Mean Streak

Lowering it required starting the motor, which took all of five or six seconds, but the delay seemed to make her even angrier. The window came down. Rain blew in. She practically hissed at him.

“Special Agent Connell.”

“I didn’t know if you would remember me.”

Her glower dismissed that statement as ludicrous. “If you had come to notify me that my brother is dead, you would have been straightforward and rung the front doorbell. You wouldn’t have been hunkered down here half the night or spent all day spying on me. So what brings you he

re?”

The fact that she knew about his surveillance told him that she kept vigil herself. She watched for people watching her. He said, “Can we talk?”

“Fuck off.”

“Good. You’re willing to cooperate.”

She gave him a drop dead look.

“I’ve come all this way. Please?”

She remained unmoved.

He glanced in the direction of the house. “Is he living with you?”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Is he in this region? Residing nearby? On the next block?”

She didn’t say anything.

“If he’s not around, then what’s the risk in talking to me?”

She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no, and she didn’t tell him to fuck off again, so when she turned and walked away, he cut the car engine, got out, and followed her back to the house.

She didn’t offer to share her umbrella. He covered his head with his jacket again. When they reached the porch, he shook off what rain he could. She went in ahead of him, but not before getting her mail out of the box.

“There’s nothing here for you to get excited about, but knock yourself out.” She thrust the handful of mail at him. He caught it against his wet jacket. Without looking at any of it, he neatly stacked it on the foyer table.

She folded her arms across her midriff. “Okay, you’re here. What did you come all this way for?”

“Can I use your bathroom?”

She studied him for a moment, as though trying to figure out whether or not he was joking. Deciding he wasn’t, she said, “Sure,” and motioned for him to follow her down a central hallway to a tiny powder room tucked beneath the staircase.

Going in ahead of him, she lifted the lid off the toilet tank. “See? Nothing in there but the balls and cock, or whatever they’re called.”

“Ballcock. One word.”

She replaced the lid with a clatter of porcelain and pointed to the framed mirror above the basin. “No medicine cabinet for you to inspect. You’re free to tear out the plumbing underneath the sink, but if you do, you’ll have to put it back together or reimburse me for a plumber.”

“You’ve made your point, Rebecca.”

“Be sure to wash your hands.” As she went out, she pulled the door closed with a bang.

He not only washed his hands, but after drying them he used the hand towel to blot rainwater off his face and neck. He straightened his tie and finger-combed his wet hair.

A few minutes later, bladder relieved and feeling presentable, he walked into her living room. She’d switched on the table lamps and was sitting in the corner of the sofa, feet tucked under her. The black, high-heeled pumps she’d kicked off lay beneath the coffee table. Ungraciously, she pointed him toward a chair that looked far less cozy and comfy than the sofa.

They faced off. He was the first to speak. “I like the new hairdo.”