was wielding against a mountain of grass clippings. “What’s going on?”
Joe crossed the street feeling the curious stares from windows up and down the block. Tanglewood Lane wasn’t where invitations were extended to come over for a cup of coffee. Stoval was one of the exceptions, the other, a raven-haired beauty with legs that went forever and had a husband who was never home. “Mr. Swedge must not be feeling well.”
A Jaguar convertible coupe backed out of the driveway from one of the recently constructed houses, slowing to a crawl as it approached Joe. “Prick,” Joe mumbled, wanting to knock the three hundred dollar designer aviator sunglasses off the pompous ass’s head. The thirty-something male accelerated, tossing loose gravel behind.
Stoval coughed deeply, spitting a gob of mucous onto the pile. “I hope he’s fucking dead.” His ramrod carriage hadn’t changed from when he served in World War II. Silver and Bronze Stars and two Purple Hearts gave him cause to curse the abundant BMWs and Mercedes’ that cruised the upscale town. A 1990 Buick LeSabre sat proudly in his driveway.
Before Joe could answer, Stoval adjusted his 82nd Airborne Veteran’s cap and turned away. Joe laughed to himself. Stoval wasn’t prone to cursing, but Preston Swedge, with a disposition as sweet as rancid butter, brought out the best in everyone.
Joe approached the black and white from the rear. The uniformed officer sat with his hat pulled down over his eyes. A rivulet of condensation from the air conditioner ran down a slope toward a grove of evergreens partially obscuring the house. Joe tapped the bumper with the golf club causing the dozing officer to sit up and check the side mirrors. The driver’s door creaked open.
“Where in hell have you been?” Sgt. Bill Fielder asked, placing his feet on the pavement. The middle-aged patrolman looked up at the five ten former lieutenant. They were friends for twenty years and Joe’s change in appearance was disturbing. The combination of Joe’s packing on thirty plus pounds and the red spidery look of his face led to one conclusion: the man had fallen into the bottle. Fielder knew his share of cops that ended up the same way. “I call and get no answer and ringing the bell is a waste of time.”
Joe looked away as he took the last drag on the Marlboro, tossing the butt onto the street. “I took off for a couple of weeks and visited my cousin up in… Maine.”
“I got a couple of long lost relatives somewhere. Maybe I should look them up.” Fielder never heard Joe mention a cousin in Maine. He changed the subject. “Jeanie would love to have you over for dinner. It ain’t good to be alone.”
“I’ll give you a call.” Joe ran his fingers through his graying crew cut. He thumbed in the direction of the house. “How good?”
“About the same as when we found that scientist and his buddy dead last summer with the heat turned to the max.” Fielder fetched a red handkerchief crammed in a rear pocket with his ticket book and blew his nose. “I needed some air.”
That incident was the precursor to Joe being shot. The memory of the decomposed bodies churned an unsteady stomach not helped by the Percocet. He struggled to remove the pack of Marlboros from the tight jeans. “I hate shit like this. Who called?” He lit another cigarette.
“Ryan Mack couldn’t get any more mail through the slot,” Fielder replied, taking a drink from a bottle of water. “We’ve been ventilating the place for an hour, but…” Fielder got back into the air-conditioned cruiser and rolled the window down. “The body is in the kitchen. Straight down the hall.”
Joe didn’t need directions. The floor plan was burned into his brain after searching the premises on more than two-dozen calls for burglars, second story men, bumps in the night, and a character named Rothstein who seemed to be connected to the Wild Turkey the proprietor of the premises liked to suck down. When Joe suggested adopting a Doberman from the ASPCA, the irate citizen threw him off the property. The two hadn’t exchanged even a drop dead in a year.
A sign declared the premises were protected 24/7 by a security firm advertised across the country. He laughed at the idea that the renowned skinflint would’ve sprung for anything more sophisticated than a piece of string to trip an intruder. The sign was a two dollar knockoff at any flea market.