by David Levien
“Put the child’s name on the sign-in sheet,” she instructed.
“Yeah, excuse me,” Behr began, “what’s your name?”
She looked up. “Gloria. What you need?” She didn’t have the time or the inclination for a smile.
“I’m an investigator,” Behr said, passing her his card. “I was hoping to get a patient list for the past two years or so.” He smiled at what he imagined was the likelihood of his request being granted.
“Honey, you can subpoena that. Otherwise, never gonna happen. Anything else?”
“What’s the least busy time of day? Maybe I can come back when we could talk a little more—”
“Baby, you looking at it,” Gloria told him. “It only gets worse.”
Behr heard a wet cough, glanced back, and saw a mother holding a red-nosed child behind him.
“Lunch?” he tried.
“With you? Uh-uh, no. Move over, let the patients through.”
Behr edged to the side and allowed the woman to sign in. She then retreated to a small plastic seat near a fish tank. He leaned back over the desk before two more women, one with a boy who’d just begun to walk, the other with a daughter who was about nine years old, could squeeze in on the list. Gloria sighed at the fact that he was still there.
“How about this? I ask you a name, you tell me if he’s a patient. Then I get out of your face.”
Gloria tapped a fingernail on the desk before her. It was long, probably acrylic.
“Fine. Go.”
“Aaron Barr.”
“No,” she said, almost before he’d finished speaking.
He paused, hating to push it, but he had to ask. “You want to check the patient rolls, maybe?”
“No. I don’t need to. I know the patients and I got a good memory for names.” She tapped her temple with an acrylic spear.
Behr shot through three more names before he hit the number. “Adam Greiss.”
Gloria nodded, her eyes growing large and her throat working as she swallowed. Tough as she was, she had to talk when she heard the name. “He used to come here. He disappeared two years ago. He was about twelve.”
Behr felt his heart banging in his chest. “Did he ever turn up? You know anything else about it?”
“No. It was sad what happened. Weird. Scary.”
“That it is,” he agreed.
“You on his case, looking for him?” she wondered.
“Yeah. Indirectly,” he answered.
The line behind him was three or four deep now. He rattled off the last two names but drew blanks from her.
Paul saw Behr leaving the doctor’s office at a near run. When he drew close to the car and came around to the passenger side, Paul put down the window. “Get something?” he asked.
Behr nodded. “One hit. A patient. You drive to the next place so I can just hop out. It’ll be faster.”
Paul slid over behind the wheel and pointed the car toward the next location. The car wasn’t smooth like his LeSabre, the transmission changed gears in a jagged way, but he was surprised at its power, which he used to get them where they were going faster than the law permitted.
He waited, fairly going out of his skin, in the idling car, while Behr checked each office systematically. He found that four other missing children were former patients of the doctors and dentists. One doctor, who specialized in pediatric oncology, refused to give any information, even a confirmation, regarding his patients and threatened to call the police on Behr if he continued to press the matter. They were both in a lather by the end of the day, with only one address to go. The last office was that of Jamie’s dentist, Dr. Ira Sibarsky, and Paul led the way.
“Hey, Karen,” he said to the receptionist-hygienist who was up front, seated at a computer desk beneath an oversize toothbrush mounted on the wall.
“Paul,” she said, surprise and dismay registering on her face. It was the expression of helpless pity that everyone who knew about Jamie gave him. If he’d ever appreciated the sympathy, he sure couldn’t remember when. “How are you?”
“Good, good. Can I talk to Ira for a minute?” She nodded and disappeared in the back. Paul looked at Behr and they stood and waited, breathing in the faint mint and medicinal smell of the place. Soon the dentist, a smallish man with curly gray hair and a rounded rabbitlike nose, appeared in the doorway and beckoned them to the back.
The dentist’s office was decorated in muted plaids. X-rays of teeth and bite molds littered a scarred wooden desk. Paul remembered the other times he’d been in the office, when the biggest problem in his life was a pair of Jamie’s cavities that needed filling. Sibarsky sat back in a threadbare office chair and took off his glasses.
“What’s up, Paul, and … ?”
“This is Frank Behr. He’s a private investigator who’s helping us regarding Jamie.”
“Oh, I see,” Sibarsky said. “Any word?”
“What can you tell us about your landlord?” Paul said, unwilling to discuss details.
“My landlord?” the dentist asked, concern spreading over his face.
“That’s right. I’d tell you if you had any cause to worry, Ira,” Paul said with assurance.
“Hemlock Point Realty. I don’t have much contact with them. I leased the space from Polly someone or other seven years ago. She’s the one I call if need be. I send in a check on or about the first of the month. The roof leaked once. They put in a new bathroom three or four years ago. Why?”
“Have you ever dealt with Oscar Riggi?” Paul asked. He’d learned from watching Behr that this was a probing exercise, not a conversation, and as such he was best served not wasting time answering the other person’s questions. It may have struck Sibarsky as a bit rude, but Paul was well beyond caring.
“No. I don’t think I know him. Something about the name is familiar.”
“He’s the principal of Hemlock Point. Midfor-ties. Expensive clothes. Bald-headed. Strong-looking,” Paul elaborated.
Sibarsky nodded. “Sure, sure. I’ve seen him. He inspected after the new bathroom was installed.”
“He ever come by at other times?” Behr asked, joining the proceedings for the first time.
Sibarsky’s glance swiveled toward Behr. “No.”
“Does he have a key? Could he access the office when you’re closed? Have you ever been robbed or suspected that your records or files were disturbed?” Behr continued.
“No. You don’t think …” Sibarsky considered, seeming to grow nervous at the idea of it. He stared at the two blank faces and stuck to answering the questions. “I suppose the company has keys in case of emergency. I’ve never seen evidence they were in here. Do you think he’s involved—”
“What about other employees of Hemlock Point?” Paul cut him off.
“Have you ever met or heard of Tad Ford or Garth Mintz?” Behr added.
“No, I haven’t,” Sibarsky said, raising his hands off the desk slightly.
Paul glanced at Behr and the look he got in return told him they were done there.
As they got up, Ira Sibarsky’s lips moved silently for a few seconds before he spoke. “I’m … we’re all real sorry about the situation. …”
Paul snapped off a curt nod and walked out the door.
They stood outside the car and looked over the list of the places they’d been to, the names.
“There’s one more stop,” Behr said.
“Besides Riggi’s house,” Paul clarified.
“Right.” It wasn’t a medical office or a strip mall. It was a house, a rental property, on Kellogg Street. “I’ll drive this time,” Behr said.
They drove over to the Hawthorne area, the environs going seedy as they neared their destination. It looked like some blight was killing the trees along Lynhurst. They drifted slowly down Kel-logg, which was lined by houses that were trying hard to maintain their dignity. Most were white or gray, recently painted, but with thin coats of cheap paint. Then they saw number 96. It was painted a sickly green c
olor and appeared to be abandoned. The paint had given up and was peeling off in long curls, and the weather had been getting at the wood underneath. The lawn wasn’t tended. If it’d been summer, the grass would have grown over a foot high since its last cutting. As it was, it was weedy and brown. There was a drooping narrow porch leading to a pitted front door. Behr pulled over to the curb and put the car in park. They observed the house for any signs of life, of which there were none.
“At what point do we involve the cops?” Paul wondered out loud.
“At some point. But I need to get into this house first, and the police will prevent that from happening.”
“We’re going in then?”
“I am.”
Behr leaned over and reached across Paul, opening the glove compartment. He fished around in it for a moment, under registration and insurance papers, before he found what he was looking for: two small pieces of black-painted metal, one twisted like a drill bit, the other L-shaped like an Allen wrench but flat at the end.
Behr got out, looking up and down the street for any neighbors. No one was around. Paul stepped out of the car as well and followed as Behr walked up the few steps and onto the porch. He pounded on the front door, then put his ear against it. Both of them listened.
“Nothing,” he said, walking down the steps and around the side of the house. They peered in the windows and saw darkened rooms, mostly devoid of furniture or anything else. There was a side door with a corroded brass knob. Behr tried it, and though it turned a bit in its casing, it was locked. They continued on and reached the windows of what would have been a back bedroom. They were unable to see inside, as the windows were painted black.
After a full orbit around the outside, Behr led them back to the locked side door. He took a knee and produced the two pieces of metal he’d taken from the glove compartment. He slid the one that looked like a drill bit into the keyhole on the knob. He jiggled it around for a moment and then inserted the Allen wrench–looking piece next to it. For the next five minutes Behr’s hands worked as if he was conducting a miniature concert. He seemed to make progress. The knob rattled a bit but didn’t yield.
“I can only get one pin and there are two others,” Behr said, removing the tools and standing up.
“Lock’s too strong?”
“Lock’s a piece of shit. This small tension tool and pry bar won’t get it done, though. The pins are too far apart along the shear line for it.”
“What next?”
“Cough.”
It was mostly symbolic, but Paul hacked loudly as Behr put a shoulder into the door. The jamb exploded in a geyser of rotted wood chips, and they were in.
The house was silent and near empty. The door they’d broken through led into the kitchen. Aging appliances in a shade of green rested on cracking linoleum that was curling up in the corners. They checked the refrigerator, which was turned off and devoid of provisions. It emitted the faint smell of ancient dairy products. The oven was empty and hadn’t been cooked in for quite a while.
They stepped into the living room. A plastic milk crate was the only furniture. There were marks in the crusty shag carpeting that showed where couches and chairs had once rested. The walls were pocked with holes of various sizes and shapes. There was nothing to look at in the room and they moved on quickly, a sense of anticipation rising in them. The house had no basement, just a dead-end crawl space they peered into, and they moved down a short hallway.
When they reached the end, they found two bedrooms separated by a bathroom. One bedroom was carpeted, an old shaggy brown, and had roller shades on the windows. The room and its closets were empty. The other bedroom was empty as well. It was uncarpeted. Other details were difficult to make out because of the darkness caused by the black-painted windows that they’d noticed from the outside. They moved close to the windows and found deep screw holes along the win-dowpanes. Behr ran his fingers over them, wondering exactly what they signified. Paul moved his foot along the floor, sliding crumpled fast-food wrappers from various chains down the baseboard. They turned around, surveying the area, inspecting the empty closets, then moved on to the bathroom.
The bathroom was both filthy and empty save for one item. On the stained tile floor in front of the toilet was a copy of the Star, folded back to the sports section. It was sodden from a slow leak at the base of the toilet. Behr knelt down and looked at it, the newsprint bloated and spreading due to the water. He picked it up gingerly, the pages heavy with water, and checked the date.
“October twenty-fourth?” Paul said aloud. Behr nodded his head, then carefully rested the paper on the toilet lid and folded it to the front page to check for a subscriber address. But the upper-right-hand corner of the page had been torn away.
TWENTY- SIX
HE HAD PLANS TO MEET Susan Durant for the first time, and it took a nearly physical effort for Behr to put aside the case and focus on the evening. He and Paul had agreed to meet early the next morning, to go and take a look at Riggi’s house. That moment seemed a long way off and he felt pulled in two directions. While he drove over to pick Susan up, he tried to concentrate on the social occasion at hand. He had long ago learned to relegate his hopes to a modest place when getting together with a female whom he’d never before met. It had become a necessity after many blind dates and acquaintances made over the phone that hadn’t panned out. He’d gone too many times for dinner or a drink with a woman with whom he’d had good phone rapport, hoping for a looker or at least someone who stirred him, only to find someone he couldn’t even get started with. It was a superficial way to view things, he couldn’t deny it. He suspected that the essence he’d encountered over the telephone was the important thing, but he wasn’t much for faking it when it came to romance. It was a two-way street anyhow. He’d clocked enough disappointment coming back across the table at him over the years.
Susan’s voice was bright and animated when he called from downstairs to say he’d arrived. Still, the best he’d allowed himself to anticipate was someone who gave good phone but was on the edge of pretty or just plain. When she came through her building’s door, moving fast, her hair a yellow slash against her black coat, he saw she was well beyond that. She was tall, nearly six feet, with swept-back blond hair and pure white teeth. She was broad, a few important degrees from big, though. One of his first thoughts was that she was too young for him. He got out to greet her.
“Susan.”
“ ‘Lo, Frank.” Her grip was firm and her hand was soft, as he knew they would be. Standing closer, he saw the faint laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. The age gap wasn’t as wide as he’d thought. She was in her midthirties, but with great energy, and he was heartened.
She shimmied out of her coat and threw it down on the front seat. She wore a black boatneck dress that gave him a moment to appreciate her smooth, powerful swimmer’s shoulders before she slid into the car. He closed the door behind her and they drove toward Donohue’s.
Wenck put the Gran Torino in gear and followed the Olds about a dozen car lengths back.
“Keep back about ten cars,” Gilley said unnecessarily.
“I know,” Wenck responded as they entered into the light flow of traffic on North Cooper Road, where it was easy to stay with him, but there were still enough cars with which to blend. They were just another pair of headlights. The investigator would never see them coming. They’d finally got their audition. They’d heard several rumors over the past year about what working for Riggi could yield; mainly money, plenty of money. And support. A constant flow of employment, from a boss who was in a position to supply jobs, proper tools, and even lawyers in the event they were needed. Wenck and Gilley had been fairly somber in their agreement not to fuck up this chance. They crossed through Knolton Heights with no sign they’d been made.
“Date,” Gilley had said when they’d pulled over down the block from where the detective had stopped and they’d witnessed the pickup.
“First date,” Wenck advance
d. The stiff, formal way the man had gotten out of his car and the handshake greeting were what tipped him off. The shamus had done well for himself. “All he’s probably wondering is if he’s gonna get some slit.”
“Guy’s got no idea he’s ending up in the hospital tonight,” Gilley said aloud, allowing himself one half-snort of laughter.
“Hospital at best,” Wenck said, pulling out once again. They’d agreed to play it loose as to whether they would take him going to or from his destination or on the way home, depending on the best place for the move. Riggi had warned them to be careful, that the investigator had put a hurting on some of his other men. “Brought down enough big boys to know how to do it,” Wenck had said, though he planned to heed the advice nonetheless. The investigator turned and pulled into a lot behind a brick building on Belmont. Wenck nosed the Torino just past the opening of the alley to take a look. A stark bulb shone above a green door and was the only light in the area. It was ideal.
“It’s a shame she’s gonna have to be part of it,” Wenck mused aloud of the woman. Gilley ventured a nod. They readied their arms and set to wait for Behr to come out.
Riggi valet-parked at the Westin on South Capitol and headed into the steakhouse’s bar, where he planned to wait while it happened. It was best for him to be seen in a public place, to make purchases with a credit card, to perhaps be photographed by security cameras. It was preferable to meeting an associate, letting it all rest on him or her if questions started being asked, just to see that person squeezed into recanting the alibi. He sat at a cocktail table in the middle of the room and didn’t even attempt to signal a waitress. He had nothing but time. He’d considered his options and decided on Wenck and Gilley and an extremely bad beating for Behr. The kind of beating that would distract and discourage and require major recovery time. He was willing for the detective to die but couldn’t risk having him shot. Most detectives were ex-cops and there’d be too much suspicion and outrage over a shooting, not to mention the fact he was sure to have notes on his recent interviews that could name Riggi. No, a beating could look like something else, a street crime or a fight gone wrong, and would be harder to follow up.
