"T" is for Trespass (13 page)

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.

Compton had nothing but complaints about his tenants, who were sorry sunza-bitches (his words, not mine). According to him, at the time he'd purchased the property, the units were already overcrowded and ill used. He'd made a few repairs, slapped a coat of paint on the exterior, and raised all the rents. This had driven out the least desirable of the occupants. Those who remained were quick to bellyache and slow to pay.

The tenants in question were the Guffeys, husband and wife, Grant and Jackie respectively. The previous month, Compton had written them a nasty letter about their failure to pay, which the Guffeys had ignored. They were already two months in arrears and perhaps intent on garnering another rent-free month before responding to his threats. I crossed the dead grass, went around the corner of the building, and up a flight of outside stairs. Apartment 18 was on the second floor, the center one of three.

I knocked. After a moment the door was opened to the length of the burglar chain and a woman peered out. “Yes?”

“Are you Jackie?”

A pause. “She's not here.”

I could see her left eye, blue, and medium-blond hair caught up on rollers the size of frozen orange juice cans. I could also see her left ear, which had sufficient small gold hoops stuck through the cartilage to mimic a spiral-bound notebook. Compton had mentioned the piercings in his description of her, so I was reasonably certain this was Jackie, lying through her teeth. “Do you know when she'll be back?”

“What makes you ask?”

Now I was the one who hesitated, trying to decide on my approach. “Her landlord asked me to stop by.”

“What for?”

“I'm not authorized to discuss the matter with anyone else. Are you related to her?”

A pause. “I'm her sister. I'm from Minneapolis.”

The best thing about lying are the flourishes, I thought. I myself am a world-class practitioner. “And your name is?”

“Patty.”

“Mind if I write that down?”

“It's a free country. You can do anything you want.”

I reached into my shoulder bag and found a pen and a small lined notebook. I wrote “Patty” on the first page. “Last name?”

“I don't have to tell.”

“Are you aware that Jackie and her husband haven't paid rent for the past two months?”

“Who cares? I'm visiting. It's got nothing to do with me.”

“Well, maybe you could pass along a message from the guy who owns the place.”

I handed her the eviction notice, which she took before she realized what it was. I said, “That's a three-day pay or quit. They can pay in full or vacate the premises. Tell 'em to pick one.”

“You can't do that.”

“It's not me. It's him and he warned them. You can remind your ‘sister' of that when she gets home.”

“How come he doesn't have to live up to his side of the deal?”

“As in what?”

“Why should they be prompt when the son of a bitch takes his time about making repairs, assuming he gets to them at all. She's got windows won't open, drains backed up. She can't even use the kitchen sink. She has to do all the dishes in the bathroom basin. Take a look around. The place is a dump and you know what the rent is? Six hundred bucks a month. It cost a hundred and twenty dollars to get the wiring fixed or they'd've burned the building down. That's why they haven't paid, because he won't reimburse 'em for the money they spent.”

“I can sympathize, but I can't give you legal advice even if I had any to offer. Mr. Compton's acting within his rights and you'll have to do that, too.”

“Rights, my ass. What rights? I stay here and put up with his crap or I have to move out. What kind of deal is that?”

“The deal you signed before you moved in,” I said. “You want your side heard, you can join a tenants association.”

“Bitch.” She slammed the door in my face, at least so far as she could manage with the burglar chain in place.

I got back in my car and headed for the notary's office, so I could dot all my i's and cross my t's.

When I got back to the office after lunch, the message light was blinking on my answering machine. I pushed the Play button.

A woman said, “Hello? Oh. I hope this is the right number. This is Dewel Greathouse. I'm calling in regard to a flyer I found in my door yesterday? The thing is, I'm almost sure I've seen that gentleman. Could you give me a call when you get this? Thanks. Oh. I can be reached at…” She rattled off the number.

I snatched up a pen and a pad of paper, and jotted down what I remembered, then replayed the message to verify the information. I punched in the number, which rang half a dozen times.

The woman who finally answered was clearly out of breath. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Greathouse? Is that Dewel, or did I misunderstand the name?”

“That's right. Dewel with a
D
. Hang on a second. I just ran up a flight of steps. Sorry.”

“Not a problem. Take your time.”

Finally, she said, “Whew! I was on my way back from the laundry room when I heard the phone. Who's this?”

“Kinsey Millhone. I'm returning your call. You left a message on my machine in response to one of the flyers I distributed in your neighborhood.”

“I sure did. I remember now, but I don't believe you gave your name.”

“Sorry about that, but I appreciate your calling.”

“I hope you don't mind my asking, but why are you looking for this gentleman? I wouldn't want to get anyone in trouble. The flyer said something about an accident. Did he hit someone?”

I went back through my explanation, making it clear that the man didn't cause or contribute to the accident. I said, “He was more the Good Samaritan. I'm working for an attorney who's hoping he can give us a report of what went on.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that's all right then. I don't know that I can be much help, but when I read the description, I knew exactly who you meant.”

“Does he live in the area?”

“I don't think so. I've seen him sitting at the bus stop at Vista del Mar and Palisade. You know the one I mean?”

“At City College?”

“That's it, only on the opposite side.”

“Okay. Right.”

“I've noticed him because that's my street and I pass him as I'm driving home. I have to slow to make the turn and I'm looking in that direction.”

“How often do you see him?”

“Couple of afternoons a week for the past year I'd say.”

“And this is since last May?”

“Oh yes.”

“Can you tell me which days of the week?”

“Not offhand. I moved to my apartment in June of '86 after I took a new part-time job.”

“What sort of work do you do?”

“I'm in the service department at Dutton Motors. What's nice is I'm only ten minutes from work, which is why I took this apartment to begin with.”

“What time of day, would you say?”

“Midafternoon. I get home at two fifty pretty much without fail. I'm just half a mile away so it doesn't take me long once I'm on the road.”

“You know anything about him?”

“Not really. It's mostly what you said. He's got thick white hair and he wears a brown leather jacket. I only see him in passing so I really couldn't guess age or eye color or anything like that.”

“You think he works in the neighborhood?”

“That'd be my guess. Maybe as a handyman or something of that nature.”

“Could he be employed at City College?”

“I suppose it's possible,” she said, sounding skeptical. “He looks too old to be a student. I know a lot of older people are going back to school, but I've never seen him with a backpack or briefcase. All the college kids I see carry something of the sort. Books at the very least. If you want to talk to him, you might catch him at the bus stop.”

“I'll try that. In the meantime, if you see him again, could you let me know?”

“Certainly,” she said, and with a click she was gone.

I circled her name and number on the desk pad and put it in the file. I was excited to have even a sketchy confirmation of the man's existence. Like a sighting of the Loch Ness Monster or the Abominable Snowman, the report gave me hope.

I worked late that day, paying bills and generally getting my life in order. By the time I got home it was 6:45 and fully dark. The temperature had dropped into the forties from a daytime high of sixty-two degrees, and my turtleneck and blazer offered no protection from the wind picking up. The damp fog emanating from the beach amplified the chill. I knew once I was safely indoors, I wouldn't want to venture out again. I saw lights on at Gus's house and decided it was as good a time as any to pay a visit. I was hoping the supper hour was through so I wouldn't be interrupting his meal.

As I passed, I saw the Dumpster was half full. Solana was evidently making progress in her junk-elimination project. I knocked on Gus's door, my arms crossed tightly as I huddled with the cold. I shifted from foot to foot in a vain attempt to warm myself. I was curious to meet Solana Rojas, whose work history I'd researched three weeks previously.

Through the glass pane in Gus's front door, I watched her approach. She flipped on the porch light and peered out, calling through the glass. “Yes?”

“Are you Solana?”

“Yes.” She wore glasses with black frames. Her dark hair was the uniform brown of a home-dye job. If she'd had it done in a salon, some “artiste” would have added a few phony-looking highlights. I knew from the application she was sixty-four, but she looked younger than I'd imagined.

I smiled and raised my voice, hooking a thumb in the direction of Henry's place. “I'm Kinsey Millhone. I live next door. I thought I'd stop by to see how Gus is doing.”

She opened the door and a slat of warm air escaped. “The name again is what?”

“Millhone. I'm Kinsey.”

“Nice meeting you, Ms. Millhone. Please, come in. Mr. Vronsky will be happy for the company. He's been a little down in the dumps.” She stepped back, allowing me to enter.

She was trim but carried a bulkiness in the belly that spoke of childbearing once upon a time. Young moms often lose the baby weight quickly, but it returns in middle age to form a permanent mocking pouch. Moving past her, I automatically gauged her height, which was five foot two or so to my five foot six. She wore a serviceable-looking pastel green tunic with matching pants—not quite a uniform, but wrinkle-free separates bought for comfort and washability. Stains from a patient's blood or other body fluids would be easy to remove.

I was struck by the sight of the living room. Gone were the chipped veneer tables with their tacky little knickknacks. The stretchy dark brown slipcovers had been removed from the couch and three chairs. The original upholstery material turned out to be a pleasant mix of florals in tones of cream, pink, coral, and green, probably selected by the late Mrs. Vronsky. The limp drapes had come down, leaving the windows looking bare and clean. No dust, no clutter. The mouse-back carpeting was still in place, but a bouquet of dark pink roses now sat on the coffee table, and it took me a moment to realize they were fake. Even the smells in the house had changed from decades-old nicotine to a cleaning product that was probably called “Spring Rain” or “Wild Flowers.”

“Wow. This is great. The place has never looked this good.”

She seemed pleased. “There's still work to do, but at least this part of the house is improved. Mr. Vronsky's reading in his room, if you'll come with me.”

I followed Solana down the hallway. Her crepe-soled shoes made no sound, and the effect was odd, almost as if she were a hovercraft floating before me. When we reached Gus's bedroom, she peered in at him and then glanced back at me and put a finger to her lips. “He's fallen asleep,” she whispered.

I looked past her and saw Gus propped up in bed, supported by a pile of pillows. A book was open across his chest. His mouth was agape and his eyelids were as transparent as a baby bird's. The room was tidy and his sheets looked new. A blanket was neatly folded at the foot of his bed. His hearing aids had been removed and placed close at hand on his bed table. In a low tone, I said, “I hate to bother him. Why don't I come back in the morning?”

“It's entirely up to you. I can wake him if you like.”

“Don't do that. There's no hurry,” I said. “I leave for work at eight thirty. If he's up, I can visit with him then.”

“He's up at six o'clock. Early to bed and early to rise.”

“How's he doing?”

She pointed. “We should talk in the kitchen.”

“Oh, sure.”

She retraced her steps and turned left into the kitchen. I trailed behind, trying to tread as quietly as she did. The kitchen, like the living room and bedroom, had undergone a transformation. The same appliances were in place, yellowed with age, but now a brand-new microwave sat on the counter, which was otherwise bare. Everything was clean, and it looked like the kitchen curtains had been laundered, ironed, and rehung.

In a belated answer to my query, she said, “He has good days and bad. At his age, they don't bounce back so quick. He's made progress, but it's two steps forward, three steps back.”

“I gathered as much. I know his niece is concerned about his mental state.”

The animation dropped like a veil falling away from her face. “You talked to her?”

“She called me yesterday. She said when they talked on the phone he seemed confused. She asked if I'd noticed any change in him. I haven't seen him for weeks so I really couldn't say, but I told her I'd stop in.”

“His memory isn't what it was. I explained that to her. If she has questions about his care she should address them to me.” Her tone was slightly testy and the color had risen in her cheeks.

“She isn't worried about his care. She was wondering if I'd picked up on anything myself. She said you suspected dementia…”

“I never said any such thing.”

“You didn't? Maybe I'm mistaken, but I thought she said you'd mentioned early signs of dementia.”

“She misunderstood. I said dementia was one of several possibilities. It could be hypothyroidism or a vitamin B deficiency, both reversible with proper treatment. I wouldn't presume to make a diagnosis. It's not my place.”

“She didn't say you'd made any kind of claim. She was just alerting me to the situation.”

“‘Situation.'” She was looking at me intently, and I could see she'd somehow taken offense.

“Sorry. I guess I'm not expressing myself well. She said he sounded confused on the phone and thought it might have been his medication or something like that. She said she called you right afterward and the two of you discussed it.”

“And now she's sent you to double-check.”

“On him, not on you.”

She broke off eye contact, her manner prickly and stiff. “It's unfortunate she felt the need to have a conversation with you behind my back. Apparently, she wasn't satisfied with my account.”

“Honestly, she didn't call to talk about you. She asked if I'd noticed any change in him.”

Now her eyes bored into me, hot and dark. “So now you're the doctor? Perhaps you'd like to see my notes. I keep a record of everything, which is what I was taught. Medications, blood pressure, his bowel movements. I'd be happy to send her a copy if she doubts my qualifications or my dedication to her uncle's care.”

I didn't actually squint at her, but I felt myself focus on the skewed exchange. Was she nuts? I couldn't seem to extract myself from the misinterpretation. I was afraid if I uttered two more sentences, she'd quit the job in a huff and Melanie would be up a tree. It was like being in the presence of a snake, first hissing its presence and then coiled in readiness. I didn't dare turn my back or take my eyes off her. I stood very still. I let go of my fight-or-flight defense and decided to play dead. If you run from a bear, it gives chase. That's the nature of the beast. Likewise a snake. If I moved, she might strike.

I held her gaze. In that flicker of a moment, I could see her catch herself. Some kind of barrier had come down and I'd seen an aspect of her I wasn't meant to see, a flash of fury that she'd covered up again. It was like watching someone in the throes of a seizure—for three seconds she was gone and then back again. I didn't want her to realize the extent to which she'd revealed herself. I moved on, as though nothing had occurred. I said, “Oh. Before I forget, I wanted to ask if the furnace is working okay.”

Her focus cleared. “What?”

“Gus had a problem with the furnace last year. As cold as it's been, I wanted to make sure you were warm enough. You haven't had a problem?”

“It's fine.”

“Well, if it starts acting up, feel free to give a yell. Henry has the name of the heating company that worked on it.”

“Thank you. Of course.”

“I better scoot. I haven't had dinner yet and it's getting late.”

I moved toward the door and I could feel her following at my heels. I glanced back and smiled. “I'll pop over in the morning on my way to work.”

I didn't wait for a reply. I gave a casual wave and let myself out the front door. As I trotted down the porch steps, I sensed her standing at the door behind me, watching through the glass. I resisted the urge to check. I took a left on the walk and the minute I was out of her sights, I allowed myself one of those shudders that shakes you from head to toe. I unlocked my apartment and spent a few minutes turning on all the lights to dispel the shadows in the room.

 

In the morning before I took off for work, I made a second trip next door, determined to talk to Gus. I thought it was odd that I'd found him asleep so early in the evening, but maybe that's what old men did. I'd played and replayed Solana's reaction to my question about Gus's mental state. I hadn't imagined the flash of paranoia, but I didn't know where it came from or what it meant. In the meantime, I'd told Melanie I'd check on him and I wasn't going to let the woman scare me away. I knew she didn't start work until midafternoon, and I was just as happy at the notion of avoiding her.