Boston Cream by Howard Shrier

hair, parted in the centre and held back by gel.
    “I’m Mike Gianelli,” he said. “You wanted to speak to me?”
    “David Fine’s parents hired me.”
    “Ron and Sheila, huh? Yeah, nice people. Good people. They’ve been very cooperative, very supportive of our efforts.” He handed back my documents, which I pocketed. “And you’re from up there?”
    “Yes.”
    “Because this licence of yours, as far as the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and the Town of Brookline are concerned, isn’t valid here, so right away we have a problem. We got no reciprocal agreements with Ontario—I checked. You carrying a weapon?”
    “No.”
    “You have one where you’re staying?”
    “No.”
    “Didn’t bring one?”
    “No.”
    “Because we have very strict gun laws here.”
    “So does Ontario. I don’t carry a gun there either. I never have.”
    “Better be careful where you go then. Some parts of Boston, I wouldn’t go unarmed.”
    “Thank you. As for my accreditation, I’m just here to help his parents,” I said.
    “At some fancy rate, I’ll bet.”
    “It’s not like that. They’re friends of the family.”
    “Says you. Look, I happen to like his parents and I feel bad for them. I really do. Their son sounds like a decent kid. Better than decent. But we did what we could. We interviewed his roommate, his neighbours, we even got an audience with his boss at work. Three minutes with the great man.”
    “And?”
    “The bottom line is, no crime scene,” Gianelli said. “Anywhere. No evidence of any kind that he’s met foul play. Not at his apartment or his place of work. No demands have ever been made to the family.”
    “What about in between?”
    “In between what?”
    “The hospital and his apartment. He usually walks home.”
    “That’s nearly two miles and only part of it is Brookline. There’s also a section that’s Boston.”
    “I’m convinced he didn’t leave of his own accord,” I said.
    “Based on what?”
    “He is a very devout man,” I said.
    “And?”
    “We found religious articles in his closet that he never would leave behind if he were leaving of his own accord. He’d need them every day.”
    “So he has spares or bought new ones.”
    “It’s not like that. His own would have special meaning to him.”
    I wondered whether I should tell Gianelli about the money in David’s tallis bag. But he might want it as evidence, and if David was truly gone, I wanted it to go to his parents: you could almost bury a man for that much.
    “You got much experience with missing persons?” Gianelli asked.
    “I’ve found a few,” I said.
    “Let me guess,” he said. “Mostly runaways.”
    “Mostly.”
    “That’s because most missing persons turn out to be runaways. Boston, Toronto, doesn’t matter. The statistics are always the same. Then you get the elderly who wander off. Kids caught up in custody fights. Guys who owe money or stole money or are about to be arraigned for something. You get the ones about to get married, usually guys, need to have one last kick at the can, they disappear for a week. David Fine doesn’t fit any of these. He has no criminal history of any kind. No budgetary control at the hospital. No money missing there that anyone knew about. See, we did ask. We checked everything. But we found nothing. There is no reason for him to be missing, but he is. And I am frustrated by that and I do worry about him. But there is one thing I want to make clear.”
    He paused, trying to make me ask what that was. I liked him all right so I asked.
    “Ron Fine—I bet he told you how unfortunate it is his son lives in Brookline, not Boston, that he got stuck with our Mickey Mouse force instead of the good old BPD. And what I want you to be clear on is that it’s utter bullshit. I was Boston PD for twelve years before I came here, and this force is better in every way when it comes to serving and protecting our public. Don’t be fooled by this building. We’re a