replied, “however mundane it might appear to be.”
Andrew sighed in the way men do when a woman is taking something other than them far too seriously: sort of a huge huff, like an old steamboat getting ready to launch. “You’re wasting your time! Glassy-eyed lunatics don’t need motives for their craziness.”
“Andrew …” I frowned at him as I continued to write.
But he just went on—“I can think of much better things we could be doing on this beautiful day. I’ve wanted to see Mich Hamer’s exhibit at MoMA, for starters. Frankly,” he said, without meeting my gaze, “I’m beginning to feel jealous of this miserable nutcase interfering in our lives. It seems you’re spending more time thinking about him than you are about me!”
Whoa ! And women are supposed to be the jealous ones! Andrew was acting like a child. I’d give it right back to him. “Yeah, right. How about you keeping your promise to help me instead of criticizing what I’m trying to do? Hmm ?”
He spun around and glared at me. Until, that is, he saw the grin on my face. Then he laughed and walked over to sit beside me. “Okay,” Sherlock, so what’ve you come up with so far?”
Before answering Andrew, I looked straight into those dark, intense eyes of his, to see if he was being serious or not. It looked like he was.
I’d made a list of unethical or stupid things a real-estate broker might do, and I showed it to him.
Failure to disclose judgments against a h ouse.
Misrepresentation of square foo tage.
Failure to confirm latest taxes and assessments on a prop erty.
“Any of these things could infuriate a buyer, “I said. “For one thing, if a broker was selling a home and didn’t disclose that there were judgments against the property, and at closing the client finds out he’s responsible for thousands of dollars which he can’t possibly come up with, he could lose the house as well as his down payment. Could that set someone off?”
“ That’s not bad” Andrew commented.
“Or, if the square footage was far less than what the listing declared, or the broker neglected to confirm the latest taxes and assessments on a property?” I looked up at Andrew for his reaction.
“Yep. That could be a problem.”
“And, here’s a complicated one, Mr. Attorney. What if a half-way house for pedophiles was located right next door and the buyers had young children?”
“Well, Maggie, that situation is covered under the Fair Housing Act, just like buying a house where a suicide or murder took place, and a broker is not legally required to disclose such facts. Of course, there’s a moral issue in these scenarios, and if not disclosed, they could cause a great deal of rancor, and rightly so, on the part of the unsuspecting buyers.”
“There are endless scenarios, Andrew.” I paused to think over examples during my own career. Thank god, nothing as egregious as any I’d listed. I shrugged. “But I suppose none of them are enough to actually turn someone into a rapist or a murderer. There has to be a pathological reason for such an animus against one particular profession.”
“Oh, Maggie, law enforcement’s task isn’t to analyze the bastard—it’s to find him and put him away before he kills someone else.” Andrew jumped up from the cozy chair, took both my hands and pulled me up. Then, before he spoke again, he hugged me, long and tenderly. Then he looked into my eyes. “Maggie, interfering in something like this could turn out to be so dangerous for a person with no experience in detective work. It’s not just me concerned about you—Chief Betsy wants you out of it, too. If this nutcase learns about your intervention, he will find you and kill you as well. You’d better give that some serious thought. I certainly have.
“Chief Betsy asked you only one thing—to coordinate with the real-estate broker community. She didn’t ask you to solve the crime. Leave that to the professionals!” Andrew
Andrew sighed in the way men do when a woman is taking something other than them far too seriously: sort of a huge huff, like an old steamboat getting ready to launch. “You’re wasting your time! Glassy-eyed lunatics don’t need motives for their craziness.”
“Andrew …” I frowned at him as I continued to write.
But he just went on—“I can think of much better things we could be doing on this beautiful day. I’ve wanted to see Mich Hamer’s exhibit at MoMA, for starters. Frankly,” he said, without meeting my gaze, “I’m beginning to feel jealous of this miserable nutcase interfering in our lives. It seems you’re spending more time thinking about him than you are about me!”
Whoa ! And women are supposed to be the jealous ones! Andrew was acting like a child. I’d give it right back to him. “Yeah, right. How about you keeping your promise to help me instead of criticizing what I’m trying to do? Hmm ?”
He spun around and glared at me. Until, that is, he saw the grin on my face. Then he laughed and walked over to sit beside me. “Okay,” Sherlock, so what’ve you come up with so far?”
Before answering Andrew, I looked straight into those dark, intense eyes of his, to see if he was being serious or not. It looked like he was.
I’d made a list of unethical or stupid things a real-estate broker might do, and I showed it to him.
Failure to disclose judgments against a h ouse.
Misrepresentation of square foo tage.
Failure to confirm latest taxes and assessments on a prop erty.
“Any of these things could infuriate a buyer, “I said. “For one thing, if a broker was selling a home and didn’t disclose that there were judgments against the property, and at closing the client finds out he’s responsible for thousands of dollars which he can’t possibly come up with, he could lose the house as well as his down payment. Could that set someone off?”
“ That’s not bad” Andrew commented.
“Or, if the square footage was far less than what the listing declared, or the broker neglected to confirm the latest taxes and assessments on a property?” I looked up at Andrew for his reaction.
“Yep. That could be a problem.”
“And, here’s a complicated one, Mr. Attorney. What if a half-way house for pedophiles was located right next door and the buyers had young children?”
“Well, Maggie, that situation is covered under the Fair Housing Act, just like buying a house where a suicide or murder took place, and a broker is not legally required to disclose such facts. Of course, there’s a moral issue in these scenarios, and if not disclosed, they could cause a great deal of rancor, and rightly so, on the part of the unsuspecting buyers.”
“There are endless scenarios, Andrew.” I paused to think over examples during my own career. Thank god, nothing as egregious as any I’d listed. I shrugged. “But I suppose none of them are enough to actually turn someone into a rapist or a murderer. There has to be a pathological reason for such an animus against one particular profession.”
“Oh, Maggie, law enforcement’s task isn’t to analyze the bastard—it’s to find him and put him away before he kills someone else.” Andrew jumped up from the cozy chair, took both my hands and pulled me up. Then, before he spoke again, he hugged me, long and tenderly. Then he looked into my eyes. “Maggie, interfering in something like this could turn out to be so dangerous for a person with no experience in detective work. It’s not just me concerned about you—Chief Betsy wants you out of it, too. If this nutcase learns about your intervention, he will find you and kill you as well. You’d better give that some serious thought. I certainly have.
“Chief Betsy asked you only one thing—to coordinate with the real-estate broker community. She didn’t ask you to solve the crime. Leave that to the professionals!” Andrew
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