Hard Fall

by Pascal Scott

  She followed the officer through the heavy door, down a gray hallway, past a brightly lit break room, and into the larger room where she had met with Detective Washington. They sat at a far-corner desk. Zoe felt male eyes on her as she took a seat in the visitor’s chair.

  “I’m Officer Curtis Williams,” he said.

  “My name is Zoe Martinelli. I’m a private investigator from San Francisco. At approximately 2:30 this morning, someone I’m investigating pointed a gun at me. In California, that’s a crime. I’m here to find out if it’s a crime in Georgia.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said. “In Georgia, a person is guilty of a misdemeanor if he points a gun at you without legal justification.”

  He opened a side drawer and pulled out a form. Then he opened the middle drawer and searched for a pen. When he found one, he began filling out the report.

  “The operative phrase is without legal justification,” he said. “Before we go any further, I should ask you to think about this from a legal standpoint. Was his action justified legally? This person who pointed a gun at you.”

  “What would justify it?” Zoe asked. “In Georgia.”

  “An ‘imminent threat of harm.’ He would have to have felt that you presented an imminent threat of harm.”

  “It’s a she,” Zoe corrected. She considered. “I hadn’t thought it through. That’s exactly what she would claim.”

  She stood. He looked surprised. “I’m sorry I took up your time, Officer Williams. Thank you. Do you need to escort me out?”

  “Yes,” he said. He put down the pen and stood. “And I’ll need that back.” He nodded toward the lanyard.

  “One more thing,” Zoe added. “What can you tell me about the Doll Crib? It’s a strip club on Cheshire Bridge Road.”

  “Oh, I know it well,” Officer Williams said. “It’s owned by Big Icey. Yeah, Big Icey has been runnin’ these Atlanta streets for thirty years. He’s got two lieutenants, Foxx and Whittaker. Whittaker’s his back-of-the-house man. Cooks the books, wears a suit. Foxx is up front, usually at the door. Gang ties, has a brother in the Bloods. Icey’s real name is Michael Jones. He went to Duke on a football scholarship and then prison on a drug charge. When he got out, he did the usual misdemeanors: jacking cars, breaking and entering, until one day one of his home boys took him to a rundown strip club out on Cheshire. Icey did some quick math in his head and figured, hell, I could do better. Put in some pretty girls and make some serious money. And that’s what the brother did.

  “But ya know what they say. ‘Booze and boobs are a bad combination.’ Places like that bring out the worst in men. Look here. You seem like a nice girl. Word to the wise, Ms. Martinelli, stay away from the Doll Crib.”

  Yes, but even Plato didn’t claim to be wise, Zoe thought as she opened the door to her rental car. She started the engine and eased into traffic. As she did, she had the uneasy feeling that she was being watched. On Ponce de Leon Avenue, she glanced in her rearview and saw a pearl-colored Dodge Caravan that she could have sworn was tailing her. But when she turned onto Peachtree and headed toward her hotel, the Dodge passed her. It was a female driver, a soccer mom type. Zoe had half-expected to see a gangster, someone like the bouncer at the Doll Crib. But no, this was somebody’s unassuming, law-abiding mother. Gangsters didn’t drive minivans. Zoe’s paranoia was getting the better of her.

  ****

  “What?” Stone shouted into the phone in San Francisco.

  “Yeah, she pulled a gun on me.”

  “Okay, Zoe, this is getting too dangerous. I want you to come home right now.”

  In her hotel room, Zoe wound the corkscrew-shaped phone cord around her fingers and smiled. “Not happening, Stone. Things are just getting good. I’m going to keep following her. She’s getting rattled. I’m jerking her chain.”

  “I don’t care what you’re jerking. That girl is crazy. This is too risky. Listen to me. As of right now, you are off this case.”

  “Says who? You’re not paying me anymore, in case you’ve forgotten. I’m doing this on my own dime. Well, Rich’s dime actually.”

  “Zoe!” Stone protested in an uncharacteristic whine.

  “I’m fine. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Famous last words.”

  “How are you, by the way? Have you been to Sausalito yet?”

  “Yeah, I went, and there’s too much to tell. I’ll save it for when you get home. Which should be now. Right now. I want you on the next plane out of Atlanta. I’m telling you, Elizabeth Taylor Bundy is certifiably crazy. You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  “I have a feeling I do. Hey, Stone? I need dinner. I’ll call you tomorrow evening, same time. Try not to worry.”

  “Said the woman hunting the psychopath.”

  “’Night, Stone.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Tuesday, July 17, marked one full week of surveillance on Elizabeth Taylor Bundy. At $150 a night for a room at the Michelangelo, Rich’s generosity wouldn’t extend forever. Zoe needed to make something happen. Soon. She had one last thought on how to push Elizabeth’s buttons.

  ****

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Zoe said.

  She took a business card out of her wallet and handed it to the short, stocky woman who had come from behind her desk. This was Professor Laura Sterling up close. Today she was dressed professionally, in black slacks, a white Oxford blouse, and black flats. Around her neck, she wore a long blue scarf knotted like a man’s tie, but from her earlobes, she had hung her big silver hoops. The look delivered a mixed message that didn’t work, Zoe thought. But then, how many feminist lesbians were known for their fashion sense?

  Professor Sterling took the card and read it while inviting Zoe to sit in an armchair near her desk. Her office was surprisingly neat and well-organized for an academic. Her desk was clear of paperwork, her bookshelves neatly lined with tomes of scholarly work.

  “How can I help you, Ms. Martinelli?”

  Zoe got right to the point. “Elizabeth Taylor Bundy.”

  She watched for the professor’s reaction. It came in the form of a quick double blink. Her eyes were bright and green in color, attractive even without makeup. But below them were puffy dark circles, testament no doubt to the sleepless nights it took to make chair of women studies, her current position, according to the business card in the glass card holder on her desk.

  “What about her?” Professor Sterling asked.

  “She’s a student here at Candler University in your women studies doctoral program. I’m investigating her in connection with the death of another woman who was her dormmate at UC-Santa Cruz.”

  “Good heavens,” Professor Sterling said. “What happened to that other young woman? The dormmate in Santa Cruz?”

  Zoe crossed her legs. In a short-sleeved blouse and khaki shorts, she felt underdressed, even though she blended in with most of the Atlantans she saw on the street. Maybe people relaxed their sartorial standards when the temperature climbed above eighty-five, the way it did in Atlanta, day after day. At least in July.

  “The authorities say she committed suicide by jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “Oh, my. That’s tragic. I’m so sorry. That’s just tragic.”

  “Yes, well, that’s why I’m here. How well do you know Elizabeth Taylor Bundy?”

  Professor Sterling cleared her throat. “Not well at all,” she said. “She’s a new student just entering our program. As you say, she did her undergraduate work out of state. I believe she’s new to the area. From California.”

  “Right,” Zoe said. “Have you ever heard of Emily Bryson?”

  “No,” Professor Sterling replied. “Was that the name of the young woman who committed suicide?”

  “Yes.”

  A look of concern crossed her face. She stood suddenly.

  “I’m afraid I underestimated the legal implications of our conversation,” she said. “I do apologize
. I wasn’t quite clear when we spoke on the phone about what would be involved here. I’m afraid I’ve already violated Elizabeth’s confidentially and said too much.”

  Zoe stood. “I understand,” she said and offered her hand, which Professor Sterling shook.

  She walked Zoe to the door of her office.

  “Thank you for your time,” Zoe said. “You have my card if you think of anything you would like to discuss with me.”

  Professor Sterling wasn’t saying anything more.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Zoe hoped it would work. And why wouldn’t it? Zoe imagined Professor Sterling calling Elizabeth, demanding to know why a private investigator from California was looking into her. If there was one thing upwardly mobile women hated, it was to have their ambitions thwarted by association with bad company. It was risky enough already that Professor Sterling was sleeping with a female student, breaking every rule on and off the books; now she knew she was having an affair with someone who might be involved in a suspicious death. Why else would a PI be asking questions?

  That was what Professor Sterling was thinking today, Zoe hoped. Zoe was playing hardball now, the PI’s version of the Reid Technique used by cops. You bully your suspect until he loses his temper. You get in his face until he loses his cool. You make him make a mistake.

  Zoe couldn’t tell if it was working. And then she could. At 5:30 p.m. Wednesday, July 18, Elizabeth emerged from her apartment building, looked intentionally across the street at Zoe’s Corolla, and gave Zoe the middle-finger salute. Zoe nodded and snapped a picture. There was no need to pretend anymore. The game was cat-and-mouse, and they both knew they were playing it. With no reason now for Zoe to try to be discreet, she followed right behind Elizabeth’s Taurus. Elizabeth took the same spot at the far end of the Doll Crib parking lot that she took every day and walked to the front entrance, stopping again to say a few words to Foxx. Zoe circled around and passed them slowly, waving affably before she drove out of the lot and back to the hotel.

  Zoe was getting to her.

  Chapter Fifty

  At 1:30 a.m., Zoe left her hotel room and took the elevator to the parking garage. It was as silent and empty as a church at midnight. She was putting the key in the ignition of the rental when she became aware of another presence in the car, someone else’s energy.

  “Elizabeth Taylor Bundy,” Zoe said aloud, looking in her rearview at the face that had risen from the backseat and was now in the mirror. Elizbeth held a pistol in her gloved hand, pointed at Zoe’s head.

  “Put your hands on the wheel where I can see them.”

  Zoe put her hands on the wheel.

  “Good. Now slowly, with your right hand, reach down and pick up your purse and hand it to me. I know you carry, but if you go for your gun, I’ll shoot you dead. Got that?”

  “I’ve got that.”

  Zoe reached down with her right hand and slowly brought up the handbag, passing it back to Elizabeth.

  “Good,” Elizabeth said. “Now start the engine.”

  “How’d you get into my car?” Zoe asked, putting the key into the ignition. “A wire hanger in the doorframe?”

  “That’s for amateurs. I used the handle of a hammer and the trunk release lever on the underside of the car. Much easier.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been getting a street education. That’s what happens when you dance on a pole at the Doll Crib.”

  “Shut up,” Elizabeth snapped. “I told you to leave me alone, but you wouldn’t listen. Now just shut up and drive. Put it in reverse.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll know soon enough. Reverse, that’s it. Nice and easy. And if you try anything hinky, I’ll blow your brains out right where we are. I don’t care if we have a dozen witnesses. I’ll do it.”

  “I believe you,” Zoe said.

  She looked over her shoulder as she eased the Corolla carefully out of its parking space. She felt the muzzle move to her temple as she finished backing up. She put the car into drive. At the security stop, Zoe swiped her card, and the candy-striped arm lifted, letting them pass. She rolled to a stop at Peachtree Boulevard, wishing the hotel’s management had thought to install security cameras.

  “Which way?” Zoe asked.

  “Left.”

  At 1:30 in the morning, there was almost no traffic on the street.

  “Drive slowly. If you speed or try to get pulled over by the cops, I’ll shoot you. That’s a promise.”

  “I won’t,” Zoe said.

  They drove down Peachtree. Zoe tried to orient herself; her sense of direction had never been one of her strengths. She guessed they were heading north.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she said at a stoplight. The cross street was Baker Street. Zoe made a mental note.

  “Don’t tell me what I have to do,” Elizabeth retorted. “Don’t talk. I want to listen to music. Turn on the radio. Find something soothing.”

  Zoe fumbled with the dial, bringing in hip hop, country, and static.

  “There’s a station at 104.1.”

  Zoe dialed in that number. Strains of cool, wistful jazz filled the car.

  “Turn it up.”

  A lonely trumpet played “Summertime.”

  “That’s Miles.”

  “Davis,” Zoe confirmed. “I like jazz, too.”

  “Don’t try psychology on me,” Elizabeth said evenly. “I’ve got a genius IQ.”

  “I thought so,” Zoe replied. She was still trying. “Me too. I’ll bet you get frustrated with all the stupid people in the world. I know I do. Every day, there are stupid people getting in your way, keeping you from getting what you want. And deserve. Is that how you feel, Elizabeth?”

  “I told you to shut up. Get in the left lane. Follow the signs for I-75 South. There, see it?”

  “Yes.”

  Zoe turned onto Spring Street.

  “Up ahead, there’s the ramp.”

  Zoe pulled onto the entrance for I-75 South and merged into light traffic. A speeding big rig wooshed past on their left.

  “Watch it!” Elizabeth shouted.

  Zoe swerved and then crossed into the middle lane.

  “What’s the speed limit here?” she asked.

  “Fifty-five.”

  “It’s sixty-five in California.”

  “Just drive.”

  Zoe set her gaze on the interstate. She drove south, out of Atlanta, past the airport with its red and white runway lights. The silhouette of the city faded in the rearview mirror as the interstate narrowed to two lanes on each side divided by a concrete median strip. Up ahead, a full moon hung low in the black sky. The gun was removed from Zoe’s head as Elizabeth relaxed in the backseat. They were losing the radio station to static.

  “Turn that off,” she said. Zoe did.

  They rode in silence. For miles, the only sound was the drone of the engine. Then—they both heard it at once. Elizabeth tensed, sitting forward, pressing the gun against the back of Zoe’s neck.

  “Pull over to the shoulder. Slowly, don’t bring attention to us, or you’re dead.”

  Zoe did as she was told.

  “Stop here.”

  She stopped the car. Each woman looked into the rearview mirror. Far behind them but approaching at a breakneck speed, swirling red lights were seen. The high-pitched sound of a siren grew louder and louder until the interior of the car was filled with scarlet light.

  “Don’t move,” Elizabeth warned.

  Both sets of eyes watched as the police car raced forward. As it neared the idling Corolla, its lights momentarily brightened, illuminating the rental car. Zoe turned her head slightly to the left as it approached, her eyes pleading, hoping to be caught in a lucky glance by the police officer inside the cruiser.

  No such luck. The cop car sped past, its siren turning into a retreating whine as it raced forward into the distance and out of sight. Elizabeth took a deep breath and exhaled audibly.

  “All right,” sh
e said. “Get back on the road.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  “How far is it?” Zoe dared to inquire. “The reason I’m asking is that we’re running low on gas. We’ll need to stop soon.”

  Zoe glanced in the mirror. Elizabeth was wearing a pained expression now, as if she hadn’t considered this possibility.

  “Up ahead. See that sign for the Shell station? Take that exit.”

  Zoe swerved into the right lane abruptly and exited. She felt the gun dig into her skin.

  “I told you to be careful!”

  “Sorry,” Zoe said.

  She brought the Corolla to a stop at the bottom of the off ramp and looked right to where a Shell station glowed in the dark like some alien sea creature. She turned right.

  “If you pull any crap on me, I will shoot you, I swear to God. Remember that.”

  “I’ll remember,” Zoe promised, easing the car up to a self-service pump that offered regular gas for ninety-eight cents a gallon.

  Elizabeth got out of the car first, her gun hidden inside her black leather jacket, trained on Zoe. “Get out. Slowly.”

  Zoe opened the door cautiously and stepped out.

  “Close it.”

  She did.

  “Here, take this.”

  “What is it?”

  “A ten-dollar bill. When we get inside, you’re going to tell the cashier you want ten dollars of regular. That’s all you’ll say. You hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  Zoe entered first with Elizabeth close behind. Walking quickly past the tacky displays of chips and soft drinks and beef jerky, she went directly to the cashier at the red counter. On the wall, stacks of cigarette packs in a metal display made a colorful mural. A tattooed young woman looked up from a magazine. She wore a sleeveless blouse that revealed the word “beautiful” inked in black and red on her left shoulder.

  “Ten dollars on pump number two, please,” Zoe said.

  Beautiful took the bill and rang it up. “You want the receipt?”