I left Marvin’s house at 2:15 with a promise to keep him posted on my progress. I was feeling more optimistic. Marvin’s mention of time travel had sparked a train of thought. I too had regretted I couldn’t go back to relive those moments in the parking garage when I’d blown the opportunity to pick up the plate number on the black sedan. The nice man who’d come to my aid had suggested I notify mall security and file a report. At the time, I’d been distracted by my outrage, my throbbing shin, and my badly scraped palm. With Marvin’s offhand remark, it dawned on me that I did have a way to go back in time and review events. I knew the woman in charge of mall security.
Maria Gutierrez had been the beat officer assigned to my neighborhood some six years before. On the last case I’d worked, I’d crossed paths with her former partner, Gerald Pettigrew, who was now in charge of the K-9 unit at the Santa Teresa Police Department. Maria’s name hadn’t come up in conversation, but she’d been on my mind. Some months before, I’d found myself standing behind her in the checkout line at the supermarket. She looked familiar, but she wasn’t in uniform and I didn’t make the connection. She’d been quicker at the recognition. She greeted me by name and identified herself. As we inched our way closer to the register, we played a quick game of catch-up. I filled her in on my life, Henry’s whereabouts, and my last encounter with Lieutenant Dolan, whom she knew from the police department. She told me she’d resigned from the PD in order to take a job in the private sector. That’s when she’d given me her business card.
I stopped by my office and sorted through the pile of business cards I routinely toss in my bottom drawer. After a bit of digging I found hers, and I was just about to call when I noticed the light blinking on my answering machine. I punched play.
“Hello, Kinsey. This is Diana Alvarez. Please don’t hang up. I need to talk to you about the article I’m writing. I’m offering you the opportunity to clarify the facts and add any comments you might have. Otherwise, it’s going in as is. My number is…”
I didn’t bother to make a note.
I checked the phone number on Maria’s business card and called her instead. I told her what had occurred and asked if I could have a look at security tapes for April 22. I thought she might be wary. Security measures are considered proprietary and, therefore, not to be disseminated to the general public. Information leaks are more likely to serve the criminal element than the law-abiding citizen, so it’s better for all of us if crooks are kept in the dark about how the traps are set. Apparently, the fact that I was a PI and already known to her constituted a waiver. I gave her my guarantee that the information would remain confidential. She said she had a meeting at 3:00, but if I could make it to her office before then, she’d be happy to help. Two minutes later, I was in my car and on my way. Screw Diana Alvarez.
I found a parking spot at the Nordstrom’s end of the underground structure at Passages Shopping Plaza. I bypassed the escalator and took the stairs up a level, where the retail storefronts had been designed to resemble an old Spanish town. The narrow shoulder-to-shoulder buildings varied in height. Most were stucco with the occasional picturesque chunk of plaster missing to expose the faux brick underneath. Some boasted pricey second- and third-floor offices, with shutters at the windows and flower boxes on the sills.
Along the wide central plaza corridor there were boutique restaurants with outdoor tables, benches for weary shoppers, and kiosks selling sunglasses, junk jewelry, and women’s hairpieces. At the midpoint, a stage had been constructed where musicians played for summer tourists. I went up a wide set of red-tiled stairs to the second floor. To my right there was an auditorium available to local theater groups for stage productions. The mall business offices were located down a hall to the left.
Maria was waiting at the desk when I walked in.
“You’re a doll to do this,” I said.
“No problem. The police circulated the information to all the store managers and cc’d us so we’d know what was going on. Included with the bulletin was Audrey Vance’s mug shot.”
“Did you recognize her?”
“Not me, but I heard a salesgirl at Victoria’s Secret saw her the same day. Apparently, she’s a regular customer and nobody had any idea she was stealing from them. They’re doing an inventory check now to see how badly they were hit.”
“I thought these gangs originated in South America.”
“Those are the worst. They can sweep through and clear a tabletop in the blink of an eye. They blast into town and they’re gone again just that quick.”
“How does it work? They have to be highly organized, but I don’t understand how they operate.”
“You start with the worker bees, who go out and steal the merchandise. Sometimes they’re given a regular shopping list, products the fence knows he can sell. For instance, there’s a big traffic in Gillette razor blades, Tylenol, Excedrin, pregnancy tests, diabetic test strips. I’ve heard Oil of Olay products are a hot ticket as well. The list goes on and on and changes all the time.”
“You mentioned Victoria’s Secret.”
“Sure. Think how many bras you can fit in a shopping bag. Same with panty hose. It’s much tougher to steal bulky items like men’s cologne sets or VCRs. You can’t jam a TV down the front of your pants.”
“But where does the fence lay off the goods?”
“Swap meets are a good bet, thrift stores-places like that. A lot is shipped out of the country.”
“Are these rings run by the mob?”
“Not in the old-fashioned sense of the word. If the business was mob-run, you’d have a widespread network that might be vulnerable to infiltration. These crews are connected loosely, if they’re connected at all, which makes apprehension and prosecution a pain in the butt. In each city, the setup is different, depending on how many people have been brought in and what kind of fencing operation is up and running in any given area.”
“I remember the good old days when I was a rookie, shoplifters were amateurs.”
“Not anymore. We still have the dabblers and wannabes, teenagers sneaking record albums into their backpacks, thinking they can get away with it. Kids are the least of our worries. Though if you ask me, we ought to go after them and nail them.” She waved a hand, impatient with the subject. “Don’t get me started. Come on back and let’s take a look at what we’ve got.”
“You still like the new job?”
“I love it,” she said over her shoulder.
I followed her down a short hall to an office outfitted with closed-circuit television cameras massed together in an alcove. There were ten monitors mounted in proximity, all working independently. A young man in civilian clothes sat in a swivel chair, remote control in hand, following the live images as they flipped from view to view. The two of us stood and watched.
Depending on the angle, I could just about guess where each camera was mounted, though, in truth, I’d never noticed them before. Both entrances and both exits of the parking garage were covered. There were an additional six cameras anchored at the second-floor level, each one focused on a different line of sight. I followed one shopper from the time she entered the mall off State Street until she turned left into the main avenue and disappeared from sight. Another camera picked her up as she proceeded down the wide walk toward Macy’s and went into the store. None of the pedestrians seemed to have any idea they were being watched.
“These work off coaxial cables,” Maria said. “All of the cameras operate at the same time. By swapping out cassettes, we can capture images twenty-four hours a day over the course of a month. Unless we have reason to keep a cassette, we tape over what we’ve done. Eventually the tapes get worn or the CCTV heads get dirty, and the images end up fuzzy and not much use. After I talked to you, I pulled the cassette from last Friday.”
She turned to her desk and picked up four cassettes. “There’s a VCR next door.”
We went into the next office, which was plainly furnished and looked like it was called into service on occasions when a mall executive was in town and needed temporary space. She pulled up a straight chair for me while she took the swivel chair behind the desk and rolled it closer to the set. The VCR was wired to a small black-and-white television that looked like something right out of the 1960s, the screen small and the housing enormous. She checked the date on the first cassette and slid it into the machine. “You said between five thirty and six fifteen?”
“Roughly. It was five twenty-six when I looked at my watch. That’s when I first saw Audrey slide the pj’s into her bag. She was the older of the two women working the lingerie department. By the time the loss-prevention officer was called and the whole scene played out, I’d say it was closer to five forty-five,” I said. “I could be off. Time gets distorted when you’re caught up in these things. At the time, everything went by in a blur and that’s why I missed the plate number. I was so astonished at what happened I didn’t register much else.”
“I know the feeling. On the one hand you’re hyperaware and at the same time you blank out the details.”
“Amen. I couldn’t for the life of me go back and reconstruct the incident.”
“Don’t I know,” she said. “A foot chase you swear took fifteen minutes turns out to be half that. Sometimes it works the other way.”
With a remote, she fast-forwarded. Date and time stamps sailed along in the upper right-hand corner. It was like watching an old-time movie, people walking herky jerky, cars zooming by so quickly they seemed to leave a trail of afterimages. I was amazed at how much the eye could pick up from that fleeting series of pictures. When she reached April 22, she slowed the stream of images to a more stately pace.
I pointed and said, “There.”
Maria hit the pause button and rewound the tape.
The black Mercedes sedan, which was halfway up the ramp, reversed itself and disappeared from sight. She advanced the film by degrees. The car reappeared and I saw the younger woman hand a ticket to the parking attendant, who ran it into her machine. The attendant verified the time stamp, put the ticket to one side, and waved her on. The younger woman looked left and smiled, smug and self-satisfied. That much I remembered. As the sedan continued up the ramp, Maria paused the tape again, freezing the shot of the rear bumper. The license frame was in view but the plate had been removed.
“Now you know why you missed it,” she said.
“What shitty luck. I thought if I picked up the plate number, someone at the PD might run it for me.”
Maria said, “Let’s look at it again.”
She caught the Mercedes on its way up the ramp. It came to a halt with a flick of her remote and disappeared from sight, reversing down the ramp. We watched it as though it were the slow-motion photo finish of a horse race. “Check the license plate frame,” she said. “Top says, ‘Keep honking…’ Bottom says, ‘I’m reloading.’”
She squinted and tilted her head. “What’s that on the right side of the bumper?”
As the car came up the ramp, she stopped the picture midframe. There was a bumper sticker affixed to the right-hand side. I got up and peered more closely, but the picture seemed to dissolve. Both Maria and I backed up halfway across the width of the office space.
She smiled. “That should help.”
“Can you read that?” I asked.
“Sure. You ought to get your eyes checked. Says, ‘My daughter is on the honor roll at Climping Academy.’”
“Oh, wow. That’s great!”
“Right. All you have to do now is find the car.”
“I’ve tackled tougher jobs in my day.”
“I’ll bet. Keep me posted. I want to hear how this turns out.”
Running surveillance is an exercise in ingenuity. As a rule, sitting in a parked car for an extended period generates public uneasiness, especially in a school zone where parents are fretful about abductions, kidnap for ransom, and other forms of child-oriented mischief. Horton Ravine is a natural habitat for wealthy people with expensive tastes. There might be a hundred black Mercedes sedans passing back and forth through the front and rear gates. With roughly eight hundred private homes spread over eighteen hundred acres, my only hope of spotting the car was to find an observation post and wait.
After a quick drive through the area, I decided the obvious location was at the foot of the private drive leading up the hill to Climping Academy. I had to take into consideration that the woman’s bumper sticker might be out of date. Her daughter might have already graduated from Climping. She might have dropped out or transferred to another school. Even if she were currently enrolled, her dad might be in charge of dropoff and pickup, using another vehicle altogether.
Meanwhile, I had to come up with a reasonable explanation for my presence on the road where I intended to keep watch. For short stints, the appearance of car trouble will sometimes work. With the hood up, a puzzled look on my face, and my owner’s manual in hand, I can stall for an hour unless a Good Samaritan comes to my aid. This happens with annoying frequency when I’m least desirous of the help.
Devious creature that I am, an idea occurred to me almost instantly. I left Horton Ravine and took the 101 to a strip mall in Colgate, where I’d seen a large craft mart two doors down from an office-supply store. In the latter, I bought a handheld tally counter, a device that advances one number with each click of a button. At the craft shop, I bought two pieces of heavy-duty poster board, thirty-six inches square, and ten packets of self-adhesive black alphabet letters, with a bonus packet of most-often-used vowels and consonants.
I went home with my packages and set to work on my kitchen counter. With the poster board and stick-on alphabet, I fashioned a sandwich-board sign, hinged at the top, with the same message visible on both the front flap and the back. When I finished the job, I leaned the sign against the wall and climbed the spiral stairs. I sorted through the hanging clothes in my closet and took out my generic uniform, an outfit I’d designed myself and had made many years before. The pants and matching shirt were constructed of a sturdy, no-nonsense dark blue twill, complete with brass buttons, epaulettes, and belt loops through which I can thread a wide black leather belt. On each sleeve I’d sewn a round patch with SANTA TERESA SERVICES embroidered in gold. In the center of the patch there was a vaguely governmental emblem. If I wore clunky black lace-up oxfords and carried a clipboard, I could easily pass for a city or county employee.
I hung the uniform on a peg, ready for my next day’s work. It was almost 5:00 by then, time, I thought, to check in with Henry back in Michigan. I hadn’t talked to him since Monday, and I felt a twinge of guilt that poor Nell and her broken hip hadn’t even crossed my mind. I sat down at my desk and punched in the Michigan number, mentally composing a summary of what had transpired over the past couple of days. The number rang five times and just when I thought the machine would kick in, Henry’s brother Charlie picked up. “Pitts. This is Charlie. You’ll have to speak up. I’m deaf as a post.”
I raised my voice. “Charlie? This is Kinsey. Out in California.”
“Who?”
“KINSEY. HENRY’S CALIFORNIA NEIGHBOR. IS HE THERE?”
“Who?”
“HENRY.”
“Oh. Hang on.”
I could hear muffled conversation and then Henry took the handset, saying, “This is Henry.”
Once we sorted out who was who, Henry brought me up to speed on Nell’s condition. “She’s fine. She’s tough as nails and never a word of complaint.” He said she’d be in a residential rehab facility for another ten days. They’d come up with a pain-management plan to help her tolerate the physical therapy sessions twice a day. Meanwhile, Henry, Charlie, and Lewis spent the better part of the day with her, playing board games to keep her mind off her infirmity. As soon as she mastered her walker, she’d be allowed to come home. “How’s your shin?” he asked.
I pulled up the leg of my jeans and had a look, as though he could see it as well. “More blue than purple and my palm’s just about healed.”
“Well, that’s good. Everything else okay?”
I filled him in on the latest developments, including Marvin Striker’s hiring me to look into Audrey’s death, my trip to San Luis Obispo, and my theory about her involvement in organized retail crime.
Henry was properly sympathetic, mystified, and outraged depending on what part of the story I was telling him, and he asked enough pertinent questions to fill in the blanks. “I’d offer to help, but there’s not much I can do at this remove,” he said.
“Actually, there is. I need to borrow your station wagon for a day or two.”
“No problem. You know where I keep the keys.”
On we went in this fashion and when we finally said our good-byes, I realized we’d been on the phone for forty-five minutes.
As usual, I was starving to death, so I grabbed my shoulder bag and a jacket, locked my door, and trotted up the street to Rosie’s. Claudia Rines was sitting at a table near the door. She had a drink in front of her, grapefruit juice by the look of it, probably laced with vodka.
I said, “Hey, how are you?”
“Fine. I feel like I haven’t talked to you in weeks.”
“It’s been five days, but I know what you mean. You’re meeting Drew?”
“As soon as he takes his break. Are you up for a drink?”
“I’d love one, but just until he arrives. I don’t want to horn in on your dinner plans. Is that vodka and grapefruit juice?”
“It is. William brought in fresh-squeezed juice just for me. You ought to try it.”
“Hang on,” I said. We both turned to catch William’s eye. Claudia held her drink up, indicating she needed a refill. I pointed to myself and held up two fingers. He nodded and leaned down to open the small refrigerator under the bar.
I turned back to Claudia. “So what’s up?”
“Too bad you weren’t here sooner. You just missed a friend of yours.”
“Sorry to hear that. Who?”
“Diana somebody. She works for the local paper.”
“You’re kidding me. When was this?”
“I don’t know, maybe fifteen minutes ago. She came in shortly after I did and introduced herself. She said she didn’t want to be a bother, but she had a few questions about my encounter with Audrey Vance.”
“How did she know who you were?”
“I thought you told her.”
“I never said a word.”
“That’s odd. She knew I worked at Nordstrom’s and she knew I was there when Audrey was arrested. She said she was fact-checking a few items her editor wanted confirmed. I just assumed she’d spoken to you first and was filling in the holes.”
“No way. She showed up at my office on Wednesday, wanting to be all buddy-buddy. I don’t talk to her about anything because I know how she operates. She’ll extract all kinds of information while swearing up and down your comments are off the record.”
“She said that just now, literally word for word. I told her I couldn’t discuss Nordstrom’s business. Mr. Koslo takes a dim view of reporters. He’s also paranoid about getting involved in the middle of a lawsuit. Not that there is one.”
“So what’d you tell her?”
“Nothing. I referred her to him. That seemed to annoy her, but I couldn’t see putting my job at risk, even if she’s a friend of yours.”
“She’s not a friend. I swear. I can’t stand the woman. She’s a pushy, calculating bitch.” I gave her a summary of her relationship to Michael Sutton and how that disaster had played out.
“What’s her interest in Audrey?” Claudia asked.
“She heard about Audrey’s suicide and now she wants to write an article about all the people who’ve taken headers off the Cold Spring Bridge. She went to Audrey’s visitation and saw my name in the guest register. Then she wheedled her way into Marvin’s good graces and he made the mistake of sending her to me. I had a fit when I realized what was going on. He’s since repented, I’m happy to report.”
“Oh, lord. She sounds like trouble. I had no idea.”
I looked up to see William approaching the table with my vodka and grapefruit juice in one hand and hers in the other. I said, “Thanks. This looks great.”
“I hope you enjoy it,” he said and then returned to the bar.
Claudia and I resumed our conversation, though there wasn’t much more to say on the subject. She was relieved to hear she hadn’t caused offense by refusing to discuss Audrey Vance with my good friend Diana Alvarez, and I was relieved she’d kept her mouth shut for reasons of her own.
In the interest of work, I skipped my run the next morning. I ate a bowl of Cheerios, then showered and donned my uniform à la Santa Teresa Services. Shoulder bag in tow, I put my sandwich-board sign in Henry’s station wagon and backed out of the garage. The school day at Climping Academy started at 8:00. By 7:30 I was parked on the berm at the bottom of the drive with my sign, which read:
This Vehicle Count is part of an Environmental Impact Study and represents your tax dollars at work. We thank you for your cooperation and apologize for any inconvenience. Drive safely!
I stood on the side of the road in my uniform, tally counter in hand, clicking off cars as they passed. On the plus side of the ledger, my shin felt better, still bruised I knew, but not throbbing. On the minus side was a visitor. Five minutes after I set up shop, a Horton Ravine patrol car rolled by and pulled over to the side of the road. The driver got out and ambled in my direction. He was wearing dark trousers and a white short-sleeve shirt. I didn’t think he was a “real” policeman. He might have been a cop wannabe, but he wasn’t driving a black-and-white, he had no badge, and he wasn’t wearing a regulation uniform for either the STPD or the sheriff’s department. In addition, he wasn’t carrying a handgun, a night stick, or a heavy-duty flashlight, which might serve as a weapon if I needed to be subdued. I was engrossed in my car count so I couldn’t give him my undivided attention.
Blond, midthirties, trim, with a pleasant demeanor. He took out a pen and pad and prepared to take notes or write a ticket, I wasn’t sure which. “Good morning. How are you?” he asked.
“I’m fine, thanks. How about yourself?”
“Good. May I ask what this is about?”
“Sure. I’m doing a vehicle count for the county.”
There was a brief delay while he processed my reply. “Are you aware this is a private road?”
“Absolutely. No doubt about it, but as long as there’s public access, it goes into my report.”
Mentally, he was going through his checklist. “You have a permit?”
“For this? I was told I didn’t need one to do a road-use analysis.”
“May I see some identification?”
“I have my driver’s license in my shoulder bag. I’ll be happy to show it to you if you can wait until there’s a break in traffic.”
He watched as two cars came through the main entrance. One turned up the drive to the school and the other continued on into Horton Ravine. Click. Click. I counted both. At the first gap in passing cars, I reached through the open window and picked up my bag from the passenger seat. He waited patiently while I paused to count a car. I took out my wallet, flipped it open, and offered it to him. He took it and jotted down my name, driver’s license number, and home address in his notebook.
I said, “That’s Millhone with two L’s. Lotta people leave out that second L.” His name, I noticed, was B. Allen. “The car belongs to my landlord. He said I could use his today because mine’s in the shop. The registration’s in the glove compartment, if you want to have a look. You’ll see that my address and his are one house number apart.”
“That’s not necessary,” he said. He handed me my license and turned to watch cars approaching.
One car passed and I dutifully clicked. He’d already fallen into the rhythm of these intermittent interruptions.
He looked back at me. “I don’t see an EPA badge.”
“Don’t have one yet. This is the first time I’ve been asked to do this. The Department of Transportation conducts an annual survey and I was tapped for it this time. Lucky me.”
“How long do you anticipate being here?”
“A day and a half, max. I tally an hour in the morning and another in the afternoon unless I’m sent somewhere else. You never know with these clowns.”
I held up a finger, saying “Hang on,” while I clicked off another car turning up the drive to Climping. “Sorry about that. We forward statistics to Sacramento and that’s the end of it as far as I know. Typical governmental boondoggle, but the pay’s good.”
He pondered the proposition. It must have been clear I wasn’t breaking the law. Finally, he said, “Well. Just so you don’t interfere with traffic.”
“I’ll be out of your hair as soon as possible.”
“I’ll let you go on about your business. Have a nice day.”
“You too. I appreciate your courtesy.”
“Sure thing.”
I was so busy maintaining the fiction that I nearly missed the Mercedes. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a black sedan speeding up the hill toward Climping, a young girl at the wheel. I couldn’t read the bumper sticker, but it was pasted in the right spot and worth a closer look.