This Doesn't Happen in the Movies (7 page)

“Oh.”  I paused.  “I should be going,” I said again, but this time I forced myself out of my seat.  I stood, swaying a bit.

“Are you going to make it?”

“Yeah, I’m just upstairs.”  I shook Bob’s hand.  “Thanks again for the help.”

He showed me to the door.  I stepped onto the porch and walked its length to the left side of the building, where a wet, metal staircase led to the third floor entrance to my condo.  Behind me I could hear Bob chuckling, probably wondering what kind of a goofball lived above his brothers.

CHAPTER NINE

When I let myself into my place, I tramped right to the kitchen for Advil.  I tossed two in my mouth and washed them down with half a bottle of water, then stumbled into the living room and crashed on the couch.  I awoke later to the sound of the phone softly ringing, its pulse barely loud enough to rouse me.

I grabbed the cordless off of the end table and held it to my ear.  “Hello,” I mumbled, my voice sounding like I was talking through cotton.

“Honey, is that you?”

“Mom?”  I propped myself up on one elbow and squinted at the clock on the wall.  Ten-fifteen.  I’d been asleep for more than two hours.

“Honey, are you all right?  Did you swallow a frog?  You’re not doing drugs, are you?  I never did, not even smoking pot, even though it seemed like everyone else did.  They say that when you smoke pot, your mouth gets all dry and you sound like, well, like you do.”  My mother had a way of launching into a topic like a preacher into a hell-and-brimstone sermon, full force and not taking a breath.  “Reed, this is not how we raised you, to blow your money on drugs, ruining yourself.  Get a good job, find a nice lady, and settle down.  Out doing drugs.  Why, the next thing you know, you’ll be on the streets, and then where will you be?”

“On the streets,” I said.

She sniffed.  “You’re not funny, dear.”

“It’s good to hear from you, Mother.  How are things in Florida?”

“Everything’s fine here, but don’t change the subject.  How are you, really?”

“I’m just tired.  It was a long day and I fell asleep on the couch.”  Half the truth was better than the whole thing.  No way could my mother handle the whole truth.  Not when her son was falling down in the line of duty, and especially not when my duty involved a profession that she saw as “chasing those people around for money.”

“I’m glad you’re working hard, but you need to take better care of yourself, dear.  Now, I wanted to let you know that your father and I made our flight reservations.  We’ll be coming to visit in two weeks.”  She rattled off the dates for their annual Christmas visit and I pretended like I was writing it all down.

“Now it’s late, so I’ll let you go,” she said.  “I love you, dear.”

“I love you, too, Mother.”  I hung up the phone and promptly fell back asleep.

*****

I awoke the next morning with a splitting headache and a tender spot on my temple where the butterfly bandages held the cut closed.  I also knew I wanted to find out what had happened to Peter Ghering, and why I was the target of an attack.  As I stood in the kitchen fixing a bagel and cream cheese, I thought through what last night’s assailant said to me: “Stay away from Amanda.”  Someone was taking an interest in my investigation, someone who was either tailing me or knew where I lived.  Or both.  But why was I such a threat?  I’d barely gotten started on this thing.  Was it about this case, or something else?  Why stay away from Amanda?  And the biggest question: who attacked me?

It was Saturday, so I lingered over a long breakfast, showered, then reapplied bandages to the cut on my temple.  After a half hour of contemplation over a cup of coffee, I decided that I would focus on the source of my anxiety: Amanda.  If she was hiding something, I wanted to know what it was.  I’d had a bad feeling about her from the start, but my focus had gone in another direction, to finding her husband, Peter.  It was time to turn my attention to her.

It was now almost eleven.  I took two more Advil for my headache, threw on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and tennis shoes and headed out the door.  I stopped by the office to check messages – none – and grabbed a sandwich from Jason’s Deli across the street.  A light snow fell, and temperatures hovered barely above freezing, so I drove with caution over slick roads to Castle Pines.

Once in Amanda’s neighborhood, I parked where I could see the road that led down to her house.  I opened a Coke and ate my Italian sub sandwich while I waited.  The DJ on the 80's radio station gabbed over the end of a Cars’ song, saying that it was heading into the noon hour, time for the top five songs from the last week of April, 1984.  I kept my eye on the bend in the road.  It wouldn’t be long now.

As if I’d just looked into a crystal ball, Amanda’s gray Lexus came into view.  She barely looked toward my vehicle.  She yielded for a second before tearing off down the road.  She hadn’t even noticed me, unless the whack to my head had left me more addled than I realized.  I could surmise where she was going - to her country club.

Sure enough, I followed the Lexus back onto the highway and soon exited on
Lincoln Avenue, where Amanda drove straight to the Lone Tree Golf Club.  I knew the club, had golfed there a few times the previous summer.  Advertised as a premier private country club, with an Arnold Palmer designed course, the club catered to the social elite of south Denver.

Amanda turned into the circle drive entrance of the Lone Tree, got out, and handed her keys to a young valet who had helped her out of the car.  She said something that made him laugh, pulled her long fur overcoat around herself and walked into the building.  I had a feeling I was in for a long wait, at least a couple of hours.  I hunkered down in the car seat, where I could still see the front door, turned on the radio, and sipped my Coke.  The DJ was announcing the number one song from 1984, by the Thompson Twins.  Amanda would like that.

I tapped on the steering wheel, humming the song.  It finished, and REM came on.  I hummed through that and two more songs as I watched the valet park cars.  I was just thinking that I needed to use the bathroom when the valet drove up with a gray Lexus.  I sat up as Amanda came out the door.  I checked my watch, already knowing that she couldn’t have been inside for more than a half hour or so.  At her speed that was only a couple of drinks.  What was going on?

She tipped the valet and peeled out of the drive and around the lot.  Okay, maybe she’d gotten three drinks in her.  I barely had time to duck before she came out of the exit, almost directly across from where I’d parked.  She drove back toward the highway.  As I did a U-turn I hoped she didn’t recognize my 4-Runner.  What kind of an amateur was I not to even try and hide myself?

But if Amanda spotted me, she either didn’t care or was lousy at losing a tail.  She kept a steady speed of ten miles an hour over the limit as she headed toward downtown Denver.  We kept that pace for ten minutes and I wondered if she was going to my office.  But we soon came to the Cherry Creek Mall, an upscale shopping center.  It appeared that Amanda was throwing over drinking for shopping.

I parked and followed after her, hearing her heels click on the concrete as she walked through a parking garage to the Neiman-Marcus entrance.

I got to the door  and cautiously peered through the glass but didn’t see her.  I stepped inside, hoping she wasn’t lurking somewhere nearby.  I didn’t see her at all.  I frantically scanned the racks of clothes and displays, cursing under my breath.  Then I caught sight of her, going toward the perfume and jewelry area.  I started slowly down the aisle, prepared to peruse female lingerie while I kept my eye on her, but she moseyed right by the glass cases and out into the mall.

So, Neiman-Marcus wasn’t her speed.  I wondered what was.  She walked at a fast clip past a bookstore and a couple of specialty shops.  I could smell the tantalizing aroma of cinnamon rolls coming from the CinnaBun shop.  Maybe she needed some dessert.  My mouth watered.  I could use some dessert.

But Amanda turned in another direction.  I stopped and window-shopped at a shoe store while keeping my eye on her.  She made a beeline to a triangular-shaped kiosk with a map of the mall on one side, an advertisement on another, and a pay phone on the third.  Now I was puzzled.  What was going on here?  Surely she had a cell phone.  Why use a pay phone?  I could think of only two reasons: her cell phone battery was dead, or she didn’t want any record that she made the call.  If the latter, why?

She dialed a number, hung up, and dialed again.  She spoke a couple of words, then hung up.  I watched her rummage in her purse, pull out a piece of paper, and dial another number from it.  She turned in my direction, and I pulled back into the store entrance, glancing discreetly around the corner.  Amanda was tapping her foot, apparently listening to endless rings on the other end.  She hung up again, this time smacking the phone down harder, making a passerby glance at her.  Amanda glared at the lady, threw the piece of paper back in her purse, and stormed back in my direction.  I turned quickly and began inspecting a pair of red high heel shoes.  Out of the corner of my eye Amanda passed by, looking straight ahead.

“Are you interested in those?” a young salesman asked me.

“Not my color,” I said, setting the shoe down.  He turned as red as the shoe while I hurried after Amanda.

She walked back through Neiman-Marcus, apparently heading straight for her car.  I chose to leave her to her own business and ran back to the pay phone, just beating a teenage girl with enough gold on her wrists and fingers to stock a jewelry store.

“Excuse me.  Emergency,” I mumbled as I picked up the receiver that Amanda was using moments before.

“Asshole,” the girl said and walked off.

“Once a day and twice on Sundays,” I said, with a curt nod.  She looked fiercely at me.

I looked for a redial button, but there wasn’t one.  Obviously, I thought, not on a pay phone.

“Damn,” I said, and received a glare from an elderly lady who could’ve added diamonds to the teenager’s jewelry store.  I smiled at her and walked off.

So I hadn’t found out who Amanda called, and now I didn’t know where she was.  Great.

CHAPTER TEN

A calculated guess took me back to Lone Tree, where I found Amanda’s car, parked in a space close to the building.  After a couple of hours, I was rewarded with only sore muscles and an intense case of boredom.  I left her car there and spent the rest of my evening shooting pool with the Goofball Brothers.

I followed Amanda back to the club on Sunday, where she stayed for the entire day.  Monday morning found me again parked near her house, hoping this time for a day more exciting than the daily sabbatical to the country club.

A storm front moving over the mountains made it colder, and the forecast called for more snow.  I waited with the engine running, hoping nosy neighbors wouldn’t notice me.  At twelve o’clock on the nose Amanda’s Lexus came into view.  She seemed to be a creature of habit.  I followed her to the club, dreading another day sitting in the 4-Runner.  But after a few bored, slow hours, Amanda finally emerged, retrieved her car, and drove off.

 The Lexus barreled onto I-25 and continued north.  I barely had time to wonder where Amanda was headed before she turned into a gas station, the kind that also had a convenience store with it.  She parked near the entrance and dashed inside, returning a few minutes later with a magazine.  She got back in her car and drove out of the lot, with me still tagging along.

I puzzled over this development as I followed the Lexus to the Washington Park neighborhood, known for expensive homes near a spacious park.  Amanda drove around a couple of blocks, to a posh little Italian restaurant on Clarkson Street called Patini’s.

I parked across and down the street from her, and watched as she left her car near the restaurant and went in, the magazine rolled up in her hand.  It was early, just after five, but it looked like the restaurant already had quite a crowd, especially for a Monday evening.  I got out, crossed the street, and walked by the front window.  I could see her through the glass, smiling in a cute way to a twenty-something looking waiter as he showed her to a two-seater table near the bar.  She sat down, and I saw that she was carrying a comic book, not a magazine.  She placed it in the middle of the table.

I looked on as she ordered not only a meal, but two drinks as well, chatting with the waiter each time he came to the table.  He was tall and thin, wearing tight black jeans with a spotless white apron tied around his waist.  But his rear end was at her eye level, so each time he walked away, she paid attention to it.  Her husband didn’t seem to be on her mind right now, but then he really hadn’t been all along.

The bill finally arrived, and she paid with a credit card.  After she signed the receipt, she took one copy for herself, turned the other over and wrote something on it, then got up and pulled on her coat.  She lifted a hand in a coy wave at her waiter and walked out.  The waiter waved back at her, came to the table and took the receipt, immediately reading the message on it.  Amanda came out the door.  I turned toward the window, staring at the waiter inside, with my back toward Amanda.  An elderly couple seated by the window stared back at me in surprise.  I ignored them as I waited for Amanda to discover me.  But she walked quickly to her car, not noticing me in the darkness.  Meanwhile the waiter tucked the receipt in his white apron pocket, picked up the comic, and headed for the kitchen.  I was vaguely aware of the Lexus pulling out into the street as I dashed around the north corner of the building, looking for a back entrance to the restaurant.  Amanda had passed that waiter a note, and I was going to find out what was on it.

I found the back entrance that led into the kitchen and stepped through an unlocked screen door.  Even though the outside temperature was dropping, I could feel heat emanating from the hot ovens inside.  I looked around until I saw Amanda’s waiter, leaning his hands against a long metal prep table, waiting for an order of food to be filled.  The comic stuck out of the back pocket of his black slacks.  And no, I was not looking at his ass.