“You’re not going to investigate, are you?”
“Investigate what?”
It was exactly the response I’d dreaded. “He’s missing. His place was tossed.”
“Tossed? So you say. You know any of this for sure?” He waited long enough to see if I was done arguing with him. “Didn’t think so.” He went on, making his case, “Jenifer’s grandparents say that they’re sure Bob was home alone when? Last night?”
“Night before, actually. And they said they thought he was alone because he always is. They don’t actually know he was alone.”
“Okay, they weren’t sure about last night. And now it’s early evening and he’s not home. Big frigging deal. Where’s the crime? The only crime I see is that Jenifer’s grandparents are in violation of zoning codes for having a tenant and a crappy makeshift second kitchen in those rooms. But I’m going to let that one slide.”
“Big of you,” I said, trying not to sound too sarcastic. The truth was that I didn’t know how to answer any of Sam’s questions without telling him things I wasn’t allowed to tell him.
Sam probed the contours of my silence and came to the conclusion I figured he would get around to. “He’s one of yours, isn’t he? Your… clients?” Sam asked, not expecting me to answer. “And… let me guess, he didn’t show up for his appointment with you. He’s usually as reliable as milk of magnesia about showing up on time, so you’re worried.” Sam didn’t even bother to make these statements sound like questions.
I didn’t deny anything. Didn’t confirm anything.
“You want me to be worried, too,” he added.
I was relieved to be given a prompt I could actually respond to. “That would be nice,” I said.
“Why didn’t you just call nine-one-one? Why’d you call me?”
I stared at Sam for a moment. I could’ve told him that I called him because I trusted him and didn’t call 911 because for all I knew I would end up having to introduce Jenifer, with one n, to Jaris Slocum. It would have suggested to Sam that I still wasn’t prepared to cut Jaris Slocum any slack, and that was one argument I didn’t need rewound.
I played another card instead. I suspected the card I played broke a rule, but I convinced myself that the rules were gray about whether or not I could play that particular card. “I wonder if he has a car. That might help us find him. His car.”
Sam gave me about an eighth of a smile. “You wonder if he has a car?” He lifted his chin half an inch and groomed the grain of his mustache off to the sides with the index finger and thumb of his right hand. “Stay here while I go back inside and ask Bob’s landlords a few more questions that I’m sure you could tell me all the answers to if you didn’t suffer from such serious constipation.”
He added a comment about Jesus before he was out of earshot.
While Sam was gone, I phoned Lauren and told her I was going to be even later than I had told her I was going to be the last time I called. She wanted to know if she should hold dinner, and she wanted to tell me about the new ways that Grace was being cute, and chat about why I was tied up so late, and she wanted to know what was new with Diane and Raoul. I explained I’d fill her in on everything when I got home and told her to give Grace a kiss for me. Dinner? I’d fix something for myself.
Sam returned after about five minutes. He settled onto the driver’s seat and crossed his arms. The front of the Cherokee was pointed toward the southwest, and from the shotgun position there was a break in the trees that allowed me to see the vault of the second Flatiron outlined against the night sky. The light of the fractional moon was reflecting just right.
Sam said, “He has an old muscle car. A Camaro. Keeps it garaged at a house over on Twelfth Street.”
I caught myself holding my breath and forced myself to inhale, exhale, act natural. “Where exactly on Twelfth?”
“You’re really going to pretend you don’t already know all this? Okay, I’ll play along. Mr. Donald doesn’t know exactly where. But I have a suspicion you might be able to find it for me, you know, like those good ol’ boys can find the exact spot you should drill your new well. What are those boys called? The ones with the forked sticks? Are they called dowsers? Ah, who cares? We’re going for a little drive.”
Sam started the Jeep and made his way across downtown until he got to the Hill and turned on Twelfth Street. We were heading south, paralleling the mountains that loomed a dozen blocks away. He pulled to a gentle stop at the curb halfway between the instantly recognizable home where Mallory Miller had disappeared and the smaller place that was next door on the north side.
Doyle’s house.
“I’m guessing that’s where this guy Bob keeps his muscle car,” Sam said. “Just a suspicion. Call it cop’s intuition.”
I didn’t bite. Sam picked Doyle’s house either because the Donalds had actually told him exactly where he could find Bob’s car, or he picked it because during our morning jog I’d already mentioned the Millers’ neighbor’s house to him. Sam didn’t misplace much information.
I was busy eyeing the real estate sign in front of the house, trying to cram the listing agent’s name-Virginia Danna, Virginia Danna-into my memory. I asked, “So are you going to check for a car in the garage?”
“Sure we are. Come on.”
The front yard of Doyle’s house was terraced. Undulating, mortarless flagstone walls of varying heights supported a series of planting beds that radiated away from the curving center walk like the lines on a topographic map. Dried ornamental grasses were interspersed with globe evergreens and other Xeriscape-y things I didn’t recognize.
I stuffed my hands into my pockets to try to ward off the January cold and followed Sam down the front walk until he moved onto a path that intersected with it and led around to the back of the house. After a few more steps, I could see the gable of a single-car garage roof toward the rear property line.
“You’re not going to introduce yourself to whoever lives here?” I asked innocently.
“Place is empty. Owner moved away a couple of months ago. Guy’s asking way too much is what I hear. You know, given the market and interest rates and all. But who the hell knows what’s up with Boulder real estate these days? Did I tell you some agent’s been dropping by begging me to sell my place? Says he already has a buyer and can get me a fortune for it. I think he’s a developer and wants to scrape my shack and put up a spec. I could take the money but I’d have to move halfway to Wyoming to find someplace new to live. What’s the point of that? It would mean commuting for me, and new schools for Simon.”
A casual observer might have mistaken Sam’s ramblings for whining, or for the opening gambit in a friendly discussion of Boulder County property values and the moral and economic consequences of chasing the appreciated dollar. I knew better. Sam’s moves were misdirection. From experience, I knew that he used misdirection the same way magicians used it.
So what was it that I was not supposed to notice?
Sam has been in Doyle’s yard before.
I was sure of it. Despite the darkness he was leading me across the property as though he’d sat in on the design meetings with the landscape architect. Once we made it to the backyard, he followed a flagstone path over a little wooden bridge that spanned a curving faux streambed. When the path split, Sam chose the fork that ran toward the rear of the lot.
Only the top half of the garage was visible behind a stunning series of man-made granite-for want of a better word-cliffs. At the bottom of the natural-looking walls was a good-sized, but drained, pond that would flow into the streambed we’d crossed earlier. I had no trouble imagining the waterfall that would cascade down those rocks into that pool come spring.