T Is for Trespass

sunlight reflecting off the glass. She thought she discerned small irregular shadows on the driver’s side, but at this remove, she wasn’t sure what she was looking at. She turned away, debating whether to cross the street and take a closer look. Kinsey Millhone wouldn’t dare defy the court order, but Henry might be watching her. She couldn’t think why he would, but it was wiser to behave as though she didn’t suspect.
    She went into the house. The living room was empty, which meant that Tiny and Mr. Vronsky had gone down for their naps like good little boys. She picked up the telephone and dialed Henry’s number next door. After two rings, he picked up, saying, “Hello?”
    She lowered the handset to the cradle without saying a word. If it wasn’t Henry, then who? The answer was obvious.
    She went out the front door and down the steps. She crossed the street at an angle and walked directly to his car. This had to stop. She couldn’t have people spying on her. The rage rising in her throat threatened to choke her. She could see the door locks were up. She yanked open the driver’s-side door.
    No one.
    Solana took in a deep breath, her senses as keen as a wolf’s. Kinsey’s scent hung in the air—a light, but distinct mix of shampoo and soap. Solana put her hand on the seat, which she could have sworn was still warm. She’d missed her by moments and her disappointment was so sharp she nearly wailed aloud. She had to get herself under control. She closed her eyes, thinking, Calm. Be calm. No matter what was going on, she was still in charge. So what if Kinsey’d watched her getting out of her car? What difference did that make?
    None.
    Unless she was armed with a camera taking photographs. Solana put a hand to her throat. Suppose she’d seen the photo of the Other at the nursing home and wanted a recent photo of her to compare? She couldn’t take that chance.
    Solana went back to the house and locked the front door behind her as though at any minute the authorities would arrive. She went into the kitchen and retrieved a spray bottle of cleanser from under the sink. She wet a sponge, squeezed out the moisture, and then saturated it with the cleaning solution. She began to wipe the place down, erasing all traces of herself, working her way through the house room by room. She’d catch the boys’ rooms later. In the meantime, she’d have to pack. She’d have to get Tiny’s things together. She’d have to get the car filled with gas. On the way out of town, she’d stop and pick up the paintings and take them to a gallery somewhere else. She’d be thorough this time, making no mistakes.

32
    According to the restraining order, within twenty-four hours of my being served, I was required to turn in or sell any guns or firearms in my possession. I’m not a nut about guns, but the two I have I’m quite fond of. One is a 9mm Heckler & Koch P7M13; the other, a little Davis .32 caliber semiautomatic. Often I carry one of them, unloaded, in a briefcase in the backseat of my car. I keep ammunition close by as well; otherwise, what’s the point? My favorite gun of all time, the no-brand .32 caliber semiautomatic my aunt Gin had given me, was destroyed in a bomb blast some years before.
    Reluctantly, I removed both guns from my office safe. I had two choices in dispossessing myself of my weapons. I could go to the police station and surrender them, watching as they were booked in and I was given a receipt. The problem with this option was that I knew a number of STPD officers and detectives, Cheney Phillips being one. The notion of running into one of them was more than I could bear. I chose instead to hand the guns over to a licensed gun dealer on upper State Street, who completed items 5 and 6 of the form I’d been given, which I then returned to the court clerk for filing. My guns would be returned to me only by judge’s orders.
    On the way back to town I stopped at the courthouse and filed a response in opposition to Solana’s temporary restraining order, on the grounds that her assertions were factually untrue. Then I stopped by Lonnie Kingman’s office and had a chat with him. He agreed to go with me for my court date on Tuesday of the following week. “I don’t guess I have to remind you that if you violate the terms of the TRO, you can have your license yanked.”
    “I have no intention of violating the court order. How else can I earn a living? I’ve done too many shit jobs in life. I’m