Part 9 (1/2)

”Do you want to take a drive with me?” He crumpled the wrapper of his m.u.f.fin into a tiny ball.

I was taken aback. ”Uh, I guess so.”

”Come on. I know a great place,” he said, and took my hand.

I remembered my cell phone and wallet and told him that I needed to go back upstairs for a minute. As nice as it was to have his hand around mine, I extracted it and ran upstairs.

I came back with the phone and my wallet, grabbed my coffee and the rest of my scone, and followed him outside to a car that was thankfully not the it's-not-a-cruiser. It was a very nice Pa.s.sat station wagon with an impeccably clean interior. I didn't peg him for the station-wagon type, but it was a nice change of pace from the SUVs I usually encountered on the roads. No gold chains or sports cars for this almost midlifer. I got into the pa.s.senger seat, put my coffee in the cup holder, and my head against the headrest. He got into the driver's seat of the car and started it. As usual, he reminded me to put on my seat belt, and I obliged.

He headed north on Route 9 toward the Tappan Zee Bridge. Once across the bridge, he went north on the Thruway to the exit for the Garden State Parkway going south. I stayed awake until we pa.s.sed through the first toll plaza at Exit 168, but that was it. I awoke as we were exiting at Exit 98 and merging onto Route 34 south. I had only been down this way once but recognized that we were at the Jersey Sh.o.r.e.

I sat up and pushed my hair from my face. My scone was still in my lap, with the paper wrapped around it. I looked over at him. ”Where are we?”

”The sh.o.r.e,” he said. ”Did you have a nice nap?”

I looked at my watch. Two hours had pa.s.sed since he had arrived at my house. ”Where are we going?”

”Ocean Beach,” he said. ”I know it's kind of a long way to go for lunch, but I wanted to give you a change of scenery for the day.”

”This is different,” I agreed. This stretch of 34 was home to window stores, a few restaurants, a large grocery superstore, and lots of advertis.e.m.e.nts for Realtors. I was hoping that if we had come this far, I would see the ocean, but judging from the landscape, I wasn't so sure.

We crossed over a drawbridge and pulled up to a red light. When the light turned green, we drove a few hundred feet to a small shack on the bay called Spike's Fish Market. It was on the other side of the street, so he pulled a quick U-turn and drove up to the front of the store.

”You can wait or come inside. Whatever you want to do,” he said.

”I'll come,” I said, and opened the door. We went inside. Directly in front of us was the fish display, and tables were to the left. Slabs of every kind of fish imaginable rested on chipped ice in a display case. The tables were planks of wood with sea salt, ketchup, and oyster crackers on each; there were long wooden benches on either side. As far as ambiance went, it had none, but judging from the fact that not one table was empty and it was still spring-technically off-season-I figured the food must be incredible.

The grizzled old guy behind the counter-Spike, I presumed-said h.e.l.lo to Crawford and gave me the once-over. He pulled a big sheet of butcher paper off a roll, and said to Crawford, ”Shoot.”

”Two lobsters, one pound of the tiger shrimp, a quart of jambalaya with rice on the bottom, a pound of coleslaw and a pound of potato salad.” He looked at me. ”Is there anything else that we should get?”

”That should cover it,” I said. I hope he had plans to prepare whatever needed cooking, because I was off duty.

Spike put everything in a big plastic bag and waved Crawford off from paying. ”I'll put it on your tab.”

We got back into the car and headed south on 35, a new road, until we reached a small beach community in which the houses were about six hundred square feet each, very close together, and all within walking distance of the ocean. He made a left onto a street called Tarpon, and drove up to a house that was right on the beach. He pulled the car into a small ap.r.o.n of a driveway.

I got out of the car and walked to the right side of the house. The ocean was steps from the house, and, from what I could see, the water was calm on this gorgeous day. There were a few people on the beach south of us, but in front of the house was an empty expanse of smooth white sand.

Inside, the house was one big room with two smaller bedrooms to the side, fronted by a giant picture window that faced the water. It was paneled in dark wood, with slipcovered furniture and hardwood floors. The galley kitchen was next to the large window, and contained a tiny, four-burner stove, a few cabinets above and below the counter, a small sink and a refrigerator.

I looked at the walls. They were covered with pictures of his family and it seemed that he had the brother he mentioned, plus a sister. All looked younger. The parents were your stock Irish characters: the little, gray-haired father with the ruddy complexion, and the redheaded mother with freckles. Judging from the rest of the family, Crawford must have been adopted. None of the people in the picture was over five-foot-seven. In every picture, he towered over the rest of the family like some kind of lanky interloper.

I focused on his father's face, much like Crawford's, but weathered. ”What did your father do for a living?”

”Cop.”

”Brother?”

”a.s.sistant District Attorney. Brooklyn.”

”Wow,” I remarked. ”You've got a one-family crime-fighting team going. It's like a bunch of Irish superheroes.”

”I guess.” He opened the refrigerator and a.s.sessed its contents. ”We're Irish. If you're smart, you become a lawyer, if you're not so smart . . .” He grinned sheepishly and put his palms up.

”I think you're selling yourself short.” I continued looking at the picture. ”I've known my fair share of dumb lawyers, and I've met some really smart cops recently.” There was a slight facial resemblance between him and the brother-around the eyes mostly-but that's where it ended. ”Where do your brother and sister live?” I asked.

”My brother lives in Hawthorne-by you actually. And my sister lives in northern California.”

”Is she a crime fighter, too?”

”If you call breaking up slugfests among her four sons crime fighting, then yes.” He rooted around in the upper cabinet and came out with a lobster pot and a lid. He filled it with water from the little sink and put it on the stove, placing the lid on top. He grabbed the lobsters from the bag, still squirming and fighting against their inevitable execution, and put them in the sink. One was on top of the other, their claws taped together. ”You can't get water to boil down here unless you put the lid on. I don't know why that is.” He opened the refrigerator. ”Do you want something to drink? Beer? Soda? b.l.o.o.d.y Mary?”

”The last,” I said. I would begin the twelve-step program next week.

He pulled out a bunch of ingredients and whipped together my drink. Then he set about putting the shrimp on a plate and mixing up a c.o.c.ktail sauce from ketchup, horseradish, and Tabasco. He got a beer from the refrigerator. It was Labatt's, just like my parents used to drink. He took the plate and a beer and kicked open the back door. ”Come on outside,” he said.

The back of the house sat on the sand with a deck stretching out onto the beach. A gla.s.s-topped table and some wrought-iron chairs looked like they hadn't been cleaned for the season yet, but I took a chance and sat down, hoping I wouldn't end up with some kind of rust print on my skirt. Crawford went back into the house and returned with a towel, asked me to get up, and spread it on the chair. ”Thanks,” I said.

He plopped into his chair, unconcerned about any dirt that might end up on his jeans. He threw his head back and took a deep breath of the ocean air.

I took a sip of my drink and felt white heat travel down my throat and into my stomach. I wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the Tabasco, or the horseradish, but it tingled and was a pleasant feeling. He pushed the shrimp plate in front of me and sat next to me, his back to the ocean.

”Eat,” he said.

I obliged and took a bite of shrimp.

”How often do you come down here?” I asked.

”In the summer, every weekend I can. Depends on the chart,” he said and seeing my confused look, he clarified, ”. . . work schedule. We call it a chart. It rotates, so sometimes I'm on days, sometimes on nights.”

”Oh,” I said. ”Do you get overtime for sleeping in front of my house?”

He laughed a little. ”Sure. We get overtime for surveillance.” He leaned in toward me. ”So, how did you know?” A light breeze ruffled his hair.

I thought for a moment. ”Contrary to appearances, philandering husband and all, I'm not a complete moron.” I looked down at my hands. That sounded a little more caustic than I had intended. ”I just wasn't sure it was you. What did you do to deserve that duty?” I looked up and saw that he was embarra.s.sed. ”What? Did you lose the cruiser? Use too many bullets? Wear a blue s.h.i.+rt when the memo called for red?”

”It's not a cruiser,” he reminded me. ”I volunteered.”

”Ah,” I said, for lack of a witty retort. ”We're done with that now, though, right? You can sleep indoors if you want? I'm off the most-wanted list?”

”Back to my apartment,” he said. He held up two fingers: Scout's honor. ”Promise.”

Darn. ”And what the h.e.l.l kind of surveillance is that anyway? Surveillance implies a state of consciousness,” I said, giving him a small punch to the shoulder. ”What if I had taken off in the middle of the night?”

He shook his head, remaining serious. ”On foot? In clogs? You weren't going anywhere. I knew that. And you were never a real suspect in my mind.”

”But Wyatt thought I was. And by the way,” I said, the b.l.o.o.d.y Mary becoming the equivalent of truth serum, ”what is with him? Why is he so nasty?”

He laughed. ”He's really not. He's actually a very nice guy.”