"V" is for Vengeance (31 page)

She turned left and kept to surface streets, which meant we encountered a stop sign or a stoplight at just about every intersection. I stayed three car lengths behind her. She didn't seem aware of me, and why would she? There was no reason for her to fret about an old station wagon. I watched her shake her shoulders and bounce on the seat. She lifted her right arm, fingers snapping in time to music audible only to her. I flipped on my radio again, picking up the same pop music station I'd listened to before. I didn't recognize the female vocalist, but the girl's car dancing was perfectly synchronized with the song.

She turned left on Santa Teresa Street, drove three blocks, and then turned right on Juniper Lane, which was an abbreviated half block long. Ten yards before reaching the corner, I pulled over to the curb in front of a small green stucco house that fronted on Santa Teresa Street. I shut down the engine and got out, trying to behave as though I were in no particular hurry. There were newspapers piled up on the front porch steps and the letter box bulged with mail. I blessed the householder for being away and at the same time faulted him for not having someone cover the house for him while he was gone. Burglars were now at liberty to break in and help themselves to his coin collection and his wife's silverware.

I cut across the yard on the diagonal, happy I didn't have to worry about witnesses. An oversize weeping willow occupied one corner of the lot. Four-foot hedges grew along the edge of the property as far as a detached two-car garage with an apron of concrete in front sufficient to allow guest parking for two.

I peered over the neatly trimmed shrubs. There were only three houses on the far side of Juniper Lane. The centerpiece was a two-story mock Tudor, with a one-story ranch-style house on the left and a one-story board-and-batten cottage on the right. The Mercedes was idling at the entrance to the Tudor. As I watched, the wide wrought-iron gate slid open with a screech of metal on metal, and the black Mercedes sedan turned into the drive. Through the wrought-iron fence I saw the middle of three garage doors rumble up. The girl pulled in and a moment later, the gate slid shut again, squealing as it had before.

I reversed my steps and returned to the car. I unearthed pen and paper from my shoulder bag. I looked to my right and made a note of the street number on the green stucco house where I'd parked. I turned the key in the ignition, put the car in gear, and proceeded to the corner. I turned right and drove at a sedate two miles an hour as was appropriate on a residential street of such short duration. As I passed, I scribbled down house numbers for the three houses on the left: 200, 210, and 216. On the right-hand side of the street there were four houses, respectively numbered 209, 213, 215, and 221. At the end of the block, I turned right and drove to the parking garage adjacent to the public library.

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.