were second-class citizens, entirely at the mercy of adults. There were kids who had their own cars, but it wasn’t the norm. The rest of us knew better than to bitch. I pictured this crop of youngsters, not spoiled so much as unaware of how fortunate they were.
Three thirty came and went, and just when I was getting worried, a tow truck approached from my left, passed me, and headed up the hill. In my mind’s eye, I could see the parking lot, which would be largely deserted by now. The damsel in distress would be easy to spot. The driver would pull up in the empty lane and get out of his truck. The girl would explain the problem while gesturing at the tires. I could picture him hunkering down to have a look, quickly realizing, as she must have, that human mischief was at the root. I’d left the two valve caps on the pavement, one sitting neatly beside each flat tire. She was bound to have spotted them, and if she’d complained about being the victim of a prank, the driver had probably brought along a portable air compressor. It would be a simple matter then of his inflating one tire at a time and screwing the valve caps back into place. This would take no more than three minutes, maybe four taking into account the back-and-forth of polite conversation.
I checked my watch, fired up my engine, and turned off the radio. I looked up as though cued and said, “Ah!” because there came the tow truck, turning right at the foot of the hill. The Mercedes followed. Though I knew the upscale private school drew students from all over the city, I’d assumed the girl lived somewhere in Horton Ravine. However, instead of turning left and heading into the heart of the Ravine, she took a right as well. I kept my face averted, making a serious study of the map still open in front of me. She didn’t know me from Adam, but on the off chance we crossed paths in the future, I didn’t want her making the connection. The tow truck passed me, slowed at the intersection, and took a right. She was two car lengths behind. I was already folding up the map, which I left on the passenger seat. As soon as she’d cleared the intersection, I checked for oncoming traffic, made an illegal U-turn, and followed her.
The tow truck continued on across the freeway overpass. The Mercedes moved into the right lane. The girl took the 101 on-ramp and merged with the stream of speeding cars heading south. I slowed, adjusting my speed to allow another car between us. Traffic was light and it wasn’t difficult keeping up with her. She stayed in the right-hand lane and passed the off-ramp at Little Pony Road. She got off on the Missile Street exit and kept to the left in preparation for a turn. The car between us sped on. We were both caught at the stoplight at the bottom of the ramp. I could see her adjust the rearview mirror and reapply her lipstick. When the light changed, it took her a moment to register the fact. I was patient, not wanting to call attention to myself with even a quick toot of my horn.
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.
17
I took a seat at my favorite table in the reference room at the public library. I’d plucked the
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.
