by Mike Faricy
“Yeah, take it. There’s a stop sign when you get to St. Clair. Stop, but do not get out of your car, Marsha. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, for God’s sake, I heard you. Will you just…oh my God he’s coming right up behind me.”
“Was his blinker on?”
“Who the fuck cares, Dev? Jesus, he’s getting close. Right on my ass, right on it.”
“I’m coming up behind him, Marsha. I see your tail lights going around the bend. Stop at the stop sign and don’t get out of the car. Make sure your doors are locked.”
“Gee, really? I never would have thought of that one. Just hurry up and get here.”
As we drove up the exit ramp I gained on whoever had been following her, pulling up close enough behind the car that I could read the make on the trunk. It was a Buick LeSabre, a later model, maybe a four door. At first I thought it was light blue, but as I got closer it turned out to be a light metallic green. The car looked very clean. The tail lights were working, but the left tail light cover had been damaged and was patched over with what looked like red tape. I made a note of the Minnesota license plate number. It hung below the rear bumper in a frame with the words Girls! Girls! Girls! around all four sides. I repeated the license number out loud to myself a couple of times.
I couldn’t actually see the driver, but I could make out a silhouette of the top of his head moving just above the head rest on the driver’s seat. He couldn’t have been too tall, and his silhouette suggested he was wearing some sort of strange hat. He appeared to be alone in the car and if I had to guess I would say he was checking his rear view mirror as my lights pulled up behind him.
“Okay, I’m stopping at the sign,” Marsha said.
“Stay in your car, make sure your doors are locked. This guy comes toward you on foot you take off. If he tries to pull along side, I want you to duck.”
“Oh, shit, Dev,” she said.
“I’m right behind you, Marsha. Put your right blinker on.”
“Okay, it’s on, Dev,” she said, suddenly sounding a lot more like a little girl as I saw her taillight flashing.
Although the freeway we just exited cut through the center of the city, the immediate area up around the exit was rather isolated. Trees and bushes on either side hid the freeway to the left while the right side was a heavily wooded ridge with houses sitting maybe fifty yards up on top. I’d actually seen a deer grazing just inside the tree line a year or two ago. You could see slivers of orange light shining out through the trees from the large homes up there, overlooking the city. The ridge was cut in half by a curving one-way street that drained traffic from the neighborhood down into the lower area. There were four highway lights illuminating the exit, but they were a good distance behind us and down a hill. For all practical purposes we were pretty much in the dark with trees and undergrowth surrounding us on all sides.
Around a bend and a little before the stop sign the exit widened into two lanes. The exit was actually a fork in the road, so you had to turn either left or right. Driving straight ahead wasn’t an option. Marsha’s car was stopped with her right turn signal on. The guy following her pulled up behind. I put my signal on to indicate a left turn and began to pull along side the LeSabre.
“Marsha, take off around the corner and keep going. I’m going to cut this jerk off.”
She didn’t need any encouragement, and suddenly squealed around the corner. Just as her pursuer began to move forward I pulled in front of him, thrusting my car across the road to cut him off. I grabbed the Ruger off my front seat and jumped out of the car. I flicked on the center fire laser and took aim at him over the roof of my car.
The red dot wiggled back and forth on his windshield. For just a nano-second I had a sense of vague recognition as his face, lit by the dashboard lights, flashed in panic. Just as quickly that recognition disappeared.
He was already backing up, accelerating in reverse to get away from me and swerving as he went. I was tempted to put a round into his windshield. I moved the red dot toward the passenger side, but then thought better of it.
Suddenly there was a set of headlights coming up the exit ramp behind him. A van swerved sharply to the left, honking, leaning on the horn just as the LeSabre clipped the rear quarter panel on the van and screeched to a stop. It made a sharp right turn and took off racing the wrong way up the curving one way hill, accelerating as it disappeared around the curve.
I was tempted to jump back in my car and follow him, but then what? I would suddenly be confronting some clown who was going to insist he was just on his way to the grocery store or some other innocuous place. Technically, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, other than the hit and run. But that wasn’t worth the potential trouble. Besides, I had his license number and a sort-of-willing accomplice down at the DMV. I stuffed the Ruger into the back of my belt, then pulled my shirt out and walked back to make sure everyone was all right in the van that had just been side swiped.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Are you okay?”
There was a large, dark haired woman behind the wheel, no one next to her in the passenger seat. There were two car seats strapped to the middle seat in back, both empty.
“Did you see that bastard? He could have killed me. Son-of-a-bitch,” she screamed. “He hit my fucking car.”
“Are you all right?” I asked again.
“What? Yeah, yes, thanks. I’m fine. But that bastard…what in the hell was he doing? Did you see him? He just shot up that hill. That’s a one way. He’s nuts, no, crazy is what he is,” she said.
“No argument from me.”
“Did he hit your car, too?”
“No, he was driving erratically behind me and I thought he might be having a heart attack or some sort of issue so I got out to check on him and that’s when he took off and slammed into you,” I said.
“Jesus Christ,” she said, getting out of the car and walking around the front of the van to see where he’d smashed into her.
She was not what you’d call trim and looked to be draped in yards of bright yellow and red fabric, topped off with large white lapels bordering a massive cleavage. There was a very wide flowered belt sort of stretched taut around her middle. She had on yellow shoes with red toes and no heel. She stood just about my height.
“I’m just coming home from choir practice at my church and…God damn it!” she yelled as she spotted the damage to the rear of her van. “Oh, shit, will you look at this? Now what the hell do I do?”
“Well, as bad as it looks I think you can probably still drive. You might as well go home. As long as no one was hurt the police won’t come out. Call and report it as soon as you get home and they’ll send you some paper work or there’s a form you can fill out online.”
She sort of looked at me like she had a question forming.
“You got a pen?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, sounding suspicious.
“Here’s my card,” I said, pulling the last one out of my wallet. “I got the guys license number.”
“You did? Oh, fantastic,” she said, taking my card and looking at it. “Private Investigator?”
“Yeah, you got that pen?”
My phone rang. It was Marsha, so I answered.
“Hi, Marsha, hang on I’ll be right back to you. That pen?”
“Oh, yeah, sure It’s just in the front seat.” She walked around to the driver’s door, reached in and fished around, then said, “Okay.” She stood there poised, ready to write in some sort of leather bound notebook.
I repeated the license number. Then said to her, “Look, if you’re okay to drive just head home and call the police to file a report. It’s probably best to get it filed as soon as possible.”
“I can’t thank you enough. You’ve been so kind, Mr.” She half held my card up to re
ad my name. “Mr. Haskell.”
“My pleasure, my number’s there. If you need a witness statement or anything, just give me a ring.”
“Thank you so much,” she said, then climbed behind the wheel and waved as she went by. I watched as she drove off.
I was seated behind the wheel when my phone rang. I’d been writing down the license number because I knew I’d probably forget it by morning.
“Marsha.”
“Jesus, forget about me? You okay? Did you get him? Tell me you shot him a half dozen times.”
“Yes and no.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? You didn’t let him get away, did you?”
“Yeah, he took off, smashed into another car coming up the exit ramp, then took off going the wrong way on a one way street.”
“Did you wound him?”
“No, Marsha, I didn’t shoot.”
“Didn’t…oh that’s just great. So you mean you’re telling me that nut case is still out there somewhere waiting for me?”
“Afraid so. You going to head home?”
“Are you kidding me? No. I’m staying at your place tonight. I’m not going home to my empty apartment. I mean, if that’s okay.”
“If I must. You know the way or do you want to follow me?”
“If you’ll recall, I’ve been there before. I think I know the way, Dev. Have you got something there to calm me down?”
“I’ve got just the thing in mind.”
“I meant something to drink, you slime ball.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I figured it was going to be an uphill battle talking Marsha into eating Coco Puffs for breakfast so I ran out to get some eggs and Wonder Bread to make French toast. I sprinkled a little powdered sugar over the French toast and then topped it off with a dollop of whip cream from the can Lori had left during a grope-and-grab session a few weeks back.
“Wow, I never pegged you for someone who cooked,” Marsha said.
She was curled up on a kitchen stool, wearing one of my St. Paul Saints jerseys and sipping coffee. The jersey had never looked so good and I made a mental note to never, ever wash it again.
“So against everyone’s better judgment, and my telling you not to, you decided to have dinner with Gaston Driscoll last night.”
“I didn’t think it was such a bad idea at the time. To tell you the truth, he can be pretty charming, as long as you don’t mind talking about him all night.”
“And being followed home.”
“Well, yeah, there is that, but maybe that was just a coincidence.”
“Sure it was,” I said, sliding a plate across the counter toward her. “Let me see, some idiot is behind you as you leave the restaurant and then follows you in a figure-eight route across town, I almost shoot him between the eyes and he side swipes some woman’s van before he takes off going the wrong way. Yeah that’s what it was, Marsha, just a coincidence.”
“Mmm-mmm, this looks really good. Whipped cream, I’m really impressed,” she said, ignoring me.
“Never can tell when you might need some,” I said, deciding she didn’t need to know its origin.
“Mmm-mmm, very good.”
“But let’s get back to your pal Driscoll. What did he tell you?”
“Well, he thought there just might be the chance for me to try for an entry level spot at Gaston Enterprises. I told him I had a chemistry background, not architecture or design.”
“And?”
“And he said he didn’t think that would be a problem. He mentioned maybe starting in his sales division and then seeing where things went from there.”
“Did he invite you for a weekend in Las Vegas or Hawaii, or maybe a topless beach somewhere to fill out the job application?”
“No, he really thought I might add something to the firm. He said they were always looking for talented people like me. I don’t know, to tell you the truth it sounded like a lot better opportunity than running around on stage naked and riding a hobby horse.”
“Marsha! Are you kidding me? Come on, he’s setting you up to tumble into the sack with him. You should have talked with the women I’ve talked with these last few days. This guy is at best a stalker, at worst, a murderer. Did you forget what happened to Desi?”
“I know that. Of course I remember. But it was still sort of nice to hear.”
“Did you tell him you were dancing?”
“Yeah, sure, Dev. That would have cinched the deal. Yeah, right.”
“You kidding? He probably would have jumped all over it.”
She studied me for a long moment, then said, “Not really. You think that, most guys think that, but while some pompous bastard like Driscoll and frankly any decent guy might be interested privately, they’re really just thinking, maybe a wild weekend at most. Vegas? Sure, you bet, but only because it’s out of town and no one would ever know they’d strayed over to the dark side with someone like me.”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. I’ve seen it too many times. It’s why I keep that aspect of my life on a more private level. It’s just a lot fewer problems that way.”
I decided not to pursue what she meant by ‘private level’. “So where did you leave it with him? Your pal Gaston.”
“I’m calling him later today, once I’m out of class.”
“Class?”
“Remember? He thinks I’m a student. He’s going to have someone give me a tour of the firm and interview me.”
“Someone else will interview you?”
“That’s what he said. Told me he didn’t want to present any undue influence in a decision making process.”
“And you said?”
“I said I really wanted and really needed the job, that it would be absolutely fantastic to work there and that I’d do anything to get hired.” She smiled.
“You really said that?”
“Yeah. Remember we were going to learn about the guy? Remember we were going to try and get the guy to woo me? And then we are so going to nail him.”
“And last night someone followed you home, or attempted to.”
“Yeah, doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?”
“What doesn’t make a lot of sense? You’re getting interviewed for a job, having dinner with this jerk or that idiot following you home?”
She seemed to consider all three possibilities.
“Well?”
“All I know is I’ve had two meetings with him. How ‘bout you?”
“I don’t know, Marsha. For supposedly just two meetings you suddenly got someone following you. I think that guy was pretty aggressive last night.”
“Gee, really? You think?”
I ignored her sarcasm. “Maybe he was checking you out. You know, just to see where you lived. Although, it seems he could have just asked for your address or gotten it off your job application. Did he have you fill one out?”
“A job application? No, that’s part of what I’ll be doing tomorrow.”
“Do you know who you’ll be meeting with?”
“A woman named Dawn something. I have it written down.”
“Dawn Miller,” I said. The name had suddenly popped into my head.
“You know her?”
“No. I know she works in the HR department there. I spoke to her briefly on the phone the other day for all of about thirty seconds.”
“And?”
“Like I said, I spoke to her very briefly. If I had to guess, I’d say she was cautious, probably lives and breathes the company. Now that I think of it, she may be the current Driscoll play toy.”
“That’s sort of crude.”
“Yeah, it is, and unfortunately probably accurate. The stories I’ve heard and t
he lives this guy has affected…” I shook my head.
“Pity. He’s pompous, but he’s a very nice pompous.” She smiled.
“I can’t talk you out of this, can I?”
She shook her head. “No, you can’t. You know, in a strange way, he’s like all those stupid guys waiting for me to bend down and pick up their dollar bills every night. They love it, but they would never want anyone to know they had any interaction with someone like me. But what he did to Desi, I’m not talking her murder, I mean before, in a strange way I think that was almost worse.”
“Don’t fall for this creep, Marsha. I’m telling you. Let me be on record as saying I don’t think you should go to this interview. I think you should just disappear off Driscoll’s radar.”
“Not to worry, Dev,” she said, then pushed her empty plate across the kitchen counter toward me. “I suppose I better get dressed and head home.”
“I suppose, unless maybe you wanted your back washed up in the shower.”
“Just my back?” She grinned.
“I think we could work something out.”
Chapter Thirty
As I was standing on my front porch watching Marsha back out of the driveway, my phone rang.
“Haskell Investigations.”
“Hi, Dev, Karla.”
“Hi, Karla.” I suddenly remembered I hadn’t called her in the last couple of days.
“Just wondering how you’re coming along with the Desi stuff.”
“I’ve eliminated some possibilities, discovered some new ones…it’s becoming a little multi-dimensional,” I said, waving as Marsha honked, made an obscene gesture and drove off.
“Gee, sounds like the sort of bullshit my employees would try and lay on me. I got an idea. Why don’t you drive over here and tell me in person? That will give you a chance to get your story straight, and in the end, hopefully you’ll feel better and I won’t think I wasted five grand. What do you think?”