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“Taurus. Ford Taurus,” he says, nodding. “She would come by here only a few weeks ago. Never saw her before, never saw her after. Only about a week. Thought she was visiting from out of town. Had plastic bags from a burger joint downtown. Melrose Half-Pounders.”
I write it down. Then: “I’m glad you know the car.”
“I used to own one for years. Hers was a deep red, almost wine. Mine was green. I loved that car.”
“Okay. See her with anybody besides the neighbor?”
“No. Never really saw the neighbor. He’s dead, right?”
“Yes. Doper. What do you mean you never saw him?”
“Well, nothing suspicious, I guess. He seemed like a keep-to-himself kinda guy, really. Left, came back with groceries, usually from a gas station. Never on a regular basis, though. I don’t think he held employment.”
“Did he get any regular visitors?”
“None that I took note of, no.”
“Okay. But you’ve seen the girl here carrying food bags. Last week or so?”
“No. That was yesterday, actually.”
“Yesterday?”
He thinks about it. Witnesses often give scattered testimony. The worse the crime, the worse the scatter. People who aren’t trained to observe every little detail usually don’t take them in very well. And even then, sometimes they’ll have good information but they’ll hold back because when a cop asks questions they didn’t ask THAT question.
Finally: “Yes.”
He motions to the driveway and carves a vehicle’s path through the air. “She drove up, scurried to the front door, knocked, pounded, shouted. I was thinking of telling her he had...you, know, passed. But I didn’t want to be the one telling a complete stranger. She was just making so much noise beating on the door and all. It caught my attention.”
“Make out what she said?”
“No. But whatever it was, she was saying it emphatically.”
“Then?”
“She left.”
“Remember which way?”
He points to a pair of fresher-looking tire prints in the snow that run from Dobbins’ driveway through the man’s own yard and into the street. The tires knocked down some kind of sign that was posted in his yard. A roofing advertisement or something.
“She went that way.”
I give him my card. Then: “Anything else?”
He studies my card the way he did her photo. “No. But I’ll think on it and if anything else comes about I’ll call you.”
“Thanks,” I say and turn around. Flick my cigarette butt into Dobbin’s old yard. Get in the car, start it.
The neighbor walks down his yard and rights the sign. Dusts off snow the color of ash and muddy water. His grimace fills his face. Goes in. Just when I start to think about how a decent, respectable man lives in this neighborhood I drive past the sign and see it says he’s a registered sex offender.
It fits the theme today. I leave. More important things right now.
59
Melrose Half-Pounders.
I set the photo on the countertop. French fries crackle in the background and create an omnipresent noise. Like the buzz of a hive, the white noise of fryers boiling and meat cooking fill the ears.
