“Are you Mr. Paulson?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
“I’ll need to see some ID, please. We had a prowler report for this residence.”
“I look like a prowler to you?”
“No sir. But I need to make sure. If you’re really Mr. Paulson, you wouldn’t want me to take any shortcuts, would you?”
“No, that’s true.” He fished around in his pocket and came up with a slim leather wallet. I had never understood why the richest people didn’t have the fattest wallets, but his looked like the addition of even a single dollar bill would stretch it out of shape. He slid a driver’s license from it and handed it over. The picture matched the face, and the name matched what I’d been given. “I’m Terry Paulson, as you can see.”
“Very good, sir.” I handed back the license.
“And you are … ?”
“Mike Rogers,” I said. “The police have been alerted and they’re on the way. Do you know if the prowler is still on the property, Mr. Paulson?”
“Call me Terry, Mike. I don’t know if it was really a prowler, in retrospect. My wife heard a noise. She thought it was a prowler. I didn’t see anything but thought it was safest to trigger the alarm.”
“That’s the best thing to do. Let us take a look for you. Where did she hear it?”
“She can tell you best herself.” He stepped back through the door, into a foyer that appeared to be floored with fine marble. A staircase curled up from there. “Sharon!” he called.
She came out of a side door, wearing a shy look and not a lot else. When I saw her I forgot why I was there, forgot everything for a few seconds. I had never seen a woman like her, except on a movie screen, or a computer one. She had plump lips, a slightly olive complexion, and smoky gray eyes. Long dark hair framed her face in ringlets and then curled off the tops of breasts that were high and round and barely contained by a low-cut, silky blue nightgown that more than hinted at the rest of her impressive curves. A ring glinted off the little toe of her left foot. She could have bracketed my thirty-one years by five in either direction.
“Hello,” she said, and her voice was low and frank and warm and not at all shy. “I’m sorry I got you out here. It’s probably nothing.”
“Don’t worry about that, it’s what I’m here for,” I replied. “If it’s okay, I’ll look around just the same. Where did you think you heard something?”
She flashed a smile, showing me a couple of front teeth that should have seen braces but hadn’t. Somehow the imperfection made her all the more stunning. “In the back,” she said. Barefoot, she stepped outside, onto the cobblestones. “That’s nice. Cool. Come, I’ll show you.”
She padded softly past me. I glanced at Terry Paulson, who indicated with a nod of his head that I should follow his wife. I did, happily, trying not to stare at the round ass swishing back and forth under the thin layer of silk.
She showed me the area where she thought she’d heard something, between the pool house and the tennis court. I stayed for a few minutes, waved the flashlight around. When the cops arrived, they took over, but they didn’t see anything either.
Finally, I had to get back to my patrol. The company had installed GPS units in all the cars, which had not only cut back on unauthorized excursions to Tijuana and Ocean Beach, but also allowed them to enforce a time constraint. If we spent more than fifteen minutes at any given address we had to account for it in writing. Before I left, I tried to find Terry Paulson, but he was in back with the cops. Instead, I found Sharon, or she found me as I was heading for the car.
“Mike,” she said.
“Oh good, there you are.” I had a business card in my hand already, and I held it out to her. “This is my card. I put my cell number on the back. Sometimes it’s quicker to just call me directly, rather than go through dispatch, because I’m on duty in the area most nights.”
“Thank you, Mike. Thanks for coming over, too. I feel so much better.”
“Like you said, it was probably nothing, maybe an animal passing through. But you don’t want to take chances. If you hear or see anything unusual, just call.”
She took the card, letting her hand linger on my fingers for a long moment. She held my gaze with hers for a few seconds, showed me those two crooked teeth again, then turned and walked back into the house. Once again, memory fled. It wasn’t until the huge front door closed that I remembered I was leaving.
I heard from her two nights later. My cell phone rang and when I answered it there was a voice on the other end, barely audible, as if calling from somewhere in outer space.
“Mike?”
“Yeah?” It took a few seconds to place her. “Mrs. Paulson, is that you? Is everything okay?”
“No. Yes. I mean … Mike, can you meet me?”
The car’s digital clock blasted 11:18 at me. “I can be there in five minutes. Should I call the police?”
“No,” she said, more firmly this time. “Not here, Mike. You know the cross?”
“On the hill?”
“That’s right.”
“Sure.”
“Meet me there,” she said. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes,” I echoed, but she was already gone.
The cross was at the top of the mountain. Parking surrounded it, and walking paths, mostly used by tourists and lovers who looked out at the nearly 360-degree view and made out in the dark. Everyone who had been there more than once knew to dim their lights when they pulled into the little circle. People fought about the cross all the time, since it’s on public land. One side considered it an inappropriate display of religion, the other insisted that its value is historical, not specifically religious, and it should be left alone. A few years earlier someone had decided to get around the controversy by converting it into a war memorial honoring anyone whose family ponied up the money to buy a plaque. When I was up there, I barely saw the cross, because it was in the center of the circle and the view was on the outside.
I made it there in ten minutes. She was five minutes late. That left me plenty of time to wonder about what she wanted, why she hadn’t wanted me to come to the house. Time to wonder, and fantasize.
When she emerged from a black Lexus IS F10, I didn’t wonder anymore. I didn’t do anything but stare.
She was fully dressed this time, in a blue tank top and faded jeans that clung to her thighs like a sheen of perspiration. Her hair was loose, like before, and if anything she looked even sexier. More relaxed.
I was glad one of us was relaxed, because I was buzzing. On fire.
“Hello, Mike,” she said.
“What … what can I do for you, Mrs. Paulson?”
“Please, Mike. Sharon.”
“Okay, Sharon. What did you need to see me for?”
She shot me a you’re kidding look. “What do you see when you look at me, Mike? Be honest.”
I couldn’t be completely honest. “A very beautiful woman. Wealthy, happily married—”
She stopped me with an arched eyebrow and a waggled finger. “Don’t. Mike, don’t patronize me, please.”
“What?”
“Tell me what you see.”
“I see probably the most amazing woman I’ve ever encountered. Are you really real?”
“I don’t come from money, if that’s what you mean. Everything I’ve got is what I was born with. You like it?”
“It’s impressive. You’re impressive. Your husband is a lucky guy.”
“He gets what he wants, I get what I want. It’s a trade-off, but it works for us.”