I'm no Sam Spade, that's for sure. I don't run a detective agency, I don't smoke (anymore) with an elan that makes women swoon and men cower, and I don't hang with only gorgeous babes. On the other hand, I do enjoy detective fiction and movies, most of all those that scatter the crumbs of clues along the way, so that the reader or watcher can try to match wits with the protagonist. Surprise endings that are only explained after the action ends, with a piece of information we as readers or an audience didn't have until then? No thanks.
So, I promise, in telling this, you'll learn all you need to learn as it unfolds. Not much mystery to it, but it sure unfolded bit by bit for me at the time.
I was on my own, not exactly flush for riches, just after I settled up with my ex's divorce lawyer, but doing ok. I had a good job that let me work from home - and a good bit of debt - the price of buying my sanity was up front and fortunately included no continuing alimony. So, I was living in a rented house in a decent but not fancy suburb, in a safe but unmemorable neighborhood, staying mostly to myself, putting the pieces together a bit at a time, I suppose. Determined to finally be done, I was paying down the debt faster than scheduled, happy to live more modestly than I needed to while doing it. I'd also started growing a beard when I separated from my ex, promising myself not to shave until done with the mess of the breakup, and what with all the delays to help lawyers accumulate billable hours, the beard had been full for some time. I'd also gotten used to is, so kept it even afterwards. It was shorter than lumberjack, but it was definitely a beard, not some of that movie-star-haven't-shaved-in-a-week look that's so popular for reasons only movie star agents can imagine. I'm also about 5' 10", 170 lbs, in pretty good shape but so damn Caucasian average looking I'm thoroughly forgettable - an advantage if you're going to be a detective, I suppose, but more often just humbling when acquaintances don't remember me.
I'm not exactly a morning person, but I make myself get up at a decent hour, then tend to kill an hour or so over morning coffee and computer cruising, then it's down to work for most of the day, trying to keep a discipline more or less like a working schlub should. At my laptop on what passes for a dining room nook table, I can see out front. In nice weather, I take it out on the small front porch and do the same al fresco.
Across the street was a similar nicely maintained, clean but pretty nondescript house. When I moved in, I met them but only briefly. She was Julie, he was Dan. We met on my move in day, but hadn't really spoken after that. They were a nice couple, and I was just fine with not needing to be overly neighborly. Every morning, she would kiss him goodbye at the door, he'd drive away in one car, and a bit later, she'd walk the two elementary school age kids down the block and return maybe twenty minutes later, alone. In the afternoons, she'd reappear, walk the same direction, and return with the kids. The dad would get home at about 6, and the glow from the TV set would be present as the sky darkened until about 9, then shut off, and the whole house would be dark by 10.
Downright Ozzie and Harriet stuff. He was a decent looking guy, drove an economical sedan. Didn't wear a coat and tie to work, but who does these days? The young school age kids, a boy and a girl, were dressed ok and behaved like young kids - some days more full of energy than others. Sometimes on the weekends, I'd see the whole clan go off together in the only family car. More often, the kids would come and go irregularly on their bikes, or other kids would appear to visit, I figured.
Julie was maybe in her late 20s, maybe early 30s, sort of a Nordic blonde type, nice figure as far as I could tell. She didn't seem overly vivacious or overly serious - just a wife getting through life and doing ok at it. She was cute, but I had no ulterior motives - I'm a decade older at least, am still working through all that divorce detox stuff, and she seemed pleasant enough, but never dressed provocatively, flirted, or otherwise indicated any interest in anything but her family. When I was on the porch, I'd wave good morning to them, but after my move-in, that was as close as I'd ever been to any of them. It got to be a regular thing for me, watching their morning routine as I had my first cup of coffee - sort of a boring TV show through my front window.
Bit by bit, I started to imagine their lives, not to intrude, but just to daydream, I guess, which was more pleasant than reading the news of the day with my morning regimen. I had him down as an office worker in a big firm, getting by but not setting the world on fire. The kids were all-American, did their school work since their parents made them, but weren't either jocks or brains, just regular kids. I had her being the June Cleaver - steady and reasonable, very possibly brighter than he, devoted to her family, while her husband was devoted to her. Not a serious care in the world, really.
On occasion, I'd play with the scenario, casting him as a hired assassin, using his vanilla life as an effective cover, or they as being way into Bondage and Domination, with her outfitted in leather, whip in hand, disciplining him after the kids were asleep in their basement dungeon. But I knew that was all bull - they were just nice, clean folks, and the only evidence I had to the contrary was wholly in my imagination.
One day - a Tuesday in spring, at maybe 11 in the morning - I noticed her head out on her bicycle. I'd never seen her riding a bike, and she cut an attractive figure on it. She wasn't in classic biker stuff - you know, the bike shorts and skin-tight top and all. She just had on a polo shirt and shorts, and the bike was just a bike, no fancy 86 speed street racer or anything. It even had a basket on the front, and she had some sort of bundle in it. She was wise enough to wear a helmet - good girl. I figured she was out for exercise and didn't notice when she came back.
Two days later she repeated the departure at about the same time. I noticed she had nice legs in her not too short shorts, but I didn't see anything else noteworthy. Then I happened to glance out when she returned, a little after 2. Something about her movement suggested an agitation or something - just not relaxed, but hard to really say.
The following Tuesday, and then the Thursday, same thing. And now it had captured my imagination - leaving at 11, back at 2. Not in gym clothes, and never brought back what appeared to be mail or groceries or other shopping bags. Always had that bundle in the basket, going and coming. Wouldn't be doctor's appointment, didn't seem to be shopping, wrong timing for most movies, and what about the bundle? I was vaguely intrigued, just trying to come up with a scenario that her actions would fit into. The Sam Spade in me was emerging, sans cigarette and trench coat.
The routine continued into the early summer, and by that time I was hooked - watching for her departures and arrivals, noting the times, all pretty consistent. When she launched off in the rain one day, I knew that whatever she was doing, it was important to her.
The following Tuesday, I was ready. Now rocking my imaginary Sam Spade thing, as soon as she left, I followed, in my car (like theirs, a nondescript foreign made and very common sedan of unremarkable hue), letting her be a good block ahead, and driving slowly but not unreasonably so, past her, then tracking her in my rear view mirror. Sure enough, she made a turn, and I looped around what I figured was a block or two ahead of her track and looked, then waited - nothing. Rats. Ah well, Rome in a day and all.
That Thursday, I was already near the intersection where she'd turned, waiting, and sure enough, she came along, turned there, and I repeated the sequence, wearing a hat and trying not to look as if I were trying not to look conspicuous.
