Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007
- Автор: Baldwin Barry, Campbell Melodie
- Год: 2007
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: ISSN:0002-5224
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007». Краткое содержание книги:
Perhaps.
I went back down the driveway to my SUV. Looked at the flyer.
“Thanks again, Tyler. Can always count on you.”
And I went into the SUV, closed the door, and said, “But don’t tell Roscoe I said so.”
Home, getting ready for my thirty-six hours. A small knapsack, digital camera, telephoto lens, cassette recorder, notebook, spotting scope, and iPod. Looked to Roscoe, scratched his head for good luck, tried to ignore the growing feeling in my gut, like a little field mouse, busily chewing away on my innards. I was getting into something, and this something I couldn’t quite figure out.
Then my phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Karen? Pam Dawkins here. How are you?”
“Doing fine,” I said, scratching Roscoe’s head one more time. “What’s up?”
“Can I come over for a quick visit?”
I looked at my small collection of gear. “Pam, I’m about to—”
“Karen,” she said firmly, “it’s about Stephanie. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
So ten minutes later, I was in my driveway, waiting, when Pam drove up in a battered Toyota pickup truck, colored black except for where rust had chewed up on it some. She stepped out and I said, “Pam, I really don’t have that much time.”
“Whatever time you have, you’ll have some for me,” she said, leaning back against the truck cab. “Stephanie did her magic work on the Internet this afternoon. Found some things out. Told me what she learned.”
“And why did you have to come here to tell me? Why couldn’t you have called?”
She frowned. “Because Stephanie told me it’d be better to tell you face to face. And not over the phone. So here I am. And none too pleased that I volunteered my daughter this morning.”
“Pam, I’m sorry if I—”
She held up her hand. “Nope, my deal, not yours. And I’m sure nothing will come of it. But look, can you give me ten minutes so I can tell you the ins and outs of that farmhouse’s owner?”
I checked my watch. Tight but manageable. “Ten minutes will be fine. Want to go in the house?”
“No,” she said. “Let’s do it here.”
Which is what we did.
So, fifteen minutes after Pam arrived, I was alone again, not counting Roscoe, of course, and back into my house I went. There, amidst my pile of gear, was the special encrypted cell phone that Agent Carr had given to me. I picked it up, made sure it was on, and then dialed the number on his business card.
I also wrote the number down on a pad of paper.
I put the phone up to my ear, listened. One ring and then it was answered, “Carr.”
“Karen Dunbar here.”
“You’re early, and you’re not where you’re supposed to be,” he said, his voice frosty. “What the hell do you mean by calling? I said you were only to call if there was a sighting.”
“You certainly did,” I replied. “But I wanted to make sure the phone worked. I didn’t want to be in the middle of the woods at two A.M. and have a dead phone in my hand if somebody showed up. You see, what you get for when you pay me, Agent Carr, is my professionalism. And my professionalism demanded that I check the phone before I depart. Is that all right, Agent Carr?”
His reply was crisp and to the point. “Call again only if there’s a sighting.”
I said, “You got it,” but by that time, I was speaking into an empty phone.
No matter.
I left shortly with my gear, and left the special phone behind as well.
Surveillances.
In moderate-sized towns and cities, it takes guile and patience, and finding a nice place to hang out for a while. Preferably a parking lot, a busy street, or someplace where a car parked all day doesn’t bring much attention.
Sure. Try that on some of the roads around my town and surrounding towns, and after a half hour or so, somebody will stop by — probably somebody you know — and say, “Need some help?” And within an hour, a bunch of people will know that Karen’s on the job, and within another hour, the whole town will know what you’re doing.
So my best friend in doing surveillances is the U.S. Geological Survey. They make wonderful topographical maps marking, among other things, roads and elevations, and with a bit of work, you can find a nice quiet spot that gives you a view of what you’re looking at.
Which worked well for me this Friday afternoon. I backed my SUV up an abandoned logging road — and thanked Detroit again for four-wheel drive — and did a small hike up to a hill that overlooked Dutton Hill Road. There was a nice large maple tree and some low brush that offered some concealment, and within twenty minutes or so, I was set. I had a low-slung and comfortable camp chair that I settled into, and with my spotting scope at a sweet angle, I had no problem keeping an eye on at least half of the house. Maybe the mysterious he or she would approach the house from the rear; if so, there wasn’t much I could do about that, but at least I had the road, the driveway, the front and part of the side yard in clear view. Among my collection of stuff was a down sleeping bag, which I unrolled for later use. I had water, instant coffee, some Coke in a beverage cooler, and some freeze-dried food to cook up on a small gas stove. For a bathroom I had the woods and a well-placed log. It wouldn’t be perfect, it wouldn’t be luxurious, but it would work.
Probably not as exciting as working a surveillance in midtown Manhattan, but I was outdoors and I was on my own, which situated me fine. Years earlier I had been a newspaper reporter for the state’s largest newspaper, and a pretty good one at that. I found I enjoyed poking around and finding things out, and after a few years suffering under some editors, I decided to go on my own. About ninety percent of what I do now — records research, tracking people down, so forth and so on — is identical to newspaper work. But for the most part, I get to choose my clients and my own schedule, and that is nice indeed.
Surveillance.
Sounds so mysterious, so sexy.
So here’s what it’s like.
Sitting and watching. Taking a picture of the house. Listening to music on your iPod. Watching some birds fly by, deciding they’re crows: They’re always crows. Looking through the spotting scope. Feeling your heart race just a bit when a vehicle approaches, the letdown when it passes the house. Yawning. Scratching. Tiring of music, trying something else. Listening to a book-on-tape, which really isn’t on tape anymore, since you’re using an iPod, but it’s a book about FDR that sounded interesting. Drinking water. Snacking on pretzels. Pulling the sleeping bag up over your legs and lap as it gets cold. Watching again as another vehicle approaches. Another bust. Drinking a cup of coffee from a Thermos, knowing you’ll have to make a fresh batch later on. Another photo of the house. Racing to the nearby log to do your business, coming back to find no lights on at the target house. Good. Listening to nature for a while. Yawning. Scratching.
It’s now dark, as the stars and at least one planet slowly come into visibility. An owl hoots out there, hunting, and I think to myself, well, I’m here alone, unarmed. Maybe I should have packed the Ruger. It’s too late now. I turn back to the spotting scope. Nothing. I murmur a few words into the cassette recorder, tracking the time and place of vehicles that went by. I figure on another cup of coffee in an hour, another photo of the house. It would be easier if I’d been born a pervert, for they get off on being voyeurs, but most times, surveillances are boring as hell. A vehicle approaches, my heart rate increases. Another bust. I check the time, pick up the digital camera, and take one more photo of the empty house.
Two hours have passed.
Thirty-four to go.
And so, at hour thirty-six and one minute, I stumbled back to the SUV, carrying my gear, stumbling, yawning, and feeling dirty and worn and used. No one showed up, no one at all, and if I wasn’t so tired, I suppose I could have thought it through some, but no, it was time to go home.