Pick Your Poison

application. A pleasure meeting you.”

Her gray eyes were as icy as a pawnbroker’s smile, and her “please let me take your money” attitude had transformed to “let me think about taking your money,” all after my bringing up Feldman again.

She led me to the door and offered a frosty good-bye.

After I climbed into the Camry and turned the key in the ignition, I sat there wondering why the mere mention of a name had caused the ambient temperature in that room to drop twenty degrees. These thoughts were interrupted, however, when I spotted Hamilton in my rearview mirror. I pulled out and started down the street, still keeping an eye on her in the mirror. She took off in a silver BMW, heading in the opposite direction.

And I made a U-turn.

12

Helen Hamilton’s hot little Beamer steamed through Galveston at an urgent clip. As I followed, I wondered if Daddy and Mom were forced to pay a “processing fee” when they adopted us. And worse, had they dealt with someone as mercenary as Hamilton seemed to be?

And why, if Hamilton had a client coming, as she claimed, did she leave her office? Had the mere mention of Feldman sent Hamilton speeding through town? Because she was speeding, weaving between cars on Broadway and passing on the right. I kept my distance, but the main street is long and wide, and I had no trouble keeping her in sight.

She made a right turn, and at first I thought she might be taking a shortcut to Seawall Boulevard. I made the same turn just before the light changed, knowing I had to be careful now. We were in a residential area with little traffic, and she might spot me. I let her have a two-block lead. We drove into a rundown neighborhood, and a minute later she made a left, lurching to a halt in front of a small yellow house.

I drove on past the intersection and parked by a sagging beige two-story on the corner. I adjusted my side mirror and saw Hamilton walking briskly up the walkway to the yellow house.

I waited, considering whether I should continue to follow her once she came out. I guess I thought she’d simply lead me to Feldman, but this was certainly no retirement community.

Then, five minutes into my self-appointed stakeout, I learned another little detecting lesson. I’d never make a good cop. I was stir-crazy. What was going on over there?

Knowing I shouldn’t, knowing I’d be sorry, knowing I’m about as patient as a two-year-old in front of a birthday cake, I slid from behind the wheel into the humid morning air. Maybe the drapes were open and I could see what she was doing. Or maybe I could listen at an open window.

I started for the corner, noting that even the lawns looked defeated. Clumps of Saint Augustine grass choked the life out of the gentle Bermuda, where there was any Bermuda, and not merely blemishes of dusty ground.

“You selling something?” called a voice from behind me.

My heart skipped. Some surveillance expert I was. I hadn’t noticed anyone within a block of here. I squinted back at the house I’d parked in front of, but through the screen door all I could see was a shadowy face and the whites of his eyes.

“Not selling,” I said. “Hope you don’t mind if I park here, but I want to surprise a friend, and if she recognizes my car, it would ruin everything.”

He opened the door about six inches. He was a tall kid, maybe sixteen or seventeen. “If your car’s gone when you get back,” he said, “don’t go telling the police I had anything to do with it.”

A small child appeared at the teen’s knees, peeking out at me with giant brown eyes. He couldn’t have been more than five. “Yeah, white lady, don’t go telling the po-lice.”

“Get back in the house, man,” the teenager said. “Didn’t Momma tell you about talking trash like that?”

The little boy answered this by running out onto the porch, skipping in circles, and chanting, “William can’t get me. William can’t get me.”

William did get him, however, with a rapid swoop of one long, gangly arm. To the delight of the child, he was lifted to a horizontal position on William’s hip, well above the slatted, uneven porch.

I smiled, then started off again, saying, “No one will have the time to steal my car. Besides, Camrys are hard to break into.” I had no idea if this was true, but it sounded convincing. Their front door clattered shut as I walked away.

Sweat already soaked the back of my T-shirt and dampened the waist of my khaki shorts by the time I reached the yard surrounding the yellow house. It had to be a hundred degrees though not even ten A.M. yet.

That was when my impatience caught up with me. Helen Hamilton was coming out of the house she’d entered only a short while ago. I scurried to a nearby mimosa and stood behind the tree, but mimosas aren’t exactly live oaks and I’m not exactly Kate Moss. I definitely had a camouflage-deficit problem.

When Hamilton descended the porch steps and I saw what she was carrying, my hand flew to my mouth. A baby. A baby in a car seat. Guess the “client” couldn’t quite come to her. And then I wondered why she hadn’t told the truth. Adoptions and babies go together, so—

“Hey! White lady!” said the little kid from the beige house. His words seemed to echo through the waves of heat zigzagging off the blacktop.

Damn! Hamilton might hear him and spot me.

I grabbed the kid by his tiny shoulders and moved him in front of me, ducking so his chest was between me and her. I put my finger to my lips. “Shhh, I’m playing hide-and-seek.”

His dark eyes grew wide with the pleasure of conspiracy.

I peeked over his shoulder. She was putting the baby in the car and did glance our way, but quickly refocused on the infant, whose tiny wail drifted across the lawn. Her high heels clicking on the pavement, Hamilton then walked around to the driver’s side and opened the door.

The boy said, “Lady, you gotta listen!”

I covered his mouth with my hand and whispered, “Don’t give me away. It’s her turn to hide, and maybe I can see where she’s going.” I continued watching Hamilton, ready to head for my car and follow when I thought it was safe.

The boy twisted free, took my face in his small, square hands, and pulled my head so we were eye-to-eye. “But, lady,” he said, those soft, wide eyes close to my nose, “James Franklin is stealing your car.”

A second passed before I grasped what he’d told me; then I started running like Satan’s breath was on my neck.

I didn’t know if Hamilton saw me bounding across the grass. I didn’t know if she saw the kid right alongside me, taking three strides to my one. I wouldn’t be finding out where she was taking that baby, and about then I didn’t care.

I felt momentary relief when I saw that my car wasn’t gone, and was about to deliver a lecture about lying little brats when I noticed the open driver’s-side door.

A pair of what had to be size-fourteen athletic shoes rested on the curb. Shoes with feet in them. And legs attached. The remainder of this person’s body was wedged under the dash of my car.

“Hey! You!” I shouted, hurrying toward the Camry.

Obviously James Franklin’s give-a-damner was broken. He kept right on with his hot-wiring activities.

“Get the hell out of my car!” I shouted, giving the nearest size-fourteen a good kick.

“Yeah. Get the hell out of her car,” came the small voice beside me. I noticed the kid had his hands on his hips just like me.

My kick got James Franklin’s attention—unless he was afraid of a five-year-old with an attitude. When his ugly mug appeared, his eyes bloodshot and looking in every direction at once, I should have known “Get the hell out of my car” would have about as much impact as a dart hitting an elephant.

Sure, he got out, but he was swinging my saddlebag of a purse, the one I’d left on the front seat.

I have reasonably sound reflexes. I ducked.