“He’s here for Rosie,” I said. “Anything I should tell your parents?”
“No.”
I took my gun off the bureau and put it on. Richie walked to the door with me.
“You have a gun?” I said.
He smiled at me.
“Of course you do,” I said and went out.
Behind me I heard the dead bolt slide into place on the inside.
Chapter 19
The fire in the fireplace looked exactly the same. It would always look exactly the same. It was a gas fire. I was looking good. Double-breasted blue pinstripe suit, white shirt open at the throat. Black ankle boots. Tiny silver hoop earrings. Brock Patton was behind his desk, in his big high-backed, red leather swivel chair, where he seemed to feel most comfortable. Betty Patton sat in a caramel-colored leather wing chair to his left.
“You’ve found her then?” Patton said.
“Yes. She’s well and safe.”
“Where is she?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“You what?” Betty Patton’s voice was like chilled steel.
“I can’t tell you where she is,” I said.
“Why not,” Betty said.
“She doesn’t want you to know.”
“Ms. Randall, are we not employing you?”
“So far,” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Betty said. “Where is she?”
I shook my head.
“You cannot sit here and tell me you are going to substitute the judgment of a fifteen-year-old runaway for that of her parents,” Betty said.
“Actually, I’m substituting my judgment,” I said.
“You have no right.”
“You hired me,” I said. “You didn’t purchase me.”
“And we can fire you,” Betty said. Her voice remained quiet and very cold.
“Something happened,” I said. “That made her run away.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do you know something happened.”
It was as if Brock had disappeared. It was me and Betty Patton.
“Woman’s intuition.”
“I have resources,” Betty said. “Give me back my daughter or face serious consequences.”
“You wouldn’t have a thought, either of you, as to what might have been the, ah, precipitating event in your daughter’s departure?”
“There was no event. Millicent is spoiled and childish. But she is quite capable of manipulating any adult gullible enough to believe her.”
“Do you have anyone but me looking for her?”
“Perhaps we should.”
“But you don’t?”
“Of course not.”
“She’s afraid of something,” I said.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
Betty’s ugly little laugh was derisive. “She’s a neurotic child,” Betty said.
“Has she been getting therapy?” I said.
“Doesn’t every teenaged brat that can’t cut it get therapy?” Brock said.
When he spoke it felt like an intrusion, something foreign to the angry exclusivity that connected me to Betty.
“Shut up, Brock,” Betty said.
“Isn’t that sweet,” Brock said. “‘Shut up,’ she explained.”
“Who’s her therapist?” I said.
“That is no concern of yours,” Betty said.
I nodded.
“Did you or your husband have a fight with Millicent before she left?”
“Ms. Randall,” Betty said. “I am not some Irish scrub woman, I do not fight with my daughter.”
“She’s very angry with you,” I said.
“Millicent doesn’t know what she’s angry about,” Betty said. “She is a petulant adolescent. Had you ever raised one you might be less inclined to take her at face value.”
Actually I thought it was Betty that was taking Millicent at face value.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Do you have a license to do what you do?” Betty asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, if my daughter is not back here promptly you will lose it.”
“Oh, oh!” I said.
“And that will be the least unpleasant thing you’ll face.”
“If you’re going to threaten me,” I said, “you need to be specific.”
Betty shook her head. I looked at Brock.
“And you?”
Brock tossed his hands in the air.
“I have long ago given up trying to work things out with women.”
I sat for a moment.
“Okay,” I said. “Your daughter is well and safe. And, despite the paralyzing impact of your threat, I will make every attempt to keep her that way.”
I stood. Neither of them moved.
“I have warned you, Ms. Randall,” Betty said, “don’t take what I’ve said lightly.”
“Hard not to,” I said, and turned and marched out. I love a good exit line.
Chapter 20
Rosie and Millicent were with Richie. I didn’t know where. And I was sitting at a table for four with Spike, watching the new cabaret act he had put together for the restaurant.
“It’s funny,” I said to Spike. “I can’t live with Richie, but I trust him even with Rosie.”
Spike was watching the show too intently to do anything more than nod. I didn’t mind: the remark had been as much to me as it had been to him, anyway. While I was thinking about my remark, and Spike was thinking about his cabaret, Don Bradley came in and sat at the table with us. The cabaret singers started a medley of World War II songs.
“Hi, Sunny,” he said. “I been trying to reach you.”
“I know.”
“... praise the Lord and pass the ammunition...”
“I guess I got a little buzzed at the end of it, I don’t remember the way we parted, exactly.”
“I do.”
“I didn’t get out of hand, I hope,” he grinned at me. “Sometimes I get a little wild.”
“Don, please,” I said. “I’m afraid we’re not really meant for each other. Let’s let it go.”
“Damn it, Sunny, I thought we were having a good time.”
Don raised his voice a little. It was enough to break Spike’s concentration on the cabaret. Which I knew Spike didn’t like. He looked at Don.
“Don,” I said. “You spent the evening talking about yourself until you got so drunk I had to half carry you into your home, at which time you tried to force yourself on me.”
“That’s not how it seemed to me, Sunny.”
Spike had half turned now, and leaned his elbow on the table and his chin on his elbow and had his face very close to Don’s, listening intently. When I spoke Spike’s eyes shifted to me, but his face stayed close to Don’s.
“I don’t wish to argue it,” I said. “I’d simply prefer not to go out with you.”
“I’m not taking no for an answer,” Don said.
Spike’s closeness was beginning to make him uncomfortable. He looked at Spike.
“... with anyone else but me, anyone else but me...”
“Excuse me?” he said.
“Certainly,” Spike said.
“I mean, excuse me, why are you interfering with our conversation?”
“I do that, sometimes,” Spike said.
“Well, I don’t like it,” Don said.
There was an edge to his voice. He was not a man to be crossed.
“Gay bashing,” Spike said.
“What?”
“I’m a charming gay man, and you have turned on me for no discernible reason. I say it’s gay bashing.”
“I didn’t even know you were gay.”
“For crissake,” Spike said. “What am I supposed to do, sit in your lap?”
“Of course not.”
“This is blatant homophobia,” Spike said. “Sunny?”
I smiled and didn’t answer.
“... a hubba hubba hubba, hello, Jack...”
“See,” Spike said.
Don said. “Why don’t you just butt out.”