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  I crossed to the bar and tapped him on the shoulder. “This is a pleasant surprise. I don’t usually see you here at this hour. What’s up?”

  He smiled. “I just finished my annual physical, for which I received a multitude of gold stars. I thought that warranted a beer.”

  “Congratulations. Good health deserves celebration.”

  He lifted his glass. “To yours.”

  Cheney Phillips came from money. His father owned a number of private financial institutions in the area, while his mother sold high-end real estate. Both were perplexed when he forswore the banking business in favor of the police academy. Once onboard at the STPD, he’d worked his way up from traffic to his current position as a homicide detective, where the pay was adequate but no cause for rejoicing. Still, Cheney managed to live well, which should have come as no surprise. Wealth begets wealth. Some years before, his uncle had died and left him an inheritance that he’d used to purchase a rambling two-story Victorian home next door to my friend Vera, whose house was its mirror twin.

  Rosie caught sight of me and her gaze flicked to Henry, alone at his table. She closed her cookbooks, stood, and reached for an apron she tied around her waist. Idly, I watched her move around behind the bar and pour a Black Jack over ice for him. William passed her a sparkling wineglass and she filled it with Chardonnay and placed it on the bar in front of me. The wine would be second-rate, but the service was superb. She delivered Henry’s whiskey, while Cheney pulled out the stool next to him and patted it. “Have a seat. How’ve you been?”

  “Good.”

  As I settled next to him, I caught a whiff of his aftershave, and the familiar associations set off a warning bell. I shifted into business mode.

  “You’re actually just the man I was looking for,” I said. “You remember the name Christian Satterfield? Convicted of nineteen counts of bank robbery, according to the Dispatch.”

  “Know him well,” he said. “His last two jobs, he targeted the Bank of X. Phillips.”

  “Your father’s bank?”

  He pointed at me to confirm. “The dummy hit the same branch twice. First time, he walked off with thirteen grand. Second time, my cousin Lucy Carson was at the teller’s window as a trainee, which was bad news for him. He couldn’t find the note he’d written, so he told her he had a gun and threatened to shoot her in the face if she didn’t empty her drawer and fork over the cash. He handed her a canvas tote, so she did as requested and then pressed the button for the silent alarm.”

  “Good for her. Serves him right. The paper said a couple of tellers were so stressed out, they quit.”

  “Not her. Just the opposite. She testified at his trial, but downplayed the shooting threat. She said he was a gentleman, soft-spoken and polite. She said she only went for the alarm because she could see he was hurting and wanted to be caught. Once he went to prison, they carried on a feverish correspondence, pouring out their hearts. Her more than him. He’s the kind of guy women think they can rehabilitate.”

  “She have any luck?”

  “Nah. She was twenty-two years old and fickle as they come. Last I heard, she’d taken up with a biker accused of killing his ex. Nothing like a bad boy in need of emotional support. What’s your interest?”

  “I’ve been asked to get a contact number for him now that he’s out on parole. This is for his bio-mom, who’s got money to burn. She’d like to smooth his transition, should the need arise.”

  “Nice.”

  “I thought so myself. I left a message with one of the federal parole officers, but I don’t want to sit around hoping he’ll call back. I figure when the kid was arrested, he must have listed a local address, so I thought I’d start there.”

  “I can help you with that. Back then, he was living with his mom over on Dave Levine. I’ll have someone in Records pull up the address. I’ll call tomorrow and give you what we have.”

  “I’d appreciate it. Can I buy you another beer?”

  “Thanks, but I better pace myself. I’m having dinner with a friend.”

  “Catch you later then,” I said as I slipped off the stool.

  I returned to Henry’s table and took a seat.

  “What was that about?” he asked.

  “Work.”

  “Everything with you is work.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Rosie reappeared and gave us each a setup: a paper napkin wrapped tightly around a knife, fork, and spoon. She usually presented us with a mimeographed menu, which was strictly window dressing, as she told us what she was serving us and brooked no argument. She tucked her hands under her apron and rocked on her feet. “Tonight is big treat.”

  “Do tell,” Henry said. “We can hardly wait.”

  “Calf brain. Is very fresh. How I prepare is rinse and place in large bowl into what’s trickling cold water from tap. I’m peeling off filament is like membrane covering. Then I’m soaking in vinegar water one and haff hours, all the time cutting away white bits . . .”

  Henry closed his eyes. “I may be coming down with something.”

  I said, “Me too.”

  Rosie smiled. “Just teasing. You should see the look on you two faces. Wait and I’m surprising you.”

  And surprise us she did. What she brought to the table were plates on which she’d created a visual composition of grilled kielbasa, puffy fresh herb omelets oozing pale cheese, and two salads with a light vinaigrette. To one side, she placed a basket of dinner rolls Henry’d made the day before. For dessert, she served us baked plums wrapped in a flaky pastry with a cap of softly whipped cream.

  We finished dinner and Henry took care of the check while I shrugged myself into my jacket. We’d just stepped into the chilly night air when Anna Dace appeared, coming toward us through the newly minted dark. The two of us were related, though I’d be hard-pressed to define the family connection, which stretched back a generation to my grandmother, Rebecca Dace. My father was Anna’s father’s favorite uncle, making us (perhaps) second cousins. I might also be her aunt. She had her hair pulled up in a careless knot she’d secured with a clip. She wore a navy blue peacoat over jeans, and military-style boots. I may have neglected to mention that she’s shamelessly pretty—not a trait I consider relevant, though men seem to disagree.

  She brightened when she caught sight of Henry and clutched him by the arm. “Hey, guess what? I took your advice and put my money in mutual funds. I allocated the investment over the four types you talked about.”

  I stared at her. Allocated? Shit. Since when did she use words of more than one syllable?

  She and her two siblings had come into money at the same time I did, though the source was different. I’d expected all three of them to burn through the funds in a heartbeat. Being the mean-spirited creature I am, I experienced a pang of disappointment that she was exhibiting good sense.

  Henry said, “Not the whole of it, I hope.”

  “No way. I set twenty grand aside in a separate account, so I’d have access to it. Not that I’d touch it,” she added in haste.

  “I’m giving you an A-plus,” he said.

  “I invested in mutual funds. How come I didn’t get an A-plus?” I interjected. Neither paid the slightest attention.

  When Henry realized Anna was on her way in to Rosie’s, he pushed the door open again and held it, allowing her to pass in front of him. As he did so, I looked up and saw a truncated slice of the interior, a vertical slat that included a narrow view across the tables to the bar where Cheney sat. In that split second, I saw him turn and catch sight of Anna. His face creased in a smile as he got up. The door closed, but the image seemed to hang in the air.

  Cheney’s throwaway line hadn’t really registered until then. Dinner with a friend? Since when was Anna Dace a friend?

  5

  The next morning, the office phone was already ringing as I turned
the key in the lock and pushed open the door. The phone continued to ring as I crossed the outer office in giant steps and flung my bag on my desk. I was poised to snatch up the handset when my outgoing message kicked in. “The party you’ve dialed in the 805 area code is currently unavailable . . .”

  My first thought was that this might be Christian Satterfield’s parole officer, or perhaps the parolee himself. I was just about to answer when I heard Cheney’s voice. I stayed my hand, which hovered in midair as he tossed off a hasty greeting and then read aloud the phone number and the address on Dave Levine Street that Christian Satterfield had used at the time of his arrest. I picked up a pen and made a note of the information as Cheney neared the end of his recital. After he signed off, I played the message again, making certain I’d heard the numbers correctly.

  I opened my bottom desk drawer and hauled out the phone book again. I flipped over to the S’s and ran a finger down the column. There were no Satterfields living on Dave Levine, but I found a match for the phone number under the name Victor Satterfield on Trace Avenue, which was not a street I knew. I removed the Santa Teresa street map from my shoulder bag and opened it to the full. I spread it across my desk and checked the street index. I found Trace at the axis of G on the horizontal and 31 on the vertical. The street was a block and a half long and butted right up against Highway 101. If I was correct in my recollection of the house numbers on Dave Levine, this address was no more than five blocks away from the one Satterfield had claimed ten years earlier.

  I picked up the phone and dialed. I probably should have cooked up a ruse in advance, but sometimes action without planning makes just as much sense. And sometimes not. The phone rang three times, and then someone picked up. “Hello?” Female, gravelly voiced, and blunt.

  I pictured a habitual smoker over the age of fifty. She’d uttered only one word and somehow managed to sound rude. “May I speak to Chris?”

  “Who?”

  “Christian?”

  There was dead silence for a beat. “Honey, you’re not going to have any luck with that one,” she said.

  And then she hung up.

  I replaced the handset in the cradle, wondering what she meant. I wasn’t going to have any luck with that one, meaning asking for someone named Chris or Christian? Or I wasn’t going to have any luck with the man himself? Were women calling the house all day long and bombing out right and left? All I’d wanted to know was whether the number would net me one parolee. Calling again probably wasn’t going to prove any more informative. I needed to settle the issue, and Hallie wasn’t paying me enough to extend the task any longer than was absolutely necessary.

  I picked up the folder in which I’d tucked the copy of the newspaper clipping that included Satterfield’s photograph. I slid the file into the outer pocket of my shoulder bag, locked the office, and trotted out to my car. I’d recently sold my 1970 Mustang, a Grabber Blue Boss 429 that was much too conspicuous for the work I do. I’m supposed to blend in to the background, which was much easier with my current boring vehicle, a Honda so nondescript that I sometimes failed to spot it in a public parking lot. The only element common to the two cars is the overnight bag I stash in the trunk in case of an emergency. My definition of an emergency is being without a toothbrush, toothpaste, and fresh underpants. I slid under the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. I missed the resounding throatiness of the Mustang’s oversize engine as it rumbled to life. It always sounded like a Chris-Craft powerboat to me.

  I drove to the end of the block and turned right on Santa Teresa Street, continuing six blocks north before I cut over to Dave Levine. I took a left and followed the one-way street south toward the ocean. I spotted Trace Avenue, passed it, and then found a parking place a block away. I locked the car and walked back.

  The house at 401 Trace turned out to be a small one-story frame structure on the corner of Trace and Dave Levine. A wide apron of dead grass formed an L on two sides of the property, and a plain wrought-iron fence marked the perimeter. The house itself sat on a slab of poured concrete made level by a low wall of cinder block with a planting bed along the upper edge. The shrubs, like the lawn, were so brown, they looked singed.

  The windows were sliding aluminum-framed panels, tightly closed and rendered blank by lined drapes. Up close, I knew the aluminum would be pitted. The porch was small. To the right of the front door, there was an upholstered chair covered in floral cotton, blue and green blossoms on a ground of red. To the left of the door there was a houseplant, probably fake. I crossed the street at an angle, waiting until I was out of range to pause and look back. No sign of the inhabitants. The rear of the house suggested more space than I’d imagined. I was guessing three small bedrooms, one bathroom, living room, kitchen, and utility porch.

  The neighborhood seemed quiet, made up almost entirely of single-family homes that had probably been built in the 1940s. A few of the cars parked at the curb were new; maybe two out of fifteen. The rest were three to five years old and in good shape. Most were American-made. This was not an area where banged-up vehicles were parked three-deep in the driveways. The houses were well-maintained and most of the lawns were tidy, given that dead grass is so much easier to control.

  I returned to my car and drove around the block, this time parking on a side street to the north and perpendicular to Trace. For a while, I sat there and thought about life. I needed a vantage point from which I could keep an eye on the house. With luck, Christian Satterfield would arrive or depart, thus allowing me to confirm his whereabouts. Here’s the problem with stationary surveillance, otherwise known as a stakeout: Most people arrive at a destination, park the car, and get out. Almost no one with a lawful purpose sits in a vehicle staring through the windshield at a building across the street. Sit in a car for any length of time and you look suspicious, which means somebody’s going to call the cops and then your cover will be blown. The trick is to think of a legitimate reason to be loitering—a proposition more slippery than one would imagine. In the past, I’d feigned car trouble, which is only effective as long as some Good Samaritan doesn’t approach and offer assistance. I’d also faked a traffic survey, which I managed to extend for two days until I spotted my prey. Here, there was no point in pretending to count cars, because mine was the only moving vehicle I’d been aware of since I arrived.

  I locked the car and proceeded on foot. As I approached the corner, I spotted two small businesses: a convenience store on one side and a bar and grill called Lou’s on the corner opposite. The mailman, with his rolling cart, was just ahead of me on the far side of the street. Despite the chilly weather, he wore blue shorts, a matching blue shirt with a USPS patch on one sleeve, and what looked like a pith helmet. The mailboxes were stationed along the sidewalk, so instead of having to approach each house on foot, all he had to do was open the box and insert the relevant bundle of bills, magazines, and junk mail for any given address.

  I kept pace with him and watched when he turned the corner, moving toward the cul-de-sac where the highway cut through. I thought I might catch up with him and quiz him about the occupants of 401, but I worried the inquiry would get back to them. My mailperson is a friendly gal with whom I chat from time to time. If someone came skulking around with questions about me, she’d not only stonewall the stranger, she’d tattle the first chance she had. If I wanted to know the names of the persons receiving mail at 401 Trace, all I had to do was look. I glanced at the house. No one peered out from behind the drapes and no one emerged to collect the mail, so I took the liberty of lowering the flap. I removed the mail and sorted through the collection as though I had every right to do so.

  Geraldine Satterfield was the addressee on a number of bills, Southern California Edison, AT&T, and Nordstrom among them. None of the envelopes was rimmed in red, so I assumed her accounts were current. A Pauline Fawbush had received her copy of People magazine, but that was the extent of the mail in her name. Impossible t
o know if it had been Geraldine or Pauline who’d answered the phone. The catalogs were for Occupant or Current Resident. Nothing for Christian, but he’d only been a free man for a short while, assuming he was there at all. I didn’t picture him on anybody’s mailing list. I closed the box and moved on.

  On the far side of the street, I spotted two houses with For Rent signs in the yards. One sign in small print said DO NOT DISTURB TENANTS, which suggested someone was still in residence. The house two doors to the right looked more promising. There were cardboard boxes piled up on the curb along with four bulging black plastic bags. There were also assorted discards: a chair with a spring poking up through the seat and a swing-arm lamp with a missing locking nut and springs. This fairly cried out for further investigation. I lifted my gaze and did a casual survey. No dogs barked. I didn’t pick up any cooking smells or the whine of a leaf blower being operated nearby.

  I traversed the street at an angle and walked up the short driveway, circling the house to the scruffy yard in the rear. I climbed two steps to the back porch and peered in through the glass-paned window in the kitchen door. The place was a mess. These people were never going to get their cleaning deposit back. The four-burner stove was spattered with grease. The counters were littered with open containers that ants were raiding in a feverish display of industry. In the center of the room, there was a garbage can filled to the brim. Even through the glass, the rotting foodstuffs smelled like they’d been sitting for a week.

  I tried the knob and the kitchen door swung open with the sort of creak reserved for horror movies. Technically speaking, this wasn’t breaking and entering since I hadn’t broken anything. I made a few “yoo-hoo” noises just to satisfy myself that I was the only one on the premises. I’d seen this same floor plan in countless California cottages. Kitchen, living room, dining area, and two bedrooms with a bathroom between. I moved down the hall to the living room and looked out the front window toward the house at 401, which was hard to my right. I couldn’t see much. I unlocked the dead bolt on the front door and stuck my head out. The front porch was small, surrounded on three sides by a half wall, bisected by a short flight of steps. White latticework trellises extended from the top of the low porch wall to the roofline. The vines that had originally climbed up the trellises were long since dead, and the brown leaves created a cozy retreat. The angle of the view was sharp, but it did encompass Geraldine Satterfield’s front door and part of the driveway to the left.