Chapter Three
“So what you’re telling me is that you saw a vehicle speeding down the street after the shots were fired?”
The fortysomething-year-old housewife with two-year-old twin boys squirming in their stroller nodded vigorously. “Yeah. The boys were driving me crazy inside, so I’d just put them in the stroller and was pushing them out the door when I heard it. At first I thought it was a car backfiring, ya know?” She pushed a hank of streaky blonde hair off her forehead and chewed her gum with a snap. Paul liked her rapid-fire, no-nonsense speech and remembered she and her husband had moved to Thornwood Park from New Jersey to get away from the cold winters up north and for a slower pace of life. They were one of the friendlier couples to him and Cliff in the neighborhood.
“But it wasn’t? What happened next?”
“Well, I heard the bang, and Chase started yelling. I heard another one, like less than a minute later, and all this glass breaking. That’s when I saw the truck—it was black, by the way—go the wrong way. Ya know when you’re so shocked by something, you don’t think about looking at the license plate or the make of the car? That was me. I got scared ’cause of the boys. I was afraid they’d get hurt. I pulled them back into the house and grabbed my phone and called the cops. Sorry, Paul.”
“It’s okay, Kathleen. I appreciate everything. I’ll be in touch.”
“Cliff’s okay? He wasn’t hurt, right?”
“No, he’s good. Thank you for asking.”
“Good. Lemme know if you need me again.”
He made a few more notes on his pad, then looked to find Rob. He was speaking to Judy Swanson, his elderly neighbor. Paul’s fury over the shooting was no less diminished than when he’d run inside the house to find glass all over the floor and Cliff white and shaky, but he had to compartmentalize it. He had a job to do.
Later, when he was alone, he’d punch a hole in the fucking wall. The thought of someone shooting at Cliff made his blood boil. He could’ve been killed.
If I get that call…
Panic seized him, and for one crazy moment he wanted to run into the house and hold Cliff. He’d only just found himself, and he knew he couldn’t lose Cliff. What would he do? He couldn’t go back to that closed-off person he was before, but he knew he’d changed only because he had Cliff. Without him…
Stop it. Nothing will happen.
Gathering witnesses and ferreting out information was paramount. Messy things like emotions only muddied the waters and distracted him from the precise, step-by-step investigation he and Rob needed to apply to this case, just like every other one they investigated.
Only, this wasn’t like every other case.
This was personal.
Harley might no longer be around for him to protect, but Paul was going to make damn sure nothing would ever hurt Cliff. They’d have to come through him first.
He reached Rob’s side, and Judy turned her bright gaze on him. Paul often joked about their nosy neighbor. Perhaps this time it would work in their favor.
“Oh dear, I’m sorry about what happened. But Cliff seems to be fine.”
“Yeah, he is, Mrs. Swanson. You’ve been filling my partner in on what you know?”
“I heard shots and glass breaking but I was too far away to see a license plate when I stuck my head out the window.”
Paul tried not to let his frustration show. “Thank you, Mrs. Swanson. Every piece of information is helpful. And of course, if you remember anything, no matter how small or unimportant it may seem, please let me or my partner know.”
“Of course, of course.” She bustled away, then stopped and reversed her steps. She spoke urgently, with an anxious expression. “Don’t let that Wilbur and his Neanderthal son drive you and Cliff away.”
Paul raised his brows. “Why do you say that? Do you think Wilbur had something to do with this?”
Judy glanced around and gestured for them to come closer. Paul’s patience was hanging by a thread, but he truly liked the woman and didn’t want to snap at her.
“Well, I can’t say, but at the last neighborhood watch meeting, Wilbur complained about you and Cliff. Said he didn’t feel safe having the kids trick-or-treat by themselves at your house. Sid Rasmussen and I both heard it, and let me tell you, we were appalled.”
Tamping down his blinding fury, Paul wrote the words on his pad, but his hand shook. Badly. Rob must’ve seen his reaction, because he intervened and began asking questions.
“Can you tell us anything else about what was said?”
“Well,” Judy demurred, “people got angry and shouted at him, saying that you and Cliff are good neighbors. And really, he’s one to talk, especially with that ruckus yesterday evening—cars coming and going, people talking loudly in their yard until midnight.” She shook her head. “Sorry, I got sidetracked. So anyway, after the meeting concluded, he got a small group together, and he was talking about a petition.”
“Petition for what? Do you know?” Rob asked, his pen poised above his memo pad.
Paul forced his mind to listen to his neighbor and away from the urge to stomp over to beat the shit out of Falk.
“I don’t know. They clammed up around me when I tried to listen since I was one of the ones who spoke up,” she said proudly. “And dear Mr. Rasmussen told them to shut their mouths.”
Paul’s eyes burned from both the admiration for his neighbors and the humiliation at having his private, personal life dragged in front of strangers. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“Thornwood Park may be growing, but we’re still a small town. We all know your family, Paul. You’re a good man, and your brother died for this country. Nobody’s got the right to tell you how to live your life.”
Rob nodded. “Mrs. Swanson, we appreciate what you’ve told us. Of course, if you hear or see anything else, please let us know.” He handed the woman his card, which she pocketed.
“You’re very welcome. Anything to help bring the criminals to justice.”
She hurried away, and Paul took several deep breaths. “What do you think?”
“Could it be this easy? That it’s the asshole from across the street?”
“Is it ever?” Paul asked. “Only one way to find out.”
Rob’s eyes twinkled. “Good, ’cause I’m in my I’m-ready-to-talk-to-assholes mood.”
Together they walked over to Falk’s. The house didn’t have the well-trimmed lawn and freshly painted outside of the surrounding homes. A rusty heap sat parked in the rear of the driveway behind a pickup truck, which Paul took note was gray, not black like one of the witnesses claimed she saw spinning its wheels as it raced down the block. Sagging front steps led to a rutted, splintered porch. A piece of cardboard taped to the bottom pane of one of the front windows couldn’t hide the cracked glass. Paint peeled off the shingles.
“And he has the nerve to bitch about Cliff and me,” Paul muttered. “Look at this dump.”
Rob rapped on the door, as a piece of paper was taped over the button stating: Bell broken, knock on door.
After a few minutes, Paul heard shuffling steps, and Wilbur’s face appeared at the half-glass window. “What the fuck you want?” he snarled.