shirt. Outside, Jack raised his hands in surrender, took a step back. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I’m looking for my brother.” The face disappeared from the window and within seconds the door beneath the front stoop flew open and the furious man was walking toward him, fists clenched. A medium-size dog rushed at Jack, stopping short of his ankles and crouching down with a low, menacing growl.
“Please.” Jack stepped backward and almost tripped over an elevated brick border that enclosed the small front garden of ragged English ivy and a struggling dogwood. “Don’t shoot.” He was simultaneously frightened and furious. He hated having to lift his hands to this beefy, red-faced cop. “It was an honest mistake, Officer. I’d forgotten Stephanie rented the ground floor.”
“I’m not a cop. I’m a security guard and you better have a good reason for looking in my windows and I better hear it fast.”
“I’m looking for Leo Plumb,” Jack said in a rush. “I’m his brother. Leo’s brother! He’s staying upstairs.”
“I know who Leo is.”
“Again,” Jack said, relieved to see that the cop—security guard—whatever, wasn’t wearing a gun. “Please accept my sincere apologies.” Jack looked down at the dog who was coming closer to his ankles and barking.
“Get back here, Sinatra.” The man snapped his fingers at the dog who returned to his owner’s side, whined, settled onto his haunches, and then resumed barking at Jack.
TOMMY O’TOOLE STARED at Jack for a few minutes. He was definitely related to Leo, the same WASPish features, thin lips, slightly beakish nose beneath dark hair. On Leo it all added up to something a little more impressive. Tommy enjoyed rattling the intruder. His clean-shaven face had gone green and there were beads of sweat on his upper lip and along the top of his generous forehead. His tweed coat looked like something Sherlock Holmes would wear. Jesus. Where did he think he was?
“You look through a window on some of the streets around here and people will shoot first and ask questions later,” Tommy said, knowing Jack wouldn’t recognize the exaggeration.
“You’re absolutely right. I will be more careful.” Jack lowered his hands and took a tentative step out of the garden patch. The dog lunged and Jack scrambled back inside the brick enclosure.
“Sinatra!” Tommy bent down and stroked the dog’s back. “Francis Albert. Be quiet.” The dog licked Tommy’s hand and whimpered a bit. “Sorry,” he said to Jack. “He’s very high-strung. I should have named him Jerry Lewis.”
“That’s very funny,” Jack said, without smiling. He stared at the dog who appeared to be some kind of pug mix with a short brown coat, black pushed-in snout, and slightly bulging blue eyes that were eerily Sinatra-like. Jack stepped out of the ivy one more time and looked down at his suede shoes, which were dampened with what he optimistically hoped was lingering morning dew but assumed was dog urine.
“What did you say your name was?” Tommy said.
“Jack. Plumb.” He extended a hand, and Tommy reluctantly stepped forward to shake it. Tommy didn’t trust this guy; there was something furtive, something not quite open about him. The kind of guy he’d keep his eye on if he were loitering around a lobby or a store.
“We’ve had a Peeping Tom in this neighborhood,” Tommy said. “Some creep who walks up to windows looking for women inside and whips it out in broad daylight. Sick bastard.”
“I assure you”—Jack placed one gloved hand over his heart—“I am not your Peeping Tom.”
“Yeah, I imagine not.”
“Do you know if they’re home?” Jack asked. “Leo or Stephanie? I thought I saw a light go on upstairs a few minutes ago.”
“I guess they’re gone for the day,” Tommy said. He suspected he wasn’t telling the truth. He thought he’d heard Stephanie walking around a few minutes ago.
“Listen,” Jack said, taking his phone from his pocket. “I’d like to call just in case someone is there and can’t hear the bell for whatever reason. Do you have Stephanie’s number? I’ve come all the way from Manhattan.”
“From Manhattan?”
“Yes,” Jack said. “The West Village.”
“That’s quite a trip. I guess you’ve been on the road what? Two, three days?”
Jack forced what he hoped was a self-deprecating laugh. God, he hated everyone. “I just meant I’d hate to get back across the bridge and discover they’d been in the shower or something.”
Tommy eyed Jack. If Stephanie were lying low, she wouldn’t answer the phone either. Also, he should probably offer Sherlock a paper towel or rag; he definitely had