Earth Angel (36 page)

I decided I was hungry. I carried the dirty dishes into the kitchen and made myself a peanut butter and banana sandwich. I
leaned over the sink to eat, dropping small bread crumbs as I chewed. Several ants were already in the sink. I watched them
hurry toward the new crumbs. I thought I’d be happier now that I’d broken the code, if indeed I had. What had the cops come
up with? Something different?

I returned to the living room and found Josh sitting on the sofa. He was wearing a blue flannel shirt and Madras boxer shorts.

“Hi,” I said.

“What’s going on?” he said, nodding at the map and telephone books.

“Nothing much. Couldn’t sleep.”

“So you’re making maps?”

“Planning some shopping for tomorrow. Didn’t want to get lost. What are you doing up?”

“I heard the noise. Thought it was an intruder.”

I sat on the sofa beside him. “And was it?”

He stood up. “I’m not into witty repartee,” he said. “That’s what people do to hide the fact they have nothing to say.”

I burst out laughing. “Do you really believe this stuff you say? It’s pretty stupid, really.” I stretched my feet onto the
coffee table, covering the address where I thought the kidnapping would take place. “Dorothy Parker, who was—”

“I know who she was.”

“She once said, ‘There’s a hell of a distance between wisecracking and wit. Wit has truth in it; wisecracking is simply calisthenics
with words.’” Oddly, it was something Tim had quoted to me, I’d never actually read anything by Dorothy Parker. Tim had thought
she was great, and I’d always felt a bit resentful that he’d championed a woman that by all rights I should have been lording
over him.

“She said that, huh? Well, she was a moron. Those people liked to sit around and drink too much and impress each other with
how clever they were. Bunch of bullshit.” He started for the stairs.

“Josh, what is it you don’t like about me?”

He kept walking. He was halfway up the stairs when he stopped, stooped down so I could see his face. “I don’t like that you
try to be my friend when you don’t even know me.”

“You’re confusing being friendly with being friends. Why would I want to be your friend? I haven’t seen you display any characteristics
yet that indicate you’re capable of acting like a friend.”

He stood up and I could only see his legs climbing the stairs. “Whatever,” he said and was gone.

Maybe too harsh, but I was tired and cranky and tired of his crap. I slid to the floor and reread all my notes to make sure
there wasn’t something I’d missed, some other possible interpretation of the kidnapper’s clues. When I was satisfied, I went
back to David’s bedroom, dressed in my own clothes, and left the house for good.

1225 H
ENLEY
S
TREET
. I’
D BEEN PARKED A BLOCK AND A HALF AWAY
for three hours, watching the building through my new binoculars. The problem was that 1225 was a small apartment house with
about twenty units and gated underground parking so it was hard to tell who belonged there and who didn’t. There was a glass
door in the front of the building through which the non–underground-parking residents passed, but it wasn’t locked. Huge script
letters across the front of the building said T
ROPICAL
M
ANOR
. A lone shaggy pine tree in the front yard provided the “tropical.” Two phony white plantation columns in the front exuded
“manor.” I shifted my numb butt in my car seat and dropped the binoculars into my lap. I opened my cooler for the last diet
Coke.

Twilight was draining into darkness and the single street lamp on the block snapped on with a dim, cheerless glow. It was
almost eight o’clock. I hadn’t noticed anybody suspicious lurking about, any cars repeatedly cruising the streets. No drooling
men in trench coats. No phony maintenance men with clipboards and easy-to-fake name tags. Nor had I noticed any cops hiding
out. I’d hoped they
might have evacuated the building, but I kept seeing residents driving into the underground garage or entering the main door,
picking up mail, and disappearing inside. Men and women and children and even a couple dogs. Several young girls the right
age entered. I lifted the binoculars to my face again. The skin around my eyes was rubbed raw from the plastic eyepiece, and
I was starting to feel dizzy whenever I
wasn’t
looking at a magnified world.

I squirmed again in my seat, this time from anxiousness. The street was dark and sinister. It was harder for me to see clearly.
The kidnapper would have to make his move soon. Where were the cops? I’d called Lt. Trump from a phone booth as soon as I’d
packed my suitcase and checked out my motel room. I didn’t want David to be able to find me and distract me from what I had
to do. I’d left no note, no message for him. In a few days, when this was all over, I would write and explain everything.
More important right now was saving those girls. Saving
someone.

“I’m convinced that’s where he’ll strike,” I’d told Lt. Trump on the phone this morning. “Twelve twenty-five Henley Street.”

“Hmmm,” she’d said.

I’d waited for more reaction, some enthusiasm, but none came. “Did you guys come up with a different location?” I’d asked.

“I can’t discuss that, Ms. Weiss. But we certainly appreciate your cooperation and help in this matter.”

“Does that mean you’ll cover this address?”

“It means we’ll do everything we think is appropriate to protect our residents and catch this criminal. All leads will be
developed.” Her tone was clipped and official.

“I just think this is the only way the note makes sense. This has to be the address.”

She’d sighed. “Grace, did you ever hear of Patriot Hill?”

“No.”

“It’s just outside town, not on the map. Something only locals know about. It’s where the city used to shoot off the Fourth
of July fireworks every year, before the drought made it a fire hazard. Fireworks, get it?”

“Fireworks,” I’d repeated.

“As in
Miss Fireworks
. And it’s not too far from a new housing development with a street called Meadow Glen. As in Scott Glenn.”

“That seems a little too—”

“How about the Will Rogers Ranch? You hear of that?”

“Will Rogers Ranch?”

“As in, ‘Do not
contest
my
will
….’ The Will Rogers stables have a rodeo contest every year and it’s going on right now. There’s a mobile home park nearby
as well as a campgrounds on Hollywood Road.
Holly
as in Holly Hunter.
Wood
as in Alfre Woodard.” She’d covered the phone and said something to someone else. Then back to me, “See our problem, Grace?
You know how much manpower it takes to effectively cover each location? And our task force came up with sixteen possible locations.
We have to narrow down our choices. I’m telling you all this against regulations. We can’t afford any leaks to the press that
might blow our stakeouts. Understand? Everything is covered, you just get on with your life. We’ll contact you.”

I stared through the binoculars and sipped my diet Coke. I’d already downed five others and each gulp from this one burned
my stomach, but I kept drinking because it gave me something to do while staring at the same street. Earlier I’d driven by
the Will Rogers Ranch, the campgrounds, the mobile park, Patriot Hill, even Meadow Glen. The possibilities seemed endless.
How had the police come up with sixteen locations? How did they decide which to cover? I had been naive to think I would somehow
find the right place out of all the possible combinations. The last time had just been a fluke.

Still, I had nowhere else to go. Plus, the other locations
were too general. What was the point of giving clues if it couldn’t be narrowed down to an exact address? The kidnapper wanted
to humiliate the police, the actual crime seemed almost incidental to that goal. 1225 Henley. I was sticking with that.

A blue Lexus cruised by and I sat up intently because it was the second time for that car in less than an hour. I couldn’t
see the face of the driver, but it seemed like a male, shaggy hair, askew shirt collar. He drove down the street, slowing
in front of 1225, but not stopping. Then he turned the corner. I jotted down the license number and debated whether or not
to go call the police now and risk missing the kidnapper.

A loud rap on my window startled me so that I jerked forward, spilling the Coke on my pants. I looked over and expected to
see the kidnapper with a gun pointed at me. But it was Sgt. McCauley in jeans and a sweatshirt. I rolled down the window.

“You undercover?” I whispered.

“No, I’m on my way home from umpiring my son’s Little League game. Lieutenant Trump thought I should swing by and let you
off the hook.”

“Let me off the hook?”

“We know you’ve been here for over three hours, Doctor.”

I brightened. “Then she believed me about this place. You’ve got it staked out.”

He shook his head. “The kidnapper struck last night, at twelve twenty-five A.M.”

“Here?”

“There.” He pointed to the house next door: 1223 Henley.

“‘Or thy wife, neighbor.’ He meant the neighbor’s house.”

“Seems so. He snatched a seventeen-year-old girl, just got married to a Marine before he shipped off to boot
camp. His folks live there. Our boy jimmied a window, grabbed her right out of her own bedroom. He’s a ballsy fucker.”

“She’s seventeen? That’s quite a leap in age from the others.”

Sgt. McCauley shrugged. “He’s tired of playing with them. He wants to get to the good stuff. That’s what our shrink said.”

I laid my hand on my thigh and felt the warm wet spot from the Coke. “So, Lieutenant Trump already knew about the kidnapping
when she spoke to me this morning?”

“We’d just gotten a call from the victim’s in-laws about an hour earlier.”

“And she knew I was parked out here all this time?”

He grinned, though he tried not to. “Figured it was the best way to keep you out of the way for a while. But she beeped me
and asked me to send you home now. Enough is enough.”

“I hadn’t figured this address out until four o’clock this morning. It was already too late by then.”

He nodded, but he stared at me and I knew what he was thinking. If I hadn’t tried to dodge them a few days ago I might have
figured it out earlier and they might have caught this guy. And that seventeen-year-old bride might still be home waiting
for her Marine to come back.

I started to roll up the window. He laid his hand on it to stop me. “We’ll have another note in three days. It would be nice
if we didn’t have to come looking for you.”

I didn’t make any promises. I started the car and drove off. I drove for two hours all the way back to Orange County, stopped
outside my condo without shutting off the engine, then drove all the way back to Santa Barbara. I checked back into my same
motel, though they’d already rented out my old room and had to give me a different one. The old man was back from his father’s
funeral, and he didn’t ask me why I was back and I didn’t ask him about
his trip. I wasn’t sure he even recognized me. “Last room,” he said, handing me the key. “But the parking’s full so you’ll
have to park over at the Surfside Motel.” He pointed across the street. “Don’t worry about the patron-only parking signs,
they never check.”

Inside my room I turned on the TV, took off my clothes, and went to the bathroom to relieve myself of six diet Cokes. When
I came out I heard my name—Grace Weiss—and turned toward the TV. My picture was on the screen, hovering over the newscaster’s
broad shoulder.

“Hey, that’s me,” I said. Where did they get a photo of me looking like this, dark brown hair, glasses? I hadn’t had one taken
since I became Grace Weiss. In the background behind my head, blurred against the wall, an African tribal mask. David’s house.

I turned up the sound and sat on the edge of the bed.

“…For more on this exclusive story, we go to Grendal Hernandez, live at the Santa Barbara police department.” Cut to an attractive
black woman standing in front of a large Spanish-style building. Her lipstick was bright orange and I couldn’t take my eyes
off those churning orange lips. “…refuses comment, as does Lieutenant Darlene Trump and Sergeant Ian McCauley, those named
by our source as police liaisons with Grace Weiss….”

The anchorman, a serious-faced young man with an enormous chin dimple, broke into her report. “We have Karl DeMarco standing
by with a startling and exclusive report on Grace Weiss, Grendal. But for now, do the police offer any explanation of how
they let the kidnapping occur right under their noses? I mean they had the address, or at least close to it. You’d think they’d
have staked out the entire block.”

Grendal shrugged and pursed her orange lips. “No one’s talking here, Stanford.”

“Okay, thanks, Grendal. We’ll get back to you.” Grendal disappeared and Stanford Dale filled the screen again with
my photo over his shoulder. “To recap, the Santa Barbara kidnapper struck again at twelve twenty-five this morning, almost
twenty-three hours ago, taking seventeen-year-old newlywed Christa Vaughn from her bedroom at 1223 Henley Street while her
in-laws slept peacefully down the hall.

“But the real story at this hour is that the police have been consulting with a private citizen who apparently was able to
break the code of the kidnapper’s note and figure out approximately where the kidnapping would take place. This is the first
time we’ve been able to confirm the nature of those notes, which apparently are some sort of movie-themed riddles.” He shook
his head at the camera as if shocked by the sorry state of civilization. “Sounds like something out of a comic book or an
Indiana Jones movie. Except that the crimes against the young victims are definitely real.”

I was sitting on the bed in my bra and underwear. A chill surrounded me and I pulled the bedspread up around me like a sack
so that only my eyes were exposed.

“We have some exclusive video footage we’re about to show you of this woman, known to police as Grace Weiss.” Indeed, the
screen filled with a dark, grainy video of me sitting in the car on Henley Street. It was shot by a car driving by. I was
looking through binoculars and sipping diet Coke. Then, more footage of me in the car, this time just watching the car pass
by. So that was why the blue Lexus had gone by twice. The camera operator must have been hiding in the back seat.