BACK out in the parking lot, I plugged the breast pump into the cigarette lighter, turned on the car engine, and did my best to achieve a modicum of discretion by lowering my shirt over the tops of the flanges. I watched a few cars drift in and out of the parking lot and almost nodded off, the rhythmic hum of the motor lulling my chronically sleep-deprived self to sleep. I jerked myself awake and, holding the pump flanges with one hand, I called the office with the other. Al was out, unfortunately, but Chiki was there, waiting for me to check in.
“Damn,” I said at the news that my partner was on the shooting range.
“Yes, but you can’t help me. I need Al to do a quick address search.”
“Who are you looking for?”
“The social worker at the prison, Taylor Brock. There’s no way they’re going to let me into the prison to see her without an appointment and permission from the warden. I figured I’d have better luck just showing up at her house.” Since Sandra had said the social worker was only at the prison during the morning shift, there was a chance I could find her at home. Now I was going to have to rely on the telephone operator, and the likelihood of Ms. Brock being listed was slim. Individuals who work in law enforcement rarely are. They are less sophisticated, however, at keeping their addresses off the Web.
“436 Peachwood Lane. In Dartmore Village.”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s a T. Brock at 436 Peachwood Lane.”
“Please tell me you did not just use the computer.”
“Go on, check your BlackBerry. I bet there’s an email from Al with driving directions from Dartmore to 436 Peachwood Lane.”
“Did Al also turn up an actual office address of the Lambs of the Lord?” The address I got from Sandra’s documents was the same as the one I got from Sister Pauline—a post office box in Pleasanton: their mail drop.
For a moment I heard rapid clicking that sounded suspiciously like tapping on a computer, but that of course must have been something else. A long-toenailed rodent clicking across the cement floor of the office?
“Dang,” Chiki said.
“Dang, what?”
“Nothing. I’m just surprised at what a good job the Lambs are doing at hiding their business address. It’s, like, nowhere. I can’t find it in any of the usual places.”
“You can’t find it?”
“I mean, Al can’t find it. Man, whoever they have doing this for them is good. You know what? You got to go to Pleasanton today? Because I know I—I mean, Al—can find it. It just might take some doing. It’s like trapping a mouse, you know? You come at it from every direction, bit by bit, until you’re holding it in your hand.”
I looked at the clock on the dashboard of my rental car. I had just enough time to get over to Taylor Brock’s house and grill her before making the drive back to the San Jose airport. As little as I relished the idea, I was going to have to come back up to northern California some other day to visit the office of the Lambs of the Lord. Another flight. Not to mention the hours. This non-case of ours was going to end up costing Al and me more in expenses than most of our actual cases did. And there was no one to reimburse us this time. I glanced over at the hulking prison building behind the razor wire. The money didn’t really seem to matter.
“I’m sure if you gave Al some very specific instructions, and a few hours, even he could figure out how to use the computer to track the Lambs down. Chiki, you’ve got to be careful with what you’re up to in the office. You don’t want that probation officer of yours barging in while you’re doing something you shouldn’t be. They make unannounced work and home visits. You know that.”
“I’m in a windowless garage with the door locked, Juliet. But don’t worry. I won’t touch the computer. I won’t even breathe on it. How about that? Not even to download you the patches for your system software that were released today. You’ll have to figure out how to keep your computer from crashing all on your own.”