"T" is for Trespass (31 page)

“Melanie, I've been telling you Solana was up to something, but you refused to believe me. What's the point of another call?”

“You're the one who said she was okay.”

“Right, and you were the one who told me to limit my investigation to her degree, the last place she worked, and a couple of references.”

“I said that?”

“Yes, dear. I make a habit of writing down the instructions I'm given in a case like this. Now will you get off your high horse and help me out?”

“Doing what?”

“For one thing, you could fly out and testify on my behalf when I make my court appearance.”

“For what?”

“The restraining order. I can't get close to Gus because Solana's there full-time, but you're still entitled to see him unless she gets an order out on you. You could also initiate the paperwork challenging her appointment. You're his only living relative and you're entitled to a say. Oh, and while I have you on the line, I might as well alert you. Once I type up my report, I'm sending a copy to the DA. Maybe they can step in and put a stop to her.”

“Fine. Do that. I'll be out as soon as I can make arrangements.”

“Good.”

That matter taken care of, I put a call through to Richard Compton, who said he'd get in touch with Norman and tell him to give me free rein searching records in the basement of the complex. I gave him a rough estimate of when I'd be there and he said he'd clear it. I had two stops to make before I hit Colgate, the first being the drugstore where I'd left the canister of film the day before. Prints in hand, I drove over to the Sunrise House and pushed through the front door, feeling an easy familiarity since I'd been there before. I'd called in advance and spoken to Lana Sherman, the LVN I'd consulted during the background check on Solana Rojas. She said she could spare me a few minutes as long as no emergencies arose.

In the lobby, the white-flocked artificial Christmas tree had been dismantled and stuffed back in its box until the holidays came around again. On the antique table that served as a reception desk, a white-painted branch had been placed in a Chinese ginger jar and hung with pink and red hearts in honor of Valentine's Day, coming up in two weeks.

The receptionist directed me to One West, the postsurgery floor. Passing down the hall, I caught sight of Lana in a four-bed ward distributing meds in white pleated paper cups. I waved and pointed, indicating that I'd wait for her at the nurse's station. I found a molded gray plastic chair in a little visitors alcove and picked up a tattered magazine called
Modern Maturity
.

Lana appeared moments later, rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the vinyl tile. “I've already had my break so I don't have long.” She sat down in a matching plastic chair next to mine. “So how's Solana doing with the job?”

“Not well,” I said. I'd been debating how candid to be, but I couldn't see an advantage in holding back. I wanted answers and there was no point in beating around the bush. “I'd like you to look at some photographs and tell me who this is.”

“Like a lineup?”

“Not quite.” I took the bright yellow envelope of photographs from my shoulder bag and passed them over to her. Out of the roll of thirty-six pictures, I'd netted ten clear shots, which she sorted through rapidly before she handed them back. “That's a nurse's aide named Costanza Tasinato. She worked here the same time as Solana.”

“Did you ever hear her use the name Cristina?”

“She didn't use it, but I know it was her first name because I saw it on her driver's license. Costanza was her middle name and she went by that. What's this about?”

“She's been passing herself off as Solana Rojas for the past three months.”

Lana made a face. “That's illegal, isn't it?”

“You can call yourself anything you like as long as there's no intent to defraud. In this case, she's claiming she's an LVN. She's moved herself into the patient's house, along with her son, who I gather is a lunatic. I'm trying to put a stop to her before she does any more harm. You're sure this is Costanza and not Solana?”

“Take a look at the wall near the nurse's station. You can judge for yourself.”

I followed her into the corridor where photographs had been framed and hung, showing the Employee of the Month for the past two years. I found myself staring at a color photograph of the real Solana Rojas, who was both older and heavier than the one I knew. No one acquainted with the real Solana would be fooled by the impersonation, but I had to give Ms. Tasinato credit for the subterfuge. “You think they'd let me borrow this?”

“No, but the woman in the office will make you a copy if you ask nice.”

 

I left Sunrise House and drove to Colgate, parking as I had before across from the apartment complex on Franklin Avenue. When I knocked at Apartment 1, Princess came to the door, holding a finger to her lips. “Norman's napping,” she whispered. “Let me get the key and I can take you down.”

“Down” turned out to be a basement, a rare phenomenon in California, where so many buildings are constructed on slab. This one was dank, a sprawling warren of cinder block rooms, some subdivided into padlocked wire enclosures the tenants used for storage. Lighting consisted of a series of bare bulbs that hung from a low ceiling overrun with furnace ducts, plumbing, and electrical pipes. It was the kind of place that made you hope earthquake predictions were off the mark instead of imminent. If the building collapsed I'd never find my way out, assuming I was still alive.

Princess showed me into a narrow room entirely lined with shelves. I could almost identify by type the managers who had come and gone in the thirty years the building had been occupied. One was a neatnik, who'd filed all the paperwork in matching banker's boxes. The next guy took a haphazard approach, using a strange mix of liquor cartons, Kotex boxes, and old wooden milk crates. Another had apparently purchased his boxes from a U-Haul company and each was neatly stenciled with the contents in the upper left-hand corner. In the past ten years, I counted six managers altogether. Norman and Princess surprised me by favoring opaque plastic bins. Each had a slot in front where one or the other had neatly printed and date-ordered a list of rental applications and assorted paperwork, including receipts, utilities, bank statements, repair bills, and copies of the owner's tax returns.

Princess left me to my own devices, as eager as I was for sunlight and fresh air. I followed the line of boxes toward the far end of the room where the light wasn't as good and cracks in the outside wall created an illusion of dripping water, though there was none in evidence. Naturally, as an ex-cop and highly trained investigator, I was worried about vermin: millipedes, jumping spiders, and the like. I followed the dates on the boxes, back as far as 1976, which was in excess of the parameters Norman had suggested. I started with the banker's boxes, which seemed friendlier than the boxes that had the word
KOTEX
stamped all over them. The earliest date I spotted was 1953 and I assumed the building had been completed right about then.

One at a time, I hauled the first three 1976 boxes from the shelf and carried them to the better-lighted end of the room. I took the lid off the first and finger-walked through two inches of files, trying to get a feel for the order. The system was random, consisting of a series of manila folders, grouped according to the month, but with no attempt to alphabetize the names of the tenants. Each banker's box contained three or four years' worth of applications.

I shifted my attention to 1977. I sat on an overturned plastic milk crate, pulled a quarter of the folders out, and placed them on my lap. My back was already hurting, but I proceeded doggedly. The paper smelled like mildew and I could see where the occasional box had sucked up water like a wick. The years 1976 and 1977 were a bust, but in the third pile of folders for 1978, I found her. I recognized the neat block lettering before I saw the name. Tasinato, Cristina Costanza, and her son, Tomasso, who was twenty-five at the time. I got up and crossed the room until I was standing directly beneath a forty-watt bulb. Cristina worked cleaning houses, employed by a company called Mighty Maids, which had since gone out of business. On the assumption that she lied on a regular basis, I ignored most of the data except for one line. Under “Personal References,” she'd listed an attorney named Dennis Altinova, with an address and phone number I already knew. In the space marked “Relationship,” she'd block-printed the word “BROTHER.”

I set the application aside and repacked the boxes, which I returned to the shelf. I was tired and my hands were filthy, but I was feeling jazzed. I'd packed a lot into my day and I was close to nailing Cristina Tasinato.

It wasn't until I'd left the basement and was coming up the stairs that I spotted the woman waiting at the top. I hesitated at the sight of her. She was in her early thirties, wearing a suit with a short skirt, hose, and low heels. She was attractive and well groomed, except for the heavy bruises marking both shins and the right side of her face. The dark red streaks around the orb of her eye would turn black and blue by nightfall. “Kinsey?”

“That's right.”

“Princess told me you were down here. I hope I'm not interrupting your work.”

“Not at all. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Peggy Klein. I think the two of us are looking for the same woman.”

“Cristina Tasinato?”

“When I knew her she was using the name Athena Melanagras, but the address on her driver's license is this one.” She held out the license and I found myself looking at Solana Rojas, who now had one more alias to add to her string.

“Where did you get this?”

“We had a knock-down, drag-out fight at Robinson's earlier today. I was going out the side door as she was coming in. She was wearing glasses and her hair was different, but I knew her right away. She worked for my grandmother toward the end of her life when she needed full-time care. After Gram died, my mother discovered she'd forged Gram's signature on thousands of dollars' worth of checks.”

“She knew you'd recognized her?”

“Oh sure. She spotted me about the same time I spotted her, and you should have seen her take off. She made it as far as the escalator before I caught up with her.”

“You went after her?”

“I did. I know it was dumb, but I couldn't help myself. She dragged me all over the place, but I wouldn't let go. I was doing all right until she punched me. She whacked me with her purse and kicked the shit out of me, but I grabbed her wallet in the process and that's what brought me out here.”

“I hope you filed a police report.”

“Trust me. There's already a warrant out for her arrest.”

“Good for you.”

“There's more. Gram's doctor told us she died of congestive heart failure, but the pathologist who did the autopsy said asphyxiation and heart failure share some of the same features—pulmonary edema and congestion and what he called petechial hemorrhages. He said someone put a pillow over her face and smothered her to death. Guess who?”

“Solana killed her?”

“Yes, and the police suspect she'd probably done it before. Old people die every day and nobody thinks a thing about it. The police did what they could, but by then she was gone. Or so we thought. We just assumed she'd left town, but here she is again. How stupid could she be?”

“
Greedy
's a better word. She's all over the poor old guy who lives next door to me and she's sucking him dry. I've tried to put a stop to her, but I'm operating at a disadvantage. She has a restraining order out against me so if I even look at her cross-eyed, she'll have me in jail.”

“Well, you better find a way around it. Killing my Gram was the last thing she did before she disappeared.”

I had Peggy Klein follow me home in her car, which she parked in the alley behind Henry's garage. I found parking on the street in front, six cars away from Solana's. I went through the gate and around the side of the studio. Peggy was waiting by the gap in the back fence, which I held aside for her as she slipped through. Henry had a real gate, but it was unusable because both his gate and the fence were weighted down with morning glories. I said, “Great timing, your showing up at Solana's apartment complex when you did.”

“When I showed Norman and Princess the driver's license, they knew exactly what was going on.”

Peggy followed me to Henry's back door, and when he came to let me in I did the introductions.

“What's up?” he asked.

“We're going to get Gus out of there. I'll let her fill you in while I whip over to my place and pick up a few tools.”

I left the two of them to sort themselves out. I unlocked my door and went up the spiral stairs. For the second time in two days, I cleared the top of my footlocker and opened the lid. I took out my fanny pack. I found the flashlight and checked the batteries, which were strong, and I tucked it in my pack along with a set of key picks in a nifty leather case given to me by a burglar of my acquaintance some years before. I was also the proud possessor of a battery-operated pick gun, given to me by another dear friend who was currently in jail and therefore had no need for such specialized equipment. In the interest of virtue, I hadn't done any serious breaking and entering for some time, but this was a special occasion, and I hoped my skills weren't too rusty to do the job. I snapped the fanny pack around my waist and returned to Henry's in time to catch the back end of Peggy's tale. Henry and I exchanged a look. We both sensed we'd have one chance to rescue Gus. If we didn't pull it off, then Gus might well end up like Gram.

Henry said, “Oh, boy. You're taking a hell of a risk.”

“Any questions?”

“What about Solana?”

“I'm not harassing her,” I said.

“You know that's not what I mean.”

“Yeah, well, I've got that under control. Peggy's going to make a call. I gave her the rundown on the situation and she suggested a plan just about guaranteed to send Solana scurrying. Mind if we use your phone?”

“Be my guest.”

I wrote Gus's number on the scratch pad Henry kept by the phone and I watched Peggy punch in the numbers. Her expression shifted when the line was picked up and I tilted my head close to the handset so I could hear the conversation.

“May I speak to Ms. Tasinato?” she said, smoothly. She had a lovely phone manner, pleasant and authoritative, with a hint of warmth in her voice.

“Yes, this is she.”

“This is Denise Amber. I'm Mr. Larkin's assistant at Santa Teresa Savings and Loan. I understand there was a problem about the funding of your loan. He asked me to call and tell you how sorry he is for any distress it might have caused.”

“That's right. I was very upset and I'm thinking about changing banks. You can tell him I said so. I'm not used to being treated like that. He told me to come in and pick up the check and then that woman—the pregnant one—”

“Rebecca Wilcher.”

“That's her. She handed me another form to fill out when I'd already given Mr. Larkin everything he asked for. And then she had the nerve to tell me the funds wouldn't be available until the judge approved.”

“Which is why I'm calling. I'm afraid Mrs. Wilcher and Mr. Larkin got their wires crossed. She wasn't aware he'd already cleared the matter with the court.”

“He did?”

“Of course. Mr. Vronsky's been a valued customer for many years. Mr. Larkin made a point of expediting the approval process.”

“I'm happy to hear that. I have a contractor coming here on Monday with a proposal all drawn up. I promised him a deposit so he can start the electrical work. Right now, the wiring's so frayed, I can smell the scorches. I plug in an iron and the toaster at the same time and all the lights go out. Mrs. Wilcher didn't even express her concern.”

“I'm sure she had no idea what you've been dealing with. The reason I called is that I have your check at my desk. The bank closes at five o'clock, so if you like I can tuck it in the mail and save you the trip through rush-hour traffic.”

Solana was silent for half a beat. “That's very kind of you, but I may be going out of town soon. The mail in this neighborhood is slow to arrive and I can't afford a delay. I'd prefer to pick it up in person and deposit the money in an account I set up especially for this purpose. Not your bank. This is the trust company I've been dealing with for years.”

“Whatever's most convenient. If tomorrow works better for you, we open at nine.”

“Today's fine. I'm tied up with a little something at the moment, but I can set that aside and be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Wonderful. I'm leaving for the day, but all you have to do is ask at the teller's window. I'll have the check in an envelope with your name on it. I'm sorry I can't be here to deliver it personally.”

“Not a problem. Which window?”

“The first. Just inside the door. I'll walk the envelope over as soon as we finish our conversation.”

“I appreciate this. It's a great relief,” Solana said.

Peggy hung up, smiling with satisfaction. I was happy to introduce her to the joy of telling fibs. She'd been worried she couldn't pull it off, but I told her anyone who lied to little kids about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny could surely manage this.

Henry positioned himself at the dining room window and kept an eye on the street. Within minutes, Solana appeared and hurried to her car. As soon as Henry signaled that she'd pulled away, I was out the back door and slipping through the hedge. Peggy pushed through the bushes after me, doing god knows what damage to her panty hose. “Who cares?” she said, when I cautioned her.

“You have your car keys?” I asked.

She patted her pocket. “I locked my purse in the trunk so we're good to go.”

“You have a talent for skulduggery, I admire that. What sort of work do you do?” I asked, as we climbed the porch steps.

“I'm a stay-at-home mom. We're a rare breed these days. Half the mothers I know hang on to their jobs because they can't handle being at home with their own kids full-time.”

“How many do you have?”

“Two girls—six and eight. They've got a playdate at a friend's, which is why I'm free. You have kids?”

“Nope. I'm not entirely sure I'm the type.”

Henry had gone out to the street with his canvas gloves and a few gardening tools, stationing himself close to Gus's front walk, where he'd dig industriously. The grass at the curb was dormant and looked as dead as dirt, so if Solana found him weeding, I wasn't sure how he was going to explain himself. He'd think of some way to bamboozle her. She probably knew as much about gardening as she did about real estate.

My big worry was Solana's son. I'd warned Peggy about him, but I hadn't gone into much detail for fear of scaring her off. I peered through the glass-paneled back door. The kitchen lights had been turned off. The living room lights were out as well, but I could hear the constant blast from a television set, which meant Tiny was probably home. If Solana had taken him to the bank with her, Henry would have said so before we embarked. I tried the knob just in case she'd left the house open. I knew better, but think how silly I'd have felt using a pick gun on an unlocked door.

I hitched the fanny pack around my waist from the back to the front and removed my torque wrench and the pick gun, my best bet for a speedy entry. The five picks in the leather case required more time and patience, but might come in handy as backup. In my younger days, I was more skilled with a rocker pick, but I was out of practice and didn't want to take the chance. By my calculations, Solana's trip to the bank and back would occupy fifteen minutes each way. We were also counting on an additional delay while she argued with the teller about the nonexistent check promised to her by the nonexistent Ms. Amber. If Solana became belligerent, security would step in and have her escorted off the premises. In any event, it wouldn't take her long to figure out she'd been duped. The question was, would she make the connection between the ruse and our assault on the fort? She probably thought she had me under her thumb with the restraining order in place. Peggy Klein, she hadn't counted on. Bad break for her—Peggy, the housewife, was game for anything.

I took out the pick gun and set to work. It was a two-handed operation, employing a torsion wrench in my left and the pick gun in the right. The mechanism was ingenious. Once the pick gun was inserted in the lock, the squeezing of the trigger activated an internal mallet that compressed an adjustable spring. If all went well, the rapid oscillation of the pick would coax the pins up one by one, holding them above the shear line. By applying a steady pressure with the torque wrench, once all the pins had been breached, the plug would be free to turn and I'd be in.

The mechanism made a pleasant little clicking noise as I maneuvered it. The sound put me in mind of an electric stapler firing staples into paper. Peggy hovered at my shoulder but mercifully asked no questions. I could tell she was nervous because she shifted restlessly, arms folded tightly as though to keep herself in check. “I should have peed while I had the chance,” was the only comment she made. Already, I was wishing she hadn't mentioned it. We were in enemy territory and we couldn't afford to pause to take a whiz.

I'd been at it less than a minute when the lock yielded. I tucked my tools away and opened the kitchen door with care. I stuck my head in. The booming from the television originated from one of the three bedrooms that opened off the hall, and the sound of canned laughter was loud enough to make the kitchen curtains vibrate. There was a strong smell of bleach and I could see a bottle of cleanser sitting on the counter with a damp sponge nearby. I moved into the room and Peggy slipped in after me. I peered around the kitchen door into the corridor. The auditory onslaught was coming from Tiny's room at the end of the hall. I signaled to Peggy, pointing to the third bedroom, where the door was slightly ajar. I heard Tiny shout out a sentence in response to something on the TV, but his words were formless. I hoped his limited intelligence wouldn't interfere with his ability to pay attention to the program.

My first job was to slip into the living room and unlock the front door in case we needed Henry's assistance in the house. He'd apparently left his tools at the curb, mere props in the drama that was playing out. I could see him standing on the porch, his attention riveted to the empty street. He was the lookout man and our success depended on his spotting Solana's car and giving us sufficient warning to get the hell out. I turned the thumb lock and secured it in the open position, then returned to the hall where Peggy was waiting, her face pale. I could see she hadn't developed my appetite for danger.

Gus's bedroom was the first on the right. The door was shut. I closed my fingers around the knob and turned it with caution until I felt the latch bolt ease out of the switch plate. I opened the door halfway. Curtains had been drawn and the light coming through the window shades gave the room a sepia cast. The air smelled of unwashed feet, menthol, and urine-damp sheets. A humidifier was hissing away in one corner of the room, giving us another layer of sound cover.

I stepped into the room and Peggy followed. I left the door open a crack. Gus was propped up against the pillows, motionless. His face was turned toward the door and his eyes were closed. I stared at his diaphragm, but there was no comforting rise and fall. I hoped I wasn't looking at a guy in the early phases of rigor mortis. I crossed to the bed and laid two fingers on his hand, which was warm to the touch. His eyes came open. He was having trouble with his focus, his eyes not quite tracking in unison. He seemed disoriented and I wasn't sure he remembered where he was. Whatever meds Solana had him on, he wasn't going to be much help.

Our immediate problem was to get him on his feet. His pajamas were flimsy cotton, his bare feet as long and thin as a saint's. As frail as he was, I didn't want him navigating the outdoors without a wrap of some kind. Peggy got down on her hands and knees and fished a pair of slippers from under the bed. She gave me one slipper and we each took a foot. I had a problem because his toes were curled and I couldn't force the slipper onto his foot. When she saw my plight, she reached over and pressed her thumb against the ball of the foot with all the skill of a mother wrestling a toddler into hard-soled shoes. His toes relaxed and on the slipper went.

I checked the closet, which yielded nothing in the way of an overcoat. Peggy started opening and closing dresser drawers, apparently without success. She finally came up with a woolly sweater, which didn't look all that warm but would have to suffice. She freed Gus from the tangle of covers while I moved him forward and away from the pillows. I was working to get him into his sweater, noting that his arms were hinged wrong. Peggy moved me aside and employed another mommy trick that got the job done. Together we grabbed his legs and swung them over the side. There was an afghan folded at the foot of the bed. I shook it out and wrapped it across his shoulders like a cloak.

From down the hall I heard manic theme music erupt as a game show came on. Tiny was singing along in a loud tuneless moan. He yelled a word and I realized belatedly he was calling Gus's name. Peggy and I exchanged a look of dismay. She swung Gus's legs back and pulled the spread up to conceal his slippered feet. I whisked off the afghan and flung it to the bottom of the bed while she removed the sweater in a single smooth action and shoved it under the blanket. We heard Tiny clump into the bathroom. Seconds later, he was pissing with a force that mimicked a waterfall pouring into a metal bucket. For emphasis, he farted one long musical note.