Murder with Strings Attached

by Mark Reutlinger

  We had a very full day ahead of us.

  Chapter 17

  The next morning Sara and I got up early and walked down the steep Mason Street hill toward Union Square, stopping at a small, friendly-looking car rental agency.

  We had a short wait while the two desk clerks, one a woman of about fifty with a motherly smile and the other a man half her age with wavy black hair and a smile that was anything but motherly, served other customers.

  “What kind of car are we getting?” Sara asked me in a low voice. “I hope it’s a convertible.”

  “No convertible,” I said, with emphasis on the “no.”

  Sara looked disappointed, her expression reminding me of a child whose mother has just refused to add a box of sugared cereal to the shopping cart.

  To her credit, Sara didn’t respond with either a tantrum or even “gee whiz,” but she also didn’t take my refusal as the final word.

  “What’ve you got against a convertible? It’s Aaron’s nickel, and it’d make the trip more fun. How often can a person ride with the top down in Seattle?”

  I sighed. I guess I knew when I asked Sara along I’d be dealing with this sort of issue. “I don’t have anything against convertibles,” I said, “but what we need is a car no one will notice, and one that will conceal us a bit, not advertise us. Two sexy ladies in an open Mustang will hardly blend into the landscape.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Sara conceded.

  “And while I understand about California and convertibles, I assume you’ve noticed that San Francisco generally has more fog than sun on a given day, so I don’t think we’re really missing anything. Now if we were in L.A.…”

  But that thought had to be suspended, because just then the two clerks became free almost simultaneously and it was our turn at the counter.

  Predictably, I guess, I headed for the place in front of the motherly woman, and Sara for the one before the cute gentleman. Since I had the credit card and was in charge of the operation, Sara reluctantly acceded to my choice, but not without a meaningful exchange of smiles with the hunky clerk. I sighed again.

  “A nice, comfortable, but plain car, please,” I said when the woman behind the counter, who herself looked nice, comfortable, and plain, and whose name tag identified her as “Betty,” inquired as to my wishes.

  “What category of car would you like?” Betty asked. “Subcompact, compact, full-size, or one of our specialty vehicles like a Chevrolet Corvette or Dodge Grand Caravan? And we have a special this week on convertibles.”

  I really wished Betty hadn’t said that, but it was too late. Sara looked like she was about to utter another plea for an open car, but I gave her a look that froze any plea in mid utter.

  “Thanks, but we won’t be needing anything that special. What do you have in a compact sedan?”

  “Well, we have a nice Toyota Corolla…”

  At this Sara took my arm and pulled me aside, asking Betty to excuse us for a few seconds.

  “C’mon Flo, if we’re gonna spend a lot of time in this car, let’s at least get one that’s comfortable and roomy. We’re not trying to save money here.”

  This time I had to agree. I knew we had a long day (or days) of surveillance ahead, and we needed a comfortable car in which to do it. And after turning down the convertible, I suppose I owed Sara this one anyway.

  “You’re right. Let’s get something a little more luxurious. No Corolla.”

  Sara released my arm, and I returned to the spot in front of Betty.

  “What full-size cars do you have?”

  “I think we have a very nice Buick LaCross,” Betty said, looking at her computer screen. “Dark blue.”

  Sara’s ears perked up, as she herself owned a Buick. Any resemblance between that iron monster and a modern Buick, however, was akin to that between a Model T and a Mustang.

  “For how long will you want it?” Betty asked.

  I thought about this. I wasn’t sure, but better to be safe.

  “Let’s say one week.”

  Betty consulted the computer screen again. “It’s only $634.46 a week, and that includes unlimited mileage.”

  Although I would never pay so much to rent a car on my own, I felt no qualms about spending Aaron’s money lavishly, as he had insisted we were free to do. And it was, after all, in the name of more effective surveillance.

  “Sounds fine,” I said to Betty. “Okay with you, Sara?”

  “Yes, fine,” Sara replied. She apparently had gotten over the loss of her convertible, at least for the time being.

  I handed the woman my credit card—no, not with my real name on it, as my recent run-in with the law probably would show up on their computer with a big red flag—but one of the “extras” I keep for special occasions like this—and we were the proud, if temporary, possessors of a large blue Buick.

  We stopped at a grocery for some snack foods and a newsstand for an assortment of magazines and at a high-tech shop so I could pick up an item or two. Then we returned to the hotel, packed up a few odds and ends, and departed in our Buick, a vehicle of substantial proportions and living room comfort, me at the wheel and Sara riding shotgun, on our way south.

  We drove in contented silence the forty miles down the Peninsula into the heart of Silicon Valley. Following the directions Betty had given me at the rental office, I took Highway 101, the Bayshore Freeway. It was fast, but it was ugly, miles of barren concrete plastered over what doubtless had once been open fields and orchards. Less than an hour later, we arrived at our destination, the little upscale community of Los Altos.

  It was a pleasantly warm day, and we had a leisurely lunch on Main Street. I had noticed Sara flirting with two men at the next table and had to remind her that we had work to do later. After lunch we strolled down Main Street, enjoying the village atmosphere. The many shops and boutiques made for interesting window shopping, and in a small drug store I purchased a map of the town and surrounding area. We bought ice cream cones at a cute little sweets shop and sat on a shady bench while I located our target on the map. When we returned to the car, I programmed the address into the GPS that had come with the Buick. I then handed the map to Sara.

  “Why did you buy this if you were going to use the GPS?” Sara asked.

  “Because I don’t trust these things. I always like to have a paper map to check against what the little voice in the box tells me to do.”

  “I’ve never used one,” Sara said. “Why don’t you trust them?”

  “Well, for one thing, the voice in these things is always so smarmy and superior-sounding, I’m tempted to do the opposite of what she tells me, just to spite her. I mean, just because she knows the way to every damn address in the world, while I can’t remember how to get to the dealer to take my car in twice a year…”

  “I know what you mean,” Sara sympathized. “I’m terrible with directions.”

  “Just the quality we want in our navigator. But the real reason I don’t trust the little voice is that the first time I used one of these things,” I said, pointing to the screen, “which I rented with a car in L.A., it missed the target by two blocks, took me up a blind alley, and mistook the off-ramp of the Santa Monica Freeway for the onramp to the San Diego Freeway.”

  “It must have been a lemon,” Sara suggested.

  “Yeah, but I was the one that almost got squished into lemonade. And I’ve read about people following GPS directions into swamps, off uncompleted overpasses, and the wrong way down one-way streets. So now I always like to have a map and, if possible, a live backup navigator. Even one who has no sense of direction.”

  “That’s me,” Sara laughed and punched “Go” on the GPS.

  With the “little voice” calling out directions, and Sara checking them on the local map, we headed for La Paloma Road. I had done my best to check out the landscape online before we left the hotel, but what I’d mostly seen was the tops of the tall trees that dominated the landscape. The only way to find out what lay be
neath that canopy was by personal observation.

  We soon found ourselves on a narrow country lane about two miles outside of town. (According to the little voice in the black box, we were on “Lapaloma Road,” one word, the first part rhyming with “Napa,” which made me grind my teeth.) On both sides of the road were large estates, grand homes flanked by green pastures and surrounded by white post-and-rail fences. Most had a barn or stable nearby, and here and there a horse or two could be seen grazing lazily. Periodically there were stands of tall trees, mostly fir, cedar, or eucalyptus, partially obscuring the view and casting dappled shadows across the narrow strip of blacktop.

  “Not a bad place to live,” Sara commented as she gazed from one bucolic scene to another.

  “I suppose, if that’s the lifestyle you prefer,” I said. “Not enough excitement for me, not enough action, unless you count the occasional high-stakes horseshoe tournament.”

  “Oh, I’m sure there’s more excitement than that,” Sara said. “But I get your point. A little too leisurely for you, and probably for me, too. But I have a feeling what we’ve come here to do won’t be leisurely at all, and will involve more than enough excitement.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “and it starts now. There’s the house, on the right.”

  I pulled the car over by the left side of the road and parked in front of what looked like a small public park, elevated from the road. There were a few swings and picnic benches, and its several tall trees cast a welcome pool of shade onto our parked car and the rest of the road.

  I got out a pair of binoculars and directed them toward the house across the road.

  “It looks like you enter from this road, but there’s a gate farther up, and I can see some people around it. That must be the security point. Let’s see if there’s any other way in.”

  We checked around the property, but there didn’t seem to be another way in. There also didn’t seem to be any stores or gas stations in this rural area.

  “In a job like this, it’s important to know where the nearest public rest room is,” I said. “Doesn’t look like there is one here.”

  “That’s okay,” Sara said. “I saw restrooms at that little park we parked near.”

  “Good. It sure beats going behind a tree.”

  “Funny how in the movies no one ever seems to have that problem,” Sara said. “Maybe that’s because men write most of the scripts.”

  I drove up the driveway to the little park and stopped the car.

  “Now comes the boring part,” I told Sara. “Watching that entrance, to see who comes in and who goes out, and when.”

  “Won’t they see the car hanging around and think it’s suspicious?”

  “That’s assuming they see us. I don’t think they will, at least not from the house. So we can stay here pretty much all day if we have to.”

  “You mean we’re going to sit here all day just watching the house? What happened to the vacation in San Francisco?”

  “Hey,” I said, “we have to earn our keep, don’t we? But I understand why you’d rather not spend your time out here. I guess I just wanted company. Tomorrow I can drive down by myself and you can stay in the city and play.”

  Sara was silent, and she let the matter rest. I knew how to inject a subtle bit of guilt into an otherwise reasonable-sounding statement.

  Nothing of note happened for the next hour or so, and as it was by now getting late in the afternoon, I decided to drive back to San Francisco before we became stuck in the notorious rush hour commute traffic.

  Tomorrow would be our first full day observing Chez Sanders.

  Chapter 18

  The next day, Wednesday, I was up just after dawn. Definitely not a time of day I’m used to seeing. I wanted to be on the job, and to be parked in close proximity to Sanders’ house, by 8 a.m., so as not to miss any important activity there.

  I made my way to the window of our Fairmont suite and drew back the curtains.

  What I saw was fog. If San Francisco is famous for anything other than its hills, its restaurants, its cable cars, and its cost of living, it probably is its fog. Spend a few days here, and you find out why. Even on days that promise to be bright and sunny from noon to dusk, more often than not a dense fog rolls in at night, curling itself up comfortably against those seven hills and filling with moist droplets every open space between them. San Franciscans I’ve met seem to either love it or hate it, and those in the latter group generally leave the city for its sunnier suburbs at their first opportunity.

  It occurred to me as I stared out the window that fog might be a good thing for a burglar. Working at night in a dark house has its advantages, of course, especially if the owners of the premises are asleep or not at home. But a dark interior makes it difficult to see and get around inside, and a flashlight might be noticed from the outside. The fog outside our window, however, was almost as impenetrable as night, if not more so; no one out on the street could see in, just as I couldn’t see out. Yet the fog let in enough light that I could see around the room perfectly well. A nice, natural opaque curtain behind which to operate. Maybe I’d have to come down for a working holiday sometime.

  But I was wasting time with these reveries. There was work to be done.

  ****

  Sara and I were sharing a large and comfortable suite, certainly larger and more comfortable than either of us had ever stayed in before. I was sleeping in the bedroom and Sara in the living room area on a luxurious sofa bed. While I padded sleepily into the bathroom to shower and dress, Sara awoke and sat up. She looked my way, stretched lazily, and lay back down, eyes open, apparently trying to orient herself to her strange surroundings. I let her lie there and figure it out while I did my ablutions.

  When I came out of the bathroom, I looked over at Sara. Still horizontal and cozy.

  “What?” Apparently Sara had detected a note of reproof in my eyes.

  “Nothing. I hope I didn’t wake you up. I tried to be as quiet as possible.”

  “No, you didn’t wake me. I’m always awake at six a.m. Early to bed, early to rise, and all that.” Yeah, sure.

  “Well, go back to sleep. I’ll be outta here pretty soon.”

  Rather than closing her eyes, however, Sara sat back up. Slowly and dramatically, like a magician revealing the soundness of the woman he had just sawed in half, she drew back the green-and-gold duvet with which she had been covered. It revealed only that she was wearing a skimpy nightie that had managed to work its way up past her navel. She swung her legs out of bed and the rest of her followed. She stood up and smoothed out her nightie as she slipped into her pink backless travel slippers.

  “Where’re you going?” I asked.

  “Where d’ya think?” she answered through a yawn, still sounding more asleep than awake.

  “To the bathroom?” It seemed like a logical guess.

  “Well, yeah; but then I’m coming with you. On your stakeout thingy.” Another yawn.

  “Are you sure? You didn’t seem too enthusiastic yesterday, and I really do understand.”

  “Sure I’m sure. Hey, a good night’s sleep can be vastly overrated; and besides, how would I feel if you ended up having all the fun out there while I was boring myself with stuff like museums and cable cars and fancy restaurants?” She headed for the bathroom, her path meandering a bit as she yawned and stretched.

  I have to admit I was very pleased. I’d assumed I would be heading for Los Altos alone.

  “Okay, that’s great,” I said to Sara’s back as the bathroom door was closing. “I really do appreciate the company. And I’m sure we’ll have more chances to see the sights after we get the lay of the land down in Los Altos.”

  But I’m sure Sara didn’t hear the last few words. She was already standing under a cold shower, apparently the only thing that was going to render her sufficiently awake to make good on her rash decision to ride along on her friend’s return to Chez Sanders.

  ****

  We made our way out of
the city. Sara seemed sufficiently awake by now and in fact seemed to be enjoying the ride, seeing the city wake up and begin to stir beneath its foggy overcoat.

  “So how long are we gonna be watching this place before you and Aaron are ready to do your thing?” she asked.

  “Oh, two days should be sufficient,” I assured her. I didn’t mention that it could as easily be four or five.

  Sara yawned. She looked over at me, then said, “Hey, where’d you get the fancy watch? It’s new, isn’t it?”

  I smiled and glanced at my wrist and the small but stylish instrument I was wearing. “Picked it up in that store we stopped at yesterday. Let’s just say Aaron bought me a nice present, even if he doesn’t know it yet.”

  “But you already had a nice watch—maybe not as fancy, but it told the time.”

  “I know. But this isn’t just a watch. I have no idea what we’ll run into on this job, or how I’ll get the evidence of who killed Martin, so I decided it was time to go high-tech. This little baby is a top-of-the-line smartwatch. If it’ll do everything they told me it will, compared to it my smartphone is merely reasonably intelligent.”

  “Yeah, well next time, maybe he could buy us both one.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him,” I said. And with that Sara lapsed back into sightseeing and silence.

  We were in Los Altos in just under an hour and headed straight for La Paloma Road. I drove to the little park we had seen the day before, across the road from Chez Sanders. We again parked under the trees in the park, which we learned from a sign at the entrance was called Joseph Hyde Park. Not exactly the Hyde Park in London; we dubbed it Little Hyde Park. No one else was about and the silence was deafening. From between the tall trees we could clearly see the entrance to the Sanders driveway.

  I got out my binoculars, while Sara chose a magazine from a stack she had bought at the hotel newsstand. Provisioned with beverages by Starbucks and serenaded by music from the local classical station, we settled in.