“LA Times.”
I had taken my leave of the Adams’ and was at the docks around sundown. Pretending to be tired, I set down my bag and dialed the paper.
“I think I’m being followed. My name is Eliza Bailey. I’m at the Queen Andy’s Boatyard on…” I scanned for an intersection close enough to read the street signs. “East Island Boulevard.”
A lime green speedboat gunned its engines, lurching forward, yards at a time, between two yachts. The sunny pacific quelled and splashed between them.
“This is the LA Times.”
“Still? Oh good. I thought you might know who it is that’s following me.”
There was a pause. “Unlikely, miss.”
“Are you chewing gum?” I pushed my sunglasses up and feigned confusion, looking around.
After a longer pause, the man on the end of the line raised his voice. “Are you in danger?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. She hasn’t done anything yet.”
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“Then why’d you call us?”
“Well, can’t you check if there’s a warrant out for somebody’s arrest, fitting the description?”
“On the loose? I’ll check. But you should buy the newspaper and look at it yourself.”
“I only read the Times. Anyway she’s average height, in khakis and an open trench-coat. Ring a bell?”
“What’s she look like?”
“Long black hair, sharp nose,.” I shrugged.
“That doesn’t narrow it down much.”
“Can you take a message anyway?”
“Sure, what the hell. But I’m telling you, it could be anyone.”
“No, hang on.” I let the phone fall to my side.
“What was that? You cut out.”
The woman was laboring to button her trench coat with one hand. The other sleeve was empty.
“I think she’s wearing a cast.”
“What?”
“I think her arm is broken.”
“Elijah—?”
“Eliza Bailey—Eliza with a Z. I’m staying at the Gardenia. Call me at this number.”
“Bailey. What does that remind me of?”
“No idea. Can you call me?”
“Fine. If anything shows.”
“Thanks.”
I picked up my suitcase and looked at the woman.
She gave no indication that she noticed. Instead, she stood erect by the railing, and let the wind catch her hair.
Fine. If she followed me, she followed me.