Page 67 of The Bone Hacker

Monck was about to ring again when a tinny voice came through the speaker, backgrounded by a vaguely familiar tune.

“Yes?”

“Police!” Monck shouted over the cawing and yapping and scratching and crooning. “I need to talk to the property owner.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t hear ya.”

Monck leaned closer to the device.

“Mr. Benjamin?”

“What’s the problem, officer?”

“It’s Detective, not officer. Detective Delroy Monck, Division B, Grace Bay Station. I must speak with you, sir.”

“About what?” Not friendly, not hostile.

“I’d rather not have this conversation from out here.”

“Hold on.”

A pause as man negotiated with canine. Then locks snicked and the wooden door opened a foot.

“You got ID?”

Monck badged him through the screen.

The man studied the shield. Maybe Monck’s hand. I estimated he topped out at about five foot six. Couldn’t see enough of him to assess build.

When Monck finally dropped his arm, the man ordered the dog to sit, then opened both doors fully. Dylan was blasting away somewhere in the house.

“You are Joe Benjamin?” Monck repeated his question.

“That’s me. Sorry ’bout that. Can’t be too careful these days.” With its drawn-out vowels and droppedr’s, Benjamin’s accent invoked images of Yankee Stadium and the Brooklyn Bridge.

“I’d like to ask you some questions, sir,” Monck said.

“I’m pretty busy today.”

“This should only take a minute.”

“Of course.”

Benjamin led us down a hall hung with framed black-and-white photos featuring planes, trains, and boats. Some were quite striking, given the shadow play captured by the photographer. The dog tagged along, nails clicking on the polished tile floor.

Turning right under a faux wood–trimmed arch, we entered a living room decorated with way too much orange. Glass doors gave onto a terrace overlooking the sea.

Monck and I sat on opposite ends of a tangerine couch hosting a mountain range of cushions. Benjamin settled on its twin, across a teak coffee table. Matching end tables flanked both sofas. Snatching a remote from one, he killed the music.

“Apologies,” he said. “It calms the mutt.”

The mutt slumped onto one haunch, back pressed to its owner’s leg, eyeing us warily. Its coat was black, its muzzle tan, its tail recurved like the plume on a vintage lady’s hat. Tan crescents above its eyes simulated questioning brows.

“Nice pooch,” I said. “What’s her name?”

“Betty. Her bein’ a potcake.”

“Potcake?”

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