a bag of Pepperidge Farm cookies, Milanos being essential for surveillance work. Without them, I’d just end up feeling sorry for myself.

I parked on Santa Teresa Street, donned my baseball cap, locked the car, and did a quick survey of the neighborhood. I walked the long block northwest along Santa Teresa until it dead-ended into Orchard Road. Around that corner and two blocks to the left, Orchard intersected State Street. Where I stood, the street made a sweeping bend to the right, hugging the walled boundaries of a convent. By following the curve on foot, I reached the far end of Juniper Lane. I was looking for a spot that would allow me to keep the Tudor in my visual field without generating curiosity about my presence. The same strictures applied here as they had in Horton Ravine. Anyone sitting in a parked car for more than a few minutes generates uncomfortable questions. I walked along Juniper Lane, paying particular attention to the parking area provided by the absentee owner of the green stucco house. To the left of the garage, he’d carved out a space wide enough to accommodate a pickup truck or a recreational vehicle, neither of which were there. Instead, I was looking at a U of chicken-wire fence laden with morning glory vines.

I returned to my car, fired it up, and took a right on Santa Teresa Street, which I followed as far as Juniper Lane, turning right as I had a short time earlier. The question I asked myself was this: what would happen if I backed into this perfect spot and the owner returned? It seemed unlikely. As nearly as I could ascertain, the Dornans were out of town. He wasn’t due at work until Monday, which didn’t rule out the possibility that he’d show up early in order to enjoy a weekend at home. If so, how would I explain myself?

Clueless. I had no idea.

I pulled forward a good six feet beyond the spot and proceeded to back in, a maneuver that took a bit of doing since the station wagon felt like a boat and I wasn’t familiar with the turning radius. I pulled forward again, lining myself up properly, and then eased backward as far as the fence, which shivered when my rear bumper made contact. I rolled down the window and then shut off the engine. I popped open the windshield screen and slid it into place. I was now sheltered between the fence on my right and the garage on my left. The cardboard screen cut the daylight by half, creating quite the cozy effect. I leaned forward over the steering wheel and peered the through holes in the cardboard at the Tudor across the way. The electrified wrought-iron gate was no more than fifty feet in front of me. I could see the entire facade of the house and a portion of the three-car garage. If Georgia Prestwick emerged in her Mercedes or in any other vehicle, I’d not only have a clear view, I’d be in position to follow if she turned in either direction. I checked my watch. It was 5:45. I picked up my clipboard and made a note of the time, which made me believe I was doing something worthwhile instead of wasting my time.

I’d brought along my index cards and I studied them as though preparing for a test. A week had passed since Audrey was arrested, jailed, and released on bail. If she were alive and kept to her routine, tomorrow would have been her Saturday in San Luis Obispo, doing whatever she did in that house with the crew that was ferried in by van. They had to have been clipping tags from stolen merchandise, maybe sorting and packing items for redistribution. Why else would so many people assemble and disassemble every other week? The system was probably designed so that Audrey’s death, or the loss of any of the intermediaries, wouldn’t cripple the operation. There had to be a backup plan in place, at least until someone could be found to fill her shoes and a new hierarchy could be established.

Audrey and Georgia had worked as a team and there were doubtless other sticky-fingered pairs also making the rounds. Somewhere along the line, there had to be a fence, as well as someone in charge of moving the goods. If I remembered correctly from my days in uniform and from what Maria said, certain items, like infant formula, beauty products, smoking-cessation patches, and diet supplements, would be shipped overseas to countries willing to pay inflated prices for such goods. Other items would be sold at swap meets and flea markets. I wondered what Georgia would be doing now that Audrey was out of the picture. I didn’t believe the van would arrive at Audrey’s this week as it had in the past. The house had been stripped and sanitized. All the fingerprints had been wiped clean, and I assumed Vivian Hewitt had changed the locks, which would put the place out of commission any which way you looked at it. A new location had probably been set up so the job could go on as before.

I finished my Fritos and ate a cookie to keep up my strength. Twenty minutes later, I poured myself some coffee from my thermos. I figured once it got dark, if my bladder required relief, I could slip out of the car, proceed to the vine-covered fence at the rear, and squat. In the meantime, I didn’t dare turn on the radio or do anything else that might call attention to my hidey-hole. I picked up the first of the two paperback novels and read through the acknowledgments, hoping to come across the name of someone I knew. This was a first novel and the writer thanked a hundred people individually and profusely. I was already worried this was as good as the book was going to get.

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.