The Man Next Door

“No, I didn’t. I just had to hang around with them because their dads were cops, too. But you’re not a cop anymore. So why do I have to go down to that sh—stupid community center?”

They’d reached a stoplight and Michael studied his son. He saw the belligerence in Andy’s expression, but also the uncertainty. Andy was probably wondering if he’d pushed it too far this time.

“I thought maybe you’d have fun,” Michael said.

“I’m not going again,” Andy muttered.

The light turned green and Michael pressed his foot on the gas. He’d hoped that Andy would enjoy seeing some of his old friends, but maybe that was unrealistic. Andy had started a new life when he’d moved across town with Jill. Another school, another neighborhood—those were big adjustments. And Michael knew firsthand how difficult it was to try visiting a life you’d left behind. Whenever he dropped in at the station house, he felt like an outsider, even with guys who’d been his closest friends for years. Michael had taken to dropping in less and less.

“Maybe we’ll join a pool,” he said now. “Get in some swimming together.”

“It’s not like you have to entertain me or anything,” Andy said in a low voice. “I can make do on my own.”

“I’ve been looking forward to spending time with you,” Michael answered. He paused, then went on, “Andy, I know things have been. difficult. But now that you’re spending the summer with me—”

“It’s no big deal,” Andy said quickly. “The only reason I’m staying with you is ‘ause Mom had to go on that lousy trip. It’s not like it’s supposed to be this way.”

Michael wished he knew the right words—ones that would convince Andy exactly how much this summer really did mean.

“Your mom wanted to take you along,” he said at last. “I’m the guy who convinced her you should bunk with me, instead. It’ll be a whole lot better than just seeing you on the weekends.”

“Sure,” Andy said. “I’d much rather stay in this crummy town than be at some castle in England. Who wouldn’t?” Again the defiance mixed with uncertainty. But Andy had to know he’d pushed it too far this time. And where the hell had he learned that sarcasm?

Easy, Michael told himself. He realized his son was testing him. The worst thing he could do right now was show anger. He and Andy would have to take this a little at a time, figuring things out as they went along. The answers just weren’t readily apparent.

Michael grimaced to himself. When he’d been a police detective, he’d faced plenty of unanswered questions. It had taken a mix of imagination and careful procedure to chase down the answers. He supposed he used that same combination in his new work as a private investigator. But when it came to his son these days, Michael’s imagination seemed to fail him, and he didn’t know what procedures to use. He was damn well lost.

It had been almost a year since the divorce, a year of picking Andy up every three out of four Friday afternoons and delivering him back to Jill every three out of four Sunday evenings. An arrangement like that wasn’t exactly conducive to father—son bonding. But then Jill, a graduate student in art history, had received a grant to study in England over the summer. She’d planned to take Andy with her, until Michael had suggested a different idea: Andy could live with him for the three months she’d be gone.

Jill, of course, had taken her time making a decision. But at last, with a great show of reluctance, she’d agreed to leave Andy in his sole care while she went off to England. Michael had taken her to the airport a couple of days ago, listening all the while to a litany of instructions. Jill had conveniently forgotten that during their marriage he’d been a capable enough father. It was only more recently that he seemed to have lost the parenting knack.

But here they were now, he and his son. Their time together had only just begun, and already the discomfort between them had grown. Not to mention that Andy had already made it clear he was going to be a smart ass.

Smart aleck, Michael amended. He’d made a deal with Andy, and he’d damn well—darn well—have to clean up his own language.

After a short while they turned into the secluded neighborhood where they’d be spending their summer. Lush orange trees lined the streets, and the large houses were built in quaint Southwestern style, with thick plastered walls, deep—set windows, bright shutters, here and there a ramada—a rustic wooden porch covered in vines. Inside, however, would be all the modern conveniences. The people who lived around here weren’t the type to do without walk—in closets, Jacuzzis and sunken tubs.

Michael pulled up at the house he and Andy were sharing. It was much too big for the two of them. Too big, too plush, too everything.

“Well, here it is again,” he said, his jocular tone not quite coming off. “Home, temporary home.”

Andy glanced at the place skeptically. “Yeah, right. What’d ya do, Dad, rob the First National?”

Michael knew he had to be careful about what he said next. There was only so much he could tell Andy, but he disliked lying to his son.

“It’s only for the summer,” he said. “You know I don’t live like this all the time.” Involuntarily his gaze went next door. Kim Bennett hadn’t returned yet. Without her Jaguar parked in its usual spot, he had a clear view of her house and could see the cardboard she’d taped up over the broken windowpane. Michael had already checked around, trying to locate someone who could deliver just the right glass. So far no luck.

Andy followed the direction of his gaze. “That lady lives all alone,” he said.

Kim Bennett definitely seemed the solitary type. “Maybe she likes it that way,” Michael said.

Andy didn’t say anything for a long minute. The two of them just sat in the Jeep, sharing the same space but nothing more. The tension between them remained.

“What the hell are we doing here, anyway?” Andy muttered.

“Andy—”

“What the heck are we doing?” He managed to sound surlier than ever.

“I thought I already explained all that,” Michael said. “I’m house—sitting for an acquaintance. Meanwhile, you and I might actually have a good time together once you take off the boxing gloves.”

Andy didn’t look convinced. He just looked suspicious. Michael wondered what Jill would say if she knew he and Andy were living next door to a murder suspect. On second thought, he knew exactly what Jill would say.

But Michael had realized that if he didn’t see Andy for three whole months, the distance between them might become irrevocable. That was a chance he just couldn’t take. If it meant…Andy getting a little too close to his work, that couldn’t be helped. After all, one of the reasons Michael had quit the police department was so he could spend more time with his son.

“Andy,” he said now, “it really can be a good summer. Just give me a break now and then, and I’ll do the same for you. And. be careful, like we discussed.”

“I know the routine,” Andy muttered. “I’m not supposed to tell anybody you used to be a cop or that now you’re a spy.”

“Private investigator,” Michael amended.

“Yeah, well, what does it matter, ‘ause I can’t tell anybody.” Andy made it sound as if he wished his dad had an ordinary job, like an accountant or a salesman.

“Andy, I want you to be careful in other ways, too.”

“Like what?” he asked, looking more skeptical than ever. Michael considered telling him the truth. Don’t get too close to the pretty lady next door, because she may very well be a murderer. But for Andy’s own protection, Michael couldn’t go that far.

“Just stick close to me and do what I tell you without putting up a fight all the time.”

Andy had that expression on his face again: willfulness, perversity and, underneath, an undeniable wariness. Why should any kid be wary around his own dad? That was what got to Michael the most.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you could try at least a little, Andy. I’m not the bad guy here.”

Andy kept his mouth clamped shut. The belligerence didn’t leave him, but he truly was small for his age, and at this moment he looked much too fragileall spindly arms and legs, ears poking out beneath his curly hair, an undersize kid struggling to protect himself with a cheeky attitude he couldn’t quite pull off.

At last Michael could no longer resist. He reached out and placed his hand protectively on Andy’s shoulder.

“I’m on your side, son.”

Andy pulled away. He still didn’t say anything, just stared straight ahead with that stubborn tilt to his chin, but the message came through. At eleven years old, he didn’t want anything to do with his father.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_3bf0529b-30d9-5284-b6d5-54445832cc3c)

BEFORE SHE COULD LOSE her nerve, Kim walked right up to Michael Turner’s front door. She rang the bell not once, but twice, as if to demonstrate her own courage. Unfortunately she didn’t feel courageous. She just felt foolish.

No answer came—no Michael Turner appeared. Maybe it wasn’t too late for Kim to change her mind, after all. She hovered on the porch, considering the possibility of dashing back to her own house. She’d actually started down the porch steps when she heard the door open behind her.

She turned around slowly. And there he was, leaning against the jamb, his pose relaxed yet still managing to convey a certain watchfulness. She’d met him only this morning, yet she found herself learning his features all over again. Her gaze lingered on the stern line of his brow, the firm set of his mouth, the dark hair curling over his forehead.