to her bumper. Approaching her driver’s side door with slow, even steps, I don’t rest my hand on my sidearm but I keep my arm limber, ready to pull if I need to.
Something smells really wrong here.
“License and registration.”
She fishes them out of her glove box and I take the opportunity to sniff her car. I hope to find a really obnoxious weed smell so I can run her in, but it just smells like the old Burger King wrappers in the passenger’s side footwell, and body odor. She turns and sticks an envelope and her license out at me.
“Stay here,” I warn her.
I walk her papers back and hop in the Tahoe to run it all. Her name is Sarah Andrea Talbot, and she’s from Ohio. No record, no priors, nothing in the system. I sit for a while longer and type nonsense into Notepad to make it look like I’m doing something more involved before I walk back her stuff.
“Ma’am,” I ask her, without returning her paperwork. “Why were you sitting on the side of the road last night and this morning?”
“I was lost. I’m looking for someone.”
I give my hat a polite tug on the brim. “Well, I was born and bred in this town. If you need directions, I’m happy to help. Where can I direct you?”
“Oh. Um. Well, I’m looking for a person, not a place.”
“What’s their address?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you give me a name.”
The way she hesitates says yes, but I don’t want to .
I hate to do this. It offends me to my core, but sometimes it’s necessary.
I lie.
“We’ve had a complaint,” I say, trying to sound amiable. “One of the neighbors called in about your car, said you were acting suspicious. If the person you’re looking for isn’t on that street, I’m asking you to look elsewhere.”
“Oh-oh, okay,” she chirps. “Am I in trouble?”
“Not at the moment. Here,” I hand her license and ratty registration card back. “You’re free to go. On your way.”
“Thank you, Officer.”
She rolls her window up, and waits for me to get back to the Tahoe. I sit there in a low-intensity standoff with her until she decides to leave.
“What the hell?” I mutter to myself.
Chapter Seven
A lex
T onight’s the night .
This morning, I watched Phoebe lead Carrie, who is now moving about on crutches with the rapid familiarity of a kid who’s been down that road before, to her cop car and drive off with her. No need for me over there today.
So I have all day to plan, and that’s what I’ve been doing, scouring Yelp for local places to take her. I could just ask, but that’s really not my style. She’d pick something dressed down, I’m sure. I want something with a little more style.
Wesley House . This looks good. Nice place for dinner for a couple. Quiet booths look cozy. That’s it. I dial the number.
A hostess answers.
“I’d like to make a reservation for two for tonight. Seven thirty.”
“Yes, sir, we have a few spots open. Table or booth?”
“Booth.”
“Name?”
“Alexander Wright.”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“Oh my God, are you him?”
I sigh. “Yes.”
“Oh my God, who are you bringing? Are you going on a date?”
“Listen, keep this quiet, okay? I don’t want anybody to know I’m coming and I want some privacy. There will be a little extra in it for you.”
“Oh, okay!” she squeaks. “See you tonight!”
I can hear her saying ‘oh my God’ to someone else before she even hangs up. Yeah, that went well.
Clothes. I don’t have anything to wear when taking out a woman, at least, nothing proper. Fat chance I’m going to get something off the rack.
I dial Lou. He answers in three rings.
“There’s the big man. How are you holding up out there?”
“I need a suit.”
“What? Why?”
“Taking someone out.”
“What? Like, on a date?”
“Yeah.”
“Whoa. Hold on there, champ. With whom?”
What business is it of his? “My neighbor.”
Silence hisses on the other end, then I hear him clear his throat.
Something smells really wrong here.
“License and registration.”
She fishes them out of her glove box and I take the opportunity to sniff her car. I hope to find a really obnoxious weed smell so I can run her in, but it just smells like the old Burger King wrappers in the passenger’s side footwell, and body odor. She turns and sticks an envelope and her license out at me.
“Stay here,” I warn her.
I walk her papers back and hop in the Tahoe to run it all. Her name is Sarah Andrea Talbot, and she’s from Ohio. No record, no priors, nothing in the system. I sit for a while longer and type nonsense into Notepad to make it look like I’m doing something more involved before I walk back her stuff.
“Ma’am,” I ask her, without returning her paperwork. “Why were you sitting on the side of the road last night and this morning?”
“I was lost. I’m looking for someone.”
I give my hat a polite tug on the brim. “Well, I was born and bred in this town. If you need directions, I’m happy to help. Where can I direct you?”
“Oh. Um. Well, I’m looking for a person, not a place.”
“What’s their address?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you give me a name.”
The way she hesitates says yes, but I don’t want to .
I hate to do this. It offends me to my core, but sometimes it’s necessary.
I lie.
“We’ve had a complaint,” I say, trying to sound amiable. “One of the neighbors called in about your car, said you were acting suspicious. If the person you’re looking for isn’t on that street, I’m asking you to look elsewhere.”
“Oh-oh, okay,” she chirps. “Am I in trouble?”
“Not at the moment. Here,” I hand her license and ratty registration card back. “You’re free to go. On your way.”
“Thank you, Officer.”
She rolls her window up, and waits for me to get back to the Tahoe. I sit there in a low-intensity standoff with her until she decides to leave.
“What the hell?” I mutter to myself.
Chapter Seven
A lex
T onight’s the night .
This morning, I watched Phoebe lead Carrie, who is now moving about on crutches with the rapid familiarity of a kid who’s been down that road before, to her cop car and drive off with her. No need for me over there today.
So I have all day to plan, and that’s what I’ve been doing, scouring Yelp for local places to take her. I could just ask, but that’s really not my style. She’d pick something dressed down, I’m sure. I want something with a little more style.
Wesley House . This looks good. Nice place for dinner for a couple. Quiet booths look cozy. That’s it. I dial the number.
A hostess answers.
“I’d like to make a reservation for two for tonight. Seven thirty.”
“Yes, sir, we have a few spots open. Table or booth?”
“Booth.”
“Name?”
“Alexander Wright.”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“Oh my God, are you him?”
I sigh. “Yes.”
“Oh my God, who are you bringing? Are you going on a date?”
“Listen, keep this quiet, okay? I don’t want anybody to know I’m coming and I want some privacy. There will be a little extra in it for you.”
“Oh, okay!” she squeaks. “See you tonight!”
I can hear her saying ‘oh my God’ to someone else before she even hangs up. Yeah, that went well.
Clothes. I don’t have anything to wear when taking out a woman, at least, nothing proper. Fat chance I’m going to get something off the rack.
I dial Lou. He answers in three rings.
“There’s the big man. How are you holding up out there?”
“I need a suit.”
“What? Why?”
“Taking someone out.”
“What? Like, on a date?”
“Yeah.”
“Whoa. Hold on there, champ. With whom?”
What business is it of his? “My neighbor.”
Silence hisses on the other end, then I hear him clear his throat.
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