Chapter 19

It wasn’t until the next morning that we finally hit pay dirt. The previous evening, we had turned in the minivan at the Los Altos rental office, picked up the Buick, and back in San Francisco had exchanged it for a white BMW, one of the rental agency’s most expensive selections. Although the minivan had not been “compromised” like the Buick, I wanted to avoid any chance that someone would notice that the same car was parked by the Sanders house two days in a row. Again, the cars were as different as they could be.

Sara made one last plea for a convertible—I was beginning to think it was some kind of obsession with her. Maybe it was.

“If you want it to be as different from the last two as possible, then let’s go all the way,” Sara cajoled. And this time, I gave in. Sara had a good point, and it couldn’t hurt to drive an open car down the freeway.

“But once we get near the Sanders house,” I said, “the top goes up, so we aren’t recognizable to anyone seeing the car. Agreed?”

Sara readily agreed.

The ubiquitous fog having burned off early, it was just warm enough to enjoy top-down driving. Sara wore a wide-brim straw hat, held on by a pink ribbon under her chin, and the smile never left her face during the entire drive. I had to admit that, all things being equal, an open-air white BMW was definitely the way to go. A person could get used to this.

But eventually pleasure ended and work began again. We arrived at Little Hyde Park just after 8:00 a.m. Heavy traffic had caused us to be a bit later than I’d wanted. We drove in and parked under the same tree as the day before.

Sara had her magazines at the ready, together with a supply of snacks, and I had my binoculars out. But before either of us had settled in for another long vigil, the security guard arrived at the Sanders house in a blue Honda decorated with a yellow light bar, parking next to the security gate. And several minutes later a white Ford Explorer appeared around the bend in La Paloma Road. It paused across from the driveway entrance, its turn signal blinking, to let a refuse truck pass, which gave me enough time to read the sign on the door of the car: “TidyHome Maid Service.” There was a phone number, but no address. I dictated and Sara, having grabbed the pad and pen she had brought along, wrote down the sign’s message. It was exactly 8:15 a.m.

“I can see two people in the car,” I reported, “and what looks like cleaning supplies in the back seat.”

As soon as the truck had passed, the Explorer made the turn into the driveway and disappeared into the fog. I was sorry I couldn’t see its arrival at the house, because I wanted to know to which side of the house—front or back entrance—it went.

“That’s the one I’ve been waiting for,” I said with satisfaction.

“You mean we can leave now?” Sara asked, perhaps sounding a bit too hopeful.

“Yes, I think so. We aren’t going to learn much more sitting here, especially through the fog.”

On the way back to San Francisco, Sara said, “I forget what Aaron said about whether this Sanders guy is married. Is there a Mrs. Sanders who stays home all day?”

“No, according to the bio I read online, there isn’t. Once Sanders leaves for the day, there should only be employees left at the house. They should be easier to deal with than the owner’s wife would be.”

“Did Aaron’s friend say anything about who those employees might be? And is he one of them?”

“Well, not exactly. See, he doesn’t live at the house, although he’s there frequently on Sanders’ business. All he said was that there’s a housekeeper, who lives in, and a chauffeur, who also lives there and who’s around the house doing odd jobs when he isn’t driving Sanders somewhere. And of course we’ve seen there’s a guard at the gate.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad,” Sara said.

“Hmm” was all I responded. That kinda depends whether you’re the burglar.

****

When we arrived back at the hotel, Sara headed for the bathroom and soon stood naked under a hot shower, finally able to relax a bit. Meanwhile I sat at the round walnut table and pored over note pads filled with diagrams, lists, and hypothetical scenarios, several of which were ostentatiously crossed out.

Where was the violin now? Was it in that “gallery” Rafael had mentioned? I thought it very possible, as Sanders probably would want to display his new prize, at least to a select few friends, and at least until he swapped it for Suzuki’s Monet. But then, once Aaron and I were in the house (and that itself, of course, was a major undertaking), how would we gain entry to that room?

On a different but related note, would we encounter Donny Martin’s killer at Chez Sanders? Or Fred Ballard’s? Or both? And how would we know them?

Then there was the question of Aaron’s role in the drama. As he had insisted on having one, and an active one at that, for better or worse he would be on the scene with me. And since I could hardly trust him, as a newbie, to act on his own, his role would have to mirror mine; in other words, wherever I would be going, Aaron would be found as well. For perhaps the hundredth time in the past several weeks, I asked myself what had possessed me to agree to Aaron’s harebrained proposal. Was it, as Sara had earlier hinted, something personal about Aaron? If so, it would be a very unprofessional, and therefore very dangerous, motivation. I dismissed the idea as absurd.

By the time I had added most of our new information into my old plans, it was time for dinner, and I decided I could finish my work later in the evening. Fortunately, reconnaissance in Los Altos was virtually completed. Sara and I would now have a day or two to rest in San Francisco while we waited for Aaron to return from Los Angeles.

On our own in San Francisco, on someone else’s credit card.

I felt better already.