talk was punctuated with hugs and kisses. I knew the scene was supposed to leave me soft and mushy, but, but, but.
I should have scrammed when the train approached, but all I did was toss the binocs onto the back seat. Maybe I was trying to justify my lie to Boots, or maybe I was reluctant to return to the couch. Either way, I decided to see where Lauren went after Lou boarded the train.
A part of me hoped she would dash into another man’s arms.
Lauren didn’t dash anywhere. Instead, she drove slowly through the coastal towns as if reviewing her weekend. When she turned toward home I kept following, surprised to see her pull off onto Shore Road, park, and leave the Cherokee. I pulled the bulky sedan into a small rest area and watched Lauren hop a fence and stroll down a dirt path through the thick woods toward the ocean.
Maybe she was meeting someone. I waited a good three before following. I hung the binoculars around my neck, carefully hauled my aging body over the same fence, and followed the same path. At first I couldn’t find her. Then I saw a dark form crawling on the scabrous face of a steep cliff which dropped straight down to the raging ocean.
Once I recovered my breath and focused my view of the harsh, ragged rocks and crashing waves, I watched Lauren grapple her way to a narrow ridge that jutted over the roiling water. When I aimed the glasses she was sitting on the ledge, her light windbreaker pulled tight against the ocean’s splatter. As if on cue she turned her head and stared in my direction. I was too well hidden to be seen but I stepped deeper into the woods anyway. The next I looked, Lauren had turned east, knees up, chin on hand, staring into the darkening horizon.
The two of us held our positions for about twenty minutes before Lauren headed back toward her car. At the same moment my neck hairs prickled and I suddenly felt watched. I quickly scoured the cliffs then retreated into the woods, gun drawn, tense and ready for a confrontation. I quietly pushed my way through a number of bushes until I wound up at a small, protected clearing with trampled sticks and grass. Right in the middle of the area it looked as if someone had rolled a rotted tree trunk to use as a seat.
I rummaged for clues on my hands and knees until my back stiffened and I realized I wouldn’t know a clue if I saw one. A downside of buying my license, city living, or both. So instead of playing in the dirt, I carefully toured the woods hoping to surprise anyone who might be in the vicinity.
I found no one but couldn’t shake the hair stand. I returned to the sedan, drove relatively close to the Hacienda, staked, and betrayed my morning lie to Boots.
Though the feeling never returned, for the first time, I actually began worrying that Lauren was onto something. Worried again that the trashed car hadn’t occurred in a vacuum. But hard as I tried, I couldn’t just figure her refusal to speak to the police or her inability to notice anything unusual.
By 4am I was home blearily staring at more reruns. Not much choice—nothing new is ever on at that time. . The coffee table in front of the couch held an overflowing ashtray, empty beer bottles, and my dope pipe. Sleep was coming, but I wasn’t exactly getting there on my own.
Unfortunately, the next day began no better than the last one ended. Worse. Instead of worry and depression, I awoke with a brain-banging mad, dragged from a dreamless, dry-mouth sleep by the relentless shrill of the landline. In self-defense I grabbed the receiver, ready to curse.
An unfamiliar voice spoke quickly, impatiently. “Mr. Jacobs? Mr. Jacobs?”
“Hold on,” I growled, swallowing my swear. I swung my legs off the bed and lit a cigarette. Nothing like a brushfire in a desert, but I needed help restraining my temper.
“It’s Jacob, without an ‘s,’” I finally said, eyeing leftover water in a smudged drinking glass. I couldn’t remember if it was last night’s or from the night before. “Who’s this?”
“Ted Biancho. I was wondering if we might meet?”
“How did you get my number?” I lifted the glass and killed the water. As soon as he told me his title, I surveyed the room, irrationally worrying about hiding all my dope. Ted Biancho was the Police Chief of Lauren Rowe’s town.
“Is this a formal invitation?”
Biancho chuckled. “You’ve lived in the city too long. We’re more easygoing up here.”
Easygoing or not, there clearly was no room for refusal. “And what time am I expected?”
“Whenever is convenient. Let me give you directions or you’ll miss it.”
“That would be a shame, huh?”
“Not a shame, a mistake.”
I stubbed out my smoke. “I’ll get a pencil.”
No more sleep for this head hurting weary. No comfortable breakfast of caffeine, nicotine, and newspapers. No sit-ups, pushups, or long loping laps around Roberto Clemente` Field. What the hell, the older I’d become the less I liked to run. But nor was I thrilled to be on the receiving end of an invitation from a town’s top cop.
Although the morning was ruined, I stubbornly refused to rush. Shower, smokes, and caffeine after all. It was past twelve when I picked up my car from Manny’s, long past one when I drove into Lauren’s tiny town. Hopefully the office closed early.
If I hadn’t taken the Chief’s directions I might have made the mistake he warned me about. It was difficult to imagine a more unlikely looking police station. The rambling New England farmhouse had been added to—clumsily—at least twice during its lifetime. One addition was tacked to the back, the other stretched at a right angle from the middle of the main structure. All the connected buildings were painted a pleasant pale yellow, effectively masking its bulk. The only indication that it was headquarters was a small wooden plaque hanging on a hook next to the front door.
I stood on the wooden porch, finished my smoke, and tossed it onto the sidewalk. Uniforms never failed to strum my anxiety and an invite from a heavy Blue had me checking pockets, making certain I wasn’t accidentally holding.
I took a deep breath, walked through the screen door and found myself in a huge white room, completely empty save a large desk and chair butting up to an arch on the far side. Someone had taken decorating lessons from Mussolini.
I was halfway across the oak floor when a slim, medium height, dark-complected figure with close cropped brown hair appeared from the back and leaned against the arch’s frame. I stopped as he took a bite of an apple, chewed, swallowed, and pitched the core into a pail.
“You’re Jacobs?” he asked in a soft, polite voice. He was in his late thirties—an age I hadn’t seen in quite a while. No uniform, although his pleated green chinos and yellow Izod were close to an official something.
“Jacob,” I reminded. “You’re Chief Biancho?” I walked close enough to see his sharp features. Despite the languid pose, his intense dark eyes scraped my face and scratched my nerves.
“Thanks for stopping by.”
“Thanks for the directions. You get hit during the night?” With me, banjo nerves usually came loaded with an open mouth.
Razor thin lines
