Dead Street

And I breathed a small sigh of relief. This place, even at the gated entry, spelled quiet luxury. From a distance I could see the pleasant shapes of small buildings and the sand sprouted acres of bright green grass. I stuck my head out the window, away from the air-conditioned atmosphere I’d been breathing, and took a deep sniff of the tangy, salt-laden ocean air. Outside the red-brick guard post was a neatly painted sign that read, Yacht Docking and Boat Rental Facilities. Guided Ocean Fishing Trips. Crewed Scenic Sailing Tours Daily.

The good doctor had really gone all out for his protégé.

The tan-uniformed attendant, carrying a clipboard in his hand, came out to meet me. He walked with the air of someone in total authority, disguised by neighborly friendliness. He said, “Good morning, sir — can I help you?”

He was a trim sixty or so with his blond hair cut in a military crew. I handed him the document of home ownership and his smile grew into something natural. When he handed it back he said very seriously, “Great to have you here with us, sir.”

I took the papers, nodded back and said, “You’re from New Jersey, aren’t you?”

“Newark. Been retired three years. Name’s George Wilson. My accent show?”

“To a New Yorker, absolutely.” I stuck my hand out and shook his. “Jack Stang, NYPD, retired.”

He scowled a few seconds, then gave me a big grin. “Damn, you’re the Shooter, aren’t you?”

I gave him a weary laugh. “That’s what the tabloids called me.”

“Didn’t you off Creamy Abbott during that bank heist back in ’82?”

“No choice,” I told him. “He swung that AK at me and I had to pop him.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, “one shot right between the horns from fifty feet away.”

“Pure luck,” I retorted.

“Pure twice weekly visits to a gun range, pal,” he said.

I made a face at that observation.

“Somebody around here was saying they just demolished an old station house back in the big city — was that yours?”

I nodded. “When I went, the old building went. Hell,” I added, “the street went too.”

“This place isn’t Manhattan, you know. Think you’ll like it here?”

I gave him a little shrug and answered, “Anything beats out city noise and multiple gunshots.”

“Won’t get much of that here,” he told me, “except on the firing range.... Want me to have a car lead the way in to your place?”

I shook my head. “I’ll find it. I used to be a detective, you know. I’ll have to get adjusted to the area anyway.”

“No problem. Streets are all in numerical or alphabetical order.”

“I’ll find it.”

“Sure. You want me to tell the boys at the clubhouse you got here? You’ll be a real surprise to them.”

“The clubhouse?”

He pointed vaguely. “Can’t miss it. A big brick building with blue doors right in the middle of the shopping area. You want the right and left turns?”

I waved him off on that one. “Naw, let me handle it alone. I have to get settled in first.”

“Sure, Captain. I know how it is.”

“You can skip the ‘captain.’ I’m off the Job now.”

“We’re never off the Job, Captain,” Wilson said seriously.

Everything radiated out from the big early Floridian-styled building with the wooden chiseled sign across its entry that read SUNSET LODGE. I found the block I wanted and followed it halfway to its end. The stucco houses along Kenneth Avenue were one-and-a-half stories, bigger than the other homes I’d passed.

I saw number 820, Bettie Brice’s address, and my foot came off the gas pedal as though somebody had kicked it away. A few kids played beside other houses nearby, but 820 was quiet, empty. The front windows were half-opened and a UPS package nestled between the arms of a rocking chair on the porch. No car was parked in the driveway.

My heart started to hammer again as I eased into the driveway beside 818, then got out slowly and walked up the porch steps to the door. I put the key in the lock, turned it and heard it click open.

The place had a new, recently cleaned smell to it. To me a chair was a seat and a bed was where you slept, but someone had gone to a lot of lengths to furnish this place with truly masculine pieces. Nothing gaudy, nothing oddball, just masculine — with the exception of Bettie’s old four-poster bed and antique desk, which had beat me down here thanks to the movers. Both were in the master bedroom upstairs.

I wandered through the rooms checking every item out. This was a house a man would have lived in, but furnished by a woman who thought a lot of him and his personal likes and dislikes. One of the ex-cops’ wives down here had lent a hand on the decorating front.

In a sealed envelope attached to a few other papers was the description of a “secret” area in the master bedroom where I could store any weapons, ammunition or important documents I had. It had been built into the house itself, an area almost impossible to find unless you had a dog that could sniff out gunpowder or gun oil odors. Somebody had been thinking ahead.