amateurish.”
I had a drink at Clarke’s while I waited for my photos to be finished. They were ready as Danny had promised.
When I arrived at the apartment an hour later, the red light on my tape machine told me I’d had some calls. The first message was from Valerie. The usual you’re-a-tough-man-to-reach-but-I-forgive-you. Then there were three dial tones, meaning that whoever had called had hung up instead of leaving a message. Then there was this:
“I don’t like leaving messages, even for a discriminating man like you. Meet me at Father’s First at eight P.M. ”
I might have had some question about the voice, but not the “discriminating” tag. I wondered if she’d wear a disguise.
I dialed Mrs. Kinnington’s number. Mrs. Page answered, grumbled, and told me to hang on.
“What have you to report?” asked my client. “Precious little. Everybody but the psychiatrist is slamming doors in my face.”
“Does that mean my son is aware of your efforts on my behalf?”
“It does,” I said, and I summarized my day for her. She sounded like a little girl when she spoke again. “I should have realized that your prediction about his discovering you would be accurate. I am an old woman, Mr. Cuddy, autocratic and perhaps even cranky. Stephen is all I care about anymore. I will pay you to search for him until you advise me it’s hopeless.”
“I’ll call you again when I know more.”
“By the way, I was never contacted by this DeMarco girl regarding Stephen.”
“That’s odd. Maybe she thought it best not to disturb you.”
“Perhaps that’s what she was told to think.”
I was nodding as I hung up. I drummed my fingers on the tape machine, then dialed another number. Valerie picked it up on the second ring.
“It’s John,” I said.
“Oh, John, how are you doing? What have you found out?”
“Not too much. I’d like to ask you some questions about Stephen.”
“Oh, I’m ten minutes late for a tennis match now, and Marie will have to give up the court if I’m not there in five minutes. How about meeting me for a dnnk tonight.”
“Sorry. Prior engagement.”
“Oh.” I could hear her frown over the phone.
“I’ll be in Bonham early tomorrow morning. How about lunch?”
“Terrific. I’ll pack a picnic basket and we can go down to a great swimming beach, and we—”
“Slow down. You’re on vacation. I’m working.” The frown-pause again. “Well, you still have to eat lunch, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Pick me up at my place. Seventeen Fordham Road, first floor. Eleven-thirty. I’ve got to run. Bring your trunks. ‘Bye.”
“Val—”
Click.
Annoyingwoman.
If Father’s First were located in a poorer neighborhood than Beacon Hill, it would be a dive. Being on Charles Street, it’s a charming institution. It’s dark, dingy, and jukeboxed, with a mixed bag of gays, MBTA motormen, nursing students from Mass Gen-eral, and law students from Suffolk University. I spotted her near the corner. She was wearing a disguise, sort of.
I slid in next to her. “I like your fatigue jacket,” I said.
She looked down into her beer. “You realize that this could cost me a job I’ve worked toward for six years?”
I ordered a screwdriver. “If it makes you meet guys like me in places like this, it can’t be such a great job.” She looked up, but her hands kept toying with her beer mug. “It’s not, really.” She reached into a big leather tote bag and withdrew a file folder. She passed it to me. “Read it. No notes. No copying.”
It took all of three minutes to read.
“This is it?”
“Yup.”
“After two weeks?”
She nodded.
“What’s going on, Ms. DeMarco?”
“Nancy, please,” she said, more I thought from anonymity than cordiality. She took a sip of beer and began. “The case came in through Perkins on the thirteenth, the day after Stephen disappeared. He assigned me right away. He handed me the police
I had a drink at Clarke’s while I waited for my photos to be finished. They were ready as Danny had promised.
When I arrived at the apartment an hour later, the red light on my tape machine told me I’d had some calls. The first message was from Valerie. The usual you’re-a-tough-man-to-reach-but-I-forgive-you. Then there were three dial tones, meaning that whoever had called had hung up instead of leaving a message. Then there was this:
“I don’t like leaving messages, even for a discriminating man like you. Meet me at Father’s First at eight P.M. ”
I might have had some question about the voice, but not the “discriminating” tag. I wondered if she’d wear a disguise.
I dialed Mrs. Kinnington’s number. Mrs. Page answered, grumbled, and told me to hang on.
“What have you to report?” asked my client. “Precious little. Everybody but the psychiatrist is slamming doors in my face.”
“Does that mean my son is aware of your efforts on my behalf?”
“It does,” I said, and I summarized my day for her. She sounded like a little girl when she spoke again. “I should have realized that your prediction about his discovering you would be accurate. I am an old woman, Mr. Cuddy, autocratic and perhaps even cranky. Stephen is all I care about anymore. I will pay you to search for him until you advise me it’s hopeless.”
“I’ll call you again when I know more.”
“By the way, I was never contacted by this DeMarco girl regarding Stephen.”
“That’s odd. Maybe she thought it best not to disturb you.”
“Perhaps that’s what she was told to think.”
I was nodding as I hung up. I drummed my fingers on the tape machine, then dialed another number. Valerie picked it up on the second ring.
“It’s John,” I said.
“Oh, John, how are you doing? What have you found out?”
“Not too much. I’d like to ask you some questions about Stephen.”
“Oh, I’m ten minutes late for a tennis match now, and Marie will have to give up the court if I’m not there in five minutes. How about meeting me for a dnnk tonight.”
“Sorry. Prior engagement.”
“Oh.” I could hear her frown over the phone.
“I’ll be in Bonham early tomorrow morning. How about lunch?”
“Terrific. I’ll pack a picnic basket and we can go down to a great swimming beach, and we—”
“Slow down. You’re on vacation. I’m working.” The frown-pause again. “Well, you still have to eat lunch, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Pick me up at my place. Seventeen Fordham Road, first floor. Eleven-thirty. I’ve got to run. Bring your trunks. ‘Bye.”
“Val—”
Click.
Annoyingwoman.
If Father’s First were located in a poorer neighborhood than Beacon Hill, it would be a dive. Being on Charles Street, it’s a charming institution. It’s dark, dingy, and jukeboxed, with a mixed bag of gays, MBTA motormen, nursing students from Mass Gen-eral, and law students from Suffolk University. I spotted her near the corner. She was wearing a disguise, sort of.
I slid in next to her. “I like your fatigue jacket,” I said.
She looked down into her beer. “You realize that this could cost me a job I’ve worked toward for six years?”
I ordered a screwdriver. “If it makes you meet guys like me in places like this, it can’t be such a great job.” She looked up, but her hands kept toying with her beer mug. “It’s not, really.” She reached into a big leather tote bag and withdrew a file folder. She passed it to me. “Read it. No notes. No copying.”
It took all of three minutes to read.
“This is it?”
“Yup.”
“After two weeks?”
She nodded.
“What’s going on, Ms. DeMarco?”
“Nancy, please,” she said, more I thought from anonymity than cordiality. She took a sip of beer and began. “The case came in through Perkins on the thirteenth, the day after Stephen disappeared. He assigned me right away. He handed me the police
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