"We'll ask everyone we can find who knows either of them if they know where
Patty and Rich are.
"And if no one knows?"
"We check airlines, trains, local travel agencies, that stuff. We see if
Rich's car is missing. If it is we run a trace on his license number. If it's not missing we check the car rental agencies."
"And if none of that works?"
"Some of it will work," I said. "You keep asking enough questions and checking enough options, something will come up, and that will lead to something, and that will lead to something else. We'll be getting information in ways, and from people, that we don't even know about now."
"You can't be sure of that," Paul said.
"I've done this for a long time, Paul. It's a high probability. If you want to find someone, you can find them. Even if they don't want to be found."
Paul nodded. "And you're good at this," he said.
"Few better," I said.
"Few?"
"Actually, none," I said. "I was trying for humble."
"And failing," Paul said.
CHAPTER 6
IT was a nearly perfect September day. Temperature around 72, sky blue, foliage not yet turned. There was still sweet corn at the farm stands, and native tomatoes, and the air moved gently among the yet green leaves of the old trees that still stood just off the main drag undaunted by exhaust fumes or ancestral voices prophesying war. Paul was in my office with the list of callers from his mother's answering machine. I was back out in Lexington at the post office in the center of town, where a woman clerk with her pinkish hair teased high told me that Patty Giacomin had put an indefinite hold-for pickup on her mail. There was no forwarding address.
I went to Chez Vous, which was located next to an ice cream parlor behind a bookstore in a small shopping center on Massachusetts Avenue. Four desks, four swivel chairs, four phones, four side chairs, and a sofa with maplewood arms and a small floral print covering. The wall was decorated with flattering photos of the property available, and the floor was covered with a big braided rug in mostly blues and reds. Two of the desks were empty, a woman with blue-black hair and large greenrimmed glasses sat at one of the remaining desks speaking on the phone. She was speaking about a house that the office was listing and she was being enthusiastic. The other desk was occupied by a very slender blonde woman wearing a lot of clothes. Her white skirt reached her ankles, nearly covering her black-laced high-heeled boots.
Over the skirt she wore a longish ivory-colored tunic and a black leather belt with a huge buckle and a small crocheted beige sleeveless sweater, and a beige scarf at her neck, and ivory earrings that were carved in the shape of Japanese dolls, and rings on all her fingers, and a white bow in her hair.
"Hi, I'm Nancy," she said. "Can I help?"
I took a card out of my shirt pocket and gave it to her. It had my name on it, and my address and phone number and the word Investigator. Nothing else. Susan had said that a Tommy gun, with a fifty-round drum, spewing flame from the muzzle, was undignified.
"I'm representing Paul Giacomin, whose mother works here."
Nancy was still eyeballing the card. "Does this mean, like a Private
Investigator?"
I smiled winningly and nodded.
"Like a Private Eye?"
"The stuff that dreams are made of, sweetheart," I said.
The woman with the blue-black hair hung up the phone.
"Hey, PJ," Nancy said. "This is a Private Eye."
"Like on television?" PJ said. Where Nancy was flat, PJ was curved. Where
Nancy was overdressed, PJ wore a sleeveless crimson blouse and gray slacks which fitted very smoothly over her sumptuous thighs. She had bare ankles and high-heeled red shoes. Around her left ankle was a gold chain.
"Just like television," I said. "Car chases, shootouts, beautiful broads. .."
"Which is where we come in," PJ said. She had on pale lipstick and small gold earrings. There were small laugh wrinkles around her eyes, and she looked altogether like more fun than was probably legal in Lexington.
"My point exactly," I said. "I'm trying to locate Patty Giacomin."
"For her son?" Nancy said.
"Yes. She's apparently gone, and he doesn't know where and he wants to."
"I don't blame him," PJ said.
"You know where she is?"
Both women shook their heads. "She hasn't been in for about ten days," PJ said.
"A week ago last Monday," Nancy said.
"Is that usual?"
"No. I mean, it's not like she's on salary. She doesn't come in, she doesn't get listings, she doesn't sell anything, she doesn't get commission," PJ said. "But usually she was in here three, four days a week-she was sort of part-time."
"Who runs the place?"
"I do," PJ said.
"Are you Chez or Vous?"
PJ grinned. "Is that awful, or what? No. My name's P. J. Garfield. PJ stands for Patty Jean. But with Patty Giacomin working here, it was easier to use PJ, saved confusion. I bought the place from the previous owner when she retired. Chez Vous was her idea. I didn't want to change the name."
"Either of you know Patty's boyfriend?" I said.
"Rich?" Nancy said.
"Rich what?"
Nancy looked at PJ. She shrugged.
"Rich…" PJ said. "Rich… she brought him to the Christmas party last year. An absolute hunk. Rich… Broderick, I think, something like that. Rich Broderick? Bachrach? Beaumont?"
"Beaumont," Nancy said.
"You sure?"
"Oh." She put her hand to her mouth. "No, god no, I'm not sure. I don't want anyone to get in trouble."
"How nice," I said. "Do we know where Rich lives?"
"Somewhere on the water," Nancy said. She looked at PJ.
PJ shrugged. "Could be. I frankly paid very little attention to him. He's not Patty's first boyfriend. And most of them are not, ah, mensches."
"What can you remember?" I said.
"Me?" Nancy said.
"Either of you. What did he look like? What didhe do for a living? What did he talk about? Did he like baseball, or horse racing, or sailboats? Was he married, separated, single, divorced? Did he have children? Did he have any physical handicap, any odd mannerisms, did he have an accent? Did he mention parents, brothers, sisters? Did he like dogs?"
PJ answered. "He was as tall as you, probably not as"-she searched for the word-"thick. Dark hair worn longish, good haircut"-her eyes crinkled"great buns."
"So we have that in common too," I said. Nancy looked at her desk.
"His clothes were expensive," PJ said. "And they fit him well. He's probably a good off-the-rack size."
"What size?"
"What size are you?" PJ said.
"Fifty," I said, "fifty-two, depends."
"He'd probably be a forty-four, maybe. He's more, ah, willowy."
"How grand for him," I said.
"I like husky men, myself," PJ said.
"Phew!"
"He didn't have an accent," Nancy said.
"You mean he talked like everyone else around here?"
"No. I mean he had no accent at all," Nancy said. "Like a radio announcer.
He didn't sound like he was from here. He didn't sound like he was from the
South, or from anywhere."
Nancy was maybe a little keener than she seemed.
"Good-looking guy?" I said.
Nancy nodded very vigorously. PJ noticed it and grinned.
"He was pretty as hell," she said. "Straight nose, dimple in his chin, kind of pouty lips, smoothshaven, though you could see that his beard is dark.
Kind of man that wears cologne, silk shorts."
Nancy got a little touch of pink on her cheekbones.
"Okay," I said. "The consensus is that his name is Rich Beaumont, or thereabouts, that he's six feet one, maybe a hundred eighty-five pounds, dark longish hair, well styled, good clothes, handsome, and particularly attractive to slender blonde women.
"What do you mean?" Nancy said.
"A wild guess," I said. "He speaks in an accentless way, and lives near the water."
"Hell," PJ said. "We knew more than we thought we did."