“Except for the smoked windows, yeah. All I can see is a silhouette with shades.”
“Where are you, Rose?”
“I’m still at the courthouse. I called Ellen Robb and told her about it. Tink, this has really got me spooked. I mean, the timing and everything. I’m supposed to go back down to Albuquerque for the trial in five weeks.”
“And you think someone is trying to dissuade you from doing that?”
“That’s what Ellen thinks. Listen, can you meet me at the NPS offices in about half an hour?”
“I’ll do better than that,” I told her. “I’ll meet you at the courthouse in ten minutes and escort you there.”
“Woo-woo!” she said gamely. “A one-Harley motorcade.”
“Don’t diss Boris. One Harley is better than half a dozen lesser machines.”
I sounded flip, but I was seriously worried. So, it turned out, was Ellen Robb, whom I met for the first time when I delivered Rose to her office in the business district.
Ellen was a tall, trim, well-honed woman in her mid-forties with gold-spangled red hair and bright green eyes. She wore her dark, pin-striped pantsuit well, looking like a seasoned Agent Dana Scully. She inspired instant envy in one who could not don a suit without looking like a tween playing dress-up.
Ellen had a firm, warm handshake and a no-nonsense aura of silken confidence that I decided was worth study. “Thanks for riding shotgun for Rose,” she told me when we’d seated ourselves around a small, round conference table in her office. “She told me about her tail. I’d like to hear your impressions—any details you can offer.”
I went over what had happened with Cruz Veras, the information we found about him, described the interview at Café Lucca, and noted that we hadn’t seen him for the better part of a week. Then Rose took over, narrating what had happened on her way to the deposition.
“He must have pulled up on my left flank five or six times during the drive to the courthouse. There were a couple of times he wandered pretty damn close to the side of my car. Then he got behind me and tailgated me off the ramp and all the way to the parking garage. He didn’t try to enter the garage—he would’ve had to have a special pass. And I didn’t see him when we left to come here.” She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “When I’d look over at him—when he’d pull up beside me—he’d turn his head toward me. I could see the silhouette change. And I caught the glint of light off his sunglasses. It was beyond creepy.” She looked up and met her boss’s eyes. “Ellen, I feel like such a coward. I’m a trained agent, for God’s sake. I’m supposed to be prepared for danger.”
“Don’t apologize, Rose. This isn’t the kind of danger you signed up for when you took the job. This is . . . personal.”
Rose slumped back in her chair as if she’d been absolved of the need to hold her backbone at attention. She shook her head, “I’ve been in graveyards and burial mounds at night dealing with hostile pothunters, Ellen. But this . . . this was scarier than that.”
Ellen Robb was silent for a few moments, then said, “I think the timing of this is highly suspicious. The Blankenships’ defense attorneys knew exactly where you’d be this morning. On the surface, it looks like a clumsy attempt to make us think twice about sending you to Albuquerque to testify.”
“And will you?” I asked. “Think twice about having her testify?”
Ellen and Rose exchanged glances.
“We could just go with the depositions,” Ellen said.
Rose objected. “No way. If any questions arise over my testimony and I’m not there to clarify . . .”
“I know. It gives the defense every opportunity to toy with your testimony. But Rose, we have no idea how far this intimidation might go.”
Rose shook her head as if trying to lose a troubling thought. “Maybe it is just a clumsy ploy, like you said. Regardless, just because they freaked me out does not mean I am going let them stop me. I am going to Phoenix for the Bridges sting and I am going to Albuquerque and testifying.”
Ellen rose and went to her desk, where she picked up the phone and placed a call.
“Mr. Crandall, please,” she said when she connected. Her voice was all business. “This is Chief Agent Ellen Robb of the National Park Service in San Francisco.” She was silent for a moment while something presumably happened on the other end of the line, then said, “Mr. Crandall. I have a very pointed question to ask you and I would advise you to be completely honest in your answer. This is regarding Blankenship versus the State of New Mexico, for which you deposed Agent Delgado this morning. Has your office placed my agent under surveillance?”
She listened to his response, then said, “I ask because this morning on her way to her interview with you, someone followed Ms. Delgado from her house to the courthouse. Someone who very clearly intended that she notice she was being followed. You haven’t engaged anyone for this purpose?”
I heard the phone squawk from where I was sitting. Ellen held it out from her ear.
“Do not bark at me, sir. I’m concerned for my agent’s well-being. Is there a possibility your client might have arranged for such surveillance?” She paced away from the desk and back again in the time it took him to consider that, then concluded the conversation with, “I think it would be in your best interests to find out, sir.”
She hung up and contemplated the phone for a moment before returning to the conference table and facing Rose.
“I think Mr. Crandall is sincerely concerned about the situation. He swears his firm is completely innocent of hiring anyone to follow you. I don’t think he’s quite as certain of his client. I suspect he’s probably talking to the Blankenships right this moment. Meanwhile, I don’t want to find out the hard way that this is more than a pitiful attempt to intimidate you, Rose. I’d like to hire someone to keep an eye on you.”
Rose grimaced. “A bodyguard?”
“I could assign one of the other field operatives to you.”
“Oh, Ellen, I don’t want that. I’d feel as if they were babysitting me. I’m a grown woman. A trained agent. I ought to be able to take care of myself. As often as I’ve been in the field—”
“An agent should never go into the field alone, Rose. You need backup. You have a better idea?”
If Rose caught the veiled rebuke for not speaking up sooner about her stalker(s), she gave no indication of it. Her eyes pounced on me like a pair of hungry black kitties. “Gina. Gina’s a licensed private investigator. She’s already helped me unhorse one undercover stalker. We could hire her to keep an eye on me. She’s my best friend so we’re together a lot anyway. It won’t even seem suspicious to anyone watching me.”
Ellen’s eyes shifted slowly to me.
Oh, good. The skeptical once-over twice in one day. I kept my expression neutral and interested and my chin up.
“You’re right,” Ellen Robb said after surprisingly little thought. “It’s the perfect solution. She’s close enough to you not to draw suspicion, and—I have to say—you don’t look much like a detective, Gina.”
I merely raised an eyebrow.
She smiled. “That’s a good thing, in my opinion. What are your rates?”
“Usually five hundred per diem, but—”
She raised a slender hand. “No ‘buts.’ You’re a professional. Your rates are your rates. The Park Service will pay them. I’ll authorize an advance to retain your services—will a week’s pay be sufficient? Good, I’ll have the admin cut you a check, then we’ll put you on a weekly retainer. You’ll be able to fly to New Mexico for the trial next month?”
“You bet.” I decided I liked doing business with Ellen Robb. She didn’t make me feel as if I should apologize for expecting to be paid. Fact was, I had very little going on just then. A couple of easy insurance cases, a possible exploitation of workers’ compensation benefits I was checking into for a local janitorial service, and that delinquent dad I was still keeping tabs on.
“I’d like to do a little additional
sleuthing, if you don’t mind,” I told Ellen Robb. “I’d like to see if the person who’s following Rose now is the same one we skunked out in the park last week. No extra charge.”
Ellen Robb chuckled. “Sounds like a good idea. But if you come up with two stalkers, I may pay a bonus.”
“One more thing,” Rose said, her brow creasing. “I’ve never had a case follow me home like this. So far, this surveillance has all been focused on me. But I’m a little nervous about Dave and the kids. It’s probably not justified, but . . .”
Ellen nodded her understanding. “I’ll make arrangements for them to be covered as well. Does your husband know what’s been going on?”
Rose had the good graces to look embarrassed. “I sort of framed the whole Cruz Veras episode as a humorous misunderstanding. I’ve only told you and Gina about the new guy.”
“You should probably tell him in case he happens to notice people shadowing him.”
There was a sharp rap on the office door. It swung open slightly and a male head popped through. I recognized Rose’s partner, Greg Sheffield.
“Hey,” he said, glancing at each of us in turn. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I noticed Rose was back from the deposition and wanted to find out how it went. Good, I guess. No one looks grim.”
“Actually, we should probably look grimmer than we do,” said Ellen. “It seems Rose has picked up a stalker.”
Greg’s eyes narrowed. “A what?”
“Someone followed her to the deposition this morning. Made threatening moves with his car. Apparently someone is making unsubtle attempts to intimidate a witness in a federal case.”
Greg flushed deeply red. He came into the office, closed the door behind him, and turned to face Ellen, fists parked on his hips. “Well what are we going to do about it? Have you talked to Crandall?”
“Done and done,” said Ellen. “I spoke to Crandall about five minutes ago. He denied they’re keeping Rose under surveillance, but he agreed with me that he ought to make sure his clients understand that intimidation of that type is illegal and may compound their crime should they be found guilty.”
“That’s not enough, Ellen, Rosie needs protection.” He took a step toward Rose.
Ellen’s gaze was cool. “I’ve handled it, Greg. I just hired someone to keep tabs on her.”
“Great. Who?”
I waved at him. “Howdy. Allow me to introduce myself—Gina S. Miyoko, bodyguard.”
Greg did not seem to think much of this development. “No offense, Gina, but are you really qualified for an assignment like this?”
“Greg,” Rose said quietly, “she’s a licensed professional. She’s an ex-cop—SFPD Major Crimes Division—and mentored by one of San Francisco’s finest.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know all that,” said Greg, who really did know all that. He grimaced. “Oh, fine. You’re probably right. I’m just . . . worried.” He put a hand on Rose’s shoulder and squeezed it. “We’ve got a hot sting to pull off soon. We can’t do it without Rosie.”
Rose smiled up at him, patting his hand consolingly. “Don’t worry, partner. I’ll be there with bells on.”
Greg shot Ellen Robb a sharp glance and shook his head, but he kept any further reservations to himself.
“So tell me,” I said to Rose, “is Greg Sheffield sweet on you?”
“What?” She nearly choked on her shrimp salad and had to grab a drink of water. “What in heaven’s name makes you ask that?”
We were sitting in a restaurant on Union Square, having left Ellen’s office feeling a bit lighter (and hungrier) now that we had more of a plan for stalker number two. Eating a belated lunch, we watched the street with a little more than casual interest. After lunch I planned to drop Rose back at her office and do a little more checking up on Mr. Cross Sacred True until it was time to escort her home.
I shrugged. “He just seemed awfully freaked by the whole stalker scenario, that’s all. I mean, I know you guys partner a lot, but he seemed . . . I dunno . . . a little proprietary.”
“I honestly don’t think that had as much to do with me as with Ellen. He’s not thrilled that she got the job he wanted. I’ve talked to him about it and, frankly, he’s a little embarrassed by his own hostility. I know it seems as if he doesn’t think Ellen can do her job, but he knows she can. It’s just . . . hard to have someone come in from outside an organization and take the lead spot. Greg and I have been friends—and teammates—a long time, but I don’t think he’s . . .” She dropped her fork to her plate and glared at me in exasperation. “Oh, beezus, Tink—now you’ve got me thinking he’s got designs on me or something!”
“Ha! Serves you right for trying to set me up with your stalker.”
“You think that’s who it is—Cruz Veras again?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, chewing thoughtfully on a ring of calamari. “It’s hard for me to imagine him making threatening moves on you in a Chrysler LeBaron. A Beamer, maybe, but a LeBaron? Never.”
She tossed a shrimp at me. “Tth’izi,” she called me, Hopi for “goat.”
“Mule,” I corrected, and went back to my squid.
Chapter 5
Tag Team
After lunch, I began my search for further information on Cruz Veras with a visit to the website of Arqueología magazine. I already knew, of course, that Dr. Cruz Veras was a contributor, but a bit more sleuthing netted me the phone number of the editorial offices, which I proceeded to call, pretending to be an archaeology grad student hoping to interview Dr. Veras for a college journal.
Was Dr. Veras available to discuss the idea?
The woman I was speaking to put me on hold briefly, then returned to tell me that Dr. Veras was on assignment and that my best chance of reaching him was his email address, which she proceeded to give me. It was the same as the one on his card. She could not possibly share his cell phone number without his permission. I already had a cell phone number, but there was no way I could confirm it with this woman under the circumstances, so I tracked down a contact number for the INAH and called them.
This time I used a similar story to reach someone in the administrative offices, said I was having trouble reaching Dr. Veras, and asked if they could confirm that the phone number he’d given me was correct. I gave a number that was one digit off, the admin I spoke to corrected it, and I expressed my embarrassment at being unable to read my own handwriting. (“Oh, of course, that was a nine not a four!”) Before I hung up, I employed one more fib in my web of pretense.
“Dr. Veras explained to me by email that he was on assignment somewhere in the U.S. I believe he said California. Is that correct?”
“I’m sorry,” the admin told me, “I am not authorized to give out that information. May I ask why you want it?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m at San Francisco State University, and was hoping I might get to meet Dr. Veras in person. Thank you for your help.” I hung up and sat back in my chair.
So, our Cruz Veras was their Cruz Veras. That was a relief, but it complicated things. For one thing, it deepened the man’s mystery: why would the institute’s admin not be allowed to tell me where Dr. Veras was? For another, it meant that we had yet another stalker to flush out.
I set the Cruz Veras conundrum aside and started contemplating another trap. Given how well our initial snare had worked with Veras, I decided the basic bait and switch idea was sound, but this time Rose would have more than just little old me for backup.
My first goal was to get our stalky guy out of the LeBaron I’d seen gliding in and out of traffic in the rearview mirror of Rose’s car on our way back to her office from lunch. Later that evening, as I followed her across the Golden Gate up into the headlands, I didn’t see him at all. It was as we passed the cutoff where Conzelman Road left 101 to wind through the Marin Headlands, that it struck me how perfect the area would be to lay a trap with multiple moving parts and redundancies. It was isolated, and would potentially deke Rose’s stalker into feeling that he c
ould be bolder, if he was so inclined. At the same time, parting him from his vehicle eliminated the possibility of a hit-and-run or a speedy getaway if he thought he’d been made. I wanted him out of his protective shell, on foot, and in unfamiliar surroundings that could hide an entire squad of watchers if necessary.
I put the idea to Rose that evening when we got home.
“I like the way you think, Tink,” Rose told me when I’d laid out the basic shape of my plan. “You know it’s funny, but even though what we’re doing is probably more dangerous than just sitting around quivering, it makes me feel less afraid, not more. Weird, huh?”
“Not really. I think it’s sort of like going to the doctor for something that ails you. You feel better just having made the decision to go to a pro. You feel as if you’re doing something, not just curling up in a fetal position and playing victim.”
The first order of business was sitting Dave down and explaining that the encounter with the Mexican journalist we’d laughingly recounted to him not that long ago was not the end of Rose’s little stalking problem. No, there was a new kid in town who had so disturbed Rose, her partner, and her boss (not to mention me) that David and the kids would be getting federal protection while we and a group of Rose’s cohorts smoked the guy out.
I took the additional measure of consulting with my father, who completely agreed with Ellen Robb—you should always have backup. I’ve always thought those sleuths you see on TV who dive into danger without saying a word to anybody are nitwits.
It was Monday, which was Dad’s SASH night—that’s the Society for the Appreciation of Sherlock Holmes (I kid you not). When I walked in the front door of my parents’ houseboat, the place smelled of tea, scones, and cinnamon, and I could hear the teapot whistling merrily in the background as Mom reprised her role as Mrs. Hudson to Dad and his coterie of wannabe sleuths.
Dad was in the wood-paneled “parlor,” tidying up the room and arranging the chairs around the gas-log fireplace. He had already donned his deerstalker hat, and a briar pipe hung jauntily from one side of his mouth. He smiled when he saw me, causing the pipe to stick straight out from his teeth.
The Antiquities Hunter Page 6