"T" is for Trespass (29 page)

I placed Solana's application on the desk in front of me. It was clear I'd have to go back and fact-check every line, starting with the address she'd given out in Colgate. The first time I'd seen the street name, I'd had no idea where it was, but I realized I'd seen it since. Franklin ran parallel to Winslow, one block over from the twenty-four-unit building Richard Compton owned. It was the Winslow property where the Guffeys had so enjoyed themselves, ripping out cabinets and demolishing the plumbing fixtures, thus generating their very own rendition of the Flood, minus Noah's Ark. The neighborhood was a hotbed of low-life types, so it made sense that Solana would be comfortable in such a setting. I picked up my jacket and my shoulder bag and headed for my car.

 

I pulled up across from the apartment building on Franklin, a drab beige three-story structure, free of architectural flourishes—no lintels, no windowsills, no shutters, no porches, and no landscaping, unless you find drought-tolerant dirt aesthetically pleasing. There was a pile of dead bushes near the curb and that was the extent of the vegetation. The apartment number on Solana's application was 9. I locked my car and crossed the street.

A cursory survey of the mailboxes suggested that this was a twenty-unit complex. Judging from the numbered doors, Apartment 9 was on the second floor. I made my way up the stairs, which consisted of iron risers with pebbly rectangular slabs of poured concrete forming the treads. At the top I took a moment to reconsider. As nearly as I could tell, Solana was living at Gus's full-time, but if the Franklin address was still her permanent residence, she might come and go. If I ran into her, she'd know she was under scrutiny, which was not good.

I returned to the ground floor, where I'd seen a white plastic sign on the door to Apartment 1, indicating the manager was living on the premises. I knocked and waited. Eventually a fellow opened the door. He was in his fifties, short and rotund, with pudgy features in a face that age had sucked into the collar of his shirt. The corners of his mouth were turned down and he had a double-chin that made his jaw look as formless and flat as a frog's.

I said, “Hi. Sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for Solana Rojas and wondered if she was still living here.”

In the background I heard someone call, “Norman, who's that?”

Over his shoulder he called, “Just a minute, Princess, I'm in a conversation here.”

“I know that,” she called, “I asked who it was.”

To me he said, “Nobody named Rojas in the building unless it's someone subletting, which we don't allow.”

“Norman, did you hear me?”

“Come see for yourself. I can't be yelling back and forth like this. It's rude.”

A moment later his wife appeared, also short and round, but twenty years younger with a mop of dyed yellow hair.

“She's looking for a woman named Solana Rojas.”

“We don't have a Rojas.”

“I told her the same thing. I thought it might be someone you knew.”

I looked at the application again. “This says Apartment Nine.”

Princess made a face. “Oh, her. The lady in Nine moved three weeks ago—her and that lump of a son—but the name's not Rojas. It's Tasinato. She's Turkish or Greek, something of the kind.”

“
Cristina
Tasinato?”

“Costanza. And don't get us started. She left us with hundreds of dollars in damages we'll never recoup.”

“How long did she live here?”

The two exchanged a look and he said, “Nine years? Maybe ten. She and her son were already tenants when I took over as the manager and that was two years ago. I never had occasion to check her place until she was gone. The kid had kicked a big hole in the wall, which must have created a draft because she was using old newspapers as insulation, stuffed between the studs. The dates on the papers went back to 1978. A family of squirrels had taken up residence and we're still trying to get them out.”

Princess said, “The building was sold two months ago and the new owner raised the rent, which is why she moved. We've got tenants flocking off the premises like rats.”

“She didn't leave a forwarding address?”

Norman shook his head. “Wish I could help you out, but she disappeared overnight. We went in and the place stunk so bad, we had to have a crew that usually handles crime scenes come in…”

Princess chimed in, “Like if a body's been rotting on the floor for a week and the boards are soaked with that bubbly-looking scum?”

“Got it,” I said. “Can you describe her?”

Norman was at a loss. “I don't know, average. Kinda middle-aged, dark…”

“Glasses?”

“Don't think so. She might have wore them to read.”

“Height, weight?”

Princess said, “On the thin side, a little chunky through the middle, but not as big as me.” She laughed. “The son you couldn't miss.”

“She called him Tiny, sometimes Tonto,” Norman said. “Babyfaced—great big hulk of a guy…”

“Real big,” she said. “And not right in the head. He's mostly deaf so he talked all in grunts. His mom acted like she understood him, but none of the rest of us did. He's an animal. Prowling the neighborhood at night. Scared the crap out of me more than once.”

Norman said, “Couple of women were attacked. He beat the shit out of this one gal. Hurt her so bad, she nearly had a nervous breakdown.”

“Charming,” I said. I thought about the goon I'd seen while I was cruising through Gus's house. Solana had been charging Gus's estate for the services of an orderly, who might well be her kid. “You wouldn't happen to have the tenant application she filled out when she moved in.”

“You'd have to ask the new owner. The building's thirty years old. I know there's a bunch of boxes in storage from back when, but who knows what's in 'em.”

“Why don't you give her Mr. Compton's phone number?”

Startled, I said, “Richard Compton?”

“Yeah, him. He also owns that building across the alley.”

“I do business with him all the time. I'll call and ask if he objects to my searching the old files. I'm sure he won't mind. In the meantime, if you hear from Ms. Tasinato, would you let me know?” I took out a business card, which Norman read and then passed to his wife.

“You think her and this Rojas woman are the same?” she asked.

“Looks that way to me.”

“She's a bad one. Sorry we can't tell you where she went.”

“Never mind. I know.”

Once the door was closed, I stood for a moment, relishing the information. Score one for me. Things were finally making sense. I'd done a background check on Solana Rojas, but in reality I was dealing with someone else—first name Costanza or Cristina, last name Tasinato. At some point there'd been a switch in ID, but I wasn't sure when. The real Solana Rojas might not even be aware that someone had borrowed her résumé, her credentials, and her good name.

When I returned to my car, there was a white Saab parked behind me and a fellow was standing on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets, looking at the Mustang with a discerning eye. He wore jeans and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches: middle-aged, neatly clipped brown beard laced with gray, wide mouth, a mole near his nose and another on his cheek. “This yours?”

“It is. Are you a fan?”

“Yes ma'am. It's a hell of a car. You happy with it?”

“More or less. Are you in the market?”

“I might be.” He patted his jacket pocket and I almost expected him to take out a pack of cigarettes or a business card. “Are you Kinsey Millhone, by any chance?”

“Yes. Do I know you?”

“No, but I believe this is yours,” he said, offering a long white envelope with my name scrawled across the front.

Puzzled, I took it and he touched my arm, saying, “Baby, you've been served.”

I felt my blood pressure drop and my heart skipped a beat. My soul and my body neatly detached from one another, like cars in a freight train when the coupling's been pulled. I felt as if I were standing right next to myself, looking on. My hands were cold but shook only slightly as I opened the envelope and removed the Notice of Hearing and Temporary Restraining Order.

The name of the person asking for protection was Solana Rojas. I was named as the person to be restrained, my sex, height, weight, hair color, home address, and other relevant facts neatly typed in. The information was more or less accurate except for the weight, mine being ten pounds less. The hearing had been scheduled for February 9—Tuesday of the following week. In the meantime, under Personal Conduct Orders, I was forbidden to harass, attack, strike, threaten, assault, hit, follow, stalk, destroy personal property, keep under surveillance, or block the movements of Solana Rojas. I was also ordered to stay at least one hundred feet away from her, her home, and her vehicle—the low number of feet apparently taking into account the fact that I lived right next door. I was also forbidden to own, possess, have, buy or try to buy, receive or try to receive, or in any other way get a gun or a firearm. At the bottom of the paper in white letters on a block of black, it said
This is a Court Order
. Like I hadn't guessed as much.

The process server watched me with curiosity as I shook my head. He was probably accustomed, as I was, to serving restraining orders on individuals in need of anger-management classes.

“This is so
bogus
. I never did a thing to her. She's invented this shit.”

“That's what the hearing's for. You can tell the judge your side of it in court. Maybe he'll agree. In the meantime, I'd get a lawyer if I were you.”

“I have one.”

“In that case, best of luck. Pleasure doing business. You made it easy for me.”

And with that, he got in his car and drove away.

I unlocked the Mustang and got in. I sat, engine off, my hands resting on the steering wheel while I stared out at the street. I glanced down at the restraining order I'd tossed on the passenger's seat beside me. I picked it up and read it for the second time. Under
Court Orders
, in Section 4, the box marked “b” had been checked, specifying that if I didn't obey these orders, I could be arrested and charged with a crime, in which case I might have to (a) go to jail, (b) pay a fine of up to $1,000, or (c) both. None of the choices appealed to me.

The bitch of it was she'd outmaneuvered me again. I'd thought I was so smart and she was already one step ahead of me. Which left me what? My options were now limited, but there had to be a way.

On the way home I stopped at a drugstore and picked up some 400 ASA color film. Then I drove back to my apartment and left my car in a weedy patch in the alleyway behind Henry's house. I slipped through a gap in the back fence and let myself into my studio. I went upstairs and cleared the surface of the footlocker I use as a bed table, setting the reading lamp, alarm clock, and a big stack of books on the floor. I opened the trunk and took out my 35mm single-lens reflex camera. It wasn't cutting-edge equipment, but it was all I had. I loaded the film and went down the spiral staircase. Now all I had to find was a vantage point that would allow me to fire off multiple views of my nemesis next door, making certain, at the same time, she didn't catch sight of me and call the police. Surreptitious picture-taking would certainly qualify as surveillance.

When I told Henry what I was up to, he smiled impishly. “Your timing's good at any rate. I saw Solana driving off as I was coming back from my walk.”

It was his clever idea to use a flexible silver sunscreen against the windshield of his station wagon, which he insisted on my borrowing. Solana knew my car too well and she'd be watching for me. He went out to the garage and came back with the screen he used to keep the interior temperatures down when he was parked in the sun. He cut a couple of nice round lens-sized holes in the material and handed me the car keys. I tucked the sunscreen under my arm and tossed it on the passenger's seat before I backed the station wagon out of his garage.

There was still no sign of Solana's car, though there was a handsome length of curb where she'd been parked earlier. I drove around the block and found a spot across the street, being careful to keep the requisite hundred feet between my person and hers, assuming she stayed where she belonged. Of course, if her parking spot was taken and she pulled her car in behind mine, I'd be jail bait for sure.

I popped open the sunscreen and set it against the windshield, then positioned myself, camera in hand, and zeroed in on Gus's front door. I shifted my focus to the empty section of curb and adjusted the lens. I slouched down on my spine to wait, watching the front of the house through a narrow gap between the dashboard and the bottom of the screen. Twenty-six minutes later Solana turned the corner onto Albanil, half a block down the street. I watched her reclaim her parking place, probably feeling pleased with herself as she eased the car nose-first into the space. I sat up and braced my arms on the steering wheel as Solana emerged. The click and whir of the camera were soothing as I shot frame after frame. She stopped in her tracks and her head came up.

Uh-oh.

I watched her survey the street, her body language suggesting her hypervigilance. Her gaze swept the block to the corner and then swung back and fixed on Henry's car. She stood and stared as though she could see me through the sunscreen. I shot six more frames, taking advantage of the moment, and then held my breath, waiting to see if she'd cross the street. I couldn't very well start the car and drive away without first removing the sunscreen, thus exposing myself to view. Even if I managed that, I'd have to pass right by her and the game would be up.

Solana sat in the old man's kitchen, smoking one of Tiny's cigarettes, a guilty pleasure she allowed herself on rare occasions when she needed to concentrate. She'd poured herself a tot of vodka to sip while she counted and bundled up the cash she'd amassed. Some was money she'd kept in a savings account, acquired over the years from other jobs. She had $30,000 that had been happily earning interest while she worked in her current position. She'd spent the past week selling off the jewelry she'd collected from Gus as well as her prior clients. Some pieces she'd held for years, worried that the items might have been reported as stolen. She'd run an ad in the classified pages of the local paper, indicating a sale of “estate jewelry,” which sounded hoity-toity and refined. She'd had many calls from the bloodhounds who routinely combed that section, looking for a bargain born of someone else's desperation. She'd had the jewelry appraised and she'd carefully calculated selling prices that would be tempting without generating questions about how she came by Edwardian and Art Deco diamond rings and bracelets by Cartier. Not that it was anybody's business, but she'd invented a number of stories: a rich husband who died and left her with nothing but the jewelry he'd given her over the years; a mother who'd smuggled the bracelets and rings out of Germany in 1939; a grandmother who'd fallen on hard times and had no choice but to sell the treasured heirloom necklaces and earrings she'd been given by her own mother years before. People liked sob stories. People paid more for an item with a tragedy attached. These personal accounts of hardship and yearning imbued the rings and bracelets, brooches and pendants, with a value that exceeded the gold content and the stones.

She'd called the gallery owner every day for a week, asking if she'd located a buyer for the paintings. She suspected the woman was just putting her off, but she couldn't be sure. In any event, Solana couldn't afford to alienate her. She wanted the money. Gus's antique furniture she'd sold piece by piece to various high-end dealers around town. He spent his days in the living room or his bedroom and didn't seem to notice that the house was slowly being stripped. From those sales she'd netted a little over $12,000, which was not as much as she'd hoped. Adding that sum to the $26,000 the old man still had tucked away in combined savings, plus the $250,000 she was borrowing from the local bank as a loan against the house, she'd have $288,000, plus the 30 grand in her private account. The $250,000 wasn't in her hands quite yet, but Mr. Larkin at the bank had told her the loan was approved and it was only a matter now of picking up the check. Today she had personal shopping to do, leaving Tiny to babysit Gus.

Tiny and the old man got along well. They liked the same television shows. They shared the same thick pizzas, loaded with junk, and the plastic tubs of cheap cookies she bought at Trader Joe's. She'd taken lately to letting them smoke in the living room though it annoyed her no end. They both were hard of hearing, and when the high volume on the TV started wearing on her nerves she banished them to Tiny's room, where they could watch the old TV set she'd brought from the apartment. Unfortunately, living with the two of them had spoiled the joys of the house, which now felt small and claustrophobic. Mr. Vronsky insisted on keeping the thermostat set at seventy-four degrees, which made her feel as though she were suffocating. It was time to disappear, but she hadn't quite decided what to do with him.

She packed the cash in a duffel that she kept in the back of her closet. Once she was dressed, she checked her reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She looked good. She was wearing a business suit, dark blue and plain, with a simple blouse underneath. She was a respectable woman, interested in settling her affairs. She took her purse and paused in the living room on her way to the front door.

“Tiny.”

She had to say his name twice because he and the old man were engrossed in a TV show. She picked up the remote and muted the volume on the set. He looked up with surprise, irritated at the interruption. She said, “I'm going out. You stay here. Do you understand me? Don't go anywhere. I'm counting on you to look after Mr. Vronsky. And keep the door locked unless there's a fire.”

He said, “Okay.”

“Don't answer the door to anyone. I want you here when I get back.”

“Okay!”

“And no back talk.”

 

She took the freeway out to La Cuesta, to the shopping mall she liked. She was especially fond of Robinson's Department Store, where she bought her makeup, her clothing, and occasional household goods. Today she was shopping for suitcases for her upcoming departure. She wanted new luggage, handsome and expensive to mark the new life she was entering. It was almost like a trousseau, which she didn't think young women set much store by these days. Your trousseau was everything fresh, carefully assembled and packed before you left on your honeymoon.

As she entered the store, there was a young woman coming out who held the door politely, allowing Solana to pass through. Solana glanced at her and then looked away, but not quickly enough. The woman's name was Peggy something—maybe Klein, she thought—the granddaughter of a patient Solana had cared for until she died.

The Klein woman said, “Athena?”

Solana ignored her and walked into the store, heading for the escalator. Instead of letting the matter drop, the woman followed her in, calling after her in a strident voice. “Wait just a minute! I know you. You're the woman who looked after my grandmother.”

She moved swiftly, hard on Solana's heels, grabbing at her arm. Solana turned on her savagely. “I don't know what you're talking about. My name is Solana Rojas.”

“Bullshit! You're Athena Melanagras. You stole thousands of dollars from us and then you—”

“You're mistaken. It must have been somebody else. I never laid eyes on you or anybody else in your family.”

“You fucking liar! My grandmother's name was Esther Feldcamp. She died two years ago. You raided her accounts and you did worse, as you well know. My mother filed charges, but you were gone by then.”

“Get away from me. You're delusional. I'm a respectable woman. I've never stolen a cent from anyone.” Solana got on the escalator and faced forward. The moving stairs carried her upward as the woman hung on to her from one step down.

The Klein woman was saying, “Someone help! Call the police!” She sounded deranged and others had turned to stare.

“Shut up!” Solana said. She turned and shoved her.

The woman stumbled down another step but clung to Solana's arm like an octopus. At the top of the escalator, Solana tried to step away, but she ended up dragging the woman through the sportswear department. A clerk at the cash register watched with mounting concern as Solana took the Klein woman's fingers and prized them off one by one, bending her index finger back until she shrieked.

Solana punched her once in the face, then shook herself free and hurried away. She tried not to run because running would only call greater attention to herself, but she needed to put as much distance as she could between herself and her accuser. She was frantic to locate an exit, but there was no sign of one, which meant it was probably behind her somewhere. Briefly she thought about finding a hiding place—one of the dressing rooms perhaps—but she was worried she'd be trapped. Behind her the Klein woman had persuaded the clerk to call security. She could see the two of them huddled together at the counter while over the intercom a voice intoned a store code that signified god knew what.

Solana scurried around the corner where she spotted the down escalator. She held on to the moving rail and took the steps down two at a time. People opposite her on the up escalator turned to look at her idly, but they didn't seem to grasp the drama taking place.

Solana looked behind her. The Klein woman had trailed her and she was coming down the escalator steps at a pace that had her breathing down Solana's neck. At ground level, as the woman drew close, Solana hauled back with her purse, swinging it hard until it caught the woman on the side of the head. Instead of backing off, the woman grabbed the purse and gave it a yank. The two wrestled with the bag, which was now hanging open. The Klein woman snatched her wallet, and Solana yelled, “Thief!”

A male customer in the men's department moved in their direction, uncertain whether the situation required intervention. Everyone was fearful these days, reluctant to get involved. Suppose one of the struggling parties had a gun and a Good Samaritan was killed while trying to be of help? It was a stupid way to die and no one wanted to take the chance. Solana kicked the Klein woman twice in the shins. She went down, crying out in pain. The last flash Solana had of the woman, there was blood running down her legs.

Solana moved away as swiftly as she could. The woman had her wallet, but she still had everything else she needed: house keys, car keys, compact. The wallet she could do without. Thankfully she carried no cash, but it wouldn't take the woman long to check the address listed on her driver's license. She should have left the Other's address as it was, but it seemed wiser at the time to change it to the apartment where she herself had been living. Once before, she'd applied for a job, retaining the Other's address instead of substituting her own. The patient's daughter had gone to the real address and knocked on the door. It didn't take a minute for her to realize the woman she was talking to was someone other than the woman who was caring for her aged mother. Solana'd been forced to abandon that job, leaving behind additional precious cash she'd hidden in her room. Even the late-night trip back had netted her nothing since the locks had been changed.

She pictured the Klein woman talking to the police, weeping hysterically and babbling the story of her grammy and the larcenous companion hired to care for her. Solana didn't have a record, but Athena Melanagras had been arrested once for drug possession. Just her bad luck. If she'd known, she never would have borrowed the woman's identity. Solana knew complaints had been filed against her under her various aliases. If the Klein woman went to the police, the descriptions would add up. In the past, she'd left fingerprints behind. She knew now that was a terrible mistake, but it hadn't occurred to her until later that she should have wiped down each place thoroughly before she moved on.

She hurried through the parking lot to her car and headed back to the freeway, taking the 101 south now to the Capillo off-ramp. The bank was downtown and despite the upsetting incident at the store, she wanted her money in hand. Luggage she could buy somewhere else. Or maybe she wouldn't bother. Time was running short.

When she reached the intersection of Anaconda and Floresta, she circled the block, making sure no one was following her. She parked and went into the bank. Mr. Larkin, the manager, greeted her warmly and showed her to his desk, where he seated her graciously, treating her like a queen. Life was like this with money, people fawning; bowing and scraping. She held her purse in her lap like a prize. It was an expensive designer bag and she knew it made a good impression.

Mr. Larkin said, “Will you excuse me for just one second? I have a phone call.”

“Of course.”

She watched him cross the bank lobby and disappear through a door. While she waited she took out her compact and powdered her nose. She looked calm and confident, not like someone who'd just been attacked by a lunatic. Her hands were shaking, but she breathed deeply, working to appear nonchalant and unconcerned. She closed the compact.

“Ms. Tasinato?”

A woman had appeared behind her unannounced. Solana jumped and the compact flew out of her hand. She watched the arc of its descent, time slowing as the plastic casing hit the marble floor and bounced once. The refillable disk popped out and the hard circle of compressed powder broke into several pieces. The mirror in the lid of the compact shattered as well and fragments littered the floor. The one shard of mirror that remained in the case looked like a dagger, pointed and sharp. She pushed the broken compact aside with her foot. Someone else would have to clean up the mess. A broken mirror was bad luck. Breaking anything was bad, but a mirror was the worst.

“I'm so sorry I startled you. I'll have someone take care of that. I don't want you cutting your hand.”

“It's nothing. Don't worry about it. I can get another one,” she said, but the heaviness had descended. Things had already gone wrong and now this. She'd seen it happen before, calamity piling on calamity.

She turned her attention to the woman, trying to suppress her distaste. This was no one she knew. She appeared to be in her thirties, definitely pregnant and probably in her seventh month, judging by the taut mound under her maternity smock. Solana checked for a wedding ring, which the woman wore. She disapproved nonetheless. She should quit her job and stay home. She had no business working in a bank, flaunting her condition without a hint of embarrassment. In three months' time, Solana would see the ad she placed in the classifieds:
Working mom needs experienced and reliable baby nurse. References required.
Disgusting.

“I'm Rebecca Wilcher. Mr. Larkin was called away and asked me to assist you.” She sat down in his place.

Solana didn't like doing business with women. She wanted to protest, but she held her tongue, anxious to get the transaction over with.

“Let me just take a quick look to familiarize myself with your loan papers,” she said. She began to flip pages, reading much too carefully. Solana could see her eyes tracing every line of print. She looked up and smiled briefly at Solana. “I see you were appointed Mr. Vronsky's conservator.”

“That's correct. His home is in desperate need of attention. The wiring's old, the plumbing's bad, and there's no wheelchair ramp, which keeps him a virtual prisoner. He's eighty-nine years old and unable to care for himself. I'm all he has.”