“You want to come?”

“I’m not going to spend this investigation hanging out in the car, getting secondhand information. But I’m not in a hurry to be introduced to all your underworld contacts, either. You know this guy—it’s your call.”

“You should come.” He locked the car. “Get it over with.”

Before I could say anything, he was already striding across the parking lot, leaving me jogging to catch up.

We stood before a small two-story house on a street that was mostly brick bungalows, with the occasional two-story thrown in for variety. An old neighborhood in every way, from the massive oaks that looked as if they’d seen the first colonists to the front porches adorned with wicker rockers, mobile scooters and wheelchair ramps.

Down the street, an army of young men worked their way from lawn to lawn, mowers and hedge-clippers in tow. A patrolling security car slowed to give us a once-over, then drove on. It looked like an upper-middle-class retirement community, where the owners kept their houses small, saving their money for Alaskan cruises and European vacations. A strange place for an underworld contact meeting.

“Something I should tell you.” Jack peered up at the house. “Things I didn’t mention before. Probably should have. But…” He paused, then shook his head. “Too late now. You’ll understand or you won’t.”

With that, he headed for the front steps.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SEVEN

White curtains in the windows. Fresh dark green trim to complement the yellow brick. A black metal mailbox. The space for an engraved surname under the brass door knocker was blank. Jack motioned for me to knock.

“This contact,” I said. “Is he a civilian or…”

“Pro.”

I adjusted my jacket, making sure my Glock was in place, then banged the knocker. Inside, a dog barked, then another joined in. They sounded big.

A distant door opened, then shut. The barking resumed, now coming from the rear yard.

“What should I call myself?” I said. “I need a name, right?”

Before he could answer, a dead bolt clanked. The door opened. There stood a petite white-haired woman wearing a silk blouse, wool slacks and leather pumps. She looked from me to Jack, back to me, then pointed a finger at Jack.

“You are in deep shit, Jacko.”

The woman stepped back and Jack propelled me through the doorway.

She smiled at me. “Let me hang your jacket. Gun on or off, it doesn’t matter. A guest’s comfort comes first.” Her blue eyes sparked. “Though I’ll be flattered if you think you might need it.”

I handed her my coat and kept my gun holstered.

“I’ll join you in the living room,” she said. “Jack can hang his own damned jacket, though he might be wise to keep it, in case I decide to boot his ass into the yard with the dogs.”