want to leave her a note, might as well kill some time.”
He spent the next forty minutes judge-shopping. No one was willing to give him access to the Strathmore resident files. Several normally cooperative jurists expressed doubts he’d proven the occurrence of any crime.
I ignored his grumbling and used the time to pull up a custody report due in a week. Reading and re-reading my findings, then creating a separate file for the revisions I needed to make. I was nearly done when Milo said, “Action.”
Two cars had driven onto the property, a mini-convoy of sorts. The first, a squat black Fiat 500, rolled up in front of the mauve house. A young blue-haired woman in all-black spandex got out, arms filled by three squirrel-sized black Chihuahuas. Black Goth lips parted as she smiled and waved at the driver of the second car.
Blue Buick LaCrosse, freshly waxed but some of the paint had surrendered to age and sunlight. Dorothy Koster gave Chihuahua Girl a return wave and a warm smile. Both of them unaware of our presence across the street.
Susan Koster’s mother wore a pink-and-white waitress uniform and white flats and clutched a bag of groceries. She said something pleasant sounding to her neighbor.
The younger woman laughed and let loose the dogs. They scampered up to Dorothy, who knelt, put down her bag, and was ready when one of the tiny pooches jumped into her arms. Full-on mouth kiss. Same for the other two.
I thought of Will Burdette’s canine battalion. Blanche, always happy to see me.
Milo said, “Enjoy these few minutes, Dorothy.”
All three dogs continued to dance around the woman in pink. After a few moments she threw back her head in laughter and wiggled her fingers and the trio raced back to their owner.
Milo sighed. “Let’s give her a chance to get settled.”
And then we’ll unsettle her.
* * *
—
Five minutes later, he was letting a pitted brass knocker fall on a catch plate.
Within seconds, Dorothy Koster had opened the door. Still in her uniform, Dotty embroidered above the right breast pocket.
Smiling, but surprise killed that. “Yes?”
Milo introduced himself.
She said, “Police? What’s going on?”
Milo said, “Ma’am, I’m sorry—”
Dorothy Koster didn’t need a reply. “Susie?” She gasped and swayed and her head began lolling from side to side.
Milo said, “Ma’am—”
Dorothy’s eyes rolled back in her head. Then her knees gave way.
We both shot forward but I got there first and caught her around the waist. Small-boned woman, limp as week-old salad. “Ms. Koster?”
Out cold.
Turning cold.
I got her inside, propped her in a tweedy recliner, checked her pulse and her pupils.
Milo said, “She’s breathing.”
“Steadily,” I said. “Probably a vasovagal faint.”
“Jesus.”
“Water will help.”
Four of his long strides took him across a diminutive living room overly furnished with more tweed pieces and white-painted rococo tables. He stepped into a minimal kitchen, filled a glass from the tap, and studied the bag of groceries. Folded neatly on the counter, its contents arranged precisely. Fresh produce, cans of soup, bread.
“Here we go.” He handed me the glass. I patted Dorothy Koster’s cheek lightly, uttered her name a couple of times, wet my fingertip with water and ran it over her lips.
Nothing happened for a few seconds, then she purred, eyes fluttering. Opening. Pupils constricting as they gazed up at a ceiling light, then dilating as she lowered her attention to me.
“Huh?”
“You fainted, Ms. Koster.”
She continued to study me, puzzled.
“How about some water?” I held the glass to her lips but she rejected the offer, sharply turning her head to the side.
I said, “Take your time.”
She whirled back to me. Stared up, tight-eyed and tight-lipped.
“Uh,” she said. Her arms straightened as her hands slapped flat against my chest. She shoved. Not much force to it but I retreated and let her sit by herself.
She continued to stare at me, then her eyes rotated to Milo. Her groceries. Back to Milo. Crumpling like crepe, she sat back.
“Susie.”
We said nothing.
Dorothy Koster looked at me. “Sorry…did I hurt you?”
“Not at all.”
“Really sorry…I’ll take that water.”
* * *
—
Two glasses and a wad of tissues later, she was ready to talk. Like most people in her situation, she craved details. As he always does at the beginning, Milo avoided specifics and parceled out the basics. Managing to make them sound like much more.
Some people see through that and press. Dorothy Koster seemed satisfied.
“Again, so sorry for your loss, ma’am.”
“My poor baby girl.” Hands covered her face. “Oh, God, I can’t believe this is happening.”
More time; more tissues. She balled