I responded by bursting into tears.
“I guess we’re not having pesto,” Crawford said, getting up and handing me a paper towel.
“I guess not,” I said angrily, as if it were his fault. I flung the now-empty container into the sink and pushed Trixie off. I stormed past Crawford and went upstairs to change.
Crawford called up the stairs after me. “Put on some clean clothes and I’ll take you out to dinner.”
“Put on some clean clothes and I’ll take you to dinner,” I mimicked in my Crawford voice. “Like that’s going to help.” I stripped off my pesto-covered T-shirt, managing to streak my hair with green bits of basil and pine nuts. “Would that be before or after you take me to task for helping you with your case?” I said to my reflection.
“I can hear you,” he called up.
“You’re supposed to!” I called down, pulling off my jeans and socks. I decided that a long shower would be the only thing that would improve my mood and calm me enough to sit across from Crawford at dinner. After all, I’m a realist at heart—I was hungry, there was nothing to eat except for the plain, half-cooked pasta on the stove and the pesto in my hair, and the two of us had to get back on track, romantically speaking. “I’m taking a shower,” I called from behind my closed bedroom door. “Walk Trixie.” I waited a beat. “Please.”
A shower was exactly what I needed. After spending longer than necessary washing my hair and loading up on scented shower gel to erase any lingering olive oil or basil smells, I emerged feeling happier, calmer, and ready to face Crawford. I came down the stairs a few minutes later in a nice suede skirt and a turtleneck. I stood on the bottom step and watched Crawford come back in from his walk with Trixie.
“Let’s start over,” I said.
He considered that for a minute. “OK.”
“Give me a kiss, Crawford,” I said. Standing on the bottom step in my black, high-heeled boots made us about the same height. He came over and I put my arms around his neck and gave him a long kiss.
“Don’t go breakin’ my heart,” he said.
I chuckled. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
“I’m not kidding,” he said, and a glimmer of insecurity flashed across his face.
That didn’t deserve a response so I suggested a place for dinner. “How about Sadie’s?” I asked. “It’s quiet and I have a lot to tell you.”
Sadie’s was the site of our first unofficial date—Crawford had shown up at my house in the midst of a murder investigation ostensibly to ask me some questions. I didn’t know him, he still considered me something of a suspect, and we were extremely cautious around each other. But somewhere between a perfectly prepared vodka martini and the rice pilaf, I found myself transfixed by this seemingly wonderful man who, as it turned out, came with a ton of baggage. Since that time, we had dumped the baggage (namely: his wife), smoothed out some of the kinks, and embarked on a romantic journey that had had its share of bumps in the road. And would continue to, thanks to me.
I resisted the urge to tell him that this was on the list of restaurants to which Patrick McManus delivered his precious cargo of Budweiser.
We were seated at a table in the back, in a dark corner. Crawford made a show of trying to read his menu in the dark. “Just order the burger,” I said after asking the waitress to bring me a vodka martini with extra olives. Crawford went with his usual beer.
He drained half the bottle when it arrived. “So, what do you have to tell me?”
I took a deep breath. “Well, you were right about the identity of the tall woman and the priest at the job site today.”
Crawford smirked. “They don’t call me Detective Hot Pants for nothing,” he said, repeating one of my favorite lines to me. He took another sip of his beer. “And it was so hard to figure out.”
“Anyway,” I said, giving him the you’re-not-funny look, “Kevin and I went down there and found out that, one, Richie Kraecker is definitely using undocumented workers, two, someone’s giving them illegal green cards, and, three, I will never go out with Jack McManus again,” I said, slipping in that last part almost under my breath.
He wrapped his hands around his cold beer bottle and thought about what I had said. He wisely chose to ignore the Jack McManus reference and focused on the other parts of my account. “How did you find out about the illegal green cards?”
I resisted the urge to sing out, “I know more than the police do!” “Kevin managed to get it out of one of the workers. Probably threatened him with eternal damnation. Hispanic Catholics, for the most part, take that stuff more seriously than French Canadians, I’ve found.”
He nodded and then signaled the waitress for another beer. “Tell Kevin that that was his last visit to Riviera Pointe.”
You tell him, I thought, but I nodded obediently instead.
“What else did you find out?” he asked.
I told him about running into Hernan and how he had behaved. Neither seemed to surprise him.
“Hernan needs to go back to driving a cab,” he said. “Or painting houses.” He pulled a pad of paper out of his jacket pocket. “Give me a description of him.”
“Why?”
He jotted a note down. “Because if you conveniently forget to tell him, I can find him and tell him myself.” He went back a few pages in his notebook. “I didn’t question him in relation to the case. Moran did. So I don’t know what he looks like.”
“He’s about forty-fivish, about five foot five, short brown hair.”
Crawford stopped writing. “You just described about ninety percent of the workers at the job site.”
“What do you want me to say? That’s what he looks like,” I protested. “Listen, I’ll tell him when I see him: no more day laboring at Riviera Pointe. I won’t forget, conveniently or otherwise.”
The waitress dropped off his beer. Crawford looked down at the table. “And you’re sure about that other thing?” he asked, not looking at me.
It took me a minute. “Oh, that. Yes. Promise.” I crossed my heart and said a silent farewell to Jack McManus, his limitless supply of hockey tickets, and, lastly, his amazing orthodonture.
“And promise me you’ll leave the sleuthing to me.”
I grimaced. “Do I have to?” I whined. I had developed quite a love of sleuthing; I think it had happened when I had been jammed between the toilet and vanity in my late ex-husband’s bathroom, my pants around my ankles. I had found a sex tape, quite accidentally, but the fact that I had found it at all—taped to the back of the toilet tank—after the entire Fiftieth Precinct had been through the apartment, convinced me that I was just the most excellent sleuth this side of Nancy Drew.
He nodded, his mouth turned down in a frown. “You have to.”
I nodded slowly.
“If for nothing else, so that I can keep my job. If my girlfriend keeps turning up in places related to my cases, it won’t be good for me, Alison.” He looked at me. “Got it?”
I sighed. “Got it.” I was only sort of lying but I did my best to convince him of my sincerity by giving him my version of a brilliant smile.
Crawford drove me home after dinner. We pulled up in front of my house, where we proceeded to make out in his car for a while before I got out. Sunday, our usual make-out day, was a few days away, and I needed my Crawford fix. I was standing on my front walk, pulling my skirt out of my underpants, when I spied Jane, waving to me from her front yard. I smoothed my hair down and adjusted my turtleneck.
“Alison! Hey!” she called.
“Oh, hi, Jane,” I said, as if I had just spotted her in the previous nanosecond. It was dark, but the streetlights illuminated her enough so that I could see that she was wearing a Stepinac High School sweatshirt.
She trotted across the street and stopped when she got to me. “How are you?” she asked, not at all out of breath from her jog.
“I’m great. You?” I asked. I was more out of breath than she was and I had been standing still—but I had been sort
of upside down, and that severely limits your ability to breathe.
“I just wanted to pin you down for a dinner date. Are you free Saturday night after the Lord’s Bounty? Maybe around seven?” she asked. “Brendan’s coming home for his break and I know he would love to see you. I managed to switch weekends with the boys’ dad so that they could be around on Saturday night.”
I hesitated. I didn’t know if I could pull off my plan, the one that involved her and my very single friend, Jack McManus. “Can I get back to you?” I asked. “I want to bring a friend but I need to check with him first.”
“Oh, darn,” she said. “Was it the friend who just dropped you off? I didn’t want to ambush you while you were sitting in the car.”
I didn’t want to tell her what we were really doing in the car since it didn’t involve “sitting” at all, so I kept my mouth shut. Because of me, each of her kids had seen a dead body before his eighteenth birthday, so I was surprised she would even stand near me, never mind talk to me.
“So, get back to me, OK?” she said, noting my silence and impending fugue state. “It’ll be casual.”
“Great. I’ll call my friend now,” I said.
I am a genius, I thought.
I went into the house and greeted Trixie, who did odor reconnaissance on my boots, deciding that there was something on the toe of the right one that was worth licking. I shook her off and pulled my cell phone out of my pocketbook; Jack’s number was in the previously dialed listing. The phone rang for a few seconds before a very tentative-sounding Jack picked up the phone. Boy, he really didn’t have a stomach for sleuthing if just the sight of my name on his caller ID made him sound like this. “Hey, Jack, it’s Alison.”
“Uh, hi, Alison.”
“I’ll cut to the chase: a neighbor invited me over for dinner on Saturday night and I was wondering if you’d like to join me?” It was at that moment that it occurred to me that I sounded like I was asking him out on a date. Which I wasn’t. “And her boys love hockey. Are you around? I know they’d love to meet someone who’s involved with the Rangers.”
He hesitated a moment, presumably to think about how he was going to handle this. I jumped in. “I know the Rangers are playing an afternoon game. Maybe you could come over afterwards?”
He stuttered a little before finally saying, “OK.”
“OK?”
“Sure. Fine.”
Way to sound enthusiastic. He would be much happier once he found out that a lovely, attractive, single woman was the mother of the two boys. At least that’s what I told myself.
It was only eight thirty but I was tired, and, with a full day of teaching waiting for me the following day, I decided that it was time to walk Trixie for the final time before turning in. I put her on her leash and took her outside into the chilly night air. I trudged down the street in my boots, proving Crawford’s claim that I never wore the appropriate shoes for the task at hand. The toes of each boot had become uncomfortably tight and I whispered to Trixie to finish up so I could go into the house and put on my slippers.
“Come on, Trix. Please,” I begged. Her impassive eyes stared back at me, reminding me that she didn’t understand a word I had said besides her name. “It’s cold, honey. Let’s go.” I tugged at her leash.
I heard the slow progress of a car behind me, its tires turning on the asphalt. I didn’t pay it much heed; my concern was getting my dog to understand that her biological functions were of the utmost priority. Trixie stopped and turned, staring at the car down the road. A low growl started in her throat, then turned into a loud bark.
It was then that I heard the screech of tires as the car picked up speed.
The house we were standing in front of had a low retaining wall, a little patch of grass between it and the street. It was there that I was trying to coax Trixie into doing what we had come outside to do. She dragged me toward the low wall, keeping an eye on the speeding car and barking at me.
I turned and looked at the car, now speeding toward us, its headlights bathing us in an unnatural glow. I finally realized that the car was heading toward me and I dove over the retaining wall, Trixie close on my heels. The car drove up onto the patch of grass on which we were formerly standing, glanced off the retaining wall, and sped off down the street. I crouched behind the wall until I was sure that the car wasn’t coming back.
A light came on inside the house, a few feet behind me and the dog. The front door flew open and one of my neighbors, a man I didn’t recognize, stood on the front step in the shortest bathrobe I had ever seen. I got up so that I didn’t get a look from my crouch at anything I didn’t want to see.
“Get your dog off my front lawn!” he said.
I stood up on shaking legs, noticing that my skirt was torn. “That car tried to hit me!” I protested.
“I don’t care if aliens were trying to kidnap you and take you back to their mother ship,” he said. “Get that freaking dog off my front lawn!”
“I’m fine, by the way!” I said, and climbed back over the retaining wall; Trixie leaped gracefully onto the other side. Once there, she proceeded to do what we had come out to do. And then some.
“You’d better pick that up!” he warned, starting down the steps toward me.
I waved a blue New York Times home delivery plastic bag his way. “I’ve got it covered. Not to worry,” I said, anger replacing fear. I picked up Trixie’s deposit and started off down the street, not realizing until I had taken about ten steps that I had left the heel of my right boot on Cranky McCrankypants’s front lawn. I hobbled back to my house, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Once inside the house, I assessed the damage. My skirt was torn, my boot was wrecked, and I had a scrape on my hand that didn’t look like it required any immediate medical attention. I looked at Trixie. “Do you think that was an accident, Trix?”
The dog responded by barking enthusiastically.
“My thoughts exactly.”
Eleven
I made a few phone calls when I arrived at work on Friday: the first to Jane to accept the dinner date for the following evening; the second to Kevin to tell him that we were in big trouble with Crawford; and the third to Crawford. Fortunately, he was at the precinct and available when I called.
I was feeling very guilty about the whole Jack McManus thing and wanted to be upfront with Crawford about it. It was actually Kevin’s idea to come clean, which I thought was very mature, given that he was constantly thrusting Jack in my face. This wasn’t a date, I would explain, it was a setup: I was going to set up my very attractive neighbor with my very attractive friend Jack, who carried an enormous torch for me. Or so I told myself when I was feeling bad, like when I donned a pair of pants that made my butt look huge. I’m not sure what the reality of the situation was, but he had found me attractive and desirable enough to take out more than once. Crawford would understand, I thought, once I explained the whole thing.
Nevertheless, I thought I would lead with the whole speeding car thing. I figured that concern for my well-being would trump any anger at my breaking my promise never to see Jack again.
“Fiftieth Precinct. Detective Squad. Detective Crawford speaking. How can I help you?”
Wow, that’s a mouthful. That litany would have taken me a year to memorize. I cleared my throat. “Hiya, Crawford.”
He sounded surprised and more than a little pleased, always a good sign. “Hi there.”
I went into my dramatic retelling of the story of the speeding car, my jump over the retaining wall, and the indignation I felt when my neighbor showed no regard for my safety. I assured him that in spite of everything, I had only a scrape as evidence of what had happened.
“Can you believe that?” I asked.
“Which part?”
“About my neighbor?”
He made a noise that didn’t give me any indication how he felt. “Did you get a plate number?”
“There was no time. It happened so fast.”
“And you’re sure you’re OK?” he asked.
“I’m fine. Trixie’s fine. I’m just not sure if this was a drunk-driving incident or someone was really aiming for me.”
He was silent for a minute. “I’ll call the detectives in Dobbs Ferry PD and just give them a heads-up.”
I rolled my eyes. I’m sure they would be thrilled to hear from Crawford and to hear that he was calling about me. They probably had a dart board with my picture on it at which they regularly threw sharp objects. I had given them more than my fair share of trouble over the past year. “If you think that’s necessary.”
“Necessary? It’s essential, Alison. I don’t know what kind of trouble you might be in now, but suffice it to say that I don’t think this was a random thing.” He sighed audibly. “So, let’s review. No more visits to Rivieria Pointe, no going near Richie Kraecker. Go to school, go home, take a cooking class . . .”
“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means keep your nose clean. Stay out of trouble. People won’t aim their cars at you then. Or maybe they will but it won’t be because you’ve ruffled any feathers in the construction community.” He was running out of patience; that was obvious. “Listen, I have to run, but I have to ask you something.”
I was still smarting over the cooking comment, but I let it go. “Shoot.”
“The girls really want to meet you and I was hoping that you would go to dinner with us tomorrow night.” He paused. “I know that it’s a big step....”
I swiveled around in my desk chair and stared out the big window in my office. “Well, I’m not sure that I can.”
“Oh,” he said, a little hurt. “You have plans?”
I knew it was a big deal for me to meet the girls but I expected more than a day’s notice to prepare for such an event. “I do.”
He was silent, waiting for me to explain.
“Before you get mad, let me just explain that I’m performing a public service.”
He snorted. “Yes, when I think of public service, I think of you.”
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