T Is for Trespass Read online

  “What about his race?”

  “He’s white. I wouldn’t go to any other kind.”

  “I mean the man who helped.”

  She shook her head with a fleeting annoyance. “I wasn’t paying attention to much except I was glad my leg wasn’t broke. You’d have been glad, too, in my place.”

  “What age would you say?”

  “Now I can’t be answering questions like that. I’m getting all flustered and upset and Dr. Goldfarb says that’s not good. Not a bit good he said.”

  I continued to look at her, noting her gaze flick away from mine and back. I returned to my list of questions and chose a few that seemed neutral and noninflammatory. In the main, she was cooperative, but I could see her patience was wearing thin. I tucked my pen in the clamp of the clipboard and reached for my shoulder bag as I got to my feet. “Well, I think that’s all for now. I appreciate your time. Once I type up my notes, I’ll stop by and have you read the statement for accuracy. You can make any necessary corrections, and once you’re satisfied it’s a faithful rendering, you can give me a signature and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  As I clicked off the tape recorder, she said, “I’m happy to help. All we want is what’s fair, given the fault was entirely hers.”

  “Ms. Ray is interested in that as well.”

  From the Fredricksons’ house, I swung up to Palisade Drive and turned right, taking the same route Gladys had taken the day of the accident. I passed City College, eyes flicking to the entrance to the parking lot. I followed the road as it curved down the hill. Where Palisade intersected Castle, I took a left and followed it as far as Capillo, where I turned right. Street traffic was moving freely and it took me less than five minutes to reach the office. The sky was cloudy and there was talk of isolated thunderstorms, which I thought unlikely. For reasons I’ve never wholly understood, Santa Teresa has a rainy season but seldom any thunderstorms. Lightning is a phenomenon I’ve witnessed largely by way of black-and-white photographs, showing white threads lying flat against the night sky like irregular cracks in glass.

  Once I was back in the office, I set up a file and then typed my notes. I put Lana Sherman’s résumé in the folder with Solana Rojas’s application. I could have tossed it, but why not hang on to it since I had it in hand?

  Wednesday morning, when Melanie called, I gave her the Reader’s Digest condensed version of my findings, at the end of which, she said, “So she’s fine.”

  “Looks that way,” I said. “Of course, I didn’t turn over every rock in the garden.”

  “Don’t worry about it. There’s no point in going nuts.”

  “That’s that, then. Looks like it’s working out as planned. I’ll have Henry keep an eye on the situation and if anything comes up, I can let you know.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate your help.”

  I hung up, feeling satisfied with the job I’d done. What I had no way of knowing was that I’d just, unwittingly, put a noose around Gus Vronsky’s neck.

  14

  Christmas and New Year’s Day slid past, leaving scarcely a wrinkle in the fabric of ordinary life. Charlotte was off in Phoenix, celebrating the holidays with her kids and grandkids. Henry and I spent Christmas morning together and exchanged gifts. He gave me a pedometer and a Sony headset so I could listen to the radio while I did my morning jog. For him, I’d found an antique egg timer six inches tall, an ingenious glass-and-tin device with pink sand inside. To activate it, you flipped up the three-minute timer until it rested against a lever at the top. Once the sand finished falling from the top portion to the bottom, the upper portion tipped over and rang a tiny bell. I also gave him a copy of Bernard Clayton’s New Complete Book of Breads. At 2:00, Rosie and William joined us for Christmas dinner, after which I went back to my place and took a long holiday nap.

  New Year’s Eve I stayed home and read a book, happy that I wasn’t out risking life and limb with the many drunks on the road. I confess I abandoned my junk food resolve on New Year’s Day and enjoyed an orgy of Quarter Pounders with Cheese (two) and a large order of fries doused in ketchup. I did keep my new pedometer affixed to my person while I ate, and I made sure I walked ten thousand steps that day, which I hoped would count in my favor.

  I started the first week of 1988 with a dutiful 6:00 A.M. three-mile jog, radio headset in place, after which I showered and ate breakfast. At the office, I whipped out my trusty Smith-Corona and composed a notice for the “Personals” section of the Santa Teresa Dispatch, detailing my interest in the witness to a two-vehicle collision that had occurred on Thursday, May 28, 1987, at approximately 3:15 P.M. I included the few particulars I had, listing the man’s age as midfifties, which was only a guess. Height and weight I said were medium and his hair, “thick white.” I also made reference to his brown leather bomber jacket and black wing tip shoes. I didn’t give my name but I posted a contact number and an appeal for help.

  While I was about it, I called the Fredricksons’ house, hoping to set up an appointment with Millard to discuss the accident. The phone rang countless times, and I was about to put the handset back in the cradle when he picked up.

  “Mr. Fredrickson! I’m glad I caught you. This is Kinsey Millhone. I stopped by your house and talked to your wife a couple of weeks ago and she said I should call so I can set up an appointment with you.”

  “I can’t be bothered with this. You already talked to Gladys.”

  “I did and she was very helpful,” I said. “But there are just a couple of points I’d like to go over with you.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t have my notes with me, but I can bring them when I come. Would Wednesday of this week work for you?”

  “I’m busy…”

  “Why don’t we say next Monday, a week from today. I can be there at two.”

  “I’m tied up on Monday.”

  “Why don’t you name the day?”

  “Fridays are better.”

  “Fine. A week from this coming Friday, that’s the fifteenth. I’ll make a note on my calendar and see you at two. Thanks so much.” I marked the date and time on my calendar, relieved I wouldn’t have to worry about it for another ten days.

  At 9:30, I called the Santa Teresa Dispatch with the information and was told the ad would appear on Wednesday and would run for a week. Just after the accident, Mary Bellflower had placed a similar query, with negative results, but I thought it was worth another try. That done, I walked over to the copy shop near the courthouse and ran off a hundred flyers, describing the man and further indicating that it was hoped he had information concerning a two-vehicle accident on such-and-such a date. I stapled a business card to each flyer, thinking I might pick up a client in the bargain. Aside from that, I thought it lent an earnest air to my quest.

  I spent most of the afternoon canvassing the hillside homes off Palisade across the road from the entrance to Santa Teresa City College. I parked my car on a side street near a two-story apartment complex and proceeded on foot. I must have knocked on fifty doors. When I was lucky enough to find someone at home, I explained the situation and my need to locate a witness to the accident. I underplayed the notion that he might end up testifying on behalf of the defendant. Even the most conscientious of citizens is sometimes reluctant to commit to a court appearance. Given the vagaries of the judicial system, a witness can spend hours sitting in a drafty corridor only to be excused when opposing parties reach a pretrial settlement.

  After two hours I’d learned absolutely nothing. Most of the residents I spoke with were unaware of the accident and none had seen a man who matched the description of the witness I sought. If there was no response to my knock, I left a flyer in the door. I also tacked flyers to any number of telephone poles. I considered tucking a flyer under the windshield wipers of the cars I passed, but the practice is annoying and I always toss such notices myself. I did leave a flyer taped to the wooden bench at the bus stop. It was probably illegal to use city property for such purpo
ses, but I figured if they didn’t like it, they could hunt me down and kill me.

  At 2:10, having covered the area, I returned to my car, drove across the intersection, and into the college parking lot. I shrugged myself into the jacket I’d tossed on the backseat, locked the Mustang, and walked out to the point where the access road emptied onto the four-lane expanse of Palisade. A length of chain-link fence separated the eastbound from westbound traffic. To my right, the road curved gently down along a slope and out of sight. There was no turn lane designated for vehicles intending to enter the lot from either direction, but I could see that from Lisa Ray’s perspective, an oncoming vehicle would have been visible for approximately five hundred yards, a fact I hadn’t noted on my earlier visit.

  I perched on a low fieldstone wall and watched cars speed by. There was a smattering of foot traffic to and from the campus. Most pedestrians were students or working moms there to pick up kids from a college-run day-care facility on the far corner, near the bus stop. I gathered the day-care operation had no parking spots of its own, so the moms took advantage of the City College lots when picking up their tots. Where possible, I engaged these hapless passersby in conversation, detailing my search for the man with white hair. The moms were polite but distracted, barely responding to my questions before they hurried away, anxious to avoid being dinged with after-hours charges. As the afternoon wore on, there was a steady stream of moms with their little tykes in tow.

  Of the first four students I approached, two were new to the college and two had left town that Memorial Day weekend. A fifth wasn’t even a student, just a woman out looking for her dog. None had anything useful to contribute, but I learned a lot about the intelligence and superiority of the standard poodle. The campus security officer stopped to chat, probably concerned that I was homeless, casing the joint, or flogging designer drugs.

  While he was busy quizzing me, I quizzed him in return. He had a dim recollection of the man with white hair but couldn’t remember when he’d seen him last. At least his response, though vague, gave me a modicum of hope. I handed him a flyer and asked him to get in touch if he should spot the guy again.

  I continued in this manner until 5:15, two hours beyond the time when the accident had occurred. In May, it would have been light until eight. Now the sun set at five. In the back of my mind I was hoping the man had routine business that brought him to the neighborhood the same time each day. I planned to swing by again on Saturday and do a second neighborhood canvass. Weekends I might have better luck finding folks at home. If there was no response to my newspaper ad, I’d return on Thursday of the following week. I abandoned the project for the day and headed home, feeling tired and out of sorts. In my experience, loitering is an enervating act.

  I turned onto my street and made the usual quick search for the parking spot closest to my studio apartment. I was puzzled to see that a bright red Dumpster had been unloaded at the curb. It was easily twelve feet long and eight feet wide, and might have served as housing for a family of five. I was forced to park around the corner and walk back. In passing, I peered over the five-foot-high rim and into the empty interior. What was that about?

  I pulled the mail out of my box, went through the gate, and around the side of my studio apartment, which was once a single-car garage. Seven years before, Henry had relocated his driveway, constructed a new two-car garage, and converted the original garage into a rental, which I’d moved into. Three years later, an unfortunate incident with a bomb had flattened the structure. Henry had taken advantage of the free demolition and he’d rebuilt the studio, adding a half story that contained a sleeping loft and bath. The last Dumpster I’d seen on our block was the one he rented to accommodate the construction debris.

  I dropped my bag inside my apartment and left the door ajar while I crossed the patio to Henry’s. I rapped on his kitchen door and he appeared moments later from his living room, where he was watching the evening news. We chatted briefly about inconsequential matters and then I said, “What’s the deal with the Dumpster? Is that ours?”

  “Gus’s nurse ordered that.”

  “Solana? That’s a bold move on her part.”

  “I thought so, too. She stopped by this morning to let me know it was being delivered. She’s getting rid of Gus’s junk.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. She cleared it with Melanie, who gave her the go-ahead.”

  “And Gus agreed?”

  “Looks that way. I called Melanie myself just to make sure it was legitimate. She said Gus went through a rough patch and Solana stayed two nights, thinking he shouldn’t be alone. She ended up sleeping on the couch, which was not only too short but smelled of cigarettes. She asked Melanie for permission to move in a cot, but there wasn’t space for one. His second and third bedrooms are wall-to-wall junk and that’s what she intends to toss.”

  “I’m surprised he said yes.”

  “He didn’t have much choice. You can’t expect the woman to make up a pallet on the floor.”

  “Who’s going to haul the stuff out? Must be half a ton of newspapers in that one room alone.”

  “She’s doing most of it herself, at least as much as she can manage. For the bulkier items, I guess she’ll hire someone. She and Gus went through everything and he decided what he was willing to part with. He’s hanging on to the good stuff—his paintings and a few antiques—the rest is history.”

  “Let’s hope she pulls up the crappy carpet while she’s at it,” I remarked.

  “Amen to that.”

  Henry invited me in for a glass of wine, and I would have taken him up on the offer but my phone started ringing.

  “I better get that,” I said, and took off at a trot.

  I caught the call just before my answering machine picked up. It was Melanie Oberlin.

  She said, “Oh good. I’m glad I caught you. I was afraid you weren’t home. I’m just about to dash out, but I have a question for you.”

  “Sure.”

  “I called Uncle Gus earlier today and I don’t think he knew who I was. It was the oddest conversation. Kind of goofy, you know? He sounded drunk or confused, or maybe both.”

  “That’s not like him. We all know he’s crabby, but he always knows exactly where he is and what’s going on.”

  “Not this time.”

  “Maybe it’s his meds. They’ve probably got him on pain pills.”

  “At this late date? That doesn’t sound right. I know he was on Percocet, but they pulled him off that as soon as they could. Have you talked to him lately?”

  “Not since you left, but Henry’s been to see him two or three times. If there was a problem, I’m sure he’d have mentioned it. You want me to look in on him?”

  “If you don’t mind,” she said. “After he hung up, I called back and spoke to Solana, hoping to get her assessment of the situation. She thinks he may be showing early signs of dementia.”

  “Well, that’s worrisome,” I said. “I’ll go over in the next couple of days and have a chat with him.”

  “Thanks. And could you ask Henry if he’s noticed anything?”

  “Sure. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something to report.”

  Tuesday morning, I set aside an hour to serve a three-day pay-or-quit notice on a tenant in a Colgate apartment building. Ordinarily, Richard Compton, the owner of the building, would have delivered the eviction notice himself in hopes of goosing the renter into catching up. Compton had owned the property for less than six months and he’d been busy booting out the deadbeats. People who decline to pay their rent can sometimes be a surly lot and two had offered to punch his lights out. He decided it’d be smart to send someone in his place, namely me. I personally thought it was cowardly on his part, but he’d offered me twenty-five bucks to hand someone a piece of paper, and it seemed like adequate recompense for two seconds’ worth of work. Traffic was light and I made the fifteen-minute drive with my radio tuned to one of those talk shows where lis
teners call in to ask advice about marital and social woes. I’d become a big fan of the hostess and found it entertaining to test my reactions against hers.

  I spotted the street number I was looking for and pulled in at the curb. I folded the eviction notice and tucked it in my jacket pocket. As a general rule, in serving papers of any kind, I don’t like to show up waving official-looking documents. Better to get the lay of the land before making my purpose clear. I hefted my bag from the passenger seat as I emerged and locked the car behind me.

  I took a minute to scan the premises, which looked like a movie version of a prison. I was staring at four three-story buildings, arranged to form a square with the corners open and walkways between. Twenty-four apartments were lumped together in each unadorned block of stucco. Junipers had been planted along the foundations, perhaps in an attempt to soften the facade. Unfortunately, most of the evergreens had suffered a blight that left the branches as sparse as last year’s Christmas trees and the remaining needles the color of rust.

  Across the front of the nearest building, I could see a short row of slab porches, one step high, furnished with the occasional aluminum lawn chair. An apologetic inverted V of roof had been tacked above each front door, but none were large enough to offer protection from the elements. In the rainy season, you could stand there, house key in hand as you fumbled to get in, and by the time the door finally swung open, you’d be drenched. Summer sunlight would beat down unrelentingly, converting the front rooms into small toaster ovens. Anyone climbing to the third tier would suffer heart palpitations and shortness of breath.

  There was no yard to speak of, but I suspected if I went into the interior courtyard, I’d see covered barbecue grills on the second-and third-floor loggias, clotheslines and children’s playthings in the grassy patches at ground level. The garbage cans were standing in a ragtag line at one end of the structure that housed empty carports in lieu of closed garages. The complex had a curious unoccupied air, like housing abandoned in the wake of calamity.