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Monica switched off the light in her office and buttoned her all-weather coat close around her neck as she went out the front door. A slow, cold drizzle fell and created a sheen under the lights of the parking lot. The green VW stood staunchly under one of the lights, one of four cars in the lot. Not many were working past quitting time this evening.
She put the car in first and headed for El Gallo, letting herself for the first time today forget about work and give all her attention to meeting Frank. She had purposely worked ten minutes past six so she would arrive at the restaurant at exactly six-thirty. Maybe he would be so eager to see her he’d be there early. She didn’t want to push. She would go around the block, if necessary, to be there at the right time.
Her watch showed exactly six-thirty as she pulled into the parking lot at the side of the restaurant. She drove slowly through one row and came back the next, not finding an empty spot. They would be crowded tonight, judging by the number of cars in the lot. She drove to the back where several spaces still here vacant. Frank’s truck was there, and she pulled in beside it.
He was sitting on a bench just inside the restaurant, and he stood and reached for her hand as she approached. “I gave them my name already. They’ll have a table in about fifteen minutes. Would you like something to drink?”
“Thanks, but I don’t want anything but a cup of hot Mexican chocolate. I’ll wait till we order.”
A woman with a small baby came in and took the seat Frank left, so they stood until his name was called. The hostess led them through the smoking section to the back. The walls were garish with velvet paintings of bullfighters and flamenco dancers, but the music was pleasant, a soft Spanish guitar soothing the babble of conversation. Monica and Frank had agreed that this was the best Tex-Mex food in town. It made her feel good that they concurred on this. One little victory in the field of compatibility.
“Were you able to see Willard Blanchard?” she asked when they were seated.
“Yes. He’s going to handle the divorce for me. I hope he can get back some of my furniture, and soon.”
“Have you had to buy some things?”
“I bought a bed. It was too hard to get down and back up from Henry’s inflatable mattress with my burns.”
She smiled. “You’re a lot better now. I can tell by the way you’re walking.”
“I’m much better. Almost as good as new. They want me to take the rest of the week off from work, though. I had to agree it’s a good idea. I have a lot of things to do.”
The waitress came and stood with pencil poised above her pad. “Do you need more time?”
“I know what I want,” Monica said. “I’ll have the enchilada plate and some Mexican chocolate.”
Frank closed his menu. “Give me the same.” And when the waitress left, “We’re having a neighborhood get-together at my house Friday.”
“Good. Am I invited? I took Andrea Bowers off the assignment in your area and I’m back on.”
“Of course you’re invited. I’m going to have a Christmas tree. Ruby Jackson’s baking cookies, and the Graces are, too. Sort of a pep rally before the protest in addition to being a Christmas party.”
“I imagine a lot of people will come if you’re offering refreshments. I’ll bring something, too.”
He put his hand over hers. “Come home with me after dinner.”
She knew it was going to work this time, and a dizzying flush of anticipation spread through her. It had been a long time since she had wanted a man the way she wanted Frank; it had been a long time, period. She picked at her food when it came. The blood throbbing through her veins seemed to have taken her appetite away.
They went straight upstairs when they got to Frank’s house. No words were needed; each knew what the other wanted. And she had been right—it worked this time, even better than she had expected.
Afterward, they drifted off to sleep and then woke at nine-thirty and finished taking off their clothes. The love-making was slower this time, and more sensuous. Monica lay beside him afterward, nestled in the curve of his arm.
She knew she should leave, but tearing herself away was torture. Mrs. Henthorne would be alerting the whole neighborhood about how late she had stayed. Maybe it would cause problems for Frank if she didn’t get out of here at a decent hour. He had fallen asleep again, and she slipped out of his arms. When she was ready to go, she tore a piece of paper from the notepad in her purse, wrote “I love you” on it, and put it on the pillow beside him.
She had backed out of Frank’s driveway and started down Cedar Street when she saw the car lights come on behind her. She drove carefully, maintaining the speed limit, and the car gained on her. All she could see were the bright lights following her. She took the Taurus from its special compartment in her purse and laid it on the seat.
Maybe it was a policeman, about to stop her because a taillight was out. She hoped he’d understand why she got the revolver out when she explained her need for it. The permit was in her purse.
They passed under a street light, and she could see that the car hovering close to her bumper was an old black Cadillac. Not a policeman, then. It was enormous from the perspective of the Volkswagen. The windows were dark and impenetrable. The police station was a mile ahead. She’d stop there and run inside.
They drove in tandem for several blocks. Only when they came near the San Gabriel River did she realize what was going to happen. There was nowhere to turn off before she approached the bridge. She shifted down to third and put the gas pedal to the floor, but the Cadillac easily surged around to the side of her car.
Don’t let me die now, she thought. Two weeks ago it would have been easier, but life was too good now. These thoughts were tumbling crazily through her head as she raised the Taurus and pointed it at the place where the driver must be sitting. She squeezed the trigger when the Cadillac slammed into the side of her car. The crack of the shot rang in her ears as the gun was flung from her hand by the force of the impact.
The Cadillac had forced her from the road just before she entered the bridge, and the Volkswagen careened down the steep embankment and plopped nose-first into the water. Her hands were wet with sweat as she gripped the wheel. The car tipped backward as the weight of the engine brought the front end up. “Jesus, help me out of here,” she said. The car was floating, moving gently downstream and toward the center of the river.
Would it tip the car over if she tried to crawl out the window? She laid the front seat back and reached into the storage compartment behind the back seat. She pulled out everything she could find—a notebook, some books, a pair of sneakers—and piled them on the floor against the passenger door to counterbalance her weight as she climbed out. She raked everything from the glove compartment and shoved it into the pile. She could feel water seeping in now. She found the Taurus and put it in her purse.
She took off everything but her underwear and piled her coat and clothes on the passenger seat next to the door. She would put the purse around her neck and carry it on her back. She couldn’t be without the Taurus. She shivered when she opened the window and felt the cold drizzle blowing over her. Before sliding out the window she crossed herself. Her feet pushed against the seat, and she leaned over the roof of the car when she felt it begin to tip.
She dragged herself up onto the roof and then slid to the hood and on into the water. The car bobbed away, farther into the stream, as she began to swim to shore. It was thirty feet, but it seemed forever in the cold water. Her hands were stiff with the cold by the time she felt the slimy rocks at the edge. Her feet touched bottom now, and she smiled. Thank God, she was going to live.
She jogged the two blocks to the police station, ignoring the pain in her bare feet. She debated about calling Frank, but decided to ask the police to drive her home. He would be sleeping so peacefully, and the thought of disturbing him was too much for her. She ran up the steps and into the station. The night receptionist, a young woman with bright red hair, stared at her.
“Call a wrecker, please, hurry,” Monica blurted out. “My car’s floating down the river. Maybe they can get it out before it sinks.”
The receptionist sat, transfixed. Monica grabbed the phone. “The wrecker number, please!”
“Two four nine, seven three three three.”
Monica dialed the number. “My car went into the San Gabriel River at Ashton Street, just before the bridge. It’s floating downstream. Please send someone out to see if they can get it before it sinks. Yes, it’s a Volkswagen.” She waited while a wrecker driver was sent on his way and then gave her name, address, and phone number.
Monica was beginning to shiver. She looked down at her mud-smeared slip and bare feet. The receptionist took a raincoat from the rack behind her. Here, put this on. Someone left it here. What happened to you?”
“Someone ran me off the road. I need to talk to a policeman.”
“Officer Ledbetter will be with you in a minute. He’s filling in for someone on the late shift.”
“May I use your phone while I’m waiting?” She had changed her mind about calling Frank. They were beginning a relationship, and when you’re involved with someone, you share everything, both the disasters and the joys. She dialed his number.
“Hello. I’m sorry to wake you. I’m at the police station.”
“What happened?”
She was comforted by the concern in his voice. “Someone ran me off the road. I went into the river.” Her voice trembled a little.
“I’ll be right there.”
Ledbetter stood by the reception desk. “Miss Cruz? Come this way.”
He motioned to the chair in front of his desk and sat down across from her. “What happened?”
“Someone followed me for several blocks and ran me off the road just as we got to the river. They started to pass me, and then they sideswiped my car.”
“What street were you on?”
“I had turned onto Ashton Street from Cedar. I had just left Frank Novak’s house. I think you know him.”
Ledbetter nodded.
“I saw headlights come on behind me when I started, and then right away this black Cadillac was behind me. An older black Cadillac. They stayed behind me until I was almost to the river. It was intentional.”
“What time did you leave Novak’s house?”
“It must have been ten-thirty. We’d been planning . . .” Damn! It was Ledbetter Frank had told about the protest the first time, when the crack house was deserted. She had advised him not to tell anyone but neighbors from then on. “We’ve been planning a meeting with the City Council to discuss some issues.”
“Frank mentioned you’re having another protest this Saturday at the crack house.”
Why had Frank mentioned it? Why would he do that when they had agreed it was a bad idea? It didn’t make sense. “I hear the place was raided, but no evidence was found.”
Ledbetter nodded and went back to filling out the form on his desk. Frank came in before he was finished, took her hand, and sat down beside her. “I saw the wrecker from the bridge. It looked like they were pulling your car out.”
“Could you tell if it had sunk?”
“No. I didn’t stop. What the hell happened?”
“I’ll tell you on the way home. We’re just about through here.”
And when they were through, he carried her from the door of the station to his truck and deposited her on the seat. “Let’s get you home and into a hot shower.”
“Frank, I’m curious,” she said as soon as he got in. “Why did you mention the protest to Bobby Ledbetter? We had decided before that he was possibly involved there.”
Frank started the truck and pulled slowly away from the curb. She could tell he was searching for the right answer. It took him a while, but finally he said, “I can’t tell you, Monica. Some things I can’t talk about right now. You’ll have to trust me on this.”
So much for sharing the disasters and joys of life and all that, she thought. She shoved her feet closer to the torrent of hot air pouring from the floor outlet of the heater. Men were like that. They found exemptions from Monica Cruz’s rules of relationships. Frank had been reliable so far, though. She would do what he asked this time and trust him on this.
