Page 4 of 3rd Tango
By a serial killer.
Talk about twisted.
His sense of humor is one of the things that binds him and Charlie. Without a doubt, it’s a coping mechanism that keeps them emotionally stable while investigating cases involving child molesters, rapists, and murderers.
“Mom,” Charlie says, “we should take this into the other room.”
As if that’ll work? My sister should know better.
Mom lets out a huff and waves a manicured hand at JJ. Mom, like Charlie, is big on personal grooming. With their sculpted cheeks and slim builds, they’re knockouts.
“We have JJ here,” Mom says. “He can help.”
At that, JJ lets out a noise that might be a half cough-half gag.
The hot-shot lawyer isn’t laughing now.
“Yes.” I give him a rueful smile. “JJ can.”
He spears me with a look and my smile widens. If he intends to be part of this family, he needs to embrace the chaos.
Join the ranks like the rest of us.
“No,” Charlie says. “He can’t. At least not until we have solid evidence.”
At the end of the table, Dad grabs his and Mom’s empty plates and once again rises, this time appearing more determined to make his getaway. “I’ll take JJ and Jerome out back. Show them the new shed.”
The new shed.
Lamest excuse ever, but Jerome and JJ—weaklings that they are—bolt from their seats, quickly stacking dishes as they go.
Charlie shakes her head. “Cowards.”
Clearly unfazed, the men keep moving. It’s just as well. This is Jerome’s first meeting with my parents and I’d prefer to ease him in. If that’s even possible after this episode.
Mom slides back into her chair and waves us over. “Come sit by me. I know once you see what I have, you’ll understand.”
I doubt it, but if it’ll get her out of this obsession once and for all, I think we’ll need to suck it up.
“All right.” Charlie sits next to her. “Let’s see what you have. But I’m not promising anything.”
Surprisingly, Mom nods. “I have no problem with that. Believe me, you’ll want in on this.”
Mom removes a folder from the top and slides the rest to the center of the table. “This is my most recent research.”
She flips it open and—pfft—smacks pages of typed notes on the table. I lean in to peruse the first document and let out a low whistle.
My mother, given her history as a reporter, is no slouch when it comes to surveillance. Outlined in front of us, broken down by day and hour, is one week of Gayle’s activities. Mom is nothing if not thorough and her notes prove it.
“Lord, Mom,” Charlie says. “You’re keeping daily tabs on the man.”
“Well, of course. How else am I supposed to gather evidence?”
She has a point there. I move to page two. Tuesday’s activities. At nine in the morning, Gayle dragged his garbage cans and recycling bin to the curb, adding a desk chair that, according to the notes, appeared to have a broken arm.
Twenty minutes later, he drove off in his ten-year-old Toyota, returning at ten-oh-three with a woman.
Forgetting that I should be horrified my mother is spending her days sitting in a window spying on her neighbor, I key in on Gayle’s guest.
