Night Work by Steve Hamilton Page B

know.” She looked away from me.
    Here’s where my Laurel would have done something. She would have gone right over and pounded on their door. She would have demanded to talk to theman’s wife. If she saw one mark on that woman’s face, then God help the man, no matter who he was or how big. God help him.
    That’s what Laurel would have done, and for some reason on this morning after everything that had happened the night before, I felt closer to her than ever. I could practically feel her behind me, pushing me to go do something.
    “I’m going to go have a little talk with your neighbors,” I said.
    “What?”
    “Stay right here. I’ll be right back.”
    She looked a little stunned, but I left her there and went outside. As I walked over to the other door, I noticed a faded pinwheel stuck in the ground, the only decoration in the whole damned sorry excuse for a yard. I knocked on the door and a few seconds later heard heavy footsteps on the other side.
    “Who is it?”
    “Open up,” I said. “I want to talk to you.”
    The door opened. The man was big, and he looked familiar. I wondered if I had seen him in court.
    “Who are you?”
    “My name’s Joe Trumbull.” I took out my wallet and showed him my badge.
    “Are you a cop?”
    “I’m a probation officer.”
    “Then what do you want?” All of a sudden he was standing about three feet taller. If I wasn’t a cop, how much trouble could I be?
    “I want to talk to your wife for a minute.”
    The man didn’t know my little secret. That badge I showed him wasn’t just a piece of tin. As it turns out, New York State has a little quirk in the law that makes me an official peace officer. Probation officers, parole officers, even corrections officers. All of us. I could carry a weapon if I wanted to, although juvenile POs usually don’t. I can make arrests. In fact, if I witness a felony, the law says I
have
to make an arrest.
    Of course, without a gun and without handcuffs, I wasn’t sure what I’d be able to do with this guy. One quick phone call, though, and a lot of help would arrive.
    “She’s busy at the moment,” the man said. “Why don’t you come back later.” He started to close the door. “In fact, why don’t you just not come back at all. There’s nobody on probation in this house.”
    I put my hand on the door. “I’ll talk to your wife or I’ll have the police here in two minutes. Your choice.”
    He stood there looking at me. He clenched his right hand into a fist and started working his thumb against it.
    “You know what?” I said. “I train real hard every day just to be ready for moments like this. I think you should know that now before you try something.”
    I watched his eyes. If he was going to bring it, his eyes would give him away.
    “Sandra,” he said, not moving.
    She came to the door and stood next to him. She looked just as tired as Claire, but otherwise there didn’tseem to be anything wrong with her. No marks, no bruises. She had both arms wrapped tight around her body.
    “Can I talk to you outside for a minute?”
    She looked at her husband. “If you want to talk to me, you can do it right here.”
    “My name is Joe Trumbull.” I took out one of my cards and handed it to her. She waited half a beat before accepting it.
    “I’m a probation officer,” I said, “but I can get you help immediately if you ever need it.”
    “Why would I need help?”
    “My cell phone number is on the card. You can call me anytime.”
    She looked down at the card. I wondered how long it would take for her husband to rip it into little pieces.
    “The probation office is on Broadway,” I said. “Almost all the way up, on the left. And I live at Anderson’s Gym. You know where that is?”
    She didn’t say anything.
    “Just remember that,” I said. “If you ever need me.”
    I looked at the man one more time.
    “Maybe I’ll come back and pay another visit sometime,” I told him. “Have a nice day.”
    The man