Free A Tap on the Window by Linwood Barclay

do? I’m not saying it’s what I want. I just wanted to get an idea if that’s what
you
want.”
    “Donna,” I said, shaking my head tiredly and looking down, my eyes scanning past the multiple square facial images, “I don’t want you—”
    And I saw her. There on the screen. Her head cocked a bit to one side, blond hair cascading across her forehead, tucked behind her ear. It was her. I was sure of it.
    “Son of a bitch,” I said.
    I clicked on the name next to the picture..
    I looked up to tell Donna I’d found her, but she’d left.

EIGHT
    I got out of Facebook, called up the online phone directory, and found a C. Rodomski at 34 Arlington Street, which was on Griffon’s west side.
    I grabbed my keys. Heading out the front door, I called back into the house, “Be back in a bit.” I didn’t know where Donna was, or whether she’d even heard me.
    The Rodomskis’ house was a broad bungalow, set back from the street, with an expansive, well-manicured lawn. There was an operating fountain in the center that looked like an oversized birdbath and fit in, on this street, like a Rolls hood ornament on a Kia. The Rodomskis had what looked like the nicest house on an okay street, which I’d learned long ago, from a friend who sold real estate, is not nearly as desirable as having an okay house on a very nice street. Every other home on Arlington was pulling the value of the Rodomski place down.
    A white Ford Explorer and a dark blue Lexus were parked in the double driveway. I pulled in behind the Explorer, got out, crossed the flagstone walk to the front door, and rang the bell.
    I could hear muffled shouting inside. A man’s voice asking if someone was going to get it, a woman saying he was closer. I waited, figuring that sooner or later someone would get here.
    The door was opened by a silver-haired man in his late forties, early fifties, probably just home from work. The collar of his crisp white shirt was unbuttoned, his tie askew, the cuffs of his dress pants rested on black socks instead of shoes. The big toe of his right foot was peeking at me through a hole. In his hand was an oversized wineglass that was half full of red.
    “Yeah?” he said.
    “Mr. Rodomski?” I said.
    “Whatever it is, we don’t want any.”
    “I’m not selling. I’m here to—”
    “Who is it, Chris?” a woman shouted from someplace else in the house.
    He swiveled his head around, yelled, “I don’t know!” Then, back to me, he said, “What’d you say you’re selling?”
    “I said I wasn’t. My name is Cal Weaver. I’m a private investigator.” I extended a hand.
    Chris Rodomski shook my hand, which was clammy enough to make me sorry I’d offered it. “Really?” he said.
    I took out my wallet and displayed my license for half a second. I could have allowed him a closer look, but his eyes were glassy and I didn’t see the point.
    A woman I presumed was his wife appeared at the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the door. Big hair, auburn in color, and a little too much lipstick, suggesting to me that when she was little, she had a hard time coloring within the lines. Her cheeks were overly rouged, almost clownlike. She had a glass of red wine in her hand as well, but it was just about ready for a refill.
    “Who’s this?” she said to her husband. There was a hint of slurring. She hadn’t reached total inebriation, although I had a sense it was her destination.
    “It’s a detective, Glynis.”
    “The police?” she said, and the skin beyond the red circles on her cheeks instantly paled. She set the glass down on the closest surface, a side table.
    I told her my name. “I’m not with the police. I’m private.”
    “What’s this about?” She’d put one hand to her chest, as though checking to see how quickly her heart was beating.
    “I’m sure everything is fine,” her husband said. He looked at me apologetically. “Glynis always assumes the worst.”
    “That’s because that’s how things