Free No Such Thing as a Lost Cause by Shelly Fredman Page A

me.
    I waited for about a nano-second, and then I marched back to the police barricade
     and ducked under the tape. A rookie cop stood guard at what was left of my front door.
    “Hey, get back.”
    “I need to get inside.” I shoved past him which, in retrospect, probably wasn’t the
     best move. He grabbed my furry arm and pinned it behind my back.
    “Ow! Look,” I shouted and tried twisting out of his grasp, which only made him hang
     on tighter. “This is my house, and my cat and dogs are in there, and they need me.
     So I’m going in, and not you or anybody else is gonna stop me. Now let go!”
    “Just calm down, Ma’am.”
    “I’m not gonna calm down. Look, you little pisher—”
    Mike came up next to us. He didn’t seem surprised to see me there.
    “Skip,” he interrupted. “This is Brandy Alexander. She’s the one who saved Wolinski.
     Cut her a break, okay? She’s had a rough couple of days. I’ll escort her in.”
    “She’s all yours,” Skip muttered and let go of my arm. He stepped aside, and Mike
     and I entered the house.
    The forensics team was just leaving. There was glass everywhere but, the house looked
     pretty much as I’d left it. Well…except for the bullets that decimated a lamp and
     left gaping holes in my brand new sofa.
    I galloped up the stairs two at a time and found the dogs and Rocky huddled together
     in Paul’s old bedroom closet. I shut the door, went downstairs, and returned with
     some leftover lasagna for them to share. Any good psychologist will tell you that
     you can’t solve your problems with food, but they’re wrong. I ate a TsstyKake and
     felt tons better.
    “Mike, I know this looks bad. But, maybe it was just some guy who was excited about
     the new assault rifle he got for his birthday, and he just happened to pick my house
     to practice on.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “But—”
    “Brandy, someone actually took the time to get out of their car and spray-paint ‘Bitch-ho’
     on your front step. This was personal.”
    “Y’know, my neighbor, Mrs. Gentile isn’t the easiest person to get along with. Maybe
     it was meant for her.” Okay. That’s unlikely. Mrs. Gentile is in her eighties. She
     may be a bitch, but I seriously doubt anyone would mistake her for a ‘ho.
    I walked back outside and found her holding court with the neighbors. She had a clipboard
     which she circulated among the crowd. Mrs. Gentile’s been trying to get preferential
     parking for our block, which I think is downright unfriendly. But I felt like I owed
     her one because of recent events. I strode over to her.
    “Uh, Mrs. Gentile, I’d be happy to sign your petition.”
    Grace Romano, my mother’s oldest and dearest friend from the neighborhood, cut me
     a guilty look. She handed the clipboard back to Mrs. Gentile and slunk off toward
     her house. I craned my neck to read the upside down words (a skill I cultivated from
     years of cheating in high school math class). All I could make out was my name before
     Mrs. Gentile snatched it way, pressing it to her scrawny chest.
    “You’re a menace,” she squawked, wagging a bony finger at me. “This neighborhood is
     for decent people. We want you out of here.”
    “What?”
    She turned the clipboard around so I could read it. A dozen or so of my neighbors
     had signed the petition. Some of them, twice.
    Mike waited while I spoke to a Detective Cabot, who suggested that someone might have
     a vendetta against me.
    “Gee, ya think?”
    Mike elbowed me in the ribs.
    “Sorry. I’m a little stressed.”
    I thought for a minute and then rattled off a rather lengthy list of people I might
     have annoyed to the point of using weapons of mass destruction against me. Then I
     collected the dogs and cat, packed a bag, and called my friend Taco, whose dad owns
     a lumber yard. Taco arranged to have someone come by and board up the windows and
     door. The thing that bothered me the most was what they’d written on my front