San Diego Noir

“No, that’s true.” He fished around in his pocket and came up with a slim leather wallet. I had never understood why the richest people didn’t have the fattest wallets, but his looked like the addition of even a single dollar bill would stretch it out of shape. He slid a driver’s license from it and handed it over. The picture matched the face, and the name matched what I’d been given. “I’m Terry Paulson, as you can see.”

“Very good, sir.” I handed back the license.

“And you are … ?”

“Mike Rogers,” I said. “The police have been alerted and they’re on the way. Do you know if the prowler is still on the property, Mr. Paulson?”

“Call me Terry, Mike. I don’t know if it was really a prowler, in retrospect. My wife heard a noise. She thought it was a prowler. I didn’t see anything but thought it was safest to trigger the alarm.”

“That’s the best thing to do. Let us take a look for you. Where did she hear it?”

“She can tell you best herself.” He stepped back through the door, into a foyer that appeared to be floored with fine marble. A staircase curled up from there. “Sharon!” he called.

She came out of a side door, wearing a shy look and not a lot else. When I saw her I forgot why I was there, forgot everything for a few seconds. I had never seen a woman like her, except on a movie screen, or a computer one. She had plump lips, a slightly olive complexion, and smoky gray eyes. Long dark hair framed her face in ringlets and then curled off the tops of breasts that were high and round and barely contained by a low-cut, silky blue nightgown that more than hinted at the rest of her impressive curves. A ring glinted off the little toe of her left foot. She could have bracketed my thirty-one years by five in either direction.

“Hello,” she said, and her voice was low and frank and warm and not at all shy. “I’m sorry I got you out here. It’s probably nothing.”

“Don’t worry about that, it’s what I’m here for,” I replied. “If it’s okay, I’ll look around just the same. Where did you think you heard something?”

She flashed a smile, showing me a couple of front teeth that should have seen braces but hadn’t. Somehow the imperfection made her all the more stunning. “In the back,” she said. Barefoot, she stepped outside, onto the cobblestones. “That’s nice. Cool. Come, I’ll show you.”

She padded softly past me. I glanced at Terry Paulson, who indicated with a nod of his head that I should follow his wife. I did, happily, trying not to stare at the round ass swishing back and forth under the thin layer of silk.

She showed me the area where she thought she’d heard something, between the pool house and the tennis court. I stayed for a few minutes, waved the flashlight around. When the cops arrived, they took over, but they didn’t see anything either.

Finally, I had to get back to my patrol. The company had installed GPS units in all the cars, which had not only cut back on unauthorized excursions to Tijuana and Ocean Beach, but also allowed them to enforce a time constraint. If we spent more than fifteen minutes at any given address we had to account for it in writing. Before I left, I tried to find Terry Paulson, but he was in back with the cops. Instead, I found Sharon, or she found me as I was heading for the car.

“Mike,” she said.

“Oh good, there you are.” I had a business card in my hand already, and I held it out to her. “This is my card. I put my cell number on the back. Sometimes it’s quicker to just call me directly, rather than go through dispatch, because I’m on duty in the area most nights.”

“Thank you, Mike. Thanks for coming over, too. I feel so much better.”

“Like you said, it was probably nothing, maybe an animal passing through. But you don’t want to take chances. If you hear or see anything unusual, just call.”

She took the card, letting her hand linger on my fingers for a long moment. She held my gaze with hers for a few seconds, showed me those two crooked teeth again, then turned and walked back into the house. Once again, memory fled. It wasn’t until the huge front door closed that I remembered I was leaving.

I heard from her two nights later. My cell phone rang and when I answered it there was a voice on the other end, barely audible, as if calling from somewhere in outer space.

“Mike?”

“Yeah?” It took a few seconds to place her. “Mrs. Paulson, is that you? Is everything okay?”

“No. Yes. I mean … Mike, can you meet me?”

The car’s digital clock blasted 11:18 at me. “I can be there in five minutes. Should I call the police?”

“No,” she said, more firmly this time. “Not here, Mike. You know the cross?”

“On the hill?”

“That’s right.”

“Sure.”

“Meet me there,” she said. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes,” I echoed, but she was already gone.