Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money

by Linda L. Richards

  I found my heart was lighter. I liked the reflection I saw in Steve’s smile. I was still smiling when, at the place where Highway 90 joins up with 57 North, I spotted the burgundy Honda again. This time I knew I couldn’t just write it off. Though the car had never been close enough for me to see the driver’s face, I felt I was beginning to be familiar with the basic human-shaped bulk of the person behind the wheel. I was still willing to be wrong, though. In fact, I was kind of expecting and hoping for it. I kept telling myself: This is Southern California. Do you know how many burgundy Hondas are probably just in this little grid of the map alone? I couldn’t even guess, but I knew it would be a lot. Plus I knew if it was the same car — both before and after I’d made a nearly hour-long stop at Brea — then the only explanation would be that someone was following me. In a Honda. I couldn’t begin to ponder who it might be. It was frightening just to think about.

  Simply going along blithely didn’t seem like a good idea. I had to do something that would, if nothing else, tell me if I was right or wrong. Even though I hadn’t been planning on stopping at Redlands, I deliberately cut over two lanes to take the Orange Street exit that the sign said led to downtown. And then I watched my rearview mirror as carefully as I could without colliding with oncoming traffic.

  As I turned onto Brookside Drive I was chiding myself for getting jumpy. How goofy could I get? All this cloak and dagger was getting to me. I pulled into the parking lot of the Redlands Mall in order to turn the car around and see if I could figure out how to get the hell back on the freeway when I saw the familiar flash of burgundy and my heart sank again.

  I pulled into an open spot near a mall entrance and just sat in the car trying to calm myself and think about what to do. Obviously, my original plan was out. Driving into the wilderness with some unknown person following me did not seem like a good idea. Likewise, just cruising unconcernedly home didn’t sound particularly appealing, either. The great unknown represented by the Honda was too… unknown.

  In my side view mirror I could see the Honda pull into a spot a good six aisles and ten cars behind me. Like me, the driver did not get out of the car. OK: that did it. Someone was definitely following me. Watching me.

  Even in big cities, we tend to go through most of our lives feeling pretty anonymous, fairly isolated. In a Manhattan co-op with — literally — millions of people around you, it’s possible to feel completely alone. It’s some sort of mental island we create to keep from losing our minds at our proximity to everyone else. These are things we don’t even have to think about — our anonymity in a crowd — and I certainly never had, until now. The loss of it was unnerving. In fact, it felt downright creepy.

  This time, when I got out of the car, I left the windows open only slightly. I wanted Tycho to be able to breathe, but I didn’t want anyone getting into the car, either. So I took precautions. Then, without looking around at all, I headed for the nearest mall entrance.

  In the mall, I scouted around for an exit that would take me outside another way: one that would bring me up behind my would-be follower. I asked myself if I was really thinking of getting the jump on the Honda guy and I decided that I was. A public place like a mall seemed like a perfect place to do whatever I was thinking about doing. Better, anyway, than the wilderness or the Malibu hills where there might be no one around to rescue me if rescue was required.

  As soon as I could see the Honda, I pulled a pen and paper out of my bag and jotted down the license plate number. I wasn’t quite sure what I hopped to accomplish with that, but it seemed like the proper first step. And, anyway, it gave me something to do while I thought about my next move.

  With that bit of business out of the way, I moved in what I thought was a stealthy manner towards the car. The driver’s seat was in a normal position and the headrest blocked my view of the driver, but I reasoned that he probably couldn’t see me either. And, in any case, his eyes would likely be fixed on the door I’d entered and he wouldn’t have expected me to circle back from the other direction so quickly.

  My instincts — not the ones that keep me moving forward in the market, but the ones that keep animals made of meat from becoming lunch — were urging me to flee, get the hell out of Dodge or at least make for the nearest pay phone and call the cavalry. I didn’t listen. Instead, I let my feet propel me to the side of the car, ready to confront the person that I was now sure had been following me at least since Santa Monica, maybe even from Malibu.

  I got to the driver’s door, turned and… found it empty. I scanned around the parking lot quickly: it was full of people, but none of them looked as though they belonged to the Honda. Before I was even aware of it, my hand snaked out and, very authoritatively, tried the door. Almost as soon as I touched the door handle, all thoughts of anything were driven from my mind by the raucous sound of the Honda’s alarm bleating painfully to everyone within shouting distance. I took an involuntary step back and collided with something soft. I turned quickly and found it was a large woman with a bemused expression on her face currently messing with her keys, pushing buttons and, apparently, trying to turn her alarm off from remote.

  “Just what were you trying to do?” she asked calmly when the air was quiet again. Her voice was British and her accent sounded cultured to me: a complete contradiction to her appearance, which was not.

  I shrugged a little helplessly. It was a pretty good question.

  “Well, if you’ve completed your attempt at stealing my car, perhaps it’s time for you to keep moving. Or do I have to call the police?”

  By then I’d gained some perspective. “Maybe calling the police would be a good idea. And you can explain to them why you’re following me.” I was proud of myself: I sounded a lot calmer than I felt.

  She sighed. Obviously the car thief thing had been a weak gambit in case I really didn’t know she’d been tailing me all day. She sighed again. “I’m not having a terribly good day.”

  “You’re not. Try being on this end of it. Now why the hell are you following me?” I was rapidly feeling more brave. She was large and rumpled and tired-looking. Hardly a physical threat.

  “That would be telling, wouldn’t it?” In certain circumstances, it might have been taken as a humorous comment, but the tone was not too cheery.

  “That’s the idea. Telling. You did a really crummy job following me. I saw you. A lot. I don’t know much about this, but I don’t think I’m supposed to be able to know. You lose the advantage, following someone, if you spoil the surprise. Now the surprise is spoiled anyway. So… go ahead. Tell me. Why are you following me?”

  Another sigh. Her plump face screwed up in concern. Then, “I really can’t afford to lose another job this week. It’s not like affluent clients fall from trees, you know.”

  “You’re not with the police?”

  She rolled her eyes, as though what I’d stated were so obvious, it didn’t warrant an answer. She indicated her somewhat seedy attire, her worse for wear Honda. “Do I look like official law enforcement to you?”

  “I guess not. But I don’t have much experience. I just can’t imagine why anyone would follow me.” This was only half true. A week ago it would have been completely true. In the last few days, though, I’d given several people motivation to follow me, I just wasn’t sure which one. “If not police, then what?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  “Cool,” I said and meant it: I’d never met a real life P.I. before, though I hadn’t imagined that they’d look like this woman. I had thought that a private dick would be lithe, or at least in relatively good physical shape, from all the running around and catching crooks that you’d imagine go with the territory. This woman looked as though she’d have trouble stuffing herself into a booth at McDonald’s and that she’d get out of breath in the process. And running down a crook? Forget it. I’m hardly a marathoner, but on foot I could have lost her in half a block. She looked out of shape and down on her luck. This last gave me an idea.
/>   “What do you get paid?” I asked her. “For this, I mean,” I indicated the car; the following.

  “I’m receiving five hundred dollars per day for this job,” she said quickly hopefully. She could see where this was leading.

  I considered. And suddenly I was feeling better, less afraid. I was on familiar ground. “OK then, how about I give you a hundred and fifty and you tell me why you were following me and then stop.”

  “I can’t do that,” she pushed her face into a shocked mold, but I could see I had her attention. “There’s such a thing a professional ethics, you know.”

  “I’m sure,” I said agreeably. “But look: the jig is up. You can’t very well follow me anymore now that I know you’re following me. It would be too useless. And I’m not doing anything very interesting. I promise. You could just tell whoever that you followed me here and then I went home, or you lost me or whatever you want to tell them.”

  “That wouldn’t be honest! I have my license to consider, you know.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be exactly lying, would it? You did follow me here, and I found you out.” I shrugged. “Saying you lost me might just be a bit neater, if you see what I mean.”

  She didn’t say anything, but I could see that she saw exactly what I meant.

  “And it’s not like I’m going to contradict you. I just want to know who is so curious about me that they’d hire someone to follow me. I’m not a criminal or anything. I’m not married, I’m not having an affair, I’m just so completely not up to anything that would make me worth following,” another shrug. “So your conscience would be clear.”

  “But my license…” she said again, though I could see she was weakening.

  “Like I said, I’m not going to tell anyone. So if you don’t…”

  “Make it two-fifty. I could have gotten another half day or more for following you tomorrow.”

  We went inside the mall and I left her at the food fair while I went to find an ATM so I could give her cash. I didn’t bother asking if she’d take plastic or a check. I found her overlapping a mushroom-shaped plastic chair while munching on a side of fries doused in ketchup. I plunked myself down on the mushroom opposite her, forked over half the money and said, “So spill.”

  She looked around theatrically while she pocketed the cash. Making sure the watcher wasn’t being watched? I would have been amused if I wasn’t so freaked out and annoyed.

  “It was someone called Mrs. Billings.”

  “Arianna?” I said, somewhat incredulously. And it wasn’t just that she’d had me followed — she had been at the top of my suspect list anyway — just that high rent Arianna would hire this obviously low rent private investigator. “How do you know her?”

  “Give me the rest of my money,” she demanded, wiping grease from her chin with a napkin that had already seen similar work. I guess she was eager to make sure I didn’t bolt with the other half of her dough.

  “Sure, but just tell me: how do you know her?”

  “I don’t,” she said as I watched her make my money disappear into her purse. “She called me Thursday afternoon. Gave me the address of a coffee place in Brentwood. Told me to go there and wait outside. Said there would be two blondes coming out of the coffee place together. The one that didn’t get into the Porsche parked outside would be you.” Arianna had told me she’d stopped at home before she met with me that day. She’d said it was to check on me and to get the papers she’d shown me. I guess what she hadn’t told me was that she had hired a private detective at the same time.

  “But how did she know to call you?”

  She shrugged. “Probably called on my ad in the Yellow Pages. I think she liked my name. Clients like her generally do.”

  I looked at her. Trying to imagine. “Why? What’s your name?”

  “Anne Rand,” she told me, forking over a card. “See? No ‘Y’, but it sounds the same.”

  Anne Rand. I stopped myself from laughing out loud, but it was hard.

  Her french fries were finished and so, apparently was our business. Anne Rand was pushing herself to her feet.

  “Listen, Ms. Rand, before you go, why were you following me? What did Mrs. Billings hope you’d see?”

  She looked at me, then at her purse and seemed to come to a decision: perhaps she figured she hadn’t given the greatest value for two hundred and fifty clams. She didn’t settle herself back down, but rather sort of perched awkwardly where she was, a feat that was only possible through the sheer largesse of her bulk and the sturdiness of the plastic mushroom.

  “Well, as you’d imagine, she didn’t go into great detail. I guess a sort of need to know basis, right?” I nodded. “I assumed it was a husband matter. People who introduce themselves as ‘Mrs.’ then pay with a credit card in the name of the ‘Mr.’ are generally looking to find out what the other woman is up to.” I snorted, and Anne held up a hand. “Well, it’s the commonest sort of thing I get hired for, as you can well imagine.”

  I had trouble imagining anyone hiring her for anything, but whatever. “Did she tell you why she wanted me followed?”

  “No. I was just to keep a log and check in with her at the end of each day.”

  “You mean it wasn’t just today?”

  “No, I told you: she had me eyeball you as left the cafe the other day. I’ve been around pretty much ever since.”

  I had a vision of her perched in her Honda at the top of the cliff, keeping an eye on Tyler’s driveway.

  “That was two days ago. You mean you were watching me at home in Malibu? You were there that whole time?”

  “Pretty much. I have a friend I work with sometimes who spelled me for a few hours here and there. So I went home once, ate, showered, you know. But mostly I was there,” she grinned. “I didn’t want to have to give up too much of my fee.”

  I felt violated, somehow. Exposed. I thought about what she might have seen me do. Not much, when I considered. Then I thought of something else.

  “You’ve been watching me pretty much ever since I met Arianna — Mrs. Billings — in Brentwood?”

  Rand nodded.

  “Did you happen to see a kid — a teenage girl — leave the house at a funny hour?”

  She nodded again and crossed her arms over her chest, saying nothing.

  I got the point. “What’s it going to cost me?”

  She considered. “Another two-fifty?”

  “Two,” I countered.

  “Done.”

  I looked at her. She looked at me. “You’re waiting for the money,” I said finally.

  “That’s correct.”

  I sighed. “Wait here.”

  When I got back she was sitting down properly again, a plate of teriyaki chicken and rice in front of her. It looked like a lot of my money was going to go for food.

  “OK,” I said, plunking myself down opposite her. “I’ve got the money.”

  She held out her left hand, palm up, while not breaking her eating stride. I put five twenties into it, and held the other five within her view. She rolled her eyes but started to talk.

  “Now the times won’t be perfectly accurate because I didn’t take notes on this stuff because, since it wasn’t you, it didn’t matter to my report,” she looked at me and I nodded. “The first night I was out there, about three o’clock in the morning a van pulled up, and a girl got out. Went in the house.”

  I stopped her. “Like a delivery van?” Jennifer drove an SUV.

  “Well, yes and no. It wasn’t marked for deliveries or anything. And it had a pretty distinctive paint job and funny cut out windows. Like what we would have called a shaggin’ waggin’ back in my day.”

  Not wanting to hear her Woodstock stories, I moved her on.

  “Anything else?”

  “Sure. About a quarter of an hour later, the girl came back, carrying a little pack, you know, like for school?”

  “A backpack.”

  “Right. Looked quite full, too. She gets in the van — passe
nger side — and drives away.”

  “Did you see what she looked like?”

  “Not really. It was dark. Slender, that’s for sure. And long dark hair. And she moved like a kid, you know, like a youngster.”

  “Who was driving the van?”

  Anne held our her other hand — she’d finished eating by now — and looked at me expectantly.

  “Oh, all right,” I said and gave her the rest of the money.

  “I don’t know who was driving,” she shrugged, pocketing my cash. “It was too dark to see.”

  I didn’t say anything, just looked at her. She smiled. “I like you. You’re a smart cookie. I piss you off, you don’t shoot your mouth off, make me mad. The van, it was green gold, kinda pretty. And,” she started rummaging in a voluminous bag, “I got the plate.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t taking notes.”

  She smiled, obviously pleased that, despite the fact that I’d caught her on the freeway, she could still take credit for some stealth. “I was bored. And I always get a plate. Just in case.”

  After we left the mall, I waited around long enough to see Ms. Rand stuff herself back into her car and head towards the freeway then found a phone booth. Tyler wasn’t home. I was going to leave voice mail, then thought better of it. Taken alone, what Anne had told me really didn’t add much to what we already knew. And, though it was interesting, taken out of context in a voice mail message it might give Tyler false hope. Plus explaining why a private detective had been watching me in the first place was more than I felt like tackling in a one-way conversation.

  Tycho and I poked around the parking lot for a bit while I pondered things further — I figured he needed emptying — and I wasted time making sure Anne was well and truly gone. Once we were both empty and then refilled — cool water, all ‘round — we got back on the road.

  When I was driving, I thought again of the private detective. I imagined Arianna pouring over the Yellow Pages, trying to find an investigator on extremely short notice: one who was available. I could just see her making the literary connection in her mind, then hearing the cultured voice on the phone and thinking: Sure, she’ll get the job done. Never suspecting the reality of this particular Rand.