“I’m not! Honestly!”
“I don’t think he’s got the balls for it,” Lawrence said. “A little man like you, dirty phone calls and eggs, that’s about all you’re capable of.”
“I think you’re right,” Alice said.
“Does this mean I can’t have some time alone with him?” George asked.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Alice said, patting her husband on the arm.
As we were heading back to the car, I said to Lawrence, “Match the DNA from the eggs on the comics store with the eggs still left in the carton?”
Lawrence opened his door. “I couldn’t believe I was actually saying it. Sometimes I get swept away in the moment.”
29
BY THE TIME LAWRENCE AND I got back to our cabin, it was dark.
He went into his bedroom and opened the top dresser drawer, where he’d carefully tucked his clothes earlier, and pulled out a black, long-sleeved pullover shirt with a high, almost turtle-like neck.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m getting changed,” Lawrence said. “You might want to do the same.”
“What? Spying on the Wickenses, this is a formal affair?”
Lawrence was stripping off his slacks and pulling on black jeans, tucking in the black shirt. He pulled at the shirt, tenting the fabric. “This kind of thing,” he said. It occurred to me that even his surveillance clothes looked more expensive than the stuff I wore in to the newsroom. “Dark clothes? So you won’t be seen? You’re new at this, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t exactly pack for hiding in the forest,” I said. “In fact, I didn’t get a chance to pack at all.”
Lawrence made a face. “How long you been wearing these clothes?”
I shrugged.
Lawrence sighed and tossed me an extra dark shirt. “Your jeans will be okay,” he said. “This shirt’ll help, but I don’t know what we’re going to do with that Ivory Snow face of yours.”
I unbuttoned the shirt I was wearing, slipped into Lawrence’s, which smelled of fabric softener or something. “This smells nice,” I said. “You do your own laundry?”
“What of it?”
“Okay, tell me this,” I said. “Can you iron?”
“You working up to some sort of gay joke?”
“No no,” I protested. “I just wanted to know whether I could add ironing to the list of things you can do that I can’t. With beating the snot out of people at the top, and ironing at the bottom. God knows how many things in between.”
Lawrence buckled his belt. “Let’s talk about the dogs,” he said.
“Well, you saw them this aft. There’s two. Gristle and Bone. And I’m not even sure, technically speaking, that they’re dogs. They may be very short velociraptors. All muscles and teeth. And from what I’ve seen, as deranged as they are dangerous. The other day, they tried to eat through one of the cabin doors. If your plan is to get into the Wickenses’ house to plant some bugs, you’re out of your mind.” The very thought was making my skin crawl, although that might have been the high neck on the shirt Lawrence had lent me.
“I mean, think about it,” I said. “If the dogs are outside, roaming about the property, you’ll never make it from the fence to the house, and if the dogs are in the kitchen there, where they eat and sleep, there’s no way you’re going to get inside the house.”
Lawrence said nothing.
“And,” I continued, “if it’s your plan to poison the dogs, which, even though I am not the sort of person who condones the murder of house pets, in this case I’d be willing to make an exception, that’s going to arouse their suspicions, don’t you think? Their dogs turn up dead, they’re going to be asking some questions, and I imagine the first people they’re going to ask are me and Dad, and now you, since you’ve made such a terrific first impression on them. And Timmy Wickens does not seem to be the kind of guy who asks questions nicely, even though he didn’t make a fuss about how you got the drop on his boys. Hello? You’re not saying a lot. Do you understand what I’m saying here? Am I coming through?”
Lawrence nodded. “Yes,” he said.
“Tell me you’re not going to poison the dogs.”
Slowly, and thoughtfully, Lawrence said, “I am not going to poison the dogs. If I have to, I’ll shoot them.” My eyebrows went up. “But that’s not my plan at the moment.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Lawrence led me into the main room and opened up his cases filled with surveillance gear. He pulled out a gadget I’d noticed earlier, at the mayor’s place, that looked similar to a gun, but the entire barrel was covered in a soft, black, spongy material.
“Shotgun microphone,” Lawrence said. “You point at something, off in the distance, it picks up those sounds. But I don’t know just how effective it will be. Whether they’ll have their windows open at all. Whether they’ll come outside.”