Her glare finally cracked, and the ghost of a smile crossed her face.
“Now was that so hard?” she asked, slinking around her desk.
“After you call Bickman, call around to the Inner-Ring hotels west of the core.”
Leslie picked up her notepad and pencil.
“Who am I looking for?”
“Anne Watson,” Alex said. “Her husband was murdered last night.”
“And she wants you to find out who did it?” Leslie asked, her ghost of a smile widening into a warm grin.
“Yes, but I don’t think there’s much I can do.” Alex explained about Lieutenant Callahan’s visit and his investigation. “I’m not going to take her money for a job the cops are going to do anyway,” he finished.
“But she does owe you for the work you did last night,” Leslie pointed out. “Those oils you burn in your lantern aren’t cheap, you know.”
“I was there about two hours,” Alex said. “Charge her my usual rate and let her know I’ll come by to see her this afternoon and answer any questions I can.”
“Will do, boss,” Leslie said, sitting down. With the prospect of some money coming in the door, she was much more chipper.
Alex ducked toward his office. He knew he was behind in paying Leslie but he should have known that she hadn’t been paid in three weeks. It was Leslie who handled the money, and the fact that she hadn’t paid herself meant that their situation must be particularly bad. He flirted with the idea of staying on the Watson case for a few days, just to pad out the bill, but he wasn’t desperate enough, or enough of a heel, to skim money from a grieving widow.
Not yet, anyway.
Once in his office, Alex pulled out the morning paper that he’d stolen from Iggy earlier. One reason the doctor insisted he read the paper every day was that, if a detective were desperate, he could always try to drum up work from the paper. In the classifieds, there was always someone seeking something, or someone, they’d lost, and the police blotter held news of people who’d been robbed. Such folk were excellent prospects for a detective with a good finding rune, and nobody had a better finding rune than Alex.
He read the classifieds, but nothing jumped out at him. One woman was seeking a man she’d met in the Great War, but she had no idea where he might be living. Alex’s rune was good, but he could usually only find things that were still in the city. The lady’s lost love could be anywhere.
Lost dogs were his go-to backup, but for some reason all of New York’s dogs decided to stay home this week. He shrugged and put that section aside. Leslie would have combed through it already anyway, looking for the obvious jobs.
He had just turned his attention to the police blotter when there was a knock at the door and Leslie let herself in.
“You find Mrs. Watson?” Alex asked.
“Not yet,” Leslie said in a quiet voice. That usually meant there was a client in the outer office. “There’s a Mrs. Hannah Cunningham outside who says her husband is missing.”
“What does she look like?” Alex asked. It wasn’t a pleasant fact, but husbands with plain wives had an annoying tendency to look for greener pastures. Alex hated those cases because they always ended badly. Still, he was in no position to be picky.
“Young,” Leslie said. “And she’s a looker. Seems pretty upset.”
Alex pulled out his red rune book and checked to make sure he had a finding rune prepared. He had two.
“Send her in,” he said.
Mrs. Hannah Cunningham looked like she was still in her teens, but something about the way she carried herself made Alex peg her age at twenty-one or twenty-two. Leslie had been right; she was quite pretty, with delicate features, deep blue eyes, and hair a shade or two darker than strawberry blonde. Alex decided it was more the color of ripe wheat. Hannah wore sensible, working class clothes, a cream-colored blouse and a black skirt with navy flats. It was clear she wasn’t wealthy, but she had a beauty that made her appearance rich. The only detraction to her look were the tracks of tears that traced down her cheeks.
Alex rose as she came in and offered her the comfy chair in front of his desk.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Cunningham?” he asked once he’d taken his own seat.
“Didn’t your secretary tell you?” she asked. Her voice was pulled tight with worry.
“She did,” Alex admitted. “But I find it’s always good to hear a client’s problems from her own mouth. Saves misunderstandings.”
“Oh,” she said, more quietly. She wrung her hands together, nearly tearing the handkerchief she clutched in half. “I don’t know what to do, Mr. Lockerby,” she began. “My husband Leroy has been missing for three days.”
“Have you been to the police?”
She nodded.
“They say there’s nothing they can do beyond telling their officers to keep a lookout for him.” She leaned forward in the chair and clutched the edge of Alex’s desk. “I know something’s happened to him,” she said. “He would never just leave and not tell me where he was going.”
Her face had a desperate, anxious look, as if the next words out of Alex’s mouth had the power to save her or destroy her. He reached into his desk and pulled out a pair of shot glasses followed by his nearly empty bottle of bourbon.
“Here,” he said, pouring two-fingers’ worth into a glass and passing it to her. “This will calm your nerves.”
She took the glass and downed it in one gulp. Alex refilled it, then poured one for himself.
“What does Leroy do for work?” he asked.
“He’s a draftsman for Milton and White,” she said. “They’re an architectural firm on the west side. He also goes to school at night to become an architect himself.”
“Have you called his office and the school?”
She nodded.
“I called every day, but neither one of them have seen him.”
“How long have you and Leroy been married?” Alex asked.
“Three years,” Hannah said. “We met right after he moved to the city to go to school.”
“Where did he move from?”
“Coaldale,” she said. “It’s in West Virginia. Leroy grew up there.”
“Do you know if your husband had any enemies?” Alex asked, scribbling the details in his notebook. “Anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?”
“No,” she gasped. “Everybody loved Leroy.”
“Does he gamble, or have debts?”
She shook her head.
“You’re not rich, are you?” Alex asked.
She shook her hand again, tears blooming afresh in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said, setting the glass back on Alex’s desk. “I guess I made a mistake. I though you could just find Leroy with magic.”
“I can, Mrs. Cunningham,” he said, offering to fill her glass again before he realized the bottle was empty. “But the magic works better the more I know about the person I’m looking for, and why he might have disappeared.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m not being much help.”
“You’ve been a big help,” Alex lied to her. “Do you happen to have anything that belonged to your husband, or something he was attached to?”
Hannah started to shake her head, but stopped. She pulled a small silver ring off her finger and passed it over.
“This belonged to Leroy’s mother,” she said. “He gave it to me when we got married. It’s kind of a family heirloom.”
The ring was a simple band of silver, dented and scraped from years of wear, but it was clean and lovingly cared for.
“This will do,” Alex said. “I charge fifteen dollars to cast a finding rune.”
Hannah nodded and took a wad of faded and rumpled bills from her bag. Alex guessed she had raided the coffee tin or wherever they kept their emergency money. She counted out a five and ten ones, most of her stack, then returned what little remained to her handbag.