“That’s a lotta time to be in the house of people who don’t have predictable work schedules.”
“Yes, Mom.”
She hung up.
I put everything back the way I’d found it and worked my way downstairs. In the dining room, I found a cardboard box filled with mail on the card table in the center of the room. Nothing out of the ordinary about the mail-utility bills mostly, some credit-card bills and bank statements-until I looked at the names and addresses of the recipients. None of them lived here. There was mail for Daryl Bousquet in Westwood, Georgette Bing in Franklin, Mica Griekspoor in Sharon, Virgil Cridlin in Dedham. I thumbed through the stack and counted nine more names, all living in nearby towns- Walpole, Norwood, Mansfield, and Plainville. I looked through the portico into the living room at the bank of computers. A barely furnished house, what furniture there was from a discount wholesaler, and no sense that anyone intended to make this a ten-year abode. Nine computers. Stolen mail. If I had another hour, somewhere I’d find birth certificates for babies who’d died decades ago. I’d bet every dime I had on it.
I looked at the mail again. Why so stupid, though? Why password-protect the computers but forget to turn on the house alarm? Why pick a perfect spot to do this kinda shit-in a house at the end of a cul-de-sac in a stalled development-and leave stacks of stolen mail in a box?
I looked around the kitchen, found nothing but empty cabinets and a fridge filled with Styrofoam take-out containers, beer, and a twelve-pack of Coke. I closed a cabinet and remembered what Amanda’s classmate had said about the microwave.
I opened it and stared inside. It was a microwave. White walls, yellow light, circular heating tray. I was about to close it when I got a strong whiff of something acrid and I took another look at the walls. They were white, yes, but there was an extra layer of white. When I tilted my head and adjusted my eyes, I saw the same film on the yellow bulb. I found a butter knife and scraped one of the walls very lightly, and what came off was a fine powder, as white and light as talc.
I closed the microwave door, returned the knife to its drawer, and went back into the living room. That’s when I heard the front door knob turn.
I hadn’t been face-to-face with her in eleven years. I’d kind of liked it that way. But here she was, four steps into her living room when her eyes locked on mine. She’d gained weight, mostly in the hips and the face, the sides of her neck. Her skin was splotchier. Her cornflower eyes, always her most attractive feature, remained so. They widened under her feather-cut ginger hair, the roots showing gray by the crown, and her mouth opened into a tight, wrinkled oval, then formed a hesitant P.
It wasn’t like I could claim I was here to fix the garbage disposal. I gave her what I’m sure was a hapless smile, held out my arms, and shrugged.
She said, “Patrick?”
“How you doing, Helene?”
Chapter Fifteen
Kenny came in behind her. He looked confused for about half a second before he reached behind his back. I reached behind mine.
He said, “Ho.”
I said, “Hey.”
A young girl came in behind him. She opened her mouth wide but no sound came out. She wrung her hands by her side as if she’d stepped on the third rail. I got a good look as she stepped hard to her left to get out of our line of fire. Sophie Corliss. She’d lost the weight her father had demanded of her. And then some. She was gaunt and sweaty and stopped acting electrified long enough to sink her hands into the back of her head and pull at her own hair.
I held out one hand. “This does not have to go this way.”
“What way?” Kenny said.
“The way where we both pull our guns.”
“You tell me, sport, which other way this can go.”
“Well,” I said, “I could remove my hand from my gun.”
“But I might just shoot you for your trouble.”
“There’s that,” I agreed.
“And if I remove my hand?” He frowned. “It’s the same result, different victim.”
“If we did it at the same time?” I offered.
“You’d cheat,” he said.
As I nodded, he cleared his gun and pointed it at me.
“Sneaky,” I said.
“Let me see the hand.”
I removed my hand from behind my back and held up my cell phone.
“It’s nice,” Kenny said, “but I think mine has more bullets.”
“True, but did your gun call anyone?”
He took a step forward and then another. My screen read HOME. CONNECTED: 39 SECONDS.
“Oh,” he said.
“Yeah.”
Helene said, “Fuck,” very softly.
“You put the gun down or my wife calls the police and gives up our location.”
“Let’s-”
“Tick, tock,” I said. “It’s fairly obvious you’re ripping identities and committing a few thousand levels of consumer fraud here. Plus you’re making crank somewhere nearby and then you’re baking the used coffee filters in the microwave just to squeeze out that little extra. You want the police en route within, oh, thirty more seconds, keep holding the gun on me, Kenny.”
Angie’s voice came through the cell phone. “Hi, Kenny. Hi, Helene.”
Helene said, “Is that Angie?”
“It is,” Angie said. “How you doing?”
“Oh,” Helene said, “you know.”
Kenny frowned and looked terribly tired all of a sudden. He thumbed the safety forward and handed me the gun. “You’re one frustrating motherfucker.”
I put the gun, an S &W Sigma 9mm, in the pocket of my jacket. “Thank you.” I turned my lips toward the phone. “Catch you later, honey.”
“Grab some bottled water on the way home, would you? Oh, and some half-and-half for the morning.”
“Sure. Anything else?”
Kenny rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, but I can’t remember what it is.”
“Well, call me when you think of it.”
“Cool. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I hung up.
“Sophie?” I said.
She looked over at me, surprised I knew her name.
“You carrying?”
“Huh?”
“A gun, Sophie. Are you carrying a gun?”
“No. I hate guns.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“But you’ve got one in your pocket.”
“That’s called irony. How strung out are you right now?”
