Blood Ties by S. J. Rozan Page A

arms. Even standing still, he held himself with the ease and unconscious grace of the natural athlete, someone who had always been at home in the world, never doubted he would land on his feet every time.
    â€œMorgan, this is Mr. Smith. He’s a detective and he wants to ask you some things about Gary Russell.”
    Morgan flashed his mother a look of annoyance, as though my intrusion into his day were her fault. To me, with a lift of the chin, a set of the shoulders, he said, “I talked to Sullivan already.” He added, “I never saw you before,” as though any Warrenstown cop Morgan Reed didn’t know was an obvious impostor. At fifteen I’d known every cop in my Brooklyn neighborhood, too; I’d been picked up by most of them.
    â€œI’m private,” I said. “From New York.”
    â€œYou mean you’re a private eye?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    He snorted, and I got the feeling that the grown-ups had just proved once again how ridiculous we were. He looked at his mother and then at me; then, maybe deciding the whole thing would be over faster if he went along with it, he said, “Whatever,” crossed in front of me to the living room and dropped onto the sofa. He wore cargo pants, a plaid shirt over a tee, Nikes that he propped up on the coffee table, pointedly ignoring his mother’s frown. He picked up a Sports Illustrated , flipped through it without interest while he waited for me to begin.
    I took the armchair, resisted the urge to light a cigarette and to put my feet on the table, too, the way I would have if he’d been a man, to show I understood, to level the field.
    â€œGary Russell left home on Monday,” I said. “I saw him in New York last night and he said he had something important to do. Do you know what he meant?”
    â€œYou saw him, how come you didn’t ask him?”
    â€œHe wouldn’t tell me.”
    â€œWell, I got no idea,” he said, turning pages. “I don’t know the guy that well.”
    â€œYou’re on the football team with him, right?”
    â€œYeah.” He looked up from the magazine, talk of football sparking some interest. “But I mean, he’s new here.”
    New here. I was getting the idea that that was a problem in Warrenstown. But I’d been new in a lot of places, and it was a problem everywhere.
    â€œHe seem to have anything on his mind, anything worrying him last time you saw him?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œWhen was that?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œLast time you saw him.”
    I could have sworn Morgan hesitated a fraction of a second before he shrugged, said, “I don’t know. Probably practice last Monday.”
    â€œYou guys are still practicing? Isn’t the season over?”
    He looked at me as though I’d asked if he was still breathing. “Practice every afternoon, three o’clock. We got the Hamlin’s game this Saturday.” He added, “Coach’ll be pissed if Gary doesn’t show.”
    â€œMorgan, language,” his mother said, and Morgan rolled his eyes.
    Trying to connect, to keep Morgan with me, I went back to football. “Postseason game at Hamlin’s?” I asked. “Is that big?”
    â€œYeah.” Morgan’s eyes shone. “Varsity juniors, sophomores, some guys from JV Coach thinks might be ready? We go up to Hamlin’s, play the guys at the seniors’ camp.”
    â€œThere are enough seniors to field a full team?”
    â€œWell, not from here ,” he said, as though anyone knew that. “Seniors’ camp at Hamlin’s, it’s like . . . like an all-star thing. A bunch of schools, if their teams make the play-offs, they send the seniors to seniors’ camp. Then Warrenstown comes up and plays.”
    â€œNone of the other schools?”
    â€œNuh-uh.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Morgan looked blankly at me, as though that question