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A light tread started somewhere inside. Not Dobkin’s. Perhaps his wife. Michelle stared at the structure, figuring out the interior from her observations of the exterior.
Front room. Three bedrooms set off a central hall. Kitchen probably in the back. No garage, which in Maine seemed a little crazy. Maybe one and a half baths. It looked sturdy, each log tethered securely to its neighbor.
The door opened. The woman was short and carrying a child on her hip. The size and shape of her belly indicated she was also clearly expecting another little one. And soon.
“I’m Sally. You must be Michelle,” she said in a good-natured if tired tone. “This is Adam. Our oldest. Just turned three.” The little boy stared back at Michelle, one finger in his mouth.
“You have three kids?”
“How’d you know?”
“Car seats in the van.”
“Good observer. Eric said you and your partner were good at what you do. Yep, three little boys.” She patted her stomach. “And one in the oven. Each a year apart.”
“You didn’t waste any time.” Michelle stepped inside. “Sorry to come by so late.”
“With Eric’s work hours we’re all night owls. He’s back in the den.”
Michelle looked around. A den? There must be a room in the back that she had missed in her internal calculation.
“I’ll be right back,” Sally said.
She disappeared and Dobkin appeared about a minute later. “He was dressed in LL Bean jeans, a white cotton shirt, and a sleeveless orange ski parka. His blond hair was still matted down from his trooper hat.
“Nippy tonight,” said Michelle.
He looked at her funny. “Nippy?”
“Well, I guess by Southern standards. You really live out in the boonies.”
He cracked a grin. “I’m only five miles from the stoplight. You should see where some of the other guys live. Now that’s the boonies.”
“If you say so.”
“So your partner’s preoccupied?”
“Trying to cover all the bases. And I appreciate you calling. I know this can’t be easy. Sort of stuck in the middle.”
“Come on back.”
He led her past the kitchen where they could see Sally feeding Adam and what was probably the two-year-old, who looked half asleep and ready to fall right into his plate of food. The youngest child already must be in bed, she assumed.
They settled in the small den, which held an old, battered, gunmetal-gray desk, a shelf made of planks and concrete blocks, and a scarred, two-drawer oak file cabinet. A red Dell laptop sat on the desk along with a locked portable gun case, where she presumed he kept his service pistol. With three little and no doubt inquisitive kids in the house, that was a real necessity. One window looked out onto the back of the house. A rectangular blue rug did its best to soften the starkness of the wooden floor. Dobkin sat behind the desk and indicated a ladder-back chair with a faux leather seat for Michelle to take. She drew it up and plunked her butt down.
Dobkin eyed her waistline. “Fresh hardware?”
She glanced down at the revealed Sig. “When in Maine, you know. And Murdock was vague about when I could expect my weapon back.”
“Heard you got over to Cutter’s to see Edgar Roy.”
“We did. Impressive place. No dollar spared, I take it.”
“Lot of good-paying jobs. And we need every one of them.”
“So homicidal psychos do have their benefits.”
“Didn’t get very far with him, did you?”
