Rossiter’s lawn was cluttered with a bicycle, a softball bat, an old razor scooter.…
The house was dark.
Harry and Friday got out of the Tercel and headed up the front porch steps.
“Looks like no one’s up,” Friday said.
“So we wake him,” Harry said.
Friday hesitated.
“He’s a cop,” Harry said. “It goes with the job.”
Friday glanced at Harry, who rang the bell.
“If we prove Cotton had a gun,” she said. “If we prove he shot Pillette…”
“They can’t send me back to the hospital,” Harry said.
“But can they reverse the drug?” Friday asked.
Harry looked confused.
“Do I seem that different?” he asked.
“Don’t you feel different?” Friday asked.
Harry stopped, his finger suspended over the doorbell.
“Everything’s the same,” Harry said. “Except … except … Everything’s so much sadder.”
The porch light went on and Rossiter, a reindeer-patterned sweater over his pajamas, reeking of booze, opened the door.
“For a fugitive, you sure make a hell of a racket,” Rossiter said. “There’s an APB out for you.”