He threw me a half–salute. Then he went back to mooning over the Plymouth.
I
shaved carefully. Put on the gray business suit with the chalk stripe. White shirt, wine–colored silk tie. A black leather attaché case and I was in business. I checked through my stock of ID's, found the business cards that listed me as a private investigator, complete with telephone and fax numbers. I knew a lawyer who let me front him off in exchange for some favors. One of his phone numbers was a dead line— his secretary would answer any calls and cover for me no matter who was asking.
I walked downstairs, ready to ride. The kid looked me over.
"How do I look?" I asked.
"Like a cop. A mean cop."
"Close enough. You ready to ride?"
"Sure. Uh…"
"What?"
"Could I…take the Plymouth?"
"Drive carefully," I told him, handing him the registration papers. "Juan Rodriguez?" he asked, looking at them.
"A close personal friend of mine," I told him.
T
he Blankenship house was small, almost a bungalow, but set well back from the road on a big piece of ground. The curtains were drawn in front— no signs of life. A blue Saturn station wagon sat in the driveway— the garage door was closed.
I pulled into the driveway as the Plymouth moved away ahead of me, the kid driving sedately while I had him in my sights.
The house was white shingle with a gray slate roof. The front door was painted a dark shade of red. I tapped gently with the iron knocker. I was just about to try again when the door opened. The man standing there was about my age, shorter than me, slim–built. His light brown hair was cut short, receding at the temples. He was wearing a white shirt with a button–down collar over a pair of chinos. One of the buttons on the collar was undone. He wasn't wearing a belt. And he'd missed a few spots when he shaved that morning.
"What is it?"
"Mr. Blankenship?"
"Yes. What is it? Are you from the police?"
"No sir. I'm a private investigator. Could I come in and talk to you for a few minutes?"
He stepped back, but not far enough— I had to brush against him as I walked by. The living room was trashed: overflowing ashtrays, containers of take–out food, a raincoat thrown carelessly over the back of a chair. It looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a month. I sat on the green cloth couch, facing a brown Naugahyde easy chair, figuring the chair for his. I reached in my coat pocket, took out a small notebook and a felt–tip pen, looked up with an expectant expression on my face. He was still standing, hands clasped behind him, watching.
"A private investigator? Who hired you…one of the other kids' parents?"
"Yes sir. Mrs. Lorna Cambridge."
"Cambridge? That wasn't one of the names."
"No sir. Her son Randall went to school with some of the kids. He's the same age. She was concerned…frightened, really. And she thought I might be able to look around, maybe be of some help."
"What could you do?"
"I don't know, to be honest with you. It's a mystery. There doesn't seem to be any reason…"
"There's got to be a reason," he said, sitting down in the brown chair. "There's got to be."
"Yes sir. Could you tell me, was there anything in your daughter's behavior that might have led you to suspect…"
"You mean like drugs?"
"That. Or alcohol. Problems in school. With a boyfriend. A pregnancy. Anything."
"Diandra had problems. All kids that age have problems, right?"
I nodded, waiting.
"Her mother and I, we used to get into it about her grades. And she had a smart mouth …at least to her mother." He fumbled in a shirt pocket, came up empty. He felt around with his right hand, located a pack of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth, lit it with an old brushed aluminum Zippo. "I haven't smoked in fifteen years, he said ruefully. "Before this happened…"
"She fought with her mother?"
"Not fights, exactly. Arguments, more like. Her grades were slipping, she broke curfew a few times. And they'd go round and round about the clothes she wore."
"Did she have one of those arguments just before…"
"No. It wouldn't have been possible. My wife hasn't lived here for months. We separated just after Christmas. She kept after me to send Diandra for counseling, but Diandra didn't want to go. She was screwing up, I admit that. Flunking a couple of subjects. Stayed out all night once. I figured…kids. This neighborhood and all. It's a pretty fast crowd. We don't have the kind of money some of her friends' parents do…maybe she was trying to keep up, you know?"
"Yes sir."
He dragged on his cigarette, not tasting it. "Anyway, my wife was hot to send her to this hospital they have for kids with problems. Crystal Cove. Diandra didn't want to go. And I wasn't crazy about it either. But my little girl was really going over the line. I was worried about her too. We met with the director there. Dr. Barrymore. He's a pretty young guy, but I got to admit, he made a lot of sense. Said Diandra needed a time–out period. To decompress, get away from the pressure. So, we finally sent her. The insurance on my job covered most of it. Diandra was dead against it, but the people at Crystal Cove told us that was normal. They said they have lawyers— they could get her civilly committed if she didn't volunteer."
"I see."
"So she went. Last fall. It was supposed to be for only six weeks, but they kept her longer. They said she had deep–seated problems, maybe clinical depression, maybe a chemical imbalance— they wanted to run more tests." He ground out his cigarette without looking, eyes down now.
"She came home for Christmas. She didn't want to go back. The hospital said to expect that. I didn't want to send her. After she went back, I was real down. My wife and I fought all the time about it. She always said Diandra was my girl, not hers. We were…close, her and me. Anyway, that's when my wife left."
"When did Diandra come home?"
"Valentine's Day. That's how I remember it. I bought her a giant teddy bear, a white one with a red ribbon around its neck. She loved it. Put it right on her bed…" His control cracked then— he wiped hard at his eyes, but the tears still came. I lit a smoke, kept my eyes down. I was almost down to the filter before he got it managed.
His eyes came up to mine, red–rimmed but hard. They didn't spare me— his voice didn't spare himself. "Things were going so great," he said. "She was doing good in school again, not running around. I have to work. Long hours, sometimes. Diandra used to say she was a latchkey kid, like a joke between us. She got much more responsible after my wife left…did her share of the housework and everything. And she didn't go near drugs, I know that. When I'm wrong, I cop to it. I called my wife, told her that Crystal Cove had saved our daughter. She'd been right. I thought…maybe she'd come home. But she said it really wasn't Diandra that broke us up— it'd been coming a long time, hiding under the surface. She stuck with me through everything before, but…"
"Diandra was doing fine just before she— "
"Yeah! She was, goddamn it."
"I'm not doubting you, sir. I know she didn't leave a note…?" making it a question.
"No," he said, watching me now.
"But maybe she… I don't know, kept a diary or something. The way girls do. Have you…?
"I tore this place apart," Blankenship said. "The police opened her locker at school too. There was nothing. Even when she was…messed up before, she wasn't suicidal."
"I understand," I told him soothingly. "But sometimes, when a loved one searches, they let certain…emotions get in the way. Do you think I could…?"
His face came up again, a different focus in his eyes. "Who did you say retained you again?"
"Mrs. Cambridge, sir."
"Right. You wouldn't mind if I called her myself, just to be sure?"
"No sir."
He got up, walked over to a small table near the TV, picked up the phone. "What's the number?" he asked.
&nb
sp; "Sir, I don't mean to sound like a wiseguy or anything, but anybody could give you a phone number, have somebody standing by in a pay phone, you understand? Perhaps you'd feel better if you checked the number in the local phone book?"
His eyes were even more sharply focused, watching me without a flicker. "What'd you say your name was?"
"It's Burke," I told him.
He punched some buttons, got information, asked for the Cambridge residence phone. Hung up, dialed again.
"Could I speak to Mrs. Cambridge, please?"
…
"I see. When will she be back?"
…
"Okay, well, maybe you can help me, Randy. Do you know anything about your mother hiring a private investigator? Name of Burke?"
…
"Thank you. That's very helpful. Yes. Thank you, we're doing the best we can under the circumstances. And please tell your mother. tell her thanks for what she's doing, all right? Goodbye."
He hung up the phone. Walked back to his brown chair, lit another smoke.
"You ever do any soldiering, Mr. Burke?"
I rapid–processed the various stories I could tell, but none of them fit just right. Something about the way the man looked at me said he wasn't going to take no for an answer.
"Not for the U.S.," I said.
He raised an eyebrow as a question, waited for my answer.
"It was a long time ago," I told him. "In Africa."
"The Congo?"
"No. Biafra."
"You were a mercenary?"
"A freedom fighter," I told him, not even a hint of a smile on my face.
He dragged deep on his cigarette. "You have rank over there?" he asked.
"No sir."
"Get paid good?"
"Not like the pilots did."
"Yeah. I could tell. I can always tell a man that's been a working solider."
"How can you do that?"
"You relax inside the fire. It goes around you, and you know there's not a whole hell of a lot you can do about it. You know your real job is getting out alive. There's no rules."
"You did that?"
"In the Nam. Surprised?"
"No," I told him truthfully. "Infantry?"
"That's right," he said, nodding his head. "A ground grunt. I was just a green kid, but I saw a lot of working pros. Especially when we went over the border. I've seen the look before."
"You can see it in prison too," I said, not even thinking about why I was breaking the rules…telling a source the truth.
"You've been there?"
"Yes."
"And now you work as a private eye?"
"Yes sir."
He took a deep breath, hands clasped in his lap. "Her room's in the back. Look around all you want. You can't miss it— there's a big teddy bear on the bed."
I went over the room with a microscope. No diary, no address book…maybe the cops had them. I checked inside Diandra's clock radio, slit open a tube of toothpaste, opened every book, even checked the teddy bear for seams.
When I came back out, he was still sitting there. "I didn't find anything," I told him.
"I know. But this isn't the only place you're going to look, is it?"
"No sir."
"If you find anything, you'll tell me?"
"I will."
He got to his feet, moving slowly like there was a piece of broken glass inside his gut. His handshake was way too powerful for his slender frame, pulling me close. "You think something happened to her, don't you?" he whispered.
"I don't know."
"I still know how to do things," he said in the same whispery tone. "You find out anything, I'll be here."
In the Lexus, I raised the kid on the car phone.
"Hello," he said.
"It's me. I'm on my way back."
"He called. Did I…"
"Not on this phone," I told him.
As I turned into the bluestone drive, I spotted the kid. He had a green garden hose in one hand, a big clump of sponge in the other. The Plymouth was shining in the afternoon sun, as close to its original dull gray color as it ever got. I parked the Lexus, got out and walked over to him.
"What's going on?" I asked, pointing at the Plymouth.
"I just thought I'd clean her up a bit. Man! When was the last time you washed her?"
"I generally don't wash it. The idea is to blend in, not call attention to yourself. This is a working car, kid, not a showpiece."
"Oh. Hey, I'm sorry. I was just trying to…I don't know."
"I know. You were trying to show respect, right?"
His chin came up, a bit of strength edged into his voice. "That's right, I was."
"Good," I told him. "Doesn't matter around here anyway… no way this beast is gonna blend in."
"I know. It's…cool. I mean, she doesn't look like much of anything, but…"
"There's people like that too," I said. "You don't know what's under the hood until you hit the gas, right?"
He nodded, not sure who I was talking about— never thinking it could be him. "That guy called," he said. "Like I told you."
"Blankenship? Yeah, I was in the room when he did."
"I told him my mother had hired you, before she went to Europe. I said she'd be back soon— she hired you because she was concerned that maybe the police weren't doing everything they could."
"You did good," I told him. "But, listen, remember when I told you not to talk on the cellular phone?"
"I was on the regular line."
"But I wasn't. Anyone can listen in to those calls. Some geeks do it with scanners— they got nothing else to do with their lives, so they stick their nose into other people's. Used to be CB's they listened to, now it's these cellular phones. So when we use them, we keep it short, right? No names, no information. Got it?"
He nodded gravely.
"I'm going upstairs to change. And I'm going to work again tonight. When I come down, we'll get some dinner, okay?"
"Okay. Uh, Burke…?"
"What?"
"What kind of oil do you run in her?"
"The synthetic stuff— you don't have to change it so often."
"Yeah. Is that a dry sump underneath?"
"That's right," I said, looking at him in surprise.
"I read about them all the time, cars," he said, a grin on his flushed face. "I wished they had auto mechanics in school, but they don't. But I sent away for books. I do all the work on the Miata myself. I thought maybe I'd change the oil and filters, put in some new plugs
"It's running fine, Randy."
"I know, but…"
"What the hell," I told him. "It could always run better."
He took off like a kid with a puppy.
"What is this stuff?" I asked him, spearing a bite–size chunk of white meat off my plate.
"It's coq au vin. Like chicken with sauce on it. There's a French restaurant in town. They deliver too. I thought maybe you'd rather have something like a real meal."
"It's good," I said. "That was thoughtful of you."
The kid ducked his head again. We ate in silence for a bit, part of my brain still working over what Blankenship had told me.
"You know what a gymkhana is?" the kid asked.
"Where they race around in a parking lot?"
"Well, sort of. A real one, it's like a slalom, only flat. They set up pylons for the course, and you run through it for time. If you hit a pylon, they add time to your score, see? It's tricky. Not like real racing. I mean, they only let one car at a time go through. But it's slick. All kinds of cars do it, 'Vettes, Ferraris, one guy even has a Lola he brings."
"What do you get if you win?"
"Trophies. I mean, it's not for money or anything. But it's real serious— the drivers really go at it."
"You ever do it?"
"Sure. In the Miata, once. It was…okay. I mean, all the kids go there just to hang out."
"Do they bet on the races?"
"Bet? Gee, I don't know. I m
ean, we don't. But maybe the older guys do…we don't mix with them much."
"Did any of the kids who killed themselves race there?"
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