With both our blood pressure rates stabilized, I asked Dawn inside.
“You’re sure it’s safe?”
“I promise nothing will happen that will give your mother nightmares.”
I scanned the street before closing the door, expecting to see someone or something out of place, but found nothing amiss.
Too bad, I thought, internally still wanting to cause great physical pain to my unseen tormentor.
“Your watch is on the coffee table,” I told Dawn.
“This place looks bigger in the daylight,” she said as she walked into the living room. “And there’s your precious TV, right where I left it. Safe and sound,” she added as she put on her watch. “Without this, my shift seemed to go on and on and on.”
“I know what you mean,” I agreed, trying to keep the conversation casual. “I’m sorry about all the questions earlier. It’s just that—”
“You don’t have to explain,” Dawn stopped me. “I once dated a guy who went ballistic when one of his prized hockey cards went missing. It turned out he had forgotten he’d lent it to his little brother for Show and Tell.” She turned to face me. “I don’t know why guys get so attached to inanimate objects. I’ve never been a big collector of anything.”
“Except boyfriends,” I interjected, which made Dawn laugh.
“The difference is they aren’t inanimate—at least not in my presence.”
“No doubt.”
“Do you have anything to drink?”
“That depends,” I said. “If you’re looking for an alcoholic drink, the answer is no. If however, you’d like juice or bottled water, then yes.”
“Juice sounds good.”
As I poured her a glass of fruit punch, Dawn took a seat at the kitchen table. I grabbed a bottle of water and sat down across from her.
After taking a sip of her drink, Dawn asked, “Are you aware you have the same exact name as a P.I. they’ve been writing nasty things about in the newspaper?”
I gave her a knowing nod. “Let me guess—this morning your boss brought you up to speed about me?”
“You’re pretty good. Keep going,” she challenged me.
“Let me see . . . how about this: He told you if he’d been working last night, he would never have allowed you to take me home, regardless of how wasted I was.”
“His exact words were, ‘I’d have tossed that slimeball in the trash bin and he could have slept it off in the clean fresh air.’”
“To which you—my reluctant guardian angel—replied?”
“I told him how much you’d spent and what a big tipper you were,” she chuckled at the memory. “And next thing you know, he was planning to keep the rear booth reserved for you 24/7.”
“You may be the best new friend I’ve ever had.”
“And I promise never to ask you for money.”
“That’s always nice to hear,” I said. “Then again, I’m sure my drunken tips should keep you in fine wine and caviar for at least a couple of months.”
“At least,” she agreed with a grin. She took another swig of juice. “So, do you want to talk about your friend from high school?”
I looked into her innocent, honest and far-too-young face. She reminded me of Maria, which is a compliment of the highest order. However, unlike my former love, I did not intend to drag this beauty down to my seedy level.
“I appreciate your concern,” I said. “For the time being though, I’m going to try and find my way through this mess alone. I might not come out unscathed but I will come out of it, I promise.”
“Okay, no problem,” Dawn stated nonchalantly. “If you do want to talk sometime, you’ve still got that souvenir coaster, right?”
“I do somewhere.”
Dawn laughed. “You’ll find it under your bedroom phone. I put it there for safe keeping.”
I was amazed by this pretty stranger who had entered my broken life.
“Who are you and why are you being so nice to me?” I asked in a cheerful, yet serious tone. “You can spend time with any guy in town—why waste your youth with me?”
Dawn got up from the table and carried her empty glass to the sink. When she came back, she stood in front of me.
“To answer your first question, I’m just a girl who likes a boy.”
“Isn’t that a line from a Julia Roberts’ movie?”
“Does it matter?” she replied with a toothy grin.
“Not at all.”
“And as far as wasting my time, haven’t you heard the saying that one person’s trash is another person’s treasure?”
“I don’t think anyone has ever described me as a treasure,” I said sincerely. “Thanks . . . again.”
“You’re welcome.”
I walked her to the front door.
“I’m glad you came into the pub last night,” she said, stepping out onto the porch.
I waited for the “but” which didn’t materialize.
“So am I,” I said.
As she made her way across the front lawn, she said she hoped maybe we could go for a walk down by the beach—once my life had returned to some semblance of normalcy. As I was about to make a smart-alecky remark about the planets aligning, the phone inside rang, rudely interrupting our light-hearted mood. By the time I had decided to let the machine pick up, Dawn had strolled out of my life as easily as she had strolled in.
I entered the house and checked my message. Once again I had to deal with the same heavily modulated voice that had directed me to my garbage can the previous day. This afternoon’s message, however, would turn out to be much worse than the first.
“The box on your rear porch should get you started. If I were you, I would begin right now. Lives are depending on it.”
I ran to the back door, as my heart rate accelerated into the stratosphere. I knew I wouldn’t find anyone in the yard putting away his cell phone, yet the quick steps gave me a sense of flying into action—the first physical moves in this life-sized game of chess with Max.
It sat ominously on the steps: a large banker’s box, with its cover secured tightly by packing tape. I looked briefly in all directions and found nothing of interest. Obviously, I had again been under surveillance. My mystery caller knew when I was in the house. As interested as I was in finding out how this was being accomplished, I set my sights on the box, which I carried into the kitchen and opened using a sharp knife from the butcher block. I then lifted off the cover, never once entertaining the idea it might be booby trapped somehow.
Inside I found dozens of file folders, with labels like Police Reports, Witness Statements and Patient Information. It was the large manila envelope marked STEVE, though, which caught my eye.
I emptied the envelope’s three items onto the table. The first was a very grainy black-and-white photocopy of a clean-shaven male with the name “Jarvis Larsh” written at the bottom of the page. The second item was a newspaper article from the Santana Hills Sentinel from December 1992 with the heading: CON MAN CONVICTED OF MANSLAUGHTER. The third item was a typed letter for me:
Dear Mr.