The Man Next Door

“No,” Michael said solemnly, “I don’t.”

She rubbed her hands through her hair. “Just tell me. What kind of idiot am I to go along with this for even a minute? I’d really like to know.”

Michael finished his Coke. Perhaps it was time for a real answer. “I’d say you were just trying to be nice—in the beginning, at least. Trying to spare the feelings of an aging woman who dreams about grandchildren. As for now, though…I’d say you have a husband who doesn’t know how to stand up to his mother. And I’d say you’re starting to get into this pregnancy thing, too. You already have the walk down—that’s a good touch.”

She stared at him. “You can’t possibly think I’m enjoying myself.”

Michael wished he could stretch out his legs more. Such were the hazards of a stakeout—sore butt and muscle cramps. “Maybe you’re just trying it on for size,” he told Donna. “Trying to figure out what it really would be like to have a kid.”

She looked peeved. “That’s ridiculous. Brad and I don’t want children. Not for a very long time, anyway.” Suddenly she didn’t seem to want to talk about it anymore. She snatched up Michael’s log sheet and scanned it.

“Exciting day, I see. Ms. Bennett went to the grocery store…the bagel shop. the drycleaners. My, sure signs of criminal activity. And now she’s at the library of all places. Scary, indeed. Should we call for backup?”

This was the Donna he knew best: sassy, sarcastic, outspoken. He settled more comfortably in his seat.

“You forget,” he said, “we no longer have backup. It’s just you and me.”

Donna plopped her feet on the dashboard. “I do forget sometimes,” she admitted. “You can’t be a cop for ten years and not have it ingrained. Sometimes I actually miss the uniform.”

Donna always had liked the uniform. Even after she’d made detective, she’d grumbled about having to give up her cap and her billy club.

Michael gazed across at the library. Maybe Kim Bennett liked to read. Or maybe she’d just wanted to get out of the heat. Either way, she’d been in there awhile.

“Sometimes it still seems strange,” Donna said. “You and me private investigators. Doesn’t it seem strange to you?”

The back of his shirt was damp, sticking to the upholstery. “It’s a job,” he said.

“We’re self—employed, anyway. And the money’s good. We make a whole lot more than we used to.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he said briefly. People were willing to pay exorbitant sums to have their husbands or business partners or employees tailed.

“You know, Mike, you never talk about the old days,” Donna remarked. “It’s very annoying. Who else am I going to reminisce with?”

“There’s no point in looking back,” he said after a moment.

“You do miss being a cop,” she persisted. “I wish you’d just admit it.”

He moved restlessly. This was Donna, too: always wanting to dredge up memories. But he’d left the police department because it was the only wise choice. Now it was up to him to make his new life work. He’d damn well make it work—and that meant leaving a whole lot behind.

“Okay, so you’re telling me to mind my own business,” Donna said imperturbably. “But someday you’ll have to talk about it. The good parts and the bad, too….”

“Give it a rest,” he said.

“And people think I’m touchy.” She swung her feet down from the dashboard and grabbed her pillow from the back seat. Clutching it to her, she glared at Michael. “Don’t say anything. Just don’t.”

He lifted his hands. “Not a word.”

Still glaring at him suspiciously, she opened the door of the Jeep. “It’s time for me to clock in. I’ll take over and do a wonderful job of following Ms. Bennett. Too bad she never goes anywhere exciting.”

“Maybe she’ll surprise us,” Michael said. He had a feeling the lovely widow Bennett might be full of surprises.

Donna started to climb out, but then stopped. “Mike,” she said, “do you really think she did it? Do you think she killed her husband?”

Again a picture of Kim Bennett materialized in his mind—her blue eyes the color of shadow over sea, the reckless tumble of her hair about her shoulders. but, most of all, the haunted expression on her face.

“I don’t know,” he said at last, reluctantly. “I sure as hell don’t know.”

A SHORT TIME LATER Michael pulled up at the community center. It was an older building in downtown Tucson, adobe walls stuccoed a startling shade of lavender. The place wasn’t easy to miss, you could say that much for it. Built onto the side was the new brick gym funded by the Police Athletic League. It seemed an unlikely combination—lavender adobe and redbrick—but Michael had been right in the middle of those fund—raising efforts, and he liked the way the place had turned out: oddball, perhaps, but sturdy. Maybe he wouldn’t admit as much to Donna, but he’d missed being around here this past year.

He got out of his Jeep and walked along the border of palm trees until he reached the gym entrance. He hesitated for just a moment, then pushed the door open and went inside.

He saw Andy right off, sitting on the bleachers, in a huddle with a couple of his friends from the old days. Andy seemed distracted, as if only pretending to listen to the other kids. As usual, he wore a vaguely tense expression. But why should an eleven-year-old look tense? It was a question that had been bothering Michael more and more lately. He wanted his son to be happy. carefree. Wasn’t that what childhood was all about? Perhaps Michael’s own long—ago childhood hadn’t measured up, but that was all the more reason he wanted something good for his son.

When Andy glanced over and saw Michael, his expression changed. It went from tense to guarded—not much of an improvement. He slid away from the bleachers and crossed the gym. He moved at a normal pace, but somehow gave the impression he didn’t want to be walking toward his father. Maybe it was the way he dragged his duffel bag along the floor.

“Hey, Dad,” he said when he reached Michael—not the most enthusiastic greeting a father had ever heard.

“How’d it go this afternoon?” Michael asked.

“It was okay. I guess.” Again, Andy spoke with all the enthusiasm of Daniel to the keeper of the lions. Michael had the urge to reach out his hand and rumple Andy’s hair, the way he’d done when his son was younger. But he knew instinctively to stay the impulse.

“You guys get in some basketball?” he asked, instead.

“I suppose so. if you wanna call getting our butts kicked forty-four-zip playing basketball. The court was tied up, so we had to play against four older kids. It really sucks, being short.”

His son, a cynic at age eleven? “Butts. sucks. Your mother would have my head if she heard you using language like that when I’m in charge.”

Andy looked embarrassed. “It’s not, like, a problem or anything. I was just. you know, talking. Besides, you talk a lot worse than I do.”

“So maybe we’ll make a deal,” Michael said reasonably. “I clean up my language, you do the same with yours.”

Andy didn’t seem particularly thrilled with the prospect, and he said nothing in reply. Still dragging his bag, he shuffled out the door of the gym.

Michael followed his son to the Jeep and watched him climb into the passenger seat. Then he went around and got into the driver’s side. Starting the engine, he glanced over at Andy.

“Fasten your seat belt, son.”

“This thing’s got air bags, doesn’t it, Dad?” Andy muttered. A second or two later he snapped the belt into place, but he managed to make it seem a gesture of defiance.

It hadn’t always been like this. There’d been a time, before the divorce, when Michael and Andy had shared a quiet, comfortable camaraderie. So much had changed since then—too much. Michael felt the grim edge of regret. For Andy’s sake, he would go back and do it over if he could. And he wouldn’t make the same damn mistakes.

Michael pulled out into the traffic. Andy leaned toward the dashboard and turned on the radio. He switched from one frequency to another until he came to the “oldies” station. He cranked that one up on high and slumped back in his seat. Andy’s logic was all too apparent: find Dad’s favorite music, blast it through the speakers and hope it’d keep him occupied—anything to avoid the need for conversation.

Michael reached over and turned the music down. “How was it today, being back?”

“Nothing’s different,” Andy mumbled. “Doug’s still a jerk. Eric’s still a whiny ass.”

“We have a deal, remember?” Michael reminded him. “Watch the language. Besides, you always used to like Doug and Eric.”