The Fallen

I wondered what to do. Jordan would have at least one set of eyes on the road out front.

I could call for backup, but the arrival of police cruisers would only start a mass exodus.

I could go knock on the door and ask to come in. Whoever answered would be within his or her rights to tell me this was private property and to beat it. But they might let me in, and by law I would be able to observe everything and anything in plain sight.

Or I could enter the premises based on my reasonable suspicion that a crime was taking place inside and be prepared to argue probable cause later. People would scatter. I could chase one down or surprise somebody and make an arrest or two. But unless I saw the money change hands or could find a witness who had seen such a thing, there would be no case for court. I would have to justify my moving surveillance of Jordan Sheehan. As an officer acting alone, I’d be placing myself at risk. And I’d be setting up my department for lawsuits for illegal search and unlawful arrest.

Or I could come back some other time with paper and a half dozen plainclothes officers and we could serve the warrant and toss the place. But I wasn’t likely to get a warrant based on what I’d seen — a suspected madam who was licensed by the county to do business as a financial adviser, a city councilman and his aide, a woman with a tray of drinks, two naked people kissing in a whirlpool. Does that sound like a brothel to you?

I unclipped my cell phone and called Captain Villas. He was not pleased to be interrupted at home but I explained to him, quietly, what I had done and what I was now watching from the bushes behind the mansion in Eden Heights. He said he’d inform the chief and I should keep it to myself for now. He asked me if I was alone and told me to be careful.

I stood and worked my way back around for a front view of the house. With my pocketknife I trimmed back some branches of wild buckwheat, then got out my notebook and sat down again. It was nine-thirty. A white VW Cabriolet rolled into the circular driveway and parked behind Rood’s roadster. A redhead climbed out and my heartbeat spiked. She had Gina’s bouncy red hair and fast walk and for a split second I thought I was seeing her. But her skin was darker, and she was fuller-figured than my wife. As she climbed the steps, Chupa Junior opened the front door. He was dressed in a shiny blue suit. They talked as he let her in. He scanned the street and shut the door. With the binoculars I could see the stylish grate-covered window in the handsome front door. Chupa’s office window, I thought. I made notes and wished I had a silent camera with a long telephoto and a slow shutter.

I made more notes as the girls and johns came and went. Between nine-thirty and two in the morning, six men arrived alone and eight left. Four more Squeaky Clean girls came, parked, and entered the house. Seven left.

Among them were Carrie Ann Martier and one of her two friends who had cooperated to make Garrett’s sex video. Chet Fellowes pulled up in a shiny SUV and climbed the steps around midnight. He looked nervous and hungry. Trey Vinson arrived at 1:00 A.M. and was gone by 1:25. I was surprised he had the courage to be here after what we had shown him earlier that day. By 2:30 there were only two cars left in the drive. Jordan Sheehan padded outside with her high heels in one hand, got into her blue Porsche, and drove away. A few minutes later the lights inside went out one by one, and Chupa walked from the house. He locked the door and lumbered across the driveway to a black BMW. The car dipped with his weight. The bass from his trunk woofer thumped into the night and his car disappeared downhill in a swirl of white smoke.

I took my time heading down the hill and out of Eden Heights. I made my way to La Jolla thinking about what I ’d seen. I didn’t understand why such beautiful young women would sell sex to men who were married and not very attractive. It wasn’t that the girls were starving or destitute or couldn’t do anything else for a living. Could you really just put your mind somewhere else and pretend it wasn’t happening? I parked short of Jordan’s pretty home, walked briskly up the sidewalk to her driveway, and pulled the tape off her taillight.