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I shrugged. Who knows?
“Or maybe karma reached out and grabbed him by the balls,” Monck said.
“Maybe.”
“Too bad I don’t believe in karma.” Monck said nothing for several seconds. Then, “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“This warrant allows me to toss Benjamin’s house.” Tapping his pocket. “I aim to do that.”
6:50 P.M.
The crows still cawed. The sole palm still swished overhead. The shells still crunched under our tires.
Two things had changed.
A VW Jetta sat where the driveway cut from the asphalt. Silver,with local plates. A sticker identified the car as a Budget rental. There was no one inside.
Monck’s back and shoulders tensed as his eyes darted the scene. A brief pause then, hand cocked toward the Glock on his belt, he strode across the path to the front of the house.
I followed, expecting to be ordered to return to the car. Perhaps nerves made him forget I was there, but there was no command to hang back.
Monck thumbed the bell, anticipating only canine fury.
Not a peep from the aggressively bellicose Betty.
“Police!”
Silence.
Monck rang again.
More silence.
Our eyes met.
“Old Rinty should be all bowed up at us being here.”
Unfamiliar with Monck’s expression but inferring its meaning from his tone, I said, “Maybe Benjamin locked the dog in the shed?”
“Hmm.”
Monck rapped again, hard, with his titanium knuckles.
Hearing no indication of a presence, human or canine, he jerked back the screen, turned the inner handle, and pushed open the chartreuse door.
Unlocked. No Nazi dog.
Something was definitely wrong.
Monck was about to cross the threshold when a bellowed command stopped him in his tracks.
“Halt!”
We both whipped around.
Two men were trotting up from the road.
