Second Honeymoon

Chapter 111

“IF YOU NEED me I’ll be in the master bedroom,” I said jokingly, climbing into the back of our rented Grand Cherokee. With the rear seat down and a blanket, it actually wasn’t so bad compared to some of the fleabag motels I’d stayed in when I was undercover with the NYPD.

I glanced at my watch. Twenty-three hours and counting.

We remained parked diagonally across the street from John O’Hara’s house on Stillwater Lane. They sure got the “still” part right. Not only had there been no sign of Ned Sinclair, there was basically no sign of anyone.

Except for real-estate agents, that is. Their signs were everywhere. Half the homes on the block, all ranch-style, all covered in gray, white, or brown shingles, were for sale. Suffice it to say Stillwater Lane had more than its fair share of mortgages in trouble.

All in all, it was a pretty depressing sight, although it did solve a problem for us. Thanks to a real-estate agent that Chief Melvin knew, Sarah and I were able to use a vacant house down the street for bathroom trips and to wash up.

But the sleeping we did in the Jeep. That was a no-brainer. If Ned Sinclair planned on making an appearance, we needed to be close. Real close.

“Try not to snore, okay?” retorted Sarah from behind the wheel.

She’d been busting my chops about the four hours of sleep we took turns getting during the night not being enough for me. I couldn’t help it, though. I was beat.

I stretched out in the back. The Birdwood cop with the 8:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. shift inside the house was due in a half hour. He was bringing our dinner, too. A little catnap for me beforehand was just what the doctor ordered.

Unfortunately, I’d barely closed my eyes when I heard Sarah mutter under her breath, “He’s early.”

I sat up, looking out the side window to see a patrol car pull into O’Hara’s driveway.

Out stepped Officer Lohman. I remembered his name because he’d brought us Chinese takeout the night before and I had the pork lo mein.

Note to self: never order the pork lo mein in Birdwood, Nebraska.

“Shit, where’s our pizza?” I said, seeing that he was empty-handed. Not only was he early, he’d forgotten our large pepperoni-and-mushroom. Had he no shame?

Apparently he had no excuse, either. Sarah and I waited for him to come over to us and offer up some type of explanation. At the very least he needed to confirm what frequency we’d be using on our radios during his shift.

But he was heading straight for O’Hara’s house. Immediately, Sarah stepped out of the Jeep. “I’ll see what’s up,” she said.

I watched as she crossed the street, calling out Lohman’s name. When he turned around he looked startled, as if Sarah had surprised him.

But that made no sense; he knew we were there.

Something wasn’t right.