I stepped away from the door and nearly headed to my car. To hell with it, I thought and instead took a seat on the first step of her porch just under the shelter. I stared out at the lush grass through the moist haze, while a steady trickle of water sounded somewhere to my right as a broken gutter cascaded rainfall down onto the driveway. I sat for a few minutes lost in my thoughts.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait long. I heard the door open behind me. I turned and saw the pallid face of a woman peering out, the edges of her face framed by curled blonde hair.
“Mr. Blume?” she asked. Her voice was strained and uncertain. It was evident that she didn’t speak to many people.
“Yes,” I said, not yet standing because I didn’t want to frighten her.
“You’re right,” she said. “I did want to speak with you. I saw an ad for your services in the paper, and I thought perhaps you could help somehow.”
The paper? I hadn’t posted any such ad. It only took a few seconds to realize who had: Amir. He must have secretly placed the ad in the hopes that I might find some work that didn’t involve investigating my family’s murder. I made a mental note to scold him about it later. Even though it had worked like a charm.
Elizabeth then stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind her. She obviously did not want to invite me inside. She squinted at the wan sky and came over to me. She kept her distance, though. It was clear that she had not yet decided to trust me. Hell, I didn’t blame her. I was a muscular guy who, according to Sarah, always looked like I was suspicious about something. I wouldn’t have trusted me either.
“You know about my son’s disappearance?” she asked.
“I do. I spoke quietly. “I recently did some digging when I knew that you were looking for me.”
“And how did you know I was looking for you?”
I smiled and said, “I’d be a terrible ex-cop if I hadn’t noticed you at my apartment. Especially when you were so bold as to knock on my door.”
She blushed, and it was that blush that helped me to see how Elizabeth Ellington had been incredibly beautiful one day — likely one day in the very recent past. Now, however, she looked deflated and tired like the faded glamour of a grand old hotel, shadows of the glory days clinging to its facade.
“Do you have any suspects?” she asked.
“I do.”
She hesitated here and gave me a tired-looking grin. “I suppose I need to hire you, don’t I?”
“That would be nice.”
“What do you charge?”
I shrugged. There was no way I could tell her that researching her son’s case had managed to make me want to drink less. It had cleared my mind more than it had been cleared in the last six months. So I simply answered: “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded. “I feel pretty strongly that Stephen Harlowe was let off the hot seat far too early. I’m not saying he’s responsible for it, but all signs point to him. At the very least, I think he knows more than he’s saying.”
“I always felt that way,” she said, “but I was too distraught. Near the end of it all, I almost didn’t care that they never arrested anyone. I just wanted the ordeal over. I wanted my son’s name out of the papers and for the fucking reporters to leave me alone.” She took a slight breath, as if she surprised herself with the expletive.
“I’ll be discreet,” I said. “You won’t see the press crawling over this again. It stays very quiet. You have my word.”
“Thank you,” she said. She then looked to the front door and then back to me. “Would you like to come in for some tea? I’ll tell you all of my thoughts on the case and you can let me know what you’ve learned.”
“Coffee would be great,” I said.
With that, she escorted me into her house, and I felt myself walking deeper into a case that was already beginning to tug at my mind in a way I hadn’t felt in months.
***
The visit was helpful enough. I stayed at Elizabeth’s house for about two hours. We compared notes, and I had to watch her cry several times as she spoke about her son. In listening to her, I discovered that we were connected in a very morbid way. I knew what loss was like, especially when it came to losing a child.
Somewhere on my second cup of coffee, I decided that I was going to get to the bottom of this. I would crack this case if for no other reason than to give Elizabeth Ellington her life back.
Weirdly enough, it was this thought that was on my mind the following morning. I woke up in the office, well-rested for the first time in a very long time. I had gotten a solid seven hours of sleep, and I hit the day wide open.
I’d need that jolt of energy and enthusiasm today of all days. I had decided that I would go direct to the source and visit Stephen Harlowe.
Harlowe lived only a few blocks away from my apartment, in a very nice set-up that was reserved for the more well-to-do people of my neighborhood. The narrow townhouses in this part of Hackney stretched to the end of the street, all sporting muted hanging baskets that would blossom come summer. Low doorways and tight alleyways suggested the buildings were hundreds of years old and had been regenerated as part of some expensive residential project. All in all it was a pricey and trendy place to live.
I was fortunate to catch Harlowe just before he was heading out to set up a round of auditions for a new play he was directing.
I spotted him easily enough. He looked almost identical to the newspaper photographs I had seen. He had aged a bit, but not much. He was a handsome man in a prim sort of way who looked very surprised to have to interact with someone that was interested in Jack Ellington’s disappearance.
When I intercepted Harlowe on the sidewalk he had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and was dressed to impress with a pair of designer eyeglasses that looked pretentious. He also seemed to be one of those snobby types who liked to look down on those who didn’t read Yeats or Faulkner. I was suspicious from the first moment I spoke to him.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” he said, staring incredulously at me as he tried to get around me and to his car. “But my story has not changed. Nor will it ever. I have said all I needed to say about that unfortunate day.”
“Let’s say I’m new to the case,” I said. “Give me the condensed version.”
“Who are you, anyway?” he asked.
I gave him the spiel I had been giving everyone since picking this up. I almost started believing it myself.
He rolled his eyes with irritation.
“Look,” he said, taking on a tone that I’m sure might have startled some of the kids he used to teach. I had a headache developing so it did nothing more to me than make me want to punch him in the mouth.
“Henry Atkinson tried pinning this on me when the whole sordid affair originally occurred. And yes, I was cleared of all charges but it didn’t matter. As a result of getting mixed up in it, I lost my job, my name was dragged through the newspapers, and my life was effectively ruined. I don’t know what the hell you people are looking for — maybe some new clue buried under a rock you bulldozed in the first investigation — but you won’t find it here! Jack Ellington left my classroom in a decent mood that day. I remember because he was giggling with his friends as he left. Laughing. He left my room without a scratch on his head.”
Yes, he was pissing me off. But the hell of it was that as I watched his face, I became sure of something. Something only a cop could be sure of: he hadn’t been involved. It was more than just a gut reaction. I could see it in his face, in his expressions.