McMansion by Justin Scott Page A

started to say “a friend,” which wasn’t quite accurate, and settled for, “people I knew.”
    Sammis nodded and the guard inside him stood down and I knew quite surely that he too had served time, somewhere, for something. Which ought to make talking to him a bit easier.
    â€œCome on down to the barn,” he said. “Marie, you get started. I’ll stay out of the house until you’re finished.”
    â€œDon’t you want to talk to Ben in the house?”
    Sammis ignored her and we walked briskly to the barn where, in a woodworking shop equipped with both a table and radial saw, he was building bookshelves. “So why’d you sneak in here? The place isn’t for sale.”
    I decided to play it absolutely straight. If he had done time he probably still possessed a bullshit detector. I said, “I’ve got an occasional sideline. Sort of a half-assed private investigator for some of the local lawyers.”
    â€œDetective?”
    â€œKeeps me out of trouble and fills in the slow spots in the real estate.”
    â€œHow did you get a PI license if you were convicted of a felony?”
    â€œActually, I avoided getting a license for a long time, on the theory that if I had no license no one could threaten to take it away.”
    â€œThat doesn’t answer my question.”
    I saw that I had no choice but to answer his before I could persuade him to answer mine.
    â€œI got my private detective license the same way I got my real estate license. I applied for—and was granted—what’s called ‘Relief of Civil Disability.’”
    I did not mention that my Aunt Connie had expedited the matter by calling in a favor, as she had, years earlier, for my Congressional appointment to the Naval Academy. Nor did I reveal that I had got a permit to keep my father’s gun collection the same way, and a license to carry, though the guns stay home in a safe in the cellar. The detective license actually turned out to be worth the trouble and expense—twelve hundred bucks up front, five hundred renewal every two years—as people respond favorably to labels.
    Sammis would not let it go. “How did a former stock salesman meet the work-experience requirement?”
    â€œYou know more about Connecticut licensing law than most people,” I said. “Are you a lawyer?”
    â€œThat doesn’t answer my question.”
    Still hoping he was going to answer mine, I said, civilly, “I gained my work experience in the Office of Naval Intelligence when I was in the service. A long, long time ago,” I added with a smile.
    â€œAll right. What are you investigating?”
    â€œI’m working for Ira Roth. He’s a top-gun defense lawyer up here. He’s got a client—a kid, charged with murder.”
    â€œThe kid who bulldozed Billy Tiller?”
    â€œIt’s possible he didn’t.”
    â€œWhat I read in the Clarion sounded open-shut—I mean him sitting on the bulldozer which was sitting on Billy Tiller. Is that not what happened?”
    â€œThe order in which they stacked up is in question.”
    â€œWell, that’s what they pay lawyers for. I hope the kid is rich.”
    â€œHis father is.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œI gather you had a run in with Billy.”
    Sammis gave me a quick look. “Where’d you hear that?”
    â€œRead it in the Clarion . Do you mind me asking what happened?”
    â€œLet’s just say that Mr. Tiller presented quite a challenge to my anger-management sessions.”
    â€œI heard he laughed about those trees.”
    â€œYeah, he laughed. But I was going to get the last laugh. Would have, if your client hadn’t ended up on top of him.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œI had a plan.”
    â€œFor revenge?”
    â€œYeah, for revenge. What the hell do you think I’m talking about?”
    â€œMind me asking how?”
    â€œMoot point,