Donald Moffitt - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 57, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2012

Such is direct surveillance in all its manifestations. And so it was being close on Adrian’s heels. The first day was a bust — the office, dinner and a beer at Karl Strauss in Universal City Walk, home again to a nice apartment in Los Feliz. The next day, more of the same, but dinner at the Pacific Dining Car downtown instead. So I learned he didn’t cook. Hurray.

On the third day as I waited for something to happen, by now feeling pretty confident it wouldn’t, I mentally went over what I’d learned about the case. In particular, I was trying to figure out what Miss Enola obviously knew that I didn’t.

The Chengfeng assistant engineer’s bad habits. Nothing.

The Navy. What was that about? Search and Rescue at sea is the Coast Guard’s job, so it wasn’t that. Maybe it had something to do with Ray Zielinski’s service record, but if that was the case, what did somewhere between L.A. and Hilo, Hawaii, have to do with it? Wait a minute. Adrian was a Pacific Islander, so he was probably Hawaiian himself. Was that important?

Then there he was, driving out of the lot. A little early for lunch. I put Rhonda in drive and slipped into traffic. He was headed for the Westside, maybe even the marina again. Okay, this could be interesting.

But he wasn’t going to the marina. It was a bowling alley on Venice Boulevard in Mar Vista.

A bowling alley?

I weighed the factors — Adrian Tabi, bowling alley, Adrian Tabi, bowling alley — nah. It didn’t seem right. You probably think it’s pathetic that I could get excited about a guy going into a bowling alley. But anything out of the ordinary can be significant. Adrian Tabi renting bowling shoes? This I had to see.

I parked, luckily finding a rare open meter halfway down the block from the bowling alley, and regarded myself in the vanity mirror on the visor. Wayne’s beautiful cut went into a ponytail, cascading out the back of a pink Dodgers ball cap above the adjustable sizing band. I had on a dark orange T-shirt and black jeans faded to charcoal, nothing very distinctive, so as long as I kept my distance, I hoped Adrian wouldn’t even notice me. Not much of a disguise, I admit. I needed something more.

A girl should never be without her compact, especially if she’s a private eye. I don’t wear much makeup as a rule, and then not very often, but you’d be amazed at how a deft stroke here and there can improve one’s appearance — that is, if you think being made up like a drag queen is an improvement. It’s all a matter of context: If it keeps me from being recognized, then you bet it’s an improvement. For it to work, though, it’s important to get the shades all wrong. Glittery blue eye shadow (ugh), a brown eyebrow pencil, and some red lip liner to alter the appearance of the shape of my mouth, and presto, I was set.

The final touch was posture. You have to be careful here because usually when people try to disguise the way they move, they overdo it and look false. Luckily, part of what I had learned back in my acting classes was how to pretend to be someone else. So instead of standing tall with my shoulders back and charging in like I owned the place, I slouched a little and sort of shuffled.

Adrian had only seen the confident, tasteful Erica. He might not recognize the insecure, painted Jezebel version. No way I could bring the Nikon in with me without people noticing, so I did the next best thing. I pulled out my smartphone and pretended to be texting like mad, oblivious to the world, when what I really was doing was using the camera.

I stood near the entrance and saw Adrian sitting at the snack bar with two men. They looked like they could have been bikers if they’d been dressed differently, only they were wearing blue workmen’s utilities instead of denim and leather. One was in his forties, slim and weasely with slicked-back dark hair and large teeth. The other was a huge, carroty redhead with a gut like a propane tank, his mouth covered by a bushy moustache over a long beard and his hair pulled back in a ponytail. They appeared to be not very happy with Adrian. I snapped a couple of shots and retreated.

When I got back to Rhonda, I called the office. Fredericks answered per usual and put Miss Enola on the line. I briefly told her where I was and e-mailed the photos to her.

“Erica, drop Mr. Tabi and pick up the red-haired man,” she said.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“We will know very soon. The dark-haired man is Herbert Holloway — don’t bother with him. He will be very easy to find again.”

“So who’s the redhead?”

“All I have at present is a supposition, but I suspect he is Ray Zielinski.”

“What?”

“Do not let him get away without finding out where he is going.”

“But he doesn’t look at all like Ray Zielinski.”

“Erica, did you sail into the bowling alley under your own colors?”

I figured out quickly enough what she meant: Was I in disguise. “Not exactly.”

“Well, neither did he.”

“Okay, maybe he didn’t. But if he is Ray Zielinski, then we’ve done our job. The investigation is over.”

I heard her sigh. “Erica, it is in the nature of our work that the initial objective is rarely the final objective.”

“You’re the boss. Follow the fat man. Check.”

Adrian left first. I slid down in my seat as he drove past. About five minutes later, the other two emerged and walked to a big maroon pickup truck and climbed in. Holloway was at the wheel.

They headed east toward the San Diego Freeway, turning south on Sawtelle to get to the entrance. They got off at Artesia Boulevard in Torrance and drove east again to where it transformed into the Gardena Freeway before exiting on Lakewood Boulevard. Eventually they pulled in front of a small house in Lakewood, got out of the truck, and went inside.

This time I did use the Nikon, with a telephoto lens big enough to swat baseballs with that I found in the case, and I got some great pics, including the license plate on the truck. I gave them ten minutes to get settled and then drove by to get the number on the house. When I called the office to report my progress, Miss Enola told me to come home. And then she said something else.

“Why don’t you call and invite Adrian to dinner tonight, dear? I’m preparing a lovely coconut mango yuba knot curry.”

“That was delicious, Miss Enola,” Adrian said. “I feel like a fatted calf.”

There were five of us at the table: Adrian Tabi, Veronica Cross, Fredericks, Miss Enola, and me. Miss Enola was at the head and Adrian sat to her right, next to me. Nicki was on her left and Fredericks directly across from me.

“I am so glad,” Miss Enola replied. “Thank you.Your compliment is particularly apropos. It is customary, after all, to provide a condemned man with an excellent repast before turning him over to the hangman.”

At first we thought she was making some kind of joke. Miss Enola had been gracious all through dinner, witty even, so everybody’s first reaction was puzzled smiles at the blatantly poor taste of the gag. After looking at Miss Enola’s eyes, though, our smiles slowly faded.

“Excuse me?” Adrian asked, trying to retain his composure.

“I have a confession to make,” Miss Enola said. “I asked Erica to invite you tonight so we could get to the bottom of things. Fredericks, will you kindly serve coffee?”

“Yes, Miss Enola.” Fredericks got up from her chair and went into the kitchen.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Adrian said.

“Of course you do,” Miss Enola said. “I’m talking about your murder of Oliver Long and the crew of the Chengfeng.”

Adrian started to stand. “If you have evidence of any murder, you should report it to the police.”