The House Across The Street

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  Eventually some old lady lets her inside and I’m left with only my thoughts. But that’s a lot right now because my mind is going all over the place. I look at the white wooden, two-story house I’m watching, then I gaze back at the car parked in the driveway, the one the hot chick just emerged from and then crossed the street. I take in my surroundings. I’m sitting in a beat-up car, filled with clothes and trash, and I’m freezing my ass off. Unless I figure out some other way to track Logan Foster, I can only crank the engine so many times to get a blast of heat before having to fill the car with more gas. There’s got to be a better way and I suddenly have an idea.

  Reaching under an empty pizza box, several empty cans of sodas and a multitude of discarded food wrappers, I root through the interior heap of my car and fish out my laptop. After powering it up, I pull up the database for car registrations so I can run the ownership. From my angle, I can’t quite make out the entire license plate, so I start my car and back up a little. When I can read the whole number, I mash the digits in and wait for the results. The search engine spins a minute or two and then the results show the ownership coming back to Richard & Rachel Anderson. Damn the luck. My beauty is married.

  It figures. I’m never that lucky. My chubby does a disappearing act once my hopes are dashed and I’m left with nothing but a deep emptiness. Staring once again at the white two-story house, I wonder why I ever got into undercover work in the first damned place. There’s been no activity in the house for the entire hour I’ve been parked across the street in front of it and I’m bored out of my mind, not to mention being colder than shit. I blow a few breaths of hot air on my fingers just to cut the chill.

  With nothing better to do, I google Rachel Anderson. I’m able to pull up information showing she graduated from Texas Christian University with a business degree. It looks like she went to work right away for Thompson & Knight. I’m impressed. Even I know that’s a highfalutin accounting firm. Finding nothing else about Rachel, I search around to see what I can find on Richard Anderson. Son-of-a-bitch. He’s even more impressive. Apparently, he’s a top-notch heart surgeon at Texas Health. Already I hate him, and I don’t even know him.

  Even though she’s married, I can’t stop thinking about her. Opening Facebook, I search around to see if I can find anything else. There she is. Jesus, she’s every bit as gorgeous as I imagined. Underneath that coat she was wearing, lie my fantasies. Looking closer, I note the lack of recent pics of her and Mr. Wonderful. She’s not online often, but there are some photos of her and a couple of chicks. I scroll down, noting it takes me almost a year before I get to one with her hubby next to her. Now that’s damned curious.

  While I’ve been lost in poking around on my background check, I hear voices behind my car. Glancing over my shoulder, I glimpse my beauty is heading back across the street and some old lady from the other end of the three townhouses is calling her name. They pause on the sidewalk in front of a low, brick retaining wall running the length of all three units. Rachel is hugging herself against the cold and I imagine she is hugging me. I like the thought.

  My car is a piece-of-shit and, having been wrecked several times, there’s no longer any padding in the rear-door panel. Okay, there’s no longer even the cover over the interior back panel. Hey, I said it was a piece-of-shit. Anyway, the lack of proper insulation makes their voices easily heard.

  Rachel waves off the lady about some guy named Dawson and hurries her steps to get away from Mrs. Tuttle, as she refers to her. The pushy woman scurries to stop her. Rachel finally gives up and approaches her. The old lady agrees to put the Dawson conversation on hold, but then her beady eyes land in my direction and she points a gnarly finger at me, busting me. Well shit.

  Rachel follows her bony finger and I get a look of scrutiny from each of them. I was parked right in front of the wooden house, but since I backed up to get a look at the license plate, I’m more in line with Rachel’s house on one side and the old lady’s townhome on the other side. This means they’re close to my car.

  Trying to be discreet, I glance back at Rachel. My eyes can’t get enough of her silky golden curls cascading past her shoulders and down her back. Lovely. I envision running my fingers through her hair while we’re making like rabbits somewhere ... anywhere.

  Wait a second. Hold your horses. I’m noticing something now. Rachel is wearing a high-fashion coat and she’s driving an expensive luxury car. But she isn’t sporting a blinding wedding ring. Going back to the Facebook page, I quickly click on “Family and Relationships.” Oh, God, be still my heart, she’s listed herself as separated. I guess Mr. Wonderful isn’t all he’s cracked up to be. What a shame. NOT!!!

  My mind rushes into overdrive. I jump that website and switch over to the real property section and look up the address of the house where she’s parked. Okay. Hmm. It’s owned by Clyde and Marie Jones ... not Richard and Rachel Anderson. My fingers fly all around on the keyboard, looking up property owned by Richard and Rachel Anderson. I find they own a place down by the old railroad tracks. It’s in the Santa Fe building, which is now a high-dollar condominium complex.

  A quick property search tells me Clyde and Marie Jones own a residence over in the Ridgeway Addition. They also own this little house. When I google Clyde Jones, I find he’s a CPA/Bookkeeper and the address comes back to the place where I am now parked. I’m also able to discover Mr. and Mrs. Jones are Rachel’s parents. Does this mean the daughter and her father work together from here?

  My head pivots backward, looking for other parked cars. It’s possible the dad’s here. Maybe the mother dropped him off. Maybe the mother works here too. It could be a whole family operation. I don’t know. But when I return my gaze to the pretty girl staring a hole through me, I know one thing and one thing only ... I intend to find out more about Rachel.

  Chapter Eight

  Rachel

  “Rachel, just go over and ask him what he’s up to,” Mrs. Tuttle urged. “No one sits in their car in this kind of weather. He’s up to something and it can’t be anything good.”

  The guy in the beat-to-shit Dodge Charger turned and gave me a look. From what I saw, he appeared to be a gorilla. Hair was everywhere and lots of it. It streamed down his back, over his face, across his lips and covered his chin. Nasty, unruly looking stuff. I found it revolting and I wasn’t about to go over and question him about why he was parked in front of my house.

  “Rachel, he could be casing your place. He was parked down the street until a little while ago. Since you’ve arrived home and went over to Margaret’s house, he’s backed that heap of junk up to get a better look at not only your house, but your car too.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Go on, Rachel. Ask him why he’s here.”

  A frown filled my face, not wanting to do it. Turning away from her and glaring back at the pitiful car, I noted it was as disgusting as the occupant inside. The front fender was a rusty primer color, the passenger door was a light beige paint, and the rest of the car was a faded blue. There were no hubcaps, and several dents gave the impression it had been in multiple wrecks. While it needed a good washing, I figured if it went through a carwash, the brushes might have torn the thing to smithereens. Peering closer, I saw a pole positioned in the backseat holding a supply of clothing, as if the driver lived in his automobile.

  “You know, Mrs. Tuttle, I’ll bet you anything he’s waiting to speak to Logan. Don’t you think?”

  Logan Foster recently moved into the white two-story directly to the north of Mrs. Tuttle’s home. He was the grandson of Imogene Foster who had recently taken a bad fall, broken her hip, and was now living in a rehabilitation center. Logan had wasted no time at all taking up residence in Mrs. Foster’s home. Logan had managed to keep his hand stuck out for most of his life, urging his grandmother to fill it with money whenever he came around. Frankly, I saw him as a welch, always taking advantage of Mrs. Foster, and now he was making himself comfortable in her home after her unfortunate event. I didn’t trust
him either. Once when I went over to take Mrs. Foster some groceries, he was there and his eyes were bloodshot, like he might have been doing drugs. Now, seeing this guy in his car, it caused me to wonder if Logan was selling drugs out of Mrs. Foster’s home and this guy was waiting to make a purchase.

  “I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Tuttle, I’ll give the police a call and ask them to run his license plate. They can tell me who it’s registered to or if there’s a warrant out for his arrest. But I don’t feel comfortable confronting him on my own. Okay?”

  “I suppose that’s the smarter way to approach it. Will you call me if anything bad comes back? I don’t want to worry myself to death about this.”

  “Yes, of course. If you don’t hear from me, you’ll know it’s nothing.” Taking another look back at the car, I made a mental note of the plate number. “It’s super chilly out here. Let’s get out of the cold and I’ll let you know if there’s something to be concerned about.”

  “Okay, fine. I hope he just moves on. Even if there’s nothing to be troubled about, he and that car are blights on the neighborhood.”

  Giving her an agreeable nod, I headed for my front door. With each step, I felt his eyes tracking me. And a cold shiver ran up my spine and it wasn’t from the frigid weather.

  Chapter Nine

  Jackson

  Shit, she’s most definitely calling the law on me. She even memorized my license plate. Wait, this could truly work to my advantage ... assuming her parents aren’t inside. My plan is in hyper-mode right now. I throw my head in the other direction and watch for the nosy old woman to go back inside her home. Then I yank, pull and push my car door open ... it’s a process. Then I gently hold it in place to close it, hoping nothing falls off. Bounding up Rachel’s porch steps, I peer in the small window of her front door. She’s already on the phone, no doubt calling the police.

  “Knock, knock,” I call out, simultaneously ringing the bell and rapping on the wooden door. “Yoo-hoo, hello.”

  She twists her head around and looks startled as heck when she spots me. “Just a second,” she calls out. “I’ll be right with you.” I watch through the window as she carries on a conversation. I know the police won’t blow my cover. They can’t afford to.

  “I know you’re calling the cops on me,” I shout out, holding up my badge beside my face as I peer through the glass pane. I hate breaking cover. It’s something I should never do. But for my plan to work, I have no choice. I also know she won’t open the door without some sort of verification. “My name is Jackson Barnes.” I do a quick look-around to make sure no one can hear me. “I’m undercover. If you’ll let me in, I’ll connect you with someone in my department to vouch for me.”

  “What?”

  She’s trying to hear me and, at the same time, listen to someone on the phone. She’s having a cross-conversation. “Ask for Rob Brown,” I shout at her because I know he will be the only one in the department who will break cover for me. “Tell him to vouch for Jackson Barnes as being an undercover officer.” It takes a while and I’m freezing my ass off on her front porch while I’m waiting. I blow on my frozen hands just to get any bit of warmth. Finally, she returns the phone back into its cradle. “Open up, please,” I plead.

  She complies, but the look on her face is very wary. “What do you want?” she asks, barely cracking the door.

  “Can I come inside? It’s cold out here.” The door swings wider. I take the gesture as an invitation, though she doesn’t voice the welcome. “Thank you,” I say as soon as I’ve fully entered and closed the door behind me, getting a warm cozy feeling that begins to work magic on my frozen toes.

  “What do you want?” she poses again, void of any pleasantries or warm smiles.

  “Hi, I’m Jackson Barnes.”

  “Rachel Anderson,” she stoically introduces herself.

  “Look, I know you’ve just verified that I’m an undercover officer with the Fort Worth Police Department. There’s nothing for you to be afraid of.” I try to put her at immediate ease because I do realize I look very scrappy.

  “Yes, but how is this any of my concern?”

  My eyes bounce all around. To my right I notice a desk area and over to the left there’s a dining table with a few files on it, as if she’s using it to separate her work product. My ears are on high alert, listening for sounds of other occupants. Everything is quiet, not even music or a TV. Still I press because I don’t need the parents around when I try to seduce their daughter. “I’ve done some online research. I know this place belongs to Clyde and Marie Jones, your parents ... right? Are they here?”

  She gives me a skeptical look. “There’s no need to be researching me or my parents. None of us have done anything illegal. You must have the wrong house.”

  “No, no, I didn’t mean you, or your parents. I’m watching the house across the street ... the white two-story.” I gesture my head in that direction. “I’m colder than shit in my car. I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to allow me to set up surveillance from your home ... uh, your parents’ home.” She scowls. “You’d be doing a great civic duty. You know, helping to apprehend the bad guy.” Jeez, if her parents are here, I’m going to have to scrap this plan and bail. I wish she’d say something in this regard.

  Her frown stays. “You’re spying on someone from your vehicle, in the middle of the day, and right in front of their home? You must be horrible at your undercover job.”

  I can’t help chuckling. “No one is home right now. But I was waiting to pose as a drug purchaser. Gaining trust from a drug dealer is the key to discovering their supplier.” I fib a little so as not to break complete cover.

  “So, Logan is dealing drugs,” she warily remarks.

  I’m so glad she already has suspicions. This will help me. “It appears so. Our investigation is in the preliminary stages. This is my first day to attempt contact with him. Frankly, if you’d be so kind as to let me use your home, I could set up my equipment and track his activities from a warmer position. In probability, my job will be made easier if I don’t have to work myself into his circle of friends. I can watch from a distance and he’ll be under the impression you merely have company. What do you say? Can we work out an arrangement?” Her disagreeable frown seems to be permanently affixed to her face, so I add, “Please, it’s really cold outside.” Though she still doesn’t look convinced, I can tell she’s wavering. Somewhere in my begging, I’ve managed to tug on her heartstrings. “Really cold,” I say and give a shudder. “Brrr.”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know,” she responds with a cynical look. Damn, I’m beginning to think I have mistaken my beauty for a cold, heartless bitch. Just then a car door slams and her gaze switches to the window. “Shit,” she mutters under her breath.

  My gaze follows hers and all I see is a heavy-set, black-haired girl wearing black-rimmed glasses. As she makes her way toward the porch, Rachel takes on a frantic look. “Problem?” I ask when I see a deep furrow in her forehead.

  “Okay, you can set up your equipment here, but under one condition.”

  “Name it.” Oh goody, I’m about to get my way. My heart is singing.

  “Pretend to be my client. You’re here because I’m preparing your tax return. Sit at the table and say very little. In fact, just keep your mouth completely shut.”

  “Yes ma’am.” I practically dance my ass over to the table and plop myself down. I’m so proud of myself right now. I won and she doesn’t even know what hit her.

  Chapter Ten

  Rachel

  Peering out the window, I saw Catie pulling in behind my car. My best friend forever knew me like the back of her own hand. Guaranteed, she didn’t buy my lie about having a client and, no doubt, she was here to check up on me. And me, well, I had stooped so low, I’d allowed a stranger into my home and asked him to pretend he was my client, simply to cover for my white lie. I paced back and forth waiting for her to approach and then I opened the door with a big fake smile on my face. “C
atie, what on earth brings you over here?”

  She stepped inside and her eyes were immediately drawn to Jackson Barnes. “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t realize you had someone here.”

  “Yes, you might have noticed his car is parked out front. Remember, I told you and Brenna I had to get back for a client,” I affirmed with the utmost believability, while liar, liar, was running through my thoughts.

  She hesitated, her eyes shifting between me and my fake client. “Can I speak with you privately?”

  “Yes, of course.” My gaze shifted to the gorilla. “Excuse us for a moment. Just keep your seat. I’m sure we won’t be long.” I led Catie to my bedroom which was located to the back of the house. This tiny home only had two bedrooms and one bath. The smaller bedroom was now being used for my filing/copy room, and storage for a lot of my personal items. “What is it?” I asked innocently when we were out of ape-man’s hearing distance.

  “I can’t believe you really have a client. Brenna and I both thought you were lying. We even made a ten-dollar bet on it.”

  “It’s not much of a bet if you both thought I was lying.”

  “Brenna lost,” she answered. “I said someone would be here.”

  My face tightened with a puzzled look. “You just said you couldn’t believe someone was here, and yet you bet someone would be?”

  “I did. I was taking up for you.”

  A smile spread over my face. “Well, thank you for believing in me.” Of course, it hadn’t escaped me that I had, in fact, told a tiny little untruth.

  “We thought you ditched us at lunch because you didn’t want to talk about Richard. Truthfully, I thought I’d lost the bet.”

  I hated her use of the word truthfully. “Well, to tell you the truth …” I hesitated, then decided to let my fake client façade stand. “Truthfully, I don’t want to talk about Richard any longer. I really do want the divorce. And I need for you guys to support me in my decision instead of always pushing me to get back with him. It’s over between us. It really is.”