“I got it right here,” Angelo said. He reached up and turned on the map light. “We’re looking for Overlook Place,” he said. “It will be on the left.”
Overlook Place was easy to find, and five minutes later, they were cruising along a winding, tree-lined street. The lawns that stretched up to the widely spaced houses were so expansive they looked like fairways on a golf course.
“Can you imagine living in a place like this?” Franco commented, his head swinging from side to side. “Hell, I’d get lost trying to find the street from my front door.”
“I don’t like this,” Angelo said. “It’s too peaceful. We’re going to stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Now don’t get yourself all bent out of shape,” Franco said. “At this point, all we’re doing is reconnoitering. What number are we looking for?”
Angelo consulted the piece of paper in his hand. “Number Eight Overlook Place.”
“That means it’s going to be on our left,” Franco said. They were just passing number twelve.
A few moments later Franco slowed and pulled over to the right side of the road. He and Angelo stared up a serpentine driveway lined with carriage lamps to a massive Tudor-style house set against a backdrop of soaring pine trees. Most of the multipaned windows were aglow with light. The property was the size of a football field.
“Looks like a goddamn castle,” Angelo complained.
“I must say, it’s not what I was hoping for,” Franco said.
“Well, what are we going to do?” Angelo asked. “We can’t just sit here. We haven’t seen a car since we pulled off the main drag back there.”
Franco put the car in gear. He knew Angelo was right. They couldn’t wait there. Someone would undoubtedly spot them, become suspicious, and call the police. They’d already passed one of those stupid neighborhood watch signs with the silhouette of a guy wearing a bandana.
“Let’s find out more about this sixteen-year-old chick,” Angelo said. “Like, where she goes to school, what she likes to do, and who are her friends. We can’t risk going up to the house. No way.”
Franco grunted in agreement. Just as he was about to press on the accelerator, he saw a tiny figure come out the front of the house. From such a distance he couldn’t tell if it was male or female. “Somebody just came out,” he said.
“I noticed,” Angelo said.
The two men watched in silence as the figure descended a few stone stairs and then started down the driveway.
“Whoever it is, is kind of fat,” Franco said.
“And they got a dog,” Angelo said.
“Holy Madonna,” Franco said after a few moments. “It’s the girl.”
“I don’t believe this,” Angelo said. “Do you think it really is Cindy Carlson? I’m not used to things happening this easy.”
Astounded, the two men watched as the girl continued down the driveway as if she were coming directly to greet them. Ahead of her walked a tiny, caramel-colored toy poodle with its little pompom tail sticking straight up.
“What should we do?” Franco questioned. He didn’t expect an answer; he was thinking out loud.
“How about the police act?” Angelo suggested. “It always worked for Tony and me.”
“Sounds good,” Franco said. He turned to Angelo and stuck out his hand. “Let me use your Ozone Park police badge.”
Angelo reached into the vest pocket of his Brioni suit and handed over the walletlike badge cover.
“You stay put for the moment,” Franco said. “No reason to scare her right off the bat with that face of yours.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Angelo said sourly. Angelo cared about his appearance and dressed to the nines in a vain attempt to compensate for his face, which was severely scarred from a combination of chicken pox as a child, severe acne as a teenager, and third-degree burns from an explosion five years previously. Ironically, the explosion had been ignited thanks to Laurie Montgomery.
“Ah, don’t be so touchy,” Franco teased. He cuffed Angelo on the back of the head. “You know we love you, even though you look like you should be in a horror movie.”
Angelo fended off Franco’s hand. There were only two people he allowed even to make reference to his facial problem: Franco and his boss, Vinnie Dominick. Still, he didn’t appreciate it.
The girl was now nearing the street. She was dressed in a pink down-filled ski parka, which only made her look heavier. Her facial features indented a puffy face with mild acne. Her hair was straight and parted down the middle.
“She look anything like Maria Provolone?” Angelo questioned, to get in a dig at Franco.
“Very funny,” Franco said. He reached for the door handle and got out of the car.
“Excuse me!” Franco called out as sweetly as possible. Having smoked heavily from age eight, he had a voice that normally had a harsh, raspy quality. “Could you, by any chance, be the popular Cindy Carlson?”
“Maybe,” the teenager said. “Who wants to know?” She’d stopped at the foot of the driveway. The dog lifted his leg against the gate post.
“We’re police officers,” Franco said. He held up the badge so that the light from the streetlamp glinted off its polished surface. “We’re investigating several of the boys in town and we were told you might be able to help us.”
“Really?” Cindy questioned.
“Absolutely,” Franco said. “Please come over here so my colleague can talk to you.”
Cindy glanced up and down the street, even though not a car had passed in the last five minutes. She crossed the street, pulling her dog who’d been intently sniffing the base of an elm tree.
Franco moved out of the way so that Cindy Carlson could bend over to look into the front seat of the car at Angelo. Before a word was spoken, Franco pushed her into the car headfirst.
Cindy let out a squeal but it was quickly smothered by Angelo who wrestled her into the car.
Franco swiftly yanked the leash out of Cindy’s hand and shooed the dog away. Then he squeezed into the front seat, crushing Cindy against Angelo. He put the car in gear and drove away.
Laurie had surprised herself. After the delivery of the Franconi videotape, she’d been able to redirect her attention to her paperwork. She’d worked efficiently and made significant progress. There was now a gratifying stack of completed folders on the corner of her desk.
Taking the remaining tray of histology slides, she started on the final case, which could be completed with the material and reports she had. As she peered into her microscope to examine the first slide, she heard a knock on her open door. It was Lou Soldano.
“What are you doing here so late?” Lou asked. He sat down heavily in the chair next to Laurie’s desk. He made no effort to take off his coat or hat, which was tipped way back on his head.
Laurie glanced at her watch. “My gosh!” she remarked. “I had no idea of the time.”
“I tried to call you at home as I was coming across the Queensborough Bridge,” Lou said. “When I didn’t get you, I decided to stop here. I had a sneaking suspicion you’d still be at it. You know, you work too hard!”
“You should talk!” Laurie said with playful sarcasm. “Look at you! When was the last time you got any sleep? And I’m not talking about a catnap at your desk.”
“Let’s talk about more pleasant things,” Lou suggested. “How about grabbing a bite to eat? I’ve got to run down to headquarters to do about an hour’s worth of dictating, then I’d love to go out someplace. The kids are with their aunt, God love her. What do you say to some pasta?”
“Are you sure you’re up for going out?” Laurie questioned. The circles under Lou’s dark eyes were touching his smile creases. His stubble was more than a five o’clock shadow. Laurie guessed it was at least two days’ worth.
“I gotta eat,” Lou said. “Are you planning on working much longer?”
“I’m on my last case,” Laurie said. “Maybe another half hour.”