"T" is for Trespass (28 page)

This was discouraging. I'd heard these sentiments expressed before, the belief that insurance companies were fat cats and the mice deserved anything they could get. “In this case, the facts are in dispute, which is why I'm here.”

“The facts are obvious. There was an accident. It's as simple as that. Gladys told me it was covered on their home-owner's policy and the company had refused to pay. She said suing was the only way to force their hand.”

“Auto.”

“‘Auto'?”

“It's not their home-owner's policy. She's suing the company that carries the defendant's car insurance.” Personally, I wondered if I was shooting myself in the foot. We were clearly working at cross-purposes, but I got out my tape recorder and went through my drill; identifying myself, Lettie Bowers, blah blah blah. Then I said, “How long have you known the Fredricksons?”

“If you want the truth, I don't know them well and I don't like them much. Am I under oath?”

“No ma'am, but it would be helpful if you could tell me what you know as truthfully as possible.”

“I always do that. I was raised that way.”

“I take it Gladys Fredrickson's talked to you about the accident.”

“She didn't have to. I saw it.”

I leaned forward slightly. “
You
were at the intersection?”

She seemed confused. “There wasn't any intersection. I was sitting right here, looking out the window.”

“I don't understand how you could have seen what went on.”

“I couldn't miss it. I do my pickup work by the window, which gives me good light and offers a nice view of the neighborhood. I used to do needlepoint, but lately I've gone back to knitting and crochet. Less strain on my eyes and easier on my hands. I'd been watching them at work, which is how I happened to see the tumble she took.”

“Gladys fell?”

“Oh my, yes. It was entirely her fault, but the way she explained it to me, the insurance company will have to pay anyway if everything goes well.”

“Could we back up a few paragraphs and start this again?”

I took a few minutes to go back over the lawsuit, filling in the details while she shook her head.

“You must be talking about someone else. It didn't happen that way.”

“Fine. Let's hear your side of it.”

“I don't mean to sound judgmental, but she and her husband are penny-pinchers and they hate to hire help. The rain gutters were jammed with leaves. We'd had a number of spring storms and the water had been pouring down in torrents, right over the edge instead of going into the down spouts. First week of nice weather, she got up on a ladder to clean the gutters and the ladder toppled. She landed on the wooden deck and the ladder came down and clunked her in the head. I was surprised she didn't break her back, as much as she weighs. The sound was awful, like a bag of cement. I ran out, but she said she was all right. I could see she was woozy and limping badly, but she wouldn't accept help. Next thing I knew, Millard pulled the van around in front and honked. They had a heated discussion and then she got in.”

“Did she tell you this in confidence?”

“Not in so many words. She said it was just between the two of us and then she gave me a wink. And here all this time, I thought the claim was legitimate.”

“Would you be willing to testify in the defendant's behalf?”

“Of course. I don't approve of cheaters.”

“Nor do I.”

 

Late afternoon, as a special treat, I took myself up to Rosie's and ordered a glass of wine. I'd wait and eat when I got home, but I'd done a good day's work and I deserved a reward. I'd just settled into my favorite booth when Charlotte Snyder appeared. I hadn't seen her for weeks, since she and Henry had quarreled. I thought her presence was coincidental, but she paused in the doorway, looking around, and when she spotted me, she headed straight for my table and sat down across from me. She had a scarf tied over her hair, which she removed and put in her coat pocket while she shook her hair back to its natural shape. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and her eyes were bright. “I took a chance on catching you here when you didn't answer your door. If you tell me Henry's on his way in, I'll disappear.”

“He's having dinner with William. It's boys' night out,” I said. “What's up?”

“I'm hoping to redeem myself in Henry's eyes. I heard the court appointed a woman named Cristina Tasinato as Gus Vronsky's conservator.”

“Don't remind me. I was nearly sick when I heard.”

“That's what I wanted to talk about. According to the bank, she's taking out a big construction loan, putting the house up as collateral.”

“News to me.”

“I gather she wants to remodel and upgrade, add a wheelchair ramp, redo electrical and plumbing, and generally bring the house up to snuff.”

“The place could use a face-lift. Even with the cleanup Solana's done, it's still a mess. What's the size of the loan?”

“A quarter of a million bucks.”

“Wow. Who told you?”

“Jay Larkin, a friend of mine in the loan department. We used to date years ago and he was a big help when I was getting into real estate. He knew I'd been interested in listing the property and when this came up, he assumed I'd made a deal. It struck me as curious because I told Solana the two parcels together were worth far more than the house. This block is already zoned multiple-family. Any buyer with savvy would purchase both lots and tear the old house down.”

“But it makes sense to remodel with Gus so adamant about hanging on.”

“That's just what I'm getting at. She put the house on the market. Well, maybe not Solana, but the conservator.”

“For sale? How so? I haven't seen a sign out front.”

“This is a pocket listing. I'm guessing she'll pay off the construction loan with the proceeds from the sale. I wouldn't have known about it, but an agent in our Santa Teresa office is handling the deal. She remembered I'd done comps when my client came through town so she was calling to ask if I wanted a referral fee. I was sorely tempted, but with Henry so burned at me, I didn't dare.”

“What's the asking price?”

“A million two, which is a joke. Even fixed up, it'll never sell for that. I thought it was odd after Solana swore up and down Gus would rather die than part with the place. What I can't understand is why the house was listed with my company. Didn't anybody realize I'd get wind of it?”

“The conservator probably had no idea you were ever involved,” I said. “Solana doesn't seem that sophisticated about real estate. If this is her doing, maybe she wasn't aware how closely you work with one another.”

“Or maybe she's thumbing her nose at us.”

“This is being done through Gus's bank?” I asked.

“Sure. One big happy family, but the whole thing stinks. I thought you should know.”

I said, “I wonder if there's any way to gum up the works?”

Charlotte pushed a piece of paper across the table. “This is Jay's number at the bank. You can tell him we talked.”

I slept poorly that night, my brain abuzz. Lettie Bowers's revelations had been a gift, but instead of feeling good, I was kicking myself for not interviewing her earlier. She and Julian both. If I'd talked to neighbors before my first meeting with the Fredricksons, I would have known what I was dealing with. I felt like I was slipping, distracted by the miscalculations I'd made in my dealings with Solana Rojas. Not to beat myself to death here, but Gus was in big trouble and I was the one who'd put him there. What more could I do? I'd called the county so there was no point in going over that ground again. Nancy Sullivan had doubtless drawn and quartered me in her report. Beyond that, I hadn't witnessed verbal, emotional, or physical abuse that warranted calling the police. Which left me where?

I couldn't persuade my mind to shut up. There was nothing I could do about any of it in the middle of the night, but I couldn't let it go. Finally, I sank into some deep canyon of sleep. It was like slipping into a trough in the ocean's floor, dark and silent, the weight of the water pinning me in place. I wasn't even aware I'd fallen asleep until I heard the noise. My leaden senses registered the sound and invented a few quick stories to account for it. None of them made sense. My eyes popped open. What
was
that?

I checked the clock, as though noting the time would make a difference. 2:15. If I hear the cork pop from a champagne bottle, I automatically check the time in case it turns out to be a gunshot and I'll be asked later to file a police report. Someone was riding a skateboard in front of the house; metal wheels on concrete, repeated clicks as the skateboard rolled across cracks in the sidewalk. Back and forth, the sound surging and receding. I listened, trying to determine how many skateboarders there were—only one as far as I could tell. I could hear the kid try kick flips, the board slamming down when he made it, clattering off when he missed. I thought about Gus railing at the two nine-year-olds on skateboards in December. He was at his crankiest back then, but at least he was on his feet. Despite his complaints and the nuisance calls he made, he was alive and vigorous. Now he was failing and no one else in the neighborhood was irritable enough to protest the racket outside. The board clacked and banged, off the curb, into the street, back up on the curb again, and down the sidewalk. This was getting on my nerves. Maybe I'd be the cranky neighbor from now on.

I pushed the covers aside and made my way across the carpeted loft in the dark. There was sufficient illumination from the Plexiglas skylight above that I could see where I was going. Barefoot, I went down the spiral stairs, my oversized T-shirt leaving my bare knees exposed. It was cold in the studio and I knew I'd need a coat if I went out to shake a fist as Gus would have. I went into the downstairs bathroom and stepped into the fiberglass tub and shower surround, with its window that looked out on the street. I'd left the light off so I could see out without the skateboarder knowing I was there. The sound seemed farther away—muted, but persistent. Then silence.

I waited, but heard nothing. I crossed my arms for warmth and peered out at the dark. The street was empty and remained so. Finally, I climbed the spiral stairs again and crawled back in my bed. It was 2:25 and my body heat had dissipated, leaving me shivering. I pulled the covers over my shoulders and waited to get warm. Next thing I knew, it was 6:00
A.M
. and time for my morning run.

I started to feel more optimistic as I put away the miles. The beach, the damp air, the sun painting gauzy layers of color across the sky—everything suggested this would be a better day. When I reached the dolphin fountain at the foot of State, I took a left and headed toward town. Ten blocks later I made the turn and jogged back toward the beach. I didn't wear a watch, but I could time my progress as I reached the
ding-ding-dinging
signal gates near the train station. The ground began to vibrate and I heard the train approach, its warning howl subdued in deference to the hour. Later in the day, when the passenger train came through, the horn would be loud enough to halt conversations up and down the beach.

As a self-appointed site foreman, I took the opportunity to peek through the wooden barrier surrounding the new Paramount Hotel pool. Much of the construction debris was gone, and it looked as though the plaster coat had been sprayed over the gunite. I could imagine the completed project: deck chairs in place, tables with market umbrellas protecting the hotel patrons from the sun. The image faded, replaced by my worries about Gus. I debated putting a call through to Melanie in New York. The situation was distressing and she'd blame me. For all I knew, Solana had already given her an annotated version of the story, appointing herself the good guy while I was the bad.

Once I reached home, I went through my usual morning routine, and at 8:00 I locked the studio and went out to my car. There was a black-and-white police cruiser parked at the curb directly across the street. A uniformed officer was deep in conversation with Solana Rojas. Both were looking in my direction. What now? My first thought was of Gus, but there was no ambulance and no fire department rescue vehicle on hand. Curious, I crossed the street. “Is there a problem?”

Solana glanced at the officer and then pointedly at me before she turned her back and moved away. I knew without being told that the two had been discussing me, but to what end?

“I'm Officer Pearce,” he said.

“Hi, how're you? I'm Kinsey Millhone.” Neither of us offered to shake hands. I didn't know what he was doing here, but it wasn't to make friends.

Pearce wasn't a beat officer I knew. He was tall, broadshouldered, maybe fifteen pounds overweight, with that staunch police presence that speaks of a well-trained professional. There was even something intimidating about the way his leather belt creaked when he moved.

“What's going on?”

“Her car was vandalized.”

I followed his gaze, which had shifted to Solana's convertible, parked two cars down from mine. Someone had taken a sharp instrument—a screwdriver or a chisel—and scratched the word
DEAD
in deep gouges on the driver's-side door. The paint was stripped and the metal had been dented by the force of the tool.

“Oh, wow. When did that happen?”

“Some time between six o'clock last night when she parked the vehicle and six forty-five this morning. She caught a glimpse of someone passing the house and came out to check. Were you aware of any activity out here?”

Over his shoulder, I saw that the neighbor from across the street had come out in her robe to get the paper and she'd engaged Solana in much the same conversation I was having with the officer. I could tell from Solana's gestures she was agitated. I said, “That was probably me she saw this morning. Weekdays, I jog up State, starting at six ten or so and returning thirty minutes later.”

“Anyone else out and about?”

“Not that I saw, but I did hear a skateboarder in the middle of the night, which seemed odd. It was two fifteen because I remember looking at the clock. Sounded like he was riding back and forth on the sidewalk, up the curb and down, some in the street. It went on so long I got up to take a look, but I didn't see a soul. One of the other neighbors might have heard him.”

“One kid or more.”

“I'd say, one.”

“That's your place?”

“The studio, yes. I rent from a gentleman named Henry Pitts, who occupies the main house. You can ask, but I don't think he'll be able to contribute much. His bedroom's on the ground floor rear so he's not subjected to the same street noises that I catch upstairs.” I was babbling, giving Pearce more information than he needed, but I couldn't help myself.

“When you heard the skateboarder, you came out to the street?”

“Well, no. It was cold out and pitch dark so I stood in my downstairs bathroom and looked out the window. He was gone by then so I went back to bed. It's not like I heard him gouging and bashing away out here.” I meant it as a bit of levity, but the look he turned on me was flat.

“You and your neighbor have a good relationship?”

“Solana and me? Uh, not really. I wouldn't go that far.”

“You're on the outs?”

“I guess you could put it that way.”

“And what's that about?”

I waved the question aside, already at a loss for words. How was I supposed to summarize the weeks of covert cat-and-mouse we'd played. “Long story,” I said. “I'd be happy to explain, but it would take a while and it's irrelevant.”

“The bad blood between you isn't relevant to what?”

“I wouldn't call it ‘bad blood.' We've had our differences.” I caught myself and turned to look at him. “She's not suggesting
I
had anything to do with this.”

“A dispute between neighbors is serious business. It's not like you can walk away from the conflict when you live right next door.”

“Wait a minute. This is crazy. I'm a licensed investigator. Why would I risk a fine and county jail time to settle a personal dispute?”

“Any idea who might?”

“No, but it certainly wasn't me.” What else could I say that wouldn't sound defensive? The mere suggestion of wrongdoing is sufficient to generate skepticism in the eyes of others. While we give lip-service to “presumed innocent,” most of us are quick to
presume
quite the opposite. Especially an officer of the law who's heard every possible variation on a theme.

“I should get on in to work,” I said. “You need anything else from me?”

“You have a number where you can be reached?”

I said, “Sure.” I took a business card out of my wallet and passed it to him. I wanted to point and say,
Look, I'm a no-fooling PI and a law-abiding citizen
, but that only put me in mind of the many times I'd crossed the law-abiding line this past week alone. I adjusted my shoulder bag and crossed to my car, acutely aware of the officer's eyes on me. When I dared to glance back, Solana was watching me as well, her expression poisonous. The neighbor standing next to her regarded me uneasily. She smiled and waved, perhaps worried that if she wasn't nice to me, I'd vandalize her car, too.

I started the Mustang and of course when I backed up to pull out of the slot, I tapped the bumper of the car behind. It didn't seem sufficient to warrant getting out to look, but as surely as I didn't, I'd get dinged for thousands in repair work, plus an additional citation for leaving the scene of an accident. I opened the car door and left it ajar while I walked around to the back of my car. There wasn't any sign of damage and when the officer walked over to see for himself, he seemed to agree.

“You might be a little more careful.”

“I will. I am. I can leave a note if you think it's necessary.” You see that? Fear of authority will reduce a grown woman to this kind of groveling, like I would have licked his belt buckle to a high shine if he'd grace me with a smile. Which he didn't.

I managed to drive away without any further mishap, but I was rattled.

 

I let myself into the office and put on a pot of coffee. I didn't need the caffeine; I was already wired. What I needed was a game plan. When the coffee was done I poured myself a mug and took it to my desk. Solana was setting me up. I had no doubt she'd scratched the car herself and then called the police. The move was a wily one in her campaign to establish my enmity. The more vengeful I appeared, the more innocent she looked by comparison. She'd already made a case for my calling the county hotline as a gesture of spite. Now I was a candidate for charges of vandalism. She'd have a hell of a time proving it, but the point was to damage my credibility. I had to find a way to counteract her strategy. If I could stay one step ahead of her I might be able to beat her at her own game.

I opened my bag, found the scrap of paper Charlotte had given me, and phoned the bank. When the call was picked up I asked for Jay Larkin.

“This is Larkin,” he said.

“Hi, Jay. My name is Kinsey Millhone. Charlotte Snyder gave me your number…”

“Right. Absolutely. I know who you are. What can I do for you?”

“Well, it's a long story, but I'll give you the condensed version.” Whereupon I laid out an account of the situation in as succinct a manner as possible.

When I finished, he said, “Not to worry. I appreciate the information. We'll take care of it.”

By the time I got back to my coffee it was stone cold, but I was feeling better. I sat back in my swivel chair and put my feet up. I laced my hands on the top of my head and stared at the ceiling. Maybe I could put a stop to this woman yet. I've dealt with some very bad folks in my day—thugs, brute killers, and scamsters, with a number of truly evil people thrown into the mix. Solana Rojas was cunning, but I didn't think she was smarter than I was. I may not have a college degree, but I'm blessed (she said, modestly) with a devious nature and an abundance of native intelligence. I'm willing to match wits with just about anyone. That being true, I could (therefore) match wits with her. I simply couldn't go about it in my usual blunt-force fashion. Going head-to-head with her had landed me where I was. From now on, I'd have to be subtle and every bit as cunning as she. Here's what else I thought: If you can't go through a barrier, find a way around. There had to be a crack in her armor somewhere.

I sat up, put my feet on the floor, and opened the bottom right-hand desk drawer where I kept her file. There wasn't much in it: the contract with Melanie, the original job application, and the written report of what I'd learned about her. As it turned out, all the personal recommendations were horseshit, but I didn't know that then. I'd tucked Lana Sherman's résumé at the back of the file and I studied that now. Her comments about Solana Rojas had been hostile, but her criticisms only reinforced the notion that Solana was hardworking and conscientious. No hint of abusing the elderly for fun and profit.