Rhett calls out, “I’m sure I’ll see you again, Pierce. Sooner rather than later.”
Perfect. Now I have to add deal with Lieutenant Rhett Walker to my ever-expanding to-do list.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I KNOCK on the neighbor’s door. Nothing.
I knock louder. She has to be home. She’s some old lady with no car and no discernable interests, not even cats. All old crones are up at eight in the morning. I glance at my phone. It’s 8:15 a.m. She must be awake.
Or maybe she fell and died over the weekend. That would be inconvenient, but not the first time I’ve had to deal with an elderly corpse. I guess this time I can call the cops and have them handle it, however.
The door opens, snapping me from my morbid musings. The same sunbaked woman stands before me—a good foot shorter than I am, probably five two, if I had to give a guess—and she glares up at me with squinted eyes.
For a moment we’re both silent. She doesn’t say hello, and I sneer.
“Finally need help with that garden?” she asks, a slight smile on the corner of her mouth.
“No,” I state. “I’m here on behalf of Shelby Private Investigations, a PI firm located in town. You’re a witness in the case of People vs. McMillian, and I’ve come to get your statement.”
She glances over her shoulder before shuffling out the door and closing it behind her. I lift an eyebrow, curious about the odd turn of events, but I don’t say anything. It’s not like this lady will try to shiv me or anything—or if she does, I’m confident I can handle myself.
“So you’re a private dick?” she asks. “I wondered what you did for a living, but I guess this makes sense.”
I hold back a laugh. Was she trying to make a joke? Maybe I underestimated the woman. “Look, uh—” I stare down at the file until I find her name. “—Patricia Timo, I need to get your statement in regards to McMillian’s voluntary manslaughter.”
“Would you mind keeping your voice down?” she asks in a calm manner. “And you can call me Grammy, or Ms. Timo, but not Patricia.”
Tsk. Why do people do that? They should never tell anyone how to get under their skin—it’s the fastest way to unhappiness outside of jumping into oncoming traffic.
“Listen, I need your statement. Why don’t you tell me what happened, and I’ll write it all down. Then you can go back to whatever the hell you were doing.”
Ms. Timo opens her mouth to speak, but she catches her breath when a creak sounds from inside the house.
“Grammy?” I hear a voice ask, the feminine timbre muffled by the walls. “Grammy, where’d you go?”
Ms. Timo cracks open the front door and calls in, “I’m out here, sweetie. I’m speaking to our neighbor.”
“That one with the terrible garden you’re always talking about?”
“The very same.”
The door swings in to its limit, and a young girl stares back at me. She and Ms. Timo are related—they have the same tan-olive skin, though the girl’s is free from sun cracks, and their eyes are an odd shade of blue that looks closer to the gray of cement than anything found in a fashion magazine. Maybe she’s eleven? Twelve? The same age as Lacy, I’d guess, given her small frame and awkward proportions.
The girl looks me over, her large eyes honing in on the manila file I have in my hands. “Are you a lawyer?” she asks. The girl walks outside and allows the door to shut behind her. “Is this about my mom and dad? Are they okay? Are they coming home soon?”
“Shannon,” Ms. Timo says, a strain in her voice. “Why don’t you wait inside and—”
“If it’s about my mom and dad, I think I should get to know.”
“This is a legal matter. Not for children. I’ll let you know as soon as anything happens.”
Shannon, the girl, straightens her bucket hat and throws her braided hair over her shoulder. “I understand legal things. I want to know what’s going on.”
“This is confidential,” I snap. The girl flinches, like she didn’t expect my anger, but I’m not interested in bullshit. I have other things on my plate, and listening to a grandma bicker with a kid isn’t something I’m interested in.
Shannon backs up into the house without another word. After she shuts the door, I turn to Ms. Timo. “Well?” I drawl. “Can we get this over with?”
“Let’s take a walk,” Ms. Timo says, motioning to the cracked sidewalk.
I’m not in the mood, but I also don’t have much fight in me today. I exhale and follow her away from her house, strolling down our ramshackle neighborhood with little interest for my surroundings. The old crone hobbles like she’s got a bum ankle, and I alter my speed accordingly.
“I’ve noticed you have children in your house from time to time,” she says, straight out of the blue.
“How observant.”
“They seem nice.”
“Heh. Apparently you’re not too observant. One is fine, but the other should’ve been absorbed by a twin in the womb.”
“I was hoping that my little Shannon would be able to visit and spend time with a girl her age.”
“Look,” I say, trying not let my anger take over my judgment. “I didn’t stop by to play Suzy Homemaker. Just. Give me. The damn. Statement.”
“She’s following us,” Ms. Timo states. She motions with a shift of her eyes, and I glance around, spotting the rustle of bushes one house down. How did I not notice it before? I know why, but I’m still frustrated. A lack of peripheral vision will do that to a man.
Ms. Timo lowers her voice and steps up closer to me,
