Actually, I was glad to be rid of my cell phone.
It felt good to be cut off from everyone in the world — except Melinda.
Of course, I did speak in person to some of those in her life. For example, I used one of the hours when Melinda was in the Pilates studio to visit her dry cleaner, who occupied the same strip mall. I initiated conversation with him by pretending to be one of her neighbors. He agreed with me that she was always very friendly. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get details from him about the particulars of her cleaning and laundering needs (such as whether he’d ever been asked to work out unusual or incriminating stains on either her outer- or underwear). Believe me, I took the job seriously. I was thorough. Melinda’s French teacher at Fullerton College, a sixtyish woman called Madame Juliette, who I’m not sure believed that I was a visiting professor from Cypress College, told me only that Melinda had exceptional pronunciation and above-average vocabulary skills. When I met Melinda’s supervisor at the children’s hospital in Orange, a small man in a wheelchair, I claimed to be a reporter for the O.C. Weekly who wrote the “Volunteers Among Us” column. He told me Melinda had a wonderful way with children and lamented the fact that she and Jeffrey were childless. The receptionist at the Anaheim Hills Tennis Club told me, after I’d slipped her a series of twenty-dollar bills, that half of their married members cheated on their spouses, often hooking up with their mixed-doubles partners, but that Melinda was in the faithful 50 percent, a paragon of marital constancy.
The woman was an angel.
Why would I ever want to murder her?
But wait, I’m getting a little ahead of myself.
Approximately three and a half weeks into my surveillance, Jeffrey called me at my apartment at 2:30 in the morning. The lateness of the hour was not as distressing as it might seem; after all, I was only ever home between midnight and 5 a.m., otherwise always shadowing Melinda, and so the middle of the night was the only time I was available for communication.
“You’re a hard man to reach, Carl.”
This was the first I’d spoken to Jeffrey since Carl’s Jr. Now, in the background of his call, I could make out the sound of light traffic, as if he were phoning from the side of a freeway. “I’ve been on the job, Jeffrey.” My answering machine was empty so he obviously hadn’t tried that hard to reach me.
“Good man,” he said.
I liked being called that. “I’ve compiled copious notes about your wife’s every move these past few weeks,” I said. “That notebook you gave me is just about full. And I’m pleased to report that, to date, my observations indicate—”
“That’s fine, Carl,” he interrupted. “We’ll discuss your observations later. Now, I want you to just listen to me.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Tomorrow I want you to take the day off. Get a haircut, go to a movie, wash your car, whatever. Just stay away from Melinda. It’s critical that she not suspect she’s being watched.”
“Oh, I’ve been very careful about that, Jeffrey.” Or had I left more of a footprint that I thought? Maybe talking to a few of her neighbors the day before hadn’t been such a good idea.
Jeffrey continued: “Now get this part right, Carl. At 11 o’clock tomorrow night, not a moment later, not a moment sooner, I want you to park your car in front of my house. Bring your camera. I’ll see that the front door is unlocked and the silent alarm turned off. Just quietly walk in.”
“Now wait a minute,” I said. “I’m not so sure about breaking and entering and—”
Again, he cut me off. “It’s my goddamn house, Carl. You won’t be ‘breaking and entering’ because I’m inviting you to enter, understand?”
“Oh, right. But why?”
“Because tomorrow night the other man will be there, in bed with my wife.”
What other man? I thought. “How do you know, Jeffrey?”
“Trust me, I know.”
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?”
“Take a picture of them together. That’s all. Then get out. The master bedroom is at the back of the house.”
This was an ugly business. But it was a little exciting too. And while I still privately doubted that the Melinda I’d observed these past weeks was actually having an affair, the prospect of seeing her naked and in flagrante delicto (and photographing it!) held an undeniable appeal. I didn’t know if I wanted to be right or wrong about her. I’m sure you understand.
“Any questions, Carl?”
“Where will you be during all this, Jeffrey?”
“Don’t worry about me, buddy. I’ll be all right.”
I hadn’t been worried about him.
“I’ll call you at this same time tomorrow,” he said.
I slept little that night and the following day passed at a snail’s pace despite the fact that I followed Jeffrey’s advice by getting a haircut, washing my car, and seeing a matinee. After eating a hamburger for dinner at the Carl’s Jr. where Jeffrey and I had breakfasted (call me sentimental), I returned to my apartment to watch Jeopardy, Wheel of Fortune, and three CBS sitcoms. I left my apartment only after the fireworks ended at the park. I cruised up and down Harbor Boulevard for forty minutes, casually observing the tourists on the sidewalks outside the motels. They were all shapes and sizes, though I’d guess they tended a little more toward fat than the national average. At 10:30 I turned off Harbor and headed east on Katella Avenue past the Angels’ stadium to the 57 freeway, then I took the 91 to Imperial Highway and headed up Anaheim Hills Road almost as far as the golf club. I parked in front of the darkened house at 10:56 p.m. (I know the exact time because I jotted it on the last page of my reporter’s notebook.)
At 11 p.m. I pushed open the front door, which was ajar, and went inside.
Darkness. Silence.
There seems little point in my describing the interior of the house except to say it was what you’d expect in such a neighborhood — stylish and neat. I didn’t take it in much beyond that. Interior decorating is not my thing. Besides, my mind was elsewhere. I flipped on my flashlight. The hallway that led to the back of the house was lined with framed photographs of Melinda and Jeffrey smiling together in various locations, such as Japan, France, Florida. I turned a corner and saw the closed double doors that led to the master bedroom. Still, no sound from within. Surely, no sex. Melinda was likely just sleeping inside, alone. That’a girl, I thought, only half-disappointed by what I was not going to get to see.
Of course, I still had to open the bedroom door and look inside just to be sure. It was my job.
I wish I hadn’t done it.
By the light of a reading lamp burning beside the king-size bed, I saw Melinda sprawled on the rumpled bedspread, her vacant eyes open and askew. Most of her clothes had been ripped off her body. I knew right away she was dead. Poor Melinda. There were red marks at her throat and blood on one of her swollen lips. She’d been knocked around and then strangled and then, you know... It was ugly. Even twenty-three years of working security at the park doesn’t prepare you for something like this. At first, I didn’t know what to do. Had Jeffrey been right about a lover in the house, a lover turned murderer? Had I arrived only a few minutes too late to save poor Melinda? Or might the killer still be hiding in the house? I turned and looked around the room.