machinery, a yellowed Christmas tree, tinsel fluttering in the wind. A mailbox went by, the number on it-757. No numbers on the next bunch of mailboxes, and then came 921.
“I’ve always been a bad guesser,” Greer said.
Wyatt U-turned, crossed back over the main drag, and continued to the other end of Cain Street. It grew more and more potholey, and finally the pavement petered out completely. Cain Street ended with no warning at a small stand of trees. The nearby lots were all blackened, as though the houses had burned down. The last one standing-a single-story house with two front windows, one big, one small, like mismatched eyes-had the number 32 on the door. Wyatt stopped the car.
They gazed at 32 Cain Street. The blinds were closed on both front windows. Flyers lay scattered outside the front door.
“This is where it happened,” Greer said. “Or where whatever happened happened is maybe the way to put it.”
Wyatt tried to imagine the scene. Had the blinds been closed that night, too? Probably, with drug dealers inside: Luis and Esteban Dominguez, plus Esteban’s girlfriend, Maria, who died, and their baby, Antonia, who got shot in the eye and ended up in foster care. Thirty-two Cain Street was a very small house to contain all that trouble.
“All set?” Greer said.
“For what?”
“Knocking on the door.”
“And then what?”
“Playing by ear.”
“Can’t we do better than that?”
“We could say we’re looking for the Dominguez brothers,” Greer said.
“Because we want drugs?” Wyatt said.
“Well?” Greer shrugged.
Greer and drugs: he shook his head.
She laughed. “Scared you, huh? How about we’re a couple of ambitious students doing a story on the case for the school paper?”
He thought that over.
“Or criminal justice students at the community college, working on a project?” she said.
“Yeah,” said Wyatt.
She opened her door. “What are we waiting for?”
20
Wyatt and Greer walked to the front door of 32 Cain Street, a white door, the paint peeling here and there, revealing black paint underneath. Greer pressed the buzzer. Wyatt listened, heard no buzzing sound from within, or anything else. Maybe nobody was home; maybe they’d gone for good. Greer tried the buzzer again, then knocked, hard knocks, one-two-three; Wyatt was surprised her fists, not very big or powerful-looking, could make noise like that.
A woman spoke on the other side of the door. Wyatt had heard no footsteps: she might have been standing there the whole time. “Who’s there?” she said.
“We’re from Foothills Community College,” Greer said, so natural and confident Wyatt could almost believe it himself. “We’ve got a few questions for our school project.”
Silence.
“Easy ones,” Greer said.
More silence, and then: “Are you here for the rent?”
“The rent?” said Greer. “No. We’re from the community college. We just need a minute or two of your time.”
“The car’s not here,” the woman said, “in case you want to repo it.”
“We don’t want your car. We just want your help.”
“My help?” The door opened. A woman stood there, blinking in the light. She was old, wore a threadbare robe, had bare feet, one with a big bunion, the other slender and nicely shaped. She looked at them, her expression puzzled and a little afraid. “What kind of help?”
“Just answering a few questions,” Greer said. “Not for attribution if you don’t want.”
The woman began to look less afraid, more confused. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Greer said. “How long have you been living here?”
“Almost five years now. But there’s no lease or nothin’, which is how come the landlord-”
Greer cut her off with a quick chopping motion. “Do you know the Dominguez brothers who used to live here?”
“The place was empty when we moved in. I can’t be held responsible…” Her voice trailed away. After moment or two, she blinked again and said, “Are you cops? You look too young to be cops.”
“We’re not cops,” Wyatt said. “But a murder was committed in this house.”
The woman took a step back. “That was long before my time.”
“But you know about it?” Wyatt said.
“Too late. I knew too late.”
“What do you mean?” Wyatt said.
“Ever hear of bad luck?” said the woman. “What’s badder than living where murder’s been done? We’d never have moved in if we’da known. Then it was too late.”
“Couldn’t you have moved out?” Wyatt said.
“And gone where? It’s not so easy.”
“What do you know about the murder?” Greer said.
“Nothin’.”
“You must have heard something about it.”
The woman shrugged. “Drug deal gone wrong or some such. Why are you asking all these questions, anyways?”
Greer’s tone sharpened. “We told you. For our project-it’s about the murder.”
The old woman gave Greer an unfriendly look. “Sounds like a no-good project to me.” She turned to Wyatt. “Why don’t you take your question to the goddamn landlord-he’s owned this place forever.”
“Okay,” Wyatt said. “Who’s the landlord?”
“Slumlord’s more like it-owns the whole godforsaken street.” She bent down, clasping her robe at the throat with one hand, fishing through a scattering of unopened envelopes on the floor with the other. She picked one up, ripped out the return address from the upper left, handed it to Wyatt.
“Pingree Realty?” he said.
“Bloodsuckers,” said the old woman.
“Any relation to Art Pingree?” Wyatt said.
“How would I know? Think I socialize with those people?” She leaned closer to Wyatt. He smelled booze on her breath. “I’m choosey about my friends.”
Back in the car. “Art Pingree’s the nephew of Sonny’s boss?” Greer said.
“Yeah.”
“See what this means? The Dominguez brothers were renting the house from old man Pingree. The nephew found out they were drug dealers and cooked up the plan.”
“You should be a detective,” Wyatt said.
“Not a bad idea,” said Greer. She paused, then raised a finger, brought it down on Wyatt’s lips. A charge went through him. She smiled. He’d never seen her look better.
The Pingree Realty office was in a strip mall a few blocks from the town hall, a pizza place on one side and a
