Steiger said. Angie, in a sleeveless lime-green linen dress, tucked her legs under her on the seat of the rented Plymouth and looked at Aaron Newman’s two-hundred-year-old house. “It looks old,” she said. Steiger nodded. “Let’s cruise around back,” he said. “See what it looks like.” Angie nodded. Steiger put the Plymouth in drive and went around the block. They parked on the street behind Newman’s house. “What town is this?” Angie said. “Smithfield,” Steiger said. “We ever settle down, I’d like to live like this,” Angie said. Her hands were folded in her lap. Steiger’s right hand covered both of hers. Neither seemed aware of touching. It was a gesture so fundamental and one that had been made so often that it was unconscious. “Yeah,” Steiger said. “I wonder if he’s got an alarm system. Lot of these houses do. Tied into the police.” “Any way you can tell?” Steiger smiled at her. “I could break in at night and see if the cops come.” She shook her head.
