The Unicorn Agenda

The Unicorn Agenda: Part 5

William L. Culbertson

The Stuyvesants' joint social calendar for Tuesday showed they had a political fundraiser together that evening. I hadn't been invited, but it didn't bother me. In the first place, I didn't like the candidate and wasn't interested in what he had to say. Besides, if they were both attending, her husband could watch her.

The information Stuyvesant had given me, however, listed nothing for Samantha that day—the type of gap he had hired me to fill. In order to follow her through her daily routine, I needed to be on the street ready to go at eight o'clock. However, yesterday had showed me that if I wanted to park where I could see her leave, I had to get there early to find a space. No way would I screw up this job the very first day I tailed her.

I'd set my alarm for three a.m. At four o'clock, I found plenty of open spaces. Once parked, I had extra time and a need for coffee. A city that never sleeps? Maybe in some places, but at four in the morning, this part of town was decidedly somnolent. I walked three blocks before I found a place to buy a cup.

Back in my car, I put the coffee in the cup holder and started to review the material Bart had sent me.

A sudden banging on the car window jolted me awake. Early morning sun silhouetted a cop staring in at me. After a couple of blinks, I checked my watch—quarter to seven. Shit. I sighed and got out of the car. "Morning, officer." I rubbed my eyes. "I'm waiting to meet a client."

Sort of true.

I took a deep breath and stifled a yawn. "I must have dozed off."

She stepped closer and held out her hand. "Can I see some ID?" I knew she was also checking for the smell of alcohol and looking for other signs of intoxication.

I fished out my wallet and showed her my driver's license and PI identification. While I waited for her to check, I saw an open cafeteria nearby. I hadn't finished my earlier coffee, and it had died long ago.

I nodded toward the cafeteria. "They have decent coffee in there?"

She handed back my documents and looked over her shoulder. "Their food's not bad, but the coffee'll kill you."

She jerked her thumb down the street. "I'd go to the cafe around the corner on Fourth." She nodded briskly. "Have a good day, sir."

Yes, around the corner they did have good coffee. While there, I took advantage of their restroom. I don't know what part of me dislikes the dull humdrum of surveillance work the worst—my brain, my butt, or my bladder.

This time I stayed awake. Samantha's shiny car poked its nose up the ramp a little after nine o'clock. I tailed dutifully along behind her on the busy streets. If Bart's friend Kurse could get me a copy of her personal calendar, I could bypass most of the waiting and watching.

One thing I'd learned over the years is that I can discover things about people's personality by watching their driving. Samantha had been raised a privileged child in a wealthy family. I was curious. Did she show an entitled sense of immunity to the rules of the road when dealing with lesser mortals?

Within minutes I saw quite the opposite. Samantha of the Astor family was a conscientious driver who used her turn signals consistently. From several cars back, I couldn't see her eyes in the mirrors, but she swiveled her head appropriately to keep track of traffic in the other lanes. At one corner she gestured at another car to go ahead even though she probably had the right of way.

Samantha might have been socially and monetarily advantaged, but she showed no indications of having that sense of divine-right-of-way I'd seen in other rich people who drove expensive cars. In other words, I liked the way she drove. I would have ridden with her.