Faye Kellerman - Blindman’s Bluff

“Is your girlfriend waiting outside?”

“No, I took a cab. She already thinks I’m going off the deep end.”

She ain’t the only one.

Harriman said, “I don’t know what to do. That’s why I came here.”

“If someone is really stalking you, you shouldn’t be here. You should be at the station house.”

He sighed. “They’re not going to believe me.”

“That may be, but they won’t throw you out on the street.” She considered her options. “How about if I take you there? They’ll give me some credence.”

“That’s very kind of you…I’m so sorry to drag you into this. I just didn’t know where to turn. When they told me over the phone that Lieutenant Decker wasn’t in, I figured he was at home.”

“He’s not here.”

“I realize that. I’m sure I seem crazy to you.”

“Fear can do that.”

“I’ve been translating in the courtrooms for years. I’ve been used in some very bad murder cases. But no one has ever bothered me before.”

“Let me get my keys.”

“Yes. Where should I put the glass?”

“I’ll take it.” She went back into the kitchen and returned with her keys. She was about to guide him to the door, but then her eyes rested on the video monitor. The front porch was blank, but there was a strange car across the street. The white sedan appeared with a sizable dent on the rear passenger door. It could be another relative for the elderly woman who lived down the street, but Harriman’s paranoia was infectious. She couldn’t make out the license plate and something told her not to go outside.

Harriman said, “I caught a whiff of something that wasn’t there a second ago. Like tension or fear. What’s going on?”

“Maybe I’m nervous to be alone in a car with you.”

“That’s not it.” He stood up. “What is it?”

“There’s a car across the street-”

“What kind of car?”

“A Toyota or maybe a Honda. I have trouble telling them apart. Just calm down. I’m going to call up someone and have her drive by the house.”

“Is anyone in the car?”

“I can’t tell. Excuse me.” Marge was in the field, but she answered her cell. Speaking softly over the line, Rina explained the situation.

Marge said, “I’m with Oliver. We’re walking to the car. We’ll be right over.”

“It’s probably nothing-”

“That nutcase is in your house, that’s something.”

“He’s blind.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I saw his eyes. I’m sure.” She paused. “I might be a little unnerved by him, but I can’t say I’m scared by him.”

“You still have your gun?”

“Yes. I’ll get it out of the safe, although I’m probably overreacting.”

“I have to be honest with you. The Loo had some concerns about Harriman dragging you into something bad.”

“I opened the door voluntarily. It probably wasn’t smart.”

“Not smart, but a human thing to do. You know what they say.”

“What?”

“To err is human, but to shoot the son of a bitch is divine.”

AS MARGE APPROACHED the white Accord from the rear, its motor sprang to life and the sedan crawled away from the curb. She followed it for a block or two, before the car turned on to Devonshire, one of the main drags of the West Valley. Oliver read off the license plate numerals to the RTO and it came back with no wants or warrants. The vehicle was registered to Imelda Cruz, age thirty-four, with an address in East Valley.

“Maybe Auntie Gwen had another visitor,” Oliver said.

“I don’t think so.” Marge’s eyes were glued on the Accord as it signaled a lane change. “From the back, the driver looks like a he.” Another signal, another lane change. “Joe fucking model citizen.”

“We’re driving a cruiser. He knows we’re tailing him.”

Marge’s cell rang. Oliver fished the phone out of her purse. It was Rina.

“The car’s gone, Scott. Where are you?”

“Tailing the car.”

“Oh…okay,” Rina said. “In that case, I’m going to take Harriman to the station. Neither one of us wants to stay here right now.”

“Rina, let me call in an escort for you.”

“What’s going on?” Marge said.

“She wants to take Harriman in.” Into the receiver, Oliver said, “Just wait for a cruiser to show up to follow you.”

“As long as you make it quick. I’m getting creeped out.”

“Got it.” Oliver hung up the phone and called in for a cruiser. “He looks like he’s headed for the freeway. If we’re going to pull him over, do it before the on-ramp.”

Marge turned on the siren. A moment later, the Honda signaled and pulled to the curb. Every time cops made a stop, there was that potential for violence. The Kaffey double homicide just made them all that more cautious.

“This is a case for ye olde bullhorn.” Oliver instructed the driver and any of the passengers to step out of the car with hands in the air. The seconds that followed were infused with tension, waiting for the unexpected.

The passenger door swung open and a scarecrow-thin kid emerged, wearing a wife-beater undershirt and saggy shorts. His arms were bony, and his hands were in the air. His skin was covered with tattoos.

Oliver said, “Put your hands on the trunk of your car.”

When the kid complied, Oliver told him not to move and the two of them descended quickly, Marge on one side, Oliver on the other. It was clear he wasn’t carrying weapons, so Oliver told him to turn around. The kid was around five five with a face filled with zits. He barely looked old enough to drive. His eyes were dull and brown. His expression was an utter blank-neither aggression nor fear.

“Anyone else in the car?”

“No, sir.”

“Where’s your ID?”

“In the car.”

Marge said, “Mind if I go inside your car to look for it?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What’s your name?” Oliver asked him.

“Esteban.”

“Esteban what?”

“Cruz.”

Probably a relative of the owner. Oliver said, “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Where do you live?”

“Ramona Drive.”

“Do you have an address?” The number he gave put Esteban living in the East Valley. “You’re a little far from home.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Hanging around.”

“You shouldn’t be here, hanging around. That doesn’t look good.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You should be in school.”

“I dropped out of school.”

“So what do you do now that you’re not in school?”

“Hang around.”

“That’s not a very healthy way to live, Esteban. Who owns the car?”

“My mother.”

“And she gives you the car to drive just to hang around?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So if I called her, she wouldn’t be upset that you have the car?”

“No, sir.”

The boy seemed basic, and in this case that made him smart. He didn’t ask why he was pulled over, he wasn’t belligerent, and he didn’t volunteer any information.

“Do you have a number for your mother?”

Esteban gave Oliver a phone number. He made the call on his cell phone and a woman came on the line. “Is this Imelda Cruz?”

“Sí?”

When Oliver identified himself and told her that he had her son in custody, the woman answered with a “no speak English.” Knowing that Marge’s Spanish wasn’t much better than his, he mumbled a “muchas gracias” and cut the line.

He studied Esteban. “You’ve got a lot of number twelves tattooed on your skin.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bodega 12th Street gang?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why the tats?”