I entered the empty house a second time by way of the back door, tested the toilet, which was still in good working order, then went out onto the front porch and assembled my temporary campsite. I opened the folding canvas stool and positioned it close to the trellis, set my bag of supper items to one side, and then trained my binoculars on the house at 401. I cursed myself when I realized I’d neglected to bring anything to read, which was probably just as well. This left me with no choice but to sit and stare through the X’s of the trellis until I spotted my subject or gave up my quest for the day. As time passed, to amuse myself, I divided the total hours on the job into the two hundred dollars I’d been paid. In calculating my hourly rate, I couldn’t help but notice a steep decline as time went on.
This is what I saw: a woman I took to be Pauline Fawbush fetched the mail from the box and then settled on the porch in the floral upholstered chair and read her People magazine. Pauline appeared to be in her late seventies, and I was guessing she was Geraldine’s mother and Christian’s grandmother. She was occupied for forty-five minutes, after which she returned to the house and came out moments later with her manicure kit. Oh, boy. I watched her paint her fingernails with a shade of polish called Love’s Flame, the label clearly visible through my binoculars.
At 5:00, a glossy black limousine appeared from my right, turned the corner onto Trace, and pulled into the Satterfield driveway. The driver was a middle-aged woman in a black pantsuit with a white dress shirt and a black bow tie. The rim on the license plate read PRESTIGE TRANSPORTATION SERVICES INC. From that, I surmised she was a driver for a limousine company, a guess I later verified through other sources.
She went into the house. I spotted her moments later in the kitchen, which was on the Dave Levine side of the street at the rear. Pauline joined her, and the two occupied themselves with preparing the evening meal. As they chopped at waist level, I couldn’t identify any of the foodstuffs. I was about to pass out from boredom. Not that carrots would have been exciting. I ate my sandwich, which was better than I had any reason to expect. My neck hurt, I was cold, my butt was sore, and I was cranky. My right leg had fallen asleep. My hourly rate continued to drop precipitously. Ninety-two cents an hour isn’t even close to minimum wage. I saw the porch light go on.
It was fully dark when I saw a fellow approach from the right on foot. He went into the house. In the murky light, I’d only caught a flash of him, but I recognized Christian Satterfield from his photograph. I waited another thirty minutes before I packed up my gear and decamped.
I drove to the office and let myself in. I hauled out my portable Smith Corona and placed it on my desk. I removed the top of the hinged case and set it to one side. Then I pulled out a few sheets of letterhead stationery along with a few pieces of blank paper that I used to compose a rough draft of my report, laying out the information in that faux-neutral language that infuses a professional summary of a job when it’s done. The report was short, but covered the information my client had requested: Christian’s current address, a home phone, and visual confirmation that he was in Santa Teresa and had entered the premises on at least this one occasion. My guess was that he’d gone back to living with his mom, but I might have been wrong about that.
I reread the report, editing a line here and there. Then I rolled a sheet of stationery into the typewriter and made a proper job of it. I ran off two copies of the report on my new secondhand copy machine, signed the original, and folded it in thirds. The two copies I placed in the file folder I’d created for that purpose. I cranked a number 10 envelope into the machine and typed Hallie Bettancourt’s name and the post office box she’d provided. I affixed a stamp, snapped the lid onto the Smith Corona, and tucked it under the desk. Then I grabbed my shoulder bag and the report, turned out the lights, and locked up.
On my way home, I stopped by the post office, where I pulled up at the curb and tossed the envelope into the collection box.
6
The rest of the week went by, the days filled with the sort of do-nothing business not worth mentioning. I should have savored the mindless passage of time, but how was I to know? Monday, March 13, I went into the office as usual and diddled around until noon, taking care of clerical matters. I was halfway out the door on my way to lunch when the telephone rang. I hesitated, tempted to let the machine record the caller so I could be on my way. Instead, I reversed direction and dutifully picked up.
“Millhone Investigations.”
Ruthie laughed. “I love that. ‘Millhone Investigations.’ So businesslike. This is Ruthie. I was afraid you’d left for lunch.”
“I was just on my way out. How was your trip north?”
“Good. Actually, it was great. I enjoyed myself,” she said. “I was wondering if you’d had a chance to check the contents of that box.”
Box?
I said, “Shit! I forgot. I’m sorry. Honestly, I blanked on it.”
“Well, I hate to nag, but I called the IRS agent this morning and he was Johnny-on-the-spot. My appointment’s tomorrow afternoon at one.”
“That was quick,” I said. “Which IRS office, local or Los Angeles?”
“He’s coming to the house. I thought I’d have to make the trip downtown, but he says it’s just as easy for him to stop by.”
“Accommodating of him.”
Somewhat sheepishly, she said, “I confess I was sucking up to him. I’m playing the ‘poor widder woman’ with a lot of ‘woe is me’ thrown in. I can’t believe he fell for it.”