block.
Same car? No. It couldn’t be. There’s no license plate in front, and one visor is down. The other car wasn’t like that, I’m sure, or I would have noticed. From the long hair and hat it looks as if a woman issitting in the driver’s seat. Just one more black sedan. There must be a million of them.
As I begin to look away the sun glints off whatever the woman is holding, and I quickly glance back. She bends down, as if she’s putting something on the seat beside her. What did I see? Why do I have the feeling it was a camera?
The Memorial Drive bus grinds to a stop at the curb, blocking my vision of the car. I climb aboard, and as I settle in a window seat I twist to look back at the car.
It’s no longer there. It’s nowhere in sight.
Don’t start imagining things
, I scold myself.
That car and the person inside it had nothing to do with you.
But I’m really not so sure.
C HAPTER S EVEN
A s I let myself into the house the phone begins to ring. Slamming the kitchen door, I run across the room to answer.
“This is Sergeant Balker, returning your call, Kristi.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Yesterday I was followed when I was with my friend Lindy. It was a black car—a sedan.” I tell him the make and add, “But I got the license plate and—”
“I know. I got the information you left for me, and I followed through. The car belongs to a licensed private investigator. I went to his office this morning and talked with him. He told me he was employed a few months ago by Douglas Merson.”
“A few months ago. Then he’s the one who tookthe recent photographs of me.” I think about the glint I saw in the car parked outside school, and the woman in the car. “Does he have a woman working for him too?”
“The guy works alone. He’s got a really small operation,” Balker answers.
“But I thought the driver today was a woman. Could Mr. Merson have hired more than one person?”
There’s a pause, and when Balker speaks I can hear the grin in his voice. “Private eyes on surveillance use all sorts of tricks to disguise their cars and themselves. Sometimes front license plates are snapped off or on. Antennas are put up or down. Both visors down, both up, or one down, one up. The driver changes clothing—hat or sweater, dark glasses on or off, even wigs.
“If you get suspicious about a car that’s following close—which it has to in Houston traffic—a few blocks farther on you’ll take another look. What do you see? A woman wearing sunglasses has become a man in a baseball cap. No longer both visors up along with an antenna. One visor’s down, and the antenna has disappeared. So you decide it’s another car, another driver. You stop being suspicious. Just in case you still have that gut feeling that you’re being followed, in another mile or so, you’ll look for the car, but the identifying marks will have changed again.”
I’m glad he’s explained. I don’t feel quite so stupid now. “Thanks for finding the guy,” I say. “Did he tell you why he was hired?”
“No, and I don’t think he cared why himself. Tohim it’s just another job. He doesn’t have to keep watch on you or report what you’re doing. All he has to do is take pictures.”
“Even while Mr. Merson’s in the hospital?”
Detective Balker says, “Zigurski claims he didn’t know Merson had been shot. All he knows is that he agreed to take a certain number of photos.”
“But Mr. Merson can’t tell him to stop.”
“I told him,” Balker says. “I also told him he might not be paid. That seemed to convince him.”
“But today … this afternoon—he was still doing it, wasn’t he?”
“Probably. He’s not a very imaginative guy. I’m guessing that all he could think about was the roll of film he wanted to finish, so he could try to get paid in full.”
“Are you going to arrest him?”
Balker’s voice is quiet and soothing. “Do you really want your parents to press charges, Kristi?
Same car? No. It couldn’t be. There’s no license plate in front, and one visor is down. The other car wasn’t like that, I’m sure, or I would have noticed. From the long hair and hat it looks as if a woman issitting in the driver’s seat. Just one more black sedan. There must be a million of them.
As I begin to look away the sun glints off whatever the woman is holding, and I quickly glance back. She bends down, as if she’s putting something on the seat beside her. What did I see? Why do I have the feeling it was a camera?
The Memorial Drive bus grinds to a stop at the curb, blocking my vision of the car. I climb aboard, and as I settle in a window seat I twist to look back at the car.
It’s no longer there. It’s nowhere in sight.
Don’t start imagining things
, I scold myself.
That car and the person inside it had nothing to do with you.
But I’m really not so sure.
C HAPTER S EVEN
A s I let myself into the house the phone begins to ring. Slamming the kitchen door, I run across the room to answer.
“This is Sergeant Balker, returning your call, Kristi.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Yesterday I was followed when I was with my friend Lindy. It was a black car—a sedan.” I tell him the make and add, “But I got the license plate and—”
“I know. I got the information you left for me, and I followed through. The car belongs to a licensed private investigator. I went to his office this morning and talked with him. He told me he was employed a few months ago by Douglas Merson.”
“A few months ago. Then he’s the one who tookthe recent photographs of me.” I think about the glint I saw in the car parked outside school, and the woman in the car. “Does he have a woman working for him too?”
“The guy works alone. He’s got a really small operation,” Balker answers.
“But I thought the driver today was a woman. Could Mr. Merson have hired more than one person?”
There’s a pause, and when Balker speaks I can hear the grin in his voice. “Private eyes on surveillance use all sorts of tricks to disguise their cars and themselves. Sometimes front license plates are snapped off or on. Antennas are put up or down. Both visors down, both up, or one down, one up. The driver changes clothing—hat or sweater, dark glasses on or off, even wigs.
“If you get suspicious about a car that’s following close—which it has to in Houston traffic—a few blocks farther on you’ll take another look. What do you see? A woman wearing sunglasses has become a man in a baseball cap. No longer both visors up along with an antenna. One visor’s down, and the antenna has disappeared. So you decide it’s another car, another driver. You stop being suspicious. Just in case you still have that gut feeling that you’re being followed, in another mile or so, you’ll look for the car, but the identifying marks will have changed again.”
I’m glad he’s explained. I don’t feel quite so stupid now. “Thanks for finding the guy,” I say. “Did he tell you why he was hired?”
“No, and I don’t think he cared why himself. Tohim it’s just another job. He doesn’t have to keep watch on you or report what you’re doing. All he has to do is take pictures.”
“Even while Mr. Merson’s in the hospital?”
Detective Balker says, “Zigurski claims he didn’t know Merson had been shot. All he knows is that he agreed to take a certain number of photos.”
“But Mr. Merson can’t tell him to stop.”
“I told him,” Balker says. “I also told him he might not be paid. That seemed to convince him.”
“But today … this afternoon—he was still doing it, wasn’t he?”
“Probably. He’s not a very imaginative guy. I’m guessing that all he could think about was the roll of film he wanted to finish, so he could try to get paid in full.”
“Are you going to arrest him?”
Balker’s voice is quiet and soothing. “Do you really want your parents to press charges, Kristi?
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