Dead Heat by Linda Barnes

Greek-lettered banner: a college fraternity house. Noisy neighbors.
    They weren’t very loud on a Saturday afternoon. Probably still asleep, hung over from the revels of Friday night. Spraggue sympathized; he felt a bit hung over himself, from the stale air of the police station, Mary’s wine, and the shattered expectations of the night. He didn’t feel like chatting with Collatos. He didn’t feel like analyzing crazed death threats.
    Parking was allowed on one side of Sparhawk Street, which left one-and-a-half lanes for two-way traffic, less if you counted the half lane devoted to the propagation of potholes. Spraggue was driving cautiously, scanning the houses for addresses, when he noticed the plain dark car parked halfway down the street. Two men dozed in the front seat, one with a newspaper spread partially over his face.
    Spraggue kept his foot pressed firmly on the accelerator and breezed right past the house that must have been Donagher’s, a neatly painted blue Victorian. About twenty feet before Sparhawk came to an end at Cambridge Street, a narrow road opened on the left: Murdock Street. Spraggue took the turn, then the next left: Mapleton. He checked for other unmarked cars, maybe a stationary utility van. The street seemed clear, so he pulled sharply to the right and parked.
    He strolled back along Mapleton, hands shoved in his pockets, until he could plainly see, through the carefully tended back garden of a white colonial, the light blue paint he’d noted on 55 Sparhawk. A house the size of Donagher’s would have more than one entrance, that was certain. How vigilant the police? How nosy the neighbors?
    As if in response to his question, a woman walked swiftly down the narrow concrete-slab walkway that led into the yard of the white colonial. She matched the pale sunshine. Her long, fine golden hair was brushed tight to her skull. Her beige raincoat was cinched at her waist with a matching belt. She wore dark stockings and tiny high-heeled shoes. Stopping for a moment to shove a wide-brimmed khaki rainhat over her hair, she shot one careful glance to her right, one to her left. She seemed not to notice Spraggue. He caught only a glimpse of a delicate pastel face, like the face of a Dresden China shepherdess after the painter had set a final wash of gray over all his brighter tones.
    The woman turned abruptly and sped off toward Market Street, leaving Spraggue to wonder how she could move so quickly on her tiny tap-tapping heels.
    He waited until she was out of sight, then hurried up the walkway. It took a surprising turn behind a stand of budding trees and led, not to the presumed garage of number whatever Mapleton, but directly to the back porch of Donagher’s blue Victorian. Spraggue stared speculatively after the pastel woman. Had she come from Donagher’s house?
    Collatos was at the back door before he could push the buzzer, a broad grin splitting his swarthy face. “Cops out front,” he said casually as they shook hands.
    â€œYou could have mentioned them when you called.”
    â€œI knew you’d spot them. Even had a bet on it with Murray. You just won me five bucks.”
    â€œMurray?”
    â€œCome on in, Spraggue. I feel well-disposed toward you.”
    â€œNice place” was all Spraggue said as they moved down a hallway with a glistening wooden floor into a lace-curtained front room furnished in stolid New England unimaginativeness accented with a few not inexpensive antiques.
    â€œDonagher lived here long?” he asked, taking Collatos up on his invitation to sit on the chintz sofa.
    â€œMaybe twelve, fifteen years. I think ever since he got married.”
    â€œBig place.”
    â€œIt’s more than just his house. It’s staff headquarters, campaign headquarters. They’ve got rooms fixed up for people to stay over and they’re always full. I moved in when I took the bodyguard job. Donagher’s campaign manager