by Mary Feliz
“Was that you? Is someone bothering you? Is he the one who drives the Range Rover?”
She turned to me, her eyes damp with tears. Her chin jutted out and she crossed her arms in front of her. “I told him it was over. I told him I was done and to leave me alone.”
“But he drives through the neighborhood all the time and revs the motor so you’ll know he’s here.”
Santana nodded.
I kept my eyes on the road. We weren’t far from the junior college, and I was afraid that if we arrived before the conversation was finished, Santana would leave the car and I’d miss my opportunity to learn about her stalker or help her in any way.
“That’s stalking, Santana, and it’s illegal. Is he dangerous? You can report him. The police need to know.”
“Uh-uh. No way. You can’t tell.”
“I could phone the police for you, if you’re afraid to, or if you’ve promised you won’t.”
Santana squirmed in her seat. “You can’t tell. Promise me you won’t. Promise. It will only make things worse.”
She was crying in earnest now, so I assured her I wouldn’t report her situation to the police. “I’ve already told them about the car, though. I thought it could be a clue to Sarah’s murder.”
Once we were on the campus, Santana directed me through a maze of alleyways to the student union near the center of campus. She looked behind my car before she opened the door.
“I checked, Santana. No one has followed us.”
She looked at me skeptically as she moved to open her door. “Um. Thanks for the ride.”
I leaned over the passenger seat. “Santana, wait.” She paused, looking again like a terrified, cornered animal.
I handed her one of my cards. “Call me if you need a ride anywhere. I want you to be safe. If you need help, call me or call the police.”
Santana took the card. “I think you’ve done enough already.” She swung her backpack onto her shoulder, slammed the door behind her, ducked behind a dumpster, and was gone.
I’d started to back up when a campus police car pulled up next to my bumper, preventing me from backing or making any kind of a turn.
A security officer in a green uniform stepped from the car and rapped on my window.
“Ma’am, you can’t park your car here. The alley is restricted to special permits for delivery vehicles.” He pointed to a sign saying the same thing in big red letters.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I was giving a neighbor a lift. She’s having trouble, uh . . .”
“Walking? We can get you a temporary disability permit if you need one, and there’s a drop-off spot you can use to get her closer to the building.”
“Thanks, I’m sure her regular driver has all that. I’m just filling in and didn’t know I needed any paperwork. I’m really sorry.”
“No problem, ma’am, but I won’t see you here again now that you know, right?”
I nodded. “That’s right, thank you.” He patted the roof of the car and started to walk away. “Officer?” I called after him. “Can you show me how to get out of here and back onto the main campus road? My neighbor gave me directions on the way in.”
He laughed. “I’ll back up my car and let you get turned around, and then you can follow me out. It is a bit of maze. I think it’s deliberate.”
I thanked him, followed him out, and then headed back home, thinking about Santana’s predicament. Dealing with young adults was tough. I wanted to respect Santana’s request and allow her to make her own adult decisions, but I was sure she was wrong not to involve the police. Stalkers often escalate into violent behavior with no warning. If Santana was working in the garden, it was likely that she was one of Boots’s projects—a former foster kid with no family support system. I should not have promised to keep her secret.
As I pulled into our driveway, though, I realized I’d promised Santana I wouldn’t say anything about her situation. Technically, that promise wouldn’t stop me from telling Paolo the little I now knew about the Range Rover’s driver. Knowing that he was in some way connected to Santana might help the police track him down. I dialed Paolo’s number, but before I could say anything about the Range Rover, Paolo started speaking quickly and with great enthusiasm.
“Maggie, I’m glad you called. I’ve got great news!”
Chapter 12
The best-laid plans go out the window in any emergency. Having an emergency plan sketched out and shared with every family member can help diminish the impact of any disaster and speed the return to normal. Some professional organizers specialize in creating tailored emergency plans to streamline and individualize that process.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald,
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Wednesday, November 5, 1:00 p.m.
“Linc’s been released and all the charges have been dropped,” Paolo said. “One of our patrol cars is taking him back to your house as we speak.”
“Thank heavens. But how on earth did that happen?”
Paolo laughed in a way that was almost a snicker . . . or even a giggle. “Don’t repeat any of this, but one of the assistant district attorneys was looking at the case, preparing for the arraignment, I guess, and had a question. She went to the district attorney, who blew a gasket because it was the first she’d heard about a high-profile murder case that she should have been pulled in on from the beginning. She found out that Apfel went to the judge for an arrest warrant behind her back. She was livid. Especially since there is really no evidence against Linc. I mean, there is a witness statement about conflicts between Linc and Sarah, but it’s weak at best. And we couldn’t find anyone else to corroborate the story. The DA tore ’em—er, blistered the ears of everyone from the chief and the mayor to Apfel himself.”
“Is Apfel gone?”
“If only. He’s furious. To hear him tell it, the DA is an upstart kid who gave him a slap on the wrist to flex her power. He says she let the murderer loose, and if Linc runs, it will be the DA’s fault.”
“But Linc isn’t going to run—he’s got all his research at Stanford.”
“I know. But Apfel’s trying to sell himself as the poor cop, working his fingers to the bone, only to have his hands tied by the prosecutor’s office. I overheard him laughing with some of the older guys on the force who were teasing him about being schooled by a woman.”
“She’s the district attorney. How far is he going to go before his old-school politics catch up with him?”
“Exactly. Cops have to work with the prosecutors. We don’t always get along, but everything goes more smoothly when we at least respect each other and the procedures. The way Apfel is throwing his weight around will make it more difficult to work with anyone in the prosecutor’s office in the future. They’ve got long memories too. It will take eons to repair the damage.”
“So what happens now?”
“Same as before. Apfel keeps harassing Linc, trying to stir up some new evidence, and I keep working the case to find Sarah’s real killer.”
“What about media coverage?” I asked. “Are the news crews going to be harassing Linc too? Has he made any statements? Has Apfel?” I heard crunching from the other end of the phone.
“Sorry, Maggie. I don’t mean to chew in your ear, but I’ve got an energy bar. I can’t remember when I last ate. I just needed to call you right away.”
“That’s okay, Paolo, I understand. You need to eat. So, about the media. Should I expect to have news trucks blocking my road? That will make my neighbor Dennis very unhappy.”
“I doubt it,” Paolo said. “That’s why one of our patrol officers is driving Linc to your house—there was a big media presence here when they released him, but if there is any more coverage, I think they’ll focus on Stanford or Linc’s home address. They don’t have a way to connect you and Linc. You should be fine.”
I hoped so, but knowing how easy it was for me to find information about the three men I’d met in the lab,
I doubted that resourceful news crews would be kept away for long.
“Thanks for calling,” I said. “I hope you find the real killer soon, so Apfel and the news crews will leave Linc alone. He’s grieving. He doesn’t need to be harassed.”
“I’m on it,” Paolo said and ended the call.
Immediately afterwards, I realized I hadn’t had a chance to tell Paolo about the driver of the Range Rover. I phoned him back, but before I could leave a voice mail, send a text, or write an email, the dogs started barking and Newton pawed at the door. He dashed from one window seat to another, scratching on the glass as if he meant to go through it.
All the barks were happy ones, though. Linc was home.
It was a tumultuous homecoming. Even moving around the house was difficult, because Newton glued himself to Linc’s trouser leg and went wherever Linc did. Some of our doorways and hallways weren’t quite wide enough to accommodate a large man and his enormous and exuberant dog.
* * *
Thursday morning we repeated our routine from Tuesday, with Max taking David to the high school and me dropping off first Brian and then Linc and Newton. Linc was anxious to get back in the lab and asked me to drive him there.
We saw one news truck interviewing Walt Quintana in front of Linc’s lab, so I went to the loading dock on the opposite side of the building. I waited while Linc swiped his card and opened the door. Linc hadn’t had a chance to talk to any of his departmental or university administrators about his arrest or Sarah’s murder. Neither one of us was sure whether his card would still work.
Later, after I’d been to the grocery store, put away the groceries, made fresh coffee, and was thinking about hiking one of the trails behind the house with Belle, my cell phone rang. It was Linc.
“Hi, Linc,” I said. “Are you settling in at the lab? Dodging reporters?”
He didn’t answer immediately and I grew alarmed. “What’s wrong? Are you there?” As I said the words, I felt sheepish. I’d overreacted. It was probably just a bad connection with a long delay.
“I’m fine, Maggie. I’ve had a little trouble with my bicycle, I’m afraid. I took a tumble and Newton’s hurt. I’m reluctant to ask for another favor, but would you be willing to pick us up at the house and take us back to campus? My vet isn’t far from here, but I don’t think Newton will be comfortable walking.”
“I’ll be right there,” I said, knowing from experience with the kids that it was more important for me to arrive quickly in a crisis than it was to have answers to all my immediate questions.
“Don’t hang up, Maggie. Are you still there?”
“Still here,” I said as I scrambled for my keys and my backpack.
“Do you have an old sheet or a beach towel we can put on the seat for Newt? I don’t want him to stain your car.”
“I’ll find something.” I hung up the phone and tore down the basement steps to the laundry room. I’d cleared out our oldest and most worn sheets before we’d moved, not thinking that moving often requires painting, and painting requires tarps and cleaning rags. But the kids had changed their beds over the weekend, and I’d thrown the clean ones in the dryer this morning. I reached in and grabbed an armful of red and blue plaid cotton and raced back up the stairs. I wasn’t too worried about my car’s upholstery—I knew a million ways to remove bloodstains.
Fresh, clean sheets would be better than old rags or towels at sopping up blood without introducing foreign material into Newton’s wounds. I tried not to worry as I drove as carefully as I could, repeating a police driving-course mantra that Jason Mueller had once told my boys: “Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast.” The phrase had originated in the armed services, he’d told them, and referred to aiming and shooting a firearm. But it applied equally well to driving.
What he didn’t say was that slow is also really difficult. I cursed under my breath at every red light and slow driver and tried not to think about Newton bleeding out. I pulled in front of Linc’s house on the wrong side of the street, just as the black Range Rover had done.
I saw Linc and Newton on the front lawn. Newton whimpered and tried to lick his flank where he’d lost both fur and skin across an area nearly as large as a dinner plate. While most of the wound had the meat-like appearance of bad road rash and would be painful but not serious, several lacerations were deeper and oozing blood. Linc was using his sweatshirt to apply pressure. His bicycle lay abandoned on the grass with its front wheel bent like a taco. One of the pedals was missing.
I opened the back hatch of the SUV and pulled out the sheets, dropping a pair of my underwear on the pavement in the process. I had no time for shyness. I picked up the pink microfiber blob and stuffed it in my pocket.
“Let’s wrap him up and move him into the back, Linc. You can sit in there with him to keep him quiet. Do you know if anything’s broken?”
“His leg, maybe. He cried when I touched it. But it could just be that abrasion. It’s bad.”
Newton thumped his tail and licked my hand as I worked to tuck the sheet under him. I knew that even the most loving dog could bite when in pain, but Linc was here and I hoped that would calm the wolfhound.
“Linc, can you move up by his head? I trust Newton, but if we hurt him when we move him, he’s less likely to bite you than he is me.”
Linc looked shocked and moved slowly.
“What about you? Do you have anything broken?”
Linc looked gray and sweaty and didn’t answer. Uh-oh. I needed to get both of these patients medical care as quickly as possible. I didn’t think I needed to call 911, but I didn’t like the look of Linc’s ashen skin and his swollen left wrist and thumb.
When we picked up Newton, using one of the sheets as a stretcher, I was glad I’d brought the newer sheets. Discarded linen could have easily ripped and dropped poor Newton in the street. As it was, we moved the now-shivering dog gently into the back of my SUV as if we’d been canine EMTs all our lives. Linc jumped in after Newton, and I flipped the levers on the backseats to make more room for both of them before I got behind the wheel. Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast.
I didn’t want to inflict more pain or injury on either one of my passengers as I sped to the vet’s office on El Camino. “Linc, call ahead and let them know we’re coming. Describe Newt’s injuries as best you can.”
I knew the vet was theoretically open twenty-four hours, but I was certain Newton was going to need anesthesia before anyone could get the deeply imbedded road debris out of his road rash or stitch him up safely. I wanted to be sure that every doctor and technician Newt needed would be there to take care of him when we arrived. Linc would want to stay with his dog—his only remaining family member besides Sarah’s cat—but I was going to ask the vet techs to help me determine whether he needed trauma care of his own.
Chapter 13
When you’re in the care of emergency professionals, take note of the way their pockets and equipment storage are organized and labeled. Relax, you’re in good hands.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald,
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Thursday, November 6, 10:00 a.m.
The veterinary team whisked Newton away for X-rays, stitches, and whatever else he needed. Linc had completed the required paperwork and had his own wounds assessed by a vet tech who said he’d seen worse wounds on those who’d tried to give a de-skunking bath to a feral cat. I still didn’t like the look of his left hand, but no amount of urging on my part made him agree to let me have a “people doctor” take a look.
I’d encouraged him to leave his cell number with the front desk and take a break to grab some fresh clothes that weren’t covered with Newton’s blood. When he insisted on staying, the staff found him a set of scrubs to change into so that he wouldn’t scare the other patrons. And we waited, while I tried to distract Linc from his worries.
He didn’t take his eyes from the swinging doors through which Newton had disappeared.
“Why don’t they tel
l us anything?” he asked. I had no answer to give him. Instead, I tried to distract him with questions of my own.
“Do you want to tell me what really happened here?” I asked. “I’m no physicist, but it seems to me that Newton’s injuries tell a story that involves way more force than a simple fall or skid on a bicycle. Did someone hit you?”
Linc adjusted his glasses and looked around the room before meeting my gaze. He pushed back his hair and flushed. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I should have told you.”
“You were hit.” I frowned and pulled my cell phone from my pocket to show him my pictures of the Range Rover.
“Is this the car?” I asked. “A black Range Rover? Did it hit you? Have you seen it before?”
Linc peered at the screen. “I don’t think so. The car that hit us was a pickup truck. Silver, I think. Not one of those little imported ones and not one of the giant ones with huge tires. Just a standard big truck. Probably American. Like a cowboy would drive. I think it was reasonably clean.”
Reasonably clean was a pretty precise descriptor. In the middle of the drought, most people were foregoing washing their cars until they had to worry about soiling their clothes if they brushed against the side panels. Clean cars were few and far between.
I typed his thorough description into the notes app on my phone.
“Would you recognize it if you saw it again? Have you seen it anywhere before?” I asked.
Linc put his hands on his thighs in an unsuccessful effort to stop his knees from jiggling. “I’d recognize it again. But I don’t think I’ve seen it before. Or, if I have, there was no reason for it to stand out. Show me the picture again. Why did you think that was the guy that hit us?”
“I’ve seen him near your house,” I said, deciding to hold off on telling him about the connection to Santana until I had to. “I was cleaning out the garage yesterday and he drove by twice.” I leaned back in the turquoise plastic chair and let out a frustrated sigh. “He’s super obnoxious. If he’d sped by when you were home, you would have noticed. He revs the engine to get attention, squeals the tires, and drives down the street at about twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. Then he parks on the wrong side of the street in front of your house.”