Read Online All Sales Fatal by Laura Disilverio - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Disilverio
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Rote memorization had fallen out of favor in educational circles, I’d heard, but I still remembered the Preamble from when I was thirteen and had to recite it in class. “‘We the people, in order to form—’”
“Oh, yeah,” Paula said. “I get them to memorize it by encouraging them to text it to their friends.”
I looked at her with respect. “That’s thinking outside the box.”
She shrugged. “You have to meet the kids where they are, you know?”
We had reached the door, and she bent to insert the key. “Wait a minute.” Leaving her on the stoop, I crossed to the attached garage, wanting to see if Captain W’s car was inside. The garage door was rolled down and locked, however, and had no windows. I rejoined Paula, who was shivering in her rib-knit sweater, and motioned for her to unlock the door. The key clicked in the lock, and the door swung open soundlessly.
Paula stepped in without hesitation and I followed after a brief pause. It felt weird to invade Captain W’s space like this, without an invitation and with him gone. We stood in a small, vinyl-floored entryway that was essentially a toehold within a carpeted living room. The furniture was astrange mix of what I’d expected—black leather sofa and big screen TV—and the unexpected: a chintz-covered wing chair and an upright piano.
“It was his mother’s,” Paula said of the piano, following my gaze.
I didn’t ask if he played; I didn’t think my image of him could stand it if she announced he was a concert-caliber pianist or played jazz piano with a combo on Tuesday nights.
“The garage door is in the kitchen,” Paula said. She strode across the living room and I followed, noting some peanut shells and an empty beer can on an end table. Its single drawer gapped slightly, and the TV remote lay on the floor.
The kitchen was more in line with my expectations: a bland space with black appliances, fridge magnets featuring insurance company and beer logos, a few dishes in the sink, and a couple browning bananas in a bowl with those miniscule fruit flies flitting around them. Most of the cabinet doors were slightly ajar, and none of the drawers were completely closed. I was about to comment on the sloppiness when a whirring sound suddenly broke the silence and I spun, looking toward the hall.
Paula laughed. “That’s just Kronos,” she said, “on his wheel.”
Feeling like a total moron, I crossed the room to what I assumed was the garage door. Pulling it open, I found myself staring into a pantry stocked with enough canned soups to sustain a family of four—much less a man and his hamster—for several weeks. Cheddar cheese and bean with bacon predominated. Ugh. I backed away and tried an identical door two feet to my left. Success, of a sort. Weak fluorescent lights stuttered to life on the ceiling, illuminating the garage. The neatly swept, tool-filled, carless garage. Wherever Woskowicz was, he’d driven there under his own steam. I turnedoff the light, closed the door, and told Paula, who was looking a question at me, “No car.”
“Huh.” She nibbled on her cuticles again. “Well, what do we do now?”
Before I could answer, a muted thud sounded from the direction of the bedrooms. Adrenaline spurted through my veins. “That was definitely not Kronos,” I said, “unless he’s the size of a baboon.” I wished I had the gun I’d carried as a military police officer. Confronting a possibly armed intruder without a weapon of my own would be sheer stupidity.
“C’mon,” I said, beckoning Paula toward the back door. “Let’s get out of here and call the police.”
“No way,” she said. “This is—was—my house, and I’m not letting any lousy, opportunistic thief ransack it. Hey, you back there,” she called, raising her voice to a shout before I could stop her. “We know you’re here. We’ve called the police.”
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911 on the words. I couldn’t leave Paula alone
“Oh, yeah,” Paula said. “I get them to memorize it by encouraging them to text it to their friends.”
I looked at her with respect. “That’s thinking outside the box.”
She shrugged. “You have to meet the kids where they are, you know?”
We had reached the door, and she bent to insert the key. “Wait a minute.” Leaving her on the stoop, I crossed to the attached garage, wanting to see if Captain W’s car was inside. The garage door was rolled down and locked, however, and had no windows. I rejoined Paula, who was shivering in her rib-knit sweater, and motioned for her to unlock the door. The key clicked in the lock, and the door swung open soundlessly.
Paula stepped in without hesitation and I followed after a brief pause. It felt weird to invade Captain W’s space like this, without an invitation and with him gone. We stood in a small, vinyl-floored entryway that was essentially a toehold within a carpeted living room. The furniture was astrange mix of what I’d expected—black leather sofa and big screen TV—and the unexpected: a chintz-covered wing chair and an upright piano.
“It was his mother’s,” Paula said of the piano, following my gaze.
I didn’t ask if he played; I didn’t think my image of him could stand it if she announced he was a concert-caliber pianist or played jazz piano with a combo on Tuesday nights.
“The garage door is in the kitchen,” Paula said. She strode across the living room and I followed, noting some peanut shells and an empty beer can on an end table. Its single drawer gapped slightly, and the TV remote lay on the floor.
The kitchen was more in line with my expectations: a bland space with black appliances, fridge magnets featuring insurance company and beer logos, a few dishes in the sink, and a couple browning bananas in a bowl with those miniscule fruit flies flitting around them. Most of the cabinet doors were slightly ajar, and none of the drawers were completely closed. I was about to comment on the sloppiness when a whirring sound suddenly broke the silence and I spun, looking toward the hall.
Paula laughed. “That’s just Kronos,” she said, “on his wheel.”
Feeling like a total moron, I crossed the room to what I assumed was the garage door. Pulling it open, I found myself staring into a pantry stocked with enough canned soups to sustain a family of four—much less a man and his hamster—for several weeks. Cheddar cheese and bean with bacon predominated. Ugh. I backed away and tried an identical door two feet to my left. Success, of a sort. Weak fluorescent lights stuttered to life on the ceiling, illuminating the garage. The neatly swept, tool-filled, carless garage. Wherever Woskowicz was, he’d driven there under his own steam. I turnedoff the light, closed the door, and told Paula, who was looking a question at me, “No car.”
“Huh.” She nibbled on her cuticles again. “Well, what do we do now?”
Before I could answer, a muted thud sounded from the direction of the bedrooms. Adrenaline spurted through my veins. “That was definitely not Kronos,” I said, “unless he’s the size of a baboon.” I wished I had the gun I’d carried as a military police officer. Confronting a possibly armed intruder without a weapon of my own would be sheer stupidity.
“C’mon,” I said, beckoning Paula toward the back door. “Let’s get out of here and call the police.”
“No way,” she said. “This is—was—my house, and I’m not letting any lousy, opportunistic thief ransack it. Hey, you back there,” she called, raising her voice to a shout before I could stop her. “We know you’re here. We’ve called the police.”
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911 on the words. I couldn’t leave Paula alone
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