Switchback

by Matthew Klein

They left the Circus Club at four o’clock in the afternoon and headed home. The club was located in a residential neighborhood of Atherton. It was secluded, cut off from the rest of the city by dead ends and one way streets. It was usually deserted; Timothy could drive for blocks without seeing another car.

  So it was strange when Timothy pulled out of the club and saw a black Chevy Impala across the street from the club entrance, with its engine idling.

  Timothy drove a few blocks, glancing at his rear-view mirror. The black Impala followed closely behind.

  He turned left on Valparaiso and looked in the mirror. The Chevy also turned left, and continued tailing him.

  ‘Strange,’ Timothy said.

  ‘What?’ Tricia asked.

  ‘Nothing, I just …’ He slid the BMW into the left lane and made a quick left turn. Like two horses on a carousel, the Impala hugged the BMW, staying close behind.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Tricia asked.

  Timothy gunned the motor and raced past the car in front of him. He zoomed out of the residential neighborhood and made a quick right on Santa Cruz, a busy four-lane street.

  The Impala sped up and followed.

  ‘What the hell?’ Timothy said. He raced the BMW down Santa Cruz.

  Tricia grabbed the dashboard. ‘Timothy, slow down!’

  The cars sped down the street.

  ‘That’s it,’ Timothy said. He jerked the steering wheel right and pulled into a strip-mall parking lot, then slammed on the brake. The BMW skidded to a stop in front of a tanning salon.

  Timothy cut his ignition, threw open his door and jumped from the car. He turned to face the entrance of the parking lot and wait for the Impala.

  The Chevy pulled into the parking lot. Its prow was low and wide, like a hammerhead. It rode slowly toward Timothy. Timothy saw the driver, a young man with long, dark, stringy hair, staring at him. The Impala and the long-haired man slowly drove past. The driver turned in his seat to continue looking at Timothy. What he did next was unmistakable: he put his index finger to his neck and slowly pulled it across his throat. He smiled at Timothy.

  Then the Impala gunned its engine, its tires screeched, and it sped from the parking lot and disappeared down Santa Cruz.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Timothy called to Tricia. His heart was racing and he could feel that familiar cocktail, of fear laced with anger, course through him. He looked down to see his fists were clenched. ‘Did you see what he did?’ He bent down into the BMW to look at Tricia. ‘Did you see that?’ he asked again.

  Tricia looked pale. ‘Let’s go home.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  Timothy climbed into the BMW and started the engine.

  ‘Did you see what he did? Like he wanted to kill me.’

  ‘He was probably drunk,’ Tricia said.

  ‘He didn’t look drunk.’

  He turned to Tricia. ‘What the hell was that about?’

  She shook her head. ‘I have no idea.’

  When they arrived home, he expected to see the long-haired man and the Impala waiting in his driveway. But he was not there.

  After a few hours, the sharp edges of the incident faded, and what at first seemed frightening quickly turned ridiculous: some drugged-out kid in a Chevy trying to scare one of the snobs at the Circus Club; Timothy racing around Menlo Park, screeching to a halt in front of a tanning salon; Timothy standing in the parking lot, his fists clenched, dressed in prissy tennis whites, waiting for the druggie – and hoping to do what exactly? Backhand him with a Wilson?

  At dinner, he and Tricia laughed about it.

  ‘All in all, I’d say that was a successful day,’ Timothy said. They were sitting in the dining room, with barbecued steaks and a half-finished bottle of Petit Sirah. ‘Playing a full set of tennis with a woman half my age, protecting her from some druggie teenager. All I need now is a cape and red ‘S’ on my chest.’

  ‘Superman, that was hardly a full set of tennis.’

  ‘I played, didn’t I?’

  ‘You waddled.’

  ‘Forget the tennis, then. I still saved you from a druggie teenager.’

  ‘You did. My hero.’ She finished her wine, put down the glass. ‘You looked so silly, standing there.’

  ‘I thought I was your hero.’

  Under the table, she slid out of her shoe and stroked his pant leg with her foot. ‘You are my hero,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t believe how brave you were. The way you did sixty through Menlo Park. And then you ran out of the car to confront him. Fearless.’

  ‘You know what they say? The best defense being a good offense—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I needed to protect my woman.’

  ‘You were awesome,’ Tricia agreed.

  Timothy’s smile froze on his face. He looked her. ‘What did you say?’

  She seemed puzzled. ‘Nothing. I said …’ Her voice trailed off. She shook her head.

  He reached under the table, grabbed her shin, pushed it away from his leg. ‘What did you just say?’ His smile was gone now.

  Tricia stared at him, and she looked frightened.

  He insisted, ‘Tell me what you said.’

  ‘Timothy, what is wrong with you?’

  Timothy stared at Tricia. It had been weeks since Katherine’s return. It had been weeks since there had been any doubt in his mind that it was really her. But now, that word – that single, dumb word which Katherine would never have used, but which came so naturally to Tricia, the stupid secretary – made him wonder.

  ‘Timothy, you’re scaring me,’ she said.

  He stared at her, at the cool blue eyes, the dark hair swept back with an elegant tortoiseshell barrette. The old sexy outfits that Tricia had worn were gone, replaced by a new wardrobe – a Katherine-style wardrobe – muted cardigans and graceful pleats – clothes bought one afternoon in a whirlwind trip to Talbott’s and Ann Taylor. But, under the clothes, was it still Tricia sitting across from him? He tried to look into her eyes, to see something devilish, and sly, and knowing. But her blue eyes were flat; they revealed nothing. And maybe, he thought, maybe that’s all it is – nothing.

  He said, ‘Sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘Strange day. That’s all.’

  She shook her head and went back to cutting her steak. He noticed it was rare, which was how Katherine ate it, and that comforted him – the dark red blood in her plate.

  That night, after they climbed into bed and turned off the lights, Timothy lay awake.

  He heard Tricia snoring beside him. He realized that something had been bothering him. It was in the back of his mind, all day, unexamined, and he probably would have forgotten about it, were it not for the incident at dinner, when his wife said one wrong word.

  It had happened the previous night, when she was wearing the diamond and sapphire necklace that he gave to her at Big Sur. He remembered the conversation: ‘What is that?’ he had asked. And she replied, ‘It’s my anniversary present.’

  At the time, something about her words seemed wrong. At first he thought that it was simply his own discomfort at seeing the necklace he had bought for Katherine wind up on Tricia’s body.

  But now, lying in bed, he realized that it was something else entirely. How had she known the necklace was an anniversary present?

  This woman sleeping beside him was not the original Katherine Van Bender. She was Katherine’s backup – a duplicate copy. The backup had been made the day before they left for Big Sur. Katherine had said so in their conversation through the computer terminal. (‘How was Big Sur?’ she had typed. ‘Did you score?’)

  So how, Timothy wondered, did she know that the necklace was an anniversary present? She could not have known. This woman beside him would have no memory of the trip to Big Sur, would have no memory of receiving the necklace. If she had found it in her jewelry box, she could not have known what it was.

  He turned to her in the dark bed. ‘Tricia,’ he said softly.


  She stopped snoring.

  ‘Tricia,’ he said again.

  ‘Hmm?’ She was half asleep.

  ‘How did you know about the necklace? How did you know it was an anniversary present?’

  ‘Hmm?’ She still sounded sleepy. But it was dark, and Timothy couldn’t be sure. Were her eyes wide open now? Was her mind whirring, racing to come up with an answer?

  ‘You knew it was an anniversary present, but I gave it to you in Big Sur – after you were backed up. You couldn’t have known.’

  She said dreamily, ‘Hmm.’

  ‘So how did you know it was an anniversary present?’

  She sighed. She stirred in the bed, and turned on her nightstand lamp. They both squinted in the sudden light. ‘Because,’ she said, now sounding both very awake and very annoyed, ‘what else would it be? For God’s sake, Timothy, do you think I’m a dope? Do you think I’m your dumb secretary? I’ve been married to you for twenty years. I know you like a book. I know how you think. I know your tricks. You bought me something big and expensive on our trip to Big Sur – so I’d forget I was miserable. Wasn’t that it? I bet you didn’t even have the gift when we went there. I bet you bought it there, at the last minute. Am I right?’

  He thought to himself, Yes, that is uncanny. You know me as if you are my wife. You know me too well.

  ‘Am I right?’ she asked again, angry now.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. He was surprised that his words came out sounding sheepish.

  She huffed and sighed, reached for the nightstand and turned off the light. In the darkness, the body beside him turned away, pulling the blankets with her.

  Yes, it is uncanny, he thought again. Maybe she is right. She knows me like a book.

  He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, tried to keep the necklace out of his thoughts.

  33

  On Monday morning he rose early.

  He wanted to get to the office before eight-thirty, to prepare for a nine o’clock meeting with his lawyer, Frank Arnheim. They were to review his CFTC testimony and go over the documents that they would hand to the agency.

  Timothy glanced at Tricia in bed. She was still asleep. Quietly, he put on his bathrobe and descended the stairs to the foyer. He decided he would start his day in a civilized fashion: read the newspaper, have a cup of coffee, and relax.

  He peered through the peephole of the front door. The San Jose Mercury News, wrapped in a schoolbus-yellow plastic bag, waited in his driveway.

  He opened the front door. The day was already warm and beautiful. The sun was bright, the sky cloudless. Timothy trundled down the stairs and across the flagstone path to the driveway. He bent down for the paper.

  ‘Mr. Van Bender!’

  Timothy looked up. Detective Neiderhoffer walked toward him from the street. He carried two cups of coffee. Why had Timothy not seen his car?

  ‘Detective …’ Timothy said.

  ‘Neiderhoffer,’ Neiderhoffer said.

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  Neiderhoffer walked up the driveway toward him. ‘I was hoping I could catch you before work. You have a few minutes?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To chat.’ He shrugged. ‘You know, about your wife.’ He held up the two coffees. ‘I brought you some Joe. To make it worth your while.’

  They sat at the kitchen table, Timothy still in his bathrobe. The detective flipped though a small notepad.

  ‘How have you been holding up?’ Neiderhoffer asked.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Good, good. Because I know how hard it must be for you.’ He stared at his pad intently. ‘By the way, ever find out who your wife’s last doctor was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because she must have changed doctors, right?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Timothy said.

  ‘That’s a strange story. The day before she dies, your wife calls you and says she’s very sick. But her regular doctor – Dr., um …’ He flipped through his notes. ‘Dr. Charles – he hasn’t seen your wife in a year, and the last time she visited him, she was in perfect health.’

  ‘She must have switched doctors, like you said.’

  ‘Yes, that’s one explanation,’ Neiderhoffer said.

  For the first time, Timothy realized that Neiderhoffer was not there simply to check on him and bring him coffee. ‘What’s the other explanation?’

  ‘Maybe she wasn’t sick after all.’

  Timothy said, ‘But she told me she was.’

  Neiderhoffer looked up at him. ‘Yes, when she called you that morning. That mysterious but very illuminating phone call. The one where she told you she was about to commit suicide. Yes, I remember.’ Neiderhoffer looked down at his pad and scribbled something. Almost as an afterthought, he asked: ‘Would you mind if we subpoenaed the telephone company and looked at your phone records?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Neiderhoffer nodded, as if Timothy’s answer pleased him. ‘Okay, good.’ He flipped through his pad, continued reading his notes. Neiderhoffer said, ‘I finally went down to Big Sur. Beautiful place. Can you believe, I grew up in San Jose but never even visited? Isn’t that funny? I guess it’s true what they say, that you never notice the things that are most familiar to you.’

  He waited for Timothy to say something.

  ‘So,’ Neiderhoffer said, ‘I finally got down there. You know, just to make sure everything was copasetic.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Sure. You went down to the Ventana Inn, had a – what is it?—a ‘Sea Enzyme Organic Mask’ with your wife, ate in the restaurant, got a massage from a man named Tony, stayed in the Lodge two nights. It all checks out.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  ‘Just a few things that stuck out. I showed your picture to the hotel staff. On Sunday, you pulled into the hotel reception area. A bellboy remembers you. You made quite an impression on him. Handed him a twenty, asked him to watch your car. You were very sweaty, he said, and out of breath. And, you were, um, alone. No wife in the car.’

  ‘Oh that’s silly. Katherine forgot her sunglasses at the hotel. She sent me back to look for them.’

  Neiderhoffer scribbled something in his pad. ‘Did you talk to anyone at the hotel about the sunglasses? The front desk?’

  ‘No.’

  Neiderhoffer nodded.

  ‘And I had to piss,’ Timothy said.

  ‘Okay. We all have to piss on occasion. But you can understand why it seems … interesting.’

  ‘No I can’t. What exactly are you implying? That I murdered my wife, and then drove back to the hotel in an empty car and made a fuss? Why would I do that?’

  ‘Relax, Mr. Van Bender, no one said anything about murder. This is just a missing persons case. Take it easy.’

  ‘Fine,’ Timothy said. He sipped his coffee and noticed his hand was shaking. He put the cup down before Neiderhoffer could see.

  ‘The other thing,’ Neiderhoffer said, ‘is the necklace.’

  ‘What necklace?’ But of course Timothy knew exactly which necklace Neiderhoffer spoke of.

  ‘The sales lady at, what was it? – let’s see, Michael Sherman Jewelry Design, distinctly remembers you. Apparently you made quite an impression there, too. Walked into the store, bought a fifteen-thousand-dollar piece of jewelry for your wife after shopping for sixty seconds. Your wife wasn’t with you, of course.’

  ‘She was in the restaurant.’

  ‘Right, it was a surprise. That’s what the woman said. Apparently you were very memorable. The woman at the store couldn’t stop talking about you. Fifteen thousand dollars in two minutes. Diamonds and sapphires. You stood out. Like you wanted to be remembered.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean anything,’ Neiderhoffer said. ‘But it could mean that you wanted to show everyone how much you loved your wife. Fifteen thousand dollars’ worth. That’s probably a lot of money, even for someone like you.’

  ‘I loved my wife very much,�
� Timothy said. He was angry now. He wanted to glare at Neiderhoffer, to make eye contact, to stare him down, to let him see who was in charge.

  He stared, but Neiderhoffer did not stare back. The detective’s attention was drawn to something else – something behind Timothy.

  Timothy turned to follow his glance. Behind him, in the doorway of the kitchen, stood Tricia. She was dressed in a gray skirt and white blouse. Around her neck she wore the diamond and sapphire necklace.

  34

  ‘Good morning,’ Neiderhoffer said pleasantly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world that a twenty-something-year-old girl was sleeping in a middle-aged widower’s house, weeks after his wife’s death, wearing the dead wife’s jewelry.

  ‘Hi,’ Tricia said. She gave Timothy an uncertain look. Who was this man in their house? She walked to Timothy and kissed him on the lips.

  Timothy turned away from the kiss. ‘Tricia Fountain,’ Timothy said, ‘this is Detective Neiderhoffer. He’s investigating my wife Katherine’s disappearance.’

  She sat down. ‘I thought your wife was dead.’

  ‘She is,’ Timothy said. He realized that he sounded a bit too insistent about this point. So, more gently, he said: ‘But I guess it’s still an open case.’

  ‘Just a formality,’ Neiderhoffer said.

  ‘I see,’ Tricia said.

  Neiderhoffer studied her. ‘You must be …’ He let his voice trail off.

  ‘I worked with Timothy.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘His secretary. But not anymore.’

  Neiderhoffer nodded. ‘I see.’

  Timothy expected more – further probing, further testing by Neiderhoffer. But Neiderhoffer shut down. He closed his pad, rose from the table, and slipped his notepad into his jacket pocket. ‘Well, I’m sorry for the intrusion. I know you need to be getting to work.’

  ‘Yes,’ Timothy said. ‘Sure.’

  Neiderhoffer started toward the front door. Timothy followed close behind, leaving Tricia in the kitchen.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Ms. Fountain,’ Neiderhoffer called over his shoulder. Timothy kept walking, hoping that by barreling ahead, he might speed Neiderhoffer’s exit, too. ‘I look forward to speaking to you again.’