by Anna Burke
Jessica also called the concierge service, and in minutes, Roberta Palmer pulled into the driveway. She stopped only long enough to check out the scene at the curb, to speak to Jessica and glimpse that photo of Kelly. Roberta Palmer paled ever so slightly before continuing up the drive and entering the estate through the gates. Roberta Palmer, more than any of the security guards, would know if something was awry anywhere on the property. Jessica also asked Ms. Palmer to bill her directly for a day’s work, at triple her usual rate, as security had agreed to do.
The whole situation took much less time to manage than any police report would have taken. Jessica asked Roberta Palmer to report the incident to the LAPD once she and security had completed their own inspection. She did not expect the police officers to find any evidence linking the doll back to her tormentor, but the incident would be on the record. Jessica advised them to give the police her name and number, too, so they could speak to her directly about the incident later.
Less than a half hour had transpired before Jessica was on the highway leading from LA to Riverside. Jittery as she sped along, Jessica pushed up against the posted limits when she could. Traffic and road work made it impossible to sustain anything close to the speed limit at times. Congestion also made it difficult to determine if anyone was following her. With wall-to-wall cars stretched across several lanes, all jockeying for position, who could tell who was stalking whom? She felt sure Mr. P had someone tracking her. How else could they have known where, and when, to leave that horrible doll?
She remained vigilant until she spotted the exit to downtown Riverside and the Mission Inn, an hour or so later. As she moved into the right lane to take the exit ramp, a check engine light came on. “Are you kidding me?” Jessica said, as the engine missed.
She pulled off the road, onto the shoulder of the exit ramp, as the engine seized up and the car coasted to a stop. “Shit, shit, shit!” No way was she going to get to that lunch meeting with Dick Tatum now. She pounded the steering wheel a couple times before trying to restart the car. No luck.
As she was preparing to make a round of phone calls for assistance, a low rider taking the exit to downtown Riverside slowed. The two young men in the car leered at Jessica as they passed. One of them flashed a toothy grin, loaded with the bejeweled grill so popular among rappers and their followers. The car hopped up and down a couple times, seemingly in sync with booming music being played from speakers that shook the ground. Jessica was preparing to dial 911 when they moved on.
She carefully got out of the car, raised the hood, and set out a flare she found in the trunk. Satisfied her actions would keep her from getting hit by a passing motorist, Jessica called the BMW dealer. Roadside service was dispatched immediately from the location closest to her in Riverside. They apologized profusely that the nearly new loaner had malfunctioned. She could ride to the dealer with the tow truck driver and pick up another car, or the driver would drop her somewhere else, if she preferred. Jessica wasn’t sure what she wanted to do until she spoke to Dick Tatum, and told them as much.
“No problem,” they assured her. “Just tell the tow truck driver what you want to do when he arrives.”
Next she called Dick Tatum, who picked up, this time on the first ring. “Dick, I’m so glad to get you on the phone. I tried to reach you a couple times last night about our lunch today. You’re not going to believe this, but my car died. I’m sitting on the exit ramp to downtown, waiting for a tow. Actually, it’s not my car. My car was trashed Monday while I was at my office in Palm Desert. The one I’m sitting in right now is a loaner.”
“I believe you, Jessica. I’ve had some car trouble of my own. I didn’t get your voice mails until I picked up a new phone a little while ago. My phone was in my car last night when somebody torched it.”
“Somebody set your car on fire?”
“Yeah, that’s right. This guy in a hoodie and sunglasses lobbed a Molotov cocktail into the window of my car. I was talking to a colleague in the parking lot at Applebee’s after dinner. If I hadn’t walked away from my car to take a look at my friend’s latest pictures of his kids, I don’t know what would have happened.”
“Oh my God, Dick, I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“It took me hours to file the police report, make a claim with my insurance company, and pick up the rental car I’m driving. I got a license plate number for the car the perp was driving. That didn’t do much good since the car had been reported stolen. They found it torched, too, late last night. When I picked up your messages I figured I’d just meet you at the Mission Inn and explain it all. I’m only a few minutes away. Why don’t I come pick you up?”
“Okay, Dick, if you don’t mind fighting the lunch hour traffic. That would be great. I’ve already called the dealer, and they’ve got a tow truck on the way. They have my cell phone number if they need to find me later. Maybe after we talk, you can take me to the rental place you used. I’ll see if I have better luck in something other than a BMW.”
“No problem. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Stay put.”
“Ha ha! You can count on that.” Jessica tried to be as good a sport as Dick Tatum, but the number of traumas was mounting rapidly. Frank’s words were pounding in her ears. She called the dealer to tell them a friend was picking her up, and that the keys would be under the mat on the driver’s side of the car. They seemed fine with that. It wasn’t as if anyone could drive off in the car. The flatbed truck was already en route. Jessica leaned back, grateful that it was barely ninety degrees in Riverside. The battery on the BMW wasn’t dead yet, so she lowered the windows to get a cross breeze in the car.
It had not been more than a couple minutes when Jessica felt, even before she heard, the beat of oversized speakers. She looked in her rear view mirror. The low rider had pulled off the road maybe ten feet behind her with the top down on the vintage Chevy Impala. The passenger with the mouth jewelry was climbing out of the car without opening the passenger side door. She didn’t see anything resembling a Molotov cocktail in his hand, but he was wearing a hoodie and sunglasses. With only ten feet separating the two cars, he wasn’t likely to do anything to blemish the sunburst paint job or the polished chrome on the well-cared for low rider.
That didn’t mean this was going to go well. Jessica punched 911 into her cell phone and prepared to hit send, calculating in her mind how long it might take for police to respond. She also reached into her purse for a can of police grade pepper spray, A definite upgrade since her last murder investigation when she had gone into a tough situation with nothing but hairspray and a hat pin. By then, she had already acquired experience using everyday objects as defensive weapons.
“Hey yummy mummy, you need some help?” the slouching young man asked, as he approached with some caution. Perhaps he was trying to figure out whether or not she was armed. He slid the sunglasses up onto the top of his head as he took another step closer, and peered at her.
Was she safer staying in the car with the doors locked and the windows rolled up? Could she get them rolled up before the guy decided to make a move? Or, should she get out of the car and spray the bastard? Stalling for time, she shouted out a reply to his question.
“No thanks. Help is on the way.” From the rearview mirror she could see the driver jack the low rider up and then down again. The ground was rumbling from the booming speakers.
“We got something for ya, Jessica.” She caught a glint off the grillwork in his mouth as he smiled and grabbed his crotch at the same time. Several things occurred to her. First, she had waited too long to make that 911 call. No way would the police reach her before the punk ambling toward her did. Second, she did not want to find out what he had for her. Third, he had called her by name. Her name had rolled off that tongue and those lips that had been who knows where!
Before he took another step, Jessica whipped the car door open, and hopped out. In a flash she sent a stinging spray that blasted the still smiling young man right in the face. Thank God,
and Peter, she had practiced for such an incident. She knew exactly how to direct the caustic droplets.
“I’ve got something for you too, Eminem,” Jessica shrieked, spraying him again. She had hit him squarely in his gaping grillwork. The scrawny gangsta wannabe was squealing. The sound was somewhere between a twelve-year-old girl at a Miley Cyrus concert and a greased pig at the county fair. He was doing some serious twerking, too. He spun around blindly, gasping for air and spitting. Off flew the sunglasses from atop his head. Out popped the gem-studded grillwork. The driver was shouting, dropping f-bombs and telling him to “do it,” “just do it, cocksucker.”
It was like listening to some demented, X-rated Nike pitch man. Jessica wasn’t sure what “do it” meant, but she did not intend to find out. She aimed and shot at the driver, who ducked even though he was behind the windshield. He finally shut up as a second spray, aimed higher, shot up above the windshield, then, showered down on him. She took a step forward and let loose more sprays, saturating the head and neck area of the writhing young man still pulling at his hoodie. He yanked it off, exposing a lemon-colored buzz cut on his head, a concave chest and pale white, spindly arms. Red splotches were popping up here and there. As he spun back around, facing her, she let go more blasts at 20-second intervals. He shed the wife-beater t-shirt next. The young man was now half-naked as he hopped around on the side of the road. Items were falling from the clothes he discarded, or maybe from the pockets of his baggy pants. Among them was a gun.
Jessica made a mad dash for the gun before the half-blinded man, now flailing about on his knees, could locate it.
“Get in, you motherfucker. She’s got the gun,” the driver hollered. “I‘m gettin’ the fuck outta here wit’ or wit’out you, Gomer.” He gunned the engine of the car. The baggy-panted young man on the ground rose. He did a Frankenstein’s monster walk in the direction of those engine sounds. When he reached the car, he fell forward, tumbling head first into the passenger seat of the car. The driver revved the engine again and glared right at Jessica.
“Oh no you don’t, you bastard! Don’t even think about it!” she shouted, as she emptied the gun into the front end of the car. With that, he took off. Steam was rising from under the hood. Two cars slammed on their brakes to avoid ramming the low rider as it burned rubber, leaving a trail of fluid from somewhere under the car. One of the two cars that had braked pulled off onto the shoulder of the road. It slid into the space vacated by the vintage Chevy.
“Don’t shoot, Jessica. It’s me, Dick Tatum.” Jessica dropped the gun and sat right down on her backside. Her legs no longer provided support. The sound of police sirens could be heard in the distance growing louder by the second. Dick Tatum was at her side a moment later, helping her get to her feet.
“You need to get out of the sun. I’ve got the air conditioner running in my car. Come on, you’re okay. It’s okay.”
“I’m probably going to need a lawyer.”
“That’s okay too, Jessica. You’ve got one.”
Dick Tatum guided her to the front seat of his rental as a patrol car pulled off the road behind him. Two minutes later, another marked car arrived, followed a few minutes later by the tow truck. The shoulder of the off ramp was now too crowded to accommodate the arrival of an ambulance and the EMTs. A passing motorist had apparently called 911 with information that there was an altercation taking place on the side of the road. A second caller had said there were shots fired. The first officer at the scene waved off the ambulance on assurances from Jessica that she was not injured.
One of the officers from the second patrol car was directing traffic. He tried to keep the looky-loos moving, while a third officer set up a perimeter and began taking photos of the scene. They set out markers next to the gun where Jessica had dropped it, and her now nearly empty pepper spray device nearby. The hoodie, t-shirt and grillwork left behind by her would-be assailant were also marked and photographed where they had fallen. There were dark streaks on the pavement left by the driver of the Chevy Impala. The quick-thinking Dick Tatum had noted what he could see of the license plate as the vehicle fled. It would not be too hard to find the decked out low rider painted in a bright yellow-sunburst pattern and riddled with bullet holes. Besides, how far could it get far in that condition?
Jessica did her best to describe the incident to Riverside’s finest. She sipped from a bottle of water someone had handed her as she went through the now familiar routine. She answered an endless stream of questions as yet another police officer collected information for yet another police report. The whole scenario had played out in less than ten minutes. The telling and retelling of the story took much longer.
As she recounted events, an officer swabbed her hands for the presence of gunshot residue. The officer who had been taking her statement asked her to “hold on a sec.” Recognizing Dick Tatum’s name, he ran it, and quickly discovered that Dick Tatum had been involved in a car-bombing incident the night before. Did they think the two incidents were related?
Jessica wanted to shriek “hell yes” but let Dick Tatum responded with a more taciturn “most likely.” They were discussing what the two of them were up to, and how the incidents were “most likely” related, when the officer taking photographs asked if Jessica could join her where she was standing. Jessica walked a few feet and stood next to the police woman holding a camera.
“Any idea what these might be? Did you have them with you, or did your gentlemen callers drop them?” Jessica was hit by a bout of nausea. On the ground was a pair of toddler panties, the print matched the top worn by that doll found outside her dad’s house. That sight was eerier to Jessica than being accosted by ruffians in a low rider. Creepier even than the mouth jewelry or seeing that gun fall out of the young thug’s pants. She knew who had sent them. It was one more way of saying “back off bitch.”
“They’re not mine. Maybe if you send them to the lab you can get fingerprints or something from them, but I wouldn’t count on it.” Jessica walked dejectedly back to the car. Any fingerprints would no doubt belong to the lowlife in the low rider. They’d be no closer to Mr. P. Not unless they could catch up with the punk and get him to turn on the schemer who had sicced him on her.
As Jessica sat back down on the edge of the seat in Dick Tatum’s car, a call came in to the police. They had found the Chevy on a back street, not more than a mile away, abandoned and on fire. One of the officers pointed to a pillar of smoke rising into the sky just south of their location.
“There she goes,” he said, as a flash signaled that the car had exploded. Who knew what all was under the hood along with the hydraulics used to raise and lower the car on command? It was ablaze now.
Having finally finished collecting evidence, the police stopped traffic so the tow truck driver could move around in front of the BMW. The man had been waiting in his truck for nearly an hour. When he was finally able to inspect the car, he had another tidbit for those at the scene.
“Uh, Miss, did you notice that the gas tank access door is damaged? I’d say it’s been tampered with.” Jessica stepped over to the car and took a look. The panel was dented and scratched and no longer sat flush with the body of the well-crafted sedan.
“What does that mean?” Jessica asked, wearily.
“The way the car up and died on you, I’m guessing someone put something in the tank.”
“You mean like sugar?”
“Sugar and water, possibly, water’s harder on a car than sugar. At least you were close to town when it conked out on you. A damn shame, if you ask me. The mechanics will be able to tell you more after they look it over.”
The officer made another note in the record he was keeping, including the name and address of the dealer where the car was being towed. The shock of the ordeal was taking a toll on Jessica. Dick Tatum didn’t look so good, either. It was well past lunch hour, and they were running on empty. They were both in for one more surprise as they heard another car drive up. Frank Fontana stepp
ed out of a four-by-four, his personal car. A police beacon, attached to the top of the car, flashed.
“If he says I told you so, I’m going to get into the driver’s seat of your rental and run him over, two, maybe three times.”
“Nah, you don’t want to do that, Jessica,” Dick said softly. “That’s the kind of depravity that got us all in this mess in the first place.”
Frank did not say a word. Instead, he rushed to Jessica and swept her into his arms. “Damn hugs,” Jessica thought, as she hung on to him for dear life.
CHAPTER 29
When the phone rang Thursday morning, Jessica was still unpacking. It had been late by the time she arrived home the night before. Bernadette was waiting up, even though Jessica had called and told her not to do so. She took one look at Jessica and insisted on being told the whole story. It was midnight before Jessica rolled her suitcase into her room and fell into bed.
The discussion with Bernadette was a good thing, since it put them both back on high alert about using the security systems at home. Bernadette also insisted she call Peter and get him to put his guys back on the job. She would ask that they take up their post out in front of her house, as they had done when Jessica and her friends were being stalked by Roger Stone’s killer.
She left Peter a message, making her request for help. When she hung up the phone, she noticed a voice mail of her own. Her father had called: “Hey, Jinx, it’s your dad. Sorry I missed your call. Thanks for the good wishes, sweetie. I’m going to be back in LA in a week, and I am looking forward to the exhibit. It’s great you’ll be at the reception opening night. Can you come into town the night before for dinner? Okay, well, see you soon. Love you.”
Jessica threw herself down on her bed and wept. “Sure thing, Dad,” Jessica said. “I’ll see you soon, if some maniac doesn’t mow me down like poor Kelly. Or have somebody do it for him.” Maybe she was a jinx or jinxed or both. Most dreadful was the prospect of becoming one more episode on one of those true crime shows. That doll-on-the-side-of-the-road thing would be too salacious to pass up along with the fact that the panties showed up at another crime scene later. There was that shoot-out on the exit ramp, too, and cars being torched. Nancy Grace would have a field day with that.