As I waited, I looked around. There was no car in the driveway. Also, there was no sign of kids' stuff around so I concluded that Mr. Stevens was either unmarried, or married no children, or married with grown children, or he'd eaten his children. How's that for deductive reasoning?
I noticed, too, that the place was too neat. I mean, it looked like someone with a sick, fascist, orderly mind lived here.
No one answered my call, so I went to the attached garage and peeked through the side window. No car. I went around to the rear yard, whose lawn stretched about fifty yards to a woods. There was a nice slate patio, grill, lawn furniture, and so forth.
I went to the back door and peeked through the windows into a neat and clean country kitchen.
I seriously contemplated a quick B amp;E job, giving the place a toss and maybe stealing his diploma for fun, but as I gave the house the once-over, I noticed that all the windows had alarm tape on them. Also, under the eaves to my right was a TV surveillance camera doing a one-eighty-degree sweep. This guy was a piece of work.
I went back out front, got into my Jeep, and dialed Stevens' phone. A voice mail came on, giving me several options having to do with his home fax and home e-mail, his beeper number, his post office box mailing address, his office phone, office fax, office e-mail, and finally a chance to leave a voice message after two beeps. I haven't had that many options since I stood in front of a condom vending machine. I pushed three on my phone pad, got Stevens' beeper number, dialed it, punched in my mobile number, and hung up. A minute later, my phone rang and I answered, "New London Water Authority."
"Yes, this is Paul Stevens. You beeped me."
"Yes, sir. Water main break in front of your house on Ridgefield Road. We'd like to put a pump in your basement to make sure it doesn't flood."
"Okay… I'm in my car now… I can be there in twenty minutes."
"That'll be fine." I hung up and waited.
About five minutes later-not twenty-a gray Ford Escort pulled into the driveway, and out of it came Paul Stevens, wearing black slacks and a tan windbreaker.
I got out of my Jeep, and we met on his front lawn. He greeted me warmly by saying, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Just out for a drive and thought I'd stop by."
"Get the hell off my property."
My goodness. I hadn't expected such a nasty greeting. I said, "I really don't like to be spoken to that way."
"You shit-you busted my balls for half the fucking morning-"
"Hey, fella-"
"Fuck you, Corey. Get the fuck out of here."
Indeed, this was a different Mr. Stevens than the one on Plum Island who had been at least civil, if not friendly. Of course, he'd had to be civil then. Now, the tiger was in his own den and his keepers weren't around. I said, "Now, hold on, Paul-"
"Are you deaf? I said, get the hell out of here. And, by the way, you stupid shit, there's well water here. Now get out."
"Okay. But I have to get my partner." I motioned toward the house. "Beth Penrose. She's behind the house."
"You get in your fucking car. I'll get her." He turned and began walking away, then called back over his shoulder, "I should have you both arrested for trespassing. You're lucky I didn't get out of my car shooting."
I turned and walked back toward my Jeep. I looked over my shoulder in time to see him turn the corner of his garage.
I sprinted across the lawn, across the driveway, and caught up to him as he rounded the far end of the house and turned toward his backyard. He heard me, spun around, and reached into the pit for his gun, but much too late. I caught him on the chin with my fist, and he made one of those umph sounds and did a little backspring with his arms and legs askew. It was almost comical.
I knelt beside poor Paul and patted him down, finding his little Saturday afternoon special-a 6.5mm Beretta-tucked in the inside pocket of his windbreaker. I took the magazine out and emptied it putting the rounds in my pocket. I cleared the chamber, replaced the magazine, and returned his piece.
I looked through his wallet-some cash, credit cards, driver's license, medical card, a Plum Island ID card, and a Connecticut pistol permit that listed the Beretta, a.45 Colt, and a.357 Magnum. There were no photos, no phone numbers, no business cards, no keys, no condoms, no lottery tickets, and nothing of any special interest, except the fact that he owned two big-caliber guns that we might not have turned up if I hadn't cold-cocked him and rummaged through his wallet.
Anyway, I put the wallet back, stood, and waited patiently for him to bounce up and apologize for his behavior. But he just lay there, his stupid head rolling from side to side, and dopey sounds coming out of his mouth. There was no blood on him, but a red spot was starting to form where I'd hit him. Later, it would be blue, then an interesting purple.
Anyway, I went over to a coiled garden hose, turned on the faucet, and spritzed Mr. Stevens. That seemed to help and presently he staggered to his feet, sputtering, wobbling and all that.
I said to him, "Did you find my partner?"
He seemed sort of confused, reminding me of myself this morning when I woke up with a size ten hangover. I could sympathize. Really.
I said, "Well water. Jeez, I never thought of that. Hey, Paul, who killed Tom and Judy?"
"Fuck you."
I squirted him again and he covered his face.
I dropped the hose and moved closer to him. "Who killed my friends?"
He was drying his face with a corner of his windbreaker, then he seemed to remember something and his right hand went into his jacket and came out with the peashooter. He said, "You bastard! Hands on your head."
"Okay." I put my hands on my head and that seemed to make him feel a little better.
He was rubbing his jaw now and you could tell it hurt. He seemed to be realizing in stages that he'd been tricked, cold-cocked, and doused with the hose. He looked like he was getting angry, working himself up. He said to me, "Take off your jacket."
I took it off, revealing my off-duty.38 in the shoulder holster.
"Drop the jacket, and slowly unstrap the holster and let it fall."
I did as he said.
He asked, "You carrying anywhere else?"
"No, sir."
"Pull up your pants legs."
I pulled up my pants legs, showing him I had no ankle holster.
He said, "Turn around and pull up your shirt."
I turned, pulled up my shirt, showing him I had no holster in the small of my back.
"Turn around."
I turned and faced him.
"Hands on your head."
I put my hands on my head.
"Step away from your gun."
I stepped forward.
"Kneel."
I knelt.
He said, "You shit-you bastard. Who the hell do you think you are coming here like this and violating my privacy and my civil rights?" He was really, really pissed and used a lot of profanity.
It is almost axiomatic in this business that guilty people proclaim their innocence and innocent people get totally pissed off and make all sorts of legal threats. Alas, Mr. Stevens seemed to be falling into the innocent category. I let him vent awhile.
Finally, I got a word in edgewise and asked him, "Well, do you at least have any idea of who could have done it?"
"If I did, I wouldn't tell you, you wiseass son of a bitch."
"Any ideas why they were killed?"
"Hey, don't you question me, you shit. You shut your fucking mouth."
"Does that mean I can't count on your cooperation?"
"Shut up!" He thought a moment, then said, "I should shoot you for trespassing, you stupid bastard. You're going to pay for hitting me. I should make you strip and dump you in the woods." He was getting worked up again and also creative about ways of getting revenge and all that.