dealing.”
He groaned.
“And, by the way,” I said, pausing at the door. “He thinks I’m a Palm Beach dilettante and that I’m leasing D’Artagnon from you.”
“I’m supposed to keep this all straight?”
I shrugged. “What else have you got to do with your time?”
I was almost out the bedroom door when he spoke again.
“El . . .”
I turned back toward him, one hand on the door frame. He looked at me, uncharacteristically serious, a certain softness in his expression. He wanted to say something kind. I wanted him to pretend this day was like any other. We each seemed fully aware of the other’s thoughts. I held my breath. One side of his mouth lifted in a smile of concession.
“Nice outfit,” he said.
I waved at him and left the house.
M olly Seabright lived in a two-story stucco house on the edge of a development called Binks Forest. Upscale. Backyard on a fairway. A white Lexus in the drive. There were lights on in the house. The hardworking upper middle class preparing to face another day. I parked down the street and waited.
At seven-thirty kids in the neighborhood began drifting out of their homes and wandering past me toward the school bus stop at the end of the block. Molly emerged from the Seabright house pulling a wheeled book bag behind her, looking like a miniature corporate exec on her way to catch a plane. I got out of my car and leaned back against it with my arms crossed. She spotted me from twenty feet away.
“I’ve reconsidered,” I said as she stopped in front of me. “I’ll help you find your sister.”
She didn’t smile. She didn’t jump for joy. She stared up at me and said, “Why?”
“Because I don’t like the people your sister was mixed up with.”
“Do you think something bad has happened to her?”
“We know something has happened to her,” I said. “She was here and now she isn’t. Whether or not it’s something bad remains to be seen.”
Molly nodded at that, apparently pleased I hadn’t tried to falsely reassure her. Most adults speak to children as if they’re stupid simply because they haven’t lived as many years. Molly Seabright wasn’t stupid. She was smart and she was brave. I wasn’t going to talk down to her. I had even decided not to lie to her if I could help myself.
“But if you’re not a private investigator, what good are you?” she asked.
I shrugged. “How hard can it be? Ask a few questions, make a few phone calls. It’s not brain surgery.”
She considered my answer. Or maybe she was considering whether or not to say what she said next. “You were a sheriff’s detective once.”
I might have been that stunned if she had reached up and hit me in the head with a hammer. I who wouldn’t talk down to a child. It hadn’t occurred to me Molly Seabright would run home and do her own detective work online. I felt suddenly naked, exposed in that way I had earlier convinced myself was unlikely to happen. Blindsided by a twelve-year-old.
I glanced away. “Is that your bus?”
A school bus had pulled up to the curb and the children gathered there were clambering aboard.
“I walk,” she said primly. “I found a story about you in the computer archives of the
Post
.”
“Only one? I’m offended.”
“More than one.”
“Okay, so my dirty secret is exposed. I was a detective for Palm Beach County. Now I’m not.”
She understood to leave it at that. Wiser than most people I’ve known three times her age.
“We need to discuss your fee,” she said. Ms. Business.
“I’ll take the hundred you offered and we’ll see what happens.”
“I appreciate that you’re not trying to patronize me.”
“I just said I’d take a hundred dollars from a kid. Sounds pretty low to me.”
“No,” she said, those too-serious eyes staring at me through the magnifying lenses of the Harry Potter glasses. “I don’t think so.” She put her hand out. “Thank you for accepting my case.”
“Jesus. You make me feel
He groaned.
“And, by the way,” I said, pausing at the door. “He thinks I’m a Palm Beach dilettante and that I’m leasing D’Artagnon from you.”
“I’m supposed to keep this all straight?”
I shrugged. “What else have you got to do with your time?”
I was almost out the bedroom door when he spoke again.
“El . . .”
I turned back toward him, one hand on the door frame. He looked at me, uncharacteristically serious, a certain softness in his expression. He wanted to say something kind. I wanted him to pretend this day was like any other. We each seemed fully aware of the other’s thoughts. I held my breath. One side of his mouth lifted in a smile of concession.
“Nice outfit,” he said.
I waved at him and left the house.
M olly Seabright lived in a two-story stucco house on the edge of a development called Binks Forest. Upscale. Backyard on a fairway. A white Lexus in the drive. There were lights on in the house. The hardworking upper middle class preparing to face another day. I parked down the street and waited.
At seven-thirty kids in the neighborhood began drifting out of their homes and wandering past me toward the school bus stop at the end of the block. Molly emerged from the Seabright house pulling a wheeled book bag behind her, looking like a miniature corporate exec on her way to catch a plane. I got out of my car and leaned back against it with my arms crossed. She spotted me from twenty feet away.
“I’ve reconsidered,” I said as she stopped in front of me. “I’ll help you find your sister.”
She didn’t smile. She didn’t jump for joy. She stared up at me and said, “Why?”
“Because I don’t like the people your sister was mixed up with.”
“Do you think something bad has happened to her?”
“We know something has happened to her,” I said. “She was here and now she isn’t. Whether or not it’s something bad remains to be seen.”
Molly nodded at that, apparently pleased I hadn’t tried to falsely reassure her. Most adults speak to children as if they’re stupid simply because they haven’t lived as many years. Molly Seabright wasn’t stupid. She was smart and she was brave. I wasn’t going to talk down to her. I had even decided not to lie to her if I could help myself.
“But if you’re not a private investigator, what good are you?” she asked.
I shrugged. “How hard can it be? Ask a few questions, make a few phone calls. It’s not brain surgery.”
She considered my answer. Or maybe she was considering whether or not to say what she said next. “You were a sheriff’s detective once.”
I might have been that stunned if she had reached up and hit me in the head with a hammer. I who wouldn’t talk down to a child. It hadn’t occurred to me Molly Seabright would run home and do her own detective work online. I felt suddenly naked, exposed in that way I had earlier convinced myself was unlikely to happen. Blindsided by a twelve-year-old.
I glanced away. “Is that your bus?”
A school bus had pulled up to the curb and the children gathered there were clambering aboard.
“I walk,” she said primly. “I found a story about you in the computer archives of the
Post
.”
“Only one? I’m offended.”
“More than one.”
“Okay, so my dirty secret is exposed. I was a detective for Palm Beach County. Now I’m not.”
She understood to leave it at that. Wiser than most people I’ve known three times her age.
“We need to discuss your fee,” she said. Ms. Business.
“I’ll take the hundred you offered and we’ll see what happens.”
“I appreciate that you’re not trying to patronize me.”
“I just said I’d take a hundred dollars from a kid. Sounds pretty low to me.”
“No,” she said, those too-serious eyes staring at me through the magnifying lenses of the Harry Potter glasses. “I don’t think so.” She put her hand out. “Thank you for accepting my case.”
“Jesus. You make me feel
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