by Pascal Scott
Zoe had called in the tags on the Beemer to Data Search, a private company used by investigators to run identity searches based on DMV records. Anybody could get the same information directly from the DMV, but by law, the department was required to report the request to the owner of the vehicle. Data Search was exempt from that law.
A moment later, Elizabeth came out of her front door, locking it behind her. She was dressed in a white spaghetti-strap top, a pair of straight-legged skinny jeans with a hole in the right knee, white sneakers, and round sunglasses with red frames that matched the color of her hair. The butch stopped at the passenger door of the BMW and opened it for Elizabeth, who slid in. The butch closed it after her and got into the driver’s seat. The Beemer hummed to life and sped off.
Zoe popped the lid onto her coffee cup and began following. The BMW zipped to a street called Morningside and then hung a quick left onto the busier Piedmont Avenue. Butch didn’t respect the speed limit, which Zoe guessed was probably around thirty miles an hour. The Beemer was doing at least sixty in a residential zone. Fifteen minutes later, it pulled into the gray parking garage of the Atlanta Botanical Gardens. Zoe followed. After parking the BMW, the butch opened the door for Elizabeth, helping her out by the hand like a gentleman. The two of them walked to the entrance, a bright orange concrete and gray stone building made more vivid by a display of lush green plants in front. Zoe followed several steps and visitors behind.
Absorbed in conversation, the two women didn’t seem to notice Zoe at all as they ambled past the ticket counter and through a turnstile where a greeter asked to see their membership cards. The butch pulled a wallet from her back pocket and flashed something at the greeter, who let them inside. Zoe pretended to be interested in buying a day pass.
“Would you like to purchase that ticket, ma’am?” the cashier asked.
“Not right now,” Zoe answered.
Elizabeth and the butch had disappeared down a garden path.
“Is there a payphone I can use?”
“Yes, ma’am, in the gift shop. To your left.”
Zoe pulled a notepad and pen out of her handbag and dialed the hotel to get her messages. There was just one, from Data Search.
“Can I trouble you to call that number for me and charge the call to my room?” Zoe asked the desk clerk.
“No trouble at all,” she replied.
A minute later, the clerk had reached Data Search and transferred the call.
“This is Zoe Martinelli, returning your call. I’m hoping you have a report for me on a couple of tags I called in.”
“I do,” said a male voice. “Give me just a moment to pull it. Martinelli, right?”
“Right.”
“Here it is. Georgia plate FTZ 170, a 1989 BMW coupe, is registered to a Laura Sterling. Street address of 201 Ponce De Leon Avenue, Decatur, GA 30030. Occupation, professor. Employer, Candler University. Two speeding tickets within the last twelve months.”
Zoe wrote it down. “And the other one? The Ford Taurus?”
“Yeah, that one is registered to an Elizabeth Taylor Bundy. Street address of 1260 Briarcliff Road North East, Atlanta, GA 30306. Occupation, student. Employer, Byrd Enterprises. No citations, no moving violations.”
“Got it,” Zoe said. “Thanks so much.”
“You’re welcome. Anything else I can do for you today?”
“No, thanks. That does it.”
“Then thank you for using Data Search. Have a nice day.”
Zoe checked her pad for the number to Candler University. She put another quarter in the payphone and dialed.
“Candler University, admissions office,” a woman answered crisply. Zoe was surprised to hear an accent that sounded more Northeastern than Southern.
“Yes, I’m calling about a professor at Candler. Her name is Laura Sterling, and I’ve forgotten which department she’s in.”
“Laura Sterling is a professor of women studies. Would you like me to transfer you to that office?”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Zoe said and then reconsidered. “On second thought, if you could do that, I would appreciate it. Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” said the transplant.
Women studies. Of course. Elizabeth was starting to be predictable.
Zoe spent the next three hours waiting at the entrance to the Botanical Gardens, but at least she had the freedom to move around. She even allowed herself the indulgence of using the restroom near the gift shop, although she worried that when she returned to the garage, the BMW would be gone. But no, her luck held, and when she passed it on the way to her Corolla, the coupe was still there.
At a few minutes before 5:00 p.m., the couple returned to the parking garage. They were holding hands. Ahh, isn’t that sweet? The con and her next victim. They drove back to Elizabeth’s apartment with Zoe following a block behind. Arriving at the building’s parking lot, Professor Sterling kept the Beemer’s motor running while Elizabeth kissed her goodbye. Revving the engine once for effect, Professor Sterling let the passenger door close and then sped off. Elizabeth got into her Taurus. Zoe tailed her to the Doll Crib and then returned to the Michelangelo. She ordered a spinach salad from room service and called Stone at 9:00 p.m.—6:00 p.m. Pacific Daylight Time—to give her an update. She got Stone’s answering machine, again. This time, she didn’t leave a message.
At 1:30 a.m., Zoe left her room, took the empty elevator down to level two, and walked to her rental car. There was virtually no one in the garage. She opened the Corolla’s door, looking around as she did, then got in and locked it immediately. This time, she didn’t picture a bomb going off. She wasn’t picturing anything at all as she started the engine, adjusted the rearview mirror, and slowly backed out of the space.
Bang!
It had sounded like a gunshot. Grabbing the wheel of her rental car, Zoe ducked her head and stomped on the brakes. She waited, and when nothing more happened, she sat back up. It was then that she realized that the left side of the Corolla was sinking. Shutting off the motor, she got out and walked to the back left tire. It was hissing like a snake.
“Fuck,” she said aloud to no one.
She looked around. Yeah, right, no one.
****
“Lemme ask you somethin’. You got any enemies?”
The name embroidered on his khaki work shirt was Sam. The motor club had sent him after Zoe had reported the flat to the front desk clerk.
“Why?” Zoe asked back.
Sam held up a thin, three-inch spike. “See this?”
She saw that.
“This was settin’ against yer tire, like this.” He made a round shape with his left hand and pointed the sharp end of the spike against it with his right. “Like somebody had set it there. On purpose. Ya couldn’t have run over it in the street or nothin’, not like this. Somebody wanted your tire flat.”
“Huh,” Zoe said.
“Ya want it?”
She did. She pulled a Kleenex from her handbag and wrapped it around the spike and returned it to her purse. Sam wiped his hands on a cloth from the back pocket of his khakis and put his tools back in his truck.
“How do I pay you?” Zoe asked.
“It’ll be on your bill from the hotel. We contract with them.”
“Fine,” Zoe said. “Thanks, Sam.”
He hoisted himself up into his rig. “You have a good night. Watch your back now.”
Zoe checked her watch. It was three minutes after 3:00 a.m. Nothing to do now but try to sleep.
Chapter Forty-two
“Ms. McStone? I’m Dr. Gallagher.”
The boy in the white coat extended a manicured hand to shake.
“How old are you?” Stone demanded rudely. “You don’t look old enough to be a doctor.”
“And yet I am. I’m thirty.”
Stone shook his right hand. In his left hand, he held a clipboard. There was no ring on his wedding finger and a hole in his right earlobe but no earring. Stone’s
gaydar was tuning in.
“You don’t look thirty,” Stone said.
He smiled, a little condescendingly. His skin was unlined and had that well-scrubbed look Stone associated with women of a certain social class.
“It says here in your chart that this is your first visit to King Medical Center. Were you seeing a doctor out of network?”
“No. I don’t go to doctors.”
He nodded toward the exam table, covered with a thin, paper sheet. “Sit down, please.”
She sat.
“You don’t go to doctors,” he repeated, looking at the patient profile on the clipboard. “No annual exam, no mammogram, no pap smear.” He looked up.
“Right.”
“Any particular reason you’re not being proactive in your health care?”
“No. I just don’t like doctors. No offense.”
“None taken,” he said, his eyes widening and then softening with amusement. “So what brings you here today?”
“It should say in the chart. I passed out. At my therapist’s office. I thought I was having a heart attack.”
His gaze returned to the clipboard and then back to Stone. “Mm-hmm,” he said. “Let’s take a look.”
Setting the clipboard on a counter, he brought a medical penlight out of his lab coat.
“Eyes straight ahead. Find a spot on the wall. Don’t look directly into the light.”
He checked Stone’s left eye and then her right, then brought the penlight to her mouth. “Say ahhh.”
“Ahhh,” Stone mimicked. “Why are you checking my throat if I had a heart attack?”
There was more irritation in her voice than she had intended. The boy doctor returned the penlight to his pocket and picked up an otoscope from a tray, inserting the rubber tip into her ears, first the left and then the right.
“I suspect that what you had was an anxiety attack. Were you feeling anxious before your symptoms began?”
“Well, yeah. I was talking to my therapist.”
“That’s actually supposed to relieve anxiety, not cause it,” he said, setting the otoscope down.
“Someone died,” Stone stated flatly.
He stopped what he was doing and stood perfectly still.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said after a moment. It was a cliché, the thing everyone said these days, but he sounded sincere. “How long ago?”
“Last October.”
He nodded.
“I can’t say I know what you’re going through, but I’ve lost people close to me, too.”
“AIDS?” Stone asked.
The light in his eyes flickered. “Yeah,” he said. “AIDS.”
He seemed to lose his focus for a moment. Then he brought himself back. “Have you ever experienced an anxiety attack before this one?”
“No.”
“They’re often mistaken for cardiac events, sometimes even by professionals. Your blood pressure is within the normal range for your age. Your vital signs are normal. I could order more tests, but frankly, I think it would be a waste of time.”
He considered, frowning.
“I’m going to give you a prescription for a mild tranquilizer. There are some new antidepressants available, but let’s start with diazepam and see how that works for you. There are other things you can do. Some of my patients have been helped by meditation. Exercise. Therapy. Although I guess in your case therapy isn’t working for you the way it should.”
He wrote a prescription and tore it off his pad, handing it to her.
“Thanks,” she said.
“If you have another attack, make an appointment with me, and we’ll consider an antidepressant.”
****
“What?” Zoe said into the phone. “What do you mean you thought you were having a heart attack? And you didn’t call me?”
She could hear Stone chuckling on the other end of the line. Stone had finally returned her call, explaining that she had spent the last few nights at her folks’ house. Her mother had insisted.
“This isn’t funny, Stone. Did you go to the ER? Have you seen a doctor?”
“No,” Stone said calmly. “I didn’t go to the ER. I drove myself home when I came to. It happened at my therapist’s office. I passed out, that’s all. But yes, I’ve seen a doctor. I think he was gay.”
“And what did this gay doctor say?”
“He said it was an anxiety attack.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“He didn’t order an EKG or a blood test or anything?”
“No,” Stone said. “That’s why I don’t like going to doctors.”
“It’s because you’re a woman,” Zoe continued, ignoring Stone’s last remark. “Women get short-changed. If a man goes in saying he thinks he had a heart attack, male doctors take him seriously. If a woman goes in saying the same thing, she’s told she has anxiety. And it doesn’t matter if he’s gay or not, the doctor. Gay men are still men.”
“Way it is,” Stone said.
“Oh, Stone. Sometimes you frustrate the fuck out of me.”
“Zoe! Wow. I have never in all my forty-one years heard such language from a lady,” Stone kidded.
“Be serious. You should have called me. But at least you’re all right. That’s what’s important.”
“I’m fine. How’s the case going?”
Zoe realized she was standing. She had stood when she learned the news about Stone’s attack. She sat now on the bed, pulling the cord of the phone over until she was comfortably leaning against the oversized Michelangelo pillows.
“I met with a police detective on Tuesday morning, and I started surveillance on Elizabeth that afternoon.”
“You found her.”
“I found her. And you were right. That was probably who you saw that day in the Castro at Cliff’s Hardware. That was probably Elizabeth. She’s dyed her hair bright red, and she wears it gelled up and spiky. She looks different, but it’s the same girl.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, wow. Something else. I followed her to work. She’s still doing the same work.”
“A peep show?”
“No, a strip club.”
“Wow. Same old Emily. I mean Elizabeth.”
“Yeah,” Zoe agreed.
“What happens next?”
“More surveillance. I followed her today…”
Zoe had started to tell Stone about Laura Sterling but realized the mistake before she made it. There was no need to pour salt into that wound.
“…and I’ll keep watching her. I’m hoping she’ll do something illegal. If she does, I’ll alert my new friend Detective Washington. If he can bring her in on a lesser charge, I’m thinking that maybe she’ll cave under pressure and confess to the murder.”
“Nice plan, but I don’t think it will work.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, I don’t think she’d cave under pressure. For another, she never did anything illegal that I know of. Except for the murder, of course.”
“Uh, yeah, there was that. She didn’t even smoke a little dope now and then?”
“No, she was clean.”
“How about alcohol? Did she drink and drive?”
“Not really.”
“Too bad. But don’t get discouraged. There will be something. Criminals always screw something up.”
“Is there anything I can do? What can I do to help?”
“You can get well.”
“I am well. It was just an anxiety attack, that’s all.”
“Actually, there is something. Candler University had two addresses for Elizabeth, the one in Atlanta where I found her and another in Sausalito. I didn’t investigate that one. It was probably a rental but just to make sure, if I give it to you, will you go look? See who owns it?”
“Of course,” Stone said.
Zoe gave her the address.
“What time is it there?” Stone asked.
“The clock on the table
says it’s 9:28 a.m.”
“Yeah, it’s 6:28 here. I’ve got to get ready for work.”
“I’ll let you go then.”
“What are you doing today?” Stone asked.
“More surveillance on Elizabeth. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Somebody flattened a tire on my rental car.”
“Intentionally?”
“Yeah, intentionally.”
“Jesus, Zoe. Be careful.”
“I will. You, too, Stone. Be careful in Sausalito.”
Chapter Forty-three
The house in Sausalito didn’t look like a rental. It was a contemporary home painted bright blue, built on a gently sloping hill with a view of the Bay and Angel Island. Stone parked her big orange truck in front of the house at 87 San Carlos Avenue. On a street lined with Mercedes, Volvos, and Lexuses, the rolling pumpkin looked decidedly out of place. She climbed at least two dozen steps to reach the arched front door with glass panels stained gold and orange. She knocked and waited. When there was no response, she knocked again. She was about to try a third time when the door opened, revealing a tanned, middle-aged woman in a silky red kimono.
“Yes?” the woman asked with some annoyance in her voice.
“I’m looking for Elizabeth Taylor Bundy. I heard she used to live here.”
The woman tilted her head of uncombed, unnaturally black hair. Her mascara was smeared on her dark eyes, as if she hadn’t bothered to remove her makeup from the night before.
“And you are?”
“I’m an old friend.”
“Well, old friend, you heard right. But Elizabeth doesn’t live here anymore.”
Before she could close the door, Stone had stuck her cowboy boot inside. “If you don’t mind, I have a few questions.”
The woman sized her up, reassessing her request. She opened the door wide. “Come on in.”
Stone followed her down a champagne-colored hallway to a living room with big clean windows that looked out onto the Bay. The woman sat in a black leather armchair. Stone sat on the matching couch. Between them was a glass cocktail table on which lay a pack of Virginia Slims, a silver lighter, an abalone shell, and a copy of Architectural Digest.