Rubbed Out by Barbara Block Page A

don’t because they’ve discovered they’re better off without them. But I wasn’t being paid to say those things to Wilcox. I was just being paid to find his wife.
    â€œI’ll do the best I can,” I told him.
    Wilcox looked around the store. “You’re going to be working on this full-time, aren’t you?”
    â€œYes. My associate will be taking over my retail duties.” Associate indeed. Good thing he couldn’t see Manuel.
    â€œWhy six months?” he continued. “This is a simple job.”
    â€œThen you do it.”
    â€œYou’re right. You’re right. I’m sorry. I apologize.” He took off his hat and unbuttoned his jacket. “Since Janet’s gone, I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m just worried that she’s done something stupid.”
    â€œI know you are. I’ll try and wrap this up fast—mostly cases like this are fairly simple—but I can’t promise anything until I see what I have.”
    That seemed to satisfy him because he said, “I’ll call you first thing tomorrow morning for an update,” as he wiped his brow with the back of his forearm.
    â€œBy all means.” I gave him a big, insincere smile. “I look forward to it.”
    I began to understand why Paul had given me this job.
    After Wilcox left, I made myself a large pot of French roast and drank it down while I went through the papers Wilcox had given me. On a first, casual pass, none of it yielded much in the way of information, but I pulled the phone bills out to take a more detailed look at them. Then I called Paul and asked him to run a check on Janet Wilcox’s license and credit cards and see what turned up.
    â€œSure, I can do that for you,” he told me. “So what did you do last night?”
    â€œNothing,” I lied. I wasn’t talking about George with him. “I went to bed early. What can you tell me about Wilcox?”
    â€œGood old Walter?” I heard a creak as Paul turned his chair around. “Not too much to tell.”
    â€œHe’s a friend of yours? You didn’t tell me that.”
    â€œMore of an acquaintance really.”
    We chatted for a few more minutes, and then I hung up and phoned the psychologist Janet had been seeing. He must not have been very busy because he picked up on the second ring.
    He had one of those professionally soothing voices. I wondered if there’s a required class psychologists have to take to get that tone—Calming Voice 101.
    I told him I was having anxiety attacks because I didn’t think he’d talk to me if I told him the real reason I was coming to see him. As luck would have it, he happened to have a cancellation at five that afternoon. I told him I’d see him then and hung up.
    I spent the next hour cleaning out the fish tanks and fending off my creditors, smoking cigarettes, and trying not to think about George.

Chapter Nine
    I was lighting my fourth cigarette of the hour when the kid from the house on Fayette Street walked through the door and started toward me.
    â€œI thought you were in jail,” I said as I reached for the phone.
    â€œI got bailed out.”
    â€œStay where you are,” I warned, “or I’m phoning the police.”
    â€œYou got no call to do that.” And he threw a crumpled-up piece of newspaper on the counter.
    I smoothed it out with my right hand while I kept hold of the phone with my left. Down at the bottom of the page was a three-line item mentioning the incident. Although it didn’t give his name because he was underage, it mentioned Robin Light, proprietor of Noah’s Ark, as the complainant. Wonderful.
    â€œYou her?” the kid said.
    â€œNo. I’m the Queen of Sheba. I’m just filling in here. What do you want?”
    I shoved the paper back toward him. Now that he was closer, I could see he was wearing a threadbare jacket and sneakers. Little hairs were