T is for Trespass (Kinsey Millhone 20)

The minute she’d moved away from her desk, Solana stood up, clutching her bag. She reached across the desk and picked up the manila folder containing all the paperwork. She moved toward the entrance, being careful to behave like someone with a legitimate purpose. Nearing the door, she looked down, holding up the file to conceal her features from the surveillance camera she knew was there. What was the matter with the woman? She hadn’t done anything to warrant suspicion. She’d been cooperative and agreeable, and this was how she was treated? She’d call later. She’d talk to Mr. Larkin and raise a fuss. If he insisted on her filling out the form, she’d do so, but she wanted him to know how annoyed she was. Maybe she’d take her business elsewhere. She’d mention that to him. Court approval could take a month and there was always the chance the transaction would come under scrutiny.

She retrieved her car from the parking lot and made a beeline for home, too upset to worry about the paintings in the trunk. She noticed other drivers glancing at the word DEAD scratched on her driver’s-side door. Maybe that hadn’t been such a good idea. The little hooligan she’d hired had done a good job, but now she was stuck with the damage. She might as well have been toting a banner, LOOK AT ME. I’M STRANGE. Her parking place was still available out in front of the house. She pulled in nose-first and then had to maneuver until the car was properly lined up with the curb.

It wasn’t until she got out and locked the car door behind her that she realized something was wrong. She stood stock-still and searched the street, her gaze moving from house to house. She tracked the scene to the corner and then her gaze slid back. Henry’s station wagon was parked on the far side of the street, three doors down, a silver sunscreen against the windshield, blocking any view of the interior. Why had he taken it out of the garage and left it on the street?

She watched the dappled sunlight reflecting off the glass. She thought she discerned small irregular shadows on the driver’s side, but at this remove, she wasn’t sure what she was looking at. She turned away, debating whether to cross the street and take a closer look. Kinsey Millhone wouldn’t dare defy the court order, but Henry might be watching her. She couldn’t think why he would, but it was wiser to behave as though she didn’t suspect.

She went into the house. The living room was empty, which meant that Tiny and Mr. Vronsky had gone down for their naps like good little boys. She picked up the telephone and dialed Henry’s number next door. After two rings, he picked up, saying, “Hello?”

She lowered the handset to the cradle without saying a word. If it wasn’t Henry, then who? The answer was obvious.

She went out the front door and down the steps. She crossed the street at an angle and walked directly to his car. This had to stop. She couldn’t have people spying on her. The rage rising in her throat threatened to choke her. She could see the door locks were up. She yanked open the driver’s-side door.

No one.

Solana took in a deep breath, her senses as keen as a wolf’s. Kinsey’s scent hung in the air-a light, but distinct mix of shampoo and soap. Solana put her hand on the seat, which she could have sworn was still warm. She’d missed her by moments and her disappointment was so sharp she nearly wailed aloud. She had to get herself under control. She closed her eyes, thinking, Calm. Be calm. No matter what was going on, she was still in charge. So what if Kinsey’d watched her getting out of her car? What difference did that make?

None.

Unless she was armed with a camera taking photographs. Solana put a hand to her throat. Suppose she’d seen the photo of the Other at the nursing home and wanted a recent photo of her to compare? She couldn’t take that chance.

Solana went back to the house and locked the front door behind her as though at any minute the authorities would arrive. She went into the kitchen and retrieved a spray bottle of cleanser from under the sink. She wet a sponge, squeezed out the moisture, and then saturated it with the cleaning solution. She began to wipe the place down, erasing all traces of herself, working her way through the house room by room. She’d catch the boys’ rooms later. In the meantime, she’d have to pack. She’d have to get Tiny’s things together. She’d have to get the car filled with gas. On the way out of town, she’d stop and pick up the paintings and take them to a gallery somewhere else. She’d be thorough this time, making no mistakes.

32

According to the restraining order, within twenty-four hours of my being served, I was required to turn in or sell any guns or firearms in my possession. I’m not a nut about guns, but the two I have I’m quite fond of. One is a 9mm Heckler amp; Koch P7M13; the other, a little Davis.32 caliber semiautomatic. Often I carry one of them, unloaded, in a briefcase in the backseat of my car. I keep ammunition close by as well; otherwise, what’s the point? My favorite gun of all time, the no-brand.32 caliber semiautomatic my aunt Gin had given me, was destroyed in a bomb blast some years before.