Tom sat at his desk, notebook open, talking on the phone with Stacie at the lumber yard. Behind him, Cindy filed reports, opened and slammed file drawers. Tom ignored the radio chatter in the background.
“Ten gallons of blue, green, red, and black enamel?” he asked. “Isn’t that a lot of enamel?”
Stacie said, “Yeah. And he specifically asked for real enamel, not that fake latex that’s supposed to look like enamel. Cost more than twice as much but he said, ‘Money’s no object.’ Not a line I’ve ever heard from Bill.”
Tom underlined LUMBER YARD several times in his notebook.
“Does Bill have a license?” he asked. “You know, bonded and insured, all that?”
Stacie laughed. “Bill? Not a chance. He’s cheap, he does good work, but I don’t think he’d fill out a form to save his life.”
Tom thanked her and leaned his chair onto its two back legs. He teetered there in thought, tapped his teeth with his pencil, and asked nobody in particular, “Why would somebody want ten gallons of enamel?”
Over her shoulder, Cindy said, “Maybe he’s a potter.”
Tom lowered his chair back into place and turned around. “What?”
Cindy said, “My brother’s a potter. He did his whole mud room in several coats of enamel so it’d be easy to hose down. Maybe the guy who ordered the enamel—”
The phone rang, and Cindy answered. Tom stood, began to pace, and finished her sentence. “Does something really messy and needs easy cleanup. Even in his living room.”
Emergency tones came over the radio and dispatch said, “Sixteen?”
Tom answered on his portable, “Sixteen.”
“You have an injury accident at Washington and Water. Aid car en route. Time out: 1420.”
Tom rolled his eyes, threw on his coat and hat and replied, “Roger. Washington and Water. ETA two minutes.”
“1421, Sixteen. Be advised, fight in progress. Two males.”
Tom shook his head, snagged a baton from the wall rack and an extra-heavy flashlight from the desk and hurried to the car.