He could not prove it was about anything else. He also had no intention of turning their first week in a new home into an argument with the neighbor across the street. They had come to Fairhaven to live a quieter life outside the demands of his work. On Saturday morning, with the sky a clear, generous blue, he decided to wash the sedan and spend the rest of the day assembling furniture while Nia made brunch.
By nine o'clock, a thin layer of white soap covered the black hood. Jordan wore a gray T-shirt, black athletic shorts, and slide sandals; he had a garden hose in one hand and a sponge in the other. Birds sang from the maple tree, sunlight caught in the drops sliding down the windshield, and the yard smelled faintly of fresh-cut grass. Nia was inside in her pink robe, calling a hardware store about the missing brackets for a bookshelf.
The first sign that the morning was turning came when Karen's front door opened sharply. She crossed the street without waiting for traffic, her little white dog tucked under one arm and her sunglasses balanced on her blonde hair. Two uniformed officers followed her along the sidewalk, a dark police SUV parked at the curb behind them. Jordan noticed their arrival in his peripheral vision, turned off the hose nozzle, and stood upright as they approached.
"That's him!" Karen announced, jabbing her finger at Jordan. "His soap water is running onto my sidewalk!"
Jordan looked at the small wet patch near the edge of the driveway. The concrete sloped inward toward the gutter, and most of the water remained within his property line; a little foam had spread onto the public sidewalk where the driveway met it. He had barely started rinsing the car. He looked back at Karen, genuinely puzzled by the presence of two officers.
"Ma'am," he said, lowering the hose, "it's water. On my own driveway."
"It's chemical runoff," Karen snapped. "It's a public hazard. My dog could walk through it."
The larger officer stepped forward. He was a white man in his late forties with short reddish-blond hair, a navy police shirt bearing a gold shoulder patch, tan uniform pants, and a duty belt that shifted as he walked. His expression was already settled into annoyance before Jordan had finished speaking. The name sewn above his shirt pocket read VOSS.
"Turn the water off," he ordered.
"The nozzle is off," Jordan said. "I can put the hose away if it's in somebody's path."
"Then do it, and answer my questions when I ask them. You live here?"
"Yes."
"This your vehicle?"
"Yes, sir."
Voss looked over the shiny black sedan, then back at Jordan's shorts and sandals. "Got registration for it?"
Jordan glanced toward the house. "It's inside, but before I go get anything, can you tell me why you need it? Is there a problem with the car?"
Karen made a sharp, contemptuous sound. "And look at that car! He can't afford that. Cuff him!"