in response.
“I’m not kidding. Any Crawford butt sniffing or whining to indicate that I wasn’t true to my word and we’re done.” She stared back at me, her head cocked to the left; it was the same look Crawford got when I made a joke he didn’t get. I shook my head. “Shit. I’m trying to extract promises from a dog.” I opened the back door. “I need to get laid.”
It was still fairly dark and the mist had changed into a heavier, steady rain. Once again, I was outside with the wrong footgear (slippers) and no coat or umbrella; I attributed this lack of planning on failure to drink coffee before beginning reconnaissance. I tiptoed across the minefield of puddles and pools of mud until I hit the macadam of my driveway. I peered down to the street and was confident that the cop who had been snooping around had returned to Dunkin’ Donuts or wherever it was that suburban cops went when there was no action (which was most of the time). I mused on this momentarily, wondering if I should cover my body in powdered sugar to get back in Crawford’s good graces, and finally snapped back to reality when I felt the water flowing into my slippers.
I went into Jackson and Terri’s backyard and approached the big picture window that exposed their family room, complete with cathedral ceiling and wide-screen television. And there, right where they had left it, was the parasol and toadstool wedding portrait. I shuddered when I saw it again.
They had a classic McMansion and I hated unoriginal architecture; I knew that if I could gain access, I would know exactly where everything was, roomwise. I put my face up to the window and pressed my nose against the glass, leaving a lovely nose print from which some crime scene investigator would be able to get a perfect match, if nose printing was a new form of crime scene technology. I hastily rubbed it off the window, leaving giant, albeit smudged, fingerprints on the glass. Besides the unorthodox and inappropriate outdoor footgear, I really wasn’t prepared to be a peeping Tom.
After examining all I could from my position on the back lawn outside the family room, I ascertained that all looked well in that part of the house although I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to find. I walked around the perimeter of the house and was unable to see into any of the other rooms; Terri was big on ornate, elaborate window treatments and they obscured my vision of any of the other rooms.
I went back around to the backyard once I was content that the perimeter was secure. I didn’t have the clothing or ability to be a second-story man, so I walked far back into the deep backyard and looked up at the second floor of the house where, presumably, the bedrooms were located. Staring up, my face turned into the falling rain, I focused on where I suspected the master bedroom might be; a garden window next to a bank of windows suggested the master bath. It was only a flicker, a moment, but I thought I detected a shadow moving among the darkness of the bedroom. I turned to stone.
I remained on the lawn, my slipper-clad feet sinking deeper and deeper into the muddy sod. I continued to look at the window but didn’t detect any other movements; my neck became stiff and I finally changed positions. I pushed my wet hair off my face and thought about my options for the second time that morning. I decided that calling Crawford—despite the consequences—was my best course of action. If the cop that had answered the 911 call earlier was any indication of the caliber of officer on the crack DF police force, I was in trouble.
I gingerly made my way back to my own house, kicking off my muddy slippers when I entered the back door. Trixie came running and took both slippers in her mouth, her tongue rolling around them like they were a fragrant and delicious foie gras. I called Crawford again.
“Fiftieth Precinct. Detective Arthur Moran speaking.”
“Good morning, Detective. This is Alison Bergeron. Is Detective Crawford available?” I assumed that I was speaking with my old friend, the infamous Champy. Now I knew why Crawford was so cranky when I called earlier; Champy got on his last nerve.
“I believe he went to see a man about a horse, Ms. Bergeron.”
Huh?
“The latrine, ma’am. He’s in the