That Was Yesterday

by Vella Munn

  A glass wall and a closed door separated Reed from the action, but he sensed drama. The woman with short, dark, tangled hair stood almost as tall as the teenager holding on to his motorcycle helmet. Her shoulders were broad, her legs long enough for a marathon runner. Yet there was a sunken quality to her, and she seemed incredibly alone in the crowded room. “Tough,” he said.

  “What?”

  “That woman. She looks like she’s had a rough time.”

  “It happens every day around here. Sometimes more times than I can keep track of, unfortunately.” The captain upended the soft drink can he’d been sipping. “Would you like to take a drive? I thought we’d start by getting you oriented. I’ll show you where Weston was found.”

  Despite the reference to Jack, Reed didn’t take his eyes off the woman. He made note of the small wound at the base of her throat. Her left arm and elbow were scraped. She shivered. The policewoman put her arm around her shoulders, and the victim, if that’s what she was, leaned into the woman in uniform as if desperate for comfort. “It’s a place to start,” Reed remembered to say. “You said you’ve heard rumors?”

  “Maybe.” Captain Bistron frowned at his empty can. “What we’re guessing is that most of the cars are being shipped out of the area. Probably in the back of some rig after they’ve been altered. But without a vehicle identification number, tracing them is all but impossible. We can’t stop every truck that leaves the area.”

  “We need to put out some bait.”

  “That’s what Weston said. You know how to do that?” The captain started to say more, but was distracted as the policewoman poked her head into his office.

  “It’s too soon to be sure,” she said, “but it might be that slime with the knife. The supermarket abductor. I need to get more from our victim, but I thought you’d like to know.”

  Captain Bistron nodded. “How’s she doing?”

  “Scared.”

  “Does she need someone from rape counseling?”

  “It sounds as if she got away before that happened.” The policewoman glanced back to where the woman with the torn shirt and big, wounded eyes waited. “That’s one gutsy lady. She wasn’t going to go down without a fight.”

  “That or get herself killed.” As the intercom buzzed again, Captain Bistron dismissed the policewoman and turned toward Reed. “I’ll be right with you. Damn phones. I hate the things.”

  The call, Reed gathered, was a personal one. Partly because he wanted to give the captain privacy and partly because he was drawn to the newcomer, Reed left Bistron’s office. The woman was still shaking and speaking in the carefully measured tones of someone who had to take self-control one breath at a time.

  “I don’t know what I would have done if this young man hadn’t come along.” She nodded at the teenage motorcyclist. “I know I scared him the way I ran toward him. But I had to get out of there.”

  “I’m just glad I was around,” the teenager said.

  “Me too.” The woman’s laugh was unnaturally loud. She held out hands that contrasted with her soft curves. The fingers were sinew and bone; rangy muscle stood out on her scraped forearm. “I haven’t felt this way since I couldn’t find my mother at Indy.”

  “Indy? What were you doing there?” the policewoman asked as she touched a dampened paper towel to the mark at the other woman’s throat.

  “My father was racing there. You said you had questions. Are there photographs I should be looking at?”

  “We’ll get to that. Don’t put any more pressure on yourself than necessary right now. Is there someone you’d like to have here? It might make this easier.”

  “I can’t think. Maybe— Can I make a call?”

  Captain Bistron was still busy on the phone. Reed stepped closer, pulling change from his pocket so he’d have a reason to go to the soft-drink machine the woman was leaning against. Her long arms were now wrapped around her slender middle. Someone had given her a safety pin to hold her top together. The fabric hung submissively. She was tall enough that the word fragile shouldn’t describe her, and yet this jean-clad woman, standing in the middle of a police station, carried an air of delicacy. A quick movement, a sudden sound might strip her of what self-control she’d managed to hold on to. The look she gave Reed as he dropped coins into the machine was guarded.

  Reed doubted she would remember him. But he wouldn’t forget. For one of the few times in his life, he wouldn’t be able to shake off someone else’s emotion. Her eyes were green, without end to their depth. He doubted that they’d ever exposed that much before.

  “If you’re up to it, I’d like to start getting this down now,” the policewoman said. “While everything’s fresh in your mind. I know you’re concerned about your car, but it’s not your job to look for it. We’ll dispatch a unit.”

  “If he’s done anything to it—” The woman ran her hand over her tangled hair. “He wouldn’t let me look at him. The things he said. His voice—”

  “You remember his voice?”

  “For the rest of my life. It was dark. I didn’t see him clearly. But his voice…”

  “Good. That might help.” The policewoman indicated a nearby chair and waited until the woman sank into it. “Look, what happened to you tonight makes Friday the 13th look like a Disney movie. We’ll go at your pace. I’ll ask questions. If there’s one you don’t feel ready to answer, or you want to wait until you get someone here, we’ll come back to it. I just want you to understand that it’s natural to be afraid, even in here.”

  “Afraid? I’m mad, but I’m not scared.”

  She was lying. How he knew that, Reed couldn’t say. He understood procedure. Steps. Logic. Intuition wasn’t part of his nature; he’d never allowed it to be. It wasn’t dependable. But tonight it was as if he were being allowed access to this woman’s thoughts. “Don’t fight what you’re feeling,” the policewoman was saying. “Accept your emotions.”

  “I just want to do what needs doing. Try to remember everything. Help solve… And then I want to go home.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure?”

  The policewoman explained. “What I’m saying is, there’s a certain sense of security that comes from being surrounded by cops. When you go home that’s going to change. You’re going to feel vulnerable and exposed. You should let people know what you’re going through. Don’t be afraid to admit what you’re feeling.”

  “If he’s done anything to the Corvette—”

  “Then we’ll go after him together,” the policewoman said, smiling ruefully. “I’ve always wanted a sports car. I could die for something that’d make every other car in the road eat my dust. But when there’s an orthodontist to support… Look. I don’t know if you’ve thought about this yet, but—”

  “What?”

  “He got more than your car. He has your purse.”

  “I don’t care about the money.”

  “I’m not talking money,” the policewoman said softly, gently, as she stretched out her hand. “He knows your name now. Your address.”

  The muscles in the woman’s neck became taut cords, and when she swallowed, Reed both saw and sensed the effort it took. He wanted to say something, anything, but he didn’t have the words. All he had was a feeling. A need to stay here, until he could no longer detect what was pooling up inside her and threatening to spill over. Until he thought of something that might help.

  By the time the captain joined him, Reed had remembered his soft drink. He shook off the sound of the woman’s voice as she responded to the policewoman’s questions. Still, her body language continued to send out messages. She was feeling things she’d never felt before and trying not to acknowledge them. Gut-level fear was still ricocheting through her. She wouldn’t get over it soon.

  Reed wished he could be the one to help her understand that, and to regain the strength he could sense was usually as natural to her as breathing. He longed to see her whole.

  “Mission Bay has been particu
larly hard hit,” Captain Bistron explained as they left the police parking lot. “That and the shopping centers where we’re headed. People with money come to those places in cars that cost more than I make in a year. And when they’re ripped off, believe me, we hear about it. Look, the average family loses the old station wagon, and they turn it over to their insurance company. They file a report, and we add the wagon to the hot sheet. Sometimes we get lucky, but most people eventually reconcile themselves to the fact that having a car stolen is part of life. But when a professional ballplayer or bank president or high-priced engineer has fifty-thousand dollars’ worth of status stolen, he demands action. That’s why we alerted your bureau. Facts are, we don’t have the necessary manpower for this kind of investigation, and there’s no putting this on the back burner.”

  Despite his long day, Reed was alert. Nothing had been said, but he understood. Like the local police, Jack had felt the pressure. That’s why he’d put his life on the line, and almost lost it. “You’re getting a lot of heat?”

  “Plenty. That sort of thing makes the papers. And makes us look bad.”

  “Yeah. I guess it does. People expect miracles when there aren’t any to be had. Look, like I said earlier, I need everything you can give me. I’m starting almost at point zero.”

  “I know, and I wish there was more. One thing I can tell you, they sure as hell know what they’re doing. Right now I wouldn’t trust anyone who’s in any way involved with automobiles around here. Sales, bodywork, detailing, anything.”

  Reed glanced over at the captain, nodding agreement. “Whoever we’re up against is after cars that can be sold black-market. Cars that bring in big money and can’t be traced.”

  “Exactly. You want the facts? In the past thirty days, seventeen automobiles worth at least thirty thousand dollars each have disappeared.”

  Reed whistled. “You said you knew a few things.”

  “Damn few, mostly conjecture. We figure this ring is new. We’ve had surveillance on the usual places. Wrecking yards, parts shops. If any of them are involved, we haven’t been able to make the connection. I’ve heard a few rumors about connections that go beyond San Diego. That doesn’t surprise me. I passed that on to your co-worker. Nothing specific, I’m afraid.” The captain put on his signal, then turned down a side street. “Like I told him, right now I suspect everyone and anyone connected with autos.”

  Reed tried to digest that particular piece of information. Certainly what the captain said made sense. However, there weren’t enough lights on this narrow street. The dark reached out, touched him, reminded him of eyes without end to their depth.

  “Can I ask you something?” Reed asked. “About what happened with that woman earlier tonight. The one who came into the station just before we left. Something was said about a supermarket abductor.”

  “For lack of a better name. If that’s who grabbed her, that makes her the fourth. The other three didn’t get off as easily.”

  Reed’s stomach knotted. “They were killed?”

  “Raped. And pretty badly beaten. They were all attacked at night and so scared we haven’t gotten much of a description. The man’s pretty good at intimidating. Hopefully, because this one got away before any physical damage was done, she’ll be able to help us. Either way, it shouldn’t affect your job…

  “But there is something you do need to know,” Captain Bistron went on. “Night before last, one of our squad cars happened on what could have been one of the thefts. Two of my men observed someone jimmying the door on a new Caddy. Before they could make a move, whoever it was jumped in the car and took off. My men pursued. They were shot at.”

  Reed grunted. “Anyone hurt?”

  “The suspects put a hole in the squad car’s front windshield. Missed one of my men by inches. They got away. What I’m saying is, that’s the way these guys operate. Forcing Weston off the road, running him into that telephone pole, they knew exactly what they were doing.”

  What did his superiors at the bureau call him? A pro. A trained operative. Reed was those things all right. This time, because of Jack, he was also a man with a debt to pay. “I’m going to be taking precautions.”

  “What kind?”

  “If I get into the same situation Jack did, I’m planning to come out on top. Starting Monday I’m taking lessons in survival driving. I’ve already signed up at an advanced driving skills school.”

  “You have? You do move fast.” Captain Bistron nodded. “Yeah. If it was me, I’d want that edge myself. Look, these thefts have to stop.”

  “That’s the other reason I’m taking the course. There’s always the possibility I’ll hear something while I’m there. Whoever is running this driving program must know the local auto scene.” Reed winced as the captain ground through gears.

  “Damn. Looks like another transmission shot. You have a point about that school maybe being a contact. You know, in a way I envy you. You don’t have the public looking over your shoulder telling you how to do your job, do you? You call your own shots. Do what you know needs doing without having to have a summit conference about every move you make. Of course, there’s an element of danger.”

  “What happened to Jack—it’s a first for the bureau.”

  “That’s what you said. Look, do you want to see where we found him?”

  “No. I don’t want to. But I think I have to.” Reed clenched his jaw, adding to the tension already in his body. He had to concentrate, learn, start formulating plans. He would bury himself in this case, for Jack.

  That was the only thing that mattered.

  Chapter Three

  “Are you all right?”

  Mara stared out her kitchen window at the desert where she both lived and worked. The plants nestled in their pottery and wicker baskets along the sill cut down on her view, but Mara had never denied her need for greenery, for a feeling of life within her home. Before long, the Curtis School of High-Performance Driving would come to life, but for a few minutes more only the wind kept her and Clint Archer company.

  “Better. Much better,” she told him.

  “Yeah? You aren’t getting any backlash?”

  “It’s my home, Clint. Nothing’s going to change the way I feel about it.”

  “I hope not. You might not want me to say it. I know I don’t. But you aren’t going to feel as secure in it now.”

  It was hard to remember that Clint was only twenty-two. He’d signed on with Mara right after high school and weathered the early days of the business with her. She might pay his salary, but they were close friends, too. “Maybe not right now. But soon. Clint, all I want is for things to get back to normal. Thank you for coming out here with me.”

  “No more thank-yous. I’ve heard that about a hundred times.”

  “I’m sure you have.” She remembered how to smile. It didn’t come easy, and it might not fool Clint, but she gave it a try. “Being able to stay with you— It kept me from going crazy.”

  “I know you, boss. You would have survived. I just wish we could get a locksmith out here before tomorrow. Your wallet. House keys. When I think of that creep having them, it gives me the chills. Listen to me. I’m shook, and it didn’t happen to me. If you think you have to explain what you’re going through, you’re crazy.”

  Clint was wrong; he didn’t understand everything because she hadn’t told him more than she needed to, to keep him around. There was absolutely no way she could have repeated the things she’d been forced to say to appease that monster. The degradation that had caused preyed on her as much as knowing the man could find her and, until the new locks were put in, might walk in her door. That was what they were doing here this morning, making sure he hadn’t done that over the weekend while she was staying with Clint.

  Normal? She wasn’t sure what that meant, only that, somehow, she had to find it again. “I did act a little crazy.”

  “You acted human.”

  “I don’t think I’ve talked so much in my entire life.
I must have told you the story a hundred times.”

  “Five hundred and three, but who’s counting? Look, that detective they’ve assigned to the case? When you go back to talk to him, I’m going with you.”

  “You don’t—”

  “No arguments.” Clint planted his hands on Mara’s shoulders. The touch made her feel five years old. She wished she were.

  “All right.” She remembered how, at the police station, with a roomful of people watching, Clint had held out his hand and waited for her to come to him. She’d done that gladly, gratefully. And once the police were finished, he’d told her to get in his car and put on her seat belt, and she’d obeyed. Once they reached his apartment, he’d told her to take a shower while he made hot chocolate, and she’d done that, too. Then she had sat on his couch, with his robe wrapped around her, and started talking while he applied antiseptic to the cut on her throat. He’d told her it was all right if she cried, and she had almost done that, too.

  Mostly she had talked. All night. About everything and anything that might hold the horror at bay.

  The next morning they’d driven out to her place so she could feed Lobo. Clint had unlocked the front door of her mobile home and walked in while Mara held back. When he’d told her it didn’t look as if anyone had been inside, she’d walked as far as the living room with its new blue-gray carpet, clean wicker furniture, and the sunlight streaming through the oversize window. The large, misted painting of the ocean at dawn, hanging over the cushioned sofa, had always drawn a response from Mara. But on Saturday morning she’d barely noticed it. She’d been too concerned with absorbing the essence of her home and trying to draw strength from it.

  The plants hadn’t needed watering. She hadn’t needed to stay. If Clint didn’t mind— And he’d said he didn’t. Except for going back to the police station once and coming back out on Sunday to care for her Doberman, she’d spent the weekend at his place.