Still, I had one question of my own to ask. “Detectives,” I said. “With no disrespect, don’t you think this should be a Tyler case?”
“Yeah, in a perfect world, it should,” the larger detective said. “But the governor’s gone ape over the opioid epidemic, and what she wants, the AG and the state police try to deliver. There was heroin found on this character that just went up the driveway, and in one of the cars that got shot up.”
The smaller detective added, “It’s a statewide crisis, and the state’s gotta respond. Can’t have a dozen jurisdictions squabbling over who did what and who gets what evidence. Besides, the OT is damn sweet.”
His companion passed over a business card. “Just in case you think of anything else.”
“Sure,” I said, pocketing the card.
“Nice place you got here,” the detective said. “Remote. Out of the way. Bet you got one hell of a view when the sun comes up. And you know what? That nasty white powder can reach anywhere, touch anyone. You have a good rest of the night.”
The detectives turned and went back up the driveway, their flashlights bobbing along as they went up to the Lafayette House parking lot.
Back inside, I put the flashlight on the counter, shook off my jacket, and went into the kitchen to wash my hands and get a long swallow of orange juice. My poor house had a bullet wound on the front door. It still hadn’t been put back together properly since the arson, and a couple of months ago, another bullet had gone through two of my bedroom windows.
I slapped an exposed beam as I made my way out of the kitchen.
“Jesus, sweetie, you’ve been one roughed-up gal over the years.”
Out in the living room I switched off more lights, and I stopped.
Wood was creaking.
In an old house like mine, over the years you get used to the creaking of wood. It’s like one’s old bones and tendons, you know when they stretch and strain. So you know that this certain creak is from the stairs, that little moan is from the roof, and the little tap-tap-taps are the hot water pipes expanding when the oil furnace kicks on.
I didn’t recognize what I was hearing.
I waited.
The creaking noise returned.
I slowly rotated as I stood in one spot, like one of those old-fashioned radar dishes, trying to pick up a ghost out there.
A ghost. How cheerful. A thought I never really wanted to consider much over the years, but considering this was once a lifeboat station, I’m sure a number of drowned or nearly-drowned seamen had spent their last moments under this roof.
More creaking.
I stopped moving my head. The noise was coming from outside. The rear deck.
I moved a hand forward in the near darkness, slid open a drawer by the telephone, took out my .32 Smith & Wesson semiautomatic pistol, clicked back the hammer.
No children in the house—I kept all of my weapons loaded.
I lowered my hand and limped back to the kitchen, taking my time.
Another creak, louder.
By the counter and cabinets was a set of light switches that I rarely use. One was a floodlight that lit up the entire narrow strip of rocks that was laughingly called my rear yard, and the other were two smaller lamps that illuminated my rear deck.
What the heck, I thought. Let’s go for it.
I slapped them both on, stepped back, and nearly stumbled as a man came into view, standing right up against the sliding door, blood streaming down the side of his face, holding something in his right hand, aiming right at me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I dropped my cane and nearly dropped my pistol too, but I managed to bring it up in a two-handed stance, aiming right at my trespasser. “Freeze! Hold it right there!” I yelled.
The guy looked shocked and dropped what he had, lifted up his hands. We stared at each other through the glass. “Keep your hands up and stand still,” I said.
He was in his late twenties or early thirties, wide-eyed and disheveled, his brown hair wet with blood. I stepped closer to the glass so he could hear me better.
“Who the hell are you?” I demanded.
He shook his head, mouthed the words “I can’t hear you.” I cursed the new energy-efficient glass doors and stepped closer. Even though I had told him to stand still, he did the same, and this time, he beat me to it.
“Are you Lewis Cole?” he asked.
Usually in the movies or books, this is when the hero says, “I’m the one asking the questions here!” But the guy looked so scared and dopey, and all I said was, “Yeah, I am.”
“You’re friends with Felix Tinios?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded, attempted a smile. “I’m Rudy Gennaro. I work for Felix.”
Well. He glanced around. “Hey, can I come in?” he asked. “There’s a lot of cops running around out there, they’re making me nervous.”
“Step back a few steps,” I said, and the bleeding young man did just that. I unlocked the door, took out the wooden stick, and slid the door open. A blast of salt air and cold came in, and he came in, hands still up, like this was a routine he was very familiar with. I traded outdoor illumination for indoor illumination by slapping some more light switches, and stepped back, keeping a good distance between us.
“You armed?” I asked.
“Shit, no, not with the record I got. That’s a first-class ticket right back to the joint. Hey, can I lower my arms? They’re getting tired.”
On the deck he had looked deranged and dangerous, looking to break in and cause me harm, but inside, under the warm glow of my interior lights, he looked sad and a bit pathetic. It was like going to your high school reunion ten years later and seeing that the once-admired high school quarterback had gained twenty pounds and was now working as a greeter for Walmart.
I went around the kitchen counter, lowered the pistol, but made
