Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

Munson continued to study him in a pained and wondering way. He sighed and shook his head. “That’s what I’d like to know, too, Chris,” he replied.

“Last night, a stranger to everyone here was cruising up and down this cul-de-sac,” the handsome cop announced. “This man was trying to determine which one of your homes would be the easiest to break into.”

Everyone in the room fell silent. They stopped passing around the tray of cookies. The policeman had them hanging on his next words.

Molly guessed he was about thirty-five. He had short, chestnut-colored hair and pale green eyes. Tall and athletically lean, he looked sexy in his black suit and a blue shirt with the collar open. He was probably a big hit with all the bored, lonely housewives at Neighborhood Watch meetings like this one.

Hands in his pockets, he stood in front of the Hahns’ fireplace, above which hung a large studio portrait of the Hahn family: Jeremy and Lynette and their kids, Courtney, seventeen, Carson, eight, and Dakota, five. They were in front of a forest backdrop. Jeremy and Carson had matching blazers, and the girls were decked out in their yacht-club-dinner best. It was odd to see their frozen smiles in the portrait while the police officer made such a disturbing announcement.

“This stranger checked out every house on the block,” the cop continued. “He made observations of who was home and who wasn’t, how well-lit your backyards were, and whether or not you had home security systems. . ”

The residents of Willow Tree Court were gathered in the Hahns’ family room for the down-to-business portion of the Neighborhood Watch potluck. Molly sat next to Henry Cad-well, a stocky forty-five-year-old work-at-home architect, who lived on the other side of a vacant lot next door to her and Jeff. Henry and his partner, a chiropractor named Frank, had an adopted daughter in Erin’s class, Su-Li. Hank and Frank , Chris called them. They were moving soon, and Molly didn’t want to think about it. Henry was her only real friend on the block. Among this clique, she and Henry were the outsiders. Perhaps that was why they sat in folding chairs while everyone else was ensconced on the sofa or in a cushioned easy chair.

Occupying the chair was Mrs. Kim Nguyen, the quiet, middle-aged, not-altogether-friendly neighbor at the end of the cul-de-sac — on the other side of Hank and Frank. At least, she wasn’t too friendly with Molly. Then again, they’d only met a few times. Molly had asked her earlier — at the buffet table — if she and Dr. Nguyen had had a visitor this morning, someone driving a blue minivan. “I guess I’m already starting to neighborhood-watch,” Molly had explained, trying to make light of it.

Mrs. Nguyen had frowned. “My friend picking us up at airport,” she’d explained in her fractured English. “She driving blue van.”

Molly had been relieved to hear that. Yet Mrs. Nguyen had seemed annoyed by the question. Molly had asked how long she and Dr. Nguyen would be in town.

“Three days,” Mrs. Nguyen had replied curtly. Then she’d moved over to the other end of the buffet table, where Angela had stood.

A few minutes later, Molly had seen Mrs. Nguyen and Angela laughing about something.

Angela had the middle spot on the couch, with her gal pals, Lynette Hahn and Kay Garvey, on either side of her. Her mink-colored hair was perfectly styled, but she’d laid the makeup on a bit thick. Plus she was slightly over-dressed — in black pants and a black V-neck sweater with a shimmering silver striped weave. Her girlfriends, Lynette and Kay, had raved about how gorgeous she looked, and they wanted to hear all about the man in her life — the one with the beautiful house on a cul-de-sac in Bellevue. Angela had brought a quiche to the party — along with a bit of attitude.

“Hi, Molly,” she’d said to her coolly. “You look so pretty — but then, you always do. I love your blouse.” Molly had been in the middle of thanking her and was about to return the phony compliment when Angela had excused herself to instruct Lynette on how to heat up the quiche. That was the extent of their conversation so far, after ninety minutes.

While grazing around the buffet table earlier, Angela, Lynette, and Kay had whispered about Ray Corson’s murder. “I knew something like that would eventually happen,” Lynette had concluded. “You have to wonder what he was doing in that park so late at night. He went there looking for trouble, and he found it.”

Molly had steered clear of the conversation.

The Toll House cookies she’d baked that morning were on a plate in a hard-to-reach spot on the buffet table. Though Lynette knew she was bringing chocolate chip cookies, she’d baked a batch herself. “I thought you might forget or bring store-bought,” Lynette had cheerfully explained. “And besides, I have to admit, I make the best chocolate chip cookies in the universe.”

Molly hated Lynette. She had this phony perkiness to her — like a sitcom mom moonlighting in a commercial for deodorant. She was just a little too self-satisfied cute. She had a slim, tennis-taut figure, and frosted brunette hair with bangs. She seemed to think of herself as Supermom! But her daughter Courtney was shallow and selfish, and the two younger kids were utter brats. On several occasions, Molly had spotted Carson and Dakota and their friends throwing dirt balls at passing cars from an abandoned lot at the start of the cul-de-sac. She’d tried to tell Lynette about it, but Supermom was in total denial: “I’m sure you’re mistaken, Molly.” Her kids could do no wrong. For a while, Lynette had talked about suing a local restaurant, where the owner had had the unmitigated gall to ask if her children could please use their quiet voices so as not to disturb the other patrons.

Madison’s mom was rather plain, with blond hair and a pale complexion. She was friendly enough when Lynette and Angela weren’t around. But Molly was dead certain Kay talked behind her back to the other two. They seemed to regard her as this flaky, vapid successor to Angela — and only a temporary one at that.

And it hurt.

“Why do you care what those bitches think of you?” Henry had asked her at one point.

Molly couldn’t quite explain why. Maybe it was because she was living in their friend’s house, or because their daughters were in Chris’s class. Once Henry moved away, she wouldn’t have any friends on the block. He was her only friend in Seattle.

“Your cookies are infinitely better than Squeaky’s,” Henry had whispered in her ear — after sampling one of Lynette’s from the tray being passed around the family room. Unbeknownst to Lynette, he called her Squeaky — after Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme, the onetime Manson follower who tried to assassinate Gerald Ford.

The detective had missed the potluck brunch portion of the proceedings earlier. Lynette had gotten up to present him to the group. She’d given a long, sickeningly cute introduction, which included a story about how her dear, sweet Dakota had once mistaken a guard at the zoo for a policeman ( “Is he going to arrest the elephant, Mommy?” ). Then she’d finally called on their guest speaker, Detective Chet Blazevich.

Molly could tell her neighbors were still wondering about this stranger who had been cruising around their cul-de-sac last night, studying the lay of the land.

“Didn’t any one of you notice a dark green Toyota Camry going up and down your block around eight o’clock?” Detective Blazevich asked, with a hint of a smile.

Angela and her friends glanced at each other and shrugged.

Molly cleared her throat, and half raised her hand. “Do you drive a dark green Toyota Camry, Detective?”