"There is no off the record," I said, "but go ahead."
"This address. When I pulled it up on the terminal, it's flagged. It's got a CNP code. Chronic nuisance property. From before, from the last owner. Because of how many calls. And now you've got two more since you moved in. A vehicle complaint the first weekend, and this." He shifted his weight. "Ma'am, with a CNP flag, after three calls for service in sixty days the city starts fining the owner. Five hundred a call. Even if it's nothing. Even if it's unfounded. It's in the ordinance. They just count the calls."
I looked at him for a long time.
"How many of these flagged addresses are in Bittern Ridge, Officer?"
"I don't know exactly, ma'am. A lot. It's like, this neighborhood and two others. That's where most of them are." He closed his notebook. "I'll write it unfounded. I'll put that he's a resident and he's got a medical condition. That's the best I can do."
"That's a good deal better than most people would," I said. "Thank you. What's your first name?"
"Luis, ma'am."
"Thank you, Luis. Go home safe."
He went. I sat down on the porch step in my robe and watched the sky go gray over the pond, and at about six-fifteen the gray house on the corner opened its front door, and Marcella Vasbinder came out in her capris and visor to get her newspaper. She saw me sitting there. She stopped. For a moment I thought she might come over, and I honestly don't know what I would have said if she had.
She didn't. She picked up her paper, looked at me a moment longer, and went back inside, and the door closed with a small, final click that carried all the way down Plover Lane.