Wearily I turn the Impala around and drive back. It’s almost dark by the time I pass the front gate, the sky bruised by sunset as I head down my street. My street, ha. I have no right to be here.
Then I spot somebody skulking around Rose’s house. Of course I have to be driving a huge, absurdly flashy car. I couldn’t be out in a nondescript Toyota, no.
Whoever he is, he’s lurking around the back of the house, moving near the basement windows. The lights are on in the living room and upstairs. Everybody’s home. I drum my fingers on the wheel and think for a minute.
I can’t leave this alone, of course. How do I handle it? My instincts are not something I should be listening to right now. Need to keep my head clear and focused. Who the hell is this guy?
He tries to hide when I pull in my driveway. I use the time it takes my garage door to go up to watch him. He’s on the far side of the porch, crouched where it bolts to the house. He’ll make a run for it when the garage door closes.
I don’t close it. I throw open my door and run full tilt from the garage across the driveway and into Rose’s yard, angling to sweep around the deck. The prowler yelps and makes a run for it.
Not very fast.
I take him down with a tackle around the legs, roll, and get my hand over his mouth. He bites me. Bad idea.
I could make this hurt or I could snap his neck. Instead I slip my arm around him and lock him into a sleeper hold. I can feel his pulse tighten in his skinny throat against my biceps and forearm. I look up, half expecting to see Rose or one of the kids looking over the railing at me.
Nope. The prowler goes limp.
No time to be artsy about it, I throw him over my shoulder and carry him back across the yard, glancing this way and that. People are so blind around here. I think I could run a marching band through the neighbor’s yard and they wouldn’t even look out the windows.
I punch the button on the wall and the garage door rumbles down. Binding his hands with nylon rope, I toss the other end of the line over one of the roof joists and haul him up, stretching his arms over his head. Farther, farther, until his toes barely touch the floor.
For the first time I get a really good look at him. Mid thirties, a little out of shape with a bit of a potbelly and skinny arms. He has a camera with him. I cut the strap from around his neck and set the camera on my desk, walk over, and slap him in the face.
He sputters and his eyes flutter open.
“Fuck, my head, what the…” he trails off.
“Oh. Shit.”
“Oh shit indeed. The fuck are you doing sneaking around that house?”
“You better let me go, man.”
“Oh really? I better. What happens if I don’t?”
He struggles as I go through his pockets. Cell phone. Wallet. He’s carrying his freaking wallet. I check for ID, find it in a little flap, and slip it out. I toss the wallet so it thumps off his chest and slaps on the floor.
“Jared.”
I hold up the driver’s license.
“Is this you, Jared?”
“Y-yeah.”
“You want to go home tonight, Jared?”
He swallows, hard.
“Man, I’ve seen your face…”
I snort a laugh.
“Ha. Right. You have. Good for you. Look, I don’t want to drag this out. This is how it’s going to work.”
I wheel over a cart and roll open a padded leather case full of tools, and slip them out of their slots one at a time.
“Man, if I start screaming—”
“They’ll think it’s my TV. Welcome to suburbia, Jared. The land of nobody gives a fuck.”
I slam the potato peeler down on the tray. It makes the other tools rattle.
“What are you going to do with that?”
I look up at him. “Okay, this is how it works. You will answer my questions to my satisfaction, and you will get to keep the skin on your balls. You don’t, welp.”
He swallows. “I can’t…”
I lift the potato peeler. “I can.”
“Jesus Christ,” he whimpers, and I smell a distinctive bitter scent, and a wet stain spreads on his khakis. He’s wearing fucking khakis.
“First question, who are you?”
“Jared—”
“Not your name, chucklefuck.”
“I’m a private detective.”
“Who hired you and why?”
“I can get sued—”
“You can get castrated.”
He whimpers. “I’m supposed to be looking for anything that lady’s ex-husband can use in court to get the kids taken away.”
“How long have you been watching them?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“Have you reported anything so far?”
“Y-yeah,” he says. “She leaves them unattended after school and while she’s in class.”
“So fucking what? Lots of parents do that.”
“The judge won’t see it that way. The oldest is fourteen. They can’t be alone all night by themselves.”
I grit my teeth. “You provided this information to the ex-husband already.”
“Y-yeah,” he says.
“Fuck. I don’t like the answer to my questions. Say goodbye to your scrotum.”
I snatch the potato peeler from the tray and take a step toward him and he screams like a little girl.
I grab his collar and touch the tip of the potato peeler to his nose.
“You can change my mind.”
“H-how?”