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Be kind of hard to move anywhere if that was the case. Moe said nothing.
Gibbs’s eyebrows danced. “In any event, one of your troops said a quote unquote naked d.b. was lying out in the street. I took ‘d.b.’ to mean ‘dead body.’ Am I correct?”
Wonderful.
Moe said, “You are, sir.”
“Then I might possibly have a—what do you people call it, a lead? Or a clue as it was known in my day?”
“Either way, Mr. Gibbs.”
“A clue, then. I might have one. Go take a look atthatplace.” Pointing north.
“One of your neighbors.”
“No, no, I don’t consider renters neighbors. They’ve got no stake in the game, no pride of ownership. The place is owned by a merry widow—that’s another story—who hasn’t lived here for years. Sherentsand for the past year or so has rented toher.Andshedoesn’t act respectfully.”
“She being?”
“No idea what her name is. I call her the strumpet. That’s probably a word you’re not familiar with. In any event, she’s got men—women, too, but mostly men—coming in and out. Different people, it’s not like she’s entertaining.Thatfeels to me like a high-end brothel.”
Moe said, “Have you ever seen evidence of prostitution?”
“Hardly,” said Gibbs. “Would you have preferred me to peep through windows?”
“Not a good idea, sir.”
“Hmmph—in any event, Mr. Reed, I complained months ago to you people and was told there was nothing that could be done unless evident evidence of a crime surfaced. Now you’ve got your evident evidence. A naked person came to an unnatural end. Is that sufficient for you?”
“Which house specifically are we talking about, sir?”
Gibbs pointed. “Three up from mine. The style-devoid structure with the horrid blue siding and the insufficient shrubbery. Want to lay odds I’m right? If your naked d.b. came from anywhere on the block, it was there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Gibbs’s face constricted. “Is that a sincere thank-you or a get-lost thank-you?”
“Sincere,” said Moe, not sure if it was.
He went to check.
—
Despite Gibbs’s architectural critique, the house seemed decent if bland, a two-story traditional with a flat green lawn and a lush planting of birds-of-paradise looking downright avian as it shaded a neat bed of white impatiens. Moe had come to know flower varieties because his mother’s new passion was gardening. Probably her twentieth passion in as many years; breeding goldfish hadn’t worked out too well when herons discovered her shallow pond.
He did have to agree with Gibbs the Grump about the blue siding.
A welcome mat on a clean concrete stoop saidNice People Welcome. Good Intentions Tolerated.
His knock was met with silence. So was his doorbell-push. He felt eyes boring into the back of his neck, saw Rainer Gibbs back in front of his Spanish, arms crossed, watching him.
Obnoxious old coot. The scrutiny made Moe feel he was back in school reciting poetry that made no sense.
Crossing the lawn, he reached the blue house’s driveway. A gate blocking entry was unlatched. Moe chose to see it as an omen and passed through.
He’d made it nearly to the house’s rear door when he saw the blood.
Spots of blood, what looked like low-impact spatter, already beginning to rust in the sun. Not a huge amount—maybe a dozen specks that continued right up to the door. Someone else might not have noticed.
