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.”
“I understand. I met him when I first started working here, but we haven’t seen him for months.” She set the file on the desk. “Everything seems to be in order. This will be submitted to the court for approval and once that’s done, we’ll be funding the loan. It looks like we’ll need one more form filled out, if you don’t mind. I have a blank one here you can complete and return.”
She reached in the drawer, checked through the files, and came up with a paper that she passed across the desk.
Solana looked at it with irritation. “What’s this? I filled out all the forms Mr. Larkin asked for.”
“It must have been an oversight. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
“What’s the problem with the forms I gave you?”
“There’s no problem. This is something new the government requires. It shouldn’t take long.”
“I don’t have time for this. I thought everything was done. Mr. Larkin said all I had to do was stop by and he’d issue a check. That’s what he told me.”
“Not without the court’s approval. That’s standard procedure. We need a judge’s okay.”
“What are you saying, you doubt I’m entitled to the funds? You think the house doesn’t need work? You should come and see for yourself.”
“It’s not that. Your plans for the house sound wonderful.”
“The place is a fire hazard. If something isn’t done soon, Mr. Vronsky could burn to death in his bed. You can tell Mr. Larkin I said so. It will be on his head if anything happens. And yours, too.”
“I apologize for any misunderstanding. Perhaps I can have a quick word with the bank manager and we can straighten this out. If you’ll excuse me…”
The minute she’d moved away from her desk, Solana stood up, clutching her bag. She reached across the desk and picked up the manila folder containing all the paperwork. She moved toward the entrance, being careful to behave like someone with a legitimate purpose. Nearing the door, she looked down, holding up the file to conceal her features from the surveillance camera she knew was there. What was the matter with the woman? She hadn’t done anything to warrant suspicion. She’d been cooperative and agreeable, and this was how she was treated? She’d call later. She’d talk to Mr. Larkin and raise a fuss. If he insisted on her filling out the form, she’d do so, but she wanted him to know how annoyed she was. Maybe she’d take her business elsewhere. She’d mention that to him. Court approval could take a month and there was always the chance the transaction would come under scrutiny.
She retrieved her car from the parking lot and made a beeline for home, too upset to worry about the paintings in the trunk. She noticed other drivers glancing at the word DEAD scratched on her driver’s-side door. Maybe that hadn’t been such a good idea. The little hooligan she’d hired had done a good job, but now she was stuck with the damage. She might as well have been toting a banner, LOOK AT ME. I’M STRANGE. Her parking place was still available out in front of the house. She pulled in nose-first and then had to maneuver until the car was properly lined up with the curb.
It wasn’t until she got out and locked the car door behind her that she realized something was wrong. She stood stock-still and searched the street, her gaze moving from house to house. She tracked the scene to the corner and then her gaze slid back. Henry’s station wagon was parked on the far side of the street, three doors down, a silver sunscreen against the windshield, blocking any view of the interior. Why had he taken it out of the garage and left it on the street?
She watched the dappled sunlight reflecting off the glass. She thought she discerned small irregular shadows on the driver’s side, but at this remove, she wasn’t sure what she was looking at. She turned away, debating whether to cross the street and take a closer look. Kinsey Millhone wouldn’t dare defy the court order, but Henry might be watching her. She couldn’t think why he would, but it was wiser to behave as though she didn’t suspect.
She went into the house. The living room was empty, which meant that Tiny and Mr. Vronsky had gone down for their naps like good little boys. She picked up the telephone and dialed Henry’s number next door. After two rings, he picked up, saying, “Hello?”
She lowered the handset to the cradle without saying a word. If it wasn’t Henry, then who? The answer was obvious.
She went out the front door and down the steps. She crossed the street at an angle and walked directly to his car. This had to stop. She couldn’t have people spying on her. The rage ris
ing in her throat threatened to choke her. She could see the door locks were up. She yanked open the driver’s-side door.
No one.
Solana took in a deep breath, her senses as keen as a wolf’s. Kinsey’s scent hung in the air—a light, but distinct mix of shampoo and soap. Solana put her hand on the seat, which she could have sworn was still warm. She’d missed her by moments and her disappointment was so sharp she nearly wailed aloud. She had to get herself under control. She closed her eyes, thinking, Calm. Be calm. No matter what was going on, she was still in charge. So what if Kinsey’d watched her getting out of her car? What difference did that make?
None.
Unless she was armed with a camera taking photographs. Solana put a hand to her throat. Suppose she’d seen the photo of the Other at the nursing home and wanted a recent photo of her to compare? She couldn’t take that chance.
Solana went back to the house and locked the front door behind her as though at any minute the authorities would arrive. She went into the kitchen and retrieved a spray bottle of cleanser from under the sink. She wet a sponge, squeezed out the moisture, and then saturated it with the cleaning solution. She began to wipe the place down, erasing all traces of herself, working her way through the house room by room. She’d catch the boys’ rooms later. In the meantime, she’d have to pack. She’d have to get Tiny’s things together. She’d have to get the car filled with gas. On the way out of town, she’d stop and pick up the paintings and take them to a gallery somewhere else. She’d be thorough this time, making no mistakes.
32
According to the restraining order, within twenty-four hours of my being served, I was required to turn in or sell any guns or firearms in my possession. I’m not a nut about guns, but the two I have I’m quite fond of. One is a 9mm Heckler & Koch P7M13; the other, a little Davis .32 caliber semiautomatic. Often I carry one of them, unloaded, in a briefcase in the backseat of my car. I keep ammunition close by as well; otherwise, what’s the point? My favorite gun of all time, the no-brand .32 caliber semiautomatic my aunt Gin had given me, was destroyed in a bomb blast some years before.
Reluctantly, I removed both guns from my office safe. I had two choices in dispossessing myself of my weapons. I could go to the police station and surrender them, watching as they were booked in and I was given a receipt. The problem with this option was that I knew a number of STPD officers and detectives, Cheney Phillips being one. The notion of running into one of them was more than I could bear. I chose instead to hand the guns over to a licensed gun dealer on upper State Street, who completed items 5 and 6 of the form I’d been given, which I then returned to the court clerk for filing. My guns would be returned to me only by judge’s orders.
On the way back to town I stopped at the courthouse and filed a response in opposition to Solana’s temporary restraining order, on the grounds that her assertions were factually untrue. Then I stopped by Lonnie Kingman’s office and had a chat with him. He agreed to go with me for my court date on Tuesday of the following week. “I don’t guess I have to remind you that if you violate the terms of the TRO, you can have your license yanked.”
“I have no intention of violating the court order. How else can I earn a living? I’ve done too many shit jobs in life. I’m partial to my current occupation. Anything else?”
“You might want to line up a couple of witnesses who’ll back up your version of events.”
“I’m sure Henry would be willing. I’ll have to think if there’s anyone else. She was clever about conducting our exchanges in private.”
When I got into the office there was a message from Lowell Effinger’s secretary, Geneva, on my answering machine, saying that Melvin Downs’s deposition subpoena for personal appearance was ready to be picked up. I was antsy anyway, not inclined to sit around the office waiting for the next blow to fall. Oddly enough, Melvin Downs had begun to feel like a pal, and my relationship with him cozy compared to my dealings with Solana, which had gone from bad to disastrous.
I got in the Mustang, made a quick stop at Effinger’s office for the paperwork, and headed for Capillo Hill. I turned left into the alley just shy of Palisade and parked behind the building that housed the laundromat and the dropoff location for Starting Over. The back door to the place was closed, but when I tried the handle it opened easily.
Melvin was perched on a stool at a counter that served as a work space. He’d filled a ceramic mug with lollipops, and I could see the cellophane wrapper he’d removed from the one he had in his mouth. The back rooms were cold and he’d kept on his brown leather bomber jacket. A damp breeze emanating from the laundromat in front smelled of powdered soap, bleach, and cotton garments being tumbled in oversized dryers. On the work space in front of him, there was a dismantled toaster. He’d removed the chassis from the frame. The naked appliance looked small and vulnerable, like a chicken denuded of its feathers. He shook his head slightly when he caught sight of me.
I put one hand in my jacket pocket, more from tension than the chill. In the other, I held the subpoena. “I thought you worked Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“Day of the week doesn’t matter much to me. I’ve got nothing else to do.” The lollipop must have been cherry, because his tongue was bright pink. He caught my look and held up the mug, offering me a sucker. I shook my head. The only flavor he’d stocked was cherry and while it was my favorite, it seemed inappropriate to accept anything from him.
“What’s wrong with the toaster?”
“Heating element and latch assembly. I’m just working on the latch.”
“You get a lot of toasters?”
“Those and hair dryers. Nowdays when a toaster goes bad, the first thing you think about is throwing it away. Appliances are cheap and if something breaks down, you buy new. Most of the time, the problem’s as simple as people not bothering to empty the crumb tray.”
“What, the sliding thing underneath?”
“Yes, ma’am. With this one, pieces of bread had fallen into the base and shorted out the heating element. Crumbs were jamming the assembly as well so I had to blow the latch clean and then lubricate it. Once I put it all back together, it should be right as rain. How’d you find me this time?”
“Oh, I have my little ways.”
I watched for a moment, trying to remember when I’d last emptied my crumb tray. Maybe that’s why my toast tended to be burned on one side and soft on the other.
He nodded at the paperwork. “That for me?”
I put it on the counter. “Yes. They’ve scheduled the deposition and this is the subpoena. If you like I can pick you up and bring you back here afterwards. They set it up for a Friday because I told them which days you were busy here.”
“Thoughtful.”
“That’s the best I can do.”
“No doubt.”
My gaze strayed to his right hand. “Tell me something. Is that a prison tattoo?”
He glanced at his tattoo, then put his thumb and index finger together to form a pair of lips, which seemed to part in anticipation of the next question. The eyes permanently inked on his knuckle really did create the illusion of a little face. “This is Tía.”
“I heard about her. She’s cute.”
He held his hand up close to his face. “Did you hear that?” he said to her. “She thinks you’re cute. You want to talk to her?”
He turned his hand and Tía seemed to study me with a certain bright interest. “Okay,” she said. The unblinking black eyes settled on mine. To him she said, “How much can I tell her?”
“You decide.”
“We were inside twelve years,” she said, “which is where we met.”
The falsetto voice he projected seemed real enough to me and I found myself addressing my questions to her. “Here in California?”
She turned and looked at him and then looked back at me. Despite her resemblance to a toothless crone, she managed to appear coy. “We’d prefer not to say. I will tell you this. He was such a goo
d boy, he got out on an early release.” Tía bobbed over to him and gave him a big buss on the cheek. He smiled in response.
“What was he in for?”
“Oh, this and that. We don’t discuss it with people we’ve just met.”
“I figured it was a child molest since his daughter won’t let him see his grandsons.”
“Well, aren’t you quick to condemn,” she said, tartly.
“It’s just a guess.”
“He never laid a hand on those little boys and that’s the truth,” she said, indignant in his behalf.
“Maybe his daughter feels sex offenders aren’t that trustworthy,” I remarked.
“He tried talking her into supervised visits, but she wasn’t having any of it. He did everything he could to make amends, including a little side deal with some unsavory gents.”
“Meaning what?”
Tía tilted her head and gestured me closer, indicating that what she was going to say was highly personal. I leaned down and allowed her to whisper in my ear. I could have sworn I felt her breath stir against my neck. “There’s a house up in San Francisco where they take care of guys like him. Very tacky place. N-O-K-D.”
“Pardon?”
“‘Not our kind, dear.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“Castration.” Tía’s lips pursed at the word. Melvin watched her with interest, his expression blank.
“Like a hospital?”
“No, no. This is a private residence, where certain surgeries are done under the table, as it were. These weren’t licensed medical doctors, just men with tools and equipment who enjoyed cutting and sewing, relieving other fellows of their urges.”