said, “What’s all this about her missing watch, and stolen cash?”
Bob shook his head sadly. “Like I said, I think it’s the stress. Susanne gets distracted. She could have lost the watch anywhere. And the cash… I don’t know. She could have spent it on something and it slipped her mind.”
I supposed it was possible.
“About Syd,” Bob said.
“Go ahead.”
“There’s a guy I know.”
“A guy?”
“I mean, the police, what are they really doing, right? She’s just another runaway to them. They’re not going to do anything unless, like, a body turns up, right?”
The comment cut like a knife. My eyes narrowed. For a second, the houses on Hill seemed to blur.
“Okay,” he said. “Bad choice of words. But if the cops aren’t going to put any effort into this, then maybe we have to bring in someone who will.”
“I’m working on this every day,” I told him. “I’ve got the website, I’m making calls, I’m driving around, going to the hotel, I’m—”
“All right, I know, I know. But this guy, he’s a good guy. The thing is, he owes me a favor, so I thought I could let him pay me back by asking around, check this and that, beat around the bushes a bit.”
My first inclination was to tell Bob to forget it. That would have been pride talking. At some level, I wanted to be the one who found Syd. But more than anything, I just wanted her back. If someone else got to take the credit, I could sure live with that.
“So, this guy,” I said. “What is he? Private detective? Ex-cop?”
“He’s in security,” Bob said. “Name’s Arnold Chilton.”
I thought about it for a moment. I didn’t like Bob, and I didn’t like accepting help from him, but if he knew someone professional with the skills to find Sydney, I wasn’t going to say no.
It took all I had in me to do it, but I reached my hand out to him. He took it, but I could tell the gesture caught him off guard, like he was expecting me to be palming a joy buzzer. “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate it.” I dug a little deeper. “And thank you for looking after Susanne through all of this. She really needs your support, on several fronts.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, still taken aback.
We walked back to our house. Evan was leaning up against the back of the Hummer, in a world of his own, singing a song quietly to himself, playing air guitar. He thought he was the next Kurt Cobain. Since Susanne wasn’t out front, I guessed she was still in the house.
“We going?” Evan asked Bob, taking a break from his music. “I need to get home. I got stuff to do on the computer.”
“I guess,” he said. To me, he said, “You want to tell Suze we’re ready to take off?”
I nodded and went into the house. I thought she might be resting in the living room, but she wasn’t there.
“Susanne?” I called.
I heard sniffing coming from Sydney’s bedroom. The door was partially closed, so I gently pushed it open and saw my ex-wife standing in front of our daughter’s dresser, the cane leaned up against the wall. She had her back to me. Her head was bowed, her shoulders trembling.
I closed the distance between us, put one arm around her and pulled her close to me. She was dabbing her eyes with one hand, touching various items on Syd’s dresser with the other. Syd didn’t have quite as much stuff here as I imagined she did in her room at Bob’s place in Stratford, but there was still plenty of clutter. Q-tips in a Happy Face coffee mug, various creams and moisturizers and cans of hairspray, bank statements with balances of less than a hundred dollars, various photos of herself with friends like Patty Swain and Jeff Bluestein, an iPod Shuffle music player, no bigger than a pack of matches, and the stringy earphone buds that went with it.
“She never went anywhere without this,” Susanne said, touching the player lightly with her index finger, as though it were a rare artifact.
“She didn’t usually take it to
Bob shook his head sadly. “Like I said, I think it’s the stress. Susanne gets distracted. She could have lost the watch anywhere. And the cash… I don’t know. She could have spent it on something and it slipped her mind.”
I supposed it was possible.
“About Syd,” Bob said.
“Go ahead.”
“There’s a guy I know.”
“A guy?”
“I mean, the police, what are they really doing, right? She’s just another runaway to them. They’re not going to do anything unless, like, a body turns up, right?”
The comment cut like a knife. My eyes narrowed. For a second, the houses on Hill seemed to blur.
“Okay,” he said. “Bad choice of words. But if the cops aren’t going to put any effort into this, then maybe we have to bring in someone who will.”
“I’m working on this every day,” I told him. “I’ve got the website, I’m making calls, I’m driving around, going to the hotel, I’m—”
“All right, I know, I know. But this guy, he’s a good guy. The thing is, he owes me a favor, so I thought I could let him pay me back by asking around, check this and that, beat around the bushes a bit.”
My first inclination was to tell Bob to forget it. That would have been pride talking. At some level, I wanted to be the one who found Syd. But more than anything, I just wanted her back. If someone else got to take the credit, I could sure live with that.
“So, this guy,” I said. “What is he? Private detective? Ex-cop?”
“He’s in security,” Bob said. “Name’s Arnold Chilton.”
I thought about it for a moment. I didn’t like Bob, and I didn’t like accepting help from him, but if he knew someone professional with the skills to find Sydney, I wasn’t going to say no.
It took all I had in me to do it, but I reached my hand out to him. He took it, but I could tell the gesture caught him off guard, like he was expecting me to be palming a joy buzzer. “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate it.” I dug a little deeper. “And thank you for looking after Susanne through all of this. She really needs your support, on several fronts.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, still taken aback.
We walked back to our house. Evan was leaning up against the back of the Hummer, in a world of his own, singing a song quietly to himself, playing air guitar. He thought he was the next Kurt Cobain. Since Susanne wasn’t out front, I guessed she was still in the house.
“We going?” Evan asked Bob, taking a break from his music. “I need to get home. I got stuff to do on the computer.”
“I guess,” he said. To me, he said, “You want to tell Suze we’re ready to take off?”
I nodded and went into the house. I thought she might be resting in the living room, but she wasn’t there.
“Susanne?” I called.
I heard sniffing coming from Sydney’s bedroom. The door was partially closed, so I gently pushed it open and saw my ex-wife standing in front of our daughter’s dresser, the cane leaned up against the wall. She had her back to me. Her head was bowed, her shoulders trembling.
I closed the distance between us, put one arm around her and pulled her close to me. She was dabbing her eyes with one hand, touching various items on Syd’s dresser with the other. Syd didn’t have quite as much stuff here as I imagined she did in her room at Bob’s place in Stratford, but there was still plenty of clutter. Q-tips in a Happy Face coffee mug, various creams and moisturizers and cans of hairspray, bank statements with balances of less than a hundred dollars, various photos of herself with friends like Patty Swain and Jeff Bluestein, an iPod Shuffle music player, no bigger than a pack of matches, and the stringy earphone buds that went with it.
“She never went anywhere without this,” Susanne said, touching the player lightly with her index finger, as though it were a rare artifact.
“She didn’t usually take it to
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