George Pelecanos - The Way Home

“What, you just left it there?”

“Uh-huh.”

“For what reason?”

“There were fifty thousand reasons to take it. Right now, I can’t say why I didn’t. But that ship sailed out the harbor. Can’t do anything about it now.”

Lawrence handed Ben the bottle. “Where was that at, B?”

Ben told him the story, and the row house address, and, because Lawrence deftly and gently prodded him, every other detail that he could remember. And when he was done talking, realizing that he was too drunk and high, and that he had to be up for work early in the morning, he asked Lawrence to drive him home.

Lawrence grinned and said he would.

Come down here,” said Thomas Flynn. “Dream with me.”

Thomas Flynn was in the home of Eric and Linda Wasserman. He was on his knees in their living room, pitching carpet. A large book of samples was open beside him.

Linda Wasserman, a blonde in her midthirties, stood over Flynn, her arms crossed. Her husband was at work and their child was at sleepaway camp. She had a toned body, a perfect dye job, immaculately pedicured feet at rest in designer sandals, and lovely skin. Flynn reckoned she spent a great deal of time working out and getting worked on. He was in the presence of new Potomac money.

“Come on down here,” said Flynn again.

“Should I?”

“Absolutely!”

Linda Wasserman got down on all fours. She was looking to replace her living-room carpet with something nicer. The Wassermans had recently bought the house and inherited its shag carpeting and scuffed-up floors.

Flynn was there to guide her and make a sale. He was trying not to concentrate on her tight, perfect ass, which was small enough to fit into one of his hands. It would be like palming a basketball. You could actually carry her around the house, thought Flynn. She’s light enough. Put her in one hand and rest her on your hip, hold a beer in the other, and walk her to the bedroom.

What’s wrong with me? thought Flynn. And in his head he heard a reply: Nothing that isn’t wrong with any other man.

“Now what?” said Linda Wasserman.

Flynn had his fingers deep in one of the samples, and he was kneading it while looking into her eyes.

“Put your hand on this,” said Flynn. Meaning the sample.

She reached out and stroked the carpet sample. As she leaned forward, her breasts became pendulous beneath her pullover blouse, one of those jobs with an oval cutout and a little string tied at the scoop of the neck.

“Plush pile,” said Flynn. “It’s sheared several times to give it a velvety sheen. Imagine walking on this. You’re not going to want to wear shoes in this room, I can tell you that. Neither are your guests.”

“We don’t actually use the living room much.”

“Perfect. This is low-traffic carpet.”

“It is nice,” she said. “Is it expensive?”

“Yes,” said Flynn. With her, the high cost would be a positive. But not too high. They weren’t stupid rich. “It’s not overextravagant, mind you. It’s the Benz of carpet, rather than the Ferrari.”

“Hmm.” She caught him glancing at her breasts and quickly got to her feet. “I’m going to have to discuss this with my husband, Mr. Flynn.”

“Of course,” said Flynn, standing more slowly than she because of his aging knees. “My wife and I always talk about these kinds of purchases before we come to a decision. Let me just size this out and give you an estimate.”

While he was measuring the room, his cell rang. He read the caller ID, prepared himself mentally, and answered. With one finger he made an “excuse me” sign to Linda Wasserman, then he walked out of the room.

“Thomas Flynn speaking.”

“Mr. Flynn, this is Mindy Kramer.”

“Hello, Mindy-”

“I need to see you down at the job site right away.”

Clearly she was agitated. But with these aggressive, hard-charging types, it could be nothing more than a few drops of soda spilled on a hardwood floor by a worker, or a piece of the old carpet left behind on the site. A negotiating ploy to get the price of the job down.

“Is there a problem?” said Flynn.

“A very serious problem.”

“With the product or the installation?”

“The installation. Maybe the product. I don’t know.”

“So I should send my guys down.”

“I’d like you here, too. Frankly, I have no faith in them at this point.”

“Can you just elaborate a little bit so I know what we’re talking about here?”

“I don’t have time. The police are here, Mr. Flynn, and I have to go. On top of the subpar work that was done by your men, this house was broken into last night.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Okay. I’ve got to finish up here, but it won’t be long.”

“I’ll see you shortly.”

Flynn phoned Chris and asked him if he knew the nature of Mindy Kramer’s malfunction. Chris, on a Northwest job with Ben, told him that the install at her row house had been clean and error free. Flynn caught a bit of hesitation in Chris’s voice that did not comfort him.

“Finish up what you’re doing,” said Flynn, “and meet me down at the house.”

Flynn gave Linda Wasserman her estimate, deliberately not allowing his eyes to drop below her chin as he explained the pricing and terms. He shook her hand and headed back down into the city.

Flynn spotted a Third District cruiser on the street as he pulled up near Mindy Kramer’s row house. He went through the unlocked front door and followed the sound of Mindy Kramer’s distinctive voice to the kitchen at the rear.

The kitchen door opened to a small deck whose steps led down to the alley. Mindy Kramer and two young uniformed officers, a woman and a man, were standing on the deck. Mindy was smoking a long, thin white cigarette, gesturing with it as she spoke to the two rather uninterested-looking police.

“I don’t have an alarm system,” Mindy Kramer was saying, as Flynn joined the group. “I’m flipping this place, so I’m not going to invest in one. And you don’t want to try and sell a home with bars on its windows. I mean, the house is unfurnished, so what’s there to steal?”

“Whoever broke in didn’t know that till he got inside,” said the female officer.

“That’s right,” said Flynn, just to inject himself into the conversation.

The female police officer looked at Flynn. “And you are?”

“He’s here for something else,” said Mindy Kramer, by way of both introduction and dismissal, waving at him with her cigarette, waving him away.

The male officer drifted and eyed the severely splintered doorjamb. It looked to Flynn as if a jimmy or crowbar had been taken to it. It had been an unprofessional and successful effort.

“It could have been kids,” said Mindy Kramer. “Or a junkie. I don’t care who it was. But you’d think the neighbors would have heard something. A couple of people on this block have dogs, for God’s sake.”

“We’ll knock on some doors,” said the female officer. “See what we can find out.”

“Aren’t you going to dust for prints?” said Mindy Kramer.

The female officer looked at Flynn for a moment and light danced in her eyes. They could “dust” the whole house, but, short of walking into the 3D station himself and confessing to the crime, this particular perpetrator, who apparently had stolen nothing, would not be brought to justice.

“First thing, I’m gonna need to fill out a report,” she said.

“Ach,” said Mindy Kramer, rolling her eyes. It was as if the officer had told her that she was about to be strip-searched.

“Excuse me,” said Flynn. “About that problem.”

“Go have a look at it,” said Mindy Kramer. “You’ll see what I’m talking about right away. I have to stay here and help her fill out a report.”