Address to Die For (12 page)

Paolo frowned and looked uncomfortable. I thought about filling the silence by telling him about the dishwasher incident, but it was just too weird. I wasn't sure he'd believe we'd had an intruder. Wasn't it more logical to assume that Brian or I had reached for the soap powder and grabbed the wrong box by mistake? And that we'd later forgotten we'd started the dishwasher? It's easy for anyone to forget having done a routine task like pushing the
start
button on a kitchen appliance.

But Paolo spoke up and I lost the chance.

“Jason . . . er . . . Detective Mueller asked me to call you about that, as a matter of fact.”

“Go on,” I said. I was used to encouraging young men to talk. Right now, Paolo Bianchi didn't seem much older than David.

“Detective Mueller is concerned about the vandalism.”

“He mentioned that last week.”

“Yes, but there's more. The detective called a guy from San Jose State who has been doing a study on teenage vandalism. He's got this theory that while it's all destructive, most of it comes down to teenaged angst and the kids grow out of it.”

“Boys will be boys?” I'd always hated that expression and thought it was a cop-out—a way for adults to avoid the hard work of teaching boys to act like responsible young men.

“Some of it,” Paolo said. “Like tagging, knocking over garbage cans, and trashing mailboxes.”

“He's saying we should ignore that?”

“No, no, he's saying we should catch them as young as possible, throw the book at them, and turn them around before they rack up an arrest record.”

I nodded. Paolo's bundle of mixed metaphors was a good match for my own thoughts on the subject.

Paolo continued. “He's saying that some of the other things that get lumped in with hooliganism—arson, destroying property—
those
come from a whole different level of rage. And, instead of growing out of it, the kids' behavior is likely to escalate.”

Paolo took a deep breath. The pump
ping
ed at me and I unhooked the nozzle from the car and replaced it on the pump. I pushed the button for my receipt and replaced the gas cap.

“That's what's worrying Detective Mueller, Mrs. McDonald. That criminologist? He was able to figure out a lot from pictures of the vandalism at your house. He looked at the damage Mr. Hernandez reported months ago: broken windows, sprinklers turned on and left to run all night, garbage cans emptied all over the lawn. He compared those to the more recent destruction: the fire upstairs, the damage to the floor boards of the front porch, the booby-trapped electrical box. The San Jose State guy thinks you've got an angry kid or young adult who is targeting your house, and his rage is escalating.”

“Does this expert know about the exploding mailbox or the damage at the middle school?”

Paolo shook his head. “We haven't had a chance to check in with him since those things happened. I need to update him. It's on my list of things to do.”

I had to like a young man who seemed to treasure lists as much as I did.

Paolo bit his lip and shifted from one foot to the other.

“Was there something else you wanted to tell me?” I asked.

Paolo looked at me, glanced away, and said nothing. He was making me nervous. I bit my lip and searched his face, hoping that whatever he was hesitating to tell me wouldn't put my family at greater risk.

Need a quick dinner idea? Try breakfast for dinner. Nothing is quite as comforting or as easy to prepare as breakfast food.

 

 

 

 

P
aolo avoided eye contact and sighed. “Detective Mueller asked me to warn you. He wants you to be sure to lock up, turn the outside lights on, and keep your animals inside.”

“The animals? This guy would hurt our animals? Isn't that a whole other level of crime? One that's more indicative of a serial-killer wannabe?”

Paolo blushed and then turned to take the gas nozzle out of his Subaru. “I'm not sure of the research on that. The detective just wants you to be careful, ma'am.”

After he'd finished printing his receipt and stuffed it in his back pocket, he looked at me through the strands of his reddish-brown hair. “Mrs. McDonald. I didn't mean to scare you.” He pushed the hair from his eyes and tucked it behind his ear. “I joined the force because I wanted to do computer forensics. I'm real good with computers, but I'm not so great with people. I can't seem to get a handle on when to talk and when to be quiet. Or how much to tell people and what to keep to myself. I'm always getting it wrong. Mrs. McDonald, if you see the detective, can you tell him I asked you to be careful? Don't let on I told you that other stuff?”

I assured Paolo that I would keep his secret, and that I was grateful for the information. It helped me get a better sense of what the boys and I needed to do to stay safe.

His scrunched-up shoulders relaxed. “We've got a car making rounds through your neighborhood.”

“What are the chances you'll catch him that way?”

“Slim to none,” Paolo admitted. “Though one of our patrols did spot a guy running from near your house into one of the wooded front yards of the houses across the way a few days ago. Our hope is that the kid who is responsible will see our patrols and figure he doesn't have time to do any damage.”

I looked at my watch. “I'm sorry, Paolo, but I've got to run. Thanks for warning me. I'll tell the boys to be careful. Thank Jason for me. I'll tell him you did a great job filling me in.”

“Thanks, Mrs. McDonald.”

“Tell the patrols they're welcome to stop in any time if they want a cup of coffee, or the restroom—everything in the house is working now.”

I jumped in the car and checked
get gas
off my list.

By the time I got back, the boys had finished homework and instrument practice and helped me whip up our favorite comfort meal—breakfast for dinner. David was nearly asleep at the table.

After dinner, while the boys got ready for bed, I slumped on the couch and sipped a glass of chardonnay. I held the glass up to the light and looked at the room through the golden liquid. It was only nine o'-clock, but I was beat. And missing Max. It was time to check on the kids and head to bed.

I put the glass in the kitchen sink and locked the doors. I headed upstairs with the cats padding after me. David was fast asleep with the lights on and Belle snoring at his feet. I switched off the light, closed the door, and moved on to Brian's room.

My youngest was rereading the third Harry Potter book. Watson jumped on the bed and stood on the open pages. “Someone thinks it's time for you to go to bed,” I said.

Brian rubbed Watson behind the ears, while Holmes wove himself around my ankles. “Is it okay to feel a little sad?” Brian said. “I miss Dad.”

“Of course,” I said. “He feels the same way. Do you want to send him an email?”

“Maybe in the morning.”

I picked up Holmes and placed him at the foot of the bed, where he began his nightly bath. Brian shoved Watson off his book. He closed it and put it next to him on the bed. I moved it to the night table, knowing that it would otherwise end up on the floor. Brian was an active sleeper.

I kissed my fingers and touched his forehead, turned out the light, and headed for my own room. I'd expected to lie awake missing Max, but I barely had time to pull the quilt over me before I too was asleep.

What felt like minutes later, I woke up startled and afraid. Belle was barking and scratching at David's door. I shoved Holmes off my chest, grabbed the throw at the foot of the bed, and raced into the hall, bumping into the doorframe while still shoving my feet into my sneakers. David opened his bedroom door, rubbing his eyes. Belle shot from the room and down the stairs, skidding when she made the turn at the landing. Her bark echoed through the house.

Brian somehow managed to sleep through the commotion. David and I followed Belle at a run and watched as she ran from window seat to window seat, clawing the windows so hard I feared she'd break them.

David was pale and had a white-knuckled grip on the baseball bat he held in his right hand. I scooped up my phone from the charger on the front-hall table and speed-dialed Jason.

Belle seldom barked, except in greeting or to let us know she was in when she wanted out, or out when she wanted in. Her frantic barking and snarling was something I'd never heard before. It made my heart pound and my scalp prickle.

Jason's phone was answered by a dispatcher. She kept me on the line while she alerted the patrols in the area and contacted the detective. “Sit tight, ma'am,” she said. “Stay inside. Do you want me to remain on the line until help arrives?”

“Thanks, but no,” I said. “I think I hear the sirens, now.” I hung up the phone.

“You hear sirens?” David whispered.

“No,” I said. “But I'm going to take a look around.”

David clipped Belle's leash to her collar and she strained at it, tugging us toward the back door. I grabbed a flashlight from the counter. Max had prepared an army of them, lined up in formation, when we were dealing with the sketchy electricity. Flashlights were an obsession for Max, probably stemming from a long-forgotten childhood experience with a power outage or earthquake or nightmares. In any case, he felt most prepared for emergencies when we had lots of working flashlights with fresh bulbs and batteries. He'd recently replaced most of our oldest ones with new high-powered LED lights that were brighter, smaller, and lighter.

We teased him about his addiction, but I was grateful for his preparations. I handed a flashlight to David and chose the largest one for myself. It could double as a club. I pushed open the back door, cringing as it screeched, announcing our presence to anyone who might be hiding in the yard. We turned on our flashlights and headed down the dew-slick steps.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” I asked David.

He shook his head and waved his flashlight around the backyard and down toward the barn. We jumped at the sound of something crashing through the bushes, but it sounded like we'd startled a large rodent or raccoon rather than a two-legged intruder.

“Check the barn or the front?” David whispered. Belle was pulling us toward the front yard and wheezing as she strained against the leash. I pointed with the flashlight and we crept around the side of the house, following Belle.

Before we reached the front, a patrol car with lights flashing but the sirens off came up the drive, followed by an unmarked SUV. Jason and Stephen jumped from the SUV, while a uniformed officer I didn't recognize opened the door of the patrol car and turned on a flashlight that was both larger and brighter than mine. Stephen opened the back door of the SUV and Munchkin jumped down.

“I'll take a look around,” Stephen said, holding Munchkin's leash and heading down the drive, swinging his light in large arcs ahead of him.

“Is anyone hurt?” Jason asked.

I shook my head. “Thanks for coming.”

“No problem. Let's get you both inside where it's warmer and you can tell me what happened.”

Without keys, the only way back into the house was through the kitchen. We retraced our steps. I made coffee and pulled out the cookie jar that still held a few of the oatmeal cookies Tess had made. I shivered and pulled the throw around my shoulders. Even oatmeal cookies wouldn't help us feel secure at home tonight.

While the coffeemaker gurgled, David and I told Jason what little we knew. We'd nearly finished when Stephen and Munchkin returned.

“I asked the officer to move the car down to the street with the lights on,” Stephen said.

His demeanor confused me. He seemed to have more clout with the police than I would have expected for a volunteer. But I had neither the time nor the inclination to clarify the situation tonight.

“Someone tried to force the lock on the barn,” Stephen added. “I wired the handles together. It looks secure enough for tonight, but the lock will need to be replaced.”

“I'll call the locksmith in the morning,” I said. “He changed the locks on the house earlier today . . . or was it yesterday?” I looked at the clock on the stove, which showed it was minutes until midnight. It seemed much later.

“You changed the locks?” Jason said. “Was that a precaution or did something happen?”

I ran through the odd events with the dishwasher, emphasizing that both Brian and I were sure that someone had been in the house. We didn't know why or how they'd intruded, but we were certain neither of us had turned on the dishwasher.

“I believe you,” Jason said. “It's a new dishwasher, right? I need to get out the manual for the first week I own any appliance. You'd both remember turning it on because you would have needed to think about it more than usual.”

I felt my shoulders release some of the tension that had them hunched up almost to my ears.

“Getting the locks changed immediately was a good idea,” Jason said. “Next time, though, let me know if anything happens that you can't explain. Your instincts are good. If anything worries you or the kids or Belle, I want to know.”

I stood and poured coffee into mugs. I handed one to Stephen and another to Jason, and put a carton of milk and a five-pound bag of sugar on the table. We were making progress with the move, but I hadn't yet unpacked a sugar bowl or cream pitcher. David stirred hot-chocolate mix into a cup of hot water.

Stephen palmed his coffee mug. “Munchkin and I are going to take a look out front.”

They hadn't been gone more than ten seconds when Stephen called from the front room. “Jase? I've got something here you're going to want to take a look at.”

Jason leapt from his chair, spilling his coffee. He dashed through the pantry and dining room to join Stephen at the front of the house. David and I followed.

With a tight rein on Munchkin's leash, Stephen pointed his flashlight beam toward the welcome mat outside the open front door. Munchkin bared his teeth and growled. I didn't blame him. In the center of the circle of light cast by the flashlight was a small gray squirrel pinned to the porch with a four-inch nail. The nail looked exactly like those that had pierced the bodies of the squirrels at the middle school.