Melanie and Matt drove past their potential client’s house, a white stucco tear-down on a lesser street in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the country.
I liked cooking meat over coals outside on the patio barbeque for the taste and the smoky flavor and of course less kitchen mess.
None of the men in my wife’s family ever changed a diaper. Not one. Not ever.
Max Renzi was running out of time. Scurrying through the crowd, his beady eyes scanning over the policemen, the TV reporters, the children clogging the sidewalk, he figured he had an hour, maybe two, before D.C. got too hot for him.
He’s a cop. I’m not. It’s a Ride-Along Program. I did one before. With a cop who wouldn’t talk.
“Mr. Funderburke, I think I may be a psychotic serial killer.”
Little scientists my ass! Left alone for a few minutes and they managed to do this.
The man sitting in my living room says to me, “I heard what you did for that other guy.”