"Nice, mighty nice." The house was small, built above and behind a separate garage that fronted the street. Steps led up to a porch and the door through which he'd entered. The air was cool and quiet. The house seemed to breathe in a wooded space just large enough for it and for the walls of vegetation on either side that separated it from its neighbors. A sense of privacy lay in the living room like an expensive gift.
Mo led him into a neatly organized kitchen. "I know who he is." Joe pointed at a photograph of her father that hung above a table.
"Ah yes. My father. Do I look so much like him?"
"Very similar in the eyes and mouth." What else was there?
"Professor Soule," she said.
"I read his book," Joe confessed. "Pretty good writer." An expression both arrogant and helpless flashed across her face. "Clear," Joe added.
"Yes. He's a worker." Her expression neutralized. Joe put a hand behind his ear.
"I don't hear any dripping . . . "
"Let me show you. The kitchen doesn't drip all the time; the bathroom is the worst." Joe leaned over the bathroom sink, thumped it, and listened to its heartbeat.
"Operation iss required." He opened the aluminum case.