dog toy with the slack clothesline, fumbling a clothes-peg about the yard with her snout.
“Too bad that’s not a power line,” my grandmother said.
At 3:00 a.m. I woke up behind the desk in the Kroons’ office, bathed in the glow from the laptop. I could hear what sounded like plastic being dragged across concrete. The screen showed no movement in the nearby rooms. I stood up, conscious of the bulge in my pants, thinking if I’d attended to that and ignored the yard work, I probably wouldn’t have fallen asleep. I was glad there wasn’t a camera on me.
I trained my Mag-Lite on the carpet, walked to the door of the embalming room, and threw the door open. It slammed off the wall. I hit the lights. Nothing.
The sound had stopped. I killed the lights and shut the door. Down the hallway and back to the room, silence except for my own footfalls. At the door to the office I heard the same scraping sound from the break room. I trained the light through the glass door and saw a mouse beat a swift retreat to the darkness of the space behind the cupboards.
I relaxed, thinking, that’s exactly how the situation plays out in a horror movie, right before Jason Voorhees appears and eviscerates some unsuspecting co-ed.
I went back to the office and sat down behind the desk in the darkness and the silence. I turned off the Mag-Lite.
“Guess there’s nothing to be afraid of,” I said, hoping it was true.
Monday afternoon I stumbled sleep-deprived into my office, collected my notes and the list of questions I’d prepared, and headed out to interview the proprietor of Imperial Exchange and Pawn, the last place Django James Szabo had been seen. I was at the door when I remembered to dump the receipts I’d just collected on the table and Katherine’s package on her desk (a special-delivery box that contained some kind of sex toy she’d been too embarrassed to have sent to her home because her father opens her mail). As I did this I chanced to look up at the car calendar and noticed it was Labour Day, a statutory holiday, and nothing was open. The only person foolish enough to be in their office on this fine rainless afternoon was me.
Tuesday I was outside of Imperial Pawn at 9:54 a.m. I spent the minutes in my car sucking back a London Fog and holding Thorstein Veblen’s Theory of the Leisure Class in front of me and trying to make sense of the letter-like markings within it. It was the kind of book where you have to read every sentence at least three times to figure out what’s going on, and by then you’ve forgotten the context. I try to alternate reading something educational with reading something fun, a sort of Nabisco Frosted Mini-Wheats reading program. I’d finished the Leonard on Monday; before that it had been Eric Hoffer’s The True Believer. I liked Hoffer: every other sentence read like it could have been on a fridge magnet. The Veblen was harder going. Occasionally, though, you’d come across something like this:
As has been indicated in an earlier chapter, there is reason to believe that the institution of ownership has begun with the ownership of persons, primarily women. The incentives to acquiring such property have apparently been: (1) a propensity for dominance and coercion; (2) the utility of these persons as evidence of the prowess of their owner; (3) the utility of their services.
I was struggling with that when I saw a hairy arm twist the sign on the door to WE ARE OPEN. A moment later, the neon sign flickered to life. It was 10:02 a.m.
Imperial Pawn was located on the corner of a strip mall. There were a few parking spaces in front of the shop, and a larger lot around back. Cliff Szabo’s Taurus had been parked on the side street. I’d looked the area over when I arrived, as if the months between the disappearance and now might have left some trace. But of course there was nothing to see. No traffic cameras, no nearby stores. Across the street were a Value Village and a large, empty parking lot. Doubtless the people there had been grilled by the police, but I made a note to ask them again once I finished with Imperial Pawn.
An electronic bell dinged when I entered the store. “Morning,” I said to the corpse behind the counter. He was sitting on a stool behind a cash register, arms crossed as if daring business to shows its face. Thick beard and thick eyebrows, a Chia Pet growing on each arm. A flattened Roman nose. He gave the slightest of nods.
Glass counters ran nearly the length and width of the store. Under the glass were cameras and iPods and Xboxes and paintball gear and jewellery. A shelf of DVDs stood in the middle, a CD tower in the corner. Shelves bolted to the wall held TVs and computer monitors, the odd turntable or snare drum. The cement floor around the shelves was reserved for power tools and speaker wedges. Behind the case was a door, open just a crack, leading to what looked like storage. In the corner above the cash register was a camera, trained on the exit.
“My name is Michael Drayton. I’m a private investigator. I’m sure you remember Cliff Szabo and his son.”
Recognition in his eyes. He said nothing.
“I’m also sure you told the events of that afternoon to countless people — the police and the media, and maybe other investigators. But I’d like you to tell it again, if you don’t mind. What can I call you, sir?”
He seemed reluctant to answer, but at last he said, “Ramsey.”
“Mr. Ramsey, okay. And do you own the store, Mr. Ramsey?”
No response. He stared at me, unblinking, a statue of diffidence.
“Were you working here on Friday the 6th of March? If so, were you in the store when Mr. Szabo and his son were here?”
He shook his head.
“But you do know who Mr. Szabo is?”
He nodded.
“You do business with him every so often?”
Nod.
“How would you characterize Mr. Szabo?”
No response.
“What’s he like? Good guy?”
Ramsey cleared his throat. “Good guy, yes.”
“And his son Django?”
“A good guy, yes.”
“How often did Mr. Szabo come in?”
Pause. “Three times.”
“Including March 6th?”
“Four times.”
“You saw him on the 6th?”
“Yes.”
“Did he usually buy or sell?”
“Both.”
“What did he bring in to sell on March 6th?”
“I don’t know.”
“You can’t remember?”
“I wasn’t there.”
“On March 6th.”
“Yes.”
“Who was tending the store?”
“Tending?”
