Ordinarily, I’d have been thrilled with having the time to read, but I felt jumpy and tense. I set the paperback aside and ate my sandwich, well aware that I was running through my food supplies at too quick a pace. I took out my wet wash rag and wiped my hands. It wasn’t even dark and I had hours to go. My plan was to follow Georgia if she left the house in the next five hours. If there was no activity, I’d wait until the house was dark and everyone was tucked in for the night, and then I’d go home for a few hours’ sleep. I picked up my book again and turned to page 1.
I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep until a police officer tapped on my car window with his flashlight, which jump-started my heart and nearly made me wet my pants. The cardboard screen was still in place, blocking my windshield so I couldn’t actually see out. I could hear the sound of a car idling and I assumed it was his patrol car. Around the edges of the cardboard screen, I could see flashes of red and blue, a Morse code of dots and dashes that spelled out you-are-so-screwed. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was just past midnight and pitch black outside. Except for the flashing lights, of course, which would probably alert everyone in the neighborhood that some kind of trouble was going down. I turned the key one notch in the ignition and lowered the window, saying, “Hi. How’re you?”
“You’re parked on private property. Are you aware of it?”
My mind was blank. How could I not be aware of it? I didn’t live here. I flashed on my alternatives-telling lies, fibbing, making stuff up, or telling the truth-and decided on the latter. Under the circumstances, lying was only going to make life more complicated and I didn’t want to risk it. “I’m a private investigator and I’m running a surveillance on the woman who lives in the house across the street.”
He remained expressionless and kept his tone neutral. “Have you had anything to drink in the past two hours?”
“No, sir.”
“No wine, beer, cocktails of any kind?”
“Honestly.” I put my hand over my heart as though reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.
Unconvinced, he held up his flashlight, directing the beam into the backseat and the front, ostensibly looking for empty wine, beer, or whiskey bottles, weapons, illicit substances, or other evidence of bad behavior. I knew for a fact the flashlight was equipped to pick up traces of alcohol. Good luck to him. I had no outstanding wants or warrants, and if he insisted on a Breathalyzer test, I was going to blow a zero, which he must have realized when his tricky flashlight failed to detect even one particle of ethanol per gazillion. If he put me through a field sobriety test, I’d pass with flying colors unless he asked me to recite the alphabet backward. I’ve been meaning to practice that just in case, but so far I haven’t gotten around to it.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car.”
“Sure.” I released the power locks and opened the car door. There was a second officer, standing in the street beside the patrol car, radio to his mouth, probably calling in the license plate number. Aside from my occasional (very minor) violations of the law, I consider myself a model citizen, easily intimidated by police officers when I know I’m in the wrong. I was guilty of trespassing and also in violation of municipal codes unknown to me, but very well known to the police. I was glad I hadn’t added public urination to my list of sins. I was also glad I didn’t have my handgun in my briefcase anywhere within range.
Once I was out of the car, the officer said, “Would you turn around and face forward, put your hands out, and lean against the car?”
He couldn’t have been more polite. I did as instructed and was subjected to a brisk but thoroughly professional pat-down. I wanted to volunteer the fact that I had no weapon, but I knew that would sound suspicious when he was already on red alert. Stops like this can turn deadly without warning or provocation. For all he knew, I was a parolee in violation of section such-and-such. I might have been a fugitive with a felony warrant out against me.
“May I see your license and registration?”
“I’ll have to reach into the glove compartment. Is that all right? My wallet’s in my shoulder bag.”
He gestured his assent. This was the second time in twenty-four hours I’d been asked to provide identification. I slid into the driver’s seat and reached across to the glove compartment. Henry was meticulous about things of this sort, so I knew I could lay hands on the current paperwork, including proof of insurance. I found both and offered them to the officer. “The car belongs to my landlord,” I said. “He’s out of town and said I could drive the car in his absence to keep the battery from going dead.” I didn’t like talking to him from a seated position, but I wasn’t keen to exit the car again unless instructed to do so. Here are some handy little tips for those of you who don’t want to fall victim to deadly officer shootings: Do as you’re told. Don’t talk back. Don’t be rude or belligerent. Don’t try to escape. Don’t get back in your car and try to run over the nice officer performing the traffic stop. If you should be so foolhardy as to attempt any of the above, don’t complain later of your injuries and do not file suit.
I wanted to make sure he was watching me extract my wallet from my bag so he wouldn’t think I was about to pull out a little two-shot Derringer. I removed my driver’s license and a photocopy of my private investigator’s license from my wallet and handed them to the officer. He read the information on both and gave me a look, which I took as a form of encouragement-all of us law-enforcement types being in this together. His name tag said P. MARTINEZ, though he didn’t appear to be Hispanic. I wondered if wondering if he was Hispanic was a form of racism, but I thought not.
He walked over to the patrol car and conferred with the other officer. I took advantage of his absence to get out of the car again. The two walked back in my direction. Of course, there were no introductions. P. Martinez was tall and a bit on the hefty side, midforties, fully decked out in all the regulation paraphernalia: badge, belt, holstered gun, night stick, flashlight, keys, radio. He was a one-man army, prepared for just about anything. His partner, D. Charpentier, appeared to be in his fifties and similarly arrayed with an arsenal of crime-stopping gear. On a guy, there’s something sexy about all that shit. On a female officer, it only creates the illusion of being overweight. It’s amazing to me that any woman would volunteer for such a look.
Officer Martinez said, “You want to tell him what you just told me?”
“The long version or the short?”
“Take your time,” he said.
“I’m running a surveillance on the woman across the street. Her name is Georgia Prestwick. Last Friday, I was a witness to a shoplifting incident at Nordstrom’s that involved a woman named Audrey Vance, who’s since gone off the Cold Spring Bridge. All of this must have come up at one of your briefings.” I looked for a spark of recognition at the mention of Audrey’s name, but both were too professional to display facial feedback. At least I had their full attention. “Audrey was taken into custody, though I’m sorry to say I don’t know the name of the arresting officer. Georgia Prestwick was working with Audrey Vance, and she took advantage of the diversion to exit the store. I went after her and when she realized I was following her, she tried to run me down.”