Page 19

FIFTEEN

“IF WE HEAR OF any other reports, we’ll let you know,” says the police officer, a young man in uniform, standing in our foyer.

“Thanks, Officer.” David closes the door behind the officer, sets the house alarm, and turns to me. “Okay. All the candy’s in the trash.”

“All Lincoln’s candy.” It was a point of contention. I wanted to toss every piece of candy both kids got. David persuaded me to leave Grace’s candy. She wasn’t with Lincoln, didn’t hit that corner where Lincoln got his candy. And bless her heart, Grace volunteered to split her haul with Lincoln, probably sensing her parents’ tension.

What a disastrous end to the night.

For the third time, I go through Grace’s candy, checking that the wrappers are still sealed, looking for puncture holes, any evidence of tampering.

“They’ll never find the guy,” says David, moving to the kitchen, looking out the window into the backyard. “Someone wearing a Darth Vader costume, standing on the corner by the Buseys’ house, handing out candy?”

That was the best description we could get from Lincoln, who became more upset the more we pressed him. “Are we still clinging to the possibility that this was a prank and Lincoln just happened to be the victim?”

“A coincidence? No.” David stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Not with everything else going on.”

“I talked to Kyle about this,” I say.

“Kyle?” David’s head snaps in my direction, but I see him try to moderate his response. “When?”

“He was one of the officers who responded to the house alarm today.”

David’s eyebrows lift. “You didn’t mention that before.”

“It was hardly important.”

David doesn’t seem to think it was unimportant, but he doesn’t press the matter. “You told him everything that’s been happening?”

I nod. “He said they would drive patrols around the house during the day. And overnight, for that matter. That seems like a good idea, doesn’t it?”

“It does. Yeah, it definitely does.” He turns back to the window.

“You’re upset with me.”

“I’m —” He throws up his hands. “I’m upset about all of this.”

“The bigger question,” I say, “is who’s doing this and why.”

“I know, I know.” He turns to me again. “Got any clients pissed off at you? Or other lawyers’ clients you beat in court?”

That had never occurred to me. “I — I can think about that. Anyone pissed off at you?”

“Who gets pissed off at a tavern owner? Maybe some drunk we eighty-sixed? I can’t imagine. But you’re right, none of this is random. Someone is trying to get our attention without actually hurting us.”

“Yet,” I say as I gather up Grace’s candy. “Without hurting us yet .”