By the time we got the corner, upstairs bedroom set up for surveillance, I couldn’t believe what I saw.
“Michael,” I hissed. “I hate your son.”
He strode over to join me at the window and laughed. In the broad yard a house away, Roger pushed around a rusty wheelbarrow full of weeds he must have pulled, vegetation he cut. He wore nothing but hikers and tiny, PT shorts, that were already sweaty and clinging to him. Even a hundred feet away the sweat billowing around his muscles were clear to the naked eye. The word naked being appropriate, because that pretty much described his situation.
“When was acting gardener part of the plan?” I asked.
Roger isn’t quite six-foot, but his average dimensions stop there. He’d been a power lifter since potty training, I think. He gave the expression six-pack new meaning. He looks layered in jeans and a polo. Dang Louise. If he didn’t grab our target’s attention nothing would.
“I hope Augie’s lady friend isn’t gay,” Michael drawled.
“What?” Augie’s voice wafted from the adjoining room where he was setting up his computer equipment. He strode into the room. “Who’s gay?”