by Dave Stanton
“Nice joint,” she said.
“It’s a good place to relax,” I said. The Rosewood was a venerable, elegant bar. The room was shaded in tones of dull green and rich timber, and the seating was private and shadowy. An antique chandelier cast a smattering of faint gold light over the cocktail tables.
“You were about to give me the background on your stepson,” I said.
She turned toward me, and the edge to her eyes softened a bit.
“Jimmy was a kid that could have had anything he wanted,” she said. “He had brains, he was charming and good looking, very athletic, and very popular. But at some point—it must have been when he was nineteen or twenty—it became clear to me he wasn’t interested in making much of himself.”
“That’s a pretty young age for a parent to draw that kind of conclusion. Maybe he was still sowing his wild oats.”
“Yeah, if sowing his wild oats meant ripping off his friends and dealing drugs. He also refused to get a job or go to college. Then he was arrested for DUI, and later for possession of a controlled substance. After that, he started drifting, moving from one town to another. I think he became a heavy drinker, like his father, and also I suspect he was hooked on drugs.”
“Did you or Mr. Homestead try to help him?”
“I thought we should have intervened in his life. But John didn’t have any interest.”
“Didn’t want to bother with his own son?”
“That about sums it up,” she said, then her brow creased and she took a long breath. “I made a huge mistake in my life when I was a very young woman. I think I must have been looking for a father figure when I married John Homestead. I was seventeen and he was twenty-eight, and he had two sons from a previous marriage. At the time, I’m sure I thought he was very mature and dashing.”
“But you found out otherwise,” I said, sipping my bourbon rocks.
“Yes, I did, and then some,” she sighed. “He was a violent drunk, and a stupid, gullible man.”
“When did you leave him?”
“After ten years, ten really lousy years, I divorced him. I’ve spent the last twelve years rebuilding my life. It hasn’t been easy.”
I did the math in my head, trying to figure her age. Almost forty, if she was telling the truth. She didn’t look it.
“My ex-husband caused me a lot of grief, both during our marriage and during the divorce. At one point I feared for my safety. But there’s something else…” Her lips became a tight line, and she turned toward the windows. I studied her profile, thinking how perfect her features were, and then I saw her eyes were wet.
She dabbed at her nose with a cocktail napkin and didn’t look at me when she spoke.
“Before he left home for good, Jimmy raped me.”
I looked out the window behind her, into the black sky. I became aware of sounds I hadn’t noticed before: the clinking of glasses, muted tones of conversation, piano music, and occasional laughter.
“Did you report it to the police?” I asked.
“No,” she whispered.
“Did you tell your husband?”
She wouldn’t look at me, and I sat and waited while she stared out over the forest at Lake Tahoe. Her eyes looked as dark and liquid as the surface of the lake.
“I never told anyone. Until now,” she said, a network of tiny wrinkles emerging around her eyes. I picked up her martini glass and went to the bar for another round. I took my time, and saw her reapplying her lipstick when I looked in the bar mirror.
When I sat back down across from her, her face was cool and distant.
“It was a terrible time in my life. Do you really need to know any more about it?” she said.
“Not right now.”
“Good.”
“But I’ll need you to tell me as much as you know about Jimmy’s recent history. Where he’s worked, girlfriends, running buddies, where he’s lived.”
“Hmph,” she said. “He’d spent some time as a house painter—on and off, I suppose, but that was at least ten years back. I heard he’s done some restaurant work too—washing dishes, and he’s been a cook at times. I don’t think he held any restaurant job for very long, though.
“What’s the most recent job he’s had, that you know of?”
“Well, he was working at a diner down in Barstow. That was within the last six months.”
“I thought you said he was here in South Lake a month ago.”
“Yes, that’s what I heard. But I don’t think he lived or worked here. I assume he was passing through.”
“Where else has he lived?”
“After he left San Jose, he floated around California. He was in Sacramento years ago, and I heard he lived in LA and Fresno at some point. I also heard he worked at a lumberyard in Redding.”
“Why do you think he’s moved around so much?”
“Let’s put it this way,” she said, clicking her fingernails on the table. “I suspect he wore out his welcome pretty quick, wherever he was.”
“Why’s that?”
She looked at me impatiently, as if I should have known, then she leaned forward.
“Jimmy always felt he was special,” she began, her eyes boring into mine. “He figured the world owed him some kind of special, glorious treatment. He was a smart kid, and had talent too, but he never figured out all that is meaningless unless you do something with it. He never applied himself to anything, never worked at anything, but just expected a good life would be his reward. He thought he’d be a professional golfer, or maybe a great musician, or some kind of superstar. The truth is, he’d always been a spoiled, lazy brat, and I don’t think he’s ever changed.”
“Did you love him?” I said.
“He was my stepson.”
“I see,” I said, although I didn’t. I wondered if she felt she was obliged to love him, a stepson who raped her. And then I wondered if she’d ever actually given birth herself.
I rubbed my temple. “Why do you want to find him?”
Sheila Majorie blinked and touched her chin with her finger. Her eyes shifted to the side, and when she looked back at me, I knew I wouldn’t believe what she was about to say.
“Despite the past, he’s my stepson, and I want to make sure he’s okay, that he’s not in trouble.”
It was such an obvious lie I chuckled. Then I sighed.
“Searching for a missing person isn’t cheap, Sheila. But if you’ve got the means, I’ll find Jimmy Homestead, and it doesn’t matter to me what your motivation is.”
She looked relieved for a moment. Then her eyes became wider and her lower lip dropped.
“What is your fee?” she asked.
“Three hundred a day. Plus expenses. And I’ll need two grand up front as a retainer.”
“That’s…that’s a lot of money. I don’t have that kind of money now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I mean, all you have to do is make a few phone calls, and you can track him down, right?”
“Sometimes it’s that easy. But I assume you already tried that.”
“Yes, I did,” she said, her voice small. “How about we talk about a payment plan, then?”
“I’d consider it if you’d be upfront about your reason for wanting to find Jimmy.”
“I…I mean, he’s my son. What more reason would I have than that?”
“He’s your stepson. A drunk, a drug addict, who’s done nothing but leave a trail of grief in his wake. That’s what you said, isn’t it? A no-morals loser who raped you, right? And you want to pay an investigator to find him? Seems to me you’d be better off if you never heard from him again.”
She became very still, and I could see her expression turn resolute. The contours of her face looked cut from stone.
“I can offer you ten grand total,” she said. “Payable once you find him and arrange a face-to-face meeting for me. Nothing up front.”
We stared each other down. “You can’t afford two grand now, but you’ll pay me ten gr
and once I find him?”
“That’s right,” she said.
I took the bowtie out of my shirt pocket and studied it, then carefully set it on the table. “How do I know you’ll be able to pay me?”
“You’re going to have to take my word on that.”
“Shit,” I muttered. I didn’t trust her. But I wanted to because I needed the goddamned money. I knew that was a problem. There’s nothing like a chump who wants to believe. That’s the human dynamic that keeps con artists and sham companies in business. People throw away millions every year on weight loss remedies, baldness cures, exercise programs that promise the perfect body, and various get-rich-quick schemes. All because they’re desperate and want to believe. So why, I asked myself, was I seriously considering Sheila’s unlikely offer? I paused for a long moment, until I could answer the question in a way I thought was truthful: Because I had no better prospects, and not much to lose. That didn’t make me feel particularly good, but at least I was being honest.
“Okay, Sheila,” I said. “I’m not quite sure what you’re up to, but you sign a contract and we got a deal.”
3
Heather Sanderson rubbed coconut oil on her bronze stomach, letting her fingers linger over the smooth muscle beneath the skin. Then she applied the lotion to her shoulders and arms, working it evenly around the straps of her bikini bra. Lying back on the lounge chair, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The shadow of the balcony would soon fall over the small porch, and she wanted to enjoy the last available sun. The porch was tiny and afforded maybe two hours of sun a day—even less now that it was September. But she couldn’t bring herself to lie out at the apartment complex pool, not among the snot-nosed, noisy brats, and their mothers with their cottage cheese thighs and saggy tits. Last time she tried, a group of middle-aged husbands were at the pool, showing off their fat, hairy bodies and sneaking glances at her, hoping to catch a good enough look so they could fantasize about her the next time they screwed their frumpy wives. It was almost enough to make her sick.
Instead, Heather lay on her chair on the small patio, eyes closed, imagining she was on a white-sand beach somewhere in the tropics, on a private stretch of coast, maybe in Hawaii or Tahiti. It was a favorite fantasy of hers, but it never lasted long because the sounds of cars in the parking lot or the neighbor’s loud TV always ruined it for her. But today she was wearing earplugs, and she was pleased with the sensation. It made her feel as if she could be anywhere, as long as she kept her eyes shut.
“I see you’re getting a lot done today, as usual,” Eric Sanderson said, his voice startling her. He stood with his hands on his hips, blocking the sunlight.
“I love you too, babe,” Heather said, resisting the urge to ask him what he was doing home so early.
“And the apartment is still a mess,” Eric said. He went back inside, opened the refrigerator, and cracked a beer.
She lifted herself from the chair and followed him in.
“I take it the job interview didn’t go well?”
“You might say that. Five minutes into it, the guy tells me I’m not what he’s looking for. Can you believe that? I get all dressed up, drive out there, and he tells me that after five fuckin’ minutes.”
She watched him chug his beer and open another one. Yeah, get drunk, she thought. That’ll fix everything.
He sat down and banged his beer bottle on the kitchen table, the loud noise startling her.
“You’re gonna need to go back to the strip club.”
“Bullshit,” she said, heat rising in her face.
Eric scowled and pushed his tongue against his lower lip, the way he always did when he was angry. He was a good-looking man, but goddamn, he was ugly when he did that.
He stood abruptly, and she could see the muscles of his chiseled physique bulge under his white button-down shirt. He yanked his tie off, balled it, and flung it across the room. Heather wanted to move away from him, but she held her ground.
“What do you suggest we do for money, then?” he hissed. Heather kept her expression blank; Eric had gotten hold of some potent steroids recently, and his behavior was getting unpredictable.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” she said, and started up the stairs.
“Yeah. Have a good time with your toys,” he said.
She locked the bathroom door, peeled off her bikini, and stood on the tub so she could see her figure full length in the mirror over the sink. Looking at herself, at her tanned, naked body, never failed to give her a sense she could have anything she wanted. Her waist was still as slender as it had been when she was a teenager, her hips curved invitingly, and her thighs were smooth and muscular. She checked her breasts, accepting the tiny difference in shape between the two after the implants. It was okay—no one noticed but her, especially after the eye was engaged by her plunging tan line, which ended right above the nipples. She turned, standing on her tiptoes, and looked over her shoulder at her ass; she always thought her ass was the sexiest part of her body. Content, she stepped into the shower. Men would still kill to have her—at thirty-five, she knew she could compete with any woman on the planet.
She adjusted the shower head and let the water caress her body. Droplets formed on her breasts as the water streamed between them, running down over her navel and into her pubic hair. She ran her soapy hands over her tanned skin, taking a familiar pleasure in the feel of her curves. She knew men, shallow as most are, were prone to consider her a bimbo, or worse, a piece of fluff, as her husband had once called her. She let them think what they may. Few of them ever realized she was intelligent. In particular, she loved to read, and not just popular magazines. She also read romance novels, and the San Jose newspaper every morning. Heather didn’t know many people who read as much as she did. Eric was certainly no reader—she was pretty sure he’d never read a book in his life.
While she showered, her mind replayed once more the brief newspaper article she had read a week ago, reporting that a San Jose native had won a $43 million lottery. The article stunned her. She knew the man—she had gone to school with him. And the memories were not fond. Jimmy Homestead was someone who had seduced her on a drunken night when she was a teenager. The result was a case of venereal warts, but that wasn’t all. Jimmy also slept with her younger sister, whom he infected as well. Then the prick bragged to all his buddies about how he had boned two sisters in the same week. She heard he had made a big deal out of comparing and contrasting their technique in bed.
When she came downstairs, in jeans, sandals, and a sleeveless white shirt, she was focused and calm. Her husband sat on the couch, one foot up on the coffee table, the clicker resting in his palm. She sat on the couch next to him with her legs together and moved her blond hair behind her ears.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said.
“Yeah, me too,” Eric said, and fingered open the first button of his slacks. Heather could smell the beer on his breath, and she closed her eyes for a long moment. She figured he’d probably been watching a porno.
“Eric, I’ve got something I want you to read,” she said, producing the neatly folded newspaper article.
“Why?”
“Read it.”
Eric’s eyes scanned the article lazily. Heather waited, watching his lips move every now and then.
“Jimmy Homestead!” he said finally. “I can’t believe that lowlife prick!”
“Yeah, Jimmy Homestead,” she said. “He—”
“Oh man, this ain’t right,” Eric interrupted.
She put her hand on his arm. “Eric, listen to my idea.”
4
I woke early the next morning, to a mild hangover and a vague sense of unease. I’d driven Sheila Majorie to my house from the Rosewood Lounge to sign my contract, then offered her a drink and asked her more questions about Jimmy Homestead. She steered the conversation in other directions, and by our third drink she was snuggled next to me on my couch, her legs arranged so her skirt was situated well above her knees. I
let my hand drift to the bare skin of her thigh, and she told me to behave myself, in the way women do when they really don’t want you to. Regardless, I stood and again asked about Jimmy. Within a minute I was back on the couch, and this time she put my hand on her breast for a moment and whispered, “Be patient,” in my ear.
Then she rose, signed the contract, and asked that I drop her off at Caesars. I did so, still with no good idea why she’d offered an inflated fee, payable only after I found her stepson. When I returned home, I had one last vodka and fell into bed, hoping she wouldn’t torment me in my dreams.
After brewing a pot of coffee, I logged onto the website I subscribed to, and began searching for information on Jimmy Homestead. The site tapped into databases storing mortgage information, court records, business licenses, and other data sources the US government deemed open to public access. Although far less than 100 percent reliable, it usually allowed me to find basic information on a subject, such as recent addresses, phone numbers, income level, and criminal history.
Within a half hour, I printed all I could find on Jimmy. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t much. As Sheila suggested, Jimmy lived mostly off the grid, meaning his public footprint would be less than your typical taxpaying citizen’s. Two addresses were listed: one in Fresno and a more recent one in Barstow, CA. There was a brief reference to a DUI conviction. No history of property ownership. No record of having ever married. No data available on education, occupation, or relatives. Besides his address in Barstow, the only thing useful was a listing for his cell phone number.
I sipped my second cup of coffee and stared out the window behind my desk. The sun was well above the steep, tree-lined ridges to the north, the clouds sparse against the blue sky. I took my foot off the desk and dialed Jimmy’s number. It didn’t ring, but instead connected to a generic voice mail message. I tried three more times with the same result. His phone must have been turned off. Either that, or it was an old number no longer in service.
I called the number every fifteen minutes, between doing a half-hearted job of vacuuming and a solid hour of sit-ups, curls with a ninety-pound bar, and eight sets of bench press. Then I fixed myself a turkey sandwich and brought it out to the deck. A family of deer was grazing in the meadow beyond my yard, enjoying the last of the season’s warmth. The sunlight filtered through the pines, the patterns of light shifting here and there in the breeze.