Every Move She Makes (8 page)

Reid and I rushed through the rain to my car. I got in, and, after
waving goodbye, I watched him through the wet windshield. I was
surprised when he headed toward a gold Lexus so new it still didn't have
license plates. Reid generally used a county car instead of his "Toyota
Camry, more because it cost him nothing in gas. I drove up beside him as
he opened his driver's door.

"New car?" I asked.

"Got it just before our Napa trip. I was hoping you'd be able to ride up
in it." I didn't ask how he could afford it. Money was not an issue I
cared to get into with him, having learned quickly in our short marriage
that he was a walking financial disaster. The car only confirmed what I
already knew about our relationship. I was smart to get out with a still
decent credit rating.

"Nice," I said. "Well, I've got to get up early tomorrow."

"I'll call you?" Without committing myself, I waved again. I drove back
to the house, and saw Torrance following. I pulled into the drive while
he parked farther up the hill. By the time I reached the top of the
stairs, it had started pouring again, the rain came down cold as sleet.

My hands were frozen and I blew into them, thinking about him sitting
down there in the car all night. I'd done a number of stakeouts myself,
knew firsthand how miserable it was. Reasoning that he wasn't watching
me as a suspect, but protecting me, I now felt sorry for him. Normay
he'd have a partner, someone to talk to, but IA was a strange lot.

Kind of reminded me of the last of the Lone Rangers.

I changed into sweats and started the hot water for tea, telling myself
to mind my own business. When I glanced out the window, I saw he was
still there. Without thinking, I retrieved my umbrella, trudged back
down the steps and over to his car. He rolled down his window a few
inches at the sight of me. "No gun this time?" he asked, his breath
visible in the chilly night air. He tucked his hands beneath his
armpits. "Look, Torrance. I want you here about as much as you want to
be here, so let's call a truce. If you're going to sit up all night and
watch over me, you might as well do it where it's warm and dry." I was
almost grateful when he refused my offer, but found myself trying to
convince him just the same. "What if something happens? And I need you?"

"Light a candle in your window."

"One if by land, two if by sea?"

"Something like that."

"Don't forget I offered," I said. "I won't." He gave me such an odd
look, I wasn't sure how he meant that last comment, but in truth I
forgot about it when I got back inside. As I kicked off my wet shoes and
shrugged out of my wet coat, the phone started ringing. It was well
after midnight. I couldn't think of anyone who would call at such an
hour. "Hello?" Silence. I hung up. Thought nothing of it. A minute later
it rang again. I picked up, gave a curt, "What?" Hesitation. Then, "You
alone?" "Who is this?" I asked, not recognizing the voice through the
static of the bad connection. Zimmerman?

Why would he call me?

"I need to talk ... you. I want to know what ... now." The line was
scratchy, like he was on a cellular ... you alone?" I glanced at my
kitchen door. Had I locked it? Something thumped on my stairs. Briefly I
wondered if Reid had returned. Forgotten something. My gaze flew to the
east window, to Torrance's car. "Um, no," I said, my voice sounding
strange even to my ears. I thought of all the evidence stacked against
my partner. If it was Scolari, he could be standing outside my door on
his phone as we spoke. But what if it wasn't? What if it was Paolini or
one of his men? Was this the same caller who had threatened me about
testifying in his case? "No," I repeated, looking around for a candle,
flashlight, anything. "Who is this?" I demanded. There was a junk drawer
in the end table by the couch. Matches. The phone cord stretched taut, I
reached into the drawer, searched blindly for the book of matches I
hoped was there. "Sam, if it's you, you need to turn yourself in," I
said, trying to sound the voice of reason. Keep him talking. Away from
my door. I found the matches. Rushed to the window. I lit the whole damn
book. The thick, blue-yellow flame danced in the glass. Heat seared my
fingers. I dropped the book into a ceramic dish on the windowsill. Had
Torrance seen it? Something crashed on the stairs. I spun toward the
kitchen. My gun. It was in my purse. I

heard the cat scream, as if someone had stepped on its tail.

"IAS watching the place," I said, my gaze riveting on the kitchen door.

If it was Scolari, he'd leave. If it wasn't Scolari, I didn't know what
he'd do. Could I reach my purse before whoever was there got in?

"They're outside now.

The phone disconnected. My stomach clenched.

Was I only imagining that someone was rattling the doorknob? That my
kitchen door was shaking?

God, let it be the wind.

Goddammit. Open up!" I stared at the door. I didn't want to know who
was there, not without reinforcements. I grabbed my gun, pointed it
toward the kitchen, called 911. My heart bolted in my chest.

The pounding on the door continued. "Gillespie?

You okay?" "Torrance?" I called out. The 911 operator came on the line.

I ignored her, waiting to hear it was Torrance out there. That I hadn't
imagined his voice. "Gillespie." The knob turned. Rattled. "Unlock this
thing." I slammed the phone in the receiver, then rushed into the
kitchen. "Torrance?" I asked again, my hand on the lock. "What's going
on in there?" I tore open the door. He stood on my porch, soaked to the
bone. Rivulets of water ran down his dark hair and he brushed it off of
his face, then removed my weapon from my shaking hand. "Mind if I come
in?" he asked. Not waiting for my answer, he entered, set my gun on the
counter. I sank into one of two. kitchen chairs, numbly watching while
he locked the door and turned to study me. The water from his raincoat
flooded the linoleum floor, but neither of us paid much attention. "I
saw your light," he said.

"Someone called." How ridiculous that sounded.

Like I expected the suspect to reach through the phone and grab me. "At
first I thought it was Scolari, but I couldn't tell." "What did he say?"

His voice was calm, and he showed no emotion in his face. Just as I
would, were I facing a hysterical woman who cried wolf. just as I had
done many times on patrol myself. It was strange being on this side of
the fence. I'd overreacted. It shook me to think how quickly I'd lost
control. "I panicked when I heard a noise on the steps. I thought he was
on a cellular. I didn't recognize the voice.

Thought whoever it was might have come here looking for me."

"I didn't see anyone. Maybe it was the wind." "No. I definitely heard
something ... although I guess it could have been Dinky."

"Dinky?

"My landlord's cat."

"The cat I saw on your porch is named Dinky? As in small?"

"Believe it or not, Dinky was the runt of the litter. He lives on my
steps."

"What did Scolari say?"

"I don't think it was him," I said. Torrance leaned against the kitchen
counter, his expression telling me he believed otherwise. I recounted
the phone conversation.

"Sorry I got you out of your car," I finished.

He didn't quite smile, but almost, and I expected it was probably an
effort. "Don't worry about-" He stopped. This time there was someone on
the steps. Then a knock. Had the caller dared to come over anyway?

Torrance wasn't taking any chances. He stood to the side of the door,
drew his weapon from his shoulder holster, motioned for me to answer.

"Who is it?" I called out.

"Police. We got a 911 call?"

"Just a moment," I said.

Torrance backed to the kitchen window over the sink, lifted the curtain
a fraction to peek out. "It's okay," he said, holstering his weapon. I
pointed to my Smith and Wesson on the counter beside him. Weapons of any
sort tend to make a cop on the beat nervous, justifiably so. "The
drawer," I mouthed. He nodded, pulled open the silverware drawer, and
rested my gun on top of the forks and knives before sliding it shut. I
opened the door to two of Berkeley's finest, the porch light reflecting
off their wet slickers. Neither seemed happy about being out in the
rain. The taller and heavier of the two peered past me, assessing the
likelihood of imminent threat, while his partner spoke. "Is everything
okay, ma'am?" "Fine. Now. I thought I heard someone trying to break into
my kitchen. My friend, um, Lieutenant Torrance, SFPD, happened to be
stopping by, and already checked it out for me." A look of respect and
wariness, one cop sizing up another, passed over both officers' faces as
they regarded Torrance. "Lieutenant," one said.

Torrance, looking very much the detective in his London Fog, nodded.

"I appreciate your coming out here," I put in. "Hope you weren't too
inconvenienced." "No problem. You want us to check the place out?" the
first officer asked. Torrance shrugged as though he didn't care, more
for their benefit than mine.

"No, thanks," I said. "We're fine."

"Evening." They turned down the steps, and I heard one say "Code Four"

into the radio, letting their dispatch know it was a false alarm.

"I guess I'll get back to my car," Torrance said.

"Coffee?"

"Sure.

As I pulled the kettle from the burner, I heard the crackle of the
police radio outside, followed by a knock. Exchanging glances with
Torrance, I stopped what I was doing to answer the door.

"Officers?"

"Sorry to disturb you, ma'am," the shorter officer said , but dispatch
says we got a second call on a prowler. Apparently your neighbor says
she's pretty sure someone's hiding in her backyard." Torrance and I
stood in the living room, watching through the window, though by the
time a canine officer arrived, the suspect, if there was one, had plenty
of opportunity to get away. Even so, we found our noses glued to the
cold windowpane. Raindrops sliced through the night, piercing the light
from the porch before splattering on the shiny ivy leaves beneath my
partially open window. Suddenly the dog crashed through the hedge that
separated my yard from the neighbor's. It barked at something below my
landing.

An officer called out a command. The do halted, gave a low growl.

A laugh drifted up, then I heard the word "cat."

"Dinky gets around," Torrance commented to me.

I can't imagine the creature was too thrilled with the dog running
about. I said nothing, just watched with interest, wondering when they'd
end the search.

"Hey, Brooks," I heard an officer call out sharply,

"look at this." A flashlight beam swung toward the ivy below my porch,
but I couldn't see what they were looking at. Another officer parted the
hedge as he stepped through to my backyard. "Looks like a stocking cap."

One of them held up something dark, and from where I stood,
unidentifiable. "Yep," someone answered. "Must be the suspect's." That
was enough for me. I glanced at Torrance, who still watched the
officers. "You can do your baby-sitting from the couch. I've had too
much excitement for one night." He didn't answer right off, but after a
moment he nodded. "I'm going down to see what they've got." Ten minutes
later he returned, told me it was definitely a stocking cap. Part of me
hoped like hell it was Scolari's cap, lost when he was on my porch
talking to me on his cellular. I felt I could handle Scolari. I didn't
want to think there was someone else out there. A suspect I didn't know
about. Torrance called his partner, Mathis, explained what had occurred
and where he was spending the night. I got a blanket and tossed it on
the couch. I lived in a one bedroom apartment, so he really didn't have
a choice about where to sleep. I called out good-night, and as I stepped
into my bedroom and closed the door, I caught a glimpse of him lifting
his shirt over his head, the hard contours of his chest silhouetted by
the kitchen light behind him. Torrid Torrance, I thought, and found
myself wondering for the first time if he really was gay, and what the
hell he'd done with my pantyhose. That night I had dreams that my father
disowned me for my part in the IA Investigation, even though I tried to
tell him I wasn't the one responsible for what happened. As usual, the
alarm woke me far earlier than my body wanted to get up, and I dragged
myself into the shower after checking on Torrance. He had already
dressed and was sitting at the kitchen table, speaking to someone on his
cellular. I sat on my bed, towel-drying my hair, when my Aunt Molly
called. "You're in the Chronicle, dear," she said, her speech so close
to normal, it was difficult to believe she'd only recently recovered
from a stroke. "But I can't say I like the photo very much. I think you
looked better when you were near that Dumpster in last week's paper.