by Joan Francis
The noise, which I realized was the thrum of an idling boat engine, grew louder, and as I rode into the underpass I saw a shallow draft motorboat sitting at the edge of the water.
Cathedral Street is supported by several cement columns, which are two or three feet thick and run the full width of the roadway. The first of these is about ten or fifteen feet into the river, and from the bike trail it looks like a cement wall. The boat was about eighteen feet long and wide enough that it did not have a lot of leeway between the edge of the trail and the cement support.
The man at the wheel turned his face from view as I rode by. As I pumped up the far side of the underpass, I looked back at the boat and he again turned his face.
As I rode out of the underpass, my peripheral vision caught a biker, dressed in sweats and a stocking cap, sitting at the edge of the northbound lane, huddled over the handlebars of an old bike. He looked like he was poised to lunge into motion, like a participant waiting for the start of a bike race. As I did a double take and looked directly at him, he too averted his face from my view and pulled the cap a little lower.
My mind tried to go in about three directions at once. At such times I like to imagine that there are different personalities on my internal board of directors. Though my friend Jenny thinks this is bordering on a serious mental disorder, I have a shrink friend who actually uses this as a method of therapy. For me it is a way to bring order out of chaos.
For instance, as I considered the guy hunched over his bike, and the boat strangely parked under the overpass, one member of my board wanted to play though a number of scenarios and speculate on what they were doing there. This member is always suspicious and is capable of finding possible villains and conspiracies everywhere. The investigator on my board suggested stopping to chat them up and see if there seemed to be any real problem here. My ever vigilant manager, however, reminded me that it was now eight a.m., I was still five minutes from the beach, and my bike speed had slowed to nine miles per hour. Concentrating on my bike pedals, I was soon picking up speed.
A short way down the trail I saw a woman riding toward me. I had passed several people on the busy bike trail, but this one caught my attention because of her clothing. Though it was a clear, sunny fall day, she wore a broad-brimmed, plastic-coated rain hat and a rain jacket brightly emblazoned with a flag. I had ridden several yards past her before the inspiration hit me. I’ll bet a dollar to a doughnut that was a Costa Rican flag on that jacket.
As I attempted to execute a sudden stop and U-turn, I lost my balance and almost landed on the huge rocks that made up the riprap at the edge of the trail. By the time I got turned around, Professor Evelyn Lilac was well on her way north and going like a bat. I pumped hard and was gaining on her when she rode into the turn and descended into the underpass. The biker sitting at the edge of the trail lunged after her, his front tire inches from her back tire. “I told you so,” gloated my suspicious board member.
The professor’s scream echoed out from the underpass, rising over the constant noise of the traffic on Cathedral Street. By the time I could see down the trail, I had more speed than I’d dreamed I could muster. As my eyes adjusted to the shadow of the underpass, I saw two bikes lying in a pile blocking the northbound lane. Lilac and her assailant were locked together in the southbound lane as he struggled to pull her toward the river and the waiting boat.
There was no way around them. I started to hit the brakes, though I knew I would never be able to stop in time. Then Lilac landed a fairly well-placed knee, dropping her assailant to the rocks at the water’s edge. She tried to turn and run but tripped and tangled herself in the fallen bikes. Her assailant was getting up slowly from the side of the path. The guy in the boat was yelling something in Spanish.
Seeing a narrow opening between Evelyn and her assailant, I let go of the brakes. Hunching down over the handlebars, I lowered my head, keeping the back of the helmet toward the assailant, and peddled like hell. I know I was going thirty miles per hour when I hit the sucker because my nose was only about two inches from the computer on the handlebars. Fortunately for me, he stepped backward when he saw me almost on top of him, so I only hit him a glancing blow. His own loss of balance and the rocky bank did the rest. He stumbled backward, falling with his upper body in the boat and his legs in the water.
I struggled to keep myself and the bike upright, but about halfway up the far side of the underpass, I tipped over and landed heavily on my right side. I lay there a moment, legs still wrapped around the fallen bike, the breath knocked out of me, my head stunned, my ribs in pain.
Both men were cursing. The guy who had fallen was pulling himself into the boat but wasn’t moving very fast. The driver was starting to climb out of the boat and head for the bike path.
With my left hand I unzipped the handlebar bag. With my right I reached into the bag and pulled out my Walther .32 semiautomatic. Still lying there tangled in my bike, I pulled the slide on the Walther, chambered a round, and took aim. The driver was out of the boat, making his way though the riprap when he heard the sound of the slide. He looked up to see the muzzle aimed at his chest, and without a word turned back to the boat, climbed into the pilot seat, slammed the boat in gear, roared out of the underpass, and headed down-river.
* * * * *
SIX
As I watched the boat speed toward the open ocean, I pushed the release on the Walther and dropped the clip into my bike bag. Pulling the slide, I popped out the chambered round, pushed the loose bullet back into the clip, and returned the clip to the handle of the Walther.
All the time I was doing this mechanical routine, I was chanting the CF number on the boat. As a Sherlock Holmes I have one great handicap: poor visual memory. If I want to remember what a subject looks like, I must turn what my eyes see into words and remember those words, because the minute I look away, the mental picture is gone. It’s like a camcorder with no video tape in it.
I put the Walther away and hunted for a pen and paper to write down the number. During this process, Professor Lilac was trying to ask me a question. By the time I got that number on paper, the volume of her voice had increased and her tone expressed either annoyance or alarm. “Are you all right?” she almost yelled.
The line was irresistible. “Professor Lilac, I presume?”
If she caught my reference she was not amused. “Are you that detective who was supposed to meet me this morning?”
Her tone was what my great-aunt Leah would have called “snippy.” I tried to disentangle my legs from the bike and stand up. My ribs hurt, a lot. I reached down gingerly for my bike. “That’s private investigator.”
“What?”
“I’m a private investigator, not a detective.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A detective is either a rank in the police department or a character in bad fiction.”
“Whatever you call yourself, I do wish you could have been on time and protected me from this assault.”
Now my voice got a bit testy. “If you want protection, look up ‘body guard,’ or perhaps ‘executive protection specialist,’ not private investigator. And in case you didn’t notice, despite the fact that it is not in my job description, I did rescue you from this assault at the cost of ribs which are either broken or badly bent.”
Her facial expression and voice changed. “I guess you did, Ms., ah, Ms. Hunter, isn’t it? I guess I’m a little rattled. When he grabbed me–I thought– three of my associates in Costa Rica were murdered and–thank you, Ms. Hunter. I am quite sure you saved my life today.”
She had gone from snippy to a quivering damsel in distress in thirty seconds, and my suspicion quotient went up with equal speed. If I had busted myself and my bike over some staged incident, I would toss this broad in the river myself. With great control I said, “Well, we were lucky. If they had gotten you into that boat they could have had you out to open sea quite quickly. Why do you think they want to kill you?”
She gave me an appraising look. Her personality did another shift. “It’s a long story. Do you think you could make it back down to my motel in Seal Beach or should we call an ambulance and get you to a hospital?”
“I’m okay,” I lied. “But I thought you had this tight schedule and couldn’t talk to me anywhere but the bike trail.”
“This morning’s attack changes things.”
“I see.” I hoped my voice didn’t reveal the skepticism I was feeling.
Dramatically she looked around the underpass and down the river. “Let’s get out of here. We’re only five blocks away from the place I am staying.”
“Does your room have a coffee pot?”
She looked blank for a moment, then smiled and said, “Yes, and good Costa Rican coffee.” Her smile changed her looks completely, and in a strange way revealed that she was older than I had first thought, maybe in her late forties.
Ms. Lilac didn’t want to talk until we got back to her room, and that was fine with me because every breath I took sent pain through my rib cage. This was definitely going to require an x-ray.
Her rental bike and my ten-speed were both a bit bent and dented but serviceable. However, as I listened to the bent fender rub against the tire on my bike, I decided this was a perfect excuse to trade up.
Her “motel” turned out to be a wonderful B&B composed of many small cottages. I had always wanted to try it, but the price tag was out of my reach. We parked our beat-up bikes in front of her cottage, and Prof. Lilac welcomed me into her two-bedroom suite. I looked around the adorably decorated rooms with envy. Money must not be a problem for her. I avoided the soft overstuffed furniture and sat carefully in a straight-back chair that would support my back and put less stress on my ribs.
The professor dug into her suitcase and pulled out a plastic bag with coffee. She placed a small wooden stand on the counter, hung a cloth filter from the top, and put a coffee cup on the round wooden tray beneath the filter. As she opened the sack and measured coffee into the cloth bag, that wonderful aroma of fresh ground coffee filled the room. We made small talk while she boiled water and poured it through the coffee bag, distilling two steaming cups of aromatic coffee. When she handed me a coffee and a sweet roll, my attitude toward her softened. What a pushover I would be. They wouldn’t have to torture me, just hold a cup of coffee under my nose.
As she sat across from me I said, “Okay, Professor Lilac, let’s talk about what’s going on with you.”
She looked down and sipped her coffee and her hair fell forward, partially covering her face. She had light brown hair with reddish highlights, naturally curly and very thick. Her ebullient halo of hair contrasted with the slightly anemic look of her pale white skin. Freckles, of the same reddish brown as her hair, covered her face and seemed to diminish her small features. Her lashes and brows were so light they almost disappeared against her skin.
I waited for her to answer, but the silence lasted a full minute. “Okay Professor, let’s start with an easier one. Who were those guys in the boat?”
As she looked up at me with eyes of washed-out blue, the pain in those eyes was so real I abandoned my momentary suspicion of her. Then in a flash, the pain turned to anger and she snapped: “Stop calling me Professor. My name is Evelyn.”
“Okay, Evelyn, who were those men in the boat
“I don’t know who they were, but I can guess how they found me. When you were calling all those people at the conference yesterday, did it ever occur to you that I might have reasons I didn’t want my location known?”
Her rebuke was a complete surprise. “No, it didn’t. You’re the keynote speaker. That didn’t sound exactly like you were hiding out.”
“Why were you so determined to find me?”
“Because your pal Borson hired me to do research on your Mars novel. I needed to talk with you directly.”
Her eyes widened and her mouth opened as new fear registered on her pale features. “Borson? What does this Borson look like?”
The vague apprehension I’d had about Borson’s motives suddenly grew and formed a cold knot in my gut. “White, male, about five feet ten, wavy dark hair, medium build, neatly dressed. Sort of bookkeeperish.”
Her expression changed subtly, and she seemed to relax somewhat. “I see. Borson told you I was writing a novel and told you to talk with me?”
“Not exactly. Your name turned up while I was researching your red stuff. Evelyn, you didn’t tell him to hire me, did you?”
Ignoring my question, she countered with one of her own. “What, exactly, was the assignment he gave you?”
“To see if any real substance behaves like Red 19 does in your book.”
“He showed you the diary? When?”
“Just one chapter.”
“One chapter.”
“Yeah, then the thing self-destructed like a Mission Impossible tape. What the hell is going on here? Who is Borson?”
She studied me a minute, breathed a deep sigh, then avoided my gaze by burying her face in her hands. With the heels of her hands covering her eyes, she sat silent for several moments. When she looked up at me again, there was a finality, a deadness, in her expression. She stood up. “No, I didn’t tell him to hire you. I am grateful you were around this morning, but I won’t be needing any further assistance.”
I was dismissed. “Just like that? What about your life being in danger and people in Costa Rica being murdered?”
“I believe you pointed out that ‘body guard’ is not in your job description.”
“Yes, but, I just meant I’m not skilled in physically protecting people. If you tell me what’s going on, maybe I can help. If we need muscle, I sure as hell know who to call. Who were those thugs? Who has threatened your life? What does that have to do with your novel?”
She walked to the door and opened it. “I don’t have time for you, Ms. Hunter. Please leave. Can you make it home, or do I need to call you a taxi?”
Not only dismissed, but patronized to boot. “Yeah, I can make it home just fine, Evelyn. How about you? Can you make it wherever you ‘re going?”
“Yes, thank you, Ms. Hunter. Goodbye.”
That was that. I took a last swallow of coffee, stood up and pulled out my wallet. As I left, I handed her a business card. “If you change your mind, give me a call.”
She took the card, studied it a moment, then without a word, stuffed it into her bra.
I smiled. “There was a character in an old WWII movie who did that. Her code name was High Pockets.”
“I’ll treasure that bit of trivia,” she said with heavy sarcasm and shut the door in my face.
I glared at the closed door for a moment and then carefully mounted my bike, testing the effect on my ribs. Finding the pain tolerable, I headed north but only got as far as the entrance to the river trail. I had to go back.
I was a block away when she came out of the cottage, carrying a large backpack, and climbed into a cab. I pedaled after her, yelling her name. She turned around and looked at me out of the back window of the cab. She looked frightened and sad but simply turned her back on me as the cabby hit the gas. That was the last time I saw her alive.
* * * * *
SEVEN
I considered the open cottage door. Despite the fictional stereotypes, most real PI’s do not gather evidence by breaking and entering. In fact, most of us take great pains to ensure that nothing we do violates privacy or evidence statutes, because judges tend to frown on illegally obtained evidence. Not only can illegal acts cause the loss of the case, but it can cost you your license, your freedom, and leave you open to a liability suit that could put you in the poor house forever.
On the other hand, Professor Lilac had not only left her door unlocked, she had left it slightly ajar. Entering was not a B and E under any interpretation of the law. It might be considered trespass, but after all, I had been a guest less than fifteen minutes earlier. Finding a door ajar any responsible person would naturally feel obligat
ed to make sure the room was secured. With this justifying logic, I stepped inside.
All the lights in the place were on. Evelyn had left the suitcase open on the bed and briefcase open on the table but each looked as if it had been rapidly ransacked.
I looked through the briefcase but found only material on the three conferences she had come to attend. Lilac was a featured speaker, talking about the destruction of the rain forest in Costa Rica and elsewhere. There was a copy of her speech carefully written in longhand.
Her suitcase contained nothing but clothing and the LAX luggage tags. Closet and dresser were empty. There were no toilet items, not even a toothbrush, no hidden diary or address book or other wonderful, convenient clues left for me to find.
“The lady travels light,” I said aloud. With that thought expressed, my brain finally settled on what I had missed seeing and why it bothered me.
I searched the kitchen, checking all the cupboards and the fridge. Her Costa Rican coffee and coffee maker were gone. All that remained were some of the coffee grounds in the sink where she had rinsed out the cloth. The professor was not coming back. Whatever was left in this room, she had jettisoned. Anything she needed was in the backpack she’d loaded into the taxi.
In the silence of that room a depression settled over me, and I thought about the sad, lonely look in her eyes as the taxi sped away. I now had no doubt that she was in real danger and that my angry response this morning had pushed her into facing it alone. Whatever drove her was too urgent or too complex for her to take time to explain. “Damn!”
With this insight, I searched the briefcase again. Her airline itinerary showed a flight to the DC area in two days and a flight from LAX to San Jose, Costa Rica, a week later. No tickets, just the itinerary. How had she planned to get back to LA from D.C. and what had she planned to do during that week? None of this would help now. All this was abandoned . . . all plans changed.
