Mission Canyon Read Free Page B

me.’’
    The day after the crash, an anonymous caller phoned the police and identified Franklin Brand as the driver. The police asked the caller how she knew it was Brand at the wheel. Her answer, recorded verbatim in the police report, was succinct. ‘‘Because I was with him. I had his cock in my mouth at the time.’’
    She told the cops where to find Brand’s car, abandoned and burned in the hills behind the city. But Brand had a passport and he had money offshore, plenty of it. Millions. By the time a judge issued an arrest warrant, he was in Mexico City. The trail died there.
    What in hell he was doing here, tonight, in downtown Santa Barbara, I didn’t know. But I could not let him get away.
    Down the street, I saw a blue shirt swinging through the crowd. My breath caught. His hair was brown and he had on khakis, was the right height. I closed on him.
    I remembered seeing Brand’s photo in the paper after the accident: pasty skin and budding jowls, a bored look. Ahead, the blue shirt turned, and I caught a glimpse of the man’s face, stained red by a neon sign. I slowed, squinting at him.
    A feeling like icy water dripped through me. The eyes, the cast of the mouth. It was him.
    I hesitated. Should I perform a citizen’s arrest? Yell, Stop, in the name of love ? He picked up his pace.
    Call the police, that’s what you do. I dug in my purse for my cell phone.
    Two college students stumbled out of a Mexican restaurant, singing drunkenly. They lumbered into me and knocked the phone from my hand.
    ‘‘Oh, man,’’ said one, staggering. ‘‘Dude, look what you did.’’
    I bent down, grabbing the phone before they accidentally kicked it. Standing back up, I looked around. Where was Brand?
    Ten feet ahead—there, blue shirt standing at the curb. He raised his arm and, with that universal urban gesture, hailed a taxi. A Yellow Cab swung to a stop. I couldn’t believe it. In Santa Barbara, taxis come along as often as Santa’s sleigh.
    He was grasping the door handle when I dove on him.
    I hit him from behind, hard enough to knock his feet off the curb. We bounced off the taxi and tumbled to the sidewalk. My wig fell over my eyes. I heard his breath blow out, felt my knee hit the concrete, heard the sequins on my dress clicking as I scrambled on top of him.
    He squirmed underneath me.
    I yelled, ‘‘Call the cops.’’
    I pushed the wig out of my eyes. Beneath me the man stared back.
    His hands were up, gesturing surrender. ‘‘Take it— take the damn cab. I’ll get another one.’’
    He was at least fifty-five, with a pencil mustache and aristocratic Latin looks. His wig was just as crooked as mine. It wasn’t Brand, not by a mile.
    Mortified, I climbed off him, apologizing, helping him up. He fumbled with his toupee. I brushed dust from his shirt.
    ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ I said for the fifteenth time.
    He waved me off. ‘‘Go away.’’
    Teeth clenched, I started down the street again. My knee was bleeding. I limped along, looking at the crowd, trying to ignore their stares.
    After ten minutes, I stopped. I had lost him.

2
    When I jogged back to the art museum two cops were talking to Jesse, and they didn’t look happy. He was out of his car, sitting in the wheelchair. The sky had softened to velvet blue. The security guards watched from the museum steps, and the minivan driver had backed his vehicle off the sidewalk. The usual forces had been at work. The wheelchair cleared space the way a magnet repels polarized metal. It also worked as a mute button, shutting people right up. But the resulting hush was never empty; pity and discomfort lingered in the twilight.
    And Jesse, typically, had seized the silence. Apparently he had defused the other driver and convinced the guards to back off. The police officers stood with arms crossed, listening to him. Disability as stun gun: knock people off guard, gain the upper hand. He was a born litigator.
    I heard him say, ‘‘Yeah, he pulled out