I had tailed Kyle Wilson from work to racquetball at the gym to the apartment of his mistress in Fairhaven. The place was quite a step up from the condo he and his wife had in Meriville. Thanks to a car camera setup that Ira had turned me onto, I was able to get pictures of the woman answering the door and letting Kyle in. This wouldn’t be enough to close the case, but I’d have to wait around to get the pics Kyle’s wife would need.
Really wish this had been a gypsy curse.
I didn’t like these kinds of cases, but it was just the nature of the business that I would get a lot of people thinking—or wanting to believe—something supernatural was going on, even when it wasn’t.
Gypsy curses are easier to fix than a broken marriage, too.
I settled in for the long stakeout, pointing a laser microphone at the living room window so I’d know when to move to the backyard and get pictures through the bedroom window.
Suddenly, thunder cracked above, making me jump. Instead of the usual drizzle of rain Belport usually got, a full on downpour ensued, making me roll up the window or get completely drenched.
And then my phone rang, the ringtone telling me who it was.
“Kate,” I answered, “I’m working a case. Go away.”
“I have lobster rolls,” she said.
“I’ll text you where I’m at,” I said.
Lobster rolls made for great stakeout food.