“Hey, bossman, I just got your message.”
“That’s ex-bossman. You drove me into retirement.”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say. So what can I do you for?”
“You got room in your busy schedule to do some real work?” I asked.
“This gratis?”
“Gratis! Jesus Christ, Doyle, you been reading the dictionary or what?”
“Funny thing about owning a company instead of just working at one, you learn the word gratis quick. Everybody comes outta the freakin’ woodwork asking for all kinds of shit on the arm. Fuck that! You wanna play, you gotta pay.”
“You don’t have to lecture me on the subject. And no, this isn’t gratis. It’s pay for play.”
“Then what’s the play?” he asked. “Wait, just let me grab my pen here. Okay, shoot.”
“Max Bluntstone. That’s Bravo-Lima-Utah-November-Tango-Sierra-Tango-Oscar-November-Echo. And his wife, Candy Bluntstone nee Castleman-”
“Not for nothing, Moe, but is this about that missing girl, the artist?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You working cases again? I thought you was gonna-”
“Gonna what?”
“I thought after Katy and all… And then when you and Carm split up, I thought you were through with this shit.”
“Look, Brian, you want the job or what? I don’t need to get lectured to by you.”
“For fuck’s sake, Moe, take it easy. You don’t gotta bite my nuts off.”
“Sorry.”
“No biggie,” he said, not meaning it. “What you need?”
“Everything.”
“That all?”
We both had a laugh at that.
“No, what I need is for you to get me all you can on their finances and their sheets. Put Devo on it.”
“Hey, Moe, you’re the client here, remember. No need to tell me who should do what.”
“You’re right, Brian. Forgive me?”
“No, but I’ll pad your freakin’ bill for that, ya hump.”
“Fair enough, but I need it as soon as you can get it, okay?”
“Sure thing. So, you think the kid’s still alive?” he asked, worry in his voice. “I got kids now too. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to one of ‘em.”
“I’m with you there,” I said. “I’m with you there.”
“You know, Moe, while I got you on the phone…”
“What?”
“Maybe it’s nothing, but a few weeks ago we had kinda a weird phone inquiry from a PI in Vermont someplace.”
“What’s so weird about that?”
“It was about you and the guys you used to run with at the Six-O.”
“What did you tell him?”
“ Her. She had a sexy voice, too. Anyways, I told her nothing that she didn’t already know about us working together and your police career. Nothing too personal. Didn’t give her any addresses or phone numbers or nothing. I never heard back from her and that was that. I put in a call to one of your stores to let you know. That’s why I thought you were calling me, but I guess you never got the message.”
“No.”
“What do you make of it?” he asked.
“Who the fuck knows? I got bigger troubles now.”
We chatted some more about sports and business and anything else other than what he really wanted to talk about. Brian Doyle was one of the few people who was close to me during the period stretching from the end of one marriage to the end of the other. Those were bad years: the steady drip, drip, drip of pain and disappointment interrupted only by thundering tragedy. When I got off the phone with him, I realized I resented Brian for knowing me then. It was irrational, but there it was. And the thing about it was, he knew it.
Although Detective McKenna had been generous in sharing information, I wasn’t operating under any illusions. I knew he’d left a lot of stuff out of the mix. Of course the stuff that was missing was conspicuous by its absence. Was that intentional? Did he just want to get my attention? I don’t know. More likely, it was unavoidable. For instance, there was almost nothing on Max and Candy: not a word on their finances, nothing about confirmation of their alibis for the day Sashi went missing, no transcripts of or notes from their interrogations. I mean, any novice knows that parents and/or siblings are the immediate and primary suspects in these situations unless there’s obvious evidence pointing in another direction. Physical evidence. That was something else McKenna had conveniently omitted. From what he gave me, I had no idea if there was any significant physical evidence or, if there was, what it might indicate. The only assumption about evidence I could safely make was that there wasn’t enough of it to arrest Max or Candy, or anyone else for that matter.
What I did have were several transcripts of interrogations or, to use the euphemism preferred by nine out of ten law enforcement officers, interviews, done over the course of the last three-plus weeks. Basically, these were the interviews that, for one reason or another, hadn’t gone anywhere. Detective McKenna gave me the transcripts because he knew I would probably reinterview all of these people and that I might shake something loose he’d been unable to. PIs do have certain advantages over the police when it comes to evidence gathering. PIs can ask the types of questions that cops might get called on the carpet for asking and we could ask them in a manner that cops couldn’t risk. Let’s just say that when Brian Doyle worked for me, he got a lot of answers even the best NYPD detective wouldn’t have been able to get. Being a cop has its limitations, shield and gun notwithstanding.
It was a little darker on the beach than the surrounding area because the cliff where the Bluntstones’ house was perched blocked out the rising sun. The absence of full sunlight didn’t actually make the beach any colder. That’s the trick of December, though, isn’t it? The sun looks just as bright and blinds you equally well, but it doesn’t warm your face or fulfill the hope it hints at. There was no hope to be found here anyway. At first, when I’d heard the story of an eleven-year-old girl going for a walk on a beach alone, my radar went up. I wouldn’t let Sarah go to Manhattan or Brighton Beach alone until she was fifteen and even then I was nervous as a cat, but this wasn’t New York City in the ‘80s. There weren’t two thousand homicides a year out here. Bernie Goetz wasn’t playing shoot ‘em up on the subway. No bands of roaming gangs were out wilding nor was Robert Chambers lurking at the local pub. This was still Howdy Doody-ville and the beach was literally just across the street from Sashi’s house.
I was about to leave when I caught sight of someone coming up the beach in my direction. He was an old man dressed in washed-out jeans, a faded Mets hat, and sweater against the cold. White-skinned, thin as a sheet of paper, he walked along the water’s edge seemingly searching for something, something I could not see. Trailing behind him was a dog, a bleached-out retriever even more ancient than the man himself. I hesitated to approach him or to call to him for fear of breaking his concentration, but then he looked up as if sensing my presence and gave me a snappy wave.
“Morning,” he said, turning to me. He had bright blue eyes, a crooked mouth, and cigarette teeth more yellow than his dog’s coat. “Chilly day.”
“Cold, yeah.”
“I don’t know you.”
“No, you don’t.” I pointed back at the Bluntstones’ house. “I’m looking into the little girl’s disappearance.”
His yellow teeth disappeared behind taut lips. “Shame, that. I used to see her here all the time with that goofy beagle of hers. Sad little girl.”