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“That's going to keep me alive.”
“Hmm. Feeling cranky today?”
“Cranky doesn't come close. I have a favor to ask. I need you to take a look at the back of the house in Deal. Everyone else on the team would be suspect, but a woman walking her dog down the beach won't feel threatening to Ramos's security. I want you to catalogue the house. Count off windows and doors.”
THERE WAS A public-access beach about a quarter-mile from the Ramos compound. I parked on the road, and Bob and I crossed a short stretch of low dunes. The sky was overcast and the air was cooler than it had been in Trenton. Bob tipped his nose into the wind and looked all perky, and I buttoned my jacket up to my neck and wished I'd brought something warmer to wear. Most of the big, expensive houses that sat on the dunes were shuttered and unoccupied. Frothy gray waves came whooshing in at us. A few seagulls ran around at the water's edge, but that was it. Just me and Bob and the seagulls.
The big pink house came into view, more exposed on the beach side than to the street. Most of the first floor and all of the second story were clearly visible. A porch ran the length of the main structure. Attached to this main structure were two wings. The north wing consisted of first-floor garages and possibly bedrooms over the garages. The south wing was two stories and seemed to be entirely residential.
I continued to plow through the sand, not wanting to seem overly curious as I counted off the windows and doors. Just a woman walking her dog, freezing her ass off. I had binoculars with me but I was afraid to use them. I didn't want to arouse suspicion. It was impossible to tell if I was being observed from a window. Bob raced around me, oblivious to everything but the joy of being outdoors. I walked several houses farther, drew myself a diagram on a piece of paper, turned, and walked back to the public-access ramp where Blue was parked. Mission accomplished.
Bob and I piled into Blue and rumbled down the street, past the Ramos house, one
last time. When I paused at the corner, a man in his sixties jumped off the curb at me. He was wearing a running suit and running shoes. And he was waving his hands.
“Stop,” he said. “Stop a minute.”
I could have sworn it was Alexander Ramos. No, that was ridiculous.
He trotted to the driver's side and rapped on my window. “Have you got any cigarettes?” he asked.
“Gee . . . uh, no.”
He shoved a twenty at me. “Drive me to the store for some cigarettes. It'll only take a minute.”
Thick accent. Same hawklike features. Same height and build. Really looked like Alexander Ramos.
“Do you live around here?” I asked him.
“Yeah, I live in that piece-of-shit pink monstrosity. What's it to you? Are you gonna drive me to the store, or not?”
My god! It was Ramos. “I don't usually let strange men in my car.”
“Give me a break. I need some cigarettes. Anyway, you got a big dog in the backseat, and you look like you drive strange men around all the time. What'd ya think, I was born yesterday?”
“Not yesterday.”
He wrenched the passenger door open and got in the car. “Very funny. I have to flag down a comedian.”
“I don't know my way around here. Where do you go for cigarettes?”
“Turn the corner here. There's a store about a half-mile down.”
“If it's just a half-mile away why don't you walk?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Not supposed to be smoking, huh? Don't want anyone to catch you going to the store?”
“Goddamn doctors. I have to sneak out of my own house just to get a cigarette.” He made a dismissive gesture. “I can't stand being in that house, anyway. It's like a mausoleum filled with a bunch of stiffs. Goddamn pink piece of shit.”
“If you don't like the house, why do you live in it?”
“Good question. I should sell it. I never liked it, right from the beginning, but I just got married and my wife had to have this house. Everything with her was pink.” He reflected for a minute. “What was her name? Trixie? Trudie? Christ, I can't even remember.”
“You can't remember your wife's name?”
“I've had a lot of wives. A lot. Four. No, wait a minute . . . five.”
