A uniformed deputy emerged from his car and approached mine, coming up on the driver’s side. I couldn’t believe April had called the police and reported me, but it was clear she had. Shit. In my side-view mirror I saw the officer unsnap his holster, but the gesture was discreet; not the action of a man seriously intent on gunning me down. I glanced at the telltale mailing pouch, which I longed to tuck on the floor under the passenger seat. With the deputy so close, I didn’t dare lean forward lest the movement be misconstrued as my reaching for a weapon of my own.
Traffic stops are dangerous. A nonconfrontational encounter can turn deadly in a heartbeat. I was a stranger sitting in a parked car. He knew nothing of my criminal history and nothing of my purpose. What had April complained about? Harassment? A threat to her personal safety?
I pressed the button that lowered the driver’s-side window and then put both hands on the steering wheel where he could see them. I could write a primer on how to behave in the presence of law enforcement, which basically boils down to good manners and abject obedience. He leaned toward me, holding a flashlight in his left hand. He trained the light on the dashboard, not because there was anything to be seen, but because the device was equipped to pick up any hint of alcohol on my breath.
“Afternoon.” He was white, in his fifties, clean-shaven, and looked like he could pack a punch.
I said, “Hi.”
“May I see your vehicle registration and proof of insurance?”
“They’re in the glove compartment.”
He gestured. I flipped open the glove compartment and pawed through the papers until I found the documents, which I handed to him. He took his time examining both documents before handing them back. “You have identification?”
“I can show you my driver’s license and a photocopy of my private investigator’s license.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
I took out my wallet and opened it to the window where my California driver’s license was displayed. “Is there a problem?”
“Can you remove the license?”
I removed my driver’s license and handed it to him along with my PI license. He gave the latter a perfunctory glance and then returned it, unimpressed.
“Wait here.”
In the side- and rearview mirrors, I watched him amble back to his patrol car. I knew he’d call in my plate number to see if I had outstanding wants or warrants, which I did not. April must have dialed 9-1-1 the minute she hung up. I wondered if she remembered my reference to the mailing pouch. Now I was sorry I’d mentioned it because I couldn’t think how to explain why the package in my possession intended for her was addressed to a Catholic priest in Burning Oaks. If I were quizzed on the subject, my long-winded account would sound like a fairy tale and the chain of events would be irrelevant. He had arrived in response to a complaint and he wasn’t responsible for verifying my claim. Briefly, I entertained the notion of having him deliver the package on my behalf, thinking surely April would be receptive if a deputy served as a go-between. Belatedly, I realized I hadn’t noted his name.
I waited patiently, demonstrating what a model citizen I was. Cooperative. Unarmed. This was all part of the game. The deputy exercised control, and I showed him the obligatory respect while the mini-drama played out. Not a problem for me, officer. I could sit here all day. He’d put me through my paces, after which he’d caution me politely and I’d respond in kind.
I stared straight ahead, resigned to my fate. A car turned the corner at the far end of the block and headed in my direction. The vehicle was a late-model Ford, black, with a solo male driver, who slowed in front of April’s house and pulled to the curb with his car facing mine, perhaps a hundred feet away. He got out. Caucasian, middle-aged, tall and lean, wearing a tan poplin raincoat. I knew the face. Ned Lowe looked better now than he had in high school, which I hope can be said of all of us. Given Taryn’s account of him, I’d anticipated a man whose manner was intimidating. Not so. There was nothing menacing in his body language. His complexion was pale. He looked tired. Under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn’t have given him a second thought.
April must have been watching for her father’s arrival. She opened the front door, closed it behind her, and waited on the porch. She had shoulder-length dark hair and that was as much as I could determine, except for the short-sleeve cotton maternity top she wore. She had her bare arms crossed in front of her. I assumed she was a solid eight months pregnant. Since she and her orthodontist husband had been married a little over a year, this was probably her first.
