Chapter Twenty-Three
As she waited for Saturday to arrive Isobel spent her time, other than entertaining Maria, working on completing her painting of the Del. It absorbed her, keeping her from dwelling on Lance’s duplicity. She chose to experiment with an avant-garde style and Maria had declared it to be a masterpiece of modern art. Isobel feared it derivative and kitsch and said it needed more work but, at Maria’s insistence, put aside her brushes on Friday evening and dropped the canvas off at the gallery with Juanita. From there she joined Maria and Arnie at the Del, dining al fresco beside the ocean. Arnie had booked a cottage at the hotel for the weekend, rather than take up Isobel’s offer that they stay in the house while she visited LA.
Lance called during dinner, but she declined to answer, saying “Just Ryan” as Maria looked on with eyebrows raised. He followed with a text message, asking if she had any free anytime over the weekend. She went off to the ladies’ room and locked herself in a stall, composing several responses and deleting each one in turn, jabbing her thumbs on the keyboard as if each letter were one of Lance’s eyes. Forsaking perfection, she settled on a minimal response: “Am in LA and off out with Maria all next week.” She watched as the blue bar shot across the screen before turning off her phone, wishing she could do the same to her mind as she zipped it out of sight in her bag.
On Saturday morning as she packed the last of her things in a weekend bag several heavy knocks at the door startled her. They were uncompromising knocks, new ones resounding through the tranquillity with every second she stayed away from the door. Still she paused. It could not be Ryan; she had spoken to him less than an hour earlier, and Maria and Juanita both had keys and the freedom to come and go as they pleased. It could only be one man, and Isobel steeled herself as she strode to the door.
Her unexpected visitor duly confirmed her expectation of imminent confrontation, though with someone other than she imagined.
“Mrs. Roberts, may we come in?” said the taller of the two men, his colleague leaning against a porch post with his arms folded. Detective Dan Burnham stood opposite her.
“I’m sorry?” said Isobel, pulling the door half closed as the memories of the night of her grilling flooded back. “I don’t understand.”
“We’d like to speak with you. May we come in?”
Isobel stared back in confusion.
“It’s not a question, Mrs. Roberts. We need to speak with you.”
“Do you have some ID,” said Isobel, struggling to regain composure.
“You know who we are.”
“I’m not sure I do,” she replied, fear and wild imagination confusing her thoughts. She folded her arms across her chest. “I would like to see some ID. Please.”
“I can take you to the station, if you prefer to do things the hard way.”
“All I’m asking is to know who I’m letting into my house.” Burnham sighed and pulled a black wallet from inside his jacket. He let it drop open. The letters “FBI” stared back at her. “Special Agent Dan Burnham. And this is Lieutenant Stacey of the San Diego PD. That good enough for you?”
“FBI?” said Isobel, now even more bewildered.
Burnham pressed his palm against the door. “Inside, please.” Isobel stepped back and let them pass. “You home alone?” said Burnham.
“Yes.”
“You don’t mind if we check that, do you?”
Isobel folded her arms and said nothing, as Stacey scouted around, moving from one room to another.
“The woman staying with you, she’s not here?”
Isobel now knew this was no impulse call. “Am I being investigated or something?”
“We’re not here about you or your houseguest.” Burnham threw a glance at her suitcase by the sofa. “You planning to go somewhere?”
“Just sightseeing. Back tomorrow.”
“Sightseeing in LA?”
“Please, can you tell me what this is about?”
“We’d like your help, Mrs. Roberts, your cooperation.”
“And this is how you go about it?”
“Asking nicely seldom cuts it in our line of work.”
“And who or what are you investigating?”
“We have an interest in some people in LA. People you don’t know, I’m sure, but your boyfriend does. People we like to keep tabs on, to know what they’re doing.”
“Has Ryan done something wrong?”
“Probably. But nothing that would interest the FBI, that we know about anyway.”
“So why are you talking to me? Why aren’t you talking to Ryan?”
Burnham snorted. “Listen, here’s the deal. All we want you to do is to let us know when Ryan is in San Diego County. That’s all. Just a call every time he’s coming down to San Diego. Everything else we can take care of.”
“So you want me to inform you about Ryan’s movements?”
Lieutenant Stacey now spoke for the first time, his tone more conciliatory than his colleague’s. “What you need to understand, ma’am, is that what we’re asking you to do is for Mr. Stamp’s own good. Like Dan said, he’s committed no offense. We’d just like to know when he’s on our patch.”
“I can’t spy on Ryan, he’d never forgive me.”
“Maybe that is something you want to think over when you’re sightseeing this weekend.” Burnham went over to the suitcase and picked it up.
“I’m sorry, what are you doing?”
He ignored her and, after a quick root around inside, pulled her passport from a pocket.
“You’ve inspected that before,” she said.
Burnham waved the passport under her nose. “This visa can be revoked at any time. In my office I have a document with your signature at the bottom. A confession to bringing illegal substances into the US.” He pulled out a card. “If you’re sensible you’ll call this number when Mr. Stamp visits you here. And if you won’t help us help your boyfriend,” he said, jabbing the passport into her chest, “then maybe you want to have a think about what’s good for you.” He turned to Stacey. “I think we’re done here.” He handed Isobel her passport. “Enjoy yourself in LA.”