Free The Reformed by Tod Goldberg Page A

you printed out,” Fi said. “It would help if you had GPS in this car instead of an eight-track deck.”
    “GPS didn’t come standard in Chargers until 1975,” I said. “Let me see the directions.” Fiona handed me the paper. Everything was correct. This didn’t smell right. “What is a Latin Emperor doing living out here?”
    “Golfing?” Fiona said.
    I checked my watch. It was near 10:00 P.M. I rolled down my window and listened for a moment. You could almost hear people snoring already. A golf cart came from around the corner, where my better life presumably lived, and I could make out the form of a security guard, even in the dark, behind the wheel. Security guards tend to sit with a supererect posture, as if they’ve been taught at rent-a-cop school that good posture equals authority.
    “Company,” I said.
    “Do you want me to shoot him?”
    “Let’s talk to him first,” I said.
    The cart pulled up next to my driver’s-side window so the guard would be face-to-face with me. This is something they probably also teach at rent-a-cop school: Park your golf cart like cops park their cars when they’re talking in the Denny’s parking lot. “Lost?” the guard said. He didn’t even bother to say hello, which I found rude.
    “Sure am,” I said. “I was stationed at the base out here, oh, gosh, ten years ago? Eighty-second Airborne. And I wanted to show my girlfriend the old lover’s lane. We’re down from Atlanta for the week. Guess it’s been paved over?”
    The guard nodded gravely. He had a short haircut and the square jaw of a military man, but also possessed the unmistakable body of a civilian: a perfectly round gut, arms that showed the care and confidence of a man who spent his time at the gym doing only curls and a watch too gaudy to be real. He also had a name tag that said his name was Lieutenant Frank, which I took to mean his first name was Frank, because he certainly wasn’t an actual lieutenant in any real service. Being a lieutenant for a rent-a-cop firm is like being a chef at McDonald’s.
    “Yeah, yeah,” Frank said. “Been a couple years now.” He didn’t betray any emotion, which either meant he thought I was suspicious or he didn’t have any actual emotion. Or maybe he just hated his job, which was a distinct possibility, too. He did have a police scanner on the dash of his golf cart, which seemed odd, too.
    “You get much action out here?” I asked.
    “That’s a bit personal,” Frank said.
    “No,” I said. “I mean criminal action.” I pointed to the scanner. “Seems like an expensive accessory on your cart.”
    “It’s important to our residents that we be able to let them know if there’s any activity outside the development that might require their attention, in terms of police actions or military activity.”
    Fiona leaned across me and smiled at Frank. She’d been sitting quietly up until that point, but I knew as soon as Frank concluded his speech that she’d have something to say. She can only go so long.
    “Pardon me,” she said, a bit of Southern twang to her voice, playing the part, grasping her inner Southern belle ... provided Southern belles these days packed nines. “But what you just said positively gave me the chills. Is there a chance of a terrorist attack nearby?”
    “Oh, no, ma’am,” he said. “Men like your boyfriend keep us very safe from that sort of thing.”
    I gave Frank a firm nod of my head. It’s the kind of thing men like to think they can get away with in lieu of speaking, but it really only works on people who aren’t terribly adept at conversation as it is.
    “Oh, well, thank God,” she said, and leaned back in her seat and fanned herself with her hands. “I think I almost caught the vapors for a moment.”
    “I do have to tell you, Lieutenant, that a few buddies of mine still in the area have said that there is a criminal element in these parts now,” I said. “Damn shame, if you ask me.”
    Frank took an