Fifty-Three

We stood in front of the steps leading to my condo. I sat on the curved railing, fumbling through my keys, trying to decide whether this was a date. Was there a kiss involved now? I found the key.

“Thanks for the walk home,” I said to Mel, and leaned in, aiming to plant a kiss on her cheek.

Mel ducked. “Not so fast.”

“Huh?”

“I need to use your bathroom.”

“Sorry, I should have offered. Come on up.”

I led her up the steps, had a better time with the key to my condo door, unlocked it, and swung it open. The apartment lay dark and silent before us. A straight line from my living room in the front, past my kitchenette, to the bedroom in the back.

I swiped at the hall light switch, entered and pointed toward the bedroom. “Bathroom is that way.”

“Thanks.” Mel hustled past me and on to the bathroom.

I turned on more lights, checked on Click and Clack. “How are you doing, boys?”

The hermit crabs had been sleeping, were still sleeping, were still enjoying the Zen-like state of living in the moment inherent to the brain of a crustacean. I envied them. Sprinkled some flakes on their sponge. They ignored that too, knowing in their crabby wisdom that the flakes would be there when they decided to eat.

Mel returned from the bathroom. “This really is a nice little place.”

“Thanks.” Remembered my manners. “Want a nightcap?”

“Really?”

“I don’t have to walk anymore.”

“Got beer?”

I pulled out a couple of Harpoon Winter Warmers, the last of my winter-beer stash. Poured them into glasses, making nice heads on each, and handed one to Mel.

“Want to come into my parlor?” I said, moving toward the couch.

“Sure.”

We sat next to each other on the couch, clicked glasses, drank some spiced ale.

“Thanks for the walk home,” I said.

“My plea—”

“Did you hear that?” I asked, putting my beer on the coffee table.

Mel put her beer down as well. Reached for her purse. “What?”

Murmurs slipped through the door.

“Somebody’s in the hallway,” I said.

“Yup,” said Mel, sliding her hand into her purse.

A fist pounded my front door. “Police! Search Warrant! Police!”

I said, “What the—”

The door blasted off its hinges as a battering ram swung through. Somebody tossed something in. The thing exploded, filling my head with light, ringing my ears. Mel swore.

Men in black uniforms poured through the smoke. “Police! Police! Get on the ground!”

A guy in black shoved Mel to the ground.

“Hey—”

Another guy grabbed me, threw me next to her. Pushed my neck to the floor. I turned my head and saw Mel next to me, lying with her face in the rug as a cop cuffed her. The guy on my back grabbed my wrists, cuffed them. They dragged Mel and me to our feet, pushed us down on the couch.

“What the hell is going on?” Mel asked the guy, then me. “What the hell is going on?”

More guys in black swarmed in. They went through my rooms and into my office, came out with my computer.

“Sons of bitches,” I said.

“What?”

“They swatted me.”

“Who?”

I looked up to see Lieutenant Lee step through my blasted front door. He walked over to Mel and me. He pointed at Mel and told the officer, “Release Special Agent Hunter. She is with the FBI.”

The cop said, “Jesus, sorry,” and unlocked Mel’s handcuffs.

Then Lee turned to me and said, “Aloysius Tucker, you are under arrest for threatening the Boston Police Department and for the murder of Earl Clary.”