“For God’s sakes, what is this, the gathering at the wake?” I snapped. I stood up and straightened my clothes, glancing at Francis with irritation. He stepped to one side as I headed for the door, the burst of anger giving me some momentum. I knew that if Estelle saw the mess in the kitchen, she’d be down on her knees, cleaning.
But she had outfoxed me. She’d cleaned the floor before she’d come back to the bedroom to let her husband know that she was in my house.
She saw me standing in the archway to the kitchen and held up the handle of the coffee decanter. “Do you have another one of these, sir?”
“No,” I said. I gestured at the floor. “And you didn’t have to do that.”
She shrugged. “How are you?”
“Fine,” I said. “And did Bucky have anything to say about the paint chips?”
She shook her head. “No, sir. He said they might have trouble with that. What we sent him wasn’t much more than a little powder…he said it’s going to be a hard call.”
“Black is black, for Christ’s sakes,” I said. I noticed that Francis was the only person in the living room. “Where’s Crocker?”
“He went into his room, sir.”
I grinned. “Family squabbles bother him, sweetheart.”
“What did Francis say?”
I glanced at Guzman, who was standing with his hands behind his back, examining the titles of the books on the shelf beside the television. “He wants to commit me.”
“Admit,” he said from across the living room. “You don’t need mental help yet.”
“It amounts to the same thing,” I said. I lowered myself onto one of the kitchen chairs. I had no sooner touched the chair than the telephone rang. Estelle reached for it, one eyebrow up in question.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Detective Reyes-Guzman,” she said, and I got the impression that she had been expecting the call. She listened for several seconds, then said, “Is Sergeant Torrez standing by?” Apparently he was, because she nodded at the response. “Good. Tell Pasquale not to do anything. Just sit tight. Have Sergeant Torrez park on the opposite side of the block, just in case.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, but Estelle held up a hand, stalling me while she listened. I could feel my blood pressure inching up another notch. Dr. Guzman was still looking at books.
“No,” Estelle said, “tell him not to leave his car. Period. And tell him to keep his windows rolled up so she doesn’t hear the radio. Sound carries.”
I couldn’t stand it any longer and pushed myself to my feet.
“I’ve got a handheld with me, so have him call me directly on car-to-car. Make sure he understands that. A lot of people have scanners.”
She rang off, and I tried my best to be civil. “Well?”
She glanced first at her husband, and faced me. “That was Ernie Wheeler. He’s on the radio with Tom Pasquale. Pasquale says that Vanessa Davila left her trailer and walked to a house a few doors down on Escondido Lane. Number 135. Just a minute ago. From where he’s parked, he can see her. She apparently has broken a side window and has gone inside.”
“What?”
“B and E a neighbor’s house, sir.”
“You said you had a radio. Where is it?”
She pointed over on the counter where she’d put her purse and jacket. She crossed the kitchen and picked it up, then handed it to me. I fumbled the buttons and then keyed the mike.
“Posadas P.D., do you copy?”
“Ten-four.” Tom Pasquale’s voice was loud in the kitchen. If he’d opened the window and shouted, we could have heard him through the small forest that separated my house from Escondido Lane.
“Is the subject still in the house?”
“Ten-four.”
“Any other activity around there that you can see?”
“Negative, sir.”
I let the radio rest on the table. “Do we know who lives there? One thirty-five is about Toby Romero’s place, isn’t it?” It was dark outside, and I tried to imagine what Vanessa Davila might be doing, thinking that she could get away with something as stupid as residential burglary.
“She’s still inside,” Pasquale’s voice said. “Do you want me to move in?”
“That’s negative,” Sergeant Torrez’s voice barked before I had a chance to move my hand. “Stay put. We want to know what she’s up to. I’m working my way around there. She isn’t going anywhere.”
“Bob,” I said, keying the mike, “is that Toby Romero’s place?”
“Affirmative.”
“What the hell is she doing?” I said to Estelle, but she just shook her head.
“There’s a light on inside now,” Pasquale said, his voice hushed.
None of the rest of us responded.
The seconds ticked away, and I could measure their frequency against my pulse, two heartbeats for every tick of the second hand.
34
“The light went out.” I could hear the tension in Patrolman Thomas Pasquale’s voice, and I could imagine him hunched over the steering wheel, eyes locked on target, knuckles of his right hand turning white on the microphone.
I had felt that same rush of adrenaline myself, hundreds-maybe thousands-of times. This time, I sat at my kitchen table staring at a black handheld radio, like an old man listening to a favorite baseball game.
“She’s at the window,” Pasquale said, his voice hushed into a hoarse whisper.
I glanced up at Estelle. “You want to take a stroll through the woods and go over and have a look?”
Her smile was sympathetic.
“P.D., three-oh-eight is entering Escondido from the east.”
“Hold back, three-oh-eight. If she hears you, she’ll run.”
“Ten-four.”
I could easily enough imagine Vanessa Davila outrunning me…but I couldn’t imagine her losing either Thomas Pasquale or Robert Torrez.
“P.D., can you see her yet?” I asked and released the switch.
“Negative.”
I looked at Estelle. “There’s a streetlight there somewhere,” I said.
“Posadas, she’s coming through the window right now. It looks like she’s got something in her hand. It could be a gun.” There was a moment’s hesitation. “That’s what it is. She’s putting it under her coat.”
I cursed and jumped to my feet. I could picture several ways that a confrontation between an armed Thomas Pasquale and an armed Vanessa Davila could turn out, and any one of them was enough to give me the willies.
“P.D., hold back and see if she’s heading toward her trailer. Three-oh-eight, did you copy that?”
“Ten-four, 310.”
“Thomas,” I said, hoping that switching to his name would snuff out any chance of error, “do not approach her, do you understand?”
“Ten-four. It is a handgun. I saw it clearly just a few seconds ago.”
“All right, hang back. Don’t do a thing. Now listen, Thomas,” and I realized I was pressing my nose into the speaker face of the handheld. “If she goes to her trailer, just let her go, do you understand?”
“Ten-four.” He sounded disappointed.
“If she goes anywhere else, we’ll handle it at that time. Do you copy?”
“Ten-four.”
“And three ten,” Torrez said, “I’m going to swing around and get myself on the north side of the interstate on Grande, in case she decides to head downtown.”
“Ten-four,” I said. I looked over at Estelle. “Vanessa Davila with a gun,” I said in wonder.
“Dennis Wilton,” Estelle murmured. “That’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“And even that doesn’t,” I said. I heard a discreet clearing of the throat in the living room. Francis was leaning against one of the bookcases, hands still in his pockets, watching us. Estelle caught the exchange. “Your husband thinks I’m going to drop dead,” I said.
“That’s not funny, sir.”
“Indeed not,” I replied.
“She’s heading across the trailer park toward her place,” Thomas Pasquale said, and I pushed the talk switch twice. Pasquale continued, “She’s up on the porch, door open, and she’s inside.” I half expected the kid to add, “Touchdown!”
“Sit tight,” I said into the radio and beckoned to Estelle. “Let’s get over there.”