T is for Trespass (Kinsey Millhone 20)

Pearce wasn’t a beat officer I knew. He was tall, broadshouldered, maybe fifteen pounds overweight, with that staunch police presence that speaks of a well-trained professional. There was even something intimidating about the way his leather belt creaked when he moved.

“What’s going on?”

“Her car was vandalized.”

I followed his gaze, which had shifted to Solana’s convertible, parked two cars down from mine. Someone had taken a sharp instrument-a screwdriver or a chisel-and scratched the word DEAD in deep gouges on the driver’s-side door. The paint was stripped and the metal had been dented by the force of the tool.

“Oh, wow. When did that happen?”

“Some time between six o’clock last night when she parked the vehicle and six forty-five this morning. She caught a glimpse of someone passing the house and came out to check. Were you aware of any activity out here?”

Over his shoulder, I saw that the neighbor from across the street had come out in her robe to get the paper and she’d engaged Solana in much the same conversation I was having with the officer. I could tell from Solana’s gestures she was agitated. I said, “That was probably me she saw this morning. Weekdays, I jog up State, starting at six ten or so and returning thirty minutes later.”

“Anyone else out and about?”

“Not that I saw, but I did hear a skateboarder in the middle of the night, which seemed odd. It was two fifteen because I remember looking at the clock. Sounded like he was riding back and forth on the sidewalk, up the curb and down, some in the street. It went on so long I got up to take a look, but I didn’t see a soul. One of the other neighbors might have heard him.”

“One kid or more.”

“I’d say, one.”

“That’s your place?”

“The studio, yes. I rent from a gentleman named Henry Pitts, who occupies the main house. You can ask, but I don’t think he’ll be able to contribute much. His bedroom’s on the ground floor rear so he’s not subjected to the same street noises that I catch upstairs.” I was babbling, giving Pearce more information than he needed, but I couldn’t help myself.

“When you heard the skateboarder, you came out to the street?”

“Well, no. It was cold out and pitch dark so I stood in my downstairs bathroom and looked out the window. He was gone by then so I went back to bed. It’s not like I heard him gouging and bashing away out here.” I meant it as a bit of levity, but the look he turned on me was flat.

“You and your neighbor have a good relationship?”

“Solana and me? Uh, not really. I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You’re on the outs?”

“I guess you could put it that way.”

“And what’s that about?”

I waved the question aside, already at a loss for words. How was I supposed to summarize the weeks of covert cat-and-mouse we’d played. “Long story,” I said. “I’d be happy to explain, but it would take a while and it’s irrelevant.”

“The bad blood between you isn’t relevant to what?”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘bad blood.’ We’ve had our differences.” I caught myself and turned to look at him. “She’s not suggesting I had anything to do with this.”

“A dispute between neighbors is serious business. It’s not like you can walk away from the conflict when you live right next door.”

“Wait a minute. This is crazy. I’m a licensed investigator. Why would I risk a fine and county jail time to settle a personal dispute?”

“Any idea who might?”

“No, but it certainly wasn’t me.” What else could I say that wouldn’t sound defensive? The mere suggestion of wrongdoing is sufficient to generate skepticism in the eyes of others. While we give lip-service to “presumed innocent,” most of us are quick to presume quite the opposite. Especially an officer of the law who’s heard every possible variation on a theme.

“I should get on in to work,” I said. “You need anything else from me?”

“You have a number where you can be reached?”

I said, “Sure.” I took a business card out of my wallet and passed it to him. I wanted to point and say, Look, I’m a no-fooling PI and a law-abiding citizen, but that only put me in mind of the many times I’d crossed the law-abiding line this past week alone. I adjusted my shoulder bag and crossed to my car, acutely aware of the officer’s eyes on me. When I dared to glance back, Solana was watching me as well, her expression poisonous. The neighbor standing next to her regarded me uneasily. She smiled and waved, perhaps worried that if she wasn’t nice to me, I’d vandalize her car, too.