The Mourning Mail (final release candidate #7)

Chapter 30

I'd repeatedly seen those three vehicles—the Transit van, the Dodge, and the Mustang—when I was going into or coming out of a building or public area. That told me someone was spending significant time and effort watching me.

But the day after I'd learned Gary Gilbert had unintentionally exposed me as a witness, circumstances removed any doubt. Someone had focused their attention on my affairs and was upping the ante. The hints I was getting were more frequent, and it was becoming apparent I was supposed to know they were there.

I was driving from my apartment to see an old colleague. I kept catching fleeting, sometimes partial, glimpses of the same dark-colored Dodge sedan in my side and rearview mirrors. To confirm my suspicions, I circled entirely around the block in downtown traffic. Once I got ahead of it enough to see the entire nose of the car in the mirror, I recognized that distinctive front end completing the loop behind me. A dark-colored Dodge Charger hung close, a thin line of white LED lights trimming the parking light and turn signal clusters on each side of the grille.

That vehicle seemed to me an odd choice for tailing someone. Marci owned one, so I knew Chargers came from the factory with that lighting configuration. I suspected they'd selected the car for its performance, not considering what it looked like with its parking lights on. Or perhaps their purpose was intimidation—again, wanting me to know they were there. Don't panic, I thought to myself. Whoever they are, they're hanging back, just following me. That's much better than the more aggressive "out to get me." Still, my heart was beating faster, and my nervous system was on high alert.

I had a little time because I was running early for a lunch meeting with Doug Stein. He'd called me on Tuesday to let me know he'd compiled a list of good stories with legs that the paper wasn't pursuing. He thought those might serve as great writing projects for me.

The high-end leather goods shop where I'd bought my last purse was in the middle of the block on Eighth Avenue. It's a one-way street downtown, about five miles from my apartment. It had angle parking at the front of the store and, importantly for my purposes, a rear exit to the back alley. I hoped whoever was pursuing me was one of the Neanderthals Brian described looking for him. Someone like that would stand out shopping for women's accessories and might be less likely to follow me into the store on foot. I turned onto Eighth and parked in front of the retail outlet. I then cut through it and out to the alley in the back.

As the clandestine nature of what I was doing hit me, I felt an adrenaline rush. I had been in situations like this before during my investigative career but as the pursuer, not the pursued. The difference was visceral and chilling.

Circling back, I walked up Eighth and stopped half a block behind where I'd parked. Hidden among the cluster of people waiting for the light to change, I scanned the street for that Dodge.

And there it was, parallel-parked across the street from where I'd left my Toyota. The Dodge was halfway between me and my car; its engine was still running, and its brake lights lit showing the driver was inside. I ducked into a store entrance and used my cell phone to snap a shot of the Dodge's license plate, using the brick in the storefront to steady my shaking hands.

Then I turned and walked in the opposite direction, checking to ensure no one was following. A few blocks away, I requested an Uber through the app and called Doug to let him know I was running late but would be there. As the Uber arrived, I had a moment of trepidation as I realized I couldn't be sure the Uber driver wasn't playing for the other team. The line between worry and paranoia was becoming blurred. I opted to take my chances this time but mentally noted that I would need more trustworthy transportation in the future. I calmed myself with the thought that Uber records transactions in the cloud, and if anything happened to me, the police could track down the driver. That the world would still turn on its axis after my demise wasn't as comforting as I'd hoped it would be.