“What?” she said.
“You know my brother?”
“I look like an idiot? Everybody knows Cappi. He’s crazy as a loon.”
“I’d like you to keep an eye on him. He’s new to the concept of work for pay. I don’t think he’s got the hang of it yet.”
“I charge extra to babysit,” she said.
“How about spying?”
That idea seemed more appealing to her. “You want regular reports?”
“That would be nice,” he said. “Meanwhile, get Dade O’Hagan on the line. His number’s in there.” He pushed the Rolodex in her direction and watched as she worked her way through.
“O’Hagan, like the mayor?”
“Ex-mayor. You’re behind the times. This is old business. I’m calling in a marker if it’s any of your concern.”
She smiled. “Hot stuff.”
“You bet.”
15
I left Marvin’s house at 2:15 with a promise to keep him posted on my progress. I was feeling more optimistic. Marvin’s mention of time travel had sparked a train of thought. I too had regretted I couldn’t go back to relive those moments in the parking garage when I’d blown the opportunity to pick up the plate number on the black sedan. The nice man who’d come to my aid had suggested I notify mall security and file a report. At the time, I’d been distracted by my outrage, my throbbing shin, and my badly scraped palm. With Marvin’s offhand remark, it dawned on me that I did have a way to go back in time and review events. I knew the woman in charge of mall security.
Maria Gutierrez had been the beat officer assigned to my neighborhood some six years before. On the last case I’d worked, I’d crossed paths with her former partner, Gerald Pettigrew, who was now in charge of the K-9 unit at the Santa Teresa Police Department. Maria’s name hadn’t come up in conversation, but she’d been on my mind. Some months before, I’d found myself standing behind her in the checkout line at the supermarket. She looked familiar, but she wasn’t in uniform and I didn’t make the connection. She’d been quicker at the recognition. She greeted me by name and identified herself. As we inched our way closer to the register, we played a quick game of catch-up. I filled her in on my life, Henry’s whereabouts, and my last encounter with Lieutenant Dolan, whom she knew from the police department. She told me she’d resigned from the PD in order to take a job in the private sector. That’s when she’d given me her business card.
I stopped by my office and sorted through the pile of business cards I routinely toss in my bottom drawer. After a bit of digging I found hers, and I was just about to call when I noticed the light blinking on my answering machine. I punched play.
“Hello, Kinsey. This is Diana Alvarez. Please don’t hang up. I need to talk to you about the article I’m writing. I’m offering you the opportunity to clarify the facts and add any comments you might have. Otherwise, it’s going in as is. My number is…”
I didn’t bother to make a note.
I checked the phone number on Maria’s business card and called her instead. I told her what had occurred and asked if I could have a look at security tapes for April 22. I thought she might be wary. Security measures are considered proprietary and, therefore, not to be disseminated to the general public. Information leaks are more likely to serve the criminal element than the law-abiding citizen, so it’s better for all of us if crooks are kept in the dark about how the traps are set. Apparently, the fact that I was a PI and already known to her constituted a waiver. I gave her my guarantee that the information would remain confidential. She said she had a meeting at 3:00, but if I could make it to her office before then, she’d be happy to help. Two minutes later, I was in my car and on my way. Screw Diana Alvarez.
I found a parking spot at the Nordstrom’s end of the underground structure at Passages Shopping Plaza. I bypassed the escalator and took the stairs up a level, where the retail storefronts had been designed to resemble an old Spanish town. The narrow shoulder-to-shoulder buildings varied in height. Most were stucco with the occasional picturesque chunk of plaster missing to expose the faux brick underneath. Some boasted pricey second- and third-floor offices, with shutters at the windows and flower boxes on the sills.
Along the wide central plaza corridor there were boutique restaurants with outdoor tables, benches for weary shoppers, and kiosks selling sunglasses, junk jewelry, and women’s hairpieces. At the midpoint, a stage had been constructed where musicians played for summer tourists. I went up a wide set of red-tiled stairs to the second floor. To my right there was an auditorium available to local theater groups for stage productions. The mall business offices were located down a hall to the left.
Maria was waiting at the desk when I walked in.
“You’re a doll to do this,” I said.
“No problem. The police circulated the information to all the store managers and cc’d us so we’d know what was going on. Included with the bulletin was Audrey Vance’s mug shot.”
“Did you recognize her?”
“Not me, but I heard a salesgirl at Victoria’s Secret saw her the same day. Apparently, she’s a regular customer and nobody had any idea she was stealing from them. They’re doing an inventory check now to see how badly they were hit.”
“I thought these gangs originated in South America.”
“Those are the worst. They can sweep through and clear a tabletop in the blink of an eye. They blast into town and they’re gone again just that quick.”
“How does it work? They have to be highly organized, but I don’t understand how they operate.”
“You start with the worker bees, who go out and steal the merchandise. Sometimes they’re given a regular shopping list, products the fence knows he can sell. For instance, there’s a big traffic in Gillette razor blades, Tylenol, Excedrin, pregnancy tests, diabetic test strips. I’ve heard Oil of Olay products are a hot ticket as well. The list goes on and on and changes all the time.”
“You mentioned Victoria’s Secret.”
“Sure. Think how many bras you can fit in a shopping bag. Same with panty hose. It’s much tougher to steal bulky items like men’s cologne sets or VCRs. You can’t jam a TV down the front of your pants.”
“But where does the fence lay off the goods?”
“Swap meets are a good bet, thrift stores-places like that. A lot is shipped out of the country.”
“Are these rings run by the mob?”
“Not in the old-fashioned sense of the word. If the business was mob-run, you’d have a widespread network that might be vulnerable to infiltration. These crews are connected loosely, if they’re connected at all, which makes apprehension and prosecution a pain in the butt. In each city, the setup is different, depending on how many people have been brought in and what kind of fencing operation is up and running in any given area.”
“I remember the good old days when I was a rookie, shoplifters were amateurs.”
“Not anymore. We still have the dabblers and wannabes, teenagers sneaking record albums into their backpacks, thinking they can get away with it. Kids are the least of our worries. Though if you ask me, we ought to go after them and nail them.” She waved a hand, impatient with the subject. “Don’t get me started. Come on back and let’s take a look at what we’ve got.”
“You still like the new job?”
“I love it,” she said over her shoulder.
I followed her down a short hall to an office outfitted with closed-circuit television cameras massed together in an alcove. There were ten monitors mounted in proximity, all working independently. A young man in civilian clothes sat in a swivel chair, remote control in hand, following the live images as they flipped from view to view. The two of us stood and watched.