Читать книгу Storm Runners - Jefferson Parker - Страница 17

The first For Rent sign he saw in Fallbrook was for a guest cottage. The main house was owned and occupied by the Mastersons and their young son and daughter. The Mastersons were early twenties, trim and polite. She was pregnant in a big way. They were willing to rent out the cottage then and there, so long as Stromsoe would sign a standard agreement and pay in advance a refundable damage deposit. The rent wasn’t high and the guest cottage was tucked back on the acreage with nice views across the Santa Margarita River Valley. A grove of tangerine trees lined the little dirt road leading to it. Bright purple bougainvillea covered one wall of the cottage and continued up the roof. It had an air conditioner, satellite TV, even a garage.

Within forty minutes of driving up, Stromsoe had written a check for first and last month’s rent and deposit, and collected a house key and an automatic garage-door opener.

Mrs. Masterson handed him a heavy bag full of avocados and said welcome to Fallbrook and God bless you. Included in the bag was last week’s worship program for the United Methodist Church.

Frankie called him around noon and asked him over for lunch before their drive south to the studio.

‘I just moved to Fallbrook,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘The butterflies sold me. And I’m minutes away if you need me.’

She was silent for a beat. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘What are the wooden towers for?’ he asked when the lunch was almost over.

‘The one in the picture?’

‘The ones in the Bonsall barn.’

Frankie set her fork on her plate. Her expression went cool. ‘For meteorological instruments,’ she said. ‘I study weather. How do you know about them?’

Stromsoe explained waiting for the idling car and seeing nothing until Frankie came blasting out of the dark in her Mustang.

‘So, Mr. Stromsoe – are you a bodyguard or a snoop, or a little of both?’

‘You’re being stalked. I hear a vehicle idling near your house. Half an hour later, you leave your home on a code red. What would you have done?’

‘Followed me.’

Stromsoe nodded. ‘Who’s Ted?’

Stromsoe tracked the emotions as they marched across her face – embarrassment, then irritation, then confusion, then control.

‘Came right up and listened in, did you?’

‘Yep.’

‘I don’t like your attitude right now.’

‘It comes from thirteen years of being a cop.’

‘But you’re a private detective now. You have to act polite and charming.’ She smiled. It reversed the stern lines of her face and Stromsoe remembered a time when he actually had been polite and maybe even a little charming.

‘Ted’s my uncle,’ said Frankie. ‘He’s a retired NOAA guy. That’s National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration. They study climate and report weather.’

‘I apologize for following you. I was slightly worried.’

‘I’m glad you were worried. That’s why I pay you. You were curious too.’

He nodded.

‘The towers are made of redwood and finished with a weather seal,’ she said. ‘They’re twenty-two feet high, and we anchor the legs in concrete on-site.’

‘Where do you put them?’

‘Mostly around the Bonsall property.’

‘You sit on the platforms to escape from yourself?’

She smiled and colored. ‘No. I told your boss the property was a place I went to be alone, because I didn’t want him asking the same questions you’re asking now.’

‘Who cares if you study weather?’ asked Stromsoe.

‘I was a lot more relaxed about it until I saw that guy on my fenced, posted property, inspecting one of my towers.’

Stromsoe wondered about that. ‘Are there commercial applications to what you’re studying?’

‘Possibly,’ said Frankie Hatfield.

‘You think the stalker is a competitor?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

Frankie explained the value of weather prediction. Its applications were endless – agriculture, water and energy allocation, public safety and security, transportation, development – you name it. When you studied climate you had long-term charts to go on, she said, and generalities became apparent. But predicting weather