T Is for Trespass

by Sue Grafton

  I checked the clock, as though noting the time would make a difference. 2:15. If I hear the cork pop from a champagne bottle, I automatically check the time in case it turns out to be a gunshot and I’ll be asked later to file a police report. Someone was riding a skateboard in front of the house; metal wheels on concrete, repeated clicks as the skateboard rolled across cracks in the sidewalk. Back and forth, the sound surging and receding. I listened, trying to determine how many skateboarders there were—only one as far as I could tell. I could hear the kid try kick flips, the board slamming down when he made it, clattering off when he missed. I thought about Gus railing at the two nine-year-olds on skateboards in December. He was at his crankiest back then, but at least he was on his feet. Despite his complaints and the nuisance calls he made, he was alive and vigorous. Now he was failing and no one else in the neighborhood was irritable enough to protest the racket outside. The board clacked and banged, off the curb, into the street, back up on the curb again, and down the sidewalk. This was getting on my nerves. Maybe I’d be the cranky neighbor from now on.

  I pushed the covers aside and made my way across the carpeted loft in the dark. There was sufficient illumination from the Plexiglas skylight above that I could see where I was going. Barefoot, I went down the spiral stairs, my oversized T-shirt leaving my bare knees exposed. It was cold in the studio and I knew I’d need a coat if I went out to shake a fist as Gus would have. I went into the downstairs bathroom and stepped into the fiberglass tub and shower surround, with its window that looked out on the street. I’d left the light off so I could see out without the skateboarder knowing I was there. The sound seemed farther away—muted, but persistent. Then silence.

  I waited, but heard nothing. I crossed my arms for warmth and peered out at the dark. The street was empty and remained so. Finally, I climbed the spiral stairs again and crawled back in my bed. It was 2:25 and my body heat had dissipated, leaving me shivering. I pulled the covers over my shoulders and waited to get warm. Next thing I knew, it was 6:00 A.M. and time for my morning run.

  I started to feel more optimistic as I put away the miles. The beach, the damp air, the sun painting gauzy layers of color across the sky—everything suggested this would be a better day. When I reached the dolphin fountain at the foot of State, I took a left and headed toward town. Ten blocks later I made the turn and jogged back toward the beach. I didn’t wear a watch, but I could time my progress as I reached the ding-ding-dinging signal gates near the train station. The ground began to vibrate and I heard the train approach, its warning howl subdued in deference to the hour. Later in the day, when the passenger train came through, the horn would be loud enough to halt conversations up and down the beach.

  As a self-appointed site foreman, I took the opportunity to peek through the wooden barrier surrounding the new Paramount Hotel pool. Much of the construction debris was gone, and it looked as though the plaster coat had been sprayed over the gunite. I could imagine the completed project: deck chairs in place, tables with market umbrellas protecting the hotel patrons from the sun. The image faded, replaced by my worries about Gus. I debated putting a call through to Melanie in New York. The situation was distressing and she’d blame me. For all I knew, Solana had already given her an annotated version of the story, appointing herself the good guy while I was the bad.

  Once I reached home, I went through my usual morning routine, and at 8:00 I locked the studio and went out to my car. There was a black-and-white police cruiser parked at the curb directly across the street. A uniformed officer was deep in conversation with Solana Rojas. Both were looking in my direction. What now? My first thought was of Gus, but there was no ambulance and no fire department rescue vehicle on hand. Curious, I crossed the street. “Is there a problem?”

  Solana glanced at the officer and then pointedly at me before she turned her back and moved away. I knew without being told that the two had been discussing me, but to what end?

  “I’m Officer Pearce,” he said.

  “Hi, how’re you? I’m Kinsey Millhone.” Neither of us offered to shake hands. I didn’t know what he was doing here, but it wasn’t to make friends.

  Pearce wasn’t a beat officer I knew. He was tall, broadshouldered, maybe fifteen pounds overweight, with that staunch police presence that speaks of a well-trained professional. There was even something intimidating about the way his leather belt creaked when he moved.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Her car was vandalized.”

  I followed his gaze, which had shifted to Solana’s convertible, parked two cars down from mine. Someone had taken a sharp instrument—a screwdriver or a chisel—and scratched the word DEAD in deep gouges on the driver’s-side door. The paint was stripped and the metal had been dented by the force of the tool.

  “Oh, wow. When did that happen?”

  “Some time between six o’clock last night when she parked the vehicle and six forty-five this morning. She caught a glimpse of someone passing the house and came out to check. Were you aware of any activity out here?”

  Over his shoulder, I saw that the neighbor from across the street had come out in her robe to get the paper and she’d engaged Solana in much the same conversation I was having with the officer. I could tell from Solana’s gestures she was agitated. I said, “That was probably me she saw this morning. Weekdays, I jog up State, starting at six ten or so and returning thirty minutes later.”

  “Anyone else out and about?”

  “Not that I saw, but I did hear a skateboarder in the middle of the night, which seemed odd. It was two fifteen because I remember looking at the clock. Sounded like he was riding back and forth on the sidewalk, up the curb and down, some in the street. It went on so long I got up to take a look, but I didn’t see a soul. One of the other neighbors might have heard him.”

  “One kid or more.”

  “I’d say, one.”

  “That’s your place?”

  “The studio, yes. I rent from a gentleman named Henry Pitts, who occupies the main house. You can ask, but I don’t think he’ll be able to contribute much. His bedroom’s on the ground floor rear so he’s not subjected to the same street noises that I catch upstairs.” I was babbling, giving Pearce more information than he needed, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “When you heard the skateboarder, you came out to the street?”

  “Well, no. It was cold out and pitch dark so I stood in my downstairs bathroom and looked out the window. He was gone by then so I went back to bed. It’s not like I heard him gouging and bashing away out here.” I meant it as a bit of levity, but the look he turned on me was flat.

  “You and your neighbor have a good relationship?”

  “Solana and me? Uh, not really. I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “You’re on the outs?”

  “I guess you could put it that way.”

  “And what’s that about?”

  I waved the question aside, already at a loss for words. How was I supposed to summarize the weeks of covert cat-and-mouse we’d played. “Long story,” I said. “I’d be happy to explain, but it would take a while and it’s irrelevant.”

  “The bad blood between you isn’t relevant to what?”

  “I wouldn’t call it ‘bad blood.’ We’ve had our differences.” I caught myself and turned to look at him. “She’s not suggesting I had anything to do with this.”

  “A dispute between neighbors is serious business. It’s not like you can walk away from the conflict when you live right next door.”

  “Wait a minute. This is crazy. I’m a licensed investigator. Why would I risk a fine and county jail time to settle a personal dispute?”

  “Any idea who might?”

  “No, but it certainly wasn’t me.” What else could I say that wouldn’t sound defensive? The mere suggestion of wrongdoing is sufficient to generate skepticism in the eyes of others. While we give lip-service to “presumed innocent,” most of us are quick to presume quite the opposite. Espe
cially an officer of the law who’s heard every possible variation on a theme.

  “I should get on in to work,” I said. “You need anything else from me?”

  “You have a number where you can be reached?”

  I said, “Sure.” I took a business card out of my wallet and passed it to him. I wanted to point and say, Look, I’m a no-fooling PI and a law-abiding citizen, but that only put me in mind of the many times I’d crossed the law-abiding line this past week alone. I adjusted my shoulder bag and crossed to my car, acutely aware of the officer’s eyes on me. When I dared to glance back, Solana was watching me as well, her expression poisonous. The neighbor standing next to her regarded me uneasily. She smiled and waved, perhaps worried that if she wasn’t nice to me, I’d vandalize her car, too.

  I started the Mustang and of course when I backed up to pull out of the slot, I tapped the bumper of the car behind. It didn’t seem sufficient to warrant getting out to look, but as surely as I didn’t, I’d get dinged for thousands in repair work, plus an additional citation for leaving the scene of an accident. I opened the car door and left it ajar while I walked around to the back of my car. There wasn’t any sign of damage and when the officer walked over to see for himself, he seemed to agree.

  “You might be a little more careful.”

  “I will. I am. I can leave a note if you think it’s necessary.” You see that? Fear of authority will reduce a grown woman to this kind of groveling, like I would have licked his belt buckle to a high shine if he’d grace me with a smile. Which he didn’t.

  I managed to drive away without any further mishap, but I was rattled.

  I let myself into the office and put on a pot of coffee. I didn’t need the caffeine; I was already wired. What I needed was a game plan. When the coffee was done I poured myself a mug and took it to my desk. Solana was setting me up. I had no doubt she’d scratched the car herself and then called the police. The move was a wily one in her campaign to establish my enmity. The more vengeful I appeared, the more innocent she looked by comparison. She’d already made a case for my calling the county hotline as a gesture of spite. Now I was a candidate for charges of vandalism. She’d have a hell of a time proving it, but the point was to damage my credibility. I had to find a way to counteract her strategy. If I could stay one step ahead of her I might be able to beat her at her own game.

  I opened my bag, found the scrap of paper Charlotte had given me, and phoned the bank. When the call was picked up I asked for Jay Larkin.

  “This is Larkin,” he said.

  “Hi, Jay. My name is Kinsey Millhone. Charlotte Snyder gave me your number…”

  “Right. Absolutely. I know who you are. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, it’s a long story, but I’ll give you the condensed version.” Whereupon I laid out an account of the situation in as succinct a manner as possible.

  When I finished, he said, “Not to worry. I appreciate the information. We’ll take care of it.”

  By the time I got back to my coffee it was stone cold, but I was feeling better. I sat back in my swivel chair and put my feet up. I laced my hands on the top of my head and stared at the ceiling. Maybe I could put a stop to this woman yet. I’ve dealt with some very bad folks in my day—thugs, brute killers, and scamsters, with a number of truly evil people thrown into the mix. Solana Rojas was cunning, but I didn’t think she was smarter than I was. I may not have a college degree, but I’m blessed (she said, modestly) with a devious nature and an abundance of native intelligence. I’m willing to match wits with just about anyone. That being true, I could (therefore) match wits with her. I simply couldn’t go about it in my usual blunt-force fashion. Going head-to-head with her had landed me where I was. From now on, I’d have to be subtle and every bit as cunning as she. Here’s what else I thought: If you can’t go through a barrier, find a way around. There had to be a crack in her armor somewhere.

  I sat up, put my feet on the floor, and opened the bottom right-hand desk drawer where I kept her file. There wasn’t much in it: the contract with Melanie, the original job application, and the written report of what I’d learned about her. As it turned out, all the personal recommendations were horseshit, but I didn’t know that then. I’d tucked Lana Sherman’s résumé at the back of the file and I studied that now. Her comments about Solana Rojas had been hostile, but her criticisms only reinforced the notion that Solana was hardworking and conscientious. No hint of abusing the elderly for fun and profit.

  I placed Solana’s application on the desk in front of me. It was clear I’d have to go back and fact-check every line, starting with the address she’d given out in Colgate. The first time I’d seen the street name, I’d had no idea where it was, but I realized I’d seen it since. Franklin ran parallel to Winslow, one block over from the twenty-four-unit building Richard Compton owned. It was the Winslow property where the Guffeys had so enjoyed themselves, ripping out cabinets and demolishing the plumbing fixtures, thus generating their very own rendition of the Flood, minus Noah’s Ark. The neighborhood was a hotbed of low-life types, so it made sense that Solana would be comfortable in such a setting. I picked up my jacket and my shoulder bag and headed for my car.

  I pulled up across from the apartment building on Franklin, a drab beige three-story structure, free of architectural flourishes—no lintels, no windowsills, no shutters, no porches, and no landscaping, unless you find drought-tolerant dirt aesthetically pleasing. There was a pile of dead bushes near the curb and that was the extent of the vegetation. The apartment number on Solana’s application was 9. I locked my car and crossed the street.

  A cursory survey of the mailboxes suggested that this was a twenty-unit complex. Judging from the numbered doors, Apartment 9 was on the second floor. I made my way up the stairs, which consisted of iron risers with pebbly rectangular slabs of poured concrete forming the treads. At the top I took a moment to reconsider. As nearly as I could tell, Solana was living at Gus’s full-time, but if the Franklin address was still her permanent residence, she might come and go. If I ran into her, she’d know she was under scrutiny, which was not good.

  I returned to the ground floor, where I’d seen a white plastic sign on the door to Apartment 1, indicating the manager was living on the premises. I knocked and waited. Eventually a fellow opened the door. He was in his fifties, short and rotund, with pudgy features in a face that age had sucked into the collar of his shirt. The corners of his mouth were turned down and he had a double-chin that made his jaw look as formless and flat as a frog’s.

  I said, “Hi. Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Solana Rojas and wondered if she was still living here.”

  In the background I heard someone call, “Norman, who’s that?”

  Over his shoulder he called, “Just a minute, Princess, I’m in a conversation here.”

  “I know that,” she called, “I asked who it was.”

  To me he said, “Nobody named Rojas in the building unless it’s someone subletting, which we don’t allow.”

  “Norman, did you hear me?”

  “Come see for yourself. I can’t be yelling back and forth like this. It’s rude.”

  A moment later his wife appeared, also short and round, but twenty years younger with a mop of dyed yellow hair.

  “She’s looking for a woman named Solana Rojas.”

  “We don’t have a Rojas.”

  “I told her the same thing. I thought it might be someone you knew.”

  I looked at the application again. “This says Apartment Nine.”

  Princess made a face. “Oh, her. The lady in Nine moved three weeks ago—her and that lump of a son—but the name’s not Rojas. It’s Tasinato. She’s Turkish or Greek, something of the kind.”

  “Cristina Tasinato?”

  “Costanza. And don’t get us started. She left us with hundreds of dollars in damages we’ll never recoup.”

  “How long did she live here?”

  The two exchanged a look and he said,
“Nine years? Maybe ten. She and her son were already tenants when I took over as the manager and that was two years ago. I never had occasion to check her place until she was gone. The kid had kicked a big hole in the wall, which must have created a draft because she was using old newspapers as insulation, stuffed between the studs. The dates on the papers went back to 1978. A family of squirrels had taken up residence and we’re still trying to get them out.”

  Princess said, “The building was sold two months ago and the new owner raised the rent, which is why she moved. We’ve got tenants flocking off the premises like rats.”

  “She didn’t leave a forwarding address?”

  Norman shook his head. “Wish I could help you out, but she disappeared overnight. We went in and the place stunk so bad, we had to have a crew that usually handles crime scenes come in…”

  Princess chimed in, “Like if a body’s been rotting on the floor for a week and the boards are soaked with that bubbly-looking scum?”

  “Got it,” I said. “Can you describe her?”

  Norman was at a loss. “I don’t know, average. Kinda middle-aged, dark…”

  “Glasses?”

  “Don’t think so. She might have wore them to read.”

  “Height, weight?”

  Princess said, “On the thin side, a little chunky through the middle, but not as big as me.” She laughed. “The son you couldn’t miss.”

  “She called him Tiny, sometimes Tonto,” Norman said. “Babyfaced—great big hulk of a guy…”

  “Real big,” she said. “And not right in the head. He’s mostly deaf so he talked all in grunts. His mom acted like she understood him, but none of the rest of us did. He’s an animal. Prowling the neighborhood at night. Scared the crap out of me more than once.”

  Norman said, “Couple of women were attacked. He beat the shit out of this one gal. Hurt her so bad, she nearly had a nervous breakdown.”