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“That freak! Jason Twilly.”
“Slow down. Back up. What do you mean ‘stalking’?”
I jerked the wheel left at the intersection of Townsend and Seventh instead of taking a right toward my former apartment on the Hill. It felt like I was swimming against the tide.
Yuki’s voice was shrill. “Stalking as in haunting me, dogging me. Ten minutes ago, he was sitting in the passenger seat of my car!”
“He broke into your car?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember if I locked it. I was carrying like a fifty-pound —”
The signal cut out. I hit speed dial, got Yuki’s outgoing message, disconnected, tried again.
“Fifty-pound what?” I called into the crackle.
“Fifty-pound box of files. I just got my key into the door lock when this arm reached over from inside the car and pushed the door open for me.”
“Before this car thing, did you tell him to leave you alone?”
“Yes! Did I ever!”
“Okay, then, it’s illegal for him to be inside your car,” I said, negotiating a lane switch, passing a rental car whose driver leaned on the horn and gave me the finger.
“You ready to swear out a complaint?” I asked Yuki. “He’s going to go public. So think about it.”
There was a moment of static-filled silence as Yuki considered the media ramifications.
“This guy is sick, Linds. He talks to me like I’m a character in his book. He’s twisted and maybe dangerous. He got into my car. What’s next?”
“Okay,” I said, pulling over to the curb. I took out my notepad and wrote down what Yuki had told me.
“You’re going to have to go to civil court in the morning, get a restraining order,” I said. “But effective now you’ve filed a police report.”
“Tomorrow morning? Lindsay, Jason Twilly wants to scare the hell out of me — and he’s doing it!”
Chapter 81
WHEN I REACHED Twilly’s suite on the fifth floor of the St. Regis Hotel, he was waiting in the doorway, a cockeyed grin on his face, his hair disheveled and shirt untucked and unbuttoned. The fire exit door slammed at the end of the softly lit hallway. My guess, it was Twilly’s paid-by-the-hour guest leaving in a hurry.
I showed Twilly my badge, and he fastened his eyes on the V of my tank top, skimmed the cut of my jeans, then took a slow return trip back to my face. Meanwhile, I was taking in his amazing room — leather-textured walls, a window seat with a great view of San Francisco. Very impressive.
“Working undercover, Sergeant?” Twilly leered.
He’d scared Yuki with this act, but it enraged me.
“I don’t think we’ve met, Mr. Twilly. I’m Sergeant Lindsay Boxer,” I said, putting out my hand. He grasped it in a handshake and I pulled his arm forward, twisted it high up behind his back, and pushed his face against the wall.
“Give me your other hand,” I said. “Do it, now.”
“You’re joking.”
“Other hand.”
I cuffed him, frisked him fast and rough, saying, “You’re under arrest for criminal trespass. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.” When I finished informing Twilly of his rights, I
answered his question: “What’s this about?”
“It’s about your illegal entry into ADA Yuki Castellano’s car. She’s filed a police report, and by noon tomorrow she’ll have a restraining order against you.”
