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 Excerpt
Copyright 2007 © Carlene Havel &
Sharon Faucheux “This is the Safe-N-Sure Security Monitoring Company. We have a confirmed alarm activation at the Richard Martino home. The Alamo Hills Police Department have dispatched a patrol car.” A confirmed alarm activation? She wished she had asked exactly what that meant before hanging up the phone. In any case, she would need to check Dick’s house right away. Picking up her purse, she walked to her car, praying she wouldn’t arrive before the police. It was normally a twenty-minute drive
from She hurried to the front door and found it slightly ajar. A strange ruckus sounded from a nearby room. A group of men, talking, and could they be laughing? “...and then you kick him in the nuts,” A young man in a police uniform sat on
the couch, grinning. Another very young officer was lying on the
floor, laughing so hard he was gasping for breath. Standing over
the policeman on the floor was a tall, ruggedly handsome man,
not as young as the others, and not in uniform. Tall,
broad-shouldered, deeply tanned and muscular, with short blond
hair and sky-blue eyes. The two young policemen looked at Both police officers were busily standing, straightening their uniforms, smoothing their hair. “I would never phrase it that way,” “Officer Johnson, ma’am,” said the better-looking of the two young men, suddenly all business. “We responded to an alarm at this location, Patrolman Ruiz and I, approximately a half hour ago. This gentleman—” he nodded toward the surfer— “has put forth an explanation that the alarm was a mistake and we were waiting for further instructions, ma’am.” “Would someone like to explain the mistake theory?” she asked. The surfer looked her up and down
before he answered. With embarrassment, “I’m the owner of this house. And you?”
He was also the owner of that honey-baritone voice “This house belongs to Dick Martino.
And you’re not him,” The man narrowed his eyes and glared at her. “I’m Rich Martino, Dick’s son.” “That can’t be true either. Dick Martino’s son, his only child, died last year.” Thank goodness for the police officers, she thought. “What? You’re out of your mind, lady. Where’s my dad? He’ll straighten this whole mess out in a New York minute.” Should she tell this man Dick’s personal business? “Mr. Martino is in the hospital,” she said simply. “And I really think—” “Hospital?” The surfer’s face contorted, clearly concerned, as one would expect from a real son. “What happened to him? Is he all right? I have to go and see him. Right now! Which hospital?” “I’m sorry,” “Look,” the surfer said. “I don’t know who you are. But I do know who I am. The neighbors around here all know me. Ask them. Is Ernestine Longoria still alive? She knows me, so go and ask her. She lives right next door.” He gestured in the direction where the Longorias lived. “I’ll try to verify this if you like,
ma’am,” Officer Johnson said to “Yes. Please. I would appreciate that
very much,” The policeman returned very quickly. “No one home,” he reported. “Well, try the Robinsons on the other side,” the surfer demanded. As Officer Johnson walked by, he laid a hand of comradeship on the surfer’s shoulder as if to say, “Game’s over, pal.” An image flashed blindingly across She stared, sure it was him. Of course,
if he really was a burglar, she didn’t want the police to leave.
But she didn’t want to send her friend’s son to spend the night
in the “Do you think your father’s dog would
know you?” “Dog?” The surfer snorted. “My dad never had a dog in his life. Ask him. He’ll tell you he hates the filthy animals.” Interesting turn of phrase—exactly the quote Anita repeated from Dick. “Well, why don’t we check the back yard and see?”
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