V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

We fumbled the conversation to a close and left the conflict with neither one of us at peace. The whole complexion of the game had changed. On the surface, it looked the same. I had the younger woman in my sights. Another half a day and I’d know where she lived and from that I could find out who she was. Sooner or later, she’d tip her hand. Inevitably, I’d reach a point where I’d be operating on my own dime. But so what? Even if I ended up with egg on my face, there are worse things than that. The little cynical voice in me piped up, saying, “Oh, yeah? Name one.”

Aloud, I said, “Letting the bad guys win.”

At 2:45 I parked just outside the entrance to Horton Ravine, angling the station wagon so the long drive up to Climping Academy was in plain view. I couldn’t imagine a tow truck driver opting to remove the disabled Mercedes through the rear entrance to the Ravine, but I was prepared to follow him either way. In the meantime, since I wasn’t actually in Horton Ravine, I was beyond the jurisdiction of the proto-cop. He’d been nice enough on our first encounter, but I didn’t want to push my luck. I shut down my engine and removed a map of California from the glove compartment. I opened the map fully and laid it across the steering wheel, hoping I looked like a tourist who’d pulled off the road to get her bearings. I turned on the radio, tuning in to a station that played hit songs twenty-four hours a day. I listened to two Michael Jackson cuts and then Whitney Houston’s “Where Do Broken Hearts Go.” The DJ announced she’d just knocked Billy Ocean out of the number one spot. I didn’t know if this was good news or bad.

At 3:00 the cars began their exodus, pouring down the hill from Climping, one luxury vehicle after another. When I was in high school, I’d used public transportation. Aunt Gin had a fifteen-year-old Oldsmobile that she used to get back and forth to work. In those days, teenagers had no rights and no sense of entitlement. We knew we were second-class citizens, entirely at the mercy of adults. There were kids who had their own cars, but it wasn’t the norm. The rest of us knew better than to bitch. I pictured this crop of youngsters, not spoiled so much as unaware of how fortunate they were.

Three thirty came and went, and just when I was getting worried, a tow truck approached from my left, passed me, and headed up the hill. In my mind’s eye, I could see the parking lot, which would be largely deserted by now. The damsel in distress would be easy to spot. The driver would pull up in the empty lane and get out of his truck. The girl would explain the problem while gesturing at the tires. I could picture him hunkering down to have a look, quickly realizing, as she must have, that human mischief was at the root. I’d left the two valve caps on the pavement, one sitting neatly beside each flat tire. She was bound to have spotted them, and if she’d complained about being the victim of a prank, the driver had probably brought along a portable air compressor. It would be a simple matter then of his inflating one tire at a time and screwing the valve caps back into place. This would take no more than three minutes, maybe four taking into account the back-and-forth of polite conversation.

I checked my watch, fired up my engine, and turned off the radio. I looked up as though cued and said, “Ah!” because there came the tow truck, turning right at the foot of the hill. The Mercedes followed. Though I knew the upscale private school drew students from all over the city, I’d assumed the girl lived somewhere in Horton Ravine. However, instead of turning left and heading into the heart of the Ravine, she took a right as well. I kept my face averted, making a serious study of the map still open in front of me. She didn’t know me from Adam, but on the off chance we crossed paths in the future, I didn’t want her making the connection. The tow truck passed me, slowed at the intersection, and took a right. She was two car lengths behind. I was already folding up the map, which I left on the passenger seat. As soon as she’d cleared the intersection, I checked for oncoming traffic, made an illegal U-turn, and followed her.

The tow truck continued on across the freeway overpass. The Mercedes moved into the right lane. The girl took the 101 on-ramp and merged with the stream of speeding cars heading south. I slowed, adjusting my speed to allow another car between us. Traffic was light and it wasn’t difficult keeping up with her. She stayed in the right-hand lane and passed the off-ramp at Little Pony Road. She got off on the Missile Street exit and kept to the left in preparation for a turn. The car between us sped on. We were both caught at the stoplight at the bottom of the ramp. I could see her adjust the rearview mirror and reapply her lipstick. When the light changed, it took her a moment to register the fact. I was patient, not wanting to call attention to myself with even a quick toot of my horn.