sent straight to voice mail. What happens if they don’t hear anything?”
Duffy looked dubious. “They could try to get a judge to sign a warrant, but I don’t think there’s enough evidence to merit one.” He stopped talking and looked intently at the officers at Sunny Maugham’s front door.
One of them was punching numbers into a cell phone. He waited, phone away from his ear. The two other cops leaned in toward the front windows, one looking in, the other two with their ears to the glass.
All of a sudden, the two listening both stood up straight with a jolt. They looked at the sergeant with whom Duffy had been talking, who nodded and pointed at the front door. Then the officer who’d been looking through the front window positioned himself at the door, got his balance, and kicked. Hard.
“I guess they heard the phone ring,” Duffy said, not necessarily to me.
“No shit, Sherlock.” He gave me a quick reproving look; I’d forgotten that Duffy doesn’t care for profanity. My publisher’s idea. Get more women to read the books. Hey, it’s a living.
The cops, led by the sergeant, rushed into the tiny structure and then . . . nothing. We didn’t see anything through the front window but police officers walking around in a nondescript sort of pattern, and we didn’t hear anything through the open front door, which looked like it would require a decent amount of repair if Sunny was going to close and lock it again.
Neither of us said anything; it was becoming a learned behavior. We avoided eye contact and didn’t speak to each other. A stranger passing by would have thought we’d been married for fifteen years.
Finally, the sergeant appeared in the front door again and beckoned. “Mr. Madison?”
Duffy started toward the house and then turned and looked at me. “Come along,” he said.
I had the strangest urge to look around for the person he was summoning, but I resisted it and did not ask, “Me?” I’d like it noted that when given the opportunity, I avoided the cliché. “You sure it’s all right?” I asked him. Any excuse to not go into that house, if something had been found, would do.
“If it’s safe for me, it’s safe for you,” he said impatiently. “Let’s go.”
Because—and only because—I couldn’t think of a plausible reason not to, I started toward the house. Duffy, already on the front steps, stopped and waited again when he saw I was clearly not relishing the amazing opportunity I was being given and was lagging behind. But he didn’t say anything.
Eventually, I reached his position on the top step and waited for him to enter the house. But he, gallant as ever, waved an arm toward the interior. “After you,” he said.
Finally, I meet a man with some manners, and he’s an idea I got in the shower. There was almost something poetically ironic about that.
The inside was one room, and it was not large. There was no television, no sofa. To the right, there was a tiny galley kitchen that included a microwave oven, a minifridge, and a two-burner cook top. In the center of the room was a fold-up card table with one chair (also collapsible) next to it. There was a folding beach chair leaning against the wall near the table. A thin line of sand led from the folding chair to the door in the back. Toward the back were towels hung on a line that ran across the room and flip-flops by the back door,which led to a tiny porch. The back door was open, showing a small yard that had probably once been grass and was now mostly sand.
This is what upscale New Jerseyans can afford when they want to own a home down the shore.
The sergeant approached and looked at me, then at Duffy. “Who’s this?” he asked.
“My assistant,” Duffy said with no hint of irony. Without me, there’d be no you, pal, and don’t you forget it . Now in my own head, I was starting to sound like his mother. “Ms. Goldman is here to catch anything I miss and to chronicle anything we see. I
Duffy looked dubious. “They could try to get a judge to sign a warrant, but I don’t think there’s enough evidence to merit one.” He stopped talking and looked intently at the officers at Sunny Maugham’s front door.
One of them was punching numbers into a cell phone. He waited, phone away from his ear. The two other cops leaned in toward the front windows, one looking in, the other two with their ears to the glass.
All of a sudden, the two listening both stood up straight with a jolt. They looked at the sergeant with whom Duffy had been talking, who nodded and pointed at the front door. Then the officer who’d been looking through the front window positioned himself at the door, got his balance, and kicked. Hard.
“I guess they heard the phone ring,” Duffy said, not necessarily to me.
“No shit, Sherlock.” He gave me a quick reproving look; I’d forgotten that Duffy doesn’t care for profanity. My publisher’s idea. Get more women to read the books. Hey, it’s a living.
The cops, led by the sergeant, rushed into the tiny structure and then . . . nothing. We didn’t see anything through the front window but police officers walking around in a nondescript sort of pattern, and we didn’t hear anything through the open front door, which looked like it would require a decent amount of repair if Sunny was going to close and lock it again.
Neither of us said anything; it was becoming a learned behavior. We avoided eye contact and didn’t speak to each other. A stranger passing by would have thought we’d been married for fifteen years.
Finally, the sergeant appeared in the front door again and beckoned. “Mr. Madison?”
Duffy started toward the house and then turned and looked at me. “Come along,” he said.
I had the strangest urge to look around for the person he was summoning, but I resisted it and did not ask, “Me?” I’d like it noted that when given the opportunity, I avoided the cliché. “You sure it’s all right?” I asked him. Any excuse to not go into that house, if something had been found, would do.
“If it’s safe for me, it’s safe for you,” he said impatiently. “Let’s go.”
Because—and only because—I couldn’t think of a plausible reason not to, I started toward the house. Duffy, already on the front steps, stopped and waited again when he saw I was clearly not relishing the amazing opportunity I was being given and was lagging behind. But he didn’t say anything.
Eventually, I reached his position on the top step and waited for him to enter the house. But he, gallant as ever, waved an arm toward the interior. “After you,” he said.
Finally, I meet a man with some manners, and he’s an idea I got in the shower. There was almost something poetically ironic about that.
The inside was one room, and it was not large. There was no television, no sofa. To the right, there was a tiny galley kitchen that included a microwave oven, a minifridge, and a two-burner cook top. In the center of the room was a fold-up card table with one chair (also collapsible) next to it. There was a folding beach chair leaning against the wall near the table. A thin line of sand led from the folding chair to the door in the back. Toward the back were towels hung on a line that ran across the room and flip-flops by the back door,which led to a tiny porch. The back door was open, showing a small yard that had probably once been grass and was now mostly sand.
This is what upscale New Jerseyans can afford when they want to own a home down the shore.
The sergeant approached and looked at me, then at Duffy. “Who’s this?” he asked.
“My assistant,” Duffy said with no hint of irony. Without me, there’d be no you, pal, and don’t you forget it . Now in my own head, I was starting to sound like his mother. “Ms. Goldman is here to catch anything I miss and to chronicle anything we see. I
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