T Is for Trespass

by Sue Grafton

  Solana studied the Other’s employment history with a familiar feeling of envy, mixed with a certain degree of pride since she was now claiming the résumé as her own. The letters of reference talked about how reliable and responsible she was, and Solana felt the attributes exactly described the sort of person she was. The only problem she could see was an eighteen-month gap, during which the Other was out on medical leave. She knew the details because the subject had been much discussed at work. The Other had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She’d subsequently undergone a lumpectomy, followed by chemotherapy and radiation.

  Solana had no intention of incorporating that information in the application. She was superstitious about disease and didn’t want anyone to think she’d suffered from something so embarrassing. Breast cancer? My god. She didn’t need the pity or the fawning concern. In addition, she worried about a prospective employer voicing curiosity. If she included the talk of cancer, someone might inquire about her symptoms, or the nature of the drugs they’d used, or what the doctors had told her about her chances of recurrence. She’d never had cancer in her life. No one in her immediate family had ever had cancer, either. In her mind, having cancer was as shameful as being an alcoholic. Also, she was worried that if she wrote it down, the disease might actually manifest itself.

  But how could she explain that interval when the real Solana—the Other—had been off work? She decided she’d substitute a position she herself had held right around that time. She’d worked as a companion for an old lady named Henrietta Sparrow. The woman was now dead so no one could call her to ask for a letter of reference. Henrietta was beyond complaining now (as she had at the time) that she was mistreated. All of that had gone to the grave with her.

  Solana consulted a calendar and wrote the start and end dates for the job along with a brief description of the chores she’d been responsible for. She wrote in neat block letters, not wanting a sample of her handwriting to appear anywhere. When the application was completed, Solana joined her son in front of the TV set. She was satisfied with herself and decided to celebrate by ordering three large pepperoni pizzas. If it turned out Gus Vronsky didn’t have two nickels to rub together, she could always quit. She looked forward to Melanie Oberlin’s departure, and the sooner the better.

  11

  The following Monday, I stopped by my apartment at lunchtime, hoping to avoid the temptation of fast food. I heated a can of soup, of the do-not-add-water type, that I knew had enough sodium to approximate my swallowing a tablespoon of salt. I was washing up afterward when Melanie knocked on my door. Her black cashmere coat was form-fitting and long enough to bisect her black leather boots. She’d folded a wide black-and-red paisley shawl into a voluminous triangle and secured it across her shoulders. How did she have the confidence to carry it off? If I tried it, I’d look like I’d inadvertently walked through a clothesline and gotten tangled in a sheet.

  I opened the door and stepped aside, letting her in. “Hi, how’s it going?”

  She breezed by me and sat down on the couch, extending her legs in a gesture of collapse. “Don’t even ask. The man is driving me insane. I saw you parking your car and thought I’d catch you before you went out again. Is this a bad time? Please tell me it’s fine or else I’ll have to kill myself.”

  “It’s fine. What’s going on?”

  “I’m just being dramatic. He’s no better or worse than he’s always been. Anyway, I can’t stay long. I have a gal who started work this morning, which is what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “This woman…this angel…named Solana Rojas showed up Friday morning for an interview. We chatted back and forth—Uncle Gus, his injury, and the kind of help he needs. Stuff like that. She said this was right up her alley and she’d be happy to have the job. She even ended up staying through the afternoon without charging a cent. I was afraid to expose her to the real Uncle Gus for fear she’d quit, but I felt honor-bound. I thought she should know what she was getting into and she seems fine with it.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I’m on a flight to New York tomorrow and I don’t have time to call and verify her references.”

  “I’m surprised you stayed this long.”

  “You’re not the only one,” she said. “I was scheduled to fly back last Friday, but Gus—as you well know—turned into a royal pain. Ditto my boss. I mean, she’s great and she was fine about my coming, but she called this morning in a lather. She’s got problems at work and she wants me back there. ‘Or else,’ is how she put it.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I should have known she’d do this. She’s generous until the first time it inconveniences her,” Melanie said. “I suppose I should be grateful for anything that gets me out of here. Which brings me to my point. Henry tells me you’re a PI. Is that true?”

  “I thought you knew that.”

  “I can’t believe I never asked. Naughty me,” she said. “I was hoping you could do a quick background check and let me know Solana’s okay. Of course, I’d pay you for your time.”

  “How soon would you need to know?”

  “Soon. For the next five days, she’s agreed to work an eight-hour shift. After that, assuming all goes well, we’ll tinker with the schedule until we figure out what suits. For now, she starts at three and leaves at eleven, which will take Gus through the supper hour, medications, and preparation for bed. As frail as he is, I know he needs more than that, but it’s the best I could do. Before she leaves at night, she’ll set up his breakfast for the following day. I’ve arranged for Meals on Wheels to deliver a hot noon meal and something simple for his supper. She offered to cook for him, but I thought it was too much to ask. I didn’t want to take advantage.”

  “It sounds like you’ve got it covered.”

  “Let’s hope. I’m a wee bit concerned about leaving on such short notice. She seems honest and conscientious, but I never laid eyes on her before Friday, so I probably shouldn’t take anything for granted.”

  “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. If she was referred by an agency, she’ll be fine. Any home health care service would make sure her references were good. She’d have to be licensed and bonded before they sent her out.”

  “That’s just it. She works with an agency, but she called on her own in response to the ad. Matter of fact, hers was the only call I got, so I should count myself fortunate in that respect.”

  “What’s the agency?”

  “I have the business card right here. Senior Health Care Management. It’s not listed in the phone book and when I tried the number, it turned out to be a disconnect.”

  “Did she have an explanation?”

  “When I asked, she was completely apologetic. She said the number on the card was an old one. The company has since moved and she hadn’t had a chance to have new cards made up. She gave me the new number, but all I get is an answering machine. I left two messages and I’m hoping someone will call me back.”

  “Did she fill out an application?”

  “I have it right here.” She opened her handbag and took out the pages, which she’d folded in thirds. “This is a generic form I found in a legal kit. I hire people all the time at work, but the head of personnel has usually vetted them first. I’m a good judge of character when it comes to my field, but I don’t have a clue about nursing care. She’s an LVN, not an RN, but she’s worked with geriatric patients and it doesn’t bother her. Naturally, Uncle Gus was crabby and impossible, but she took it all in stride. She’s a better man than I am. The way he behaved, I was tempted to pop him one.”

  I ran an eye down the page, which had been filled out by hand with a ballpoint pen. The information was rendered in tidy block letters, all caps, with no cross-outs. I checked the statement at the bottom of the page where the woman had signed her name, certifying that all the information she’d given was accurate and true. Built into the paragraph was a release, authoriz
ing a prospective employer to verify her qualifications and employment history. “I understand and agree that any misstatement or omission of material facts will cause forfeiture on my part of all rights of employment.”

  “This should cover it. I’ll handle some of it by phone, but many interviews are better done in person, especially when it comes to character issues. Most past employers are reluctant to put anything derogatory in writing for fear of being sued. Face-to-face, they’re more likely to offer up the salient details. How far back do you want me to go?”

  “Honestly, a spot-check is fine—her degree, the last place she worked, and a couple of references. I hope you don’t think I’m being paranoid.”

  “Hey, I do this for a living. You don’t have to justify the job to me.”

  “Mostly, I want to know she’s not a killer on the lam,” she said, ruefully. “Even that’s not so bad if she can get along with him.”

  I refolded the application. “I’ll run a duplicate at the office in the morning and get this back to you.”

  “Thanks. I’m heading back down to Los Angeles at nine for a noon flight out. I’ll call you on Wednesday.”

  “It’s probably better if I call you when I have something to report.”

  I pulled a boilerplate contract from my top desk drawer and took a few minutes to fill in the blanks, detailing the nature and substance of our agreement. I jotted my home and office numbers at the top of the page. Once we’d both signed, she took out her wallet and gave me a business card and five hundred bucks in cash. “Will that suffice?”

  “It’s fine. I’ll attach an itemized account when I send you my report,” I said. “Does she know about this?”

  “No, and let’s keep it between the two of us. I don’t want her to think I don’t trust her, especially after I made such a point of hiring her on the spot. It’s fine if you want to tell Henry.”

  “I’ll be ever so discreet.”

  I’d mapped out a visit to the City College campus where Lisa Ray’s accident had occurred. Time to scout the area and see if I could run the missing witness to ground. It was close to 3:15 by the time I reached the Castle off-ramp and turned right onto Palisade Drive, which angled up the hill. The day was gloomy, the sky overcast in a way that made me think of rain, but California weather can be deceptive. In the East, dense gray clouds would signal precipitation, but here we’re subject to a marine layer that doesn’t mean much of anything.

  Santa Teresa City College sits on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, one of 107 colleges in the California system of community colleges. The grounds are spread out over considerable acreage, east campus and west campus divided by a street called High Ridge Road, which forms a gentle downhill run to Cabana Boulevard and the beach. Driving by, I could see parking lots and various campus buildings.

  There weren’t any retail establishments in the immediate vicinity, but a mile to the west, at the intersection of Palisade and Capillo, there was a string of storefront businesses: a café, a shoe-repair shop, a market, a card shop, and a drugstore that serviced the neighborhood. Closer to campus there was a gas station and a large chain supermarket that shared a parking lot with two fast-food restaurants. The old guy might live near the college or he might have had business in the area. From Lisa’s account, it wasn’t clear whether he was on foot or on his way to or from his car. There was also a possibility he was on the faculty or staff of the college itself. At some point, I’d have to start knocking on doors, fanning out from the site of the accident.

  I passed the campus, circled back, and finally pulled in at the curb across from the entrance where Lisa Ray’s car had been stopped in preparation for her left-hand turn. There was a time when a private investigator might have done much of the digging in a lawsuit of this type. I’d once known a gumshoe whose specialty was making scale diagrams of accidents, taking measurements of street widths and reference points relevant to a collision. He’d also take photographs of tire tracks, angles of visibility, skid marks, and any other physical evidence left at the scene. Now this data is assembled by the accident-reconstruction experts, whose calculations, formulas, and computer models eliminate most of the speculation. If the lawsuit reached court, the expert’s testimony could make or break the case.

  I sat in my car and reread the file, starting with the police report. The police officer, Steve Sorensen, was not one I knew. In the various categories that denoted conditions, he’d checked clear weather, midday, dry roadway surface, and no unusual conditions. Under “movement preceding collision,” he indicated that the Fredricksons’ Ford van (Vehicle 1) was proceeding straight, while Lisa’s 1973 Dodge Dart (Vehicle 2) was making a left-hand turn. He’d included a rough sketch with the proviso that it was “not to scale.” In his opinion, Vehicle 2 had been at fault, and Lisa had been cited for I 21804, public or private property, yield to approaching vehicles, and 22107, unsafe turn, and/or without signaling. Lowell Effinger had already hired a Valencia accident-reconstruction specialist, who’d assembled the data and was now in the process of preparing his report. He was also doubling as a biomechanical expert and would use the information to determine if Gladys’s injuries were consistent with the dynamics of the collision. With regard to the missing witness, old-fashioned legwork seemed to be my best bet, especially since I couldn’t come up with any other plan.

  The few black-and-white views the traffic officer had shot at the time didn’t seem that helpful. Instead, I’d turned to the assortment of photos, both color and black-and-white, that Mary Bellflower had taken of the scene and the two vehicles. She’d arrived within a day of the collision, and her pictures showed fragments of glass and metal visible in the road. I scanned the street in both directions, wondering who the witness was and how I was going to find him.

  I went back to the office, checked the file again, and found the number listed for Millard Fredrickson.

  His wife, Gladys, answered on the third ring. “What is it?”

  In the background, a dog barked incessantly in a range that conjured up images of a small, trembling breed.

  “Hi, Mrs. Fredrickson. My name is…”

  “Just a minute,” she said. She put a palm over the mouthpiece. “Millard, would you shut that dog up? I’m trying to talk on the phone here. I said, SHUT THAT DOG UP!” She removed her palm and returned to the conversation. “Who is this?”

  “Mrs. Fredrickson, my name is Kinsey Millhone…”

  “Who?”

  “I’m an investigator looking into the accident you and your husband had last May. I’m wondering if we might have a chat with the two of you.”

  “Is this about the insurance?”

  “This is about the lawsuit. I’m interested in taking your statement about what happened, if you’d be so kind.”

  “Well, I can’t talk now. I’ve got a bunion on my foot that’s giving me fits and the dog’s gone berserk because my husband went out and bought a bird without so much as a by-your-leave. I told him I don’t intend to clean up after anything lives in a cage and I don’t give a hang if it’s lined with paper or not. Birds are filthy. Full of lice. Everybody knows that.”

  “Absolutely. I can see your point,” I said. “I was hoping I might stop by in the morning, say at nine o’clock?”

  “What’s tomorrow, Tuesday? Let me check my calendar. I might be scheduled to see the chiropractor for an adjustment. You know I’ve been going in twice a week, for all the good it’s done. With all the pills and folderol, you’d think I’d be fine. Hold on.” I could hear her flipping pages back and forth. “I’m busy at nine. It looks like I’ll be here at two, but not much after that. I have a physical therapy appointment and I can’t afford to be late. They’re doing another ultrasound treatment, hoping to give me some relief from all the lower-back pain I got.”

  “What about your husband? I’ll want to talk to him as well.”

  “I can’t answer for him. You’ll have to ask him yourself when you get here.”

  “Fine. I
’ll be in and out of there as quickly as possible.”

  “You like birds?”

  “Not that much.”

  “Well, all right then.”

  I heard a high-pitched, astonished yelp, and Gladys slammed the phone down abruptly, possibly in order to save the dog’s life.

  12

  In the office Tuesday morning, I made a copy of Solana Rojas’s application and tucked the original in an envelope I addressed to Melanie. The five-hundred-dollar advance was my usual charge for one day’s work, so I thought I’d jump into it and make it worthwhile for both of us.

  I sat at my desk and studied the application, which included Solana’s Social Security number, her driver’s license number, her date and place of birth, and her LVN certification number. Her home address in Colgate showed an apartment number, but the street itself wasn’t one I knew. She was sixty-four years old and in good health. Divorced, with no minor children living at home. She’d earned an AA degree from Santa Teresa City College in 1970, which meant she’d gone back for her degree when she was in her midforties. She’d applied for nursing school, but the waiting list was such that it took another two years before she was accepted. Eighteen months later, having completed the requisite three semesters in the nursing program, she had her certification as an LVN.

  I studied her job history, noting a number of private-duty assignments. Her most recent employment was a ten-month stint at a convalescent home, where her duties had included the application and changing of bandages, catheterizations, irrigations, enemas, collecting specimens for lab analysis, and the administering of medications. The salary she listed was $8.50 an hour. Now she was asking $9.00. Under the heading “Background,” she indicated she’d never been convicted of a felony, that she wasn’t currently awaiting trial for any criminal offense, and that she’d never initiated an act of violence in the workplace. Good news, indeed.