Hope was busy that night. We made plans to hook up the next, so I dropped my paperwork at Bill’s, got the temp PI license, and began my surveillance on the rich guy, Dr. Florentino.  He was a plastic surgeon, and a pretty successful one, at that.  His website boasted of celebrities, unnamed of course, who came to him for work.  A simple credit check showed that his clients had to be paying a pretty steep fee, celebrities or no.  And in sunny San Diego, where you could go down to TJ for a quick nose job at one –third the price, it isn’t as easy as you might think to charge those rates.  His wife had given me his usual haunts, from the four-star restaurant he frequented, to his bungalow in Encinitas.  That was pretty standard.  But the girl – that was the interesting part.  Apparently, she was a local artist – a painter – with a slightly crooked nose, but pretty.  I scrutinized the photo of the lanky brunette – the lovely Ms. Rosalind Smith. If she had been a plastic-enhanced bimbo, I might have dropped the case right there.  But this picture looked like it might hold some interest.

It was Friday, not one of the designated days the good doctor was to be with his wife, which worked for me, because that meant he would be with the other.  After hosing off my suit and board and showering, I laid down for a nap.  I woke up about two after hitting my snooze button twice, made coffee, and, after my second cup, dressed and headed out.  His office was in downtown La Jolla.  I found a spot just as someone was pulling out, lucky for that part of town on Friday eve, walked by his office, found his car, then went to get something to eat. The reports his wife had given me from the other PI’s told me he scheduled surgeries Friday morning and early afternoon, but that he would return to the office around 4:00 and be there until 6:30 or 7:00, finishing up the week’s business. Standard practice, getting that quick nip-tuck in before the weekend to lessen the down time. Like I said, rich people, go figure. I got a spinach and bacon salad at the Living Room, a coffee house frequented by the UCSD crowd, and tried to think through the night ahead.  But there wasn’t much to think about.  I’d done this a thousand times before – the surveillance, that is – and had already gotten the OK from Mrs. Florentino to bill her for a bunch of hours.  Still, the challenge of it had gotten into my head.  Willow’s words kept coming back to me – holding hands.  There was something there – I was sure of it.  At six, hammerhead in hand – coffee with a shot, a favorite of cops -- I walked back to my car, double-parked it across the street from the good doctor’s parking lot, and waited.  At 7:05 he pulled out in his slick new red Mercedes drop-top, drove about twenty feet down the street, answered his cell phone, stopped, put the car in reverse, and backed up next to me, the top on his polished $80,000 ride humming smoothly down to reveal the plush tan leather interior.

“My wife’s not the only one who hires private eyes,” he said confidently, his mouth somewhere between a sneer and a smile, but closer to the first. And after a pause, “You’ll never prove it, you know.”

“True love is a beautiful thing,” I replied, returning his smile, minus the sneer.  At this, his face went completely into the sneer mode, and he gunned the Benz forward to the corner.  What the hell, I thought, let one car go by, and then pulled my old Chevy in behind it.  This was going to be fun.  But before I got two blocks down the street, I caught the flashing lights of a La Jolla Village cruiser in my rearview mirror.  That couldn’t be good.  The La Jolla police dept. is completely independent from San Diego.  I pulled over, hoping this was a coincidence, grateful that Bill had gotten me the temp, and waited.

“You were double-parked back there,” said the officer, peering in my window to look around, a rather big guy with a crew cut and a neatly trimmed handlebar.

“I was in the car,” I responded.

“What’s your business in the Village of La Jolla?” he asked, ignoring me, as if he already knew the answer, but wanted to hear me say it.

“I’m a private investigator, on a case.”

“I’ll need to see your license.  And your driver’s license and registration.”

“No problem, officer,” I responded, and pulled out my documents from my wallet and glove box, respectively, handed them to him, and waited as he walked back to his cruiser.  I watched in my rearview mirror as he called my info in, then, looking puzzled, got on his cell.  When he returned, he seemed confused, and a little frustrated.

“Watch your step in the Village of La Jolla, Mr. Sapphire,” he said gruffly, handing the documents back to me, making me reach for them just a little bit.

“Yes sir, officer,” I answered with a smile, and put my registration back in the glove box, both licenses in my wallet, started up the car, then gently pulled away from the curb.  In my rearview mirror, I saw the officer do a three-point turn, then head back the other way.  At this point, I’d long lost the good doctor, but I knew where he was headed. His favorite Friday night haunt was a few miles up the coast.  I also knew from his wife that he would meet his girlfriend there for dinner, and that they would be there for a while.  I decided to take the scenic route, give them a chance to relax a bit, and to assume, mistakenly, that I wasn’t coming.

In twenty-five minutes, after a leisurely ride up the coast, I was there.  It was a chichi place I’d never get to on my own, but the wife was paying for it, so I went in, looking forward to a really nice dinner.  And some pleasant conversation.

Once inside, I was glad I’d put on a pair of slacks and a shirt.  Right on the beach, just north of La Jolla, and sunk into the ground so that the dining room windows got splashed at high tide, the place was plush, and dramatic, to say the least.  The waiters were in tuxes, and so was the bartender, whom I headed straight for, doing the best Mike Hammer swagger I could muster. The bar was in the back on the right, against the wall, jutting out in a shallow U into the dining room.  I took a seat at the far end, where I could get a view of the whole glitzy place, including keeping my eye on the entrance.  I spotted my couple right off and shot them a quick wave.  He didn’t notice, because his back was to me, but she did, and pointed.  I had to hand it to him, the photos didn’t lie – she was beautiful - a classic brunette.  And a strange choice, I thought, for a plastic surgeon.

I ordered a soda with lime, deciding not to take the Mike Hammer impersonation too far, and perused the leather-bound, gilt-edged, menu.  An hour and fifteen minutes later, I’d had oysters on the half shell, a stellar salad, and was working my way through a really nifty fifty-dollar steak when the couple got up to leave.  I waved as they headed toward the exit.

“Thanks for a really great dinner, Doctor,” I called, smiling.  “See you soon.”

He scowled, grabbed Ms. Smith’s arm and stormed out.  The funny thing is, I thought I saw a little smile flicker on the lanky brunette’s face as they passed through the doorway. I finished my steak, got an outstanding cappuccino, left one hell of a big tip, pocketed the receipt, and got up to leave.  As I did, two men in cheap suits walked in and approached the hostess, a stunning black haired woman in an evening dress and pearls. She pointed in my direction, and the two approached.

“Evening,” I offered, as one reached into his jacket pocket for his shield.

“Awfully nice place for a private investigator to be eating, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Sapphire?”

“One of the perks of the trade,” I answered to the one with the badge out, the larger of the two, both of whom were bigger than me, but whose physiques posed no immediate threat.

“Dr. Florentino is a respected member of this community,” he answered, holding my eyes.

“And his wife isn’t?”

“Watch yourself in the Village of La Jolla, Mr. Sapphire.  Because we’ll be watching you.”  And, he added, after a pause, for emphasis, “We have friends on the San Diego Police Department.”

“Good to know, detective,” I smiled back at him sourly, sliding my right foot out just a bit and setting myself, in case he had any thoughts of hitting me.

“By the way, you’ve got a broken taillight.”

“No, I don’t”

“Yes, you do.”
 

The night had given me plenty to think about on the ride home. A hundred yards from the posh place, I got a ticket for a broken taillight.  No problem, I thought, I’d add it to the bill, along with the dinner. Still, it seemed the San Diego PD was in contact with La Jolla and had known I’d be there.  I thought of my new friend the FBI agent, Ms. Torres, and wondered if I’d see her again anytime soon.  This couldn’t go on forever, and I wondered how far the cops would take it, and how far I could ride it. My guess, and maybe it was a wishful one, was that they no longer saw me as a real threat and only intended to screw with me.  And it was crucial that they did, at least until I was ready to make my move.  And that was just the police. But then there was the group of “Good Christians,” Wilkes’ goons. The less they saw me as a threat, the more they might screw with me, or people I cared about, and probably both. And sooner or later, and probably sooner, as things were shaping up, I’d have my back to the wall, with no choice but to hit the guy in front of me as hard as I could, and hope for the best. I needed an end-game.

I pulled into the driveway at about 10:00, noting the cruiser on my corner. Inside, I grabbed two beers out of the fridge, put on some old Chet Baker, and crashed back on the couch.   Gray jumped up in my lap, and purred.

“You’re glad I went to see Willow again, aren’t you?” I asked him, emptying half the first beer with one long swallow.

“Meow,” he said, in response, which I thought was a little strange – he doesn’t usually answer when I talk to him – but I took it as a good sign, and proceeded to kill the first beer and crack the second.

Chapter 24 coming 9/1 (or so…)!!!