“Lou did, yes.”
“So where is he?”
“That’s just it,” Elena said. “There was no answer to our ping.”
Thorpe blinked several times. “I don’t understand. Are you saying his phone should have... pinged you back?”
“I am,” Elena said.
“Maybe Henry just turned his phone off.”
“No.”
“No?”
“That’s a common misconception. Turning your phone off does not turn off the GPS.”
“So anyone can track you anytime?”
“In theory the police need a warrant and probable cause to get your service provider to do it.”
“Yet you were able to do it,” Thorpe said. “How?”
Elena did not reply.
Thorpe nodded slowly. “I see,” he said. “So what does it mean — that you couldn’t get his phone to ping?”
“Could be a lot of things. Could be something completely innocent. Maybe Henry figured you’d hire someone like me so he changed phones.”
“But you doubt it?”
Elena shrugged again. “Fifty-fifty — maybe more — that there is a rational explanation for all this and Henry is fine.”
“But you still think I should hire you?”
“You buy burglary insurance, even though there is maybe half of one percent chance your home will be robbed.”
Thorpe nodded. “Well put.”
“I figure I’m worth the peace of mind, if nothing else.”
Thorpe played with his phone and brought up a picture of his younger self holding an infant in his arms. “Gretchen... that’s my first wife... she and I couldn’t have kids. We tried everything. Hormones, surgeries, three rounds of IVF. Then we adopted Henry.”
There was a smile on his face now, albeit a wistful one.
“Where is Gretchen now?”
“She died ten years ago, when Henry had just started high school. It was hard on him. I tried my best. I really did. I could see he was slipping away. I took a sabbatical from work to spend more time with him. But the tighter I held on to him...”
“The more he pulled away,” Elena said.
When Thorpe looked up, his eyes were moist. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Background. I need to hear it all.”
“Anyway, I know how this all sounds. That’s why I asked Gerald to find me the best private investigator in Chicago. You see, Miss Ramirez, despite the drugs, despite that text, despite his issues with Abby, I know my son. And I have a bad feeling about this. Simple as that. Something feels very wrong. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “It does.”
“Miss Ramirez?”
“Call me Elena.”
“Elena, please find my boy.”
Chapter Six
Simon knew he was being played.
He knew Detective Fagbenle was trying to goad him or trip him up or whatever, but he also knew that he hadn’t done anything wrong (“Famous last words of the convicted,” Hester would later tell him), and there was no way, as Fagbenle obviously knew, that Simon was going to let him drop that nuclear warhead and walk out the door.
“Who was murdered?” Simon asked.
“Ah, ah.” Fagbenle waved a mocking, semi-scolding finger. “You said not to talk to you until your attorney was present.”
Simon’s mouth felt dry. “Is it my daughter?”
“I’m sorry. Unless you waive that right to counsel—”
“Oh for God’s sake,” Yvonne snapped. “Be a human being.”
“I waive the right to counsel or whatever,” Simon said. “I’ll talk to you without my attorney present.”
Fagbenle turned at Yvonne. “I think you better leave.”
“Paige is my niece,” Yvonne said. “Is she okay?”
“I don’t know if she’s okay,” Fagbenle said, still staring at the cubicles, “but she’s not the murder victim.”
Relief. Pure, sweet relief. It was like every part of him had been starving for oxygen.
“Then who?” Simon asked.
Fagbenle didn’t answer right away. He waited until Yvonne was gone — Yvonne promised to wait by the elevator for Hester — and the door to the office was closed. For a moment Fagbenle stared through the glass wall into the cubicle area. It was odd to visitors, he guessed, having an office that never offered complete privacy.
“Do you mind telling me where you were last night, Simon?”
“What time?”
Fagbenle shrugged. “Let’s just make it all night. Six o’clock on, say.”
“I was here until six. I took the subway home.”
“Which train do you take?”
“The one.”
“From Chambers Street?”
“Yes. I get out at the Lincoln Center stop.”
Fagbenle nodded as though this was significant. “What’s that altogether? Door to door, I mean. A twenty-, thirty-minute commute?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“So you get home around six thirty?”
“That’s right.”
“Was anyone home?”
“My wife and youngest daughter.”
“You have a son too, correct?”
“Yes. Sam. But he’s at college.”
“Where?”
“Amherst. It’s in Massachusetts.”
“Yeah, I know where Amherst is,” Fagbenle said. “So you get home. Your wife and daughter are there...”
“Yes.”
“Did you go back out?”
Simon thought about it, but only for a second. “Twice.”
“Where did you go?”
“The park.”
“What times?”
“Seven, and then again at ten p.m. I was walking our dog.”
“Oh, nice. What kind of dog do you have?”
“A Havanese. Her name is Laszlo.”
“Isn’t Laszlo a boy’s name?”
He nodded. It was. They got Laszlo on Sam’s sixth birthday. Sam had insisted on that name, no matter what the dog’s gender. It was an old story, but once they got the dog home, despite the promises of Sam and his two sisters, taking care of the dog had fallen on the only family member who’d been reluctant about the adoption.
Simon.
Also not surprising: He had fallen hard for Laszlo. He loved those walks, especially the one where he’d come through the door at the end of the day and Laszlo would greet him like a released POW on a tarmac — every day, without fail — and she’d drag him enthusiastically to the park as though she’d never been there before.
Laszlo was twelve now. Her step was slowing. Her hearing was gone, so that some days she didn’t know that Simon was home until he was already in the house, which saddened Simon more than it should.
“So other than the dog walks, did you go out?”
“No.”
“So the three of you were home all night?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Fagbenle sat back and opened his arms. “Do tell.”
“My wife went to work.”
“She’s a pediatrician up at New York — Presbyterian, correct? Doing an overnight shift, I assume. So that leaves you alone all night with your daughter Anya.”
That slowed Simon down. He knew where his wife worked. He knew his daughter’s name. “Detective?”
“Call me Isaac.”
Hard pass, as his kids would say. “Who was murdered?”
The door to his office flew open. Hester Crimstein may have been small of frame but she was large of step. She burst in and stormed over to Fagbenle.
“Are you effing kidding me?”
Fagbenle remained unruffled. He slowly stood, towering over Hester, and stuck out his hand. “Detective Isaac Fagbenle with Homicide. What a pleasure to meet you.”
Hester stared at his face. “Put your hand away before you lose it — like your job.” Then she turned her withering glare toward Simon. “I’m not happy with you either.”
Hester carried on a bit more. She then insisted that they move to a windowless conference room. Change of venue. It had to be a psychological play, but Simon wasn’t sure how. Once they entered the room though, Hester took full control. She had Fagbenle sit on one side of a long conference table. She and Simon took the other.