Eight a.m. passed, as did nine and ten, and the only activity we observed on the Sanders driveway was a black Mercedes sedan, probably carrying Sanders himself, leaving the house at 8:50; a U.P.S. delivery truck entering at 9:15 and leaving again five minutes later; and two modest passenger cars with lone male drivers entering the driveway at 8:55 and 9:05 respectively.
“I wonder who it is visiting Sanders’ house,” Sara said. “D’ya think he’s really the kingpin of some big smuggling ring and only uses the grocery business as a front? Maybe those were two of his henchmen reporting for work. Maybe—”
“Maybe we shouldn’t let our imagination get away from us,” I said before Sara could conjure up any deeper mysteries.
Sara sighed. “I guess you’re right. But it would be a lot more exciting if I were right.”
“Don’t worry. I have a feeling things will get exciting enough without adding the Sopranos to the mix.”
And it wasn’t a good feeling.
****
At 9:50, one of the cars carrying a lone driver departed, and twenty minutes later the other did likewise. What their business there had been was still a mystery. Was one of them the killer of Fred Ballard? Or of Donny Martin? Or was I the one letting my imagination run away this time?
About this time Sara stretched and yawned. “I don’t want to complain,” she complained, “but everything from my neck to my butt is stiff, and if I don’t move around a bit soon, I may end up permanently frozen in sitting position.”
“Well, we should move on anyway,” I said, also stretching and moving my head up and down to loosen up my neck muscles. “We don’t want to become too obvious in case anyone notices we’ve been here all morning.” While Sara was searching for something in her purse, I put the binoculars down and reached forward to start the engine. That’s when we heard a knock on the driver’s side window.
Startled, Sara and I both looked to the left. Standing next to the car and peering in through dark aviator-style sunglasses was a tall man in a light blue shirt. On the shirt was a bronze-colored badge in the shape of a star. I glanced into the rear-view mirror and there, sure enough, was a car with a light bar across its roof. I lowered the window, both nervous about what the officer might want and curious about the same thing.
“Yes, officer? Surely I wasn’t speeding.”
The man with the badge smiled. “No, ma’am. Just the opposite. I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve been parked here since early this morning, and I just thought I’d check to see if you needed any…assistance.”
I shifted into all-innocence mode, while inwardly berating myself for making us conspicuous by staying too long in one place.
“Why no, officer,” I said, “we’re just fine. Been driving all night and stopped here to rest a bit. I guess we must have fallen asleep for a while.”
While I said this, the officer’s eyes swept the inside of the car. They reached and focused on the binoculars lying next to me.
“Could I ask what the binoculars are for? Not a lot to look at out here.”
Oh great, now he suspects us of spying on someone, which of course is exactly what we’re doing, dammit. But to the officer I merely said, “Oh, we always carry these when we travel. We’re both bird watchers, and one of the great things about visiting new places is getting to see the different species that live there. Just this morning I spotted a red-throated chickadee that I’d never seen before.” As I wouldn’t know a chickadee from a bald eagle, I fervently hoped I had not encountered the one officer on the Los Altos police force who was a serious birder. Meanwhile, next to me, Sara nodded vigorously, doing her best to hold up her part of the charade.
The officer seemed to consider my explanation for a minute before accepting it, which apparently he did. Either that or he couldn’t think of any crime connected with extended parking or possession of a pair of binoculars. With a polite “Thank you, ma’am,” an admonition to make sure we were fully awake before driving on, and a nod to Sara, he returned to his car. He backed up and left us sitting there, drenched in perspiration, and not from the temperature.
“That was close,” Sara said after a few moments of silence. “But I guess no harm done. Good thinking about the bird watching.”
I was not so sanguine. “The harm is that a police officer now has seen us hanging around this area. Not only will we have to be careful to avoid running into him again, but if a crime should be reported at the Sanders house in the next few days, we just might be high on the list of suspicious characters.”
“At least he didn’t ask for our identification,” Sara said. “He doesn’t know our names.”
“No, but he probably noted down our license number, which would lead to the rental agency and then to us. Let’s get out of here.”
I started the engine and eased the car out of the roadside park. At the exit, I turned toward town.
“Are we through here for the day?” Sara asked hopefully.
“Not at all. We just have to rent a different car. As different as possible. This one’s been compromised.” I guess I didn’t sound pleased, because Sara didn’t take the opportunity to ask whether this time we could get a convertible.
****
We didn’t drive all the way back to San Francisco to change cars. I merely parked the Buick on the street near the local car rental office (it seemed to be the only one in town, and unfortunately the same company as we rented the Buick from) and there we rented a plain-vanilla Dodge minivan, very far in appearance, and most other features, from the Buick, and even farther from Sara’s preferred convertible. This one went out in Sara’s name, since the company might frown on one person renting two cars simultaneously in two different locations.
Once again we drove out to La Paloma Road and Little Hyde Park. We sat down on a picnic bench, enjoying the shade and the breeze, and continued to watch the road, this time without binoculars. Occasionally we got up and walked around to stretch our legs. In a car or on foot, this was, as I had expected, a very boring job. I wondered how much longer Sara would put up with it.
“Flo,” Sara asked at about two o’clock, “I guess I should’ve asked this a long time ago, but what exactly is it we’re looking for? That is, are we keeping track of who comes and goes just to get an idea of the traffic, or are we waiting for something, or somebody, specific?”
“Well, a little of both,” I said. “We do need to know how busy the traffic is, as you put it, so we’ll know if we’re likely to be dealing with a lot of people and interruptions while we, uh, work. But mostly I’m hoping we find that Sanders, like most people with money and big houses these days, employs a cleaning crew of some sort that comes on a regular basis, just like I used to do in my former life. And if he does have a maid service, when the time comes I hope I can do the same thing I did at Aaron’s hotel: become one of the maids.”
“That’s fine for you, I guess, but somehow I can’t picture Aaron as a housemaid, and you already assured him he wouldn't have to dress in a maidʼs uniform.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said a bit irritably. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
Sara rolled her eyes at this, but she said nothing. It was my profession, my plan—and my funeral if it didn’t work. She was just along for the ride—and the wait.
Chapter 19
It wasn’t until the next morning that we finally hit pay dirt. The previous evening, we had turned in the minivan at the Los Altos rental office, picked up the Buick, and back in San Francisco had exchanged it for a white BMW, one of the rental agency’s most expensive selections. Although the minivan had not been “compromised” like the Buick, I wanted to avoid any chance that someone would notice that the same car was parked by the Sanders house two days in a row. Again, the cars were as different as they could be.
Sara made one last plea for a convertible—I was beginning to think it was some kind of obsession with her. Maybe it was.
“If you want it to be as different from the last two as pos
sible, then let’s go all the way,” Sara cajoled. And this time, I gave in. Sara had a good point, and it couldn’t hurt to drive an open car down the freeway.
“But once we get near the Sanders house,” I said, “the top goes up, so we aren’t recognizable to anyone seeing the car. Agreed?”
Sara readily agreed.
The ubiquitous fog having burned off early, it was just warm enough to enjoy top-down driving. Sara wore a wide-brim straw hat, held on by a pink ribbon under her chin, and the smile never left her face during the entire drive. I had to admit that, all things being equal, an open-air white BMW was definitely the way to go. A person could get used to this.
But eventually pleasure ended and work began again. We arrived at Little Hyde Park just after 8:00 a.m. Heavy traffic had caused us to be a bit later than I’d wanted. We drove in and parked under the same tree as the day before.
Sara had her magazines at the ready, together with a supply of snacks, and I had my binoculars out. But before either of us had settled in for another long vigil, the security guard arrived at the Sanders house in a blue Honda decorated with a yellow light bar, parking next to the security gate. And several minutes later a white Ford Explorer appeared around the bend in La Paloma Road. It paused across from the driveway entrance, its turn signal blinking, to let a refuse truck pass, which gave me enough time to read the sign on the door of the car: “TidyHome Maid Service.” There was a phone number, but no address. I dictated and Sara, having grabbed the pad and pen she had brought along, wrote down the sign’s message. It was exactly 8:15 a.m.
“I can see two people in the car,” I reported, “and what looks like cleaning supplies in the back seat.”
As soon as the truck had passed, the Explorer made the turn into the driveway and disappeared into the fog. I was sorry I couldn’t see its arrival at the house, because I wanted to know to which side of the house—front or back entrance—it went.
“That’s the one I’ve been waiting for,” I said with satisfaction.
“You mean we can leave now?” Sara asked, perhaps sounding a bit too hopeful.
“Yes, I think so. We aren’t going to learn much more sitting here, especially through the fog.”
On the way back to San Francisco, Sara said, “I forget what Aaron said about whether this Sanders guy is married. Is there a Mrs. Sanders who stays home all day?”
“No, according to the bio I read online, there isn’t. Once Sanders leaves for the day, there should only be employees left at the house. They should be easier to deal with than the owner’s wife would be.”
“Did Aaron’s friend say anything about who those employees might be? And is he one of them?”
“Well, not exactly. See, he doesn’t live at the house, although he’s there frequently on Sanders’ business. All he said was that there’s a housekeeper, who lives in, and a chauffeur, who also lives there and who’s around the house doing odd jobs when he isn’t driving Sanders somewhere. And of course we’ve seen there’s a guard at the gate.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad,” Sara said.
“Hmm” was all I responded. That kinda depends whether you’re the burglar.
****
When we arrived back at the hotel, Sara headed for the bathroom and soon stood naked under a hot shower, finally able to relax a bit. Meanwhile I sat at the round walnut table and pored over note pads filled with diagrams, lists, and hypothetical scenarios, several of which were ostentatiously crossed out.
Where was the violin now? Was it in that “gallery” Rafael had mentioned? I thought it very possible, as Sanders probably would want to display his new prize, at least to a select few friends, and at least until he swapped it for Suzuki’s Monet. But then, once Aaron and I were in the house (and that itself, of course, was a major undertaking), how would we gain entry to that room?
On a different but related note, would we encounter Donny Martin’s killer at Chez Sanders? Or Fred Ballard’s? Or both? And how would we know them?
Then there was the question of Aaron’s role in the drama. As he had insisted on having one, and an active one at that, for better or worse he would be on the scene with me. And since I could hardly trust him, as a newbie, to act on his own, his role would have to mirror mine; in other words, wherever I would be going, Aaron would be found as well. For perhaps the hundredth time in the past several weeks, I asked myself what had possessed me to agree to Aaron’s harebrained proposal. Was it, as Sara had earlier hinted, something personal about Aaron? If so, it would be a very unprofessional, and therefore very dangerous, motivation. I dismissed the idea as absurd.
By the time I had added most of our new information into my old plans, it was time for dinner, and I decided I could finish my work later in the evening. Fortunately, reconnaissance in Los Altos was virtually completed. Sara and I would now have a day or two to rest in San Francisco while we waited for Aaron to return from Los Angeles.
On our own in San Francisco, on someone else’s credit card.
I felt better already.
Chapter 20
“So what’s on for tonight?” Sara asked as she and I relaxed in our suite. Her shower and dinner had revived her and she was feeling restless. We had dined elegantly once again in the hotel’s Tonga Room, complete with mai tai cocktails topped by little paper umbrellas, and accompanied by another indoor tropical storm.
“I’m afraid I’m just too tired to go out,” I told Sara. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
“But geez, Flo, how often are we gonna be in San Francisco? And with someone else’s credit card, too?”
“I know, Sara, and I wish I could party, but I’m here on business. But you’re not, so don’t let me stop you.”
Sara thought about that for a minute.
“Well…I suppose I could go out by myself for a while. The Mark Hopkins is just across the street, and I’ve wanted to get to the Top of the Mark; I could go over and have a cocktail or two. Maybe find someone interesting to talk to.”
“Sure,” I agreed enthusiastically. I was feeling a bit guilty about dragging Sara into the boring stakeout the last few days. “Just remember that Aaron might be back sometime tomorrow, so we have to be ready to move on to the next stage in our plans. Don’t overdo.”
Sara gave me her most innocent, injured look. “Moi? What makes you think I would overdo anything?”
I rolled my eyes slightly and replied, “What indeed. Let’s just say you and alcohol have a love-hate relationship—you love to take a drink or two, and when you go beyond that you always hate yourself in the morning. So I repeat, don’t overdo.”
Sara’s rueful smile could best be translated: “When you’re right, you’re right.”
All she said was, “Yes, ma’am.”
Sara quickly changed into a slinky black cocktail dress, threw on her coat, and with a flourish left me to my planning. Sitting in my hotel-supplied plush robe in one of the suite’s overstuffed chairs, I would’ve liked to go along, but I was tired and a hot bath and a TV movie appealed to me even more.
****
As the evening progressed, I started to become a little concerned that Sara hadn’t returned or even phoned. I had assumed she would have her two drinks at the Top of the Mark and make her way home, taking an hour or two at the most. But by midnight she was still not back, and I was genuinely worried.
I called Sara’s cell number, but apparently she had turned off her phone. I considered calling the police, but that had the potential of complicating our mission. Finally I decided to go to bed and deal with Sara in the morning. She was a big girl and could take care of herself.
Or so I hoped.
****
At 7:30 the next morning, the phone next to my bed rang. It woke me out of a deep sleep, but as soon as I was awake I remembered Sara was still unaccounted for—I glanced at her bed and saw it hadn’t been slept in—and began to panic. How could I wait this long to do something to locate Sara? It was the fourth ring before I finally answered t
he phone.
“Hello,” I said in a voice that I’m sure sounded somewhere between frantic and pissed off.
“Flo, it’s Sara.”
Exhale. “Where the hell are you? I’ve been really worried. Why didn’t you come home last night?”
“I’m really sorry, Flo. I guess I had a little too much to drink and ended up spending the night over here at the Mark.”
“You mean you were too drunk to make it across the street?”
“Well…not exactly. I spent the night with someone.”
I might’ve known. There were a few seconds of silence, during which I counted to ten, before I said, “With someone. A male someone?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Well, that part’s none of my business, I guess, but I sure as hell wish you’d have been sober enough to at least call. I was so worried I was ready to call the police, and you know for me that’s gotta be the very last resort!”
“I know, and I’m sorry. Anyway, I’ll be over there as soon as…”
Apparently whoever she had spent the night with was still there and probably caressing some very sensitive area of her body, because I could hear a sigh and a soft giggle before Sara continued: “As soon as I take care of something here. And it won’t happen again, I promise.”
I just sighed. “Well, I’m glad you’re okay. Don’t be too long—we’ve still got work to do.”
“I won’t,” Sara assured me. “Bye.”
****
When Sara finally arrived back at the suite, about an hour later, I sat her down and insisted she tell me just how she happened to end up in some strange bed for the night. I mean, a part of me didn’t really want to know, but another part wanted every detail.
Sara sighed and sat back on the sofa, sipping a cup of coffee, and told her sad story.
“Well, if you want all the details, I took the elevator down to the lobby and crossed to the hotel entrance. There the doorman opened one of the glass doors for me and inquired whether I needed a cab.
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