“Did he box?”
“You’ve never seen him, huh?”
“No, I’ve never seen him.”
“Scrawny guy. Around five eight with stringy arms.”
“You didn’t like him.”
“Didn’t like him, didn’t hate him. We didn’t hang. He was Brady’s friend. They hit it off right away.” Phil looked down. “Poor Brady. I talked to him now and then when he came into the warehouse. Once in a while, he’d bring in pretzels and chips for us ghouls to snack on. He said they were leftovers from a party, but the bags were always unopened. What the hell happened to him?”
“That’s what we’re looking into. You thought Brady was a good guy?”
“Yeah, from the little contact I had with him. He worked resale. He’d come in to talk to Boxer but would always acknowledge me … the other guys. It goes a long way, you know.”
“What do you mean goes a long way?”
“To most people, we’re furniture. Brady made you feel human. But like I said, he mostly talked to Boxer.”
“And because Boxer was Brady’s friend, we just wanted to ask him a few questions. Any idea where he lives?”
The lightbulb went off in Phil’s head. “You think something happened to Boxer?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“Oh Jesus! That would be …” Phil’s jaw was working hard. “Is there something going on with this store? I mean, two guys working here. That’s a little coincidental, right?”
“If you’re just doing your job, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“Whadaya mean by that?”
“I mean if you keep out of trouble, you should be okay.”
“Was Brady in trouble?”
“I’m trying to figure that out. And once I do know what’s going on, I’ll tell you. Here’s my card.” Decker handed it to him. “If you think of anything strange or unusual or just something that you think the police should know, call me. I want to find Boxer, if for no other reason just to know that he’s safe.”
“Yeah, I get it. Boxer did his job but isn’t as big as some of us. He’s vulnerable.”
“Nobody is immune to vulnerability, Phil.”
“But some are more vulnerable than others.” Phil scratched his head on his tiger tattoo. “I mean no harm when I say this, but Boxer … there’s something about him. Some people are just born with a Kick Me sign plastered on their asses.”
BARBARA HEIGER WAS out to lunch. Decker wandered over to the next open office. It belonged to C. Bonfellow, Bookkeeper. He appeared to be in his midforties, short and overweight with thinning sandy hair and dark suspicious eyes. He sat behind a scarred desk that was piled with paper in slotted trays. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so.” Decker showed C. Bonfellow his badge.
“Police? What’s this about?”
“Do you make out the salary checks?”
“Me, personally? No. It’s all done by computer. And if you’re looking for someone in particular, I’m not the guy. You need to talk to Susan or Harold in HR. I just balance the numbers.”
“Where is HR?”
“Three doors down. Who are you looking for, by the way?”
“A guy named Boxer?”
“Don’t know him.”
“You’re not the only one. Thanks.”
Decker was about to go, when Bonfellow said, “If you leave your card, I’ll call if I hear of anything.”
“Sure.” Decker handed the bookkeeper his card. “What kind of things do you usually hear about, Mr. Bonfellow?”
The man turned pink. “Not that I gossip. I don’t. And most of the time, I’m behind a desk. But people don’t notice me a lot. They kind of talk like I’m not there and I pick up things … keep things filed in storage.” He pointed to his head. “I’ll keep my ears open for this Boxer person. I’ll call you if I hear anything juicy.”
“Thanks. Don’t put yourself out. If someone found out you’ve overheard a private conversation, it might make them mad.”
“Oh, I know that, Detective.” Bonfellow smiled. “I’m a very careful man.”
IN HR, THERE were two people to approach. Decker homed in on Susan Jenkins, who was kind enough to look up the name in the company computer. She was in her midthirties, short but with a very long neck. She reminded Decker of a swan. She wore a black T-shirt and jeans. “There is no Boxer assigned to the warehouse, but … there is a Joseph Boch.”
“That’s probably the guy I’m looking for. Do you have his address and phone number?”
“I do, but I can’t give it to you. Company policy.” She smiled. “I’m going to the watercooler. I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time,” Decker said. Once she left, he looked on the screen. Joseph Boch was thirty-five, and by the date of his employment records, he’d been working there nine months. Decker quickly copied the address and phone number in his notebook.
She returned a moment later with a conical paper cup and sipped water. “Is there anything else?”
“Thank you very much, Ms. Jenkins. You’ve been a big help.” He paused. “How long does your average employee work here?”
She looked up at him. “I really couldn’t tell you. What I can tell you is that we have a lot of turnover, specifically because we have a lot of temp teens working in the summer.”
“And you have no idea about the working life span of your permanent employees?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say not more than a few years. It’s barely more than minimum wage unless you’re in management. And most management isn’t from the bottom up.”
“Where do they go—the ones who quit after a year?”
Susan was thoughtful. “I couldn’t tell you personally, but it’s the same old story in Hamilton. I think a lot of them have alcohol or serious drug issues. Or both. When they’re sober, they can hold down a job. But it’s a really boring job, so they start getting high again. And when they’re high, they can’t hold down jobs. It’s a vicious cycle. Sad, but not unpredictable. What else does Hamilton have to offer?”
“You’re here.”
“I grew up here, but I never intended to stay. I went to Clarion
