Dead Dreams (6 page)

Jim gingerly bagged it. “Expensive taste. Sure she won’t miss it?”

“She has a dozen. Make sure you don’t tell her, though, or anyone else about the prints. Just in case word leaks out. In fact, if you can destroy the prints leading back to us
after
you’ve used them it’d be best. She likes to keep her identity secret. Plight of the rich in the first world.” I felt obligated to inform him of the McIntyre wealth, and Jim raised his eyebrows more than once and nodded knowingly.

“And, you still think your parents shouldn’t hear about this?” He raised his eyebrows again.

“You don’t know my parents. Finger-in-every-pot sorts of people.”

Jim held his palm out as if to say, “I get it.” He scrunched his mouth and said, “So, only a stolen Rolex?”

I briefed him on my theory about the possibility of the stalker zeroing on Sarah from the Patek Philippe shop. “The one at Stanford Mall.” That was the address the receipt had indicated. “But I don’t have the purchase date. It was torn off.”

“I’ll ask around the stores there,” Jim said, taking a wide tape and imprinted my fingerprints on them.

How had the burglar, a total stranger, known I always cracked that window a tiny gap every night? Or, would he have pried it open if it had been closed? The window had been ajar when Sarah and I had checked the place to see how he’d gotten in. My need to keep the air circulating had been a cause of contention between us since the day she moved in, and now I was filled with remorse for my pigheadedness.

Jim jolted me out of my musing. “I’ll park on Emerson tonight.” He jerked his chin toward the window facing the Street. “Tomorrow morning, my partner—he goes by the name Alias—will take over at six for a couple of hours, till you girls leave for work. When’s the alarm getting put in?”

I didn’t bother to state I’d be out to work by five, as Sarah would be home till at least nine, and I didn’t want her unwatched. I glanced at Sarah’s bedside clock. “Sarah’s making the arrangements. It’s not like her to be late.” I looked out her bedroom window to the Emerson Street below, but there was no sign of her green coupe. Images of Sarah struggling with the burglar as he’d tried to kidnap her wafted through my head. Perhaps I should have been with her the whole day.

“Your landlord’s okay with the alarm?” Jim asked.

“He’s ecstatic. Sarah’s getting a fancy one, with microphone capacity, so the security company can hear if someone breaks in once the alarm’s set.”

As if on cue, Sarah stepped into the living room. She must have already parked in the basement when I’d looked out.

“Hey!” She extended her hand at Jim, her face slightly flushed.

Jim handed her his business card, which she glanced at and slipped into the dark green notebook. She’d kept it in her Louis Vuitton backpack. I saw for the first time that she had many other name cards tucked between the pages of the book. Who were these contacts? Would she notice she’d lost Jackson’s? I waited for her to replace the green book back, hoping she wouldn’t see that the card was missing.

After Jim left, Sarah asked, “So, you think he’s trustworthy?” He was to return later for his all-night guard duty.

“I don’t think he works for the government.” I winked at her, and she rolled her puppy-brown eyes at me.

“The alarm people will get here in thirty minutes,” Sarah said. “You don’t have to wait. I know you have work.”

“Don’t I have to learn how to set the alarm, etcetera?”

“They’ll run through the details with me. I can explain to you.”

This arrangement worried me, since I was mechanically challenged. If I punched in the wrong code or sequence, I might bring the entire police department to our place.

Back at Stay Fit I tidied up the cubicles behind the counter and noticed a cell phone set by one of the member’s duffel bag. Sheila Wyatt, a morning regular. I drew a deep breath and picked it up. Zumba music vibrated throughout the entire floor, a dead giveaway of where I worked for the person on the other end of the line. I mumbled something about the bathroom to Susan Summers, and zipped to the ladies’ room.

Huddled in a toilet cubicle, I punched in Jackson’s number. It probably wasn’t one of my proudest moments, but if Sarah’s P.I. had vanished as she’d insinuated and the cops got a hold of Jackson’s incoming call list, they’d want to know why I’d contacted him; how else could I have called without having the number traced to me? Besides, it was a local number, and I was just borrowing Sheila’s phone, I pacified my conscience.

The call was picked up after the second ring. “Anderson and Partners, Attorneys-at-Law. May I help you?” It was a Southern woman’s voice.

Jackson’s a lawyer?
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Anderson, please.”

“May I know who’s calling?” her sing-song voice went on.

My heart thumped so loudly I was sure it rivaled the drum beat of the Zumba music now only faintly in the background. “I’d like to hire Mr. Anderson for a case.” I heard footsteps as someone entered a stall next to me, and I held my breath. A stall door clicked shut.

“Do you have a name, Hon?” the southern woman insisted.

I tried to buy time by hemming and hawing, for it wouldn’t do if whoever was in the cubicle next to mine recognized my voice and overheard me issue a fake name.

When I heard the toilet next door flush, I said, “Is Mr. Anderson in?”

“May I tell him who’s calling?”

“I’ll call back. Thanks.” I clicked the phone off. The other bathroom user was washing her hands, so I waited and flushed the toilet to give myself an excuse for taking so long.

So, Jackson was technically not a P.I. although attorneys have been known to hire P.I.s for their business. If Jackson hadn’t been available, the receptionist—at least, I assumed that’s who she was—would have said she’d take a message, or something like, “Sorry, can you call back later?” But, if Jackson was in the office, what did that mean? Was Sarah lying to me? Or, was Jackson back from his mysterious vacation? Should I broach the subject with Sarah? Maybe throw some doubt about hiring Jim, and force her to call Jackson in front of me, so I could verify if she was telling the truth about him?

When the coast was clear, I slipped out of the bathroom and casually returned the borrowed cell. Later, I could do a reverse lookup online on my own phone and locate Jackson’s office. Maybe drive there on my way to Starbucks and see for myself.

On my Samsung I Googled “Jackson Attorney” and saw his name listed as “Attorney-at-Law.” Maybe he provided protection for his clients, too. However, I couldn’t find an address for him. Pages on the sites I’d clicked on, said in fine print, “By referral only.”

When I got home after my Starbucks stint, I set off the alarm by mistake, as Sarah had forgotten the sequence to disarm the motion detector.

“It’ll take pictures of the person who triggers the system.” She pointed to the small cameras above the door and also the one aimed at the balcony. I waved at the camera and flashed my teeth at it. “But we can set a five-minute grace period for us to punch the code.” She proceeded to do just that.

I wasn’t sure I’d remember the precise de-coding. And a few times when I repeated the sequence I got these wrong.

“You’re hopeless!” She shook her head at me. “Let’s just use the basic system first. Once you’re used to that we’ll add the photo capture and voice capacity.”

“Well said, Watson.” I tried to get her to relax.

“I’m the smarter one,” she said. “I should be Sherlock.”

“Hah! So, you’re okay dishing out two thousand for Jim’s four days’ work?” It sounded like highway robbery, but Sarah didn’t seem perturbed by the hefty payroll. I couldn’t even chip in ten bucks on my tight budget, what with car insurance and saving for college.

“It’ll be cheaper than paying for my funeral.” She sashayed to her bedroom, her Louis Vuitton backpack hefted over one shoulder, and slammed the door.

She was somewhat uptight that night. If she had a boyfriend I’d have said love issues, but she never mentioned anyone.

“And don’t touch the alarm!” Her voice was muffled from inside her bedroom but, I still heard her annoyance.

Later that evening, when my mom called right before I dozed off, I almost told her of the burglar but caught myself as soon as she complained that Keith hadn’t called her for two weeks and that she and Dad couldn’t even reach him. My brother was pushing twenty-eight. He had his own apartment, his career, his life to lead. Maybe he was busy with work or a new girlfriend. San Francisco, after all, provided a single male with an active night life, (most of which my parents disapproved of—not that this flustered Keith). Then there were the restaurants. The City By the Bay boasted the most eateries per square mile of any city in the U.S. I could see why Keith would keep his distance, with my parents poking their noses in every cranny if you’d let them in.

“I’ll let Keith know, if, and that’s a big
if
, he contacts me.” I hadn’t heard from Keith since I’d moved to the apartment. The last we’d met had been at our parents’ home, when I’d gone to retrieve my old desk using Mrs. Mott’s U-Haul truck. He’d asked for my address in case he wanted to send out Christmas cards this year, scribbling my details on a slip of paper. I was sure he’d lose the scrap in a jiffy. Why not key into his iPhone? All for appearances’ sake, I’d noted to myself.

“How’s that new roommate of yours getting on?” I heard Mom stifle another yawn.

“We’re getting on.”

“Seems like a lonely girl. Does her family call her much?”

How about never?
“She only has that one brother, Todd. And they’re estranged.”

“What a shame. You’re a good friend to her. Dad and I can tell.”

I suppressed a yawn. It’s interesting how when you see or hear someone yawn, you fall under the same spell, as if yawning was contagious. But then again I’d only gotten two hours of sleep the night before.

“Tell Lilly I miss her,” I said. I glanced at my bedside clock. Ten thirty! So late already.

“You can come by and hug her yourself. And Brie, Pastor Perry asked for you last night.”

Pastor Perry had been “asking for me” since the day I’d felt church wasn’t for me. Church works for some people—kept them in check or, like my parents, gave them a chance to mingle with others they could try to help out. A social agenda. A safe community of generally polite folks. In ours, Evangelical Church of Grace, someone was always trying to wangle a free service from my dad, since he was a doctor, not that he made a ton since he paid his own practitioner’s insurance, which was tantamount to half his income. Mom tutored, so she’d gotten popular, too.