Blood Ties by S. J. Rozan

“Sullivan’s in a meeting.” He said meeting as though having to be in one was one of the penalties of adulthood, and something he wasn’t looking forward to when he got there.
    â€œWhen can I get him?”
    â€œHour or two, probably.”
    â€œOkay. I’ll try later. Meanwhile, I’m in town. I’m driving a gray Acura.” I gave him the license number. “My cell phone number’s on the card. In case anyone has a problem with me.”
    â€œYou’re what, investigating? This Gary Russell thing?”
    â€œThat’s right. Anything you can tell me?”
    â€œOh, no, sir. It’s just,” he grinned, “I never met a private eye before.”
    I’d met a lot of cops, so I just shook his hand and left.
    Helen had given me the addresses of kids she knew were Gary’s friends. I’d have liked to talk to the police before I tackled them, but I could do it the other way. As I drove I called Lydia.
    â€œAnything?” I asked.
    â€œNo. I’ve spread the picture around, and I’m talking to people at youth hot lines and places like that. I’m about to go down to Times Square and the East Village and talk to some kids myself.”
    â€œGood. And do one more thing? There’s a camp on Long Island, a sports camp called Hamlin’s or something close. The Warrenstown varsity seniors are there for the week. It’s a long shot, but Gary may be headed there.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI don’t know. But check it out, okay?”
    â€œSure. How’s it going out there?” It was what she’d have asked any time, on any case, but now I heard behind the words a different question.
    The answer to that one was long, though, and I didn’t really know it. I said, “Nothing yet. I’ll let you know.”
    Briefly, silence. Then, “Okay. Be careful.”
    â€œYou, too.” Something struck me. “Hey, Lydia? Speaking of careful: It seems my brother-in-law did go to New York. He may be covering the same territory you are.”
    â€œI’ll consider myself warned. You be careful,” she said again, and hung up.
    The bright November sun and the quiet tree-lined streets brought me to a wood-frame house in the older part of town, yellow with white shutters, neatly trimmed hedge, red leaves spotting a clipped lawn. The door was answered by a short-haired woman about my own age, who didn’t look happy when she read my card and I asked for her son.
    â€œWhat’s this about?”
    â€œThere’s a boy missing, Mrs. Reed. Gary Russell. I’m working for the family. I’d like to ask Morgan a few questions.”
    â€œThe police have already been here. Morgan doesn’t know anything.”
    â€œI know they have. I won’t be long.”
    In the end, because another mother’s son was missing, she agreed, providing she could stay. Expecting a fifteen-year-old to reveal any secrets with his mother in the room was like expecting snow in July, but I wasn’t necessarily looking for secrets. And if I got a sense from Morgan that he had more to say than he’d say in front of his mother, I’d find a way to hear it.
    Mrs. Reed called up the stairs to her son. After the second call, “Yeah, awright!” floated from above, and after the third call a tall, broad-shouldered kid appeared at the top of the stairs. He loped down to the landing, where the staircase took a turn he didn’t want to bother with; putting his hands on the railing, he swung over, landed a foot in front of me. He slapped his hands against each other as though the cleanliness of the railing hadn’t been up to his standards.
    â€œI wish you wouldn’t, Morgan,” his mother said, and it was clearly something she’d said before. “That banister is coming loose.”
    â€œWhatever.” Morgan looked me over. He was a tall kid, with huge hands, weight-room muscles on his long