T Is for Trespass Read online

  The list of her employers, starting with the present and working backward, included addresses, telephone numbers, and the names of supervisors, where appropriate. I could see that the dates of employment formed a seamless progression that covered the years since she’d been licensed. Of the elderly private-duty patients she’d cared for, four had been moved into nursing homes on a permanent basis, three had died, and two had recovered sufficiently to live on their own again. She’d attached photocopies of two letters of recommendation that said just about what you’d expect. Blah, blah, blah responsible. Blah, blah, blah competent.

  I looked up the number of Santa Teresa City College and asked the operator to connect me with Admissions and Records. The woman who took the call was in the throes of a head cold and the act of answering the phone had triggered a coughing fit. I waited while she struggled to get the hacking under control. People shouldn’t go to work with head colds. She probably prided herself on never missing a day while everyone around her came down with the same upper-respiratory distress and used up their annual sick leave.

  “Excuse me. Whew! I’m sorry about that. This is Mrs. Henderson.”

  I gave her my name and told her I was doing a preemployment background check on a Solana Rojas. I spelled the name and gave her the date she’d graduated from the STCC nursing program. “All I need is a quick confirmation that the information’s accurate.”

  “Can you hold?”

  I said, “Sure.”

  While I was listening to Christmas carols, she must have popped a cough drop in her mouth because when she came back on the line, I could hear a clicking sound as the lozenge was shifted across her teeth.

  “We’re not allowed to divulge information on the telephone. You’ll have to make your request in person.”

  “You can’t even give me a simple yes or no?”

  She paused to blow her nose, a sloppy transaction with a honking sound attached. “That’s correct. We have a policy about student privacy.”

  “What’s private about it? The woman’s looking for a job.”

  “So you claim.”

  “Why would I lie about something like that?”

  “I don’t know, dear. You’ll have to tell me.”

  “What if I have her signature on a job application, authorizing verification of her educational background and employment history?”

  “One moment,” she said, aggrieved. She put a palm across the telephone mouthpiece and murmured to someone nearby. “In that case, fine. Bring the application with you. I’ll make a copy and submit it with the form.”

  “Can you go ahead and pull her file so the information’s waiting when I get there?”

  “I’m not allowed to do that.”

  “Fine. Once I get up there, how long will it take?”

  “Five business days.”

  I was annoyed, but I knew better than to argue with her. She was probably hyped up on over-the-counter cold medications and eager to shut me down. I thanked her for the information and then I rang off.

  I made a long-distance call to the Board of Vocational Nursing and Psychiatric Technicians in Sacramento. The clerk who took my call was cooperative—my tax dollars at work. Solana Rojas’s license was active and she’d never been the subject of sanctions or complaints. The fact that she was licensed meant she’d successfully completed a nursing program somewhere, but I’d still need to make a trip to City College to confirm. I couldn’t think why she’d falsify the details of her certification, but Melanie had paid for my time and I didn’t want to shortchange her.

  I went over to the courthouse and made a run through public records. A check of the criminal index, the civil index, the minor offenses index, and the public index (which included general civil, family, probate, and criminal felony cases) showed no criminal convictions and no lawsuits filed by or against her. The records of the bankruptcy court came up blank as well. By the time I drove up to City College, I was reasonably certain the woman was just as she represented herself.

  I slowed to a stop at the information kiosk on campus. “Can you tell me where I can find Admissions and Records?”

  “Admissions and Records is in the Administration Building, which is right there,” she said, pointing at the structure dead ahead.

  “What about parking?”

  “It’s open in the afternoons. Park anyplace you like.”

  “Thanks.”

  I pulled into the first open slot I came to and got out, locking my car behind me. From my vantage point, there was a view of the Pacific through the trees, but the water was gray and the horizon was obscured by mist. The continued overcast made the day feel colder than it was. I slung my bag across one shoulder and crossed my arms for warmth.

  The architectural style of most campus buildings was plain, a serviceable mix of cream-colored stucco, wrought iron railings, and red-tile roofs. Eucalyptus trees cast mottled shadows across the grass, and a light breeze ruffled the fronds of the queen palms that towered above the road. There were six or eight temporary classrooms in use while additional facilities were being built.

  It was odd to remember that I was enrolled here once upon a time. After three semesters, I realized I wasn’t cut out for academic studies even at the modest level of Everything 101. I should have known myself better. High school had been a torment. I was restless, easily distracted, more interested in smoking dope than learning. I don’t know what I thought I was going to do with my life, but I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t have to go to school to do it. That ruled out medicine, dentistry, and the law, along with countless other professions that I didn’t find appealing in the least. I realized that without a college degree, most corporations wouldn’t have me as a president. Oh dang. However, if I read the Constitution correctly, my lack of education didn’t preclude me from becoming the President of the United States, which only required me to be a natural-born citizen and at least thirty-five years of age. Was that exciting or was it not?

  At eighteen and nineteen, I’d drifted through an assortment of entry-level jobs, though with most the “entry” part was about as far as I could get. Shortly after I turned twenty, for reasons I don’t remember now, I applied to the Santa Teresa Police Department. By that time, I’d cleaned up my act, as bored with dope as I was with menial work. I mean, how many times can you refold the same stack of sweaters in the sportswear department at Robinson’s? The pay scale was pathetic, even for someone like me. I did discover that if you’re interested in low wages, a bookstore ranks below retail clothing sales, except the hours are worse. The same holds for waiting tables, which (as it turned out) required more skill and finesse than I had at my disposal. I needed a challenge and I wanted to see just how far my street smarts might take me.

  By some miracle, I survived the department’s selection process, passing the written exam, the physical-agility exam, the medical and controlled-substance screening, and various other interviews and evaluations. Somebody must have been asleep at the wheel. I spent twenty-six weeks in the Police Officer Standards and Training Academy, which was tougher than anything I’d ever done. After graduation I served as a sworn officer for two years and found, in the end, that I was not that well suited for work in a bureaucracy. My subsequent shift into an apprenticeship with a firm of private investigators proved to be the right combination of freedom, flexibility, and daring.

  By the time I’d taken this split-second detour down memory lane, I’d entered the Administration Building. The wide corridor was bright, though the character of the light streaming through the windows was cold. There were Christmas decorations here and there, and the absence of students suggested that they’d already left for the holidays. I didn’t remember the place feeling so friendly, but that was doubtless a reflection of my attitude during that period.

  I went into the Admissions and Records Office and asked the woman at the desk for Mrs. Henderson.

  “Mrs. Henderson’s gone home for the day. Is there something I can help you with?”
r />   “Gee, I sure hope so,” I said. I felt the thrill of a lie leaping to my lips. “I chatted with her an hour ago and she said she’d pull some information from the student files. I’m here to pick it up.” I put Solana’s job application on the counter and pointed to her signature.

  The woman frowned slightly. “I don’t know what to tell you. That doesn’t sound like Betty. She never said a word to me.”

  “She didn’t? That’s too bad. As sick as she was, it probably slipped her mind. Could you check the records for me since I’m already here?”

  “I suppose so, though it might take a minute. I don’t know the files as well as she does.”

  “That’s fine. No hurry. I’d appreciate it.”

  Seven minutes later I had the confirmation I needed. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to coax any further information from the woman. I thought if Solana was a C–student, a prospective employer was entitled to know. As a friend of mine used to say, “On an airplane, you better hope your bomb-sniffing dog didn’t graduate at the bottom of his class.”

  I returned to my car and pulled out my Thomas Guide covering Santa Teresa and San Luis Obispo counties. I had the address of the nursing home where Solana had last worked, which turned out to be walking distance from my office.

  Sunrise House was a combination convalescent hospital and assisted-living facility, with room for fifty-two residents, some temporary and some permanent. The building itself was a one-story frame structure, with a number of additions laid nose-to-nose, in vertical and horizontal wings as random as a Scrabble board. The interior was tasteful, the decor done in shades of green and gray that were soothing without being apologetic. The Christmas tree here was also fake, but it was a thickly flocked specimen with tiny lights and silver ornaments in place. Eight large handsomely wrapped presents had been arranged on a white felt tree skirt. I knew the boxes were empty, but their very presence suggested wonderful surprises to come.

  A large antique desk occupied the place of honor in the middle of an Oriental carpet. The receptionist was in her sixties, handsome, pleasant, and eager to be of help. She probably thought I had an aging parent in need of accommodations.

  When I asked to speak to the head of personnel, she led me through a maze of corridors to the assistant administrator’s office. Over her shoulder, she said, “We don’t have a personnel department per se, but Mrs. Eckstrom can help you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Eloise Eckstrom was roughly my age, late thirties, very tall and thin, with glasses and a full head of bright red hair. She wore a vibrant green twin set, a plaid wool skirt, and flats. I’d caught her with her desk in disarray, drawers emptied and the contents arranged on chair seats and tabletops. An assortment of wire baskets and drawer dividers was packed in a box nearby. On the credenza behind her she had five framed photographs of a wire-haired terrier in various stages of maturity.

  We shook hands across her desk, but only after she wiped her fingers clean with a moist towelette. She said, “Sorry the place is such a mess. I’ve been here a month and I swore I’d get organized before the holidays. Have a seat, if you can find one.”

  I had a choice between two chairs, both of which were stacked with file folders and back issues of geriatric journals.

  “That stuff will probably end up in the trash. You can put it on the floor.”

  I shifted the weight of magazines from the seat to the floor and sat down. She seemed relieved to have the chance to sit as well.

  “What can I help you with?”

  I laid Solana Rojas’s application on the only bare spot I could find. “I’m hoping to verify some information about a former employee. She’s been hired to look after an elderly gentleman, whose niece lives in New York. I guess you’d call this ‘due diligence.’”

  “Of course.”

  Eloise crossed the room to a bank of gray metal file cabinets and opened a drawer. She pulled Solana Rojas’s personnel file, leafing through the pages as she returned to her desk. “I don’t have much. According to this, she came to work for us in March of 1985. Her job evaluations were excellent. In fact, in May of that year, she was Employee of the Month. There were no complaints and she was never written up. That’s the best I can do.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  She glanced back down at the file. “She apparently decided to go to graduate school. Must not have suited her if she’s already applying for private-duty work.”

  “Is there anyone here who knew her? I was hoping for someone who’d worked with her on a day-to-day basis. The guy she’ll be caring for is a contrarian, and his niece wants someone with patience and tact.”

  “I understand,” she said, and checked Solana’s file again. “It looks like she worked on One West, the post-surgery floor. Maybe we can find you someone who knows or remembers her.”

  “That would be great.”

  I followed her down the hall, not entirely optimistic about my chances. In doing a background check, fishing for personal data can be a tricky proposition. If you’re talking to a friend of the subject’s, you have to get a feel for the nature of the relationship. If the two are close buddies or confidantes, there’s probably a treasure trove of intimate information, but your chances of retrieving it are dim. By definition, good friends are loyal and, therefore, quizzing them on the down-and-dirty details about a pal seldom yields much of use. On the other hand, if you’re talking to a work mate or casual acquaintance, you have a better shot at the truth. Who, after all, can resist the invitation to trash someone else? An interpersonal rivalry can be exploited for potential bombshells. Bad blood, including overt conflicts, jealousies, petty grievances, or an inequity in pay or social status, can produce unexpected riches. For maximum success in prying, what you need is time and privacy so the person you’re talking to will feel free to blab to her heart’s content. The post-surgery floor wasn’t likely to yield the proper atmosphere.

  Here I encountered a tiny stroke of luck.

  Lana Sherman, the LVN who’d worked with Solana for the better part of a year, was just leaving the nurse’s station for a coffee break and she suggested I tag along.

  13

  On our way down the hall to the staff lounge, I asked her a few questions, trying to get a feel for the kind of person she was. She told me she was born and raised in Santa Teresa, that she’d been at Sunrise House for three years, and she liked it okay. “Effusive” was not an adjective I’d have been tempted to apply. Her dark hair was thin, with layers of drooping ringlets that looked dispirited. Already I wanted her to fire her “stylist” and try someone new. Her eyes were dark and the whites were bloodshot, as though she were trying her first contact lenses without much success.

  The staff lounge was small but attractively furnished. There was a table with chairs drawn up to it, a modern couch, and two upholstered love seats arranged around a coffee table. A microwave oven, a toaster, a toaster oven, and a coffeemaker sat on the counter. The refrigerator was decorated with stern warnings about the sanctity of other employees’ food. I took a seat at the table while Lana poured coffee in a mug and added two packs of Cremora and two of Sweet ’N Low. “You want coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  She picked up a tray and carried it to the vending machine, where she put numerous coins in the slot. She punched a button and I watched her selection tumble into the bin below. She brought her tray to the table and off-loaded her coffee mug, her spoon, and a package of miniature chocolate-covered doughnuts.

  I waited until she was seated before I went on. “How long have you known Solana?”

  She broke the first doughnut in two and popped half in her mouth. “What’s the job?”

  The question was a bit abrupt, but in the interest of priming the pump, I filled her in. “My next-door neighbor fell and dislocated his shoulder. He’s eighty-nine and needs home care while he recuperates.”

  “So what’s she make?”

  The doughnut looked dense and dry, and the
dark chocolate frosting had the gloss of wax. For ten cents I’d have knocked her down and eaten one myself. I knew now that the many fruits and vegetables I’d consumed over the past few days had only made me hostile—not good in my line of work.

  For an instant I’d completely lost my place in the conversation. “What?”

  “What’s the pay?”

  “I don’t know. I was asked to talk to people who’ve worked with her. I’m interested in a character reference.”

  “In the neighborhood.”

  “I won’t be talking to her neighbors unless I bomb out every place else.”

  “I’m talking salary. Ballpark. What’s the hourly wage?”

  “No one’s mentioned it. Are you thinking about changing jobs?”

  “I might be.”

  The second doughnut was gone though I’d hardly noticed, distracted as I was by the opening I saw. “If things don’t work out for her, I’d be happy to throw your name in the hat.”

  “I’d consider it,” she said. “Remind me before you leave and I’ll give you my résumé. I have a copy in my purse.”

  “Great. I’ll pass it along,” I said, and then shifted the conversation. “Were you and Solana friends?”

  “I wouldn’t say we were friends, but we worked together for close to a year and we got along all right.”

  “What’s she like?”

  She shrugged. “So-so.”

  “So-so?”

  “I guess she’s nice enough. If you like that kind.”

  “Ah. And what kind is that?”

  “Fussy. If anyone was even two minutes late, she made a big deal of it.”