I slid her door open and prayed I’d do the right thing, whatever that was. The kids bounded toward the officer with so much enthusiasm he could have claimed self-defense. Instead, he chuckled as I cautioned them to slow down and walk with me. He introduced himself as Detective Walters and shook our hands.
“Mrs. Valentine?” he asked.
“Yes.” I preferred Ms., but I didn’t correct him. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but I need to get them settled inside, and then we can talk. Feel free to have a seat on the porch, and I’ll be right back. Is that okay?”
“Yes ma’am.”
While he waited, I ushered the kids inside to the only child care available: snacks and TV. I moved a baby monitor to the den and carried another outside so we could talk in private.
Detective Walters had the law enforcement look. Buzz cut. Trimmed mustache. Respectful but stern expression. He appeared in his fifties and exuded fatherly vibes that put me at ease.
I told him the story and handed him a card from the auto shop. “So what do you think?” I asked nervously. “I know it sounds crazy. But it’s true.”
“Let’s call them,” he said, pulling out a cell phone. “See what they have to say.” He squinted at the card, dialed, identified himself to someone, and listened without giving anything away.
“You’re right,” he said when he hung up. “Your van was shot.” It was exactly what I expected, and yet I couldn’t believe it. He probably couldn’t either. “The bullet went right through the tread and into the wheel well, which is great, because the bullet’s intact.”
My mouth hung open in what must have been a particularly attractive look.
As he asked questions and I answered honestly, I realized he was focused primarily on physical evidence (he mentioned casings), potential witnesses, and gangs. We discussed Marcus’s shooting and the little I knew.
The subject of Kenna’s adoption didn’t come up, and although it was potentially relevant, I was too scared to go there without her permission. Plus, gangs were infamous for intimidating witnesses, Walters said, and I couldn’t imagine anyone thinking I was a real threat to find Beth. Who knew I was even looking for her? April, April’s mom, the convenience store owner, a mailman, her neighbors, and anyone those people told. Uh oh. The list was longer than I thought.
“Ma’am?” Detective Walters got my attention. “Is there anything you’d like to add?”
I took his card and promised to call if there was.
“I’m going to have someone from the gang unit get in touch,” he said. “They’ll give you advice on dealing with this stuff. And we’ll probably send someone from the lab to check around for casings or bullets. Meanwhile, be smart. If you don’t have to be alone, don’t be. And see if the kids can stay somewhere else.”
By the time Mom pulled up, Walters was gone, and my nerves were raw. Unfortunately, as much as I wanted to miss PI class and stay home with the kids, I had to go. There were no makeup classes. And I needed to talk to Dean.
Mom was understandably panicked by the entire thing and begged me to give up. She even played the Mommy card—mine, not hers. “What about Jack and Sophie? You’re willing to put them in danger over this?”
“I know. I know.” I put my head in my hands. “I think it’s too late to turn back. I was already at Marcus’s shooting, and I’m sure that’s what this is about. I can’t turn back time and not be there. And I don’t think looking for Beth is going to hurt anyone. But not looking for her could hurt a lot of people.”
Mom shook her head in disapproval. “I don’t like what you’re doing,” she said.
“I don’t either. But you’ll help me—and Kenna and Beth—anyway?”
“No.” My stomach dropped. “But I’ll help the kids. Lord knows what you’d get them into without me.”
A wave of heat rose from my chest to my face. I’d never knowingly put them in danger, I wanted to argue. But truthfully, I wasn’t sure I could defend my choices, and without her help, I’d have to quit. I bit my tongue and said, “Okay.”
Mom followed up with an offer I wanted to refuse but couldn’t. She’d take the kids to her un-childproofed, full of fragile objects, “be quiet because the neighbors are grumpy” condo, and they’d return when the coast was clear. I couldn’t bear the thought of turning them over. She was a wonderful, caring grandmother, but she hadn’t raised a kid since babies slept on their stomachs, kindergarteners walked to school alone, and superhero cartoon characters had values. There was a steep learning curve and big margin for error.
After packing, transferring car seats to her Lexus, and deciding how the visit would go (trips to the park, eating out, swimming, watching too many DVDs, and sleeping in Mom’s bed so everyone would stay in one place), I released the kids into her care. I cried as they drove away, waving enthusiastically, as if I—and everything else—was okay.
I showed up at PI class a mess. An emotional mess at the very least, but not physically impressive, either. I’d broken into multiple sweats through the day, driven a stinky rental car, and “freshened up” by throwing on blush and face powder.
Dean, meanwhile, looked so good I wanted to crawl under my desk and hide. At the same time, I knew I’d have to do the opposite—approach him after class for a serious face-to-face, so I might as well buck up and act confident. As long as I learned something and he didn’t visibly recoil, I’d consider the class a success.
“We’ll divide into pairs today,” he told everyone. “Each two-person team will take a car. You’ll link up with another two-person team by walkie talkie. It’s your job to cooperate with your partners and trail our volunteer targets today. But you can’t let them spot you. If they identify who’s following them, or you lose them, not good.”
The first target, Dean explained, was a female FBI agent driving a silver Ford SUV. The other was a retired police officer with a black GMC pickup. Both were parked on nearby major roads waiting to be followed. They’d cruise around for a while and finally lead the teams back to the academy.
I braced myself as Dean called out assignments. I was fine with almost anyone in the group except Jeremy, a kid in his twenties who asked too many questions and never had the right answers. He was also obsessed with cop shows and talked about them incessantly. I’d heard there were a lot of law enforcement wannabes (or can’t be’s) in the PI and security industries, and maybe he was one of them.
The other guy I wanted to avoid was Scott. He was a quiet, mop-headed security guard who was already looking at me every time I glanced his way. Creepy. My only comfort was that in Virginia, becoming a PI requires a thorough background check, including fingerprinting. I tried to forget that plenty of horrible criminals had clean records before they were caught.
Early on, Dean called my name and first choice for a partner, Dorothy, a retired accountant with a tell-it-like-it-is attitude and special interest in financial investigations. We didn’t have much in common, but we were the only women in the class, and that was bond enough. I desperately hoped she’d drive, because I was too preoccupied to focus well. I also wasn’t familiar enough with my rental car.
We were teamed with a retired DEA agent and Jeremy, with whom we’d follow Ginny, the FBI agent. She was described as 5’10”, 130 pounds, blond and wearing a pink sundress. Sounded like we might not be the only people checking her out. We were given her license plate, location, and expected departure time.
“Let’s go out to the parking lot,” Dean told everyone. “Take your valuables with you and give me a head start. I’m riding with Ginny.” Amber, the receptionist, would ride with the other target.
The pressure was on as Dorothy and I headed out. She asked if she could drive while I worked the walkie talkie and navigated.
“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Where’s your car?”
She pointed to a dark green Ho
nda CR-V. Not the best in terms of visibility, but not the worst either.
I climbed in and admired what I didn’t see: trash, juice boxes, receipts, pens, change, coupons, snacks, CDs, library books, barrettes, and other items that resided in my van. Not even dust! I expressed my awe.
“It’s retirement, honey,” she explained. “I’m so bored that cleaning is fun.” Boredom was a foreign concept to me. So was organization. I doubted either one would change.
“Is that why you’re becoming a PI?”
“That’s part of it,” she said as she checked her rearview mirror.
I wanted to know her other reasons, but we had to focus on the task at hand. I contacted Jeremy and Brent.
“We’re pulling out,” I told them.
“Right behind you.”
I swiveled my head and saw Jeremy driving a blue sedan. At least Brent would do all the talking.
“We have the eyeball,” I reported, using lingo we’d learned in class. That meant we had the target in sight. “She’s parked at a convenience store on the corner.” I glanced at Dorothy’s navigation system and called out cross streets.
“We’ll pull into a lot across the street,” Brent said. “You take her side. No matter which way she goes, someone can follow her.”
“Sounds good,” I replied. Dorothy pulled into a nearby lot in view of the store’s exit. We didn’t have a direct sightline to Ginny’s car, but there was no way she’d leave without being seen, unless she was on foot. Jeremy and Brent confirmed they’d watch from across the street.
When Brent said Ginny was on the move, we waited until she’d pulled into traffic, and then we hung several cars back at a stoplight. Once she was a little further ahead, we practiced surveillance tricks, such as pulling over briefly so Brent’s car could take the eyeball while we tailed him.
When Ginny turned, Brent went straight and did a U-turn, and we took the eyeball. Switching back and forth was so helpful that it was daunting to imagine doing mobile surveillance alone.
It was my job to be especially observant while Dorothy drove, so I couldn’t help noticing Dean laughing a lot with Ginny. She mostly kept her eyes on the road, but he kept turning to look at her. Occasionally she’d throw her ponytailed head back to guffaw.
“So do you think you’ll do much surveillance as a PI?” I asked Dorothy. I had the impression she was destined for bigger things.
“Not a chance,” she answered. “Too much time on my ass. I’ve already got hemorrhoids.” We laughed. “I want to do undercover corporate work. What about you?”
“I’m not sure yet.” I needed to give it more thought. I told her what interested me so far—background checks, process serving, and surveillance. I longed to help with criminal investigations, too, but I wasn’t qualified. Looking for Beth drove that point home.
“What do you think about infidelity cases?” Dorothy asked, stopping my heart.
How could I separate Jason from my answer? Truth was, I’d been an idiot about him. The clues had been there, and I’d ignored them. I was so busy parenting that I’d been resentful, not suspicious, when he “worked late” or went out with “friends.” When we didn’t have sex, I was relieved. My days were full of breastfeeding, doing laundry, carrying kids, managing tantrums, drying tears (sometimes my own), and feeling mortified by the state of my house and body. If he wasn’t interested, I understood, and I assumed we’d work it out when life calmed down. Eventually the kids would go to preschool, I’d get the house and myself in shape, and we’d reconnect. Ha.
If I’d given our marriage the attention it deserved, maybe we would have been okay. At the very least, I wouldn’t have been blindsided. Sucker punched. Decimated.
Poor Dorothy had no idea she’d opened a can of worms.
“I’ve got some personal feelings about infidelity cases,” I confessed, a rare occurrence for me. “So I probably wouldn’t be the best investigator for that job.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, hon. It’s not my business, but whatever some two-timer did to you might make you a better PI.” She gave me a sympathetic glance. I looked out the window.
“I think it brings back too many...,” I choked on memories. How embarrassing. I hardly knew Dorothy, and here I was on the verge of tears. I thought I was over this. Or getting over it. As much as anyone can get over loss and betrayal. “You know what?” I said. I forced my eyes back to Ginny and Dean’s car. “You have a point. I have to be optimistic.”
Eventually Ginny turned back toward the academy, followed by us and then Brent and Jeremy. We parked a good distance from the strip mall and watched her and Dean walk into the office—all smiles.
“They’re hot stuff,” Dorothy said. “I wonder if they’re an item.” She wiggled her eyebrows comically.
I smiled, feeling a little depressed. I hoped not.
Seventeen
Back at my desk, I listened to Dean evaluate the teams. I also unsuccessfully searched Ginny’s appearance for flaws. Tall, blond, athletic, tan, a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and shoulders. She looked like she belonged on a surfboard, not in the FBI.
“Okay. Team one. Nicki, Dorothy, Brent, and Jeremy. Nice job. Ginny never spotted you.”
I perked up. We hadn’t been seen! I was proud until I realized that with Dean in the car, it would be hard for Ginny to notice much else.
“Anything to add?” he asked her.
“Nope.” She wagged her perfect ponytail. “They did a great job.”
“We’d like to hear a report from you guys, though, about what you observed.” He looked at each of us. “Anyone?”
Brent spoke up, thank goodness. He described where Ginny and Dean had driven and when. He even identified the candy she’d bought at the convenience store. (Snickers.) He must have used binoculars.
“Looked like you two were having fun,” he threw in.
“More than we were,” Dorothy added. I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted.
Dean launched into a short lecture on the realities of investigation. Most cases require patience and persistence. Surveillance can be boring and uncomfortable. If you want a car chase or shootout every week, he said, watch TV. That must have resonated with Jeremy.
Dean congratulated our team and sat down while Amber and her partner, who had spotted the other team, gave constructive criticism. One of their cars had gotten lost while the other followed too closely. I guess we’d done well.
Dean suggested everyone take a break while he walked the targets out. After eating two maple-nut granola bars and checking my appearance in the bathroom, I chatted with Amber in the reception area, hoping I’d see Dean say goodbye to Ginny—preferably without much affection.
“Did you guys have fun today?” she asked.
“We did. I still can’t believe Ginny didn’t spot us.”
I glanced out the window and saw her talking with Dean and giving him a quick hug. Hmm. Inconclusive.
“Do you know what she does for the FBI?” I asked.
“I think background investigations. She’s really sweet.” Hmm again.
Dean was approaching so I squeezed in one more question. “How did you guys get her to help with this?”
“I don’t know.”
He pulled open the door. Somehow his muscular arms didn’t rip it off its hinges.
“Hey Dean?” Amber asked. “How’d we get Ginny to help today?”
He shrugged. “I just asked.” I bet he was used to that.
The afternoon flew by since I was worried about talking with Dean after class.
“Nicki,” he said as I slowly got up from my desk, letting the other students filter out. “First, congratulations on your mobile surveillance today.” He pulled chairs together for us.
“Thanks.” I sat down and put my shoulder bag on the flo
or. “But I bet you saw us, since you knew who was following Ginny. How’d we really do?”
“No, you did great,” he said. “Really.”
“Well I’ve gotten some practice lately.”
“I know. What’s the latest on West Virginia?”
I described observing the Rush neighborhood and following Dr. Rush to Asheleigh Manor.
“I’d give it one more night,” he said. “If you don’t spot anything, you’re gonna have to talk to people. You’re just running out of time.”
That sounded awful. Beth was running out of time. And I had no experience interviewing people. I admitted my lack of confidence.
“If I could go with you,” he said, “I would. But my schedule is crazy. I’m teaching classes and my caseload is full.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I wasn’t asking you to go with me. But there’s something else I need to tell you. It’s kind of shocking.”
He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head.
For some reason I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Someone shot my car.”
“What?!” I was right. It was shocking.
“It’s okay. I mean I’m okay. My kids are okay, thank God. Even my car’s okay.” Without thinking, I reached out and touched his arm reassuringly. Then I realized what I’d done and retracted it as if I’d burned myself. Smooth. “The bullet just went through my tire.”
He leaned forward and spoke decisively. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“Okay.” I inhaled. “Someone drove by my house, and they shot my van. It was a red Mustang. Two door. Like maybe from the ’80s. I heard someone yell something, though. It sounded like a young guy.”
“You saw it happen?”
“I was getting out of my van. In my driveway last night.”
“Whoa,” he said. “It’s time to back off.” He made sure I’d reported everything and asked how I was doing.
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