Finally, after toying with the idea of trying to track down the landlord of the building, she had decided she would get a good night's sleep and then stop by the closest police station to file a missingperson report.
After that, she would head to Boston to begin her search in earnest.
"Recent photo?"
"Pardon?"
"Do you have a recent photo?"
"Oh. Only this one."
She handed over the photograph of herself and Scott. After barely a glance, the officer set it on his desk.
"No, wait. I need that."
Wearily, Sgt. Thomas Canpbell handed it back.
"I… I'll have a blowup made of just Scott's face, and bring a copy to you, okay?"
"Whatever you say."
"Sergeant, are you going to be able to help me find my brother or not?"
The aging policeman looked at her. For the first time, Laura saw response in his eyes.
"Realistically now, Miss Enders," he said, "if you were me, how would you answer that question?"
"I… I understand," Laura said, gathering her things together.
"I'm sorry. The information you've given me is enough for us to put your brother in our computer, but not enough to assign-a detective to the case."
"Sergeant Campbell, I said I understood. I'll drop the enlargement of this photo over as soon as I get it.
Thank you for listening to me."
She stood.
"Wait a second," Campbell said. "I really can't do much on what you've given me, but I win at least check your description against, um…
"Against unknown corpses. It's okay to say it."
"Against them." He scribbled the name Bernard Nelson and a phone number on his note pad, tore off the sheet, and handed it to her.
"This is the name of a decent private detective," he said. "He works for himself, not one of them big companies, so his rates might be a little better. Maybe he can help you out. And if I learn anything, I promise I'll call you. Where're you staying?"
"The Carlisle. It's downtown on-"
"Stiles. I know the place.
In fact, everyone on the force knows that place. Miss, I don't know exactly how to say this, but, um, the Carlisle isn't exactly the best place for… What I mean is, a lot of their trade is daytime, for-the-hour stuffing Pros."
"Prostitutes?"
"There are a few here."
"But… but I'm paying ninety-five dollars a night for my room.
"Welcome to Boston," Sergeant Thomas Campbell said.
Bernard Nelson's office was a ten-minute walk from the police station.
On the way there Laura stopped by a photo store and, after sliding two twenties across the counter, received the guarantee that her enlargement would be ready by morning, rather than the "seven to ten days" the proprietor had initially promised.
"Welcome to Boston," Laura muttered as she headed back onto the street.
Over the phone Nelson had sounded as if he would be in his thirties or forties. In fact he was well beyond that-sixty at least, and by no means a young sixty. His office, on the second floor of a tawdry four story brownstone, consisted of a small reception area, which was empty, and a larger, cluttered inner office.
Nelson was standing in the doorway of that room as Laura entered.
He was five foot nine or ten, but must have weighed over two hundred pounds, most of which was packed into a gut that made Thomas Carnpben's look trim. He wore a ragged green sweater that barely reached his belt, and had an unlit inchand-a-half cigar butt clenched in his teeth.
Laura immediately pictured the man in a smoky tavern, seated elbow to elbow at the bar with Sergeant Campbell. She fought the urge to Turn and leave.
Unlike Campbell, though, Bernard Nelson listened to her story with some interest. When she finished, he pulled a sinister-looking long-barreled revolver from his desk drawer, halted it expertly in his hand for a moment, and then used it to light his cigar.
"That was very cute," Laura said.
"Birthday present from my daughter. Actually, I have a real one locked up. I'm afraid to keep it in my desk like they do on TV, though, for fear that one day I'll mix the two of them up and blow my head-or worse, my cigar-to bits. After my coronary, I promised my wife I'd only smoke one a day."
"It would be a shame to waste one that way."
"Exactly." He took a single puff, tilted his head back, and sent a cumulus cloud of smoke swirling toward the ceiling. Then he set the butt in an ashtray shaped like a putting green. "So tell me, Miss Enders, why do you know so little of a man you feel so close to?"
"I never thought about how little I know, really," she said. "At least not until the last few weeks. Scott is, I don't know, sort of private about some things, I guess." She felt a pang of guilt at using Nell Harten's assessment, but by now it seemed appropriate.
"You mean things like where he lived, where he worked, what name he was using..
Laura drew in a deep breath and then exhaled slowly.
"Mr. Nelson, do you have any older siblings?" she asked.
"A brother," he answered, his expression suggesting that he already understood the point she was about to make. "Five years older."
"Still alive?"
"And kicking."
"Did he have much to do with you when you were growing up?"
"No. Most of the time he acted as if I didn't exist."
"And how did you feel toward him?"
"I idolized him," Bernard Nelson said. "Still do, I guess.
"Well, Scott is to me what your brother was to you. That and more. He's my only family, and has been since I was fourteen." She looked across at the detective for a moment. "I couldn't begin to tell you all the things Scott's done for me over the years. And I've never had a chance to do much of anything for him."
"Point made and understood," Nelson said. He glanced at the cigar butt, but apparently. decided to save it. "Miss Enders, do you think there's a possibility your brother could have been involved in something shady?"
"Shady?
"Forgive the TV talk, but it was the best word I could come up with. You must know what I mean, though. Gambling, white-collar crime of some sort, drugs?"
"Impossible," Laura said.
"Why? Even John Dillinger had family.
"Not funny. What makes you think such a thing, anyway?"
IIwhat makes me not think it would be a better question. Miss Enders, people don't go around using false names and keeping their lives so private from their own family unless they have a damn good reason."
"Perhaps in most cases. But I know- What I mean is, I feel that I have a good sense of Scott. And that sort of thing just doesn't fit.
Now, will you help me look for him?"
"I charge seventy-five dollars plus expenses."
"Sounds reasonable enough, as long as your expenses aren't too high."
Bernard Nelson stared across at her for a moment, and then he smiled.
"Miss Enders," he said, "that's seventy-five dollars an hour."
"An hour?!"
"And starting from scratch, not even knowing if your brother's in Boston or not, looking for him's gonna take a hell of a lot of them.
It roughs out to about-"I just did the arithmetic. Tell me, are you working on anything now?"
"It may not look it, but the answer is yes. Several things."
"At seventy-five dollars an hour?"
No more."
"And how many hours do you think it might take to know whether or not you can find Scott?"
"Maybe fifty. Maybe a hundred. Finding someone is fifty percent legwork and fifty percent blind luck.
It's impossible to say."
"I… I have some money, but not that kind."
"I didn't think you did. Miss Enders, I'd like to help you. Really I would. Jim Rockford always gets cases from beautiful, interesting women, and I'd love to do the same. But I've got two kids in college and a mortgage the size of vada. You need someone who's very good at this business, who can do your job full, and who charges considerably less than the going rate. That person doesn't exist. And if you make too many compromises in who you hire, believe me, you'll just end up losing what money you do have, all for nothing."