claims adjuster from Florida.”
“No shit. You’re up here because of this crazy ass weather, right?”
“I’ve got thirty-two storm claims to write up in the next four days,” he said.
“Next in line,” the clerk announced from behind the counter. “I SAID next in line.”
Alex found the silver Park Avenue in bay twelve. He popped the trunk with the key remote, and gazed in. A lone, brown case sat next to the tire jack. He undid the lock with the small key that had come in the mail three weeks before. Alex examined the contents. Nodding to himself, he grabbed the case and shut the trunk.
Fifteen minutes later, he eased the Park Avenue off the expressway and into the Quail Creek development. He idled down a tree-lined street, stopping across from 642. The smart-looking two-story colonial had a damaged brick façade, and he could see the ragged fascia and dozens of roofing shingles scattered across the lawn. The roof over the dining room was covered by a large, blue tarp. He cut the ignition. Ten minutes turned into fifteen and then twenty. At length, he picked up a set of approaching lights in the rear-view mirror. A silver Volvo SUV swung into the driveway as the garage door cranked opened. Alex grabbed his case and stepped out.
“Excuse me! Ma’am!” he shouted from the curb. “Mrs. Spagnola?”
He crossed the street. Mary Spagnola was now inside the garage, rooting around in her purse while grappling with a baby carrier and diaper bag. He could hear a baby’s cooing coming from the carrier. She glanced up but did not say a word. Alex moved up the driveway with long graceful strides, and stopped at the opening to the garage.
“I’m Alex, the adjuster from PrimeCo.”
She hesitated. Understandable and he’d expected as much.
“Oh. Hi. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
We. He was told the husband would be out of town. There’d better not be a we.
“I flew in a day early to get a head start on my claims. I’ve got a pile of them.”
“I can imagine.” She paused, halfway turning toward the door. He sensed her loosening up just a bit. “I…”
“I can come back tomorrow. That’s not a problem. I wouldn’t mind getting started, but I don’t want to be a bother, either.”
She stepped to the middle of the garage. “May I see identification?”
“Not a problem,” he said, holding up his adjuster’s card. “You’re case number is PC443201. Drywall damage to the living and dining rooms. Partially collapsed ceiling in dining room. Mold in living room.”
She nodded her head. “Okay. Come on in. I just need to get the baby a bottle. It’s Alex, right?”
She led him through the utility room to the dining area, pointing out the damages, courtesy of the area’s worst storm in 50 years. He removed a clipboard and digital camera from his black case and began snapping pictures.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure, that would be great.” He nodded upwards. “You lost quite a bit of your ceiling. Did you have help cleaning it up? I mean, with having to look after the baby…”
“I did what I could during her naps. My husband’s away on business.”
That’s exactly what he was told.
“When’s he coming back to see the good news?”
“Not until Tuesday. I emailed him a couple dozen photos. He’s thrilled, let me tell you.”
“I bet.”
Alex watched Mary shuffle into the kitchen with the baby, and open the refrigerator door. He grabbed his tape measure and started with the north wall.
“Drywall is a pain,” he said, his voice carrying across the house. “It’s really just glorified cardboard. There’s a big scandal in the industry right now.”
“That right?” she called from the kitchen.
“Apparently Florida contractors bought a slew of rotten drywall from the Chinese. It’s very poor quality, and emits sulfur-based gases that corrode air-conditioner coils, computer wiring and metal picture frames. Wonderful stuff.”
“Let me guess. They have to rip it all out,” she said.
“You got it.”
He finished the north wall. His tape measure recoiled and snapped back into its casing. Now he focused on the west wall. The Spagnola claim would be significant. That much he could see. Their $2,700 mortgage gave them very little wiggle room as far as expenses were concerned. He doubted they could afford to replace the drywall, fascia, carpet and tiles out of pocket.
“How well do you know your neighbors?” he asked. “Have they been any help?”
“We’re relatively new in the neighborhood. We don’t really know anybody. People around here pretty much keep to themselves.”
“I see.”
Mary emerged from the kitchen and handed him a glass of ice water. She glanced up at the jagged hole in the ceiling. “Please tell me the insurance will pay for this mess.”
He sipped the water and checked his notes.
“I think we can help you.” Alex looked about. “I’m finished in here. Just need to complete some paper work.”
He sensed a relieved look on her face.
“Come on. The kitchen’s this way.”
He fed the figures into his laptop. Mary stood on the opposite side of the counter, watching the baby resting peacefully. Its little chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm.
“Is she sleeping through the night yet?”
“She only wakes up once a night, if you can believe that. We’re very lucky.” She stepped away from the baby, and took a quick swig of soda. “Oh, before I forget. I printed some digital pictures of what the place looked like right after the twister.”
“I have them,” he said, flipping open his black case.
“That’s right, I forgot I sent them.” He watched her glance down at his case, to the latest issue of Vogue. A young woman sporting a sexy smile graced the front cover. She wore high-heels and a skimpy dress. An American flag was draped across her chest, concealing most of her cleavage. The cover read, Sexy First Daughter: The President’s Secret Weapon. “You’re a Vogue fan, huh?”
He grabbed the magazine and smiled dryly. “I picked it up in the airport for my wife.”
“I’m sure all the guys say that.”
“You caught me. I confess to having read most of it on the flight out here.”
“What
