“Hey,” he says. “Baby on board. Careful.”
Dalton alters “phone” to “telephone.” I smack Anders again.
“I like you just fine, Case,” Anders says. “But he’s the boss. Now he owes me at least two days off for helping him win.”
“He was already winning.” I wave at the board. “House rules allow profanity, and he’s really, really good at it.”
Anders laughs. Then he hunkers down. “So, as much as I’d love to share one of those spiked coffees, I’m not interrupting your evening merely to be annoying.”
“Merely,” Dalton murmurs.
“Disrupting your sappy domestic bliss is always a valid side goal. However, my main purpose is to tell you that someone was skulking around your old house, where Maryanne is spending the night.”
I shoot upright. “What?”
He motions me down. “It’s okay. It was just Phil, who already knows she’s there.”
“You said ‘skulking.’ That implies he wasn’t popping by to see if she needed extra pillows.”
“Yeah, it was weird, which is why I’m here. And before you freak out, Casey, I confirmed that the doors were locked and ordered one of the guys to keep a watch on the house while I ran over here. I didn’t tell him that anyone is in it—just that a resident was poking around your old place.”
“Okay. So explain the skulking weirdness,” I say.
“I’m getting to that. Just fending off ‘Oh my god, you saw criminal activity and just walked away!’”
“I never—”
“The point?” Dalton says. “Or do I need to go investigate myself while you two squabble?”
Anders continues. “Phil was definitely skulking. Dressed in dark colors, no flashlight, hood pulled up. He was wearing one of the militia parkas instead of his completely inappropriate for the weather but terribly stylish ski jacket.”
“Was he doing anything besides skulking?” I ask.
“Yep, which made it extra weird. So, I’m on patrol, and on each round, I pass the house twice. I’m literally walking by the front when he darts from behind a tree. I’m, like, seriously? Could you not wait ten seconds for the guy with the flashlight to move on? I turn off the flashlight and take it slow, but I’m not Eric Cloud-Foot. You can hear my boots crunching snow. I slip around the house, and Phil’s trying the back door. Like he expects it to be open. I yell ‘Hey!’ and he takes off.” Anders shakes his head. “The guy would starve to death as a cat burglar.”
“You’re sure it was Phil? You saw his face?”
“No, he had the sense to turn that away from me. But, like I said, world’s worst cat burglar. He might have found new clothes and tied a scarf around his face, but he still wore the boots he had the council ship up.”
That was one concession the council made, likely to counter Phil’s sense that he’d been exiled here. What? No, that’d be illegal. You’re being held there as an emergency measure to fill an essential position, for which you will be well compensated. I know it was unexpected, so just tell us what you need from your condo.
Phil’s winter wear was what you’d expect from a Toronto exec whose subzero excursions were limited to the half-kilometer walk between his condo and the subway station. Phil has never confirmed his actual city of origin, but I’d lay serious money on Toronto. He has that New York Lite vibe. His boots are definitely not the bulky, rubber-soled footwear that keeps us warm and upright out here.
“What the hell is he up to?” Dalton mutters. He looks at Anders. “You okay watching the baby for an hour or so?”
“If I get a spiked coffee and one of those cookies.”
“One coffee,” I say. “And don’t go inviting all your friends over for a party as soon as we leave.”
TWENTY-THREE
Dalton pounds on Phil’s door. He has to do it twice before Phil pulls it open, robe tied over his bare chest and sweatpants, feet equally bare, one hand holding his glasses as he blinks at us, as if bleary-eyed with sleep.
“Eric? Casey?” He lifts his wrist to check the time, and blinks again, as if struggling to process the fact that he’s not wearing his watch.
Phil may be a shitty cat burglar, but his acting skills aren’t half bad, if a little community theater.