There was a small problem with the present lamppost—a relic of another era. They were running through the pros and cons of keeping it, trying to relocate it, or just tearing it out when Arnie noticed an individual standing on the porch of the house on the other side of the Gerry’s.
There was nothing remarkable or noteworthy about the man except for his energy field. A dirty brown aura with speckles of angry red denoted one very miserable and unhappy camper.
He was about to glance away when something else caught his eye. Although he was alone on the porch, someone else was on the other side of the screen door. Arnie knew this because they were talking—and the guy was staring at the Gerry’s driveway.
Despite looking innocent, it didn’t feel right.
Lights on a car moving through the neighborhood came slowly closer and then turned into the Gerry driveway. Panic seized him until he remembered he was fully disguised.
Summer’s car pulled all the way forward to the privacy fence and stopped.
Arnie moved around the yard with the foreman. He was good at this. Dottie called it dynamic multitasking. His quirky talents enabled him to channel his unconventional abilities plus keep up the pretense of a separate conversation.
Questioning the foreman about lamppost power lines versus solar options, he continued to interpret extrasensory input. The guy on the porch was one hundred percent focused on Summer.
Was he a threat?
He desperately wanted to watch her get out of the car, and his hands fisted from the effort required to remain focused. He’d have the rest of his life to watch her after the danger was vanquished, and his woman and daughter were safe.
The sound of a screen door slamming announced the retreat of the porch guy. He was back inside his house.
Arnie’s eyes swung to Summer. Once again, all he really saw was her head bobbing along as she walked and then disappeared behind the fence.
Time to move along. He looked at the foreman. “A solar lamppost with a heavy planter. Curb appeal.”
The foreman agreed and informed him he knew a guy who did custom concrete planters.
Decision made, he hurried as fast as his bruised hip let him, entered the house and pulled out his phone at the same time.
“Dottie? Listen carefully. Get me everything you can about the people living in the house on the other side of 369. And tell Milo to call me. I have a question.”
He hung up and looked at Stan. “The neighbors appear far too interested in Summer.”
“Could it be so simple?” Stan muttered.
He scowled. “Yes, it could, but believe me, if this is what I think, Giselle’s incredible luck just ran out.”
“What do we do now?”
“Good question.” Arnie paced the room. He smoothed his fake mustache and went deep in his thoughts.
He called Dottie back. “Can you put eyes on the house overnight?”
“The team on call before you arrived has moved out to another assignment. I can get the locals to do a slow drive-by during their overnight rounds. Will that do?”
“I suppose it has to. It’d look odd if we stayed in an empty house, but I can’t leave her exposed.”
“I’ll take care of it. Milo’s right here. You want to talk to him?”
“Yeah, put him on.”
“Speaker,” Dottie announced. “Go for Crawford.”
“Milo,” Arnie barked ignoring the niceties. “I need you to drop a GPS pin. I don’t care what you have to do or how many laws you break. Pinpoint the cell locations inside the address Dottie will give you.”
“How many?” Milo asked.
“Three.”
“And what is the endgame, Arnie? What do you need?”
“I need to know where those phones are at all times. Tomorrow is a workday, so hopefully two of the phones will move and one will stay put.”
“Understood,” Milo replied. “Leave it to me.”
Dottie got back on the call. “Just us,” she murmured. “Listen Arnie, be careful, okay? This crazy bitch means business. Jon said he’d never seen so much professional activity done in such an amateurish way. People who think they know shit are dangerous.”
“Tell me about it,” he growled. “This feels like a first draft Grisham novel—before he edits out the bad writing.”
“You want any more of this?” Stan asked. He was dropping meatballs on top of a spaghetti tower.
Arnie ended the phone call, glanced out the window and then at the table of food. The evening was relatively young. He intended to stay until it got weird. There were several empty hours ahead.
“Sure,” he answered. “Might as well carb load.”
Summer couldn’t remember