“Lil.” I knocked on the window. “Forget Sheila. Take me to Echo Park.”
“Yes, sir.”
Turning around was no small feat. She had to crawl off the exit of the 134, crawl back on, and sit in rush hour traffic. Dinner with my favorite sister and attendant children was officially cancelled.
When I got to Monica’s house, she and her car were gone. I stood on the porch calculating my next move. She’d said something about a gig at Frontage, and I was tempted to go over there. I saw Dave pulling up the hill in his dually.
“Hey, Jon. The lady of the house home? I had a few more permits to pull.”
“Nope. What happened today?”
He leaned out his window and offered me a fry from a McDonald’s bag, which I refused. “What do you mean?”
“Did you say something about watching her?”
“No, man, I was watching, not telling.”
“When I said to keep an eye on her, it was a casual keeping an eye. Because she knows, and she’s pissed.”
“Sorry. I didn’t say anything. She did tag up that car with whipped cream. Don’t know what that was about.” He craned his neck to see the other side of the street. “Right there.”
I followed his gaze to a green minivan. I got a sinking feeling as I walked toward it. The whipped cream wasn’t just whipped cream. It was the kind from a can, and Monica was sending me a message.
I used my hankie to wipe the whipped cream away and saw a camera behind the glass.
Ah. She thought I did that. The thought had crossed my mind, but I did have boundaries.
And then the other question: who did it? Who wanted her watched?
I said good-bye to Dave and crawled back into the Bentley. “Lil, take me home.” I needed my car, and Lil had been driving all day. Monica would be trapped behind that piano. I could still make it.