“You live here?” asked Brian, incredulous. They’d pulled up in front of a brownstone in one of the most expensive sections of the city.
“Um, yeah,” replied Tristan.
“On a cop’s salary? Okay, not that I really know how much you make, but I do have a clue on what scale the city pays.”
“I don’t have a mortgage. It’s mine.”
“As in you own it?” Brian was stunned.
“Inherited it. You can come in, if you like. I need to check and make sure the melting snow isn’t leaking where the window’s broken. And I need to change out of my suit; serving warrants can get nasty sometimes.”
They got out and went up the steps to the front door. Tristan punched in a code on an alarm system keypad and then unlocked the door. Inside, Brian just stared. He judged the house to be 1910, maybe 1915 vintage. The mol
