What if whoever has looted my house is still here? I slam the door shut and race down the walkway. I find my cell phone and punch in 9-1-1. While I wait for the call to be picked up, I squat down on the sidewalk and place my head between my knees. I take deep, calming breaths and wait for the earth beneath me to stop quivering.
“Ms. Ingram are you okay?” a young voice asks.
I look up to find my neighbor’s daughter, Jessica, looking down at me. Jessica is the precocious child who seems to spend most of her life outdoors. I sometimes wonder if she has a mother.
“No, I’m not okay, Jessica,” I say, pulling myself together. “My house was just broken into.”
Sirens are somewhere in the vicinity. A few seconds later, a police cruiser pulls up in front of my house. Two officers leap from the car and lumber up the walkway completely ignoring me as if I don’t exist.
“I’m the sole owner of this home,” I say, trailing them. “I called you.”
Both men swing around and practically gaped. I am used to this reaction. Mixed neighborhood or not, people are still surprised to find a black woman home owner with a Tudor the size of mine.
“Roxanne Ingram,” I say, introducing myself. I am feeling a little better. “I came home to find my front door open and my home ransacked.” I emphasize the word home to make sure they understand I am the owner.
“Do you have a driver’s license, ma’am?” The cop who looks like Fred Flintstone asks.
I find my license and hand it to him, wondering whether if I were white would I be asked to prove my identity. I also wave my house key at him.
His partner takes my key from me. They enter my house, hands on their holsters.
“Police!” they shout.
By now half of the neighborhood, meaning everyone without a day job, is gathered on my front lawn, Jessica’s mom included. I field questions as best as I can. Nothing like this has happened in our immediate neighborhood before, and there is speculation.
“Could be someone you know?”
“Do you have a cleaning lady?”
“What about the handyman you used to fix your shed?”
Nothing passes by these people.
“The monitoring company didn’t call you?” another neighbor asks.
“What did they take?”
And so it went on.
Finally the officers come back outside and assure me there are no further surprises inside, meaning no one is hiding. When I accompany them back in, tears finally begin to spill. Who would do this to me?
“We’ll do a walk-through and you can determine if anything is missing,” one of the cops says.
I lead both men through my ransacked home. All the major appliances and electronics are still intact. My television and entertainment center are where I left them and my microwave and other smaller appliances are still on the kitchen counter. The robber or robbers were clearly looking for money.
I remember the small amount of cash I keep on hand for emergencies and the jewelry left out in full sight. I rush into my bedroom to check. It feels like an icebox. The old metal box hidden under the laundry in my walk-in closet is open on my bed and empty. The money is gone.
The diamond studs I’ve left on the nightstand are missing and so is my tennis bracelet. The window above my bed is open, the curtain fluttering in the chilly winter air. That’s where they made their escape.
“Whoever it is came in or left through that window.” Flintstone’s partner states the obvious. “There aren’t any visible signs of forced entry. How many people have your key?”
“About three.”
The cleaning service has my key and so do Margot and Lindsay. I keep an extra key hanging on the wall in the shed. I tell the police that.
“The detectives will come by shortly. They’ll question anyone who has your key,” Flintstone, who by now has introduced himself as Officer O’Ryan, says. “I’m going to check out the shed where you keep your extra key.”
He leaves.
Head in my hands, I sink onto my bed. I am fighting back waves of nausea and I can’t think straight. How has this happened?
“Is there someone you can call to be with you?” O’Ryan’s partner asks. “The detectives should be here soon.”
I don’t want to be alone, nor do I plan to spend tonight in a house that has been broken into. I don’t feel safe. I find my cell phone and speed dial Margot.
“You’re back,” she says gaily. “How did it go?”
I take a deep breath and steady my voice. “I came home to trouble,” I say.
“What kind of trouble?”
I hear the panic in her voice but I am panicking myself and not in a position to calm either of us down.
“My home’s been broken into.”
“I’ll be right over.”
Margot is at my front door in less than ten minutes. By then, I am seated at my kitchen table, sipping on bottled water while the detectives, a man and a woman, dust for fingerprints.
O’Ryan returns to announce the key to my shed is missing. Margot asks him if there have been thefts n the surrounding towns.
He nods his head. “A couple. Kids. Gangs.”
That is not very reassuring.
“And this has been going on for how long?” Margot asks, taking over. I am amazed that she is not hysterical. At times Margot surprises me.
“We’ve had a few reports of break-ins in the last two weeks or so.”
Two hours later the police and the detectives finally leave. Margot insists on putting me to bed, then she sets about putting things right.
Later we call a locksmith and have the locks changed. I leave with her and promptly fall asleep at her place. I am exhausted and my emotions are way out of control. I have cried more than I ever have. Later that afternoon Margot drives me home.
I take a hot shower and dress in comfortable sweats. I’ve had my pity-party and now it’s time to take back the reins. Margot hands me a long list of messages she’s retrieved from my answering machine.
“You need to return these calls,” she says.
I am still in that foggy stage of disbelief and glance disinterestedly at the paper. Some guy I’ve gone out with once and haven’t given a second thought to has called. If I recall, he was duller than dishwasher and twenty years older than the photo he posted. This is fairly typical. Most men who post a profile are living in a fantasy world.
I sip on coffee and think about my missing cash and the jewelry I will replace. The irreplaceable pieces are gifts from my ex. Men today just aren’t that generous, you’re lucky if you’re taken out to dinner and aren’t left holding the check.
“I’m sure the cops are right about the thieves being kids,” Margot says. “They grabbed what they could carry and left. They were looking for easy money.”
“Probably.”
I glance at the note Margot handed me. Lindsay still has not called. I need to hear from that child. She is beginning to worry me.
I speed dial her number.
“Yes, Ma,” Lindsay answers.
When I hear her voice I forgive her everything. “What’s this about you leaving for Paris before the Christmas holiday, baby?” I ask.
“Can we not talk about this right now. I have a class to get to in ten minutes,” her voice is a plaintive wail.
“I want to talk about it.”
The cell phone is snatched from my hand, and Margot speaks into it.
“Listen child, your house was just broken into and a bunch of stuff stolen. We’re still not over the shock.”
Margot shakes her head slightly. “No, I don’t think it’s necessary for you to come home.” She turns to me. “You want her home?”
“Give me back that phone,” I snap.
I arm wrestle Margot to get my cell back.
“So why do you have to leave for Paris before the Christmas holidays?” I ask Lindsay.
“Because I got my first runway modeling job, Mom. My agent needs me to be in Paris t
he week before Christmas. I’ll be home next week. We’ll celebrate early and I’ll talk to you then.”
I didn’t even know the child has an agent. No, I will not make her feel guilty. She deserves to go to Paris and see if she has what it takes.
“Okay, we’ll do Christmas next week when you come home. Love you, baby.”
Tears flooding my eyes, I hang up. Margot’s arms are open. Although it leaves me breathless I appreciate the hug. She is turning out to be a rock.
“It’ll be all right, Roxi,” she coos.
“It has to be.” I sniff into her shoulder.
Cutting the apron strings hurt like hell, but Lindsay needs to find her own place in the world.
My motherly instincts are to protect her.
CHAPTER 9
The female detective, Hernandez, calls midafternoon with more bad news. There have been three break-ins in the surrounding neighborhoods last evening. No arrests have been made so far.
“This is scary,” I say. “This used to be a safe town, where kids played outdoors without worries.”
“We’ll catch them.”
She sounds confident. Sure. I wish I felt the same.
I’ve already written off any hope of recovering my money or the diamond jewelry that has been taken. And I’ve chewed out the alarm service for not calling me. They confirmed what I already suspected: the alarm wasn’t turned on.
They might be right. I’d bolted from the house and hopped into that Hummer. I’d been in that much of a rush.
Even though I’m nervous about the possibility of another break-in, I am glad to be home and alone. Margot is only a phone call away, and in the harsh light of day things don’t seem as bad.
I’ve already e-mailed my employees to postpone our weekly meeting. I check my calendar and realize with horror that tomorrow is the day Carlo DeAngelo is to stop by my place. The sensible part of me wants to cancel, the irrational other can’t wait to see him. Max still hasn’t called. I find that strange. I’ll call him later to see what is up with him.
There are a couple of fires that need putting out. I call the customers and smooth them over. I take care of online banking for another and make arrangements at a ski resort for a wealthy family living on the North Shore of Long Island.
It is almost two full days since I check my personal e-mail and I am suffering from withdrawal. Two days is a long time for me, especially when I’m Internet dating. Who knows what I might be missing?
I enter the password for the e-mail I’ve created exactly for this purpose. I have ten messages waiting. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I’m in demand.
After logging on to the site, I check the photos and profiles, ticking off in my head which ones to answer and which to ignore. I’m a big profile reader. Words tell you a lot. There’s something about the way that some people phrase things that gives you insight into their personality.
Most as usual aren’t worth the time of day. I sort through the serial daters, easily identifiable by the form letters that are designed to impress. There are those looking for a quick hit, no strings attached. And there are the self-proclaimed studs surfing for people who’ve just joined. They’ve got the Internet rhetoric down pat:
“R u my angel.”
“Wow! U r hot. Message me.”
“I thought I died and went to heaven…cuz u r fine.”
Enough already.
I scan another e-mail from a man who claims to be thirty-four and looking to get married. Judging by the accompanying photo, he’s trimmed at least ten years off his age. I delete another with glaring misspellings, scan a few more and am finally down to my last e-mail. As I open this one I do my best not to get depressed. I’m getting to that point where I’ve pretty much given up on finding a match. The holiday blues are setting in.
There is no attachment, which means no accompanying photo. This is another red flag for me. When there is no photo I usually assume he is married or has something to hide. What keeps me reading is the message itself. He calls himself “Delicious,” and I wonder if that’s a sexual come-on.
I save the message in a folder to think about later and go off to call Max.
“What do you mean he checked out?” I ask the poor operator who’d placed me on hold for an eternity.
“There is no one registered by the name of Max Porter, ma’am,” she answers with an edge to her voice that tells me I am on her last nerve.
I can feel the frown lines on my face deepen. Max is a free spirit. But we’ve made plans for the holidays, and disappearing without telling me where he’s going is just plain rude. I expect better from him.
No expectations, Roxi. No expectations. Not when it comes to Max, anyway. Here today, gone tomorrow. But he’s never been hurtful or a game player before.
“Mr. Porter didn’t leave a forwarding address?” I ask.
“No, ma’am. He didn’t.”
Maybe Max has checked into another hotel and will call me later.
I hang up and try laughing it off. The truth is that with Lindsay preparing to leave the country, I am depending on Max to get me through the season. Max does everything with such style that it will be a pleasure to spend this difficult time with him.
No, I am not going to get depressed. I dig up the detective, Jolie Hernandez’s business card and call her again.
“This is Roxi Ingram,” I say when she answers. “I forgot to ask if you’re increasing the number of patrol cars in my neighborhood.”
“Yes, we plan to, ma’am. There’ll be a man on your block every twenty minutes or so. Anything else?”
Jolie sounds harried and overworked so I hang up. This is the second time I’ve been called ma’am in the space of an hour. I am beginning to feel ancient. And my birthday is coming up in less than a month. Soon the dreaded four-O will hit me square in the face.
I glance at my watch. The cleaning service should have been here at least an hour ago. Margot has done a great job of putting the house back in order, but I am paying these people to clean. Really clean. I can’t have Carlo in if there are dust bunnies under the bed and cobwebs in the corner.
No one picks up at the service so I leave a voice mail. I am pissed. I give these people plenty of business. I use them to clean my clients’ houses, so you’d think they’d cut me a break. I should have first priority and at the very least a courtesy call. I am removing them from my list of preferred vendors. And finally I call Alexandra to confirm that Carlo is coming to check out the place.
“I haven’t heard anything different,” she says. “I can’t interrupt Mr. DeAngelo. He’s in a business meeting but if he has to cancel I’ll let you know.”
That’s all I can ask.
“What kind of creations does DeAngelo create?” I ask before disconnecting.
“Memories. Our company specializes in experiences.”
What the hell does that mean? Are they in the adult entertainment business? I’ve already stepped outside the boundaries of professionalism so better not push.
“I’ve got to go. The other line is ringing,” Alexandra says, and quickly hangs up.
Since it looks as if the cleaning service is a no-show, I begin cleaning myself, something I hate to do. On the bright side, ninety dollars in my pocket is better than ninety dollars in theirs.
Four hours later I am done. Things look good from the surface anyway. It is pitch-dark outside and I start getting that queasy feeling in my stomach again. I check to make sure the windows and doors are all locked. Then I check the closets and under the bed. Convinced that there is no bogeyman hiding, I straighten things I’ve straightened before.
I settle on the couch to watch TV when Margot calls. She wants to know if I want to go for a drink at the neighborhood bar.
“Sure. Who’s getting who?” I ask.
“I’ll get you.”
“Okay.”
I agree primarily because I really don’t want to be at home alone at night.
An hour later we pull into th
e parking lot of Island Breeze, the local tavern. What Margot forgets to tell me is it’s “Hotties Night,” the updated version of “Ladies night,” and the place is jumping.
From the moment we swing through the front door we face a solid wall of men. Most are middle-aged and clearly in love with themselves, but peppered throughout are a few in their thirties. The stance is familiar, hip on the bar, eye on the door, beer in hand.
I groan loudly. Margot elbows me in the side. “Be-have. It’s a game. Just go with the flow.”
Why have I allowed her to drag me here?
I paste a smile on my face and try not to bristle as I am being sized up. Margot sails me past a bunch of drooling men and we find a wall to lean on.
“I can use a drink,” she says. “Can’t you? And I’m not planning on paying for it, either.”
With that Margot hands me her coat and hustles off.
Both of us can well afford to buy our own drinks so why does she feel it necessary to get some guy to pay. I don’t want to have to chat some guy up because he’s plopped down a couple of bucks for my drink.
I watch her head for the bar, hips swaying, booty bouncing. Like a dog on a bone, three men follow behind her. By the time she stops they are practically on top of her.
I hang up our coats on a peg on the wall and stand, my arms folded across my chest in a protective gesture. Someone once told me it signals that you are not open to conversation. I am not. I wonder what the hell I am doing here. I want to go home.
“Things can’t possibly be that bad,” a male voice says from behind me.
I turn to find a man of medium build, dressed conservatively in a jacket and tie, looking at me with a smile that indicates he finds me amusing.
“I’m not particularly fond of bars,” I growl, intentionally sounding grouchy.
“Then why are you here?”
Good question. Honesty is probably the best policy in my case.
“My friend dragged me here.”
“Would your friend be the petite woman surrounded by those men on the make?”
He angles his head in the direction of the bar. Sure enough Margot has acquired a string of admirers. It must have something to do with the ridiculously short leather skirt she’d insisted on wearing.
Hook, Line and Single Page 7
