Heart of the World by Linda Barnes

him that he chooses his restaurants based on the availability of flavored toothpicks.
    His blue broadcloth shirt was tucked into gray pants. The matching jacket hung over the back of the chair in the corner. Made me wonder whether he had a trial date, but no tie, so maybe not, maybe just an afternoon meeting with a bigwig. Mooney doesn’t pay attention to clothes; he buys shirts on sale by the half-dozen, and they all look the same. Not like Sam .
    Why do I always compare the two, even though Moon and I havenever been an item? Why do I still think we might be, someday? He's tall, with a linebacker build, a round Irish face, and sad brown eyes. He's not graceful or elegant or drop-dead sexy like Gianelli, but when we worked together, I had to steel myself against him. Lock the door and toss away the key; no way was I going to sleep with the boss. Maybe what's left is simply curiosity, wondering what I missed.
    I don’t kid myself. One of the reasons I can walk into Moon's office is that the powers that be assume we sleep together. They wink at it, never thinking that Moon might be giving a PI info she shouldn’t have. Don’t think I don’t use the few advantages a woman has in this system. Unfortunately, most of them involve sex or being seriously underrated. I always think the guys will learn, but they don’t.
    Mooney never had to be taught. Not by me. I never got along with his mother, but she did something right with her boy. Mooney and I can work together.
    Could work together. Used to work together . I sucked in a breath. He needed to know what was going on, but I was reluctant to offer up yet another aspect of my life for criticism.
    His office was as impersonal as ever. If you went by Moon's decor, you’d think there was an injunction from on high: no posters, no photos, no plants. You’d think he had no bossy mom, no self-involved longdistance sisters, no ex-wife. He swiveled his chair abruptly, as though sensing my scrutiny.
    â€œWhat? No food?” he said, replacing the receiver. No hello, no smile, still annoyed about Sam. “What do you think you’re gonna worm out of me, you don’t even bring me a doughnut as a peace offering?”
    Add a stop at a Dunkin’ Donuts to the twenty other things I should have done and didn’t. I sank into his spindly guest chair and closed my eyes for an instant, hoping that when I opened them again they’d focus clearly.
    Mooney's voice broke through the fog. “What's wrong?”
    Just blurt it out, I ordered myself. “Paolina. She's gone, and I don’t know where else to—”
    â€œWhoa, whoa— Gone? Her and Marta? The whole family?”
    â€œJust her. Went to school Friday, went to a party Friday night, and nobody's seen her since.” There. The words were out; harsh, bald, and ugly. Nobody's seen her .
    He put his pen down carefully on the desk, as gently as if both desk and pen were made of glass. “Carlotta, it's Wednesday.” Which meant: Why didn’t you tell me sooner?
    â€œI’m sorry, Moon. I didn’t find out till Monday night. Marta assumed Paolina was with me; I don’t know why. I wasn’t supposed to see her last weekend. Then I thought—I assumed she was with Diego, her boyfriend. Took me till this morning to track him down. He doesn’t know where she is.” It cost me, using “assumed” to describe what I’d done; assuming anything is a cardinal sin in an investigation.
    â€œIs he telling the truth?”
    Not, “Do you think he's telling the truth?” Moon still trusted my judgment in matters unrelated to romance. I pictured the kid's lumpy broken nose, the hurt in his eyes.
    â€œHe didn’t know she was gone.” I wondered briefly whether I still trusted my judgment. “They broke up Friday night.”
    â€œGive me his name.”
    I spelled it out, gave his aunt's name and address as well, told Moon