The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [93]
“Wait.”
“What?”
Difford felt the first beads of sweat pop up on his brow. “If he, uh, if he has the key to the house, he can get into the garage. I haven’t checked the garage recently. I just hadn’t thought of it. He could be . . .”
“Shit.” A tense pause. “All right. I’ll tell Officer Travis. Once he’s in the house, he’ll check the garage, you cover him. If all is clear, the three of you exit the garage. Evasive maneuvers, then come straight to HQ. Clear?”
“Clear.”
Difford hung up the phone. He crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains. The hairs on the back of his neck were up. His breathing had gone shallow.
He saw the car light come on across the street as the door opened. He saw a big, heavyset officer climb out of the front seat. Briefly he saw the second man bent over, as if picking something off the floor. The door shut and the light went out. Officer Travis now looked around. Difford saw the man’s hand rest on his un-snapped holster.
“Stay calm,” he murmured to the junior officer. “Remember, you’re just coming for coffee.”
But he could feel the young man’s tension from here. Suddenly, in this quiet neighborhood, it seemed the whole world was watching them.
Officer Travis advanced across the street. Belatedly Difford moved to the kitchen to pour a hasty mug of coffee. His eyes were on the garage door.
BECKETT TURNED OFF the cellular phone and set it on the floor. He’d spent an hour that morning practicing Sergeant Wilcox’s voice. The effort had paid off.
He turned, his movements a bit awkward in the heavily padded uniform. His “partner” had been reclining in the passenger seat, a blanket pulled up to his neck so it appeared that he was sleeping. Knowing the car light would illuminate his form, Beckett leaned over the dead body, straightened the seat, and slumped the man over. Rigor mortis was beginning to set in, so it wasn’t easy. Then again, Beckett had gotten used to maneuvering dead bodies. The trick was to bend the man at the bullet hole in his waist.
Beckett looked up. Sure enough, Difford stood in the living room window, waiting for Officer Travis to step out of his car.
“Happy to be of service,” Beckett murmured, and opened the car door.
THE KNOCKING ECHOED through the safe house quietly. Good, Difford thought. Officer Travis was at least thinking of Samantha. Difford approached the door, the steaming coffee clutched in one hand. He had to resist the urge to glance over his shoulder at the garage door.
Keep cool, keep cool.
“Password,” Difford demanded through the dead-bolted door.
“It rains upon the plains in Spain.”
Difford checked out the officer through the peephole. The kid looked young, but then, they all looked young to Difford. He was a big guy who obviously needed to work out more. Christ, how had the Pillsbury Doughboy end up as his back-up? Difford cracked open the door, not amused.
He gave the junior officer another scathing inspection with the chain still on. Difford wasn’t about to act stupid now. The uniform checked out, though the kid had no awards to speak of.
“ID?”
Officer Travis dutifully produced his shield. Fine.
Difford unfastened the chain and held out the coffee mug. “Take it and act calm. Remember, you just came over for a cup of coffee.” His gaze swept the block. The streetlights created puddles of darkness; he’d always hated streetlights. So far, nothing moved.
“All right, come in.”
Officer Travis stepped into the house, looking tense and uncomfortable beneath Difford’s scrutiny. “How long have you been with the force?”
“Two years.”
“Two years and you got this duty?”
“Manpower shortage. The Camarini shooting and this are sucking us dry.”
“Huh. Ever secured a house before?”
“I was part of the Gingham bust. That’s why they signed me up.”
Difford finally relented. The Todd Gingham deal had gone badly. They’d thought they had the nineteen-year-old arms dealer holed up in his house in New Bedford. The neighbors