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In an instant, the SUV whips backward, does a 180, then heads north on Wilbur, away from me.
I don’t come close to getting a license plate. I don’t know what kind of car it was or have any identifiers. I don’t know who was inside the car or what they want. I only know one thing for certain.
That car was definitely watching our house.
THIRTY-SIX
DAVID PEERS THROUGH THE window, grimacing. “And tell them what?” he asks. “That a car was parked up the street, and then it left? You can’t say anything about the car other than that it was an SUV.”
“It left when the driver saw me making a phone call. It peeled away as soon as I put my phone against my ear.”
David nods. “So you couldn’t make out anything at all about the car except that it was boxy? You couldn’t see the driver at all, but the driver could clearly seeyouthrough the living-room window?”
“He probably could. Maybe he had binoculars.”
“Which we can’t prove.”
“Well, if he was watching our house —”
“Which we can’t prove, either —”
“— he probablydidhave binoculars.”
He gives me a look of exasperation.
“Why are you fighting me on this?” I shout, catching the volume of my voice. “Don’t you care about all the strange stuff happening to us?”
“Of course — of course I do, Marce. You’re the lawyer here. Think like one. We have nothing to tell the police. I mean, go ahead.” He flips his hand. “If you want to call them, call them.”
He drops into a chair, rubbing his eyes.
“What’s going on, David?”
“I …” He looks up at me. “I don’t know.”
“Your financial problems,” I say. “How bad are they?”
“Well, they’re … I mean, how am I supposed to —”
“Did you borrow money from someone? Do you owe money to someone who won’t take it so well if you don’t pay it back?”
“What? Did I borrow money from a loan shark?” He laughs. “Are you serious?”
“Then what the hell is happening to us? We’re being targeted, David. So far, it hasn’t been violent. But who’s to say it won’t escalate? Meanwhile, you’re sitting over there playing the fiddle while Rome is burning.”
He pushes himself out of his chair and lets out a breath. He picks up his phone, dials three digits, and puts the phone against his ear. “Hi, this is David Bowers at 343 Cedar Lane in Hemingway Grove. I’d like to report a suspicious car sitting outside our house. It just left. But we’re afraid it will come back. Great — thank you.”
He kills the phone. “We’ll hire security. Around-the-clock security.”
“With what money?” I ask.
“We’re not broke, Marce. The business is struggling, yes. But we have money in the bank. Let’s do it. Around the clock. Maybe that will scare off whoever’s doing this.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
AT HALF PAST FIVE, Kyle Janowski is already awake and showered, preparing to throw on his uniform, when his phone buzzes. He reaches the Bowers home at six.
The sun is still over an hour from showing its face as he pulls along the curb. The cold hits him hard when he steps out of his ride.
