From the Heart

by Eva Shaw

  My head pulsated. Sweat dripped and skidded down my back. I was furious, mostly at myself for letting Albert off the hook so easily. I stomped down the block, beating my sandaled feet into the pavement. The toe of my right foot caught in a crack. That’s when I bumped smack dab into none other than Monica Wainwright-Dobson.

  Chapter 13

  Monica Wainwright-Dobson in that sordid section? I thought of pinching her, but why do it since I’d just bumped straight into her? She was flesh and hard muscle, even though she was a socialite. “Monica?”

  “Oh, my goodness, this is a surprise.” She patted her face.

  Where was her limo? The driver in the swanky suit? Where were the Julio Somebody outfits and Jimmy Choos? She’d been transformed into a soccer mom with an I Heart NY T-shirt. The four-pound diamond earrings were gone, as was the Rolex.

  “Did you come to visit someone in the house?” I gestured toward where Albert lived.

  Her upper lip had droplets of sweat, but of course it was sweltering. Her voice came on all upper-crust when she said, “I often come to this neighborhood. There’s the shelter, of course, too.”

  So, I’d been right when I thought I’d seen her dash into the shelter during my last visit. “But why?” Okay, it was probably because she was Mother Teresa. Monica was a saint. I’m slow. I cupped my hand around my mouth and whispered, “Is it because, like you told me, you weren’t always dripping with money?”

  “My reasons are purely selfish,” she said, her ramrod posture indicating the end of this discussion.

  She’d been gracious and caring before, especially arranging for Mr. Newton to be the surprise guest at the fundraiser, so why did all this seem odd? If it was the absence of jewels, I needed to get a grip. You don’t wear that stuff in this part of town. I got all perky and happy since I’d just figured out why Monica was in Vegas’ skid row and said, “Can I give you a lift? I’m on my way home.” I nodded to my car. But she stepped back.

  I saw her eyes cut to the side, across the street, and then beyond where we were standing. “Oh, no, I’ve forgotten something at the mission. I have to go back and get it.” She backed up three steps, turned around and waved. Then added, “Come to the house tomorrow afternoon about three, and I’ll tell you all about why I’m here. It’s a long story and requires huge amounts of iced tea, I’m certain. Besides, Wayne will be there, too.” With that she gave another cheery wave and jogged to the mission. In the heat.

  Okay, a non-buttinski pastor would have gotten into her car, cranked the A/C, put on some music and driven home for a cold shower. A normal minister would have retreated to a quiet spot to pray for Monica, for Albert, for a corrupt senior pastor, and the mess with PSA. But oh, no, not me. I got into the SUV, turned on the A/C, and drove down the block, waiting and watching in my rearview mirror as Monica went into the shelter. When I didn’t see her reappear after retrieving whatever there was to get, I did a U-turn in a driveway and pulled in back of a delivery van. From the reflection in the plate-glass window of a used furniture store, I could see the front door of the shelter. I waited. It was dusk by now, but still hot as the blazes of you-know-what.

  Ten minutes crawled like a turtle on Prozac. I turned off the ignition, got out, locked the car, and tried to be inconspicuous. I’d been to the shelter dozens of times helping the church women serve meals, bringing supplies, and sorting the donated clothing, ministering to the visitors. This time, I hid in doorways, crept behind cars, peeked into windows. What was going on in the shelter? Why had Monica dashed in? Had she left out the back door? Why all this cloak and undercover stuff?

  Lots of good people, lots of rich people, spend time and money on the less fortunate. She wouldn’t be the first and, God willing, not the last. Okay, enough said, I crept to the storefront window, stuck out my neck to peek around a pillar, and Monica and Eddie, the knuckle-cracker herself, walked out and straight at me.

  So this hadn’t been one of my best days, but as luck would have it, it was about to get worse. There I was on the sidewalk, crouched down in a doorway, crammed between a pillar and a used sofa. Suddenly the two women came out swapping secrets like schoolgirls. The whispering stopped mid-whisper as they bounced off yours truly.

  “Were you waiting for me?” Monica’s voice was tight in her throat. Initially her eyes were larger, and then turned to slits.

  Eddie jumped down my throat, hovering over me as I regained my balance and Eddie barked, “Or me?” The weightlifter’s muscles twitched in an unbecoming way, except if one is competing in a Miss Olympic Muscle contest.

  I blurted the first reasonable thought that came to mind, which was, “You don’t seem to be the type to offer charity, except in a monetary form. Why are you really here?”

  “Stuff it. You don’t know anything,” Eddie said, towering over yours truly. “Why don’t you take your grungy, sniffling, snotty, Bible-belting nose out of this neighborhood? All that stuff you said about bringing Jesus to these kids, that was bundle of revolting lies. Wasn’t it?” The second was definitely a rhetorical comment, not a real question. She puffed up her chest and shoved her double chin down, which collapsed her triple chin. She grinned at me, with a space between her teeth a small car could drive through.

  This was not the time to comment on the miracles of today’s restorative dental work, so I smiled. I turned slightly because one, I didn’t want to look at The Intimidator, and two, I could always throw my body behind Monica, quickly, should Eddie attempt to give me the old heave-ho straight into the street.

  I gulped. “Will you tell me why you are here, Monica? Even though it’s none of my business,” I added, because in all honesty it wasn’t. I could have saved my breath. Should have, actually.

  “Eddie and I have business together.” She started to step aside and around me. I stepped in front of them. Stupid is as stupid does, and I stuck my arm out to make a point.

  Eddie took my wrist like it was a twig and pushed it aside as Monica said, “It has nothing to do with you, Jane. I’m sure you don’t share the details of your life with everyone, now, do you?” she asked.

  That, also, was a rhetorical question, because I share more details of my life with strangers than strangers are comfortable knowing. “Are you okay here?” I covered my brazen stalking with concern.

  “Excuse us, Jane. Eddie and I have an appointment. We’re going to be late if you keep us anymore,” Monica said. She smiled her billion-dollar, pure-white-teeth smile, and she and the Olympic bone crusher headed down the street.

  My inability to speak probably saved them from dialing 911 to have me arrested for aggravated pestering. I watched as the two walked just a half block and got into a full-size Ford truck, so new it still had temporary plates, painted eggplant and with sunburst yellow and chartreuse racing stripes on the sides. Monica got behind the wheel. A few days ago, if you would have told me her perfectly padded posterior would ever grace the seat of a pickup, I would have laughed myself silly. Eddie provided a jaunty as she got in. They were laughing. At me.

  Gramps would have said, “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” making his voice sound like a character on the Andy Griffith Show. Monica shifted the monster-mobile into first and peeled out of the parking spot. I stood there mute, truly I did, with my mouth gaping wide enough to have a 747 zoom in and out.

  What business could they have together? There were never two less-seemingly compatible people on the planet. Monica was rich, a high-fashion diva who owned purebred dogs. Eddie’s neck was as big as Monica’s waist, and I could see her cuddling a rattlesnake before I could see her snuggling a canine.

  Lots of people never make snap decisions. I am not one of those. While my track record with quick and sensible decisions is less than stellar, this didn’t enter into any thought process at all as I dashed to my car, jumped behind the wheel, did yet another illegal U-y in the middle of the intersection an
d took off after them. From watching police dramas on television, I stayed a cool quarter mile behind.

  “What are those two doing?” I asked myself. No response came except an icky, sickly feeling as my curiosity shifted into overdrive. Okay it wasn’t my business, but the whole affair was odd, and yes, that was my excuse.

  When common sense asked, “What are you doing?” I had to override that. Every cell in my body had to know why they were together, and fortune for my snooping was with me as every single light was green. I had no trouble at all following the purplish truck with the extended cab straight onto I-15. As they increased speed, so did I. I even let a semi between us, yet stayed watchful that they didn’t exit. Monica, and probably ninety-nine percent of Americans, would never consider that a pastor would be tailing them, and my SUV was invisible since there are so many gold ones. “Do they know I’m here and not care that I’m, well, stalking?” I said out loud, which was weirdness by itself. I chalked it up to the aforementioned nutty rationale and maybe that they had important things to talk about. Like what? I had no clue, nor did one appear as we drove in and out of evening traffic.

  If Monica had hired Eddie for some work like lifting cement blocks and moving tractor-trailers at her home, she’d have turned off at the upscale parts of Las Vegas. But they continued north, out toward the desert. If we all kept going in this direction, we’d be in St. George, Utah, in a few hours. I kept a distance, but I could see them, and about an hour out of Las Vegas, they pulled off.

  I slowed because the exit was deserted, except for us. I clicked off the headlights. Driving in the dark wasn’t that bad because the night was clear.

  Monica’s brake lights flashed as they pulled into the graveled driveway of a small, stucco home with a few junk cars in the front yard. A single, industrial-strength security light illuminated the scruffy bungalow. The closest neighbors were blocks apart, and if Eddie had been driving, rather than Monica, I would have sworn the socialite was being kidnapped. But who would kidnap she of major muscles? Who could?

  I inched along the rutted road, hoping no little critters were lounging on the dirt. Now it was past twilight, yet I could clearly see the house. The door opened and a troll-sized, very round silhouette stood aside as they walked in. Who were they meeting in the middle of the desert, after sunset, and down a deserted road?

  Are you wondering whether I was planning to get out of the car, sneak up to the house, and peek through the windows, like a lunatic would attempt? Yes, I was. But I looked at my tea-stained shirt and saggy Capris and realized I didn’t know what a girl wore for situations like this. I’m not experienced at this sort of thing, even if some people on the District Council might tell you otherwise.

  My fingers gripped the door handle, and I was just sliding my butt across the seat when I it. Not possible. I hadn’t heard a thing. But it was all too true. Red and blue lights flashed. The cops had arrived.

  The cruiser silently inched to a stop behind my SUV, the car coming within inches of my back bumper.

  I thought of it, I did. I could easily rev the engine and skid out of this pickle. It would take the officer about one minute to jump back in the patrol car, and by that time? The truth was, I would be driving down a dirt road in the middle of nowhere with the police in hot pursuit. I nixed the notion after about a half second of serious thought.

  Like the law-abiding minister that I always am, I froze, bone still, breath held until there was a tap, tap, tap on my window. I rolled it down.

  “Good evening, ma’am.”

  “Ah, hello, officer.” Praise the Lord, it wasn’t Tom.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?” He shined a flashlight in my face, probably trying to smell my breath to see if this was a typical DUI.

  “I’m not lost. I’m just out for a drive this lovely evening. Look at those stars. Isn’t it breathtaking out here, this time of the night, when things are quiet and, of course, once the sun goes down and those stars come up, and it’s still except for those crickets? Do they ever stop clicking?”

  I blathered another few idiotic lines of that stuff-that-blubbers-from-the mouth sentence.

  Then the cop said, “Would you be kind enough to step out of your car, please, ma’am?” He didn’t look a day older than Harmony, but the badge on his breast pocket told me he was the real deal.

  “Really, really, I wasn’t speeding,” I said. Heck, I wasn’t even crawling down the lane.

  “No, ma’am. Just keep your hands where I can see them. Please step out and leave the keys. You don’t need them right now. They’ll be safe right there.”

  I’d been sweating buckets when I got caught snooping on the sidewalk by the shelter, but that was nothing to this. “Are you arresting me?” I’d opened the SUV’s door, but didn’t leave the car. How did the police know I was tailing Monica?

  “Ma’am, I don’t want to ask you again, but I will because the captain tells us we should be nicer to our citizenry. And you look like a nice lady.” His voice lowered a notch, and he added, “Now, will you please step out of the car.”

  I did and stood ramrod stiff. “Should I stick ’em up, or put my hands on the hood and spread ’em or something? You’ll have to walk me through the procedures. What of my Miranda rights?”

  “No, ma’am, it’s not necessary to do any of those things. You just need to stand there. Someone wants to talk to you,” he ordered as a second patrol car pulled up to my own personal crime scene.

  I would have known Tom Morales’ swagger a block away, even in the dusky evening.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” I chuckled, but it was flat as the last soufflé that came from my oven. “Isn’t it against the law to follow me, Tom? To stalk me like this?” Yes, it was a dimwitted remark since I’d just followed Monica and Eddie through most of the city of Las Vegas and out into the desert.

  “We need to talk.” He reached out to touch me, and I stepped back as he said, “Come on, Jane, get into my car for a minute.” When I didn’t move toward him, he ground out, “Please.” We locked eyes. He won. I walked back to an unmarked sedan, opened the passenger door in back, and climbed in. Tom touched the top of my head, just like in those police movies, and crawled in next to me.

  Tom seemed to get bigger inside that car, or maybe because I could feel the heat from his body, which was suddenly too intimate and yes, intoxicating. But that all was nixed when he growled, “You don’t belong out here, Jane. You shouldn’t be doing whatever you’re doing.” Again out of his tan uniform, he looked like a guy in the big and tall section of Eddie Bauer. His badge, stuck on the waist of his slacks, reflected the moonlight.

  “You’re right. I’ll just skedaddle home, but since you’re the law around these parts, what little one did I break that caused me to be stopped during an evening drive into the countryside? The city must have more criminals to take care of than a pastor going for a drive to get some air,” I said, trying to make my voice light, but I knew it came out as a challenge. That was about as goofy an excuse as possible, but then it hit me. I slapped my forehead. “You’re mixed up with what’s going on here, aren’t you?”

  He turned away, checked his watch, and said, “I can’t answer that, Jane.”

  “It’s true. I knew it.” I slapped my forehead one more time. Why I was so happy to be right when I was sitting in a police car in the boonies and being told to MYOB by a police captain who was about to arrest me for stalking was beyond even my own somewhat questionable rational thinking.

  “Please get into your car and drive back home,” Tom said—well, actually barked. “Notice, this is a request, not an order, and I said please, Jane.”

  “I will not.” My back shot up and I puffed out my chest. Tom’s big, and I’m no delicate violet, so the backseat was crammed to the gills with stubborn streaks. “I’m not budging until you tell me what’s happening in that house
over there. And what do Monica and Eddie have to do with official police business? You may as well cuff me right now if you’re not going to tell me, because I’m not going anywhere.”

  Tom’s jaw clenched. Then ice formed, he withdrew his hulk-like body from the car, and he turned to the young cop who’d tracked me down. “Officer, take her downtown. I’ll meet you there. You don’t have to frisk her; I doubt she’s carrying a weapon.” As he said this, his voice trailed off and he bent down to look inside the car. “Tell me you don’t have a gun, Jane?”

  “Would you expect me to carry one?” And in that second I sorely wished I could have had one, just to make him flinch again.

  “Jane, for heaven’s sake, stop being pigheaded. Answer me or I’ll get a female officer out here to strip search you. Do you have a weapon?”

  “No strip search will be necessary, Captain Morales. Other than a lethal mouth, I’m unarmed. I do not have a gun.” I sank down in the seat. Whatever was happening in the house down that dark road, two more dark-colored cars had pulled up and driven past the police units and their newest prisoner without even stopping, apparently unperturbed that the law was apprehending a felon, which was me.

  • • •

  I didn’t end up in the slammer for the night because there was no official arrest. I wasn’t fingerprinted or grilled in a room with a single bare light bulb glaring in my face. Instead, when we reached headquarters, Tom was already there to greet me. He opened the patrol car’s door and led me to the lounge where we’d talked about Mikel.

  Tom slid two dollars into the vending machine and handed me a Pepsi, getting water for himself. He sat at a table, heavy with fatigue or so I imagined. His shoulders rounded, and he sighed. I figured I could stand there all day being a stubborn pastor without a cause, or sit down to find out what was going on. I chose comfort.