T is for Trespass (Kinsey Millhone 20)

I started the Mustang and of course when I backed up to pull out of the slot, I tapped the bumper of the car behind. It didn’t seem sufficient to warrant getting out to look, but as surely as I didn’t, I’d get dinged for thousands in repair work, plus an additional citation for leaving the scene of an accident. I opened the car door and left it ajar while I walked around to the back of my car. There wasn’t any sign of damage and when the officer walked over to see for himself, he seemed to agree.

“You might be a little more careful.”

“I will. I am. I can leave a note if you think it’s necessary.” You see that? Fear of authority will reduce a grown woman to this kind of groveling, like I would have licked his belt buckle to a high shine if he’d grace me with a smile. Which he didn’t.

I managed to drive away without any further mishap, but I was rattled.

I let myself into the office and put on a pot of coffee. I didn’t need the caffeine; I was already wired. What I needed was a game plan. When the coffee was done I poured myself a mug and took it to my desk. Solana was setting me up. I had no doubt she’d scratched the car herself and then called the police. The move was a wily one in her campaign to establish my enmity. The more vengeful I appeared, the more innocent she looked by comparison. She’d already made a case for my calling the county hotline as a gesture of spite. Now I was a candidate for charges of vandalism. She’d have a hell of a time proving it, but the point was to damage my credibility. I had to find a way to counteract her strategy. If I could stay one step ahead of her I might be able to beat her at her own game.

I opened my bag, found the scrap of paper Charlotte had given me, and phoned the bank. When the call was picked up I asked for Jay Larkin.

“This is Larkin,” he said.

“Hi, Jay. My name is Kinsey Millhone. Charlotte Snyder gave me your number…”

“Right. Absolutely. I know who you are. What can I do for you?”

“Well, it’s a long story, but I’ll give you the condensed version.” Whereupon I laid out an account of the situation in as succinct a manner as possible.

When I finished, he said, “Not to worry. I appreciate the information. We’ll take care of it.”

By the time I got back to my coffee it was stone cold, but I was feeling better. I sat back in my swivel chair and put my feet up. I laced my hands on the top of my head and stared at the ceiling. Maybe I could put a stop to this woman yet. I’ve dealt with some very bad folks in my day-thugs, brute killers, and scamsters, with a number of truly evil people thrown into the mix. Solana Rojas was cunning, but I didn’t think she was smarter than I was. I may not have a college degree, but I’m blessed (she said, modestly) with a devious nature and an abundance of native intelligence. I’m willing to match wits with just about anyone. That being true, I could (therefore) match wits with her. I simply couldn’t go about it in my usual blunt-force fashion. Going head-to-head with her had landed me where I was. From now on, I’d have to be subtle and every bit as cunning as she. Here’s what else I thought: If you can’t go through a barrier, find a way around. There had to be a crack in her armor somewhere.

I sat up, put my feet on the floor, and opened the bottom right-hand desk drawer where I kept her file. There wasn’t much in it: the contract with Melanie, the original job application, and the written report of what I’d learned about her. As it turned out, all the personal recommendations were horseshit, but I didn’t know that then. I’d tucked Lana Sherman’s résumé at the back of the file and I studied that now. Her comments about Solana Rojas had been hostile, but her criticisms only reinforced the notion that Solana was hardworking and conscientious. No hint of abusing the elderly for fun and profit.

I placed Solana’s application on the desk in front of me. It was clear I’d have to go back and fact-check every line, starting with the address she’d given out in Colgate. The first time I’d seen the street name, I’d had no idea where it was, but I realized I’d seen it since. Franklin ran parallel to Winslow, one block over from the twenty-four-unit building Richard Compton owned. It was the Winslow property where the Guffeys had so enjoyed themselves, ripping out cabinets and demolishing the plumbing fixtures, thus generating their very own rendition of the Flood, minus Noah’s Ark. The neighborhood was a hotbed of low-life types, so it made sense that Solana would be comfortable in such a setting. I picked up my jacket and my shoulder bag and headed for my car.

I pulled up across from the apartment building on Franklin, a drab beige three-story structure, free of architectural flourishes-no lintels, no windowsills, no shutters, no porches, and no landscaping, unless you find drought-tolerant dirt aesthetically pleasing. There was a pile of dead bushes near the curb and that was the extent of the vegetation. The apartment number on Solana’s application was 9. I locked my car and crossed the street.