Chapter Two

The knock on the door came at two in the morning, but Brock was awake. He had a lot on his mind.

When he had arrived at home, fresh off serving Shirley P. Davis and feeling pretty good about himself for his display of investigative skills, Kelly had been waiting. This was unusual.

You're home early.

Got something to tell you, she said. She had kind of a goofy smile as she said it. She was definitely happy, but something else as well.

Nothing too shocking, I hope. Been quite a day already. He told her about getting beat up by an old lady.

You had it coming, showing up at her house like that.

You think so.

Sounds like she's been spoiling for that fight for fifty years.

Could be. He walked toward the kitchen. You going to tell me or not?

You going to sit down and listen?

Should I be sitting down?

She smiled. Might not be a bad idea.

He stopped before he got to the kitchen, and pulled out a dining room chair. I'll keep this right by, he said.

I'm pregnant, she said.

Her smile got much bigger the longer he said nothing. And now there was nothing extra behind the smile, either, like everything else on her mind besides being happy had dissolved the second she said the words. Think I'll sit down, he said.

You're surprised? she asked.

Oh yeah.

It was my mistake, she said. Took some cold medicine without reading the label.

Well, then. The sniffles did it.

I guess so.

He reached out and pulled her over to him. I'm not sure what to say, he said.

You could say you're happy. Or you could say something else.

I'm happy, then.

You mean it?

Well, it's not the only thing I am.

Scared.

He nodded slowly. Yeah. I guess so. He put his hands together and looked up at her. How far, um, how far along...?

Just six weeks. So we have time.

Time.

To talk about what we're going to do.

He snorted. Seems pretty obvious what we're going to do. We're going to have a baby.

It hadn't occurred to him about the possibility of abortion. And he didn't know how she felt about that. All this time, even though they'd discussed her work many times, he didn't know how she felt. But his assumption put an end to conversation for the evening, but left him a lot to think about as he lay awake. Until the police arrived.

There were two of them, black men in overcoats, one Brock's size and one much bigger. They asked for him when he answered the knock, but they asked for him not by his name but by his profession. The Brock-sized detective asked if a process server lived there.

Yes, he said, opening the door. I am a process server.

Did you serve anyone tonight?

Yes, he said, and asked what this was about, but they ignored him. The small one asked him if he had served a woman named Deborah Harwood.

No, he said.

Out on Monitor Road. In Kensington.

Brock narrowed his eyes and had flash at the top of his stomach. Her named was Shirley Davis out there, he said.

The two detectives looked at each other. That's an interesting choice of words, the larger one said. It was the first time he had spoken, and the feeling in Brock's stomach got worse. He knew that something horrible had happened to someone.

I served someone out there. But her name was Shirley Davis.

Well, her landlady said her name was Deborah, said the smaller one.

And I'd take her word over yours, said the larger one, talkative all of a sudden. He looked for all the world like a football coach who had seen his team lose too many times. He was talking to Brock like he was the latest no-good player to screw around on him.

Then they both looked behind him. He turned and saw Kelly standing there in the doorway to the bedroom. She was just awake and wearing only her t-shirt. The look on her face as she walked back into the bedroom made Brock want to cry.

Maybe we can come in, said the smaller detective. Brock stepped back from the door. I'm Detective Sunderland. This is Detective Hoyt.

They sat at the dining room table. Brock sat with his back to the bedroom door.

How sure are you that the woman you served was Shirley Davis? asked Hoyt. The big one.

Maybe we should start from the beginning, said Sunderland. Hoyt nodded, politely deferring. It seemed, now that they were inside, that Sunderland, the smaller one, was older and wiser, and Hoyt was young and shifty, the kind of guy you had to watch for. Brock knew the type. He was the type, sometimes. The kind of guy who could be quiet most of the time, then go off like a firecracker.

Sunderland continued, You knocked on her door.

Not her door at first, said Brock. He explained about the old woman, and their altercation. He did not volunteer that she had knocked him down. Then he told about his brilliant realization on the way back to his car, including the insight about the house being bigger than the other houses on the street.

Not a bad eye you've got, then, said Sunderland. Brock shrugged and felt good about him saying it, even though he knew it was just an interrogator's trick.

So you knocked on the door of this apartment at the back. Brock said yes he had.

What did she say when you opened the door.

Brock hesitated. His stomach, which had been well on its way to calming down, suddenly had an expanding cold fire inside it, reaching his throat in an instant on a straight path up through him.

Well, said Sunderland. Blinking.

What's this about, said Brock.

I told you.

No. That's what she said. What's this about.

And what did you say to her?

I said I have papers for Shirley Davis.

And what did she say?

He exhaled. She asked again. He slumped in his chair. He knew what they were getting at.

She didn't actually say she was Shirley Davis.

No.

I see. That how you usually operate, then?

No it is not.

But today it was.

Today it was difficult.

Because an old lady punched you out. Sunderland smiled at him. They knew a lot about him. Now Brock was thinking more clearly and he was realizing that they knew too much about him.

How did you find me? he asked.

They didn't answer right away, but from the way Hoyt looked down at the floor Brock could tell that it was a question they'd been hoping he wouldn't ask. What he didn't know was why.

We got a call, Sunderland said, apparently not one to try to play with a weak hand. We got a call from someone in the neighborhood. They got your plate number.

It was anonymous, said Hoyt. Sunderland looked annoyed, like he didn't want Brock to know that.

What is all this about, anyway? asked Brock. He was afraid to know.

Deborah Harwood is dead, said Hoyt.

Brock felt his eyebrows knit and he breathed in and out his nose. And you think I killed her, he said.

No, said Sunderland. The timing's all wrong. The call put you there hours and hours before she died. But we found her with one of your papers, that didn't belong to her.

As far as I'm concerned, it did.

You gave it to her without getting her name.

I said, this is for Shirley Davis. She said, What's this about. Then I gave it to her.

That's enough for you.

It has to be.

What the hell does that mean? asked Hoyt. He was mad about something, that was for sure.

I can't wait for everyone to say who they are.

So you don't care if you serve the wrong woman.

I care.

But not that much. Not enough to be sure.

If I always care that much, I'm not going to make any money.

He heard the sound of bare feet shuffling. He looked up and saw Kelly standing in the doorway again. She looked nauseated, and he hoped it was because she was pregnant but he was pretty sure she'd heard enough of what he said to make her sick in any state of being.

Sounds like you've got sort of a dirty little secret in your profession, said Sunderland.

Me and everyone else doing it, thought Brock. But he said, Are you done with me? Can I get to sleep? He looked over at Kelly, hoping they would take sympathy on her if not on him.

Not hardly, said Hoyt. There was real malice in him, like he had a personal problem with Brock. Like the fact that Brock didn't always do his job the right way was offensive to him on a deep level.

But Sunderland took out his wallet. This is my card, he said. Call me if you think of something else. I may be by again. He suddenly had a manila envelope in his hand. Brock did not see where it had come from. I believe this is yours, too, said Sunderland.

They did not close the door on their way out. He walked over to it to close it and saw Hoyt's back heading out the door at the bottom of the stairs. Kelly was still standing in the bedroom doorway when he looked back.

So you going to call them up and tell them what happened?

I don't know, said Brock. I kept waiting for him to say it.

Well, he didn't. Makes me think you should have, Brock, unless you feel a need to get away from everything for a while and go to jail.

He walked over to her and put his hand on her cheek. He didn't say anything but he looked right at her. It was his only way of telling her.

She was squinting, maybe to avoid crying. I just, I thought you would be happier.

I am happy, he said. And I'll call the detective. He'll understand if I explain it to him.

You don't have to be ashamed of anything, she said. She grabbed his hand as she said it. She squeezed it hard, as if to purify the space between them, like coal into diamond. You are and honest man, she said.

Well thanks, he said. But he kept looking at her to let her know he liked to hear her say it.

When she let him go he walked over to the table. He was not surprised by what was in the manila envelope. It was the paper he'd served to Deborah Harwood, thinking she was Shirley Davis because she didn't say she wasn't and he was happy to believe without checking. But there was no mistaking now. The paper said to serve Shirley Davis at 2503 Berent Avenue. The house he'd served the night before, he could remember clearly, was number 2530. He'd transposed the damn numbers again.

Chapter One

As it turned out, getting beat up by an old lady was not the most interesting thing that happened to Brock that day. But it did make the top three.

He might have seen her fist coming if he hadn't been distracted by the truck full of nuns. But the truck full of nuns drove by at the exact moment that the grandmother of Shirley P. Davis decided that Brock was going to get it right in the chin. He had been arguing with the old woman, explaining to her that, No, it didn't matter that her granddaughter wasn't home, because the summons could be sub-served to a resident of the same household, and they had gone back and forth with it a few times. He normally would have noticed that she was getting her dander up, and would have taken a prudent step backwards.

But the nuns drove by at that very second. He had no chance.

It took a lot to distract Brock, but the nuns did the trick. They were in a pickup truck, for one thing. Two were in the cab and seven or eight more were in the bed. Ten nuns. One of the sisters in the bed appeared to be smoking a cigar, and it was the cigar that doomed him, because it made him keep looking a second long enough for the old woman to really put her elbow back. By the time he was done looking it was all over but the falling down.

He sort of slumped sideways into her screen door, which he had been holding open, and as his butt hit the concrete of her porch he pushed it all the way back the wrong way. It had no spring or chain and it thwacked her aluminum siding and just stayed there, and he sat where he fell, too.

I told you she don't live here. And her storm door slammed shut. The screen door stayed where it was.

Now that he was alone he had the opportunity to consider the nuns. It seemed likely that they were not actually nuns, but he did not want to discount the possibility of nuns that drove in pickup trucks and smoked cigars. Still, they were dressed in full black-and-white nun outfits, and he thought that most nuns did not wear those any more. Perhaps a traveling show of lesbian humor, which he had known to involve nuns on the rare occasions he had encountered it.

But enough. He stood. The truck full of nuns would remain a mystery, like most of the best stories he accumulated in his profession.

He looked down at the Shirley P. Davis packet, which he'd crumpled slightly as he fell. He sighed, pulled the pen from his front pocket, and wrote BAD ADDRESS under the name typed in bold. There was nothing else to do here. He stood up and trudged toward his Nissan, flipping open his cell phone on the way.

It's me, he said.

What happened.

What makes you think something happened.

That's when you call.

Okay.

It's true. You only call when you're out and something happens.

I just got beat up by someone's granny is what happened. This time.

Did you get the paper served?

Shut the door on me.

You can just drop it on the porch, can't you.

Sure.

So why don't you.

He looked back at the house. I got something to think about with this one.

Think. There was little doubt that she was rolling her eyes. But he was already straining his neck to look back behind the house. Just past the carport, which was empty, there was another little porch with a welcome mat on it, and there was a doorbell. He'd missed it on the way in.

I'm gonna be home soon, he said.

Uh-huh.

He looked up and down the street. He didn't see anyone. None of the houses here had front porches, except the one. And there had been an addition at the back, he could see that clearly now. An enormous addition, taking up the whole of the back yard, and looking shoddy as hell. With a recently-added back stoop, leading up to a back door, but not just any back door: a back door with a welcome mat and a doorbell. He rang it. The door opened immediately, but slowly, and there she was.

Shirley Davis, he said.

She took the paper without saying anything.

As he walked back to his car, the front door of the house opened again, and the woman who was not the grandmother of Shirley P. Davis called out to him. I told you she don't live here, she said. Brock did not respond. He got in his car and drove away.

The problem, Brock reflected, was that he made a lousy first impression, and success in his job depended almost exclusively on good impressions. Process servers were successful when strangers trusted them, and for some reason no stranger trusted Brock with anything more consequential than hedge clippers.

Kelly, his girlfriend, was always told him that it was just a question of smiling more. But that was easy for her to say; she was a pediatric nurse and everybody respected her profession. It wasn't like she was routinely knocking on peoples' doors and trying to convince them to receive medical care they didn't want or need. When people saw her, it was an occasion for relief.

Brock wanted to be someone that people were happy to see. But he was very far away from that at the moment.

As he drove away, he did not notice the black sedan parked up the street. There were two men inside of it. If Brock had noticed them, he might have entertained the thought that they were plainclothes policemen. He would have been close.