and solid-looking, but age and a sedentary lifestyle were working against him. Once he regained his balance he was quick to sweep the jewellery back into its display box.
“See, I don’t think you’d hurt a child. You have one of your own, which generally means you have some degree of empathy. But why run interference for someone like that? Kind of parent does that to another parent?”
“I know nothing,” he reiterated. I could tell by his expression the words sounded false even to his ears. I could also tell that he’d cling to them as long as he could.
“How ’bout you talk to me and let’s decide that together. Doesn’t have to involve the law or anyone else. Or you could talk directly to Mr. Szabo.”
The door to the back room opened. If Ramsey had wavered at all during our conversation, at the sight of his daughter his will was re-forged. Lisa was about my age, pear-shaped, with a face buried under bronzer and red lipstick.
“You get the hell out of here,” she said to me. “He’s not talking to you. Ever. Understand?”
“He said you were the one who dealt with Szabo.”
“You’re a police officer?”
“Private detective working for —”
“I don’t care,” she said. “Get out or I call the real police.”
I nodded and walked to the door to wait for her to buzz me out. Propping the door open, I turned back to hurl some scathing putdown at them. I started to point out that between the two of them they had one pair of eyebrows, but it was too much of a mouthful. I drove home alternating between coming up with better insults and telling myself I was the bigger man for holding my tongue. The perfect ending for a day/week/month full of mistakes, false starts, and what-could-have-beens.
Thursday, 7:30 p.m.
Place: Szabo residence, a small house with a wide paint-stripped back porch.
Speaker: Agatha Szabo, aunt of Django James.
“I can tell something about you, Mr. Drayton. I can tell you were a lonely child. So you know what it’s like. I was like that. So is Django. Cliff? No, he was always too angry to be lonely.
“Django is quiet. He sees everything — that he gets from his father. It’s hard for him to fit in.
“I know what his teachers think — that he was unhappy at home, or that Cliff was a bad father. It’s not true. He’s strict about business, yes, but he loves his son. And Django loves him. When Django was younger, Cliff would read to him every night.
“Since he’s been gone, Cliff has become short-tempered. He’s angry at himself. His business has been slow, and he makes mistakes he never would have before. He was distraught when Marisa died, but it was easy for him to know what emotion to feel. He’s lost now.
“The policeman, Fisk, seemed to think Django might have taken off in the car. I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t leave his father and I. He was very well-behaved.
“What do I think happened? I haven’t said it, even to myself. It’s too horrible to say. But I think it all the time. My beautiful nephew.
“I dream about him often.”
VI
The Ethereal Conduit of Madame Thibodeau
“He’s been sleeping for the last two hours,” I heard my grandmother say as she led someone down into the basement. I imagined them in single file, proceeding cautiously down the stairs, the only light my grandmother’s torch. And me, lurking in that basement like some cut-rate Cthulhu, waiting for the seals on my sarcophagus to be broken.
The expedition reached the lower depths of the household. I emerged from my room stumbling and rubbing my eyes. I saw Katherine and Ben, noted their reactions, and debated whether they’d think less of me if I turned around and retreated back into my room.
“Did you forgot Monday’s a work day?” Katherine asked.
“I didn’t forget.” I took the mail from my grandmother. “Just felt like taking a personal day.”
“Usually you phone in and tell the office.”
I tore up the flyers and subscription renewal warnings. “Usually Mondays the office is empty.”
“Would you like some lunch?” my grandmother asked me.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Well, would you mind putting on some pants?”
I stepped into a pair of jeans, turned on the light and ushered them inside. My grandmother retreated to the sanctity of the upstairs. I sat on the bed, motioned Katherine into the threadbare love seat. Ben stood against the wall. Usually he needed to be at the centre of any discussion. Today he held back.
“So what’s going on?” I said, groping behind the headboard to find my moccasins.
“You tell us,” Katherine said. “Mr. Szabo dropped off some money. About sixty bucks in change. I put it with the rest.”
“Good,” I said. “Any other developments?”
“Like what?”
“No messages?”
“None,” she said. “Oh, except for that skinny record producer chick. What was her name?”
“Amelia Yeats,” I said. “What did she say?”
“Just that she really enjoyed meeting a famous detective and wanted to have dinner with you tonight. I told her you were busy.”
“Really?”
“And afterward you might want to come back to her place and share a nice bubble bath. Come on, Mike.”
I collapsed back onto the bed. “So sorry for having a dick.”
Ben had begun inspecting the room. “You have a Sega,” he said.
“If you listen closely you can hear his fanboy-itis wearing off,” Katherine said to me.
“No, it’s a nice room,” Ben said. “It’s fine. It’s just —”
“Not very glamorous, is it?”
“Well,” he said, “you live with your grandmother.”
“She lives with me,” I said. “And it beats living above a djembe store.”
“Smells kind of funny,” Ben said.
“It does smell awful,” Katherine agreed.
“It’s the dog,” I told them. That prompted an explanation and medical history. By the time I’d finished, the dog had clambered down the stairs and buried her face in Katherine’s crotch. She pushed the dog away firmly and crossed her legs.
“What’s
