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Joe was the best details cop I’d ever known, and he was proving it again today. When the cars had backed up at the red light in front of us, he slammed the door shut, waved at me, and walked into the parking lot with his hands in his pockets. I stayed at the curb till the light changed and the waiting cars slid through the intersection, then pulled back into the street. The Cherokee pulled with me.

I made a right turn on Rocky River Drive even though I had no place to go but home, which was in the opposite direction. There was a gas station on the north side of the street, and I swung in there and topped off the tank. The black Cherokee cruised past the gas station and pulled into the parking lot of the strip mall behind it. I went inside, paid, and came back out to the truck. When I pulled onto Rocky River again, this time headed back toward the office, the Cherokee slid out of the parking lot and followed, with Joe’s Taurus behind. We were a regular caravan of curiosity.

I turned left onto the avenue, passed the office, and drove the seven blocks to my building. It wasn’t quite five yet, which meant the gym office was still open. My manager, a sharp-tongued, gray-haired woman named Grace, smiled when I stepped inside. I’d lost track of the Cherokee by this point, but I was sure Joe still had them.

“Hey, boss,” Grace said. “Off early today?”

“We’ve already purged the city of crime,” I said, trying to go with her good humor even though my mind was elsewhere.

“That easy, huh?”

“You bet.” I took a protein shake from the cooler behind the desk. I hadn’t eaten lunch, and my stomach was aware of it. “I’m going to run upstairs and change clothes, then come down for a workout. Is it crowded in there?”

“Mobbed. Six people instead of our usual three.”

“Funny.”

I went up to my apartment and changed into shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, then came back down to the gym, cell phone in hand. Joe would call me when he had something, I was sure. I just didn’t know how long that would take.

I was halfway through my third set on the bench press when the phone rang. It was Joe.

“We’re all still watching your building,” he said. “I’ve got a plate number from them. You want me to bail and use the plate number to see who they are, or stick around and see what they do?”

“It’s up to you. You’re the one wasting time on them.”

“I’ll give it another hour.”

I finished my chest workout and moved on to back exercises, pausing occasionally to talk with some of the gym regulars. Grace had closed the office and gone home, but the members could still come in after hours by using the keycard entrance at the front of the building.

It was nearly six when Joe called back. I was done with the weights and doing some stretches before going out for a run. I paused to answer the phone.

“You taking off?” I said.

“Don’t have to make that decision, because they already lost interest in you.”

“They left?”

“Uh-huh. And I followed. All the way to the police station.”

“What?”

“You heard me. They’re cops. Pulled into the officer parking lot and got out of the car. One of the guys was plainclothes, the other was in uniform. He went in the building while the plainclothes guy went home.”

“Recognize either of them?”

“I was too far away to place them, if I actually knew either one. I’ll use the plate number to get a name tomorrow.”

“If Corbett’s absence has attracted police interest, why hasn’t he been released as a missing person yet?” I said. “And why are they watching his house instead of going out looking for him?”

“And,” Joe said, “why does it appear they are doing it while off-duty?”

We didn’t have the answers for those questions. Not yet, at least.

CHAPTER 9

There were twelve Corbetts in the Cleveland phone book. Mitchell was listed, but I was pretty certain he wasn’t going to return home anytime this evening, so I didn’t bother to call him. The rest of the unfortunate Corbetts in town got the Lincoln Perry dinner-hour-telemarketing approach to investigation, however.

Of the first five names on my list, only three were home, and none of them had a relative named Mitch. One woman, Dorene Corbett, responded to the question by asking if I was planning to reunite her with her birth father. When I said that wasn’t the case, she was disappointed.

“I thought maybe you were from one of those reunion shows,” she said. “You know, like the ones they’ve got on Oprah now and then? I like those shows.”

“So you’ve never met your father?” I said, trying to follow her conversation.

“Of course I have. But I thought maybe you were looking for someone with my name who hasn’t.”

“I see.”

“There’s another Dorene Corbett,” she said. “I got her name off the Internet once. But she lives in Georgia. Try Georgia, okay?”

I assured her I would try Georgia, then hung up gratefully and continued working through my list. On the seventh try, I found a gentleman who had indeed heard of Mitch Corbett.

“Listen,” Randy Corbett said as soon as I’d asked my question, “I’m tired of this. I don’t talk to Mitch no more and he don’t talk to me. We never seen eye to eye on a damn thing, I don’t know where he is, and I don’t care. Haven’t talked to him in more than a year.”

“But you are related to him?”

“I’m his brother, you jackass. You don’t know that, then why the hell you calling me?”

“When I asked you if you knew Mitch, you said you were tired of this. Has someone else been asking about him?”

“Just the police,” he said. “Shows what kind of good family I got, only time I hear about my own brother is when the police are looking for him. My mother’s probably rolling in her grave right now.”

“When did the police ask about him, sir?”

“This morning.” He paused. “And if you’re not one of them, who the hell are you?”

“A private investigator.”

“Can you tell me what he’s done? ’Cause the police wouldn’t.”

“As far as I know, he hasn’t done anything other than blow off work. I’m just trying to track him down because he might know something that could be useful to me in another matter. Are you sure you don’t have any idea where he would have gone?”

“Absolutely not. We ain’t what you’d call close brothers, mister. And I’m all the family that old boy’s got.”

“Did he have good friends out of town? Someplace he liked to vacation, maybe?”

Randy Corbett let out a snort of derision so long that I thought he might faint from lack of oxygen before he finished. Apparently my question had been some kind of funny.

“Someplace he liked to vacation,” he said at last. “That’s good. Mister, Mitch ain’t got enough money to make it to Sandusky, let alone someplace worth going. I can’t tell you where he is, but I’d be mighty surprised if it’s any farther away than the east side.”

______

I’d hardly finished my Cleveland Corbett roundup when the phone rang. It was Amy.

“How you holding up?” she said.

“I’m up,” I said. “That’s all you can ask, some days.”

“Right. You had dinner yet?”

“Hadn’t even considered it. Hell, I never ate lunch, either.”

“How about I pick up a pizza and stop by?”

“Sounds good. You got something on your mind or just worried about me?”

“I’m always worried about you,” she said. “But I’d like to talk some things over, as well. Maybe you’d care to tell me a little more about your relationship with Gradduk? Like why you hadn’t talked to him in eight years?”